The Ying on Triad (13 page)

Back in the truck, Janice looked up at me in disbelief.
"Did you hear what she said? She isn't even forty."

"I heard," I said, jotting notes on my cards. I glanced at
her. "Like she said, turning tricks is a hard life"

Janice studied me thoughtfully. "Do all of them age
like she has? I mean, hookers?"

I shrugged. "Probably. Alcohol, drugs, and all-night
parties don't lend themselves to a healthy lifestyle according to any survey I've read" I dropped the
cards back in my shirt pocket and started the pickup.
"Of course, there might be one tomorrow saying they
are."

She grimaced and shook her head. "I doubt it. Now
what?"

I handed her my cell phone. "See if there's a number
for Eric Lavern"

"Only two Laverns. A. Lavern and Cory Lavern," she
announced minutes later.

"We'll stop somewhere and look up the addresses"

"Why not just call them?"

"Because, detective, they can't brush you off as easily
face-to-face"

"Oh"

After entering the city limits of Round Rock, I spotted
a sign pointing toward Brushy Creek. On impulse I took
the exit. "Have you ever seen the round rock?" I kept my
eyes on the road.

Janice frowned. "Round rock?"

"Yeah, the one the town was named for. It's in the middle of the creek down in a gully. It isn't really round.
More oval shaped than round. It's where the old Chisholm
Trail forded Brushy Creek"

She looked at me quizzically. "How do you know so
much about it?"

I turned left onto a narrow road that descended sharply
to the creek below. "Read about it once just after Mom
and I came to Austin. I wondered if it was still here, so I
drove out to see for myself." I gestured to the burgeoning
city about us. "Twenty years ago, there wasn't much out
here, so it was easy to find. Hey, there it is"

The dry-weather bridge spanning the creek was only a
couple feet above the water. A few feet east of the bridge
was the round rock in the middle of the creek. Some
forty-five or fifty inches in diameter, it rose three feet out
of the water. Some prankster had painted it chartreuse.

"Now, you can say you've seen the round rock"

With a wry grin, she replied. "Great way to start up a
conversation. `Hey, guess what I did the other day. I saw
the round rock.' That will be a big hit at the monthly meeting of my Daylily Club"

As we approached the Austin city limits, I pulled into a
Shell service station and looked up Lavern in the directory. Moments later, we were back on the road heading for
Braker Street. We turned south off Braker onto Bluff Bend
Drive.

The house was in a middle-class neighborhood. I parked
in front of 4396 Bluff Bend. A. Lavern. I studied the house,
a one-story red brick with a Gothic porch supported by
antebellum columns-typical modern Texas architecture.
The grass needed mowing, and the trim, painting.

"I'll check," I told Janice, climbing out.

I knocked on the door.

No answer.

I tried again.

Still no answer.

Drapes covered the windows so I couldn't peer inside.

Maybe I ought to try the back, I told myself, but just
before I stepped off the porch, the door opened. "Good
morning," I said brightly.

The woman behind the screen eyed me warily. Even
through the gauzy door screen, I could tell she was a tired
woman, probably tired from working more hours than she
could handle, tired from worry, just tired.

"Don't worry, Ma'am. I'm not selling anything or taking a survey," I joked.

She nodded, still remaining silent.

"Miss A. Lavern?"

"Ms. Lavern," she said, correcting me.

"Alice?"

"Arlene"

"Thanks. Ms. Lavern, I'm trying to run down a man
named Eric Lavern. Would you happen to know him?"

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Maybe"

My hopes surged. Maybe meant yes. I continued,
"Years back, he worked as an assistant campaign manager
for Albert Hastings. I had a couple questions he might be
able to answer for me"

She pursed her lips. "You the cops?"

"No, Ma'am." Briefly, I explained what I was doing.
"Eric worked with Don Landreth, but-"

"Why don't you ask Landreth then?" she demanded.

I grimaced. "He died yesterday."

The announcement cut through the defensive posture
she had put up. Her eyes grew wide in disbelief, and she
pressed one hand against her lips. Tears welled in her
eyes. She gasped. "D-Don? Don Landreth is dead?" her
voice trembled.

"Yes, Ma'am. I had an appointment to visit with him
yesterday about 5:00. I learned about his passing when I
reached Marble Falls" I hoped she wouldn't ask how he
died.

Her tears overflowed onto her weathered cheeks. She
wiped her eyes with the tips of her fingers. "He was a good
man. I'm sorry for him. He helped us over some hard
times after that no-good husband of mine deserted us"

"Eric Lavern is your husband?"

"Was," she snapped.

"I see. Can you tell me where he is?"

She shook her head slowly. Bitterly, she replied, "He
left me and kids six or seven years ago. I divorced him.
`He needed more in life than we could offer' he told me,
and then he left" Her eyes narrowed, and she used several very descriptive and uncomplimentary expletives to
describe Eric and his ancestry.

Disappointment flooded over me.

She continued, "I haven't seen him since he left, but
last year, a friend claimed she saw him working the bar at
Frio's on Sixth Street. You might ask down there" She
paused. "Is he in some kind of trouble?"

I could hear a trace of hope in her voice. I replied, "I
don't know."

A slow, bitter smile played over her thin lips. "I hope so. I hope he hurts like we hurt" Her words trembled with
anger.

For a moment, I hesitated. "Ms. Lavern, I hate to
dredge up old memories, but do you happen to have a picture of Eric?"

For a moment, I thought she would refuse. "I'll be right
back"

When she returned, she slipped an 8x10 photograph
between the screen door and the doorjamb. "Here. I don't
want it"

"Thanks" I looked at the picture, and at that moment,
I truly knew the depth of the hatred she carried for Eric
Lavern. She had given me their wedding picture.

When I climbed back in the pickup, I winked at Janice.
"We got lucky. Now it's Sixth Street.

With a curl of her lips, she said, "Sixth Street? Isn't
that were all the saloons and bordellos are?"

I leaned over and touched my lips to hers. "Welcome to
the life of a detective, Mrs. Charles"

Back on the 1-35, we slipped into a lane of traffic and
followed the leader. Keeping her eyes on the road ahead,
Janice asked, "So, how do we stand after three and a half
days?"

"A lot of he said-she said stuff, but nothing really substantial" I hadn't told her about the warning message or
the sideswipe or the death of Don Landreth. "Most of
what we have indicates Hastings deserved what he got,
but there's nothing to prove Bobby didn't pull the trigger."

She looked around. "So, we aren't doing so well, huh?"

I didn't want to admit to her terse assessment, but in all
honesty, she very succinctly summed up where we stood.

At 10:00 A.M., Sixth Street was just opening its eyes in
snippets and snatches, in patches and parcels. The street
awakened like a drunk with only two hours sleep, reluctant and recalcitrant.

Proprietors with bloodshot eyes growled, some quickly
downing a slug of the hair of the dog to ease a searing
headache. We went straight to Frio's, but the owner had
never heard of Eric Lavern.

So, we started up one side of the seven-block district,
hitting every bistro and bar, every club and cabaret, every
tattoo parlor and tavern. Sixth Street doesn't cater to cops,
PIs, or insurance adjusters, so our cover story was that
Eric Lavern was a cousin we hadn't seen in years. His exwife, Arlene, sent us down here.

It was a simple story, but those work best for me, probably because I'm a simple person.

The first bar we entered was the Red Rabbit. Janice
hesitated when the stench of sour beer and whiskey mixed
with stale cigarette smoke hit us square in the face. She
wrinkled her nose. "Ugh"

"Get used to it," I whispered. "It doesn't get any better."

We were met with suspicion at first, but as we told our
story, most seemed to be willing to cooperate, although
somewhat grudgingly. Several of them knew Eric, and
some knew his ex-wife was named Arlene. That gave us a
thin cloak of credibility.

Within an hour, we had finished the south side of Sixth
Street.

Janice groaned, "I don't think we'll ever find him." She
shivered. "I can't believe people frequent thesethese-" She struggled to find the appropriate descriptor.

I laughed. "They do. Trust me" I paused at the curb.
"Can't tell. Our luck might change over there," I said,
pointing across the street to a saloon with the inspired
name, The Hollow Leg.

The cabaret was locked. I knocked. No answer. Peering
through the stained window, I spotted the bartender and
gestured to the door. He shook his head.

I knocked and gestured once again.

Anger contorting his face, the bartender jerked open
the door and glared at me. He was a tall, sallow-faced man
who looked like he was mad at the world. As soon as I
mentioned Eric Lavern, he exploded into curses.

"You bet I know that stinking slimeball. He cleans this
place for me, that is, when the crud feels like it." He threw
open the door and waved his hand at the dark interior of
the bar. Empty beer cans and mugs littered the tabletops;
ashtrays overflowed; and trash lay scattered across the
floor. It was worse than when the cops toss an apartment.
"See this mess? The jerk was supposed to be here at eight.
I come in fifteen minutes ago, and here it is, a stinking
mess. And look at the time. 11:00 A.M. I should be open
now, but I got to keep the doors locked until I get this joint
cleaned up."

One trick I learned when interviewing an irate citizen
like the bartender was to let him rant until he cleared the
bile from his system. When he calmed down, I pitched him
our cover story, then added, "I can't blame you for being
upset. Do you know if he lives around here somewhere?"

He eyed me narrowly. I could see the stubbornness in
his face, the knit brows, lips pressed together. I had the
feeling he knew where Eric lived, but he wasn't going to
tell us. I had an idea. "Look, we haven't seen him in years,
but he is family. Personally, my cousin here and I are
embarrassed that one of our family would leave you in a
lurch. If you'd give us some garbage bags, we'd be happy
to clean off the tables for you. That would help some,
wouldn't it?"

Beside me, I heard Janice gasp.

His eyes opened in surprise. "Hey, you'd do that?"

"Yes"

His eyes narrowed. He studied me suspiciously, then
shook his head. "Why? It ain't your responsibility."

I felt Janice tugging on my sleeve. I didn't look around
at her. "Maybe not, but I'd feel better. We'd both feel better," I said, emphasizing both.

Clearing her throat, Janice tugged harder on my sleeve.

"Wouldn't we, cousin," I said, smiling around at her.

Her eyes blazed fire, but she nodded and reluctantly
replied, "Yes"

Shaking his head, he took a deep breath. "Well, if that
don't beat all" A grin popped up on his lips. "Just scraping the cans and bottles off the tables and dumping the
ashtrays in the bags would be a big help. At least I can
unlock the doors then. I'll get the bags," he said, heading
for the rear.

We followed him inside, and when he was out of earshot,
Janice exclaimed. "Tony, what on earth have you done?"
She looked around the room. "I'm not touching those filthy
cans. Can you imagine who drank out of them?"

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to play Nick and
Nora Charles," I reminded her. "You've got no choice. He
knows where we can find Eric. I'm certain. Once we do
this for him, he has to tell us"