Dead On

by Michael Paulson

  Chapter 2

  Nearly an hour later Leon pulled the truck to a stop in front of a white, stone archway somewhere out in the boonies. Running away on either side were horizons of gleaming razor wire: the kind correctional facilities used to deter inmate escape. Between the risers, yellow wrought-iron gates stood open. Beyond, a narrow strip of blacktop rippled across a neatly trimmed lawn like an old belt. A quarter-mile along it, a red tile roof rose amidst a grove of trees.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow. "What? No tower guards to plink off passersby?"

  At that moment, I was simmering in a pool of my own sweat. In fact, everything I had on was soaked and creeping for higher ground.

  Leon swallowed thickly. "Somethin's wrong, Mister."

  A chill suddenly darted down my spine and I glanced about. However, there was only heat, dust and scrub brush for miles. "For Christ's sake, give me a hint, Leon."

  A dribble of perspiration tracked down the length of his flat nose until it dangled from the tip, like a foul smelling dewdrop. "Them gates got rules," he said with respect. Then, he tapped the windshield and pointed at the arch. "Them gates is locked 'less Eli says unlock."

  "Maybe, your brother took a drive."

  Leon shifted on the seat as if his backside was dodging a vagrant spring. "'Lectric," he explained. "Radio-box control." He dug a garage-door style transmitter out of his pants pocket and held it up. "Eli's got one, too. Somethin's wrong, all right. Eli don't cotton to open gates."

  A twitching at the nape of my neck suggested I take Leon's case of nerves as gospel. "Did Eli give you the package I shipped?"

  "There," Leon grunted, and pointed to the truck's glove box.

  I opened the compartment. Inside were a lock-pick kit and my Mauser pistol. I took out the gun, checked the clip, jerked back the slide and let it fly forward to load one round into the chamber. Then I set the safety, lowered the hammer and shoved it into my shoulder holster. The probability of running into lethal trouble on a hot afternoon at a millionaire's estate in South Texas was well off the scale. So was meeting Leon Huggins.

  The boxer glanced at me and shivered. "Don't cotton to guns, Mister."

  I pointed toward the rooftop and growled, "Just drive, Leon."

  We roared through the arch, took a curve on two wheels, and then caught air over a sharp rise. The lawn sprinklers sputtered streams of liquid silver onto brown grass, and steaming asphalt. The truck skidded on the wet. I let go a curse, and then quickly said a prayer. Leon was quiet, wide-eyed and lead-footed.

  The roof we headed for belonged to a Spanish style mansion the size of a football field. It had three levels of white stucco with black wrought-iron ornamentation on the windows. It nestled among flapping banana palms, tall cottonwoods and twisted eucalyptus trees, like a gigantic cupcake.

  "How many servants?" I asked, as he pumped the brakes.

  "I do, for Eli!" he growled. "No need for nobody else."

  "You traded your jockstrap for a feather-duster?"

  Leon flushed crimson. "Cleanin' woman comes in for that."

  The asphalt formed a nice neat drive-around in front of a wide flagstone walkway. The latter wound between two concrete benches up three rows of white stone steps to a pair of red steel doors, one of which was ajar. There were no other vehicles in sight. Leon stopped the truck, and shut off the engine.

  "I don't see a car," I said. "You're sure Eli didn't go somewhere?"

  "Parkin's underground."

  "Let's go!"

  He shook his head. "No pass-card."

  "Your brother won't let you into his garage?"

  "Eli don't cotton to nobody goin' down there but special friends."

  "What do these special friends do for him, you don't?"

  Leon's chin dipped before offering a shrug in reply.

  "Your brother was shy on details," I grumbled. "What kind of trouble's Eli in?"

  "Not sure," Leon muttered. "Maybe shakedown. Maybe somethin' else. Tried to tell Eli I handle problems. He says, stay clear. So, I stay clear."

  "You said shakedown. Who might be doing the shaking?"

  The boxer spat out the truck's side window. "Not sure, Mister," Leon replied. "Cop, maybe. Big bastard. Tough. Not, too tough for me. Maybe them others. Maybe no shakedown at all. Maybe something else."

  My mouth went dry. There was nothing I liked better than dealing with a dirty cop—except swimming naked with hungry sharks. "This cop have a name?" I asked.

  "Shawn Delaney. Don't like him much. He don't like me, either. You know him, Mister?"

  I shook my head. "I guess that explains why Eli was nervous as a transvestite in a nunnery, when he called. What was your brother's schedule for today?"

  Leon stuck an index finger into one hairy ear and rotated the digit like a plumber cranking a closet-auger. "Meetin'. Big meetin' come up all sudden-like. That's why he sent me to get you."

  "Meeting with who?"

  The boxer's fingers coiled and then recoiled around the black steering wheel as if he were milking the life out of it. "Eli don't say and I don't ask." Then he murmured in a worried voice, "Somethin's wrong all right. Somethin's terrible wrong."

  I crawled from the truck like a soggy bagel and grimaced up at the searing sun. It hung over my head like the thrusters of a rocket engine running at full throttle. "I'm going to take a look around, Leon. I'm the nervous type so stay put, understand? If you come up on my blind side, I'm liable to get impulsive and blow your damn head off. That'd be a relief to my nose, but it might ruin your day."

  Leon chewed his lower lip, and nodded.

  I let my eyes drift. Drawn drapes sealed the mansion's windows in navy blue. An overgrown spirea hedge twisted along the North side of the house like a pink and green dragon. Here and there a dandelion danced among the grass blades like a yellow-faced clown. Nothing seemed out of place except for the open door at the top of the flagstones.

  "Eli's dead," Leon sobbed. "He'd be out by now if he was alive."

  I looked over at the boxer through the truck's side window. Sweat was dredging a path through grime and oil across his face, making him look like a weeping clown. During all my years investigating homicides with Dallas P-D, not once had a devoted relative expressed the belief that a missing loved one was dead before the body was found. The not so devoted often did, mostly out of hope that tears would sell innocence over guilt. I took out my pistol, clicked off the Mauser's safety and then rubbernecked toward the flagstone.

  When I started up the steps, I noticed something that looked like a dark blue bag behind the hedge. At one end of the bag was a pair of brown shoes poking through the shrubbery, the pointed tips tilting toward the sun like shiny leather arrows.

  At that moment, I realized Eli's check was the least of my worries.

  Behind me, the truck door slammed. I whirled toward it taking aim at the sound only to see Leon racing toward the hedge.

  "Eli!" he bellowed. "Eli!"

  By the time I reached the shoes Leon was kneeling beside a gaunt, ashen-faced corpse. The dead man was dressed in an expensive suit. His starched white shirt was crisply pressed. His red silk tie was knotted perfection. And his dyed black hair was trimmed, greased and combed straight back over his round head, in Valentino style. Even his nails had been done to the nines, manicured and polished with clear lacquer. The only flaws were grass-stained knees on his pants and the deceased's unseeing eyes staring up at me as if I had solved all the world’s problems. Somebody had—at least for Eli Huggins.

  "They got Eli," Leon wailed. Then the boxer's fists pummeled the ground, in frustration. "They got my brother."

  I squatted next to the corpse and touched the back of Eli's neck. His skin felt cooler than the surrounding air. I turned his head and saw a small-bore bullet wound at the back; it still dribbled blood. I lifted one of the dead man's arms and let if flop back to the grass. There was no way for me to be absolutely certain when the killing had tak
en place, but rigor mortis had not set in. That meant the millionaire had been dead less than an hour, which gave Leon an alibi.

  "Who, Leon?" I asked.

  The boxer gently stroked his brother's pale face. "Maybe Delaney," he muttered. "Maybe them others. Ghosts, maybe. I dunno."

  "What others?"

  "Big-shots. Come from out of town. I told Eli they was no good. But he don't listen—he never listens to me."

  "Names, Leon. I need names."

  The boxer's face, hardened as he looked into my eyes. "I don't know no names, Mister. All I know is Eli's dead."

  "You must have heard Eli mention somebody."

  Leon lolled his head back clenching his eyes shut against the sun as he tried to think. After what seemed like several minutes he let his chin flop forward. "One of them was called Port-something, maybe: a black-haired bastard. He don't cotton to me so Eli don't let me hang 'round, when he come."

  A bad taste flooded my mouth. "Portello? Dominic Portello?"

  Leon nodded, his eyes wide with sudden hope. "That's the fella.' You know him, Mister?"

  I nodded, grimly. The Portello crime family controlled the illicit drug trade across all of Texas and several states north. If Eli Huggins was receiving visits from Dominic, I had no doubts as to how the dead man had made his millions.

  I tilted Eli's head to take a closer look at the bullet wound. Scorched hair from the muzzle-blast surrounded the opening. This meant the killer had pressed the gun against Eli's skull before firing. From the size of the hole, I estimated the murder weapon's bore to be .32 caliber. I laid the dead man's head back against the grass. There was no exit wound, which meant the gun had been an older, low-velocity model. If Dominic Portello ordered this hit, it was not his style. A Portello contract meant no body—ever.

  Leon stared at me as if I were God's messenger. "It was him what done Eli? Portello?"

  I shook my head. "Not their style, Leon."

  As soon as I heard my own words, I knew I had made a mistake. The boxer leaped to his feet; rage spreading across his face like fire through a sawmill.

  "Kill the son-of-a-bitchin' Delaney!"

  I sprang up and grabbed Leon's arm. "We don't know Delaney did this."

  The boxer spine went headstone-rigid. Then he caught my jaw with a sharp left cross. The unexpected blow rocked me back on my heels, nearly dropping me. It took several seconds to regather my senses. By then Leon was in a dead run for the truck. I gave chase and tackled him by the pickup's rear tires. I was a decade younger and fifty pounds heavier. On Leon's side were experience, fury and determination.

  For the next five minutes, we shared agonizing moments. Some included rolling on the asphalt amidst swinging fists. Some included standing upright and trading punches. My part of the experience involved lessons in pain and humility. Finally, Leon hooked me in the ribs and turned. I could not take it any longer so I infused a calming influence over his retreat by introducing the Mauser's butt to the back of the boxer's head. He let out an angry groan and then his knees buckled; dropping him like a dirty, hairy bag to the blacktop.

  After depositing the unconscious man in the shade, I limped to his truck, slipped on my suit coat and then grabbed the ignition keys. After which, with gun still in hand, I headed inside the mansion.