Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder (13 page)

Resting my elbows on the table, I leaned forward. “What’s
your name?”

She shook her head. “That ain’t important.”

I chuckled and patted my pocket. “If we make it worth your
while, it is. For all I know, you could be figuring this was an
easy string to pull. Take the money and run.”

For several seconds, she stared at me, a mixture of greed and
resentment flaring in her eyes. Greed won out. “Carrie Cochran.
That’s my stage name. I danced out at Dreamstreet with Franny.”

“Go on.” I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest.

A wry grin played over her lips. “Like I said, I worked with
Franny out there. We danced together when her hubby-to-be
started hanging around. He was well off, she said, and he was
pressuring her to marry him. She didn’t love the guy, but like I
said, he had money.” Carrie shrugged. “I told her `What the
heck. Forget about love. Marry the guy. Money’s better than
love any day.’”

“Obviously she followed your advice.”

She snorted. “Yeah. At least, they got married, and she left
Dreamstreet. I hung around a couple more years, but finally …” Her voice grew soft and bitter. “Well, see for yourself.
Time caught up with me, and I had to leave the runway. Those
lecherous old men out there wanted to slobber over them thin
little high school girls.”

She sipped at her beer and continued. “Anyway, a few years
later, Franny ran me down. I’m a hostess at the Marquee Club.
Nice place. Good job. Good future.”

I noted the frayed collar of her blouse. “That’s nice,” I replied.
“So Franny, Mrs. Holderman, looked you up?”

“Yeah.” She nodded emphatically. “She told me her old man
had a big insurance policy on himself. Offered me a couple of
thousand if I found someone who would whack him. Said she’d
pay five thousand for the job.” She drained her beer.

I slid my untouched beer across the table to her. She gave me
a nod. “Anytime,” I said. “Did you find someone?”

“Naw. Talked to a couple. But the money wasn’t there for the
risk, and Franny wouldn’t go no higher.”

I did some fast calculating. The time frame fit in neatly with
Holderman’s affairs with Eunice Seebell and later, Kim Nally.
And that was about the time Holderman started going to Lupe’s
Tacos. Could it be he was meeting another woman out there?
“Who were the guys you talked to?”

She looked at me in surprise. “Forget it. I ain’t ready to lay
my head down to sleep.”

With a wry grin, I shook my head. “Come on, Carrie.
Without some names, just how do you figure I can verify your
story? I’m not handing any cash over just on your word. For all
I know, this could be one big scam.”

Her eyes flashed, but she remained silent. I could see the
wheels turning in her head, slowly, but still turning. The anger
gave way to indecision. “Look, Mr. Boudreaux, I could get bad
hurt if I tell you too much.”

I sensed a quiet desperation in her tone. I pulled out my wallet and slid her some bills. “Here’s fifty. If I find out you’re
telling me the truth, there’s another one-fifty. Okay?”

Her shoulders sagged. “I suppose I don’t have any choice.”
Her eyes lit. “Hey, I could send you to-” She grimaced. “No,
that won’t work.” She chewed on her lip in concentration. “Let
me think a minute. Hey, maybe if you go see … “

She glanced past my shoulder and her heavily powdered face
contorted with a grimace. “Oh, jeez,” she muttered. She turned
her head and gagged. “Gross.”

I glanced over my shoulder to see what had distracted her.
On the street beyond the front window, a slender black man, his
features accented in harsh relief by the garish neon lights, was
hunched over, puking his guts all over the sidewalk.

I froze, every muscle rigid. I blinked in disbelief. When I
looked again, he had disappeared, but I would have sworn the
guy was Stewart Wayne Thibodeaux, my cousin.

I jumped up, knocking my chair over.

Carrie exclaimed, “What-”

“I’ll be back,” I called over my shoulder.

Borgia’s was jammed, the tables so close the backs of the
chairs touched. I shot a glance at the window. He had disappeared. Muttering hurried excuses, I forced my way through,
leaving a trail of acid-tongued women and cursing men behind.

A hand reached out to grab me, but I threw it off and lurched
for the door, jerking it open and racing into the rain splattering
on the sidewalk and soaking my legs. Several dark figures staggered down the sidewalk ahead of me, heads pulled down into
their collars against the driving rain.

“Stewart!” I raced to the first cluster of three.

I grabbed the first one’s arm. “Stewart?” I cocked my head
to look into the man’s face. A stranger looked back.

The second wino grabbed my arm. “Hey, buddy. How about
a buck for some coffee?” The third one looked at me hopefully, his thin, bearded face reminding me of the pictures I had seen of those poor Jews caught up in the Holocaust of World
War II.

All three were strangers. Hurriedly I pressed a couple of dollars into someone’s grasping fingers and looked around frantically. The streets were empty.

I grimaced. Could I have been mistaken? The rain sheeting
down the window distorted images like the House of Mirrors at
the carnival. Maybe I had imagined it. Still, I would have
sworn I had seen Stewart, but if I had, where in the blazes had
he disappeared?

Ducking under a portico of a closed bar, I called his cell
number. All I got was voice mail, so I told him to call me. After
punching off, I glanced back up at Borgia’s. I’d finish with
Carrie as fast as I could and then swing by his place down on
Festival Beach Street.

I headed back up the sidewalk, peering into darkened doorways, inside smoky bars. Nothing. At the corner, I made out
three or four silhouettes stepping from the penumbra of light
cast by the streetlamp and disappearing into the shadows of the
alley.

“Stewart!” I yelled. “Wait!” I broke into a run, but by the
time I reached the alley, the wraith-like shadows had vanished
into the darkness.

I stood in the middle of the circle cast by the mercury streetlamp and stared into the night. The rain fell in torrents. I called
out again. “Stewart! It’s me! Tony!”

No answer except the thrumming of the rain on the pavement. Slowly, I made my way back to the bar, oblivious to the
rain.

Carrie Cochran had vanished. Two couples sat at the table I
had occupied less than five minutes earlier. I gestured to the
bartender. “That woman I was with. You see her leave?”

His round face was slick with sweat. Brow furrowed, he studied me a moment. “Hey, you that guy who run out of here a few
minutes ago, causing all the commotion?”

I shook my head. “I can explain. But not now. I got to find
the woman I was with. Cochran. Carrie Cochran. You know
her?”

He jabbed a sausage-like finger at me. The veins in his neck
puffed out. “This is a high-class joint, buddy. We don’t like no
disturbances in here. Not unless you wanta get your rear
kicked, you hear me?”

I held my temper. I wasn’t going to find out a thing from this
jerk except how fast he could come over the bar. I stepped back
and held up my hand. “Sorry, bud. No problem.”

He jerked his head toward the door. “Beat it “

I beat it, hugging the buildings as I made my way back up the
hill to my pickup, cursing myself for leaving Carrie Cochran.
She had been ready to give me a name.

The truck fired up. I flipped on the heat, making a mental
note to look up Carrie Cochran out at the Marquee Club.

Within a couple of minutes, a blast of hot air filled the cab. I
glanced in the direction Stewart had disappeared. What was he
up to? Worry nagged at me.

Slowly, I drove the streets, hoping to spot Stewart, if indeed
it had been Stewart I saw. On impulse, I headed for his place on
Festival Beach Street.

Ahead, at the underpass of Seventh Street and 1-10, red and
blue strobes flashed, and the halogen beams of the police cruiser lit the wet street with a silver glow. Beyond the cruiser, a
large sedan, both front doors open and the interior lights on, sat
in the middle of the road.

Dark silhouettes scurried in and out of the headlights, hovering over an object lying in the street. I gripped the steering
wheel tighter, fighting back the surge of fear squeezing off my
breath. Could it be Stewart?

The sleet bouncing off his yellow poncho, an officer
detoured traffic down the access road to the next underpass. I
pulled over to the curb and parked.

A second cop stopped me as I approached the small crowd
around the body sprawled in the street. “Sorry, buddy. Move on
unless you got business here.”

“Look, officer. I’m looking for my cousin. That might be
him.”

He shook his head. “Naw. It’s an old broad.”

I glanced over his shoulder just as one of the silhouettes
moved, giving me a clear view of the inert body. It was Carrie
Cochran. I closed my eyes. I muttered, “Is she dead?”

“Just about. Busted up good.” He started to say more, but the
investigating officer called him. He motioned me back to my
pickup. “Go along now, buddy. We got enough traffic jamming
up around here now.”

I waited in my truck until the EMS team arrived. I noted the company, and then swung by the address Stewart had given me.
His Pontiac was not in sight, and no one answered the phone.
Worried sick, I headed home, crossing my fingers that Stewart
was all right and that Carrie Cochran would live.

I stopped off to pick up a bag of kitten nuggets and a litterbox.

As soon as I closed the door behind me, I called Stewart
again. To my surprise, he answered on the second ring. “Are
you all right?” I asked.

He hesitated. “Something wrong, Tony?”

Now I was puzzled. The young man I had spotted in front of
Borgia’s looked like Stewart, but I must have been mistaken.
“No. I thought I saw you earlier. I guess I was wrong.”

“Hey, bro. I’m good. Just got in. Busy day.”

“And you weren’t down on Sixth Street?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, man. I was. Got some bad food or something. Heaved my guts all over the sidewalk. I’m fine now.”

Relieved that I hadn’t been seeing things, I replied, “You
sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, man. Plenty good. Job’s good. I think I got me a good
future here.”

I shook my head wearily, grateful I didn’t have a kid of my
own. “When are we getting together?”

Stewart paused. “Let me give you a call, huh, Tony? I got
plans the next couple of nights.”

“Sure. No problem. Just stay in touch”

Next morning, the stormy weather had moved on to the east.
The sky was clear, but the streets were still wet. I checked my
e-mail. To my disappointment, Boulder, Colorado had no
record of Nelson Vanderweg or Villafono. I read the rest of my
mail, responded to a couple of letters from my old high school
chat group, and then outlined my plans for the day, which
included visiting with Jacobs and Nally at school before lunch,
then Frances Holderman and Fred Seebell in the afternoon.

Before I left I called Travis County Hospital. Carrie Cochran
was in ICU, critical condition.

Principal Howard Birnam asked me no questions. He showed
me to the ARD meeting room and sent for Kim Nally and Perry
Jacobs.

Jacobs had called in ill. I made a note to drop by his place,
which would probably be a better spot for our talk than here at
school.

While I waited for Kim Nally, I poured myself a cup of
Seaport coffee and paused in front of Rita Viator’s desk. She
looked up, smiled, and nodded to the coffee. “Fresh and hot.”

“And strong,” I added.

Her smile grew wider at the compliment. “Next weekend,
me and my husband, Walter, we go back to Lawtell to visit the
old ones. ‘Sides, the coffee, she is just about all gone. I bring
back six cases.”

I took another sip. Black, and rich, and fragrant. Even then,
Rita had watered it down for the Texans’ taste. Back in Church
Point and Lawtell, folks served coffee in demitasse cups, and
then only about three-quarters full.

The old folks believed the true test of good coffee was that it
melted your dentures and shrunk your gums.

Rita scooted her chair a little closer to her desk. “Still interviewing, huh?” Curiosity oozed from her pores.

I lowered my voice. “Tell me, Rita. The abortion Kim Nally
had. About when was that? You got any idea?”

She glanced around the office. No one seemed to be paying
any attention to us. “Hard to say, but seems like a couple of
years.” She hesitated. “Why you ask?”

“Just curious.” I shrugged. Two years corresponded with the
June 8, 2003 date she had with Dr. Evan J. Hodges of the Birth
Control Planning Clinic.

Kim Nally pushed through the door and nodded when she
saw me. She wore a blue sweat top over blue shorts. Her legs were brown and lean with the firmness you’d expect from a
physical education teacher. She spoke brightly. “Hi, Tony. I
didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”