Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 12 - Murder Among Friends (8 page)

Mrs. Edwards gasped and pressed her hands to her lips.
Tears filled her eyes. “I gave Carl a watch like that for his
birthday. It’s in May, and emerald is his birthstone. Those
are the green dots”

I glanced at the coffee table, but there was no watch. I
stared at Dorothy Winkler in disbelief. How could she know
that? Maybe Mrs. Edwards had mentioned a watch. On the other hand, I told myself, probably fifty percent of
men’s wristwatches are silver and gold. But how many of
them use emeralds instead of numbers or slashes?

While Winkler regained her strength, Debbie walked out
to the pickup with me. I still had a couple of questions on my
mind, but I decided to wait until I was alone with Debbie
and her mother.

I asked her if her mother had mentioned the watch to Winkler. “No. I was with Mother when Dorothy arrived. I never
left the room” She paused, her forehead crumpled in a
frown. “What do you think we should do now, Tony?”

“I haven’t made any headway yet. Best thing to do is to
tell the cops”

Her frown deepened. “What do we tell them?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll tell them we talked to a psychic, and we’re
looking for a red Impala at the bottom of a canyon that has
a creek running through it” I couldn’t believe it was me
talking, but then, I reminded myself, it was the only lead
we had.

I had expected Chief Ramon Pachuca to throw me out
of his office when I told him about our session with the
psychic, but to my surprise, he nodded. “Dorothy Winkler? Sure, I know the woman. We’ve used her a few times.
Some of the stuff she sees, or however she does it, is downright uncanny” He paused and chuckled. “Some isn’t, but
it’s worth a shot” He picked up the phone. “Wilson. I’m
sending Boudreaux out there. Take his information and put
it out to all cruisers. Oh, and send it to the Sheriff’s office
too. His constables can help us search. Get them off their
fat keisters”

By the time I climbed into my pickup, it was almost
5:00. I headed back to the credit union. I wanted to visit
with Judith Perry, but away from her work environment.
Just how to approach her, I wasn’t quite sure.

I almost missed her. As I pulled into the credit union
parking lot, I spotted her climb into a new Mustang, slam
the door, and leave two black stripes of rubber on the
parking lot as she shot into the traffic. I did my best not to
lose sight of her, but weaving from one lane to another,
she quickly vanished. I followed, uncertain as to my next
step.

To my delight, she made up my mind for me when a few
minutes later, she pulled into the Bo Peep Lounge perched
on the limestone bluffs overlooking the Colorado River a
hundred feet below.

I spotted the Mustang as I passed. Quickly, I made a
U-turn and headed back. Just as I signaled to turn across the
oncoming traffic, a tan Honda pulled up next to the Mustang, and a bright and sunny blond bounced out. Judith
climbed out to meet her, gesticulating wildly. The blond
tried to pacify her. By the time I found a parking spot, the
two had disappeared into the lounge.

I paused just inside the door to accustom my eyes to the
dim lighting. The Bo Peep was an upscale lounge, catering
to the upwardly mobile within the community. There were
half a dozen couples in the lounge, some at the bar, some at
the tables around the dance floor, and another couple shooting pool at a corner table. I spotted Perry and her friend in a
booth along one wall.

With my back to them, I slipped into the next booth and
ordered a beer.

I got lucky. Perry was furious. She and Busby had a spat earlier when he informed her their relationship had run its
course.

Some of her ensuing comments would bruise the ears of
the less sophisticated. For the next few minutes, I listened as
two avant-garde women neatly dissected the male species’
ancestral background with visceral efficiency.

I glanced around the lounge, spotting a couple of single
males, both casting lecherous glances at the two women. I
grinned to myself, wondering if I should hang around and
watch the fireworks when one of them garnered the nerve
to ask one of the ladies to dance.

Pushing the beer away, I rose and headed for the door.
Now was not the time to speak with Judith Perry.

Outside, I jotted down her license, and ten minutes later
had her address and phone number. I drove by her place, a
condo in the Silvercreek Manor Complex. I arched an eyebrow, impressed. “Not bad,” I muttered. “Not bad at all.” I’d
check with her later that night after I changed clothes and
came up with a pretext that would cause her to spill everything she knew about Marvin Busby.

The sun had dropped behind the skyline of downtown
Austin by the time I hit Sixth Street. I parked in the alley
behind Neon Larry’s Bar and Grill. Larry and I go way
back, and I often used his back door as a shortcut to Sixth
Street.

I waved as I passed the bar. “Seen Goofyfoot around? I
was supposed to meet him out front”

The lean man shook his head. “How about a beer?” he
called out above the steady rumble of the crowd.

“Maybe later.”

Outside, I looked up and down the street. Tourists, drunks,
college kids, and the simply curious were beginning to
fill the sidewalks. Soon several blocks of the street would
be one big party punctuated by angry confrontations, annoyed cops, and acerbic curses until around two in the
morning.

I headed down the sidewalk. As I approached Neches
Street, I spotted Goofyfoot. He saw me at the same time,
and hurriedly shuffled toward me. “You find him?”

The wizened old man nodded. “Where’s the hundred?”

“What hundred?” I tried not to grin.

He studied me a moment. “For the Butcherman.”

“I’ll give it to him when I see him”

Goofyfoot pressed his cracked lips together.

I laughed. “What are you trying to do, con him out of
half of it?”

He frowned. “It ought to be worth something to me for
finding him for you”

“I gave you a sawbuck this morning”

His frown deepened.

“All right. Another ten. Satisfied?” I patted my pocket.
“The hundred I give to him.”

Goofyfoot agreed. The old man would have gone along
with five bucks or less, but every time I saw him or any of
the other transients, I thought of my old man and hoped
that wherever he was at that moment, someone would lend
him a hand if he needed it.

He grabbed the ten and stuck it into the tangle of rags
hanging off him. “In the alley up there,” he said, nodding to
the alley north of Sixth Street.

He started to walk away, but I stopped him. “No, you
don’t. Show me”

Like every alley in downtown Austin, this one was lined
with Dumpsters overflowing with trash. Next to some of the
Dumpsters were cardboard boxes that transients called
home sweet home.

We found the Butcherman curled inside a cardboard box
beside the Dumpster that served Wichie’s Last Chance Bar.
Enraged, he came boiling out when Goofyfoot kicked the
box.

Fists doubled and his face twisted in anger, he shouted,
“What do you think you’re doing?” Short and stocky,
Butcherman wore jeans and a denim jacket. His western hat
was soiled, but the brim still maintained its rakish curves.
He didn’t look like one of the archetypal transients. On the
other hand, maybe he was new to the business. When he
recognized Goofyfoot, his anger faded.

Goofyfoot looked up at me. “This is him.”

Butcherman studied me, and then held out his hand to
Goofyfoot. “Where’s my forty?”

I looked down at Goofyfoot. “Why, you two-timing little
sneak. I-”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?” He turned and
quickly shuffled away.

Butcherman yelled after him, but I held up my hand.
“I’ve got your money. A hundred bucks.”

He stared at me in disbelief for a moment, and then his
eyes blazed as he glared after Goofyfoot. “A hundred?
Why that-”

“Forget about him. I’ve got a couple questions, and then
the money’s yours” I hooked my thumb at Wichie’s. “How
about a drink?”

He pulled out a pack of crumpled cigarettes and touched
a match to one. “Sure”

Inside, we sat near the hall leading out the back. He
ordered a double bourbon neat. I ordered a cup of coffee.

“Goofyfoot said you saw a dude wasted” He sipped his
bourbon and just stared at me. I recognized the animal
wariness in his eyes. “I’m not a cop. My old man has been
accused of killing that guy. The dead guy’s name, by the
way, was Salinas Sal. I’m just trying to get a lead on who
did the job.”

He studied me another moment, downed his bourbon,
and ordered another double. Lighting up another cigarette,
he replied in a raspy voice, “Yeah, I knew Sal. I know your
old man too. Boudreaux? Some kind of Frenchy?”

I nodded. “Go on”

“We got in from San Antone. I hopped off. Sal figured
on staying in the car, but then he decided he’d come down here and pick up a few bucks before heading on to Fort
Worth”

“What about my old man? What did he do?”

“Nothing. I think he was passed out somewhere. I ain’t
sure. Anyway, I worked the streets until about two or three,
and then headed back to the rail yard. I’d spotted a snug
hole to bunk in. When I got close, I saw two men bending
over someone on the ground. I was in the streetlight, and
they spotted me. One of them yelled for me to come over,
but I took off running. I ditched them and hid out in a culvert all night. I didn’t know the dude on the ground was Sal
until next morning when I heard it on the street” He shook
his head. “They’d of killed me too”

“What did they look like? Can you describe them?”

He grimaced. “Tall. About like you. One a couple of
inches shorter. His face was all marked up” He jabbed his
finger at his cheeks. “What do you call that stuff that scars
up people’s faces?”

“Acne?”

He nodded emphatically. “Yeah. Acne. Real bad scars”

By now, he was on his third double.

“Any idea why they wasted him?”

He stubbed out his cigarette. “I ain’t sure, but I figure it
might have something to do about the time Sal stumbled
onto some old boys dumping a body in the back of a car.
They was probably them old boys”

“When was that?”

He shrugged. “Oh, some weeks back. That’s why he left
town and went to San Antone”

“San Antone, huh?”

“Yep, according to what he said, he was out at Barton
Springs-you know, the swimming hole. Two cars drove
up. That’s what woke him. He was sleeping under a picnic table. He laid there and watched when they pulled the body
out of a big car and dumped it in the trunk of another one”
He fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out an empty
pack of cigarettes. He looked up at me. He had me right
where he wanted me, that little sucker.

I held up the empty cigarette package to the bartender.
Moments later, Butcherman lit up again.

“So, then what?”

“They spotted him, but he ditched them in the dark, but
they was close enough that he heard one say he’d recognized Sal from Sixth Street. Sal lost no time in grabbing a
freight for San Antone”

At least I was getting close. If I could manage to learn
the identity of one of the two goombahs, then maybe that
would help get my old man off the hook.

Butcherman started to push back from the table. “I’ve
got to get another pack of smokes before I leave. It’s a long
ride to Fort Worth”

“Hold on,” I said. “I’ll get them. You’ve done me a big
favor.”

As I stood at the bar, I heard the front door slam open. I
glanced around to see two dudes, one with an acne-scarred
face and wearing a black leather jacket, charging across the
room toward Butcherman. All I glimpsed of the second one
was a red Windbreaker.

Butcherman darted out the back.

Before I could say a word, Acne Face plowed into a customer who slammed back into me, spinning me around and
smacking my forehead into the bar.