Dead On

by Michael Paulson

  Chapter 9

  After leaving Lydia Thornton, I made the trip back to Eli's estate. As I reached the archway a yellow Mercedes two-seater roared out. Behind the steering wheel was a young blond woman. She had bare shoulders, a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and a heavy foot. The little car fishtailed back and forth as it sped away, like a salmon swimming inland just ahead of a hungry shark. The car's rear plate read, 'Nadine.'

  I punched the accelerator and jammed through the gears until I was in sight of the mansion. Then, I cut the engine, disengaged the clutch and let the truck silently roll to a stop at the base of the front door steps. No other cars were in sight, but several drops of freshly leaked oil glistened on the asphalt, like shiny black buttons. I got out of the pickup, gun in hand and waited, listening. There was no sound other than my thudding heart.

  I crept up the steps on tiptoe. Just outside the doors lay a crushed cigarette butt stained with red lipstick. I picked it up. The lip marks disclosed the same sickle-shaped scar I had seen on my last visit. I could not help but wonder if the woman who had left it was the dedicated cleaner, one of the blondes from Eli's bed, or even the agitated Nadine.

  Inside, I did a sweep of the main floor but found no one. In the living room behind the television, a section of carpet had been pulled back to disclose a removable wooden panel. Beneath it was a small storage compartment. It was empty except for a dusty residue. I dabbed one finger into it and held it to my noise. There was no getting around it. Eli's way with female callers had something to do with his love for cocaine.

  I searched the second floor. Nothing had been disturbed since my last visit so I holstered the Mauser and went to the top floor. There, I concentrated my efforts on the master bedroom. I thumped walls. I stomped floors. I peeled back ventilation covers. The one consistency with cokeheads is they always split their holdings to minimize losses, in the event of a police raid. Moreover, there will always be a little something to encourage bed-play. I came up empty. Wherever Eli had his nighttime nose-powder, I was not going to find it.

  I drifted into the closet and took another look around. A hook on the wall behind the row of suits seemed out of place, so I tugged it. As it tilted forward, a panel near the floor slid open. I squatted down and found a large lazy Susan stacked with recorded videos marked with dates that went back several years.

  I closed the panel leaving the tapes where they were, and then went over to the mirrored bed. The strands of blond hair and the lipstick smears were as I had left them. McAllen's police forensic unit was either the world's sloppiest, or they did only what Delaney instructed. I picked up several of the strands and examined them carefully. They were not from an artificial wig. The color difference between the hairs was distinct enough to suggest they came from more than one person. I slipped these into my light bill's envelope and then used my pocketknife to make scrapings of the lipstick smears. I deposited these into the folds of a clean handkerchief and then headed back down to the main floor.

  At the bar in the living room, I poured a drink. As I sipped it, I slid my hand along the bartop's underside. Near one end, I found a button and pushed it. A wall panel across the room popped open just as Tanya had described. I finished my drink and then walked over to the opening. Behind it was a cast-iron staircase that coiled downward into darkness. I fumbled inside the opening and located a light switch. After giving it an encouraging flick, a chain of beams flooded the staircase with blue light. I followed the metal steps down.

  The basement did double duty as the garage. Its walls and floor were poured concrete. Embedded in one of the former was a heavy gray steel door—the kind warehouses and hospitals used to secure areas from fire. Not far from it was an old Rolls Royce Silver Arrow with darkly tinted windows and a red leather interior. I gave the vehicle an envious look, inside and out. The interior was spotless and from the deflated state of the vehicle's tires the shiny automobile had not been driven in some time.

  The basement floor made a curve and ramped upward to a heavy steel garage door. An infrared beam spanned the distance across the entrance. I walked up and ran my hand through the beam but the door did not budge. Apparently, the radio transmitter Leon had shown me was necessary for leaving as well as entering.

  I went back down the ramp and over to the fire door. The cylinder lock above latch guaranteed it would not budge without a little encouragement. I took out my lock picks and after some manipulation of the tumblers managed to release the catch. In the shadows beyond the doorway, I saw the familiar outline of drug processing equipment resting on rows of long, stainless steel tables. I went inside, found the switch to the overhead fluorescent lights, and flicked them into life.

  On the laboratory's floor was a thick dusting of cocaine. Boot tracks left by a man with immense feet trailed back and forth through the white residue from one corner of the room, to the steel door. Each boot print left behind a distinctive swirl pattern not unlike a coiled lariat. I could not be sure but, from the size of the prints, I was betting on Delaney.

  If I was correct, the big cop had raided the joint. Moreover, from the number of trips the boots made to the door and back, I guessed that there must have been several hundred pounds of the stuff. Delaney was now a rich man, presuming he could find someone with money-enough to make that big buy. And, presuming Dominic Portello did not find out who had filched the goodies.

  When I got back upstairs, I could see a dark shroud spreading along the horizon, as if the sun had died. I checked my watch and started to wind my way through the shadows toward the front door. With a little luck, I could get to the diner before Tanya quit serving. And with a little more I could convince her to cater to my whims one more time.

  "You're trespassin', Old Son," a disagreeably familiar voice broke the silence.

  I jerked toward it and saw Delaney standing near the window overlooking the garden. His silhouette looked like a lump of black dirt against the murky backdrop. I casually unbuttoned my coat and murmured, "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

  The big cop switched on a lamp and grinned at me. In one hand was an empty glass that looked like it had been used to hold goldfish. "I spotted you walkin' down the alley behind Leon's shack and I said to myself, I bet that Old Boy's going back to Eli's. And, here you are."

  "I wanted to relive the romance of our first meeting. It's the pixie in me."

  He set down the smeared glass, scratched his bobbed ear and then moved toward me. "A body turned up, this afternoon: a Mex by the name of Miguel Rodriguez. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

  "Shot was he? Twice? Same gun? Once through the chest? Once through the neck? Both at close range? Both after the poor bastard was already dead? Nope. Don't know a thing."

  He chuckled under his breath. "You do have a way with words, Old Son."

  "Mommy was a gypsy fortune teller."

  Delaney snorted with amusement. "The coroner says despite being shot twice, the actual cause of death was a broken neck. Like somebody gave it a good twist—somebody who know what he was doing."

  "Some bastard masseuse didn't know his own strength. Don't you hate it when that happens?"

  "We don't have a killing around here in five years. Then you show up and we got bodies stacking up all over. Why is that, Old Son?"

  "I guess I put people in the mood to clean house. Why didn't you arrest Eli for molesting Leon's daughter?"

  Delaney stopped and pulled out a fat Cuban cigar. "Leon got no kid," he said, casually putting the tobacco wrap into his gold holder.

  "I'm talking about Betsy."

  "Betsy's Moira's girl. Leon had nothing to do with that."

  "You're evading the question, Delaney."

  The big cop shrugged. "By the time Leon turned old Eli in, Betsy was of age; nobody but Leon was talking about what might've gone on before. Nothin' we could do, want to or not. You know how that is."

  "Especially if there's a shortage of want."


  He gave me a yellow grin as he took out his lighter. "What evidence did I have? Leon? That crazy old woman livin' next door to him? Eli said his dilly-dallying with Betsy didn't start 'til she was seventeen; in this State that makes her legal-meat. And if you're wonderin' if I talked to Betsy, I did, and she confirmed it. As did Moira. That messin' was all in Leon's imagination."

  "Or in Eli's cash. When are you going to release Leon?"

  "Not my call, Old Son. Bascomb wants him held for trial and that's all she wrote. He'll get sent up all right. No question of that."

  "Which leaves this nice little bit of heaven going to Moira?"

  "Probably. Eli had only Leon as kin. And she is married to him."

  "Sort of puts you in a position to retire in style."

  He looked at me across his lighter's flame, as he puffed the cigar to life. "What are you getting' at, Old Son?"

  "You and Moira are planning to take up where Eli left off. His little cocaine operation must've brought in a million a year."

  Delaney stuffed his lighter back into his pocket. "You got cocaine on the brain, Bishop."

  "Been in the basement lately?"

  He took the cigar from his mouth and blew smoke in my direction. "Come again?"

  "There's a cocaine processing lab in the basement. The inventory's been lifted by a guy with big feet. But there's enough dust left behind to give a good party. I left the door open if you're interested."

  He slurped the end of his cigar holder as a haze of blue smoke rose slowly around his head. I tried to make up my mind as to whether I had worried him. A moment later I got my answer: a gun appeared in his hand pointed in my direction.

  "I have underestimated you right from the beginning, Old Son," he conceded. "Put your hands up."

  I did as instructed. "There were three blondes in Eli's life. Moira, Betsy and Nadine. It wasn't you who killed Eli. So it had to be one of them."

  He clucked his tongue before saying, "I gotta' give you credit, Old Son. You been in town less than forty-eight hours and already you got names and big ideas. Fact is, I'm not only surprised, I am in awe. But, you're dead wrong about the killing. Now take out your gun real slow and friendly like: two fingers, understand?"

  I drew my suit coat aside to expose the Mauser. Then I gripped its butt with thumb and fingers. "Moira's still on parole for killing her first husband." I pulled the weapon clear. "Shot down exactly as Eli. Killing me won't cover that up."

  Delaney clenched his jaws and puffed his cigar. "Lydia Thornton's got a big mouth. Set the gun on the floor and kick it over to me."

  I leaned down and rested the Mauser on the carpet. Then I stood up and booted it hard, sending the gun skidding past him.

  He smirked.

  "Suppose that old woman told you about me shootin' her kid, too?"

  "From the sound of it, a lot of padding went into making it a clean kill."

  He jerked the cigar from his mouth and jabbed it through the air at me. "I caught that sneakin' son-of-a-bitch trying to burgle a bank. When he spotted me, he started shootin'. I had no choice, Old Son. But, she don't believe it. Crazy bitch tried to run me down."

  "Too bad she missed."

  He took out a sap with his free hand, and then holstered his revolver. "I did some checking on you, Old Son. And it was a real enlightenin'."

  I winked. "You just had to know my favorite color."

  "Cut the fag act. You've got more notches on your gun than Billie the Kid. Fact is, I was told point blank you were not one to mess with unless my funeral arrangements had been made."

  "Those Portellos are such kidders. I'm a pussy-cat."

  He winked as he headed for me. "This sap'll make sure of that."

  "Dead or not, the Portellos will want answers about Eli. They're a little sensitive when several million of their inventory disappears. I can help you with that. Shall we say a sixty-forty split, mine being the heavy end?"

  "Like hell."

  He lunged for me like a rocket launched from a skid. I sidestepped to dodge his swing, then twisted back and caught him in the groin with my left knee. He yelped like a whipped dog, and skidded across the carpet on his chin, cursing and moaning.

  I trotted over to the Mauser, picked it up, and then turned to face him. "Get up and try it again, Delaney. With enthusiasm this time."

  He crawled onto his hands and knees staring back at me like a hungry tiger, his ragged breath wheezing. I fished out a cigarette with my free hand and stuffed it between my lips. He cursed, and then dragged himself to his feet.

  "You gonna' use that thing, or you just stand there making me look stupid?"

  I smiled, thinking he was speaking to me. "I'm just enjoying the moment, Delaney."

  He chuckled then and gave his head a despairing wag. "Which will be short lived, Old Son."

  It all happened in a split second. I smelled lavender. I sensed movement behind me. After that, something made a swishing sound just before it caught my skull. I would have turned to complain but I was too busy dropping into something very deep, and very black.

  When I got to the bottom I landed on a pile of pillows. They were soft, silky and every color in the rainbow. As I sat up somebody handed me a glass of red wine. I drank and grinned as all around me danced naked gypsy women. Each had toes decorated with gold and silver bells. Each offered mysterious delights. I gulped the wine and leaned back on the pillows. To hell with Delaney. He would have to wait on his sap lessons. I had far too many other things to do.