Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston (10 page)

Whoever he was, his message was unmistakable. Stop the meddling.

A knock on the door interrupted my musings.

“Come on in, Virge,” I shouted.

The door remained closed.

With a frown, I jerked it open and froze.

Janice Coffman-Morrison, my on-again, off-again Significant Other.

Like a fragile porcelain doll, she stood there, wearing an ankle length black leather coat with a matching cap sporting a long white feather that I knew to be a fake because of her animal rights campaigning. She stared up at me coldly.

I was surprised, and pleased, and puzzled. “Janice. What are you doing here?  Come in. Come on in.”

Without a word, she strode inside and stopped in front of the TV, staring at the wall. Closing the door, I followed after her. I laid my hands on her shoulders. “This is really a surprise. You shouldn’t have bothered. Everything is going to be all ri—”

She spun on her heel and slapped the dickens out of me.

Her next words were not in the vernacular of the socially preferred classic languages taught the rich girls by the most prestigious boarding schools in Atlanta. Oh, no. The idiom into which she lapsed could be found on any street corner in the inner city. “You lousy, dirty—“ Well, from there, she ticked off a few reprehensible characteristics of my ancestry.

I don’t know which stunned me more, the slap or her virulent description of my character, some of which was probably richly deserved, but at the present—well, she had me confused.

However, I did manage a fairly sophisticated retort. “What the … ”

Her eyes blazed. Her round little cheeks flushed with anger. “How dare you try to blame Ted for the trouble you’re in. I’ve never heard of anything so shameful in all my life. Why, I can’t believe you’d stoop so low, so cowardly.  It’s … It’s the most … ” She sputtered. Words failed her, so she slapped my other cheek.

I grabbed her wrists before she could get after the first cheek again. I’ve never been too enthusiastic about the cheek-turning business because all it ever got me was a blow upside the head. “What are you talking about? I haven’t blamed your cousin for any of my problems.”

She stuck out her pretty jaw. “That isn’t what I was told.”

I wanted to tell her that didn’t surprise me, but she was already angry enough. “I don’t know what you were told, but all I did was ask your cousin about an acquaintance of his. That’s all.”

She tried to jerk her wrists from my grasp, but I held tightly. “Let me go.” Her voice rocketed an octave in those three words.

“Not until you promise to stop slapping me.”

She glared up at me, her brown eyes like lasers. She pressed her lips together.

I held tightly. “Promise or we’ll stand here all morning.”

Her eyes softened slightly, and her lips relaxed. She gave a terse nod.

“All right,” I said, releasing her wrists and stepping quickly back out of her range. “Now, what’s this all about?”

“Ted said you were trying to put the blame on him for killing a policeman. The poor, sensitive dear is grief stricken over such an accusation.”

All I could do was stare at her. Finally, I shook my head. “I don’t know where he came up with that idea. Yeah, a cop was killed. I told you about that. I shot him because he shot a friend of mine and was trying to shoot me.”

From the skepticism in her eyes, I knew she didn’t believe me. “That’s not what Ted told me.”

“When I talked to him last night at his apartment, I asked him what his relationship was with Frank Cheshire, the cop I shot.” I left out the particulars about the diamonds and smuggling. The less she knew about that, the less trouble she could cause me. “Cheshire hired Ted to fly to Philadelphia and check with a buyer for some goods. Your cousin said he met Cheshire through a mutual friend.” I didn’t tell her the mutual friend was a bartender.

Janice eyed me suspiciously. “Why would Ted work for someone else? He works for a law firm.”

It took a supreme effort on my part to keep from rolling my eyes. Ted Morrison was turning out to be a quite a liar—perhaps not too polished, but certainly prolific. I shrugged. “Maybe he had the extra time and decided to pick up a few extra dollars. I don’t know. All I know is that was the extent of our conversation.”

Our gazes locked. I didn’t look away. I knew her well enough to know that if I did pull my gaze from hers, she’d believe I was lying. She’d grown up with her Aunt Beatrice and more than once, I’d heard her aunt proclaim that liars would never look a person in the eye.

Her gaze wavered. “Why would Ted tell me something that wasn’t true?”

I relaxed somewhat. Her initial resolve was beginning to crumble. “Maybe he misunderstood. Maybe he was so upset that he just got the whole thing twisted around.” It was a blatant lie, but in my job I had become an accomplished liar, and I could look anyone in the eye without wavering.

A tiny frown knit her eyebrows. “You think so?”

“Sure.” I smiled warmly. “Happens all the time. I promise. Ted Morrison had nothing to do with the death of Frank Cheshire.”

“Honest?”

“Honest.”

Her shoulders sagged, and a deep sigh escaped her lips. Tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, Tony, I’m so relieved. I just couldn’t believe that you of all people would think something so … so horribly terrible about Ted. Aunt Beatrice thinks the world of him. And besides her, he’s the only living relative I have. Even though I haven’t had a chance to spend much time with him, I would just die if anything happened to him. He seems so sweet.”

Sweet was not the definitive word I would use, but— “Well, put your mind at ease. He’ll be all right.”

She paused, collected herself and shook her head in disgust at her behavior. “I should have known that you could never do anything to hurt him.”

She could have gone the rest of her life without making that last remark. Janice Coffman-Morrison didn’t know it at the time, but she had just placed me between the proverbial rock and the hard place. 

After she left, ostensibly to spend some time with her only other living relative, sweet Teddy Morrison, I plopped down in a chair and stared at the table for several minutes. I’d already had plenty of problems, and now she had just dumped another little jewel in my lap.

Pouring another cup of coffee, I pulled out my note cards and added the previous twenty-four hours to them.

There was hard evidence that Cheshire and Allied Cement were at Berth 21 that night. Less conclusive was the wingtip shoe I spotted at the base of the industrial dumpster by the freshly poured cement. But, I still had my ideas about it.

That was the night Albert Vaster turned up missing. I pondered the information. ‘Mustache Pete’ Abbandando had ordered Albert to follow Cheshire. Cheshire was on Berth 21. An Allied Cement truck was at Berth 21. I found a wingtip slipper on the dock near the fresh cement. And Albert Vastar wore wingtips.

I grimaced at the singular theory that popped into my head.

Was it possible that Cheshire killed Vaster, buried him in the fresh cement, inadvertently stepped in the cement leaving an impression, then fired at Ben and me thinking we were with Abbandando’s gang and had stumbled on to him? 

Far-fetched perhaps, but maybe not as far-fetched as it might actually be.  Of course, there was still no hard proof. It was just a wild theory. Like they say, that and a buck will get you a cup of coffee.

A thought hit me. Something I’d forgotten. There was someone else there. I heard running feet. Morrison? I wasn’t sure, but there was still something else about that night that bothered me.

The telephone rang. I eyed it warily, then lifted the receiver to my ear. “Boudreaux? This is Sergeant Wilson. Ben Howard has taken a turn for the worse.”

Before I could stammer out a reply, he hung up.

Time was running out. If Ben died, the Galveston PD would in all likelihood throw my worthless carcass as deep into the jailhouse as they could.

Time to see Maranzano.

When Virgil asked me why, I replied with “I don’t know what else to do.” That seemed to satisfy him.

Thirty minutes later, Virgil and I turned off I-45 into downtown Houston, bound for the Central Towers, main office of Maranzano Enterprises.

Morning traffic was heavy, and we caught every red light along the way. “They ain’t going to let us see Sam, Tony. I guarantee it.”

I turned onto Main Street. “Let’s wait and see, Virge. Can’t tell about folks. Sometimes they turn out to be mighty accommodating.”

Maranzano’s buttonmen didn’t know the meaning of accommodating. “Boy,” Godzilla’s brother growled at me. “You got no business around here. Now beat it, or we’ll beat you.”

I grinned weakly at the square-jawed man glaring down at me. “Okay. No problem for me. I’ll just pass on Frank Cheshire’s last words to the cops.”

Square-jaw’s eyes grew wide, then quickly narrowed. “Hold on, Buddy.” He waved over his shoulder and three hulking brutes stepped forward, each with a hand in his coat pocket. “Wait here.”

I nodded. “Whatever you say.” I decided to say nothing of the drive-by shooting a couple days earlier when I was in Abbandando’s office. I wanted to see if Maranzano recognized my name. Stood to reason a man would know the name of someone he ordered wasted.

Five minutes later, Virgil and I were escorted into Sam Maranzano’s presence. Two buttonmen sat on the couch, one slight, bald, with eyes black as a shark’s; the other twenty pounds heavier and sporting a scar from under the lobe of his left ear to his chin.

A short, roly-poly man with a roly-poly face and thin strands of dark hair carefully combed across a roly-poly head, Sam Maranzano frowned at me. “What’s this about Cheshire’s last words? What did he say about me?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head and glanced at the frowning goombahs who had risen to stand behind Maranzano.

“That ain’t what you told my boys.”

“All I told them was that maybe I’d pass on Cheshire’s last words to the police.”

Maranzano eyed me suspiciously.

I continued. “Your boys just assumed he was talking about you.”

“What’d he say?”

I grabbed at my heart. “Hey, I been shot.”

He stared at me in disbelief. A faint grin curled his fat lips. The grin faded into a puzzled frown.

I shrugged. There was no accounting for a person’s sense of humor. “Well, Maranzano, the truth is, I was too far away to hear what he said. I just wanted to talk to you.”

A smug, cat-ate-the-canary grin spread over his pan-shaped face. “You’re a dumb bird. You know what I can do to you?”

“Look, all I’m after is some information. What does that hurt?”

He held up two fingers forming a V above his right shoulder. The goon with the scar placed a fat cigar between Sam’s fingers. “Go on.”

I told him who I was and what had taken place over the last few days. If he recognized my name, he covered it well.

He grunted and eyed the cigar. “So, what information you want?”

“Was Cheshire working for you?” I didn’t plan to tell him about the anonymous call from my mysterious cop connecting him with Cheshire on the smuggling caper.

He bit off the end and spit it on the floor. “You can’t be stupid enough to expect me to answer that.”

I laughed. “No. And I’m not stupid enough to come here without half of the Galveston Police Department knowing where I am.”

He jabbed the cigar at one of his boys. “Show these two out, boys. Their time is up.”

I waved the bald-headed goombah back. “Not yet, Maranzano. I got a couple more questions, then I’ll beat it.”

He sneered. “I can make you go. And never come back.”

“I know, but I don’t figure you want any heat because of me. I’m no threat to you … unless Cheshire was taking care of your business out at the dock the other night. If he was … ” I shrugged.

Sam Maranzano studied Virgil and me as he touched a match to his cigar and blew a stream of blue smoke toward the ceiling. He nodded, my signal to continue.

The fact that he didn’t order us measured for a new pair of shoes gave me some reassurance. I explained what had taken place at the dock. “I don’t know what he was doing there. I think it was dirty, but I’ve got to prove it. If I do, then maybe I’m off the hook with the shooting.”

“What about the cop you say Cheshire shot?”

“Ben Howard? He’s in a coma at the hospital. He might not make it.”

Maranzano grinned. “Tough. He croaks, you take the fall for offing two cops. Makes you antsy, huh? Kinda nervous, huh?” He laughed. I had the distinct feeling he was enjoying my predicament. He was probably the kind of kid who pulled legs off grasshoppers.

“I can tell you this, I don’t sleep too well at nights.”

He roared. “I can see how that might be.” He shook his head and wiped at the tears of laughter in his eyes.

Virgil and I exchanged looks. He arched an eyebrow. I just shrugged.

Sarcasm edged Maranzano’s voice. “I could tell you I didn’t have nothing to do with whatever he was doing out there. You wouldn’t know if I was lying or not.”

“Nope. Suppose not.”

“So, why should I say anything?”

“You got nothing to hide, why not? You’re a smart man with a large organization. I don’t figure you’d tolerate any loose cannons running around. And Cheshire was one.”

The grin faded from his lips. He studied me a few more seconds. “Let me put it this way, Boudreaux. Frank Cheshire went where the money was best. I hadn’t had no dealings with him for a year now.” He eyed me levelly.

For some strange reason, I believed him. I gave him a brief nod. “Thanks, Sam. That’s all I wanted to know.” I tapped Virgil on the arm. “Let’s go.” 

We turned and opened the door, meeting a wall of stone-faced goombahs who would have enjoyed pulling off our legs. Behind us, Sam grunted, and the goombahs parted.

I looked back. “If I was you, Sam. I’d watch my back.”

He arched a wary eyebrow. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Your name keeps popping up in this mess. A lot of accusations are being tossed your way. I found from experience, something is said long enough, someone’s going to believe it.”

“What do you think, Tony?”