by A. W. Gray
Bino’s
Blues
A. W. GRAY
Copyright © 1995 by A. W. Gray
First ebook copyright © 2014 by Blackstone Audio, Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
Trade: 978-1-4829-7206-1
Library: 978-1-4829-7205-4
For Sara Emily Gray.
Little girl gone.
Young lady comin’ up.
1
HARRY STRIPPED OFF HIS DIVING MASK, PUSHED HIS SOPPING black hair out of his eyes, and squatted on his haunches. The balls of his feet sank into cool, wet, canal bank mud as he watched the floating barge set its crane in motion. The chain clanked and straightened, its links rising from the murk in slow but steady progression, as Harry thought, When do we get paid for this, and how’m I going to keep the check away from Doris’s fucking lawyer?
Jimmy sat nearby on the bank. “You’re crazy for going down in that slop without wearing a wet suit,” he said. “You cut yourself once on a busted fender or bumper down there, you’re going to need a tetanus shot.” Jimmy wore a dark green rubber suit complete with hood. He was skinny as a sick man, his face pasty white, his feet encased in webbed flippers and his ass sinking down in muck.
Harry could have made up a lot of reasons he wasn’t wearing a wet suit, but the truth was that he thought he looked pretty beefcake for forty in skimpy racing trunks which he’d stolen during his four-month stint on the U. of Houston swim team, before he’d flunked out of school twenty years ago. He had broad shoulders and just a hint of gut, and his hairpiece was both water-resistant and super-undetectable. Nonetheless, he’d sound pretty silly giving the real reason he wasn’t wearing a wet suit, with nobody to hear him but Jimmy and those four Houston cops standing around. No woman would be hanging around this nasty old ship channel, even with the chance of running into a stud like Harry. Harry was afraid that if he leveled with Jimmy, he’d sound like a homo or something.
So he said to Jimmy instead, “How we going to get paid, huh? These po-lice act like we ain’t even got the right to ask. Christ, two days down here clamping onto these old wrecks and not a word about our money. You got any idea what we supposed to be looking for?”
The barge had hoisted up the fifth old junker of the day, slime and muck running from the auto and slopping noisily back into the water. The crane swiveled like a dinosaur against the gray bayou overcast, bearing its cargo over the inclined concrete channel banks. At the last instant the chain slipped; the car’s rear end crashed down, recoiled violently, and settled on creaky springs. Harry looked over the vehicle’s outline. Seventy-six T-Bird, Harry thought, a real pussywagon in its heyday.
Jimmy said, “All I know is, it’s a co-op deal between the city and Channel Board cops. I finally got up the nerve to ask about getting paid, and get this. They act like I’m insulting them asking for my fucking money. Then two of ’em get in an argument about who’s responsible for paying us, HPD or the Channel people. Harry, you give a fuck who pays us?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Yeah, me neither. Finally the dude from HPD takes down our address and says we’re getting a purchase order. What’s that deal?”
“A purchase order? Bad as we need the money? Hey, I got a purchase order one time, from the U.S Army Corps of Engineers. Assholes acted like that piece of paper was pure gold. Ninety, a hundred and twenty days before I seen a dime.” Harry’s shoulders ached from the day spent underwater swimming in blackness. Houston summer was a muggy bitch; he was still soaked from the last dive, yet he was sweating. Humidity must be a hundred, Harry thought. “I don’t have a hundred and twenty days,” he said. “Hundred and twenty days, Doris’ll have me in jail for child support. She’d love it, too.”
“Well, you ain’t alone,” Jimmy said. “I’m too broke to pay attention.”
A loud tenor voice from behind them said, “Time for one more, men. Come on, the City of Houston’s not paying you to sit around on your asses.”
Harry turned. One plainclothes cop had come halfway down the incline, a puffy-cheeked guy of around forty, wearing glasses. His weight was shifted slightly back to compensate for his downhill stance, and it tickled Harry that the guy’s polished black shoes and navy pants legs showed spatters of mud. The detective wore the standard massa-to-slave expression. Visible over his shoulder, the other three city men watched from their vantage point some thirty yards away, clustered around the pickup, the old Ford with harry and jimmy’s marine service stenciled on the doors in white script.
Harry scowled at Puffy-cheeks, then climbed to his feet, feeling a slight stiffness in his knees. He stretched out the rubber strap on his diving mask. “Our contract says we get double time after five,” Harry said. “Of which we ain’t got single time, double time, any fucking time yet, by the way.”
Puffy-cheeks checked his watch. “Twenty till. One more dive, men.” He took a couple of strides up the incline, then turned back. “And I don’t want to hear any more talk about when you’re getting paid. You nuts or something? This is the city you’re dealing with.” He continued on his way.
Harry yelled, “Well, Mr. City, sir, how many more days you going to need us?”
Puffy-cheeks halted and squinted at the barge, its bow tipping up and down in the middle of the hundred-foot-wide canal. “Depends on what you find,” he said, then went on up to join the other city guys.
Harry muttered something about the city holding a gun to a working man’s head as he clenched his mouthpiece between his teeth and checked his air supply. He picked up his flippers and lugged them down the incline, then walked into filthy warm water up to his waist. He lifted one foot at a time to put the flippers on, then shoved off. After looking guardedly around to be certain no one was watching, Harry pushed the base of his hairpiece back and forth on his shaved scalp. The rug was stuck solid as his own skin. He dog-paddled out near the barge to tread water while he felt for the grappling chain. Finally he cleared his mask and dove, following the chain links downward, hand over grasping hand.
Murky green changed to pitch black before his eyes as the cooler undercurrents pulled the chain this way and that. He couldn’t see where the fuck he was going. Jimmy was right about the tetanus, and tomorrow Harry was going to bring his wet suit along, like it or not. These sunken cars were corroded to beat hell, and all it would take was a little cut. Most of the old heaps had been stolen, stripped, and then dumped into the ship channel; that morning, two of the rust-infested junkers had fallen apart before the barge could haul them to the surface. Harry wondered exactly what the police had in mind; stolen cars were as common as mud in these canals, and Harry would bet that the cops weren’t even running makes on the ones they’d drug up earlier. Nope, these po-lice were looking for something in particular.
His feet touched silty bottom; he grasped the iron hook at the end of the chain and let his legs float into sitting position. His eardrums popped with pressure; he yawned, holding his jaws tensed and apart to ease the discomfort. Towing the hook behind him, he plunged straight ahead, touching bottom with his free hand every ten feet or so, feeling the mud dissolve into silt and drift between his fingers. He hadn’t moved over ten or twelve yards when he touched smooth metal.
Harry’s pulse quickened. This auto was different from the rest; the image of shiny chrome came to him as he felt his way along the bumper. It was no old heap, and it hadn’t been down for very long; there wasn’t a trace of slime on the fenders. Harry swam underneath to hook the rear axle, then wriggled clear of the car and pulled twice on the chain. The links jerked instantly upward, losing slack, and Harry got out of the way and hustled for daylight like Jaws after a succulent female.
The blackness faded into m
urky green, then transformed suddenly into sky and shore as he exploded to the surface. Water beaded on the lens of his mask. Jimmy was on the bank in his frogman suit, arms folded. The barge’s motor chugged overhead. Harry swam the thirty feet to the incline, then duckwalked halfway up to the bank. He squatted down on tilted concrete. His breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted a cigarette.
The barge motor coughed steadily, punctuated by the creaking and rattling chain. Harry teetered, almost lost his balance, then steadied himself as he looked up the embankment to where the city men watched intently. Puffy-cheeks stood away from the pickup with his lips parted in surprise. Harry looked back at the barge. A snow white car had now poked its rear end above the water’s surface, visible to its rocker panels. The barge’s motor missed a beat, then resumed its chug-a-chug.
Caddy, Harry thought. Twin curved olive branches gleamed in the bayou afternoon. The bumper was shiny and unmarked, and Harry guessed that the car couldn’t have been down more than a couple of days. Excited, he hustled up the incline to stand beside Jimmy, who watched with lips pursed and hands on hips. Harry thought, Eldo? Seville? Jesus, bring it on up. His mask dangling from his fingers, Harry led Jimmy toward the section of shore where the battered hulks stood. Something told Harry to be close by when they set the Caddy down. The winch groaned as it lifted its load clear of the water.
Eldo. Its squared-off nose came into view, water dripping from its fenders and pouring from its trunk and doors. The crane swiveled and the Caddy swung to and fro in decreasing arcs as it neared the bank. Wherever it’s from, Harry thought, that sure ain’t no Houston Cadillac; anyone living in the bayou country would have the good sense to undercoat the body to keep the corrosion away. Harry squinted at the license number. He knew some of the county call letters by heart—Dallas, San Antone, even Lubbock at the southern edge of the panhandle—but was out of luck with the Caddy because the owner had paid the extra fee for personalized plates. The license read ri sty’s r, which to Harry meant exactly zero.
Harry watched from twenty yards away as the Caddy’s front tires slapped down on the bank, and the sight of the dead woman behind the wheel caused him to forget all about the license number. Her head snapped back from the impact, then rolled forward to bang against the steering wheel as the rear tires came down. Harry had a glimpse of bloated cheeks and red hair which clung to her skull in clumps. He leaned over and retched.
He bent at the waist with his hands on his knees until the revulsion subsided, then walked closer to the Eldo for a better look. Harry had heard that many corpses looked as though they’d fallen asleep. The broad in the Caddy didn’t look asleep. No way.
The one eye visible from Harry’s profile view was swollen shut, the lid dull gray in color. The woman’s neck bulged like a goiter; a plain gold necklace had dug a crease into the swelling flesh. The odor of death assaulted Harry’s nostrils. He took one staggering step to the rear. One of the cops said softly, “Son of a bitch, will you … ?” Jimmy stood by like Hardy’s Laurel.
Before Harry could speak, the city men jumped into action. One detective headed for the Caddy while two others blocked the divers’ view. The remaining cop stood off to one side, arms folded, and cleared his throat.
This guy was younger than Puffy-cheeks, but even shorter and rounder. His fleshy neck puffed out over his collar. He wore a coal black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie. His lips were pinched in a half-smirk; his shiny brown hair gleamed in dull bayou light.
He said, “I’m going to remind you that you have contracted with the Houston Police Department and the Harris County Channel Board for this job, and that automatically places you under our jurisdiction. Right here and now I’m putting you under orders that you are to remain silent. You aren’t to discuss what you’ve seen here with anyone. If you do and we find out about it, you are subject to arrest and detention for security purposes.” He sounded like a recording. He pursed his lips even tighter and glared.
Harry jammed his mask under his arm, put his hands on his waist, and looked down past his bare legs at his feet. Hunks of mud clung to his flippers. He raised his head to sneak a look at the Caddy, and once more read the license plate, rusty’s r. Must be something big, Harry thought. An idea came to him and he stifled a grin.
“I guess we can keep our mouths shut,” Harry said. “ ’Course, if we was to start talking you couldn’t arrest us ’fore the word was out what you found down here. So I was wondering. Any way we could get paid for this job right now, without fucking around with a purchase order? Like in cash, maybe?”
Three of the law enforcement men exchanged glances while the other stood guard over the Caddy. One, a tall, square-shouldered guy with eyes like flints, nodded to the detective doing the talking. “Up to you Channel Board people,” he said.
The Channel Board guy licked his lips. “Well,” he said, “this is unusual. But I think we can arrange it. I’ll have to give you an address, and a woman’s name to talk to about the money. But, yeah. You play ball with us, we’ll play ball with you.”
Harry grinned and nudged Jimmy with his elbow.
“Now, this is a pretty nice lady you’re going to see,” the cop continued, looking Harry up and down. “So how ’bout you guys cleaning up your act some before you go calling on her. Goddam, man, that’s the goofiest-looking hairpiece I ever saw.”
2
BINO PHILLIPS WAS GOING TO KEEP HIS HEAD DOWN OR BUST A gut trying. He glared down the fairway with the look of eagles; Rusty Benson’s ball was alongside Barney Dalton’s, both two-sixty down the middle of Crooked River’s lush, green eighteenth like twin dust motes. Bino spat on his palms, rubbing his hands together as he took his stance, then gave his Big Bertha driver two professional waggles. He started with a smooth forward press to begin his one-piece takeaway, forcing his movements to be slow and deliberate all the way to the top, then kept his hands extra low on the downswing to compensate for his six-foot-six height. The clubhead made sweet, solid contact. Bino kept his gaze riveted on the spot where his ball had been for a full count of two. Finally he let his head come up and looked down the fairway, his hands held high in a Nicklaus-like follow-through. Man, he thought, did I ever nail that one. Then he waited patiently for his Titleist to come to rest somewhere in the vicinity of the other balls.
And waited.
And waited.
His ball didn’t land in the fairway, or anywhere else in his line of vision. Bino frowned.
From behind him, Barney Dalton said, “My god, Bino. Where you trying to hit the fucking ball?”
Bino looked left and right, toward the tall green forests on either edge of the fairway. He stepped back from the tee and glared over his shoulder. Barney and Rusty stood side by side with their eyes trained on the right-hand woods.
Bino said, “Where’d it go, Barn?”
“It … ” Barney lifted his Crooked River cap to mop sweat from his brow with a damp towel. His thick dark hair was tousled. He put the hat on and tilted it back. “I been the pro at this club nine years. Nine, count ’em. I’ve played this hole maybe a thousand times, and I never seen a ball hit where you just hit that one. How ’bout it, Rusty, you ever seen anybody drive the ball there before?”
Rusty Benson’s tanned handsome face broke out in a grin. “Can’t say that I have.” Northern accent, faded some during Rusty’s years in Texas.
Now Bino was really mad. He ran his fingers through his own short, snow white hair. “Well? Where the hell is it?”
Barney stroked his thick rust mustache as he strode in the direction of the E-Z Go electric cart, parked on the asphalt path east of the teebox. Barney’s red leather bag was strapped behind the driver’s seat with Bino’s clubs encased in turquoise lizard and riding shotgun. “Come on,” Barney said. “I can drive you there easier than I can tell you where it is. I damn sure hope there’s no cannibals in those woods. We’re dead if there are.” Then, to R
usty: “How you want your money? Cash? Check? MasterCard?”
Rusty continued to smile as he went to his own cart, taking short confident steps, his shoulders square and his hands swinging easily. Amazing, Bino thought, the guy doesn’t even look like he’s sweating. Bino’s own white golf shirt was drenched with perspiration. He watched Rusty climb aboard the cart, kick off the brake, and wheel away. The cart gave out a high-pitched whine as it rolled away down the path with Rusty’s foot propped up on the dashboard. With Rusty’s looks, Bino thought, no wonder I’ve lost clients to him in the past year, most of them women.
Bino trudged over to climb into the E-Z Go, and Barney pressed the accelerator to head off in the direction of the forest. Bino narrowed his eyes against the sun’s glare; it was hot as the blazes. Not muggy-hot like Houston and the bayou country; Dallas heat was more of a dry blast furnace. Bino had grown up not fifteen miles from Dallas and had baked in the sun every summer of his life, but the heat still got to him at times. He could imagine how Texas weather must have felt to a guy like Rusty Benson, who’d moved down from Michigan awhile back to practice law. So, Bino thought, why doesn’t Rusty sweat?
As the cart rolled along, Barney said, “Look, Bino, you know I’m the pro around here. I got an image to maintain. The members sort of look up to me, and I can’t afford to let them know I’m gambling. So tell you what. Next time maybe you better find yourself another partner, okay?” He steered off the fairway and entered the shadow of the fifty-foot elm and pecan trees.
“Shut up and drive, Barney,” Bino said.
Rusty took cash. Bino counted the money out in twenties and fifties as he and Rusty stood in front of the lavatories in the shit ’n’ shower area behind Crooked River’s locker room. Rusty’s expression was mild as he eyed the stack of bills, then the tight muscles in his face relaxed into a smile. “You had an off day, buddy.” He pocketed the money in his pressed gray slacks. “Better luck next time.”