by George Wier
The Last Call
George Wier
George Wier
The Last Call
PROLOGUE
The concrete-walled room had not seen daylight in eighty years. Its only visitors were the occasional mouse or dung beetle which died of thirst or hunger shortly after happening along. There was a growing collection of the bones and husks of such spread around in little dried piles. The room’s furnishings-which consisted of little more than a small card table and a turn-of-the-century rocking chair-had been perfectly preserved in the dry, North Texas climate, and the room’s only permanent occupant, seated in the rocking chair, grinned vacantly in the dark, waiting to greet the first interloper to come along.
The occupant was a skeleton, little more than fine clothing over crumbling, desiccated flesh and protruding bone. Had the skeleton still retained its meat and had blood still coursed through its now empty spaces, it would have been surprised at the sudden present that shushed through the inky blackness overhead and landed on its lap, cracking its pelvis and sending decades of dust flying.
The present, a leather physician’s bag, itself an antique, was partially open. The bag landed upside down and its contents spilled out onto the dust-laden trousers and slapped down onto the concrete floor with a dull thud.
Perhaps if the occupant still had eyes with which to see and a light to see by, it would have seen the denominations of the bills in each deck of a hundred, and perhaps after a lifetime spent in earnest chasing after just such, it would have grinned even wider, if old corpses could.
Instead it accepted the gift from above silently and began again to mark time in the dark as it had done for decades.
Outside, above, lightning flashed and thunder boomed.
Inside, the dust that had for a brief moment stirred, slowly settled back down.
CHAPTER ONE
All the hell started on Monday morning while I was driving north to work along the Loop near the pulsing heart of Austin. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper-I could have made as much headway on foot.
I kept seeing this red roadster. Flashy. One of those kit jobs that make no pretense at posing as original. One minute it was behind me and I could see it in my side view mirror, then in a flash past me, several cars ahead, then I passed it again. I wouldn't have cared too much about the roadster, only there was this girl. Story of my life.
A man gets up into his late thirties and the chances are he stops looking and begins observing. I don't know when exactly this happened to me. Couldn't pin it to a day or even a year, really. Just sort of crept in and one day I found myself completely aloof in my watching; peripheral vision on automatic. Not shifty, no. But peripheral. That in spades.
The girl in the roadster that morning knew I was looking, but I got the feeling that she didn’t mind so much. I caught just the hint of a smile as she trundled up even with me one more time, just before I had to pass her again.
She had big hair, even though it was tied off into a ponytail. Women with ponytails do funny things to me. This one had both a ponytail and hair with actual mass to it, but at the same time her hair looked fine, like baby hair. It was reddish blond, the color of an East Texas sunset-that's where I'm from-and it rippled like the wind through the high grass. Also, she wore huge, snotty sunglasses. In a word she wore “bitch” like a totem, except of course for her mouth, her glorious soft mouth.
Behind me, ahead of me, behind.
I didn't turn my head. Not even once.
But then she came right alongside. My exit lane was coming up, but suddenly I wasn’t taking it. I had bigger fish to fry. My aging heart, God bless it, didn't even miss a chug-too seasoned to stop working over a goddess in traffic. There was a dead standstill ahead, likely some kind of accident. Happens every day in the big city. Unlucky for somebody else, but so far I was liking it.
My peripheral vision extended to encompass points west, like maybe Fiji Island. My window was cracked just two inches-enough to muss my hair a little-and the wind was coming from that way and upon my life I could smell her.
My finger jabbed at the window button, lowering it to half mast. I knew she was still looking. It felt like she wanted me to look at her.
I counted: one-Mis-sis-sip-pi-two-Mis-sis-sip-pi-three-Mis-sis-sip-pi, and turned slowly. No smile. Just deadpan. A guy in traffic on his way to work.
She removed her sunglasses and smiled a little and old faithful betrayed me: Clang!
I looked at her and tried not to smile, which was difficult, the way she smiled at me. Playful, as if to say: “There are possibilities here. The door is slightly ajar. Maybe you could come on in. Maybe not. We’ll see.” She was the cat and I the mouse and some kind of game was in progress.
I wasn’t paying any attention to what was going on ahead of me, and it just so happened that that was the game she’d been playing all along-distraction.
She looked forward, taking those lovely eyes off me.
When I finally looked forward, the line ahead of me had moved up perhaps fifty or so yards.
My right foot began the motion to switch from brake to gas and before that small space between foot and pedal was closed completely I heard rubber peeling on asphalt in a growing whine. There was a red and white blur just as I pushed on the gas and my reflex was to brake again, but before I could even do that the beautiful girl with the man-slaying smile and the bitch glasses and the red roadster that I wouldn’t have minded too much sitting in my own driveway darted into the narrow space between her and the car ahead of me and my heart lurched and my ears winced in anticipation of a metal-on-metal screech that didn’t come.
I suppose my ears turned red. It felt like that, anyway. Maybe someone behind me had seen it all and knew that I’d been played for a fool.
And maybe not. The problem was that I knew.
As the shock wore off I moved forward again, my window full up now and destined to remain so. I’d been thoroughly put in my place.
By the time I got caught up to the traffic in front of me the red roadster with the snotty little bitch had switched lanes again, merged into moving traffic and was gone.
So what does a man who’s a blink away from forty do? He does what he’s supposed to do. He goes to work as if nothing has happened at all.
“Good morning, Mr. Travis,” Penelope, my receptionist greeted me. No difference between this and any other given morning. Sometimes I wished Penny wasn’t so damned cute. That morning her cuteness was slightly accusatory.
I smiled and nodded and quickly disappeared around the corner and down the hall and into my office. Comfort and safety was to be found there.
I dropped my briefcase into a chair covered with papers and marveled that nothing spilled.
I made a quick jaunt down to the kitchen for a cup of hot coffee and managed to catch Nat Bierstone’s back disappearing into his own office where he’d probably be until about lunch time.
Back to my Corinthian leather executive chair. I propped my Dr. Martens up on my desk at the same time that I noticed a stack of bills that needed to be paid before the week was done. I’d get around to it.
I sipped my coffee, read the sports section and began to enliven.
I was in the middle of an article on Lance Armstrong, who could probably ride through hell and back on a bicycle-and I was enjoying the article-when my phone buzzer went off. That’s almost always the way it happens.
“Yeah, Penny?”
“Mr. Travis, your first appointment is here.”
Appointment? I didn’t have any appointments. I always kept my own calendar, so no one else actually knew my schedule.
“Penny, are you sure this not Mr. Bierstone’s appointment?”
“Uh, sir, Mr. Bierstone had me leave a message for you. He wanted
you to talk to her.”
“I didn’t get any message,” I said, and just as the last word was out of my mouth my eyes came to rest on a small pink phone message tear-out sheet underneath the heel of my shoe on my desk top.
“Wait, think I found it.”
Sure enough.
“Okay, Penny. Give me a minute, then send her in.” I hung up.
I quickly started clearing my desk. Where does all the paper come from? I have a theory about paperwork: I’m certain it mates and reproduces during the night.
I swept the stack of bills and the large index card box on top of it (my client file system-I don’t trust computers, or at least not with that kind of information) under my arm, toted it over to the file cabinet, opened a drawer, dropped it in and slammed the drawer shut.
By the time I was back standing in front of my desk and surveying the room, the door opened.
And, of course, it was her.
The roadster girl, bitch-glasses and all.
The moment of recognition was priceless.
Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped slightly open. She tried to remove her sunglasses but only managed to drop them. I took three long steps toward her, bent quickly and picked them up just as she was beginning to stoop down.
I smiled, meeting her eyes.
“Hi,” I told her, pressing her sunglasses back into her delicate hand. She looked down at them as if I’d given her a little present of some sort, realized what they were and tucked them into her purse.
“Uh, hi.”
“Miss Simmons?” I asked.
“Um, yes. Listen, Mr. Travis, I have to say I’m sorry for cutting you off like that.”
“What are the odds, huh? Don’t mention it. It’s forgotten. Come on and have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”
I took her by the elbow, guided her, effortlessly.
She was beautiful. I caught the scent of something. An exotic fragrance. Couldn’t name it if I tried. I successfully resisted the urge to ask her what it was.
She took the proffered chair. I sat down at my desk, facing her.
She just sat looking at me. Not smiling. There was a tiny wrinkle in her otherwise perfect forehead, the beginning knit of a frown.
“How can I help you?”
“Mr. Travis. I’m not sure you can. I’m not sure anybody can.”
I’d heard this before. A few times it’s been true. It’s a marvel to me the whole spectrum of trouble that human beings can get themselves into. I suppose I’ve seen most everything.
“I know it must really appear that way,” I told her, trying not to smile. I suppose I was a little amused, and at her expense. “Just about anything can be untangled, if you know which string to pull.”
“Which string,” she said. Not a question. She was no longer looking at me but at the shelf behind me. Actually I’d say she was peering into some dark space in the universe of her mind.
“Right,” I said. “Why don’t you just start-”
”At the beginning?”
“Well… Okay. You can start there if you want to.”
Her face reddened. Cheeks puffed up just a bit. There was moisture stealing into the inside corners of her exotic, slightly feline eyes. My stomach did a little gymnastics, a little back flip that it was out of practice on. If she started crying, I thought I might fall in love.
Please don’t cry, Bitch Lady! I pleaded with her silently.
Damn but she was gorgeous. Those green eyes the color of a field of clover. Shiny auburn blond hair down to her delicate shoulders. A smallish bone structure with a perfect thin neck and oh so perfect little wrists.
“Mr. Travis,” she began, and sniffed once, delicately.
“Call me Bill.”
“Bill. Have you ever been afraid?”
There are some people that you just don’t cross. Julie Simmons had made it a point to cross the exactly wrong person, a North Texas liquor baron named Archie Carpin, distant relative to the Carpins of Signal Hill and Stinnett up in the Texas Panhandle.
I’d read up on the Carpin Gang and some of the 1930s depression desperadoes before, back in the days when I actually did my assigned college research. I’d even gone once and kicked around up in Hutchinson County in North Texas, poked my nose into the abandoned, decaying buildings and rust-encrusted oil derricks of that ghost town. It was private property and I didn’t exactly have permission, but when you’re young you tend to think you’ve got license to look where you want, do what you want. Also, you tend to think and act like you’re immortal-at least I did, which at that time, was pretty close to the truth. What was amazing to me was that anybody else knew about Signal Hill and those old-time gangsters, but here was this pretty girl who had cut me off in traffic giving me chapter and verse.
Back during the early 1920s the Carpin brothers ran the small slapped-together oil boomtown a few miles east of Stinnett in what was little more than a den of bootleggers, gamblers and other criminals of low order. During those days of big bands and prohibition, men on the far side of the law either rose to the top of the heap or got stomped under. For a brief time the Carpins were on the top of that heap. When Signal Hill was cleaned out by the Texas Rangers in 1927, the former boomtown imploded and the Carpins, who had managed to avoid arrest and capture, had dispersed. When I went up there to look around back in the mid 1980s there was little left. So when the girl with the bitch sunglasses and the too-cute frown mentioned Carpin’s name, I naturally questioned her on it, and she not only admitted that the man who was after her was one of those Carpins, but that he was proud of his heritage.
There was one question though, once I put it to her, that she didn’t want to answer, and therefore, it was the one thing that I had to keep putting back in her court each time she attempted to bat it away. The question was, of course: “What did you do?”
When she finally told me, I had to contain myself from bursting into laughter.
She finished the story. I could tell that she’d left out quite a bit.
“I’m not sure I can help you,” I said. She frowned. There was bit of shocked expression on her face.
“Look,” I said. “Miss Simmons, my clients are…”
“What?”
“Well. I have to walk a very… I just can’t-No one could just walk in and ask someone to… Look, if we so much as took one step outside of the bounds of-”
She kept turning her head slowly, cocking it, waiting for me to finish. I found I didn’t have the words.
“Mr. Travis,” she said. “It’s two million dollars.”
I’m not normally impressed with money, of any denomination. But two million?
“So you’re not exactly here to turn yourself in,” I said.
“Getting arrested wouldn’t be half bad. I’d stand a better chance of surviving, I think,” she said. “But if I don’t get some help and don’t get arrested, or get somewhere safe, then I’ll be dead.”
She must have caught the quizzical look on my face.
“I don’t have the money on me!” she said.
I looked closely at her, searched for some hint, some shred of evidence in her eyes that something of what she told me wasn’t true. I didn’t find it.
She unzipped her small, tan clutch purse and pulled forth three pathetic-looking, wadded-up hundred dollar bills. She was about to give them to me.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
Very suddenly the room felt warm, like someone had cranked up the heat. Possibly my ears were turning red again. I couldn’t let her give me the money, no matter what else was going to happen.
“Miss Simmons-”
”Julie,” she said, her voice just above a whimper. Her face was flushed and the muscles around her mouth were tight.
There, across from me over the dark gulf of my rosewood desk, was a girl who was used to helping herself. A girl who took her chances, to be sure, but who normally won out in the end. And here she was at the end of her rope. I at least knew enough to know that
I had to know more, and that if it were possible, I would help. And it wasn’t as though I had any choice in the matter. No woman I had ever known had thus far been able to penetrate my armor with the simple expedient of tears. But it was not only this that drew me to her so inevitably and completely-it was also the simplest and yet most profound of feelings. And it was actually her feelings. It was her sense of utter embarrassment that she had to ask for help to begin with.
“Julie.” I said. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved,” she said after a short pause. Her head tilted to the left. A little smile was on the verge of taking up residence.
“Would you like to have a little breakfast with me?” I asked.
“God, yes,” she said, smiling suddenly past her tears.
“Good,” I said. “I know just the place.”
CHAPTER TWO
There are places to get good coffee and a decent breakfast and be in your own crowd. The place I took Miss Simmons was nothing like that. Nestled in a predominantly lower class neighborhood on the East Side of Interstate 35 there is a hole-in-the-wall place where they start the barbecue about ten years ahead of time and the wood smoke hangs about in the late morning hours like London fog. We had places like that back where I grew up, and I made it a point to find one about the second day of my life in Austin, Texas.
My old Mercedes was parked underneath probably the only willow tree in East Austin, not ten feet away.
The two of us sat just outside the screen porch at a rickety, paint-peeled picnic table as the April sun rose toward zenith between draping willow branches. I found myself wondering whether or not I'd died and gone someplace I couldn't begin to deserve. Her sunglasses lay not an inch from my right hand, which held the scalding cup of coffee from which I sipped.
I heard the familiar crunch of heavy footsteps drawing close from around the wisteria bush close by.
“Julie,” I said, “I’d like for you to meet a friend of mine.”