Buffalo Bayou Blues Read online

  BUFFALO BAYOU BLUES

  A Bill Travis Mystery

  GEORGE WIER

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Copyright © 2017 by George Wier

  Published by

  Flagstone Books

  Austin, Texas

  Buffalo Bayou Blues—A Bill Travis Mystery

  First Ebook Edition

  May 2017

  Second Ebook Edition

  March 2020

  Cover design by Elizabeth Mackey

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes written in connection with reviews written specifically for a magazine or newspaper.

  The Bill Travis Mysteries

  (in chronological order):

  The Last Call

  Capitol Offense

  Longnecks and Twisted Hearts

  The Devil to Pay

  Death On the Pedernales

  Slow Falling

  Caddo Cold

  Arrowmoon

  After the Fire

  Ghost of the Karankawa

  Desperate Crimes

  Mexico Fever

  The Lone Star Express

  Trinity Trio

  Buffalo Bayou Blues

  Reveille In Red (forthcoming)

  DEDICATION

  For Sallie, love of my life.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Y ou don’t know it’s a dream when you’re in it, usually.

  I was borne along on the inexorable currents of the river, caught in the main flow between the distant banks of the fast-moving water, which was brown from the silted runoff from eroded ditches, construction sites, and perhaps washed-out back-country roads. My body turned and rolled this way and that, and no matter how hard I struggled against it, I was pushed along, of no more consequence than any other piece of flotsam. After awhile I became philosophical about it, even as I tried to right myself and swim toward shore. Should I stop struggling? The more I struggled it felt as though I fueled the power of the river with my own efforts against it.

  There was something eerily familiar about being caught in the river; the deluge, the flash flood, whatever it was. The inescapable power of nature had finally caught up with me through the long years of my evasion, and was not going to let go. But even as it carried me along, I felt as though I knew this stretch of river. We had once been friends.

  I detected that someone was watching me. Someone standing on the shoreline. I kicked and tried to spin that direction, and caught a fleeting glimpse of him, but was thrown beneath the surface.

  I came up, sputtering muddy waters and trying to take on fresh air in the same instance, and even as I did, I felt his eyes on me. He was watching me. Watching me drown.

  And that’s when I knew it was a dream.

  I came out of it, abruptly, gasped and sat bolt upright.

  *****

  Hank Sterling was sitting in a chair beside the bed.

  “Hank! What the hell?”

  “You were dreaming. Didn’t want to wake you. Almost did there for a second, but you came out of it yourself.”

  “What are you doing...in my room?”

  He nodded. “I know it don’t seem right, but I had to tell you something. And seeing as how Julie and most of the kids are up at Nat Bierstone’s ranch for a few days, I didn’t think you’d mind me coming in and waking you up.”

  “Except you didn’t. Wake me up, that is. I knew someone was watching me.”

  “You couldn’t have, Bill. I was quiet as a church mouse on Sunday morning.”

  “Maybe you were, but a fellah knows when someone is looking at him.”

  “Well,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. It doesn’t matter. The deal is that I’ve got a problem I need your help with.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Oh. Going on about four-thirty.”

  “You’ve got a problem. At four-thirty in the morning?”

  “I do,” he said.

  “Well,” I reached for my shirt and slid it on, pushing my arms through the arm holes one at a time. It was my favorite around-the-house shirt, about fifteen years old, gray with light gray vertical stripes. Julie hated the thing, and kept threatening to throw it in the trash. I’d saved it from destruction time and again. I was attached to that stupid shirt, though more from her disdain, I realized as I thrust my hand through the narrow sleeves, than because I truly loved it. Sometimes the war doesn’t end. “What’s the problem?”

  “I have to be in two places at once. I’m a pretty smart guy, Bill, but I never figured that one out satisfactorily.”

  “No? A fellow who can defuse a landmine, can walk through a rocket barrage without a scratch, and he can’t be in two places at once. I’d say you’re slipping, pardner.”

  “Maybe I am. Maybe I really am. Anyway, the deal is it’s not only two places at once, it’s two separate locales at the same time.”

  “Uh. Okay,” I said. “Tell me about it.” And, of course, I found myself wishing like hell I hadn’t asked.

  *****

  Hank had gotten a call from an old friend, Willard Dalton, who was calling in a marker. It was an old promise going back to their days together during the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, when Willard had, as the story went, saved Hank’s life by going into a cave system near an airfield and bringing a wounded and bleeding Corporal Henry S. Sterling back to the light of day. At about the same time as the call from his old Army buddy, Willard, Hank had gotten a text message from the East Texas town of Carter in Atchison County, and specifically a lady name Bee, who was having second thoughts about dumping him forever.

  “Cottonmouth?” I asked.

  “That’s Willard’s stage name. Cottonmouth Dalton.”

  “What kind of stage?” I asked.

  “A music stage, Bill. Willard is a blues musician down in Houston. He’s up to his chin in something—he won’t tell me exactly what—but not only his own life, but that of his family is in danger. And I don’t know how to be in two places at once. It’s probably something stupid like a gambling debt, and that’s easy to handle. I’ve got enough money laying around to buy a damn casino. You said so yourself.”

  “You do. And you do not want me to go visit Miss Bee on your behalf.”

  “Not exactly,” he said.

  I thought about it for a moment or two, then said, “I need to take a shower. Also, I’m hungry.”

  “Of course. Not a problem whatsoever. You shower, I’ll get the coffee going and throw some bacon and eggs on the grill.”

  “You know Julie’s kitchen rules, right?”

  “I know. I know,” he said, and got up from the chair, headed for the door. “No metal utensils on the non-stick pans, no high heat on the aforementioned pans, no...” Hank went out the door and down the hall and his voice moved into other parts of the house, continuing the litany as he went.

  I slapped myself lightly in the face as I looked in the bathroom mirror. “That, my friend,” I said to my reflection, “is for inviting your best friend to come live w
ith you.”

  I disrobed and turned the shower on, got the water good and hot.

  “Cottonmouth,” I said to myself, and climbed into the deluge.

  CHAPTER TWO

  By this time I had my pants and my belt on, and was running my fingers through my wet hair, I could smell the twin scents of bacon and coffee.

  When I came downstairs, I was surprised to find not only Hank sitting at the kitchen table, but Jessica and Jennifer.

  “Jenn,” I said, “I thought you were with Mom.”

  “No, dad. I was hanging out with Jessica for the day. Yesterday was shopping day, and I spent the night at Jess and Driesel’s place.”

  “Well, we need to get you back with your mom somehow. Jess, can you take her there? I know it’s a bit of a drive—”

  “She’s coming to Houston with us,” Jessica said.

  “What do you mean? Who is ‘us’?”

  “You,” she said, “me, and Jenn.”

  “Oh no you don’t. Did you set this thing up?” I pointed a finger at Hank.

  “Don’t point that thing at me unless you aim to use it,” he said. “In point of fact, it was not my idea. No sir. Not one iota.”

  “But you did this. Somehow. I know you did. You put the idea in someone’s head. Jessica has never waked up before 7:30 a.m. in her entire life. And right now,” I glanced at the clock on the oven, it’s a quarter after FIVE!”

  Hank put on a bland face and shook his head slowly. “I, sir, am innocent of all charges. I suggest you have your evidence together before making such a heinous accusation.”

  “Dad,” Jessica said, “chill. Please. A month ago you head off into the blue for a few days and come back limping and won’t talk about it. According to mom, you got a piece of a car in your leg.”

  “Uh huh,” Hank nodded affirmatively, noticed I was boring holes into his head with my eyes, then shifted his own away from me.

  “So,” Jessica continued, “mom doesn’t want you going anywhere unless either her, or Hank, or me, or at least Jennifer is with you.”

  “Mom is not the boss of me,” I said, shaking my head ‘no’.

  “Of course she’s not,” Jessica said.

  Jennifer made a face. I shot a look at her and her jaws clenched. She was fighting a smile, and fighting it hard.

  I turned around, took down my Notre Dame cup from the peg on the splashboard and started to pour myself a cup of coffee from the old-fashioned percolator that Hank had brought into the house with him when he moved in. There was an abrupt explosion of laughter behind me.

  I turned.

  “You,” I pointed at Hank, “you”, at Jessica, and “you”, at Jenner. “No Christmas presents this year. Nothing. Zip. Zero. Nada. Goose egg. The empty set.”

  I sat down at the table and Jessica pushed eggs and toast onto my plate. Jennifer put a knife into the jelly jar and pushed it to me. Hank tipped his chair back on two legs and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “What are you people looking at?” I asked.

  “The Grinch!” Jennifer said. She raised her hand and Jessica gave her a high five.

  I frowned at her, took the knife and spread strawberry jelly on my toast.

  “There may be danger down in Houston,” I said offhand.

  “I have a badge and a gun,” Jessica stated. “Also, I can shoot better than you.”

  “No you can’t.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I can. And you know it.”

  “This whole thing is probably nothing. You’ll be bored out of your minds.”

  “No we won’t,” Jennifer said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because. We’re taking Jess’s Expedition. Plenty of room. DVD player. The whole nine yards.”

  “We’re taking the Mercedes,” I said.

  “I think you’ve been outvoted,” Hank said, settled his chair back down and took a long draw of his coffee.

  “Are you going to date that woman?” Jessica asked Hank. “I think she’s really cute.”

  “Since when did you see a picture of her?” I asked her.

  “They took some selfies with Hank’s cell phone,” Jess said. “Haven’t you seen them yet?”

  I looked at Hank and slowly shook my head. “That’s just wrong.”

  “Okay,” Jennifer said. “It’s settled. We’re going to Houston, and we’re going to protect you, dad.”

  “That’s right,” Jessica agreed.

  I finished the last of my eggs and bacon, swilled my coffee, stood up and pushed the chair back under the table. “All right,” I said. “But before we go anywhere, someone has got to clean up this mess.”

  *****

  It wasn’t until after we said our goodbyes to Hank, got into Jessica’s Ford Expedition, and headed out into the breaking light of day, that I realized why Hank had asked me to do this favor for him. Hank has, and always will be, a country music aficionado, and he’d never understood why I liked the blues and blues musicians from a bygone era. He didn’t swim in those waters. On the other hand, in the days before I had a wife and kids, I was prone to drive a hundred miles or more out of my way to enjoy an evening of good blues music. I was known in Waco, along Franklin Avenue, Jackson and Webster. There were nights when I was the only white face in the place, and never once felt awkward about it. I was accepted, and known to be a good tipper. In my formative years, I’d spent time in Houston’s Fifty Ward, that wide checkerboard swath of real estate north and east of downtown, encompassing more blues joints per capita than even New Orleans could brag about. And Hank Sterling wouldn’t know a saxophone from an accordion.

  “Hank, you’re a bastard,” I whispered to myself.

  “What was that?” Jessica asked. She was driving, negotiating her way through Austin and points east. She had her GPS map on the console between us zeroed in on the heart of Houston—the address Hank had palmed off to me before we said our goodbyes.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Dad,” Jennifer said from the backseat, “you can curse this trip. Mom’s not with us.”

  I turned around to look at her. She was in the center of the back seat, her lap belt dutifully engaged and cinched up. “I am not going to curse,” I said. “Now or any time. You hush and either take a nap or watch a movie, preferably with your headphones on so that we don’t have to listen to it.”

  “Okay,” she cheerfully agreed.

  “It’s going to be a long trip, isn’t it?” Jessica said.

  I nodded to her. “That it is. That it most certainly is.”

  *****

  We took Highway 71 through Del Valle and turned off at Bastrop onto Texas 21 and through the burned region of the Lost Pines forest. I did my best to focus on the road ahead and away from the devastation surrounding us. The fire from 2011 had taken a heavy toll on the community, and while the rebuilding was mostly complete, it would be generations before the forest was restored, thanks in large part to the discovery of a large cache of loblolly pine seeds stored in East Texas. The young, green pines stood in some places at head height, and in others twice that height, yet they all stood in close proximity to the tall, branchless, desiccated sentinels of their forebears.

  Through the Lost Pines, we turned once again south, this time on Highway 290, and made our way through Giddings, followed by the innocuous and seemingly innocent bergs of Ledbetter, Carmine and Burton, before stopping for a much-needed bathroom break among the rolling hills surrounding Brenham, where the cows, according to the ad, think it’s heaven.

  Bathroom breaks done, snacks procured, we trundled on to Houston and through the heavy construction along 290.

  Driving in Houston is a whole other adventure. It’s my profound belief that anyone who drives regularly in the Houston area is either crazy, unfazed by imminent danger, or both. At one point we were tooling along at seventy-five—ten miles over the posted speed limit—when we were passed by a series of vehicles doing more than ninety.

  “Geez,” Jessica sai
d. “Where’s the fire?”

  “They drive like that every day,” I said.

  “Remind me not to move to Houston,” she said.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not remotely permitted for you to move to Houston.”

  “I’ll tell Driesel. That’ll make him want to move for sure.”

  We came to the usual stacked-up rush hour traffic after passing through Hempstead, Waller, and Cypress-Fairbanks, so I settled back in my seat, knowing full well that the last twenty miles were going to take another hour.

  *****

  Jennifer was done with her second movie by the time we were in the right neighborhood, and for some reason, I was hungry.

  “Dad,” Jennifer said, leaning forward partially into the front seat, “this place looks...something.”

  “This neighborhood has always looked like this,” I said, “only now it’s somehow worse.”

  “That guy’s selling crack cocaine,” Jessica said, and pointed. I looked, and sure enough, a drug deal was going down. A Houston black-and-white patrol car tooled past, utterly unfazed.

  “They’re awfully brazen about it,” I said.

  “I’d bust the shit out of him,” Jessica said.

  Jennifer laughed. “Curse word!”

  “Feed the kitty,” I said, and reached for the peanut jar that Julie normally keeps between the seats, only to realize we were not in Julie’s car. Julie had given the Expedition to Jessica, and bought herself a new one.

  “Wrong,” Jessica said. “My car. I can cuss all I want in this baby.”

  “No, you can’t,” I said. “You can cuss all you want when you pay me for this baby.”

  “Well, I can accidentally cuss.”

  “You have never accidentally cussed,” Jennifer stated. “It’s always with malice aforethought.”

  “Where did she learn to talk like that?” I asked Jessica.

  “You.”

  Jessica turned off of Jensen Drive, made a few blocks and turned onto Harrington Street in the heart of Houston’s Fifth Ward, made two blocks, and pulled to the side of the street to park behind an ancient black Chevrolet pickup, the kind with chains attached to the tailgate to hold it level when it’s opened. I looked to my right to take in the place I’d be visiting, and swore under my breath.