Winning Texas

by Nancy Stancill

  “Lord have mercy,” Marr said.

  “It’s probably a stowaway from one of those big ships,” Riggins said, regretting that he’d worried Marr about something that was probably farfetched. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I need to get to Houston. It’s my best chance of finding Betsy.”

  “We’ll leave in the morning. I’ll get a few of my security guys looking into it tonight. While we’re on the road, I’ll just stay in the car and wear sunglasses.”

  “Dan, I don’t want to get involved with your secessionists or blow your cover.”

  “I’ll be careful. And I’ll deal directly with my guys. They have ways of finding things quickly that you and I don’t even know about.”

  “What about Alicia?”

  “She may call within a day or two. She hasn’t stayed gone for more than a few days at a time,” Riggins said with a degree of hope that he didn’t altogether feel.

  CHAPTER 7

  Kyle Krause steered his Porsche into the old strip shopping center off the Gulf Freeway southeast of downtown Houston, parking in the VIP spot at his original Texas Girls Club. The place wasn’t much to look at, just an anonymous beige storefront wedged between a Korean nail salon and Vietnamese café.

  “Ugh, I hate this place,” Juliana said, refreshing her coral lipstick in the passenger seat mirror. “Let’s not stay any longer than we have to.”

  “As soon as the meeting’s over, we’re out of here,” Krause said.

  The club catered to eastside refinery workers who were known to get rowdy, especially on Thursday or Friday nights when they’d gotten their fill of cheap beer and a grinding week of repetitive work. It was one of his working-class, no-frills establishments, but since it was the first business he’d owned and still made decent money, he felt sentimental about it. He resented Juliana’s prissy snobbery. She was far more tolerant of the upscale clubs on Houston’s tonier Westside, with their more elaborate furnishings and well-heeled customers, places that Krause felt were pretentious. Despite his custom-made suits, expensive haircuts and showy cars, he didn’t feel too far removed from this club. He was far more at home in the cowboy atmosphere of the lower-rent joints. They reminded him of his first few heady months in Houston when he worked 12-hour shifts as a bouncer, flexing his muscle with dirt-bag customers, and banging as many strippers as he wanted.

  He and Juliana walked in, past the well-lighted stage where a skinny woman was warming up to Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” and a few early patrons were drinking longneck beers. Krause unlocked the door to a cold interior office featuring a desk, a dark green leatherette sofa and a few chairs. This was the unwelcoming place where he often held tough conversations with employees and contractors. The chairs were hard and uncomfortable, and the mismatched look, plus the bare-bulb ceiling light, gave the space the atmosphere of an interrogation room.

  He punched in the number of the front desk and the manager on duty answered quickly.

  “Yes, Mr. Krause?”

  “You know Behar Zogu, the scrawny guy with a moustache and greasy hair? The one who delivers stuff sometimes? Send him to my office when he gets here.”

  “Sure. Can we get you any drinks or food?”

  “We’ll take two diet Cokes, with ice cubes and twists of lime.”

  “Right away, Mr. Krause.”

  Soon he and Juliana were sipping their drinks and a few minutes later, the manager knocked. Krause tried not to grimace when he saw Zogu, who looked rattier every time they met. Thin and scruffy, he was dressed in a worn black leather jacket, threadbare jeans and scuffed, industrial-looking boots. He also had a hangdog look that Krause, who prided himself on his proud posture and commanding attitude, held against him. But Zogu had performed some valuable services for the business and didn’t ask pesky questions, so Krause tried to overlook his shoddy appearance.

  “Hello Ms. Juliana and Mr. Kyle,” Zogu said. He extended a hand, but Krause didn’t shake it, just waved him into a chair across his desk. Zogu sat beside Juliana, who glanced at him and looked away.

  “The girls they are here, all nine,” Zogu said.

  “You told us you’d arranged for ten,” Krause said.

  “No, only nine,” Zogu said. He smiled nervously and avoided Krause’s eyes. “They are resting at the motel, waiting for you and Ms. Juliana to bring them to the clubs.”

  Juliana looked at Zogu and spoke in a disgusted tone. “Didn’t you understand what I said yesterday? Those girls look like hookers.”

  “No, Miss. They are the most beautiful flowers of Albania,” Zogu tried to smile. “My brother Bujar personally picked them out from the finest families of Tirana.”

  “More likely he got them off the streets,” Juliana said. “They don’t look like the girls we hire, even at this location.”

  “They hide on a ship many, many days. They need, how do you say, the beauty sleep.”

  “You promised us tall, beautiful blondes like the Ukrainian or Russian women you see at Rick’s clubs,” Krause said. “We said we’d give you one try.”

  “Mr. Kyle, I do good work for you for five years, always pleasing you. You will like these girls when you meet them. They love Texas already.”

  “Juliana wasn’t impressed,” Krause said. “I do rely on her judgment.”

  “The girls, they need better clothes and a few good meals,” Zogu said. “They’ll look so beautiful and dance so sexy, they’ll shine like stars when they come to your clubs. The men will be, how you say, busting the doors down.”

  Krause and Juliana looked at each other silently. She still had her nose in the air about the whole deal, and he didn’t want to give in just to please her. He made up his mind.

  “We’ll give them two weeks to rest up and a little money to get them fixed up. The three rooms at the motel are paid for, but you have to feed them.”

  “Thank you,” Zogu said, smiling at Juliana. She stared back stonily and he looked away. Krause thought he’d have hell to pay the rest of the day and she probably would give him the cold shoulder tonight. It was tough being with a hard-ass woman like Juliana sometimes, but she, like Zogu, was entrenched in his businesses. Not that he’d ever seriously considered getting rid of her.

  “You must keep them out of sight,” Krause said. “They mustn’t be seen or connected with our clubs until this unpleasantness dies down.”

  “Zogu will make sure it works out,” he said. “You’ll see.”

  He made a slight bow and left quickly. Neither Krause nor Juliana bothered to get up to say goodbye.

  “I told you this wasn’t going to work,” Juliana said. “We should have paid the Russians what they wanted, instead of depending on this fool.”

  “Jules, you know that Zogu’s solved some sticky problems for us and kept his mouth shut. We need him – and we really need his silence.”

  “I still think he’s a loser. We’ll probably have to send some of his girls to the ranch. They’ll make us more money there.”

  “Well, that won’t be the end of the world. They’re young and healthy, and they don’t have to be beautiful,” Krause said. “Was the tenth girl the one who drowned in the ship channel?”

  “What do you think?” Juliana said. “Not our problem. We need to stay away from that kind of trouble. I don’t want to know what happened – and you shouldn’t ask questions.”

  “Zogu knows how to keep quiet,” Krause said, tapping his iPhone for messages. “If he doesn’t, he knows there’ll be a second body floating in the ship channel.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Annie sat in her office, reading the depressing quarterly report from the McKnight
Corporation, the company that owned the Times and a couple of dozen other newspapers. Because its newspapers’ website advertising wasn’t rising as fast as print advertising was plunging, the report forecast drastic cutbacks, including freezing salaries and hiring, and a second furlough before the year’s end. She’d have to take another week without pay before Christmas. She wouldn’t have enough money to go anywhere interesting. She’d probably just stay home and work on her house, which needed it. But she didn’t look forward to the prospect.

  Her desk phone rang and she noticed with surprise that the caller was Matt Sharpe. She hadn’t seen the Houston police detective since they’d had breakfast a week ago at the ship channel cafe. She was pleased but puzzled to see his name and number come up. Maybe he had big news.

  “Hey, Matt,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “Are you about done for the day?” he asked. “I’m knocking off early and I’d like to buy you dinner.”

  “Sounds like fun,” she said. “But I need to go home first and feed my kitties.”

  “How about meeting me at 7 at the Pappadeaux at Richmond and Kirby?”

  “Great. See you there.”

  She sat thinking for a minute, mystified by the invitation. She’d had coffee and lunch with Matt many times when she was a reporter and he was her biggest police source, but never dinner. Of course, the situation was different now. She knew he’d separated from his wife months ago and was headed toward a divorce, so it didn’t seem improper. Also, she was editing now, rather than reporting, so he wasn’t a source she needed to keep at arm’s length. But she’d never thought about going out with him. She’d considered him more as a mentor and teacher. She told herself to stop worrying about the implications of a casual invitation. After all, they were longtime friends. A dinner out in the middle of the week wasn’t a gift to be spurned, given the state of her refrigerator and her dislike of cooking for one.

  Pappadeaux was part of a locally grown chain, one of the Pappas family’s portfolio of restaurants. The Pappas brothers also had Mexican, Italian and Greek-themed eateries among their hundred or so restaurants in Texas and other states. The Pappadeaux on Kirby a few miles west of downtown Houston served large portions of spicy Cajun seafood at reasonable prices. Annie had eaten there and enjoyed the ambience of its outside patio.

  She drove home, showered and washed her hair. It had been a sticky day with shimmering heat, but the evening was supposed to be cooler. She put on a little J’adore, her favorite French perfume, and tried to decide what to wear. She didn’t want to look too dressed up, lest she give Matt a too-eager impression that she regarded the evening as a date. She settled on a short black linen skirt, a white sleeveless blouse and gold sandals. She pinned her hair back from her face and let it hang softly below her shoulders.

  The restaurant was just a few miles from her house and she opened the car window to enjoy the tiniest hint of a breeze. She pulled into the parking lot and saw Matt waving from his table on the patio. Between the potted plants and the ceiling fans, a full complement of trendily dressed customers ate, drank, flirted, talked and drank even more. The police detective looked cool and freshly shaven in jeans and a black polo shirt. She’d never seen him in jeans, but he looked good – trimmer, younger and relaxed. He hugged her and she sat down at their coveted outdoors table, lit with a citronella candle.

  Annie always thought of Houston as a city that celebrated the night. People who had shut themselves in air-conditioning all day wanted to party after dusk, so the atmosphere at bars and restaurants was happy and loud. Even if the weather had cooled only into the low 80s, Houston evenings enticed hordes of city-dwellers to patios and porches. Annie could remember her first summer in the Bayou City, when she relished walking barefoot on neighborhood sidewalks that warmed the underside of her feet. Of course, the hot weather also brought out other night creatures, including giant cockroaches, which had to be kept at bay with frequent extermination visits. She’d never forget the night she was watching a movie on TV and a roach landed on the screen and flew out at her, as if part of the film’s action. She let out a scream that sent her cats flying. Now she had mostly acclimated to large insects and sultry heat and relished getting out at night with a diverse mix of fun-seekers.

  She chatted with Matt briefly about their respective workdays until a waiter appeared. They conferred about drinks, both deciding on Blue Moon beers with plenty of orange slices.

  “Aren’t you a chardonnay drinker?” he said. “I didn’t think you liked beer.”

  “Who doesn’t love beer on a night like this?” she said. “I love my chardonnay, but I’m trying to cut back.”

  “You journalists and your bad habits,” he teased. “What would a newsroom be without alcohol? Do you keep a flask in your desk?”

  “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” Annie said. “Ever been to a gathering of cops that wasn’t swimming in booze?”

  He held up his hand. “Point taken.”

  The light mood continued as they dissected police department politics and high-profile cases. He ordered each of them another beer and shrimp and grits for his entree and grilled Redfish for her. When the waiter brought their meals, Matt put his finger to his lips.

  “No more shop talk tonight,” he said. “We both need a break. Can we just have a relaxing evening?”

  “You bet, Matt,” she smiled. “What’s going on with your personal life?”

  “Sue and I have been separated for almost a year,” Matt said. “I expect she’ll file for the divorce soon. It’s all very civilized.”

  “How old are your kids now?”

  “My daughter’s still in high school, but the two older boys have finished college and are on their own. They’re too busy with their jobs and friends to be traumatized.”

  “So they’re okay with the divorce?”

  “Yeah. I see all of them at least once a week,” Matt said. “They were sad at first, but now they seem resigned.”

  “What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  He leaned back, sighed and drank deeply before answering.

  “Same old stuff. Sue thought I worked too much and didn’t pay enough attention to her. The last few years haven’t been good for either of us. Can’t blame her. I’ve always been a workaholic.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Annie said. “Aren’t you close to getting your thirty years in? Still thinking about doing something different?”

  “I expect I’ll retire sometime this year. Then I’ll look for some kind of business opportunity. I’m just about done with my master’s in business from the University of Houston.”

  “I didn’t know you’d gone back to school,” she said. “Good for you. But wouldn’t you miss police work? You’re so good at solving crimes.”

  “To be honest, I’m a little burned out,” he said with a wry smile. And I’d like to make some money before I get old. What’s going on in your personal life?”

  “Nothing special. I’ve dated quite a bit since I broke it off with Jake Satterfield, the state senator. I think I told you we were engaged. But I haven’t met anyone lately that interested me.”

  “How’s the job?”

  “Not very satisfying,” she said. “Being a low-level editor means lots of responsibility plus lots of blame when things go wrong. I don’t feel like I have much power, and I miss the fun of reporting.”

  “You were always such a natural reporter,” he said. “When I met you ten years ago, you were smart and cute, but green as a cucumber. Last week when I saw you, you seemed so poised, confident and even more attractive. Houston has really ripened you.”

  She was touched, but a little embarrassed by his unexpected compliment. She didn’t know wh
ere he was heading, but wanted to play it cool.

  “Thanks, Matt. Houston has definitely ripened me. Soon I’ll be so ripe, I’ll be rotting before your very eyes.”

  He roared with laughter and put his big hand lightly on her arm. His touch felt warm and protective. They finished their entrees.

  “How old are you, Matt? I’ve forgotten.”

  He looked chagrined, but didn’t dodge the question. “I’m fifty-two, getting old. You’re about forty, right? Still got a few years on you, Annie Girl.”

  “You look different – and better – than you did ten years ago,” Annie said. “You’ve taken off some weight, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, I started running again and gave up sweets,” he said. “Speaking of which, would you like to order dessert, or would you rather have a quiet nightcap on my balcony?”

  “Where’s your balcony?”

  “Just a few blocks from here. I have a garage apartment in Montrose.”

  “Okay, I’ll follow you there,” Annie said.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were sipping scotch and looking at the stars on the narrow balcony of his apartment in the urban, tree-lined Montrose area. With its ancient oaks and solidly built old houses, Montrose was a haven for well-heeled hipsters and upstart millennials. It wasn’t far from her Heights cottage, but his neighborhood was more upscale and sophisticated. Matt didn’t fit the profile of the average Montrose dweller, but had found a great efficiency apartment. His place consisted of one large room above a garage that encompassed a kitchenette, a living space and a bedroom area with an adjoining bathroom. She liked its almost-military compactness and order, and the balcony was a big plus.

  “This place is wonderful,” she said. “I’m impressed that you keep it so neat.”

  “I like living alone, surprisingly. Sue and I got married too young. Had to, with a kid on the way. So I never had a place of my own, or the freedom of a bachelor’s life.”