Buffalo Bayou Blues (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 15) Page 6

  “I’d like,” I said. “Very much so. What about Mr. Horner. Have you contacted him or Atwell’s daughter?”

  “I can’t seem to reach them on the phone. I was about to go over there.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “In River Oaks. It’s where many of the Houston wealthy live. Old neighborhood, and all that.”

  “I’m familiar with it,” I said. “Care to give me the address, or is it in the book?”

  “I can give it to you, but it’s in the book, as you say. Mr. Travis, are you officially investigating this matter?”

  “Yes,” I said, without any further thought on it.

  “Suit yourself. But it seems to me that Mr. Atwell was sitting in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time—the unintended casualty in some kind of turf war. Could’ve even been a former employee.”

  “Hmph. Did you not hear anything I told you back there at the Nite Wing?”

  “Of course I did. But then again, you yourself admitted that there was no way the shooter or shooters could’ve seen inside that place from the street. Not during the day. I don’t believe they were trying to kill anyone, just trying to do some damage.”

  I began formulating a rather strong objection to this particular line of thought, but Detective Gresham must have detected this much, because he said, “Look, I do understand that killing someone in the commission of another crime is a capital offense. I do know the penal code like the back of my hand. But give this thing a little time. It’ll all play out, one way or the other.”

  “Yes, these things do have a way of playing out, but I find that they don’t really do that unless someone is pushing things along. And I believe you’ll soon find out that pushing things along is what I’m all about.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “Anything else I can do for you this evening, Mr. Travis?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Good night, sir,” he said.

  I grunted and hung up.

  “The old brush-off, huh?” Jessica asked, and her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror.

  “Something like that.”

  “I see that look on your face. Who are you calling next?”

  I sighed. “It can wait.”

  During all of this, I was watching Cottonmouth. His face was in profile to mine, when he was looking to the left or to the center of the roadway before us. What I detected in his visage, even in the dark of Expedition, was chilling. I knew that I had better not find myself between him and Dale Horner in the near future. Not if I wanted to emerge unscathed.

  We lapsed into silence as Jessica drove us to the hotel, and as we followed the blocky, zigzagging yellow line on her dashboard GPS system.

  *****

  For some reason I thought it would be an easy task to get the girls to a nice hotel and be done with it. I had planned to go and get a room for the two of them and a separate room for myself, but they wouldn’t hear of it. We would all be in the same room with two beds, or they were ready to go home.

  “Look,” I said. “Mom says I sometimes have been known to snore.”

  “You’re a freight train,” Jessica said.

  “A freight train with a load of elephants,” Jennifer stated.

  “Whatever. You sure you want to be in the same room with me?”

  Jennifer nodded. I looked at Jessica, who said, “I want to know what time you come in. And what condition you’re in, since I’ve got to stay with the little one here while you’re gone. If you’re not back by one a.m., we’re coming looking for you. And the gun is on safety and it’s in the hump between the seats.”

  “I know where it is, and I know how to use it. But for what I’m planning, it won’t be needed.”

  “Right.”

  “And just how the hell are you going to come looking for me, when you don’t know where I’ll be?”

  “I’ll know,” Jessica said, and I shivered at that.

  I looked up at the lady behind the counter. “Make that one room, two king-sized beds.”

  She took my Marriott card and I had just enough points to qualify for the night. I did, however, have to pay the local taxes.

  I saw them with their meager luggage up to the room, gave the place a good once-over, took one of the three access cards, memorized the room number, hugged them both and left.

  It was seven p.m. by the time I left. Somewhere along the way I had forgotten about supper, but then I realized why neither of them hadn’t mentioned it. They were looking to run up the bill by ordering room service. As I rode the elevator back down to the lobby, I reflected on how much like their mother both of them were becoming.

  When I got back to the car and climbed into the driver’s seat, Cottonmouth said, “Let’s go do some damage of our own.”

  “Sounds fine,” I said. “Sounds mighty fine to me.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  I had no clear idea of where we were going, but as soon as I got us rolling away from the hotel, Cottonmouth started in giving me directions: “Hang a right at this next light.”

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Where do you think? The only place where Mr. Horner’s going to be this time of night on a Saturday—the Blues Palace.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And when we get there, you’re planning on doing what? Killing the man with your bare hands?”

  “I don’t rightly know, but I have a feeling we’ll see.”

  *****

  Houston with its night life blurred around me and seemed to emanate from an infinitesimally small locus. Around me people came and went, dodged this way and that, all on some fool’s errand. I suppose they were each certain they were going someplace. Such things never cease to amaze me.

  The Blues Palace stood at a corner almost into the street along Irvington Boulevard, somewhere north and west, according to the GPS system, of downtown.

  “Bars on the windows,” I said.

  “Used to be a pawn shop,” Cottonmouth replied, by way of explanation. It fit. In my mind’s eye, I could see cars on their last legs pulling up and getting out guys with old cameras, subwoofers, or whatever they could part with in their hands. Anything, I guess, for another tank of gas and some groceries for the table. Or, perhaps, another fix of one kind or another.

  And then I saw the marquee:

  THE BLUES PALACE

  TONIGHT!

  PHONEBOOTH THOMAS

  DEUTERONOMY JONES

  The first ‘A’ in PALACE went off, then back on, then off again. The letters beneath it, however, were standard placard lettering, as opposed to blue neon, and the spotlight from the narrow patch of grass beneath wavered nary a bit.

  “Shit,” Cottonmouth said.

  “He’s got some gall.”

  “He’s gonna wish he hadn’t.” Cottonmouth opened his door, but then paused.

  I sat, unmoving.

  “Oh,” he said. “You bringing it?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t,” I said.

  “Maybe. What would your daughter say? In fact, what would either of them say?”

  I looked at him. It sunk in. If I went in there and needed to defend myself and didn’t have a weapon, I’d either wind up dead or I’d never hear the end of it.

  I took my phone out of my front shirt pocket and flipped through my directory until I found the right phone number.

  “Texas Rangers,” a woman’s voice stated. “This is Belinda.”

  “Belinda, it’s Bill Travis. I’m down in Houston and a man’s been murdered. I need to go on active.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll let the Captain and the Director know. Do you need any backup? We have several officers in the Houston area at any given time.”

  “No,” I said, “but it’s appreciated. I’m about to walk into a place called The Blues Palace to question somebody.”

  “Do you want me to dispatch Houston P.D.?”

  “That’s okay. I can handle it.”

  “Good luck, Ranger Travis,” Belinda said.

&nbs
p; “Thank you.” I hung up.

  “Just like that,” Cottonmouth said.

  “Uh huh.”

  I fished my wallet out, removed the badge I kept there and pinned it to my shirt pocket. I opened up the hump between the seats and extracted Jessica’s 1911 with its holster, opened the door and stepped out, and loosened my belt. I fed the holster through my belt and snugged it into place.

  We closed our doors at the same time.

  I stood for a moment under the street light next to Irvington Boulevard. I felt for the gun, loosened the strap holding it in its holster and removed it. I slid the breach open and checked that there was one in the chamber, then eased it back into place. Sure enough, there was. I thumbed the clip free and checked it. Full. Last, I thumbed the safety off and reholstered the weapon.

  “Just like that?” Cottonmouth asked. He had come around the front of the car and stood looking at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You go from Bill Travis to Ranger Travis that quick?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Damn. But I understand it. You wouldn’t believe how fast I used to go from taking it easy back at the barracks to full-on commando when I hit the jungle.”

  I nodded.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Let me do the talking, Cottonmouth.”

  He raised his hands, palms forward. “Yes sir,” he said.

  *****

  The music wasn’t by any means contained by the building structure. The backbeat and that wailing harmonica brought back memories of my blues bar-cruising days, when I’d walk into a place and sit for hours listening while nursing a watered-down drink.

  When we walked in the door, the lyrics were loud and clear and the people were talking and drinking and moving their feet and hands and bobbing their heads to the music:

  I had a woman named Deirdra

  She was the joy of my life

  Had a woman name ‘a Deirdra

  I went and made her my wife.

  Now I’m drowning my sorrows in whiskey,

  And cocaine is taking my life.

  No she ain’t my baby,

  Ain’t my baby no more.

  I’m sayin’ she ain’t my baby.

  No not my baby no more.

  That woman she’s the reason

  Life ain’t worth livin’ no more.

  A few heads turned to take me in, and particularly toward the star on my shirt pocket and the holstered gun on my belt, but then turned away.

  “Help ya?” one of the pair of heavy bouncers standing inside the door asked me.

  “I need to speak to Dale Horner,” I said, and had to raise my voice to get the communication across.

  “There’s a door behind the stage. If it’s all right with you, one of us will go with you.”

  “Fine by me,” I said.

  The fellow looked up at Cottonmouth, then a huge grin spread over his face. “Willard? Willard Cottonmouth Dalton!” He reached out a hand and Cottonmouth shook it.

  “What are you doing working for Horner, Johnny?” Cottonmouth asked.

  “The money is good, the drinks—when I can get ‘em—are free. Sleep all day, work five hours a night, then go home. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

  “Sometimes what’s wrong is the company you’ve got to keep to earn that money.”

  The face of the other bouncer, who stood half a foot taller than Cottonmouth, didn’t break from its solid, serious demeanor.

  “Well, come on back,” Johnny said. “Just follow me.”

  We left the serious bouncer by the door and wended our way between the tables. In the meantime, the saxophonist and finished his solo and the singer sang out the remainder of the song, including the refrain:

  She waited till I was deep in debt

  And all the money run dry.

  Yes she helped me to get deep in debt

  And all the money done run dry

  Then she run off with Tyler Johnson

  And all I want to do is cry.

  Well I’m sayin’ she ain’t my baby,

  Ain’t my baby no more. (No more no more.)

  I’m sayin’ she ain’t my baby.

  No not my baby anymore.

  That evil woman she’s the whole reason

  Life ain’t worth livin’ for sure.

  Johnny tapped on the door and he must have heard an acknowledgment, because he opened it and entered. Cottonmouth and I followed.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” the man said. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but the little man who stood up from his chair wasn’t it. He grinned broadly and extended his hand to Cottonmouth. “Well, I’m hoping you haven’t come to kill me, but that seems doubtful since you brought a lawman with you.”

  If he was five feet tall then I was the Jolly Green Giant. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, was as skinny as a rail, and wore a checkered flannel shirt two sizes too big for him.

  Cottonmouth demurred to shake the man’s hand. Instead, he hooked a thumb at me and said, “This is Bill Travis. Friend of mine. He’s a Special Texas Ranger. Bill has asked me to let him do the talking. Uh, that is before I take you outside and beat the shit out of you.”

  “I’m not sure I like this ‘beating shit’ talk, but we’ll see about it.” Dale Horner fixed me with a stare and said, “What’s this about?”

  “Are you aware that James Donald Atwell was murdered today?”

  “What?” he asked, and his face changed. Either it was a very carefully practiced act, or it was genuine. My eyes held his and I wasn’t about to blink.

  “You heard me,” I said. “Are you aware that James Donald Atwell was murdered today?”

  “No, I wasn’t aware,” he said. “But I guess I am now. Who killed him, and how did it happen?”

  “A van drove by the Nite Wing and discharged at least one, but perhaps several rapid-fire weapons into the place. They blew out all the front windows. One of the bullets went through Jimmy Atwell’s lungs, and the others narrowly missed hitting my two daughters, Cottonmouth and his grandson. Are you stating that you have no knowledge of these events?”

  “I have no knowledge of these events,” he said, flatly. “Johnny, you’d better go. You probably shouldn’t be hearing any of this. Don’t breathe a word about it to anyone. That includes your brother out there.”

  Johnny nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

  Dale Horner’s office was a messy affair. There were papers everywhere, seemingly at random with no discernable pattern to them. There was a rather smelly ashtray in front of him full to the brim with spent cigarette butts. The walls bore posters of stock racing cars with scantily-clad bathing suit models draped over and around them, as if somehow the two things went together as a matter of course.

  Cottonmouth started to move forward, but I grasped his arm.

  “Mr. Horner,” I began, “if you don’t know, then I’d say your wife doesn’t know about her father’s death. A couple of uniformed officers are going over to your house right now to talk to her about it.”

  “They’re not going to find her when they get there,” he said.

  “And why is that?”

  “At the moment, she’s on our yacht.”

  “And where is the yacht?” Cottonmouth asked.

  “It’s tied up at the Atwell pier, of course. When I leave here tonight, I’m planning on joining her, and the two of us are going for a little cruise.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Your cruise is canceled. If you’ll agree to pick up your wife and bring her down to the central police station, then I won’t take you into custody right now.”

  “For what?”

  “Well, at the least for questioning, but if things go the way they seem to be heading, for conspiracy to commit murder. You were out to ruin Mr. Atwell. I was sitting in his bar today, and two of his performers called in and canceled for tonight. We arrive and we see their names on your marquee. I guess that’s one of them singing right now.” />
  “That’s Phonebooth,” Cottonmouth said.

  “That doesn’t mean I killed anybody,” Horner asserted. “Or had them killed.”

  “Like I said, the shooter or shooters were firing from a van. The van was owned by someone named Clark Tanis. Does that name ring a bell with you?”

  “Oh shit,” Dale Horner said.

  “What?” Cottonmouth asked.

  “That’s my wife’s son.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  M eaning, he’s your stepson,” Cottonmouth said. “Right?”

  “Well, I guess technically he is. But a more worthless excuse for a human being you’ll hardly find.”

  “Jimmy Atwell was saying the same about you,” I said. “Right before he died.”

  “Look, I know it looks bad for me, but I’m telling you, I would have no reason to do something like that, nor to put anybody up to it.”

  “It sounds to me,” I began, “that your wife, Virginia, probably has a completely different opinion of your stepson than you do.”

  “Gingie thinks Clark can do no wrong. He’s a punk kid who could’ve had everything going for him, but he’s consistently and continually screwed it all up. He was kicked out of high school. Later he got sent to reform school. He’s barely dodged going to prison several times, and has cost us a small fortune in legal fees alone. He’s been like a tick on my wife’s backside the whole time we’ve been married.”

  “If Clark was in any way involved with Jimmy Atwell’s death,” I said, “then he essentially murdered his grandfather. I’m aware that your wife and her father were not on the best of terms. If we put Clark in a little room and questioned him long enough, there’s a chance he could implicate your wife. If that happens, she could spend the rest of her life in prison.”

  “I’m going to need a lawyer,” Horner said, and started to reach for his phone.

  “Wait a minute,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m not done.”

  “Oh.”

  “Bill,” Cottonmouth said, “now might be a good time for me and Mr. Horner to step outside and talk things over, privately.”