 
# D **ead On**

# **A Deacon Bishop Mystery**

#

# **Michael W. Paulson**

Published by BooksForABuck.com at Smashwords

2006

Copyright 2006 by Michael Paulson
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and locations are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people is coincidental.

# **Chapter** 1

He was standing in McAllen's air terminal; slack-jawed and dewy-eyed, holding a cardboard sign with my name scrawled in red crayon. Behind him, a loudspeaker droned a speech from the mayor, Philip Woods. His honor was up for reelection and promising to get tough on crime, no matter the cost, or implications. It was a promise each voter could cling to in hopes of a better, safer tomorrow. It was also a promise the Mayor would have trouble keeping. Because in Texas, when it came to crime, implications always run deeper than expected.

I stopped in front of the sign-holder and jabbed the cardboard with my finger. In response, his wet brown eyes flickered into focus. They drifted from my face to my shoulders to my shoes, and then back to my face as if not certain I was real.

"You the detective?" he asked, dully. His face was like a vacant lot. His softly spoken words coming slow and painfully, like work from a man shortchanged for his labors. "You Deacon Bishop?"

I could smell gin on his breath and the rancid sweat clinging to his oozing pores. "Naw," I replied, fanning the air in front of my face. "I flew here from Dallas because I have this thing for cardboard."

My presence in McAllen related to a request from Eli Huggins; a businessman reputedly rich enough to start his own country. The poor soul in front of me looked like he would have trouble buying a cup of coffee without getting a donation.

"I hope to god you're not Eli Huggins!" I blurted, as the memory of his expense check bounced around in my head.

"Eli's my brother," the sign-holder said. He let the cardboard slip from his big fingers, to the floor. "I'm, Leon."

Leon Huggins was well past middle age, short and wiry. What I could see of his body had a lot of hair; gray on his head and three-day beard, black on the backs of his hands and arms. His sunburned face was crisscrossed with deep crags. He had old scars above his eyes, along the ridgeline of his cheeks, and across the bridge of his flattened nose: markers prizefighters got for winning second place.

"Eli sent me," he continued, rubbing his flattened knuckles. "He's waitin' on you back home."

A dim light came on in my head as I eyed Leon's dirty T-shirt, big hands and baggy jeans. "Leon Huggins," I grunted. "Boxer, welterweight. Maybe twenty or twenty-five years back, right? A real contender."

His bushy gray eyebrows shot up forcing the skin above into deep furrows. Then he grinned at me showing a mouthful of decay-blackened teeth. "You got a memory, Mister."

"I laid five hundred clams on your last bout, Sweets," I gritted. "You took a dive to a nobody by the name of Johnny Paean. Five hundred was a chunk of change back then! And, it took a lot of sweat to get. That's the reason for memory."

The boxer's grin twisted into a savage growl, "Never tanked, no how."

I jabbed my forefinger into the middle of his hard chest. "Naw," I gritted. "You kissed the mat 'cause it felt good."

He stiffened toward me like a pit-bull ready to charge; his hands clenched into meaty clubs; his voice hissing, "Best keep shut, Mister."

I had lost bets that size a hundred times or more over the years, without batting an eye. Nevertheless, that particular wager was now a red-hot poker twisting my guts: one that would not quit until I got satisfaction.

"Third round," I remembered. "Paean tossed a jab followed by a half-hearted combination. You took the blows and folded like a limp dick."

"Ain't gonna' tell you again."

I coiled my fingers and set myself. "I'll settle for a piece of your hide."

A black scowl contorted the boxer's face. He muttered a curse and quickly cocked one arm, ready to swing. I gave him a hard stare, and waited. Seconds ticked. Eyes locked. Breathing stopped. Finally, Leon relaxed and let his arms drop to his sides. I started breathing, again—disappointed and relieved.

"Memory ain't good," he grunted. Leon shook his shoulders back to relax the muscles, and then retreated a step. "Not clear on what's what some times. And that goes back some. Maybe I got things crossed. Maybe you did, too."

I splay my fingers to get the blood flowing back into them. "Not, likely Sweets."

His stubbly chin drooped to his chest as if he were a small boy caught dipping into a cookie jar. Then, he stuffed his big hands into his jeans-pockets and stared down at his ragged running shoes, completely defeated.

A wave of pity swept over me and I felt very small and petty. "I'll get my grip," I muttered, and headed for the luggage carousel.

Twenty minutes later, I was on the parking ramp's top deck, gasping hot air as I followed Leon across the sizzling concrete. "Eli was supposed to get me," I called to his back. "What happened?"

"Truck's over yonder, Mister," Leon said, with forced politeness. "You'll see Eli soon 'nough."

I trailed along feeling like a Popsicle tied to the business end of a blowtorch. "I hope to god the air in your truck's working. It must be a hundred in the shade."

"Hundred-ten!" Leon said proudly over his shoulder, as if he were responsible for the heat. "Them temps make my bones feel young." Then he tossed me an apologetic backward glance before adding, "Truck got no air but windows, Mister."

Under my breath I sighed, "It probably doesn't come with a low-moral blonde either."

He stopped behind a 40's vintage pickup and gave me a feeble grin. The pearl-black paint on the old truck glistened like molten tar. And the chrome glinted like it had been dusted with diamonds.

"Ain't she somethin'?" Leon asked. One of his big hands reached out and stroked a fender like it was a woman's thigh. "All I got. Only thing's really mine."

He walked the length of the vehicle and back, staring at it as if the truck were alive and awaiting his attentions. I watched and wilted, still worrying about Eli's check.

"Twenty-five coats," he continued. "Me and my daughter Betsy polished her up in between. Glows like love, don't she? I call her Moira—after my wife."

I wiped the sweat from my face with a handkerchief. Then I grimaced as a gust of wind brought his stench to my nose. "Married a mouth-breather, did you?"

Leon rubbed at an invisible spec of dust on the truck's chrome license-plate holder. Then, slowly, his eyes rose to meet mine. "You're clear on Johnny Paean," he said quietly. He nodded as if reaffirming the long-past transgression. "Tanked all right: deep as it'd go." He spat on the concrete, as if the admission had fouled his mouth. "Weren't my call. Never's my call! Not, then. Not, now."

I set my suitcase into the truck-bed, took off my suit-coat and draped the sweat-dampened garment over one arm. "Even the Pope has options, Leon."

He gave me a grin. "I'm good for the five-hundred, Mister. You'll see."

I let my gaze wander over the poor slob. If he had two quarters in his pockets, they belonged to somebody else. "How much did you get for throwing that fight?"

His grin faded. Then he moved to the driver's door and opened it. "Nothin'," he murmured. "I never got nothin'. Eli's got them angles."

He crawled into the truck's cab and settled behind the steering wheel. I got in on the rider's side and immediately wished I was somewhere else. The pickup smelled of gasoline, and Leon. I rolled down the side window and prayed for a clean, cool breeze.

# **Chapter 2**

Nearly an hour later Leon pulled the truck to a stop in front of a white, stone archway somewhere out in the boonies. Running away on either side were horizons of gleaming razor wire: the kind correctional facilities used to deter inmate escape. Between the risers, yellow wrought-iron gates stood open. Beyond, a narrow strip of blacktop rippled across a neatly trimmed lawn like an old belt. A quarter-mile along it, a red tile roof rose amidst a grove of trees.

I wiped the sweat from my brow. "What? No tower guards to plink off passersby?"

At that moment, I was simmering in a pool of my own sweat. In fact, everything I had on was soaked and creeping for higher ground.

Leon swallowed thickly. "Somethin's wrong, Mister."

A chill suddenly darted down my spine and I glanced about. However, there was only heat, dust and scrub brush for miles. "For Christ's sake, give me a hint, Leon."

A dribble of perspiration tracked down the length of his flat nose until it dangled from the tip, like a foul smelling dewdrop. "Them gates got rules," he said with respect. Then, he tapped the windshield and pointed at the arch. "Them gates is locked 'less Eli says unlock."

"Maybe, your brother took a drive."

Leon shifted on the seat as if his backside was dodging a vagrant spring. "'Lectric," he explained. "Radio-box control." He dug a garage-door style transmitter out of his pants pocket and held it up. "Eli's got one, too. Somethin's wrong, all right. Eli don't cotton to open gates."

A twitching at the nape of my neck suggested I take Leon's case of nerves as gospel. "Did Eli give you the package I shipped?"

"There," Leon grunted, and pointed to the truck's glove box.

I opened the compartment. Inside were a lock-pick kit and my Mauser pistol. I took out the gun, checked the clip, jerked back the slide and let it fly forward to load one round into the chamber. Then I set the safety, lowered the hammer and shoved it into my shoulder holster. The probability of running into lethal trouble on a hot afternoon at a millionaire's estate in South Texas was well off the scale. So was meeting Leon Huggins.

The boxer glanced at me and shivered. "Don't cotton to guns, Mister."

I pointed toward the rooftop and growled, "Just drive, Leon."

We roared through the arch, took a curve on two wheels, and then caught air over a sharp rise. The lawn sprinklers sputtered streams of liquid silver onto brown grass, and steaming asphalt. The truck skidded on the wet. I let go a curse, and then quickly said a prayer. Leon was quiet, wide-eyed and lead-footed.

The roof we headed for belonged to a Spanish style mansion the size of a football field. It had three levels of white stucco with black wrought-iron ornamentation on the windows. It nestled among flapping banana palms, tall cottonwoods and twisted eucalyptus trees, like a gigantic cupcake.

"How many servants?" I asked, as he pumped the brakes.

"I do, for Eli!" he growled. "No need for nobody else."

"You traded your jockstrap for a feather-duster?"

Leon flushed crimson. "Cleanin' woman comes in for that."

The asphalt formed a nice neat drive-around in front of a wide flagstone walkway. The latter wound between two concrete benches up three rows of white stone steps to a pair of red steel doors, one of which was ajar. There were no other vehicles in sight. Leon stopped the truck, and shut off the engine.

"I don't see a car," I said. "You're sure Eli didn't go somewhere?"

"Parkin's underground."

"Let's go!"

He shook his head. "No pass-card."

"Your brother won't let you into his garage?"

"Eli don't cotton to nobody goin' down there but special friends."

"What do these special friends do for him, you don't?"

Leon's chin dipped before offering a shrug in reply.

"Your brother was shy on details," I grumbled. "What kind of trouble's Eli in?"

"Not sure," Leon muttered. "Maybe shakedown. Maybe somethin' else. Tried to tell Eli I handle problems. He says, stay clear. So, I stay clear."

"You said shakedown. Who might be doing the shaking?"

The boxer spat out the truck's side window. "Not sure, Mister," Leon replied. "Cop, maybe. Big bastard. Tough. Not, too tough for me. Maybe them others. Maybe no shakedown at all. Maybe something else."

My mouth went dry. There was nothing I liked better than dealing with a dirty cop—except swimming naked with hungry sharks. "This cop have a name?" I asked.

"Shawn Delaney. Don't like him much. He don't like me, either. You know him, Mister?"

I shook my head. "I guess that explains why Eli was nervous as a transvestite in a nunnery, when he called. What was your brother's schedule for today?"

Leon stuck an index finger into one hairy ear and rotated the digit like a plumber cranking a closet-auger. "Meetin'. Big meetin' come up all sudden-like. That's why he sent me to get you."

"Meeting with who?"

The boxer's fingers coiled and then recoiled around the black steering wheel as if he were milking the life out of it. "Eli don't say and I don't ask." Then he murmured in a worried voice, "Somethin's wrong all right. Somethin's terrible wrong."

I crawled from the truck like a soggy bagel and grimaced up at the searing sun. It hung over my head like the thrusters of a rocket engine running at full throttle. "I'm going to take a look around, Leon. I'm the nervous type so stay put, understand? If you come up on my blind side, I'm liable to get impulsive and blow your damn head off. That'd be a relief to my nose, but it might ruin your day."

Leon chewed his lower lip, and nodded.

I let my eyes drift. Drawn drapes sealed the mansion's windows in navy blue. An overgrown spirea hedge twisted along the North side of the house like a pink and green dragon. Here and there a dandelion danced among the grass blades like a yellow-faced clown. Nothing seemed out of place except for the open door at the top of the flagstones.

"Eli's dead," Leon sobbed. "He'd be out by now if he was alive."

I looked over at the boxer through the truck's side window. Sweat was dredging a path through grime and oil across his face, making him look like a weeping clown. During all my years investigating homicides with Dallas P-D, not once had a devoted relative expressed the belief that a missing loved one was dead before the body was found. The not so devoted often did, mostly out of hope that tears would sell innocence over guilt. I took out my pistol, clicked off the Mauser's safety and then rubbernecked toward the flagstone.

When I started up the steps, I noticed something that looked like a dark blue bag behind the hedge. At one end of the bag was a pair of brown shoes poking through the shrubbery, the pointed tips tilting toward the sun like shiny leather arrows.

At that moment, I realized Eli's check was the least of my worries.

Behind me, the truck door slammed. I whirled toward it taking aim at the sound only to see Leon racing toward the hedge.

"Eli!" he bellowed. "Eli!"

By the time I reached the shoes Leon was kneeling beside a gaunt, ashen-faced corpse. The dead man was dressed in an expensive suit. His starched white shirt was crisply pressed. His red silk tie was knotted perfection. And his dyed black hair was trimmed, greased and combed straight back over his round head, in Valentino style. Even his nails had been done to the nines, manicured and polished with clear lacquer. The only flaws were grass-stained knees on his pants and the deceased's unseeing eyes staring up at me as if I had solved all the world's problems. Somebody had—at least for Eli Huggins.

"They got Eli," Leon wailed. Then the boxer's fists pummeled the ground, in frustration. "They got my brother."

I squatted next to the corpse and touched the back of Eli's neck. His skin felt cooler than the surrounding air. I turned his head and saw a small-bore bullet wound at the back; it still dribbled blood. I lifted one of the dead man's arms and let if flop back to the grass. There was no way for me to be absolutely certain when the killing had taken place, but rigor mortis had not set in. That meant the millionaire had been dead less than an hour, which gave Leon an alibi.

"Who, Leon?" I asked.

The boxer gently stroked his brother's pale face. "Maybe Delaney," he muttered. "Maybe them others. Ghosts, maybe. I dunno."

"What others?"

"Big-shots. Come from out of town. I told Eli they was no good. But he don't listen—he never listens to me."

"Names, Leon. I need names."

The boxer's face, hardened as he looked into my eyes. "I don't know no names, Mister. All I know is Eli's dead."

"You must have heard Eli mention somebody."

Leon lolled his head back clenching his eyes shut against the sun as he tried to think. After what seemed like several minutes he let his chin flop forward. "One of them was called Port-something, maybe: a black-haired bastard. He don't cotton to me so Eli don't let me hang 'round, when he come."

A bad taste flooded my mouth. "Portello? Dominic Portello?"

Leon nodded, his eyes wide with sudden hope. "That's the fella.' You know him, Mister?"

I nodded, grimly. The Portello crime family controlled the illicit drug trade across all of Texas and several states north. If Eli Huggins was receiving visits from Dominic, I had no doubts as to how the dead man had made his millions.

I tilted Eli's head to take a closer look at the bullet wound. Scorched hair from the muzzle-blast surrounded the opening. This meant the killer had pressed the gun against Eli's skull before firing. From the size of the hole, I estimated the murder weapon's bore to be .32 caliber. I laid the dead man's head back against the grass. There was no exit wound, which meant the gun had been an older, low-velocity model. If Dominic Portello ordered this hit, it was not his style. A Portello contract meant no body—ever.

Leon stared at me as if I were God's messenger. "It was him what done Eli? Portello?"

I shook my head. "Not their style, Leon."

As soon as I heard my own words, I knew I had made a mistake. The boxer leaped to his feet; rage spreading across his face like fire through a sawmill.

"Kill the son-of-a-bitchin' Delaney!"

I sprang up and grabbed Leon's arm. "We don't know Delaney did this."

The boxer spine went headstone-rigid. Then he caught my jaw with a sharp left cross. The unexpected blow rocked me back on my heels, nearly dropping me. It took several seconds to regather my senses. By then Leon was in a dead run for the truck. I gave chase and tackled him by the pickup's rear tires. I was a decade younger and fifty pounds heavier. On Leon's side were experience, fury and determination.

For the next five minutes, we shared agonizing moments. Some included rolling on the asphalt amidst swinging fists. Some included standing upright and trading punches. My part of the experience involved lessons in pain and humility. Finally, Leon hooked me in the ribs and turned. I could not take it any longer so I infused a calming influence over his retreat by introducing the Mauser's butt to the back of the boxer's head. He let out an angry groan and then his knees buckled; dropping him like a dirty, hairy bag to the blacktop.

After depositing the unconscious man in the shade, I limped to his truck, slipped on my suit coat and then grabbed the ignition keys. After which, with gun still in hand, I headed inside the mansion.

# **Chapter 3**

Black marble floors took me across an oval foyer down a cool dark hallway past a rambling collection of mismatched rooms each furnished with disconnected ruins, and into a spacious modern living area. The latter was a lofty affair with an open-beamed ceiling, skylights and hanging plants. Persian rugs and French furniture dotted a polished oak floor. Light earthy tones decorated the walls along with numerous pieces of abstract art. Glass panels partitioned one side from floor to ceiling against a large flower garden in the back yard. Red, yellow and purple Gladiola blooms dominated the outdoor scene. In front of one a ruby-throated hummingbird dove into the blooms. Then after putting its wings into reverse, it made a fast forward arc and disappeared. In my mind's eye, I pictured Eli sitting here staring out at buzzing bees and flitting hummingbirds, while counting his ill-gotten gains. I rubbed the swelling bruises on my face and enviously wondered what it was like to be so rich.

A long, low, glass table stood in front of a floral davenport. On its dusty surface, three crystal tumblers nuzzled each other. Bright red lipstick of slightly different hues smeared two of the rims. Behind the glasses rested a sconce shaped ashtray. Within it mounds of tobacco ash competed for presence with a dozen red-smeared cigarette butts. I picked up two of these and compared the lip prints, and coloring. The reds were slightly different in shade like on the glasses. The imprints had been made by two pairs of painted lips, one of which had a small sickle-shaped scar. I took the plane-ticket envelope from my pocket and dropped the butts into it. Then I stuffed it out of sight before glancing around. The floor needed polishing and the windows were long overdue for a little muscle behind a rag. Whatever Eli's cleaning woman provided it had little to do with her chosen profession.

A cream-colored telephone on a small glass end table, beckoned. As I picked up the receiver I heard the thump-thumping of running feet coming from the front entrance. My hand gave the phone a white-knuckled squeeze as Leon came into view and I reached for my gun. He stopped short when he saw me. From the look of death in the boxer's eyes I knew what he had planned, and cursed myself for not handcuffing him to the pickup's rear axle

"Keys," he growled.

I shook my head. "Killing Delaney will just get you hanged, Leon." We didn't hang people in Texas any more, we gave them lethal injections. The end result was the same, though.

The boxer tucked his chin and came for me. I cocked the Mauser and tilted the barrel toward his chest. Despite his age and lack of condition, he was as tough as week-old stew meat. And I was not looking forward to another slugfest.

"Keys," he growled again, still moving.

I discretely set the gun's safety and hoped he would not call my bluff. "Careful, Leon." I snugged my finger around the gun's trigger. "Even on your best day you couldn't beat what's pointed at you."

His wet eyes focused on the weapon's muzzle, and he stopped. Leon looked from the gun, to me and then back to the gun. I could almost hear him thinking as the seconds ticked past like minutes. He was weighing his situation and not finding many options.

"Have a seat and let me handle this," I told him. "The law will deal with whoever killed Eli."

He uttered a sigh of resignation and backed up a step.

"No good calling no cops," he said, softly. He offered me a sour grin. "Ain't nobody gonna' do for Eli, none. Cops're all gettin' the nod from Delaney. J.D.'s all right. But, there's just J.D. and he ain't no cop."

I set down the telephone receiver and let the blood flow back into my hand. "Who's the woman?" I asked, and holstered the Mauser.

Leon gave me a blank stare. "Woman?"

"You remember women, Leon. They're soft, nice to fondle and prefer men who bathe."

"Ain't nobody here but you and me, Mister."

I jabbed a finger toward the ashtray and glasses. "Are you telling me, Eli wears lipstick?"

Leon's eyes bulged. For many seconds he said nothing, staring at the coffee table. Finally, the boxer moved over to it and looked down at the ashtray, as if the butts were demons in need of slaying.

"She must have a name, Leon?" I persisted.

"Cleaning lady," he muttered, making a sloppy effort to cover up. He dragged one hairy forearm across his sweaty face and managed a plastic grin. "Lazy bitch ain't good for nothin'. Just sits and drinks and smokes. I told Eli, fire her. But he don't listen to me—he never listens to me."

"Where can I find this cleaning woman?"

The boxer's eyes drifted back to the ashtray. Anxiously, his hands went into his pants-pockets, back out, then back in.

"I just want to talk to her, Leon," I prompted. "She might've seen something."

His breath began to gasp like a frightened bull standing on the killing grid. I watched and waited for an explosion.

"Look," he finally bellowed, shaking a threatening finger at me. "Eli don't cotton to me stickin' my nose. And, the same for you."

"Eli's dead, Leon! Now, what's her name?"

Leon looked from the ashtray to me, and then back to the ashtray. It was as if his befuddled brain was struggling to conjure up a rational response.

"Try moving your mouth, Leon," I urged. "That's how it works. You move your mouth, and I hear the words."

"Don't know," he mumbled. He dragged his palms across the back of his grimy neck as if it ached. Then he backed away from the table moaning, "Don't remember. Gotta' think."

"You're lying, Leon."

The boxer shook his head as if he were a child, throwing a tantrum. "No. No. No!"

I picked up the telephone receiver, again. "If she was here when it happened, she could be in danger."

The boxer's beefy hands grabbed at his head as if he was trying to rip it off. "Leave her be, Mister!" he raged. "She's not in this. She didn't do nothin'. She don't know nothin'."

"That's not for you to decide," I said, and dialed 911.

With a frustrated sob, Leon staggered out of the room.

# **Chapter 4**

While waiting for the police, I searched the mansion's upper levels. Three huge bedrooms occupied the top floor. Two shared a common bath, across the back of the house. They were adorned with matching twin beds, a desk, a bureau and an armoire, all in Spanish style. The common bath contained new towels and neatly wrapped bars of soap; the kind found in expensive hotels. The white porcelain sinks and tub were clean and dry. Moreover, the air had a closed, musty smell that meant the bath had not been used in some time. I moved on.

An expansive master bedroom suite ambled across the front of the mansion. It was expensively furnished in French provincial with a highboy, a dressing table and chair, a fainting chaise, several wingbacks as well as a finely chiseled four-poster bed. The latter's sheets were blue silk, stained and rumpled from recent use.

I went over to the bed and examined the pillowcases. These were streaked with red lipstick and makeup in at least two distinct shades. Each was dappled with several blond hairs of equally dissimilar hues. I leaned over and sniffed one pillow. It held the faint scents of Shalimar and lavender. I raised my eyes as something shiny overhead caught my attention. Attached to the ceiling, was a mattress-sized mirror. Whatever else Eli may have been, he was a man who knew how to enjoy himself on his back.

Louvered white doors to my left concealed a walk-in closet. Within, tailored suits hung in a long row on one side to form a rainbow display in wool's, silks and tweeds. Opposite were built-in cabinets loaded with stacks of laundered shirts, crisply starched and neatly folded, awaiting their owner's selection. And on the closet's marble floor, steel racks supported dozens of custom-made boots, and shoes. Enviously I eyed a pair of black and white brogues. Eli's premature death would come as a terrible shock to his clothiers.

Across the room, sliding glass opened onto a tree-shaded balcony. I headed over and went out, again facing the sun's intense heat. Four white, wicker, chairs and an umbrella table cuddled a black wrought-iron railing. On the tabletop, a sterling coffee service for two glinted back at sun. Coffee dregs curdled in the bottoms of each cup. The lip of one was smeared with red lipstick. Between the full ashtray and dirty glasses on the main floor, the pillowcases on the bed, and the coffee service before me, I was getting a clearer picture of that cleaning woman. Perhaps not to the level Eli had enjoyed in the mirror above his bed, but close.

I went over to the railing and stared toward the front of the mansion. From that vantage point, I could see the hedge by which Eli's body lay, as well as the entire length of the asphalt approach-road. I could not see the body itself. If the cleaning woman had been out here when Eli's killer arrived, she would have seen the car. She also may have left in it—whether the choice had been hers was up for grabs.

White scuffmarks on the lower rung of the railing caught my attention: possibly from shoe polish. Within arms-reach of the railing was a tall eucalyptus tree. Several branches were freshly broken, as if someone had taken a desperate escape route to the ground. My mind's eye gave me a picture of a naked woman scrambling down the trunk, her unused vacuum strapped defiantly to her bare back. I made a mental note to check on cleaning services when I returned home.

On the second floor, loud snoring lured me past a ballroom and a music room to a rich man's rendition of a snooker parlor; replete with half a dozen maroon Harvard chairs. The boxer occupying one was now a man with few worries. One of his arms cuddled an empty fifth of scotch like it was a newborn baby, the other draped over his eyes. Near his feet was a well-supplied liquor cart. With his brother's death, Leon had become a man of quiet leisure.

# **Chapter 5**

A wailing Police siren drew me back to the main floor. I opened the front entrance in time to see a plainclothesman get out of a cruiser, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses. He was about sixty years of age, tall, well-muscled and broad-shouldered. White hair beetled beneath the brim of a new black Stetson. His suit was tailor-made gray. Hand-made Italian boots gleamed like polished onyx on his big feet. A large Emerald ring glistened on one pinky. Although I had never seen the man before I hazarded a guess his name might be Shawn Delaney.

"I hope my call didn't interrupt anything extorting."

He jerked toward my voice like a vicious dog at the end of its tether. "Captain Delaney, Police," he grunted. Then he took off his sunglasses and stuffed them into his suit's inside pocket.

Delaney had an unforgettable face. It was long, leathery and wrinkled, with steel blue eyes burning from the bowels of two dark sockets. A tiny purple pouch sagged beneath each, like a wrinkled saddlebag. His square jaw supported a wide slit of red mouth from which a toothpick jutted. Between the sockets and the slit was a huge carrot nose and shiny high cheekbones. The former had been savagely broken at some time. And deep scars twisted across one of the latter. These continued their swathe up over one eyebrow, and then down the side of the cheek directly beneath. The savage trail ended on the slope of his neck just below the bobbed remains of one ear. The whitish scars were jagged, deep and wide. The kind a broken bottle gives when held by unfriendly hands.

I made an obvious check of my watch before chiding, "Thirty minute response on a homicide. That's gotta' be a world record, Delaney. Lunch break? Or, winning at pinochle?"

The big man let his cold eyes slide over my like the sharp edge of a straight razor. Then, he asked, "Who might you be, Old Son?"

I told him, and where I was from. Then I jabbed a thumb towards the Spirea hedge. "Eli Huggins, the deceased. He's in no hurry, Delaney. But I can't wait to see you in action."

The big cop glanced toward the shoes, and then returned his stare to me. He was clearly in no rush to see the body. Perhaps because he knew exactly what he would find.

"Weak stomach?" I taunted. "Or simply not sure what comes next. If you need help give me a shout. I've handled these things hundreds of times."

Delaney put his hands at his hips, leaned back and twisted to stretch the kinks out of his back. It looked like it felt good so I mimicked him.

He made a self-conscious clearing sound in his throat before asking, "What's your business here, Bishop?"

I cleared my throat, too. "Eli hired me to stop a dirty Irish cop's extortion racket. Some kind of low-life, huh? Collecting his pay from the taxpayers while shaking them down."

Delaney lolled the toothpick with a pasty-white tongue, letting his eyes give me another scraping. "Do tell."

I grinned. "Back where I come from we neuter those types."

"This dirty Irish cop have a name?"

"Shawn Delaney was what Eli told me. Relative of yours?"

His grin died. "You sound like a man with a problem, Mr. Bishop. Problems often get a man into trouble."

I set my right fist in the palm of my left hand with a smack. "Nothing I can't handle, Delaney. But, if I need help I can always call on J-D."

His mouth gaped in surprise. "You know J-D?"

I shrugged. "Friend of a friend."

The uniformed driver got out of the cruiser and quickly moved over to where Delaney stood. He was a young man with pale blond hair and a boyish freckled face. His uniform was freshly issued, because none of the creases had been ironed over. And the service pistol holstered around his narrow middle was shiny-new. He stood at attention directly behind his superior. At any moment, I half expected the kid to bend over and kiss Delaney's ass.

"Telepathy?" I asked Delaney.

He gave me a quizzical look and said, "Come again?"

"Usual procedure is to secure a murder scene immediately. I thought you might be using telepathy to handle that."

Delaney spat out the toothpick. "Stay put, Old Son. You and me got some talkin' to do."

He barked at the uniform and the two of them went over to Eli's corpse. I strolled down to the cruiser and peered inside. It was better equipped than those in which I had spent my police career. Multiple two-ways buzzed with coded calls, mostly traffic. It had a video-recording unit, radar, and a computer system for instant readout. The latter connected the cruiser directly to the TCI and NCI databases. In the cruiser's ashtray a fat, gold holder contained the distinctive remains of a Cuban cigar. If Delaney was an honest cop McAllen was law-enforcement heaven—at least in terms of pay.

The big cop's cursing captured my interest and I went over to one of the concrete benches framing the mansion's staircase. There, I propped one foot in his direction and watched the Irishman's technique. He had gotten Eli's blood on his tailored slacks, and was not happy about the dead man's lack of consideration. Corpses have a way of getting back at their killers. Sometimes by leading homicide investigators to the assassin's door, sometimes by staining a pair of slacks, sometimes both.

By the time I had finished a smoke the uniform was back inside the cruiser. From where I watched, he looked sick, and scared. His voice quaked as he used one of the two-ways to request a forensic team. And he had barely finished speaking when he jumped out of the car to revisit his supper. I returned my gaze to Delaney more out of empathy for the young cop than interest. The first murder scene was always hard on one's digestion.

While I continued to gaze, the big cop clumsily shuffled through Eli's pockets. Dig and look. Dig and look. Suddenly, he stopped and fumbled something into his own suit. Then, he rose with obvious satisfaction and strolled over to where I waited.

"Short on evidence bags?" I taunted.

A line of moisture had formed across his upper lip, while more dripped below his sideburns. "Come again?"

I pointed to his coat pocket. "You put something folded and green in there. I thought you might be low on forensic supplies."

Delaney's teeth glinted at me like old ivory as he asked, "You carryin', Old Son?"

I nodded, drew my suit coat aside and showed him the holstered Mauser. "A State permit goes with it."

He snapped his fingers and I handed him my weapon. He pulled out the clip, counted the rounds, and then smelled the breach.

"Let's see that so called license," he grunted.

I handed it to him and Delaney made appropriate entries into a notebook regarding my identity, address and license issue-date. Then, he returned my property before saying, "Guns get a man into trouble. You looking for trouble, Old Son?"

I grinned. "A low-life corn-beef and cabbage chewing hustler like you is worried about me, Delaney? I'm touched."

"What's _your_ story on this?"

I told him how Leon had met me at the airport and we had driven back here.

"That's all there was?" he asked.

I nodded. "Of what I saw."

Delaney propped one foot on the bench and rested a forearm on his raised leg. "Then if I was you, Old Son," he said, jabbing the air in front of my nose with a thick finger, "I'd haul my ass out'a here. If there's anything else, I'll be in touch."

I wagged my head. "I'll stick around awhile and see what pops. Last time I did that Dominic Portello came close enough to smell the garlic. You know Dominic, Delaney? He likes dirty cops in a big way."

His chin took a momentary dip and he chuckled grimly. "You're just punchin' all my buttons, ain't ya?"

I moved my foot on the bench, making sure I scuffed his shiny Italian boot. "The Portellos and I go way back, Delaney. They won't like hearing how you've been puttin' the arm on one of their people."

He glanced back toward Eli's body and asked in feigned surprise, "You tellin' me old Eli was runnin' dope, or somethin'?"

"Two weeks from now they'll be a replacement for Eli. And you'll be boxed in concrete. That answer your question?"

He jerked upright, letting his marked boot hit the concrete with a loud thud; his cheeks pink with fermenting rage. "I'm beginning to take a real dislike to you, Bishop."

I closed the distance between us until we were toe-to-toe. "What was the deal, Delaney? You wanted to cut in and Eli balked?"

Delaney backed pedaled a step. And from the look on his face I could tell my remarks had hit a soft spot somewhere.

"You been real busy, Old Son!" he gritted. "I see I'm gonna' have to keep an eye on you."

I blew him a kiss. "Only if you're really serious about us."

He pinked, again. This time he unbuttoned his suit coat. "Where's the Pug?"

I nodded toward the front door. "Leon's waiting for you. He's got the idea you killed Eli."

Delaney took out a wear-worn revolver and checked the rounds in its cylinder. "Drunk?"

"Don't worry, Delaney. I'll be right behind you making sure nothing goes wrong."

A gust of wind rippled across the big cops shoulders bringing the pungent scent of Jade-East.

"You threatening me, Old Son?" he grinned.

"Right down to your big feet."

Delaney pursed his thin lips a moment. "Leon gets mean when he drinks, killin' mean. And Eli was not on the best of terms with the pug. That stepdaughter of Leon's. Nice lookin' young piece who likes nice things and ain't fussy how she gets 'em. You hear where I'm comin' from, Bishop?"

I had and did not like the sound of it. What was worse, I was no longer certain Delaney was behind Eli's killing. However, I was far from convinced that Leon had done it. The cop holstered his weapon and moved past me, into the house. I purposely crowded him from behind.

We found Leon staggering around the living room carrying a full fifth of scotch. A booze-flush colored the grime on the boxer's face. When he spotted us, Leon let go a roar of gravelly laughter before stopping in front of a vacant-eyed television.

"Time to talk, Pug," Delaney said, as he faced the boxer. "No trouble, understand?"

"Too goddamn late, Delaney!" Leon slurred and waved the booze bottle like it was a banner. Then, he leered at us like a one-eyed cat that had just cleared out a fishbowl. "Killed your money-machine, didn't I?"

The boxer's surprise confession left me stunned and silent for a moment. Finally I blurted, "The only thing Leon's ever killed is a bet."

Leon shook the bottle at me and shouted, "You keep shut, Mister."

I looked down at the coffee table. The ashtray had been emptied and wiped clean; the glasses were gone. While I had been outside entertaining myself with Delaney, Leon had been cleaning up. Leon, or someone else.

Delaney's eyes darted in my direction, then he asked Leon in a surprised voice, "You sayin' you did that out there, Pug?"

Leon cackled before staggering forward like a rubber man. "Shot the bastard. Blew my brother to hell, where he belongs."

"Where's the gun, Pug?" Delaney asked, clearly as confused as I.

"Don't be a fool, Delaney," I chided. "There's more to this than anything between Eli and Leon."

Leon took a long swig from the fifth, and then collapsed to one knee. "For me to know and you to find out, Copper," he giggled, after getting his feet back under himself. Then, his eyes focused upon me as he tugged at his baggy denims, like a man getting ready to wade high water. "Don't nobody need you 'round here, Mister. Best get goin'."

"Whatever you've got in mind, Leon, it won't work," I countered.

Delaney took out his handcuffs, and moved toward Leon. "Set the bottle down, Pug," he said. "After that, we'll do it by the numbers."

The front door banging stopping Delaney's advance. Heavy footsteps pounded across the foyer. A moment later a tall, thick, redheaded man stormed into the room. His face was crimson and streaming with sweat. There were gray splotches in the hair at his temples and a glistening bald spot, on his skull's crown.

"I heard the goddamn call, Delaney," the redhead boomed. His voice was low enough to give purgatory a flushing. "I came here and found your driver sitting in his own puke and one of our leading citizen's laying out on the lawn as vulture bait. What the hell's going on?"

The big cop nodded toward Leon. "Pug, here, went off the deep end, J-D," he casually explained. "Admitted to it straight off. I warned you it was comin'."

"Good as hanged, J-D," Leon slurred, happily.

The big redhead grimaced at Leon, in disgust. "Why?

Leon grabbed two angry handfuls of empty air, took a swing at something invisible, missed and tumbled to his knees. "Told you why, J-D," he screamed as he clawed his way up the side of a chair. "Told you what he's doin' to Betsy. Told you make it stop."

"And, I said I'd handle it," Bascomb roared back. "There was no need for this."

Leon retorted, "I done what I done. And, I done it up righteous, J-D. Guess you're off the hook with me, now. No more promises to keep. You ain't gotta' do nothin' but see me on my way to hell."

J-D muttered a curse under his breath before asking Delaney, "Did you read Leon his rights?"

"Just getting to it, J-D," Delaney said with obvious pleasure.

The redhead adjusted the coat of a suit that was last year's brown, and well overdue for an ironing. Then, he noticed me. "Who in hell are you?"

"I'm the felony-murder pixie. I like to make an appearance now and again. What makes you so interested?"

Delaney jabbed a manicured thumb in my direction. "This here's Deacon Bishop, J-D: a Private Detective from Dallas. Come all the way down here to help Eli. Got here, a little late—or, so he says."

"J-D Bascomb," the redhead grunted. "County Prosecutor. What do you know about this?"

In my experience, attorneys are either painfully honest or completely corrupt; there is no middle ground. And from the lack of flash on his person I pegged Bascomb for the former. So, while Delaney read Leon his rights, I told J-D what I knew, purposely leaving out Leon's suspicions of Delaney. The one thing I did not need was to have the poor slob murdered in his cell for making accusations.

"Leon didn't shoot Eli," I said. "I'm dead certain of that."

The boxer tossed the fifth at me, but the bottle passed wide overhead. It crashed against the wall behind leaving a wet slick that sheeted down into the carpet. Then he shouted, "I done it. Ain't nobody sayin' not."

Bascomb scratched his thinning hair with thick blunt fingers and stared questioningly at Delaney.

The big cop shrugged before saying, "Why should Leon admit something that'll get him executed if he didn't do it, J-D?" He returned his attention to the boxer, letting the cuffs dance like gleaming marionettes from his fingertips. "Ain't that right, Pug?"

"Done it, J-D." Leon leaned back against the television. "Done it, and proud."

"Leon's covering for someone, Bascomb," I said. "He won't say who she is. But, I'm convinced she's either got a part in Eli's murder; or witnessed it."

"She?" Bascomb asked.

"There may be more than one," I told him. "Regardless, one or both could be involved."

"On what goddamn evidence?" J-D roared.

I pointed to the coffee table. "That ashtray was full of lipstick-stained cigarette butts. And there's evidence of at least two women upstairs in Eli's bedroom. I'll give you any odds you want, Leon's covering for one or both of them."

J-D looked over at Delaney and asked, "You know about this?"

The big cop wagged his head. "Just got here, J-D. And the pug was the only one Eli'd let on this property—except for his playmates, and a few select friends."

The county prosecutor tugged at his belt and then looked back at me. "You might be one hell of a detective back in Dallas, Bishop! But so far I'm not impressed."

"My sentiments exactly, J-D," Delaney chimed with a grin.

I felt my cheeks get warm. "I think Leon's covering for Moira. Or maybe his daughter, Betsy."

Leon's face swelled and darkened with rage, like a ripe eggplant. "I warned you, Mister." He charged past Delaney swinging a hard right at me.

I ducked Leon's roundhouse and dropped the boxer to the floor with a left hook to his solar plexus followed by a hard right to the base of his skull. Leon stayed on his knees, gasping and cursing every inch of my being, but still conscious and game.

Delaney moved to Leon. "None of that, pug." Then he clamped on the cuffs. "You might hurt that big-city detective."

J-D Bascomb wagged his head piteously. "Get the bastard out of here, Delaney. I want him processed and locked up alone: no visitors until I talk to him."

The County Prosecutor and I exchanged glances while Delaney hustled Leon, outside.

"You got a scoreboard in your office, Bascomb? Or do you collect bonus on each conviction?"

He took a brief interest in his old shoes, before giving me a look that let me know I had made a mistake. "I also get paid to run bums like you out of town. Now, before I lose my temper and charge you with obstructing justice why don't you get what's festering out in the open?"

"I've worked enough homicides to know Eli had been dead less than an hour when Leon and I got here. There wasn't time for Leon to kill his brother, drive to the airport and get me back here."

"Time of death is a guestimate in this heat. And, you're forgetting Leon's confession. He could die for this. Even a brain-battered pug wouldn't take that kind of fall for somebody else."

"He might for his wife or daughter. Leon's covering for one of the woman who was here."

"Moira and Betsy? You figure they came all the way out here to kill Eli?"

"From what Leon said, they'd have reason."

"Having reason doesn't guarantee it gets done, Bishop. You ought to know that."

"Do you know Dominic Portello?"

Bascomb threw up his hands in exasperation. "You're saying he killed Eli? Why, for Christ's sake?"

I shook my head. "I'm saying the Portello clan will be coming here as soon as Eli's death hits the news services. And when they do, you'd better be ready for trouble."

Bascomb took a heavy step toward me. "If you're trying to get my attention, you got it and then some. What trouble?"

"Eli Huggins was on the Portello payroll."

"Eli was worth millions! Why would he associate himself with sewer rats?"

"That solid citizen lying out on the lawn made his millions supplying the Portello drug syndicate."

"Man you are certifiable. Eli Huggins was no tower of virtue, but he wasn't about to get in bed with the likes of them. What proof have you got?"

"None, other than Leon said Dominic Portello was a frequent visitor."

"Leon doesn't know what day it is half the time; let alone who comes and goes."

"If you don't like that idea, ask yourself where Delaney was when Eli got popped."

Bascomb dragged one freckled paw across his red face as if he were trying to wipe my image from his view. "Shall I check on your mommy's whereabouts, too?"

"Leon made a complaint to you about his brother. Was there anything in it?"

Bascomb unwrapped a stick of green gum and shoved it into his mouth. "Unless you've got something further to tell me concerning Eli's murder, hit the road Mr. Bishop."

I had nothing pending at my offices. So, I told Bascomb I would stay in town for a while. He did not like it but there was nothing he could do to force my departure. From my perspective, a dirty cop, a brain-dead ex-boxer and a murdered millionaire with ties to a world-class drug syndicate made this too interesting a case to walk out on. I borrowed Leon's truck and headed back to McAllen.

# **Chapter 6**

By the time I reached the city limits, my stomach was gnawing on my spine. On the main drag I spotted a place called the Daisy Diner and pulled into its back parking lot. It had a red neon sign hanging above the rear door that read, _Good Eats._ Optimistically, I got out and hurried inside.

The place was empty except for a lanky blond waitress and an old Mexican wearing a chef's hat. The ceiling and walls were white enameled Masonite. The freshly mopped floor was red terracotta tile. A stainless steel service counter ran nearly the length of the place. Round stainless stools with blue leatherette tops were spaced equally in front of it, bolted to the terracotta. Everything was spotlessly clean. I could not help wonder if the health inspector had just been there, or was expected.

"Take a pew," the waitress told me with a backward glance. She had a face and figure any young man would remember, any old man would never forget.

"I'll be with you in a jiff."

The Mexican, a cigarette hanging carelessly at the corner of his lower lip, gave me a suspicious glare. Then he strolled into the kitchen. I took a stool at one end of the counter and studied the blonde with a young man's anticipation. She was mid-thirties with big green eyes and lips that made me wish I was twenty, again. While my attention was on her backside, hers was focused upon the revival of an antique coffee maker.

"Take your time," I said, and continued to stare. "I'll keep myself occupied until you're ready. Business always this slow?"

"We cater to the breakfast and late night crowd," she replied without looking back. With a tantalizing shift of her hips she added, "You came between rushes."

"What's the special?" I asked, hoping her hips would shift again.

She pointed over her head, still without looking back at me. "Meatloaf. I wouldn't recommend it unless you've got a cast-iron stomach. Charley likes to lace it with jalapenos. Don't you Charley?"

A gurgle of amusement sounded from behind the grill.

I let my eyes follow her finger. The diner's menu was written on a blackboard above the kitchen entrance. Fried liver with onions was listed under the meatloaf. Both came with mashed potatoes and gravy. There was also mention of catfish and chicken.

"I've never had liver served with gravy," I remarked.

"That's only because you haven't eaten here. Charley likes his gravy and he only makes one kind. I call it mystery slime. Ain't that right, Charley?"

More giggling from the grill.

A few seconds later the coffee maker let out a cough, followed by a gasping sputter. The waitress patted it gently on its top as if it had been a very good boy, then turned and sauntered over to me. The nametag on her uniform read _Tanya_. She looked as good from the front as from behind. So, I gave her my most endearing leer.

"Some nights it takes a little persuasion," she confided in a soft low voice. "Other nights, a big club."

"Sounds like my ex-wife on our honeymoon," I quipped.

She gave my attempt at humor a dutiful smile and took out her order pad. "What'll it be?"

I ordered a burger, fries and soft drink. "Hold the gravy," I added, hastily. "Heavy on the onions."

"You're new in town," she said. "You got that North Texas accent. Staying long?"

"A few days. Depends on how things go."

Tanya grinned at me like she meant it. "And how are things going?"

I felt a stirring like I had not in some time. "Better than earlier. How late do you cater?"

"I'm the breakfast shift. My relief should've been here hours ago. What've you got in mind?"

"Maybe a tour of your town punctuated by several stops for drinks and dancing. You got something slinky you can slip into? Old men like me prefer a little preview of coming attractions before saying prayers for the main event."

She laughed. "I've got something that could revive a dead man. But, I'm not the roll over easy type. So, don't get your expectations up."

"My expectation rose as soon as I noticed you!"

The café's front door jangled. I turned toward it and saw a pair of Mexican's coming in. Tanya's grin faded and she hurried into the kitchen like she was late for the last bus to anywhere. I saw her rush over to the old cook and tell him something. Charlie peered over the top of the grill and then quickly disappeared from view. Moreover, from the look on his face he was deathly worried. Seconds later, I heard another door shut.

The Mexicans settled themselves at the other end of the counter. One was fat, balding and nearing middle age. The other was about twenty-five, lean and had enough hair for both of them. Tanya returned from the kitchen on stiff legs and went over to where they sat. The lean one told her they wanted coffee. The fat one kept his eyes on me like I was somebody who had gotten his sister in a family way.

After filling their cups, Tanya brought one over to me and slowly poured coffee into it. "You in trouble?" she kept her back to them.

"I usually am," I said.

She gave the Mexicans another glance. "They're the Rodriquez brothers. Enrique's the fat one, the other's Miguel. They hire out as enforcers. From the way Enrique is watching you they've been paid to solve somebody's problem."

"Maybe Enrique just likes the cut of my suit?"

"He might've when it was new, twenty years ago. If I was you I'd make a quick exit while I could. Things'll just get worse if you hang around."

"Tough, are they?"

She set the cup in front of me with shaking hands. "They don't come to a dump like this unless it's on business, Mister. And they know their business."

"Who do they work for?"

"There's a big window in the men's john," she said, ignoring my question. "Charlie's a sick old man with a family. He went out the side door, which leaves just you and me, handsome. So, why don't you do us both a favor and split before your funeral starts?"

"I'm hungry."

Tanya whispered a curse and then carried the coffeepot back to its burner. She glanced over her shoulder at the two men and then returned to the kitchen. I gave the Mexicans a sidelong stare. They were both dressed in white silk shirts, lots of gold jewelry and new black chinos. The fat one was still staring at me, his coffee untouched. The thin one was adding sugar to his. Lots and lots of sugar the way a junkie loads it up when he is overdue for a fix.

I lit a cigarette, tasted my coffee and pretended to ignore the other two. If I was on their agenda, the obvious explanation was Delaney. And, that could only mean he was part and parcel to Eli's killing. I took a deep, satisfying drag on my cigarette. Things were looking up.

By the time I had finished my smoke Tanya returned with my order. "A burger's not much of a last meal," she whispered. "I hope to God, you're not married."

"Do they work for Delaney?" I asked.

She gave me a startled nod before whispering, "Him or some other lowlife. They're not fussy so long as the money's good." She dragged a bottle of catsup from beneath the counter, and set it in front of me. "How long've you been in town?"

"A few hours."

She wagged her head in despair. "Shit. And you already got trouble? Jesus, mister, don't you know how to make friends?"

"I prefer to influence people. Why don't you go look for Charlie and leave this to me? I'd hate to think of him getting lonely."

"He's got a bad heart, no insurance and he doesn't know you from Adam. He's got no reason stick his neck out and you got no right to bad-mouth him for having brains."

"I'm not. He did the right thing and you should follow his lead."

"You want me to call the cops? Not, that it'll do you much good if Delaney's behind this."

"And, have somebody bust up my party? Not on your life. I'm looking forward to the fun."

"For what it's worth, those two usually split up before pulling something. One'll wait for you outside. The other'll dog your heels as you leave. I keep a baseball bat in the women's. I'll set it just inside the men's, as I go out. Grab it and don't pull your swing."

I nodded my appreciation and she went along the corridor toward the restrooms. I loaded up my fries with catsup and then waded into my burger. The diner was not much to look at. But, Tanya could teach a few chefs I knew about frying up a tasty meal. Not to mention what her swaying hips did for a man's appetite.

I was just getting interested in my fries when she came back. Tanya went over to the Mexicans and asked if they wanted refills. Miguel said he did but the Enrique told his brother he'd had enough, and to wait in the car. She gave me a warning glance as the younger one got to his feet. Tanya carried the coffee pot back over to me as Miguel moved out to the rear parking lot.

"I thought you were playing it smart," I whispered to her, as she refilled my cup.

"I'm suddenly short on brains."

"Isn't your pal going the wrong way?" I called to Enrique. "You guys came in the front door."

Tanya stared at me from behind the grill, her mouth gaping with disbelief.

Enrique grinned showing me a gold cap on one of his front teeth. "If my brother gets lost, I'll find him."

In situations where I am outnumbered, outflanked, probably outgunned and no chance in hell of the cavalry arriving to save my sorry ass, aggravating the enemy can give me a much needed edge.

"So you're the bloodhound type," I remarked.

The Mexican's smile faded and his brown skin took on the color of dried grass, but he made no remark.

Tanya disappeared from view.

"Fact is," I continued, taking another shot at Enrique's sensitive side, "I'd bet your brother needs a lot of looking for. Especially when his nose is running because 'horse' is giving him the shakes."

"Anything else you'd like to bet on, amigo?" he gritted.

I had him wound up so I decided to clench my efforts. "Only that you're his source of supply."

Enrique did not say a word but I could hear his teeth grinding. I gave him a wink and added, "Might as well profit from a weakness in the family, Spiffy. Tell me something? Your sister or mother available for tonight? I'm looking for some cut-rate pussy."

Enrique started to get up, but caught himself.

Disappointed in his self-control, I finished off my burger before digging at him one last time. "Tell you what, I'll supply the bag for your mother's head and only charge her half rate. How's that sound?"

Tanya rushed out from the kitchen over to me, her face red with fury. "You want anything else, Mister?"

I shook my head.

She set down my bill and said, "Then, I think you'd better pay up and get out."

I handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change. Then I got to my feet. "No matter how horrible my remarks sounded," I whispered. "I was just winding him up."

Enrique stalled a moment before standing. Then he dropped a bill and some coins on the counter to cover the coffees.

I headed out as I had come in, listening to his footsteps keeping pace at my back. It was now pitch black outside and the interior lights of the diner made it impossible to catch a glimpse of his brother. Regardless, I knew Miguel would not be wanting in the upcoming fracas. Whether I would be was another matter.

I paused at the men's room door to light a cigarette and heard Enrique's footsteps stop a few yards behind me. For a moment, I considered going in and grabbing the bat. There was nothing better than a little swinging after a meal to get the digestive juices flowing. But I decided against it. Enrique would likely turn on Tanya with a vengeance if I tried that. I moved ahead pushing the backdoor open hard as I went out into the night air.

I stopped again, to flick the ash from my cigarette while my eyes scanned the parking lot. Leon's truck was the only vehicle there. From the far side of it I caught a glimpse of movement. Somebody was crouched near the front fender. Clearly, Tanya had been spot-on about their plan. Enrique would draw my attention as Miguel sneaked up from behind and bashed in my brains. While not much in the way of creative effort, it was a tried and true technique. I headed for the truck with a slow, easy gait keeping my eyes on the top of Miguel's bobbing head.

"Hey, amigo?" Enrique called from behind. "You got a cigarette?"

I stopped and half turned, keeping my eye on the black hair bopping just above the truck fender. "Sure," I said and took my time searching for the pack. "Always glad to give you pushers a leg up the ladder. I'm short on matches, though. You got any to trade?"

When Enrique reached me, I tossed him the pack and then hit him with a hard right that caught the side of his skull. He dropped like dead meat, so I turned and rushed the truck, diving over the hood. Miguel brought up a knife and I grabbed his head before I hit the ground. He let out a squeal of terror as I wrapped one arm about his neck and gripped his chin with my free hand. I did not bother asking his intentions. I just gave his chin a sharp, heaving twist. In response, I heard a loud snapping at the base of his skull. He went quiet in my grasp like a sleeping child.

I felt the warm flow running from my upper leg. Somehow, during the brief struggle Miguel had rammed his knife into my thigh. I released the dead man and stood up. Before I could inventory the damage, Enrique raced around the front of the truck, screaming bloody murder. I turned and caught him with a left hook to his big middle followed by hard right cross to his face. His nose bent sideways spewing blood like a fountain. Then he hit the asphalt. He tried to get up but I quickly introduced my right foot to his ribs, and then let my left foot inspect his right ear several times. For a moment, he quivered, then became still.

I went back to Miguel, grabbed his corpse by the shirt lapels and hefted his body up. I planned to handcuff the pair together before calling authorities. However, just as I had carried the dead man over to where Enrique laid, the fat Mexican rolled over onto his back and holding a snub-nosed .38. Instantly, I heaved Miguel forward. As the dead man dropped, Enrique pulled the trigger. The first round went through his brother's throat and past my left ear. The second plowed through Miguel's chest and burned my ribs. I backed away jerking out my Mauser.

But, before I could fire Tanya rushed out of the darkness and hit the Mexican on the top of his skull with a baseball bat. Immediately, Enrique's head flopped back to the tarmac and his eyes closed.

"You all right?" she gasped. Tanya was shaking like a leaf, the bat once again raised overhead.

"I've got a puncture and a hot scrape," I said as warmth ran down my thigh ribs. "But, I'll live. How far to a pharmacy?"

"Do you need a doctor?" she asked, as sirens whined in the distance.

I reached down and forced my finger through hole in my pants, and felt the wound. It was tiny and round, like the kind an icepick leaves. Then I tore open my shirt and glanced at the oozing bullet mark. "A little gauze and some antibiotics should handle it," I said, and stood upright. "But, you'd better get lost before the locals arrive."

She lowered the bat, rushed over to me and grabbed my hand. "If that's Delaney he'll shoot you down before asking any questions. I've got all you need in my crib above the diner. Can you walk some stairs?"

"I meant what I said about winding Enrique up."

She shrugged. "Either way I'm up to my ass in this unless both those bastards are dead. So can we get the hell out of here?"

I pointed to Miguel. "That one _is_ dead. You sure you want to stick your neck out?"

"Nobody else in town will help you, count on that."

I picked my grip from the truck-bed and grinned at her. "I'll say this for you, Tanya, you swing mean!"

# **Chapter 7**

The next morning I awoke to the smell of coffee, blurred vision and the oily aftertaste of a Mickey-Finn. I sprawled naked, facedown upon Tanya's Murphy bed. She sat at a small pine dining table on the other side of her tiny apartment, watching me over the rim of a coffee-cup.

"You're the first man I've slept with who did nothing but sleep," she remarked. "After all we've been through, I was disappointed."

My head flopped to one side as I started to sit up. "The drink you gave me last night was loaded," I grunted and shook my brains. "What was in it?"

"Seconal," she said. "My history ain't lily-white and the way you handled the Rodriguez brothers got me worried. So I decided to find out who you were before we got too friendly."

I managed to get seated on the bed with my legs tucked beneath me. Then I fell forward and moved to the edge of the mattress like a swimming lizard. "You handled Enrique before I had a chance, remember?"

"If he's still breathing he'll be looking for revenge. Miguel wasn't much, but blood means something down here. And Delaney won't hesitate to help."

"You should've let me cap the bastard when I had provocation. Do you know where he lives?"

Tanya set down her coffee cup. "You plan on correcting my oversight?"

"Considering it."

"He's not worth getting fried, over."

"Who you kill today, you don't fight tomorrow: an old family proverb. What's his address?"

"What makes you think I know where Enrique roosts?"

"You knew _how_ he and his brother operated. So, I figure you for history with one of them."

She took another sip of coffee. "If you want to track Enrique down, that's your business. But, I'm not about to help. Besides, it's not what you think."

"I'm supposed to think the three of your sung hymns on the odd Sunday?"

"It's a little late, if you're asking for credentials."

"What was the arrangement?"

"No arrangement," she replied and stood up. "Delaney had me drop off a package at their place, once."

I let my bare feet flop over the side of the bed and hit the linoleum floor. When my toes touched the cold, I shivered so hard my hair stood on end. "Which must make you Delaney's friend. A step down, I'd say."

Tanya went over to the stove and refilled her coffee mug from a sooty aluminum pot. "Tact isn't your thing, is it?"

"What makes that ugly old bastard worth your time?"

"It was a one-time favor."

I stood up and stared down at my shriveled member while I waited for the chills to stop. "Delaney isn't the favor-earning type. What's he got on you?"

She looked at me over her shoulder. "He and I had an understanding a while ago. It's over."

"You're being evasive. What made you take chances for me?"

"You remind me of my husband. Long on guts but short on brains. Somehow, it seemed like the thing to do. Now, I'm not so sure."

"Where is your husband?"

"Davey's dead."

"Not the baseball bat, I hope."

She took a mug down from one of the cupboards. "Coffee's ready."

"Black, no sugar."

"I hung the suit from your case in my bath. I don't think anything will get the wrinkles out. It looks like you slept in it. But, it's cleaner than the one you were wearing. I laid out a towel if you feel like showering."

I limped into the bathroom as Tanya returned to the table.

The bath was a tiny affair that included a spray-head attached to a rubber hose dangling from a hook; a floor drain; a toilet; and a wall-mounted sink, above which was a small mirror. Tanya had set out my shaving kit, some clean underwear and my other tie, all neat and orderly. I turned the shower on and checked the bandage on my thigh. The wound had sealed itself so I stepped under the spray. I must have screamed because there was a frantic knocking on the door followed by an apology concerning hot water being in short supply. I shivered back a curse before turning off the tap.

When I returned from my ablutions, the bed had been folded into its hideaway, and Tanya was dressed for work. She smelled of lavender and things I had long been missing. "If I'd have known you'd look this good, I might have skipped the Secanol last night."

"Wait until my motor starts to rev and the blood gets circulating to all those dark and distant spots. Some nights I'm actually beautiful."

She walked over and handed me a mug of coffee. "I checked out your wallet. No photos, so you aren't married. You've got a P-I license so I figure you for an ex-cop. Federal or local?"

"Dallas homicide, retired."

"What brings you to McAllen?"

"Eli Huggins."

She gave me a startled look. "According to the radio, he's dead. Customer? Or did you get careless playing hide the bullet?"

The coffee was hot and strong just the way I liked it. "Customer—sort of. I came down on his ticket and advance to chat about a job. He was scared. My bank account needed reviving."

"The guy hires you for protection and then gets killed. You'll have to be one hell of a talker to get any business after that."

"Eli's the first I've lost in days."

"Radio announcer said his brother did it."

"Nobody with any sense listens to the news," I said into the mug. The only truth is on the Internet. Weren't you told?"

"I don't get out much." She went back to the stove. "Eggs, ok?"

"Any way you want to cook them." I took a seat at the table and revived my interest in her hips. "Who are the players, in these parts: the movers and shakers?"

Tanya set an old cast-iron frying pan on one of the stove burners and then lit the gas beneath it. "The mayor's Philip Woods. He thinks he's God's gift to everybody. Maybe, he is. The economy's turned around since he took control. Then there's your client, Eli Huggins: or was. He just thought he was God. When he barked, you jumped, or found yourself on the sorry side of nothing. You can confirm that with Charley—Eli financed his cafe. Then, there's Bascomb, the county prosecutor. You wouldn't know it, but he's from old money. His parents left him a huge ranch a few miles south of here. The land's not much to look at, but there are a million barrels of oil underneath."

"Sounds like marriage material."

"He's a little on the prudish side for my taste, and disgustingly honest."

"I was talking about me. Who else?"

"There are others. Like folks from the Bible-thumping set. But I don't think they'd fit into what you've got going. How do you collect from a dead client?"

"Usually I make friends with his wife. It doesn't get me much cash but the side benefits are wonderful. Let's get back to you and Delaney."

She went over to the refrigerator, behind me. "Scared of little ol' me?"

"I think you could do things in the dark that would terrify a man. What about Delaney?"

She took out a carton of eggs and returned to the stove. "I dated him when I first moved here."

"From where?"

She gave me an irritated scowl before saying, "Someplace else, okay?"

"So, you dated Delaney and he had you deliver packages to the Rodriguez brothers. Why Delaney? He's old enough to be your father and ugly enough to be your neighbor's dog."

"I was lonely, he was—well, he was better than sitting up here every night. He had money to throw around and people let him do whatever he wanted. I guess that turned me on."

A lot of women are lonely. But, ones who looked like Tanya usually had the opposite problem. Whatever her reason for dating Delaney, I was not convinced she had given me the truth. "What was in the package you brought to the Rodriguez clan?"

"You don't ask Delaney questions. You just do what he says."

"Hard to believe you didn't sneak a peek."

"I don't see a cleric collar on you!"

"I only wear it during private confessions of the silk-sheet type. I haven't put it on recently but after last night I have high hopes. Relax. I'm just taking your temperature. How long were you hooked up with Delaney?"

She cracked three eggs into the frying pan. "A few months. I'm not carrying his brand if that's what's worrying you."

"What made the two of you part ways? Weak stomach or common sense?"

"Maybe I got smart. Maybe I got a case of conscience. Like saving your ass, it just seemed like the thing to do."

"You're being evasive, again. Was Delaney tied in with Eli Huggins, then?"

Tanya looked back at me and nodded. "You'd think a high and mighty type like Huggins wouldn't have use for a crumb like Delaney. But they were thick as thieves."

"And you got jealous?"

She took a spatula from one of the counter's drawers and flipped the eggs. "Delaney thinks he owns his women. At first, I thought it was an easy measure of security. I kept him feeling good and he made sure I wasn't alone. After awhile it got suffocating. I couldn't move without him wanting to know where I'd been; or worse, who I'd been with."

"He doesn't act like the insecure type."

"All men are when it comes to women. Some just put up a better front: you for instance. You're big on talk and small on action when it comes to the opposite sex."

"Wait until I've had breakfast. After coffee and eggs, I'm ready for the box spring Olympics. You got tired of answering his questions and he calmly took a hike? Doesn't sound like the guy I met."

"Things got complicated and Delaney got mean. I don't like being roughed up."

"Neither, do I. It tends to chip my toenail lacquer. What happened? You found somebody who didn't break mirrors during a hair comb?"

Tanya took a plate down from the cabinets above the counter and let the eggs from the frying pan slide onto it. "Delaney had me renting warehouse space to store stuff."

"You didn't think it might be hot?"

"I figured if any trouble came up Delaney would put the fix in. Then, nature added a twist."

"Come again?"

She opened one of the counter drawers and took out a fork. "We had one hell of a rain, one weekend. It happens in the valley. It was as if the heavens had opened up to flush the holy sewers. The next Monday, I got a call from the warehouse manager. There'd been a leak in the roof right above my spot and I had a water-damaged box. He wanted me to come over and check things out. Insurance, he said. I tried to get a hold of Delaney. But, the big Mick was not expected back anytime, soon. So, I decided to deal with it on my own."

"What were you storing?"

"The ugliest damn drink glasses I'd ever seen." She set the fork on my plate. "Thick-based, tall, plastic junk you couldn't see through even if you held one up to the sun. I told the warehouse manager to forget the insurance claim and I'd just take the glasses from the ruined box home. Which I did because I was short on drink ware. That night Delaney came by for his five minutes of passion. When he saw the glasses, he blew his top. He gave me a slap and wanted to know how I got them. I told him, and then suggested he and his hot temper hit the road before we both did something we'd regret. He gave me a manners lesson: slapped me around the room until my body was as blue as a Baptist's nose. After that, he said if I ever said anything about his junk he'd kill me."

"Where was your bat when you needed it?"

"I told Delaney where he could shove his shit and that we were through. He knocked me around a bit more, stacked up the ugly things and then hauled ass."

I gave her my best leer and said, "I'm pleased to see he left yours behind."

"You wanna' see a glass he missed?"

I nodded. Tanya went over to the cabinet above the sink and after some digging dragged out a tall, purple, beverage container.

"Can you believe this?" She set it down in front of me. "Plastic trash and he was threatening to kill for it. You need two hands to pick the damn thing up when it's full!"

"The man's definitely short on class."

"I figured that much after seeing the little cupids on his undershorts."

I examined the plastic obscenity. It was too hideously thick and heavy for any practical purpose, and nearly fourteen inches tall. Its mouth was so wide I could not touch the fingers of two hands around it. The walls were nearly one half inch thick at the base before slimming down to one-quarter inch at the lip. I hefted it: the plastic vessel weighed nearly a pound.

"Heavy, huh?" she asked.

"Are you married to this thing?"

She gave one of my earlobes a tug. "If it turns you on, take it home."

Delaney's murderous threats made a world of sense if my suspicions were true. I tapped the plastic container on the tabletop several times and then shook it near one ear. From within I heard a dusty rattle.

"What's the name of the warehouse where you rented space?" I dug out my pocketknife.

"Elgin Storage," she said. "What gives with the blade?"

"Me-thinks your purple package has a spiteful surprise, inside."

Her blond eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Ugly treasure?"

"Bascomb might agree. It all depends on your point of view. I've known people to kill for it."

I cut a deep knick in the base of the glass and a small trickle of white powder dusted my knee. I rubbed the dusting between my fingers and then inhaled.

Tanya's mouth gaped as she slumped into the chair next to mine. "Is that what I think it is?"

I returned the knife to my pocket. "Cocaine."

"That goddamn son-of-a-bitch! That low-life bastard sets me up to take the fall if somebody gets curious. And, he cops the lot if nobody makes waves."

"Eli got the green, not Delaney. Mr. Law-enforcement was just his hired help."

She gasped, "Huggins?"

I nodded. "Did you ever visit Eli's palace of pleasure?"

Tanya offered me a bewildered look. "I was at one of his shindigs: must be almost three years, back. But I didn't kill Eli, if that's your next question. Are you sure about him?"

"I'm still digging but I don't expect to find anything to change my mind. Who else was on the invited list?"

"Women—lots of women! Most were from across the border: young, poor, and eager to please for a few bucks. Are you planning a fantasy come true?"

"I've got you penciled in for that. Who was doing what to whom?"

She shrugged. "For the most part, it was an orgy for the dark-haired out-of-towner: an investor in Eli's business or so I thought at the time. Delaney dragged me there."

"I've seen Eli. Somehow I can't picture him playing leapfrog in the raw for spectators."

"Eli was the watching type, at least when it came to group gropes. When he was alone I think he liked his action underage."

"How so?"

"He had a couple of girls glued to him the entire night. They couldn't have been more than fifteen, or sixteen."

"Was Eli's brother there?"

"The punch-happy pug?" Tanya shook her head. "The Rodriguez brothers were, though. I thought Eli had hired them as bouncers in case things got out of hand. But after seeing what's in Mr. High-and-purple, they must've been there on Delaney's invite."

"How about the mayor?"

She thought about my question and then slowly shook her head. "Not that I remember. But, I was new in town. I didn't know shit from Shinola when it came to the local upper crust. You think his honor has a taste for nose candy?"

"Delaney might be able to keep the lid on things if Eli was running a quiet show. Where orgies are involved there is always gossip. And that adds another level of risk. Somebody above Delaney is part of this business: somebody Eli either trusted or had a hold over. Could be the mayor. Could be somebody else. Could be Bascomb, despite his honest reputation. At this point I'm still fishing. Were the girls with Eli blond?"

Tanya gave me a disgusted look. "I hope I'm not about to hear one of your dirty secrets!"

"Were they?"

"Yeah! But, I didn't figure you for the underage type."

"I prefer the mature set with a hash-house background. Do you remember their names?"

"I told you they were kids. I wasn't about to mix and match with them."

"Whoever killed Eli knew him. He'd been with two blondes some time before his death. Maybe days before, maybe minutes."

"You don't honestly think kids like that killed the old perv?"

"Stranger things have happened. And, they wouldn't be kids, now."

Tanya thought for a moment. "They both were blond. One's name was Betty, I think. I can't remember the other's name. The investor was some Italian pain-loving creep from Dallas. I don't remember much else. The perv began making a pest of himself, so I stayed busy keeping scarce."

I clucked my tongue. "You mustn't disappoint your fans."

"Like hell. I'd dodged the creep for an hour before I found out Delaney expected me to give the asshole a tumble, if you can believe it!"

"Which could explain those cupids. Was the creep Dominic Portello?"

Her mouth fell open, again. "My God," she whispered as if angels might hear. "You knew the girls were blond and now you know the creep's name. What's up with you?"

I tasted my eggs. "I'm a trained detective. How did the two girls fit in at the party?"

Tanya's face pinked, slightly. "They—they performed with each other: entertainment for the masses. It was Eli's idea. Like I said, he was a watcher."

"That's all they did?"

"As far as I saw, yeah. But, I cut out as soon as I got a cab."

"Did you hear any of the business chatter?"

She shook her head. "The Portello creep talked money with Eli and Delaney; big bucks from a vague source. When he got around to details, they went into the basement. It was kind of weird. A panel in the wall opened like magic."

"Secret panels like out of the movies?"

Tanya shrugged. "Not much of a secret if you use it in front of a bunch of screwing drunks."

"Where was it?"

"The wall opposite the bar in the living room. I think Eli pushed a button underneath the bar top. He was standing there when it opened. The five of them traipsed down some metal steps."

"Five?"

"The creep, his two bodyguards, plus Eli and Delaney."

"What about the Rodriguez brothers?"

She shook her head. "They weren't part of the in-crowd. That's why I was convinced they were hired help to keep the rowdies at bay."

I held up the glass. "Where can I find Elgin's warehouse?"

"It's over on Claymore. You can't miss it. It's the shiny building with the big blinking sign. You think Delaney's stupid enough to be storing more cocaine there?"

I nodded. "Most criminals have the brains of a toad. If something works, they stick with it. He's no doubt found some other willing body since you tossed him out. And she's likely providing the same services. Speaking of which, isn't it a little early for you to face work?"

"Eat your eggs."

# **Chapter 8**

After Tanya went to face the breakfast crowd, I drove to Leon's private part of the world. He lived on one of those shabby side streets where dreamers no longer dreamed, and planners no longer planned. Each block was a collection of tiny tattered houses with tiny tattered yards, overgrown with not-so-tiny weeds. The boxer's home was a one-story affair, wood-framed and ticky-tacky. His had a recent green paint-job and red tile roof. It looked not unlike a fresh shipping-label pasted upon the top of a much-mailed cardboard box. Still, that gave the shack a modicum of distinction amongst its peers.

I parked Leon's truck near the alley at one end of the block, and then strolled back along the sidewalk. Crying children and barking dogs accompanied my movements as I thought about Moira, Leon's wife. Although I had no description to go by, I pictured her as an angel with either an undying tolerance for his rejection of soapy water, or a terminal sinus condition. I had little interest in angels. Invariably, they fell short with affection and went long with criticism. I preferred devil types; like Tanya—wanton women who were long on passion and short on guilt. I strode up to Leon's front door, smiling as I remembered her climbing upon me, completely naked and eager.

"She ain't home and the old boy's in the tank!" a rasping voice called as I reached for the doorbell.

I glanced about. An elderly woman stared at me from behind pink chintz curtains at the house next door.

"I gotta' talk to you, flatfoot," she added and then disappeared from view.

My opinion of Nosey Nellie's ran along the same lines as angels. Nevertheless, the former have provided more solutions to crimes than forensic science. I girded my loins and walked over to her house.

Before I reached the steps, she hobbled out and stared down at me as if having seen my photo on a wanted poster. Then with a flop of her scrawny arms she bellowed, "What in hell are you up to?"

"You said you wanted to talk," I replied, and climbed the steps to her porch.

She was well over seventy years of age, skinny as a rail and the top of her head almost reached my chin. Her hair was bottle-red and her dress was blue gingham; the former matched the shiny red riding boots on her small feet. Completing her ensemble was a brace of long-barreled nickel-plated six shooters, strapped around her tiny waist. They were the kind civil war generals had carried, at least the generals who were well heeled.

Her thick gray eyebrows furrowed with commitment as she blurted, "I don't spill my guts to the press and you gadabouts don't never come 'round less'n it suits you. And lately that ain't been the case."

"Trouble?" I asked, pointing to the holstered hog-legs.

She squinted her watery blue eyes up at my face and then grabbed my arm. "Inside," she snapped. "Can't talk out here. Too many noses sniffin' the air." She dragged me into her home with surprising strength.

"What's this all about?" I asked as she reached past me and shut the door.

"Gotta' set you coppers straight," she replied. "You flat-footed yo-yos got it all wrong."

"Anything in particular?" I asked, with more than a little confusion. "Or, are we talking local politics?"

She reached up and thumped my chest lightly with a wrinkled finger that was not unlike a chicken bone. "No way, no how did Leon kill that asshole brother, of his."

"I'm inclined to agree. What's with the hardware on your hips?"

"Murders go in threes," the old woman retorted. "Any fool knows that." She tugged up the gun belt before slapping its holsters as if practicing her quick-draw. "Eli may be the first. But, you can bet your sweet ass there'll be others. I ain't gonna' be one of 'em."

"You know who killed Eli?"

One scrawny finger went to the side of her head and tapped lightly. "I got ideas." She nodded toward the back of the house. "Let's mosey into the kitchen were we can chew the fat, proper."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Fifty years." She lead me through a living room cluttered with turn of the century furnishings and photos, to a closet sized room that had barely enough space for its sagging sink, greasy gas stove, tired refrigerator and two-chair dinette.

"How long has Leon lived in the neighborhood?"

"Take a load off," the old woman said and pointed to the red and chrome chairs. "Leon come here about ten years back. Ran the gas station across the street, or tried to. Poor bastard had dreams, then. Gonna' make a comeback, he was. Each night he spent hours in the garage. I'd hear him pounding away on the bags and skipping rope. But he was too old. Hell, he was too punched out, too."

I settled into one of the chairs and looked around. The kitchen walls were painted a pale yellow, the ceiling a similar color but for dissimilar reasons. The floor was tiled in black and white. A half-century of trodding had converted the black to gray and the white to a bile green. An old refrigerator chug-a-lugged against one wall, like a shivering ghost. And the oven was open, providing heat despite the searing temperature outside.

"What's on your mind, Mrs.?"

A pitcher of yellowish fluid, two empty beer mugs and a half-gallon of Jack Daniels formed the table's centerpiece. The bottom of the pitcher was littered with lemon pits. Its top was crowded with gray foam and little black fuzzies. I wasn't sure if the latter were alive and unconscious, or dead and floating belly up.

"The name's Lydia Thornton." The old woman sat down. "Missus. My old man's dead but I still keep the handle. After living with the old fart for forty years, I figure I've earned it. You want a little action with your lemonade?"

I tried not to pale "I'm sorry?"

Lydia grabbed the Jack Daniels and splashed several ounces into the mug nearest her, and then she slopped an ounce or two into the one in front of me.

"I like mine so it makes me sweat," she said proudly. "Nothin' like feelin' the heat."

I glanced over at the stove and loosened my tie.

"You look like a worried man, copper," she continued, grabbing the pitcher. "Pressure on because of this Huggins hit? Don't sweat it. That asshole mayor won't be in office much longer. Between that slut daughter of his whoring her ass around, and the tax money he's spending on his kit and kin, Woods'll be on a street corner begging for pennies before the year's out."

She topped off my glass with the pitcher's contents. Fortunate or not, I lucked out on the pits but I got more than my share of fuzzy-black.

She set the pitcher aside and then grabbed up her mug. "Who put you clowns onto Leon for the Eli snuff?"

"Leon confessed."

"That hairy, stupid, brain-dead, stinking son-of-a-bitch," she gurgled into her brew. She pointed a bony finger at me and clenched one bleary eye shut. "Leon and me's sat many a night over lemonade and talk, right where you are. I know the hairy bastard and I know he couldn't kill nobody: not the way Eli was done."

"I'm surprised your sinuses could take him."

She pondered my comment for a moment and then shrugged. "Well, I had the fan on, the window open and made him cross his legs. Bad smell don't make Leon a killer."

"Somebody killed Eli Huggins. Personally, I think Leon's covering for that somebody."

"Now you're talking my language." Lydia nodded toward Leon's house. "That bitch's the one you should be talkin' to! My money's on her."

"Who?"

"Moira." Lydia slapped a scrawny hand hard on the tabletop. "Leon's wife, a'course. Drink up, man. There's plenty more where that come from."

I swirled the contents of my glass to shift the fuzzy black to one side, before tasting the yellow brew. My eyes watered, my nose ran and my throat clenched shut with revulsion. I managed to swallow, but not without letting go a moan.

"Good, huh?" Lydia asked, over the top of her glass.

"You think Leon's covering for Moira?" I whimpered, still trying to cleanse my scathed throat with saliva.

"You talked to her yet?"

I shook my head. "That's why I stopped."

Lydia grinned and took another noisy slurp. "Leon might be covering for Moira. And, then he might not. But the cover-up don't count for shit on this killin'."

"Are you saying he's covering for someone who did not kill Eli?"

She leaned toward me and demanded, "How well did you know Eli Huggins?"

"He died before I had the pleasure."

Lydia cackled and eased back. "Moira and Eli were going hot and heavy for years right under Leon's nose— 'til that daughter of hers got in the way. Betcha' didn't know that."

"Which daughter?"

"Betsy, a course. That's the only one she got. What in the Sam Hill do you cops do in your background checks?"

The name 'Betsy' suddenly formed a fit to Tanya's remark about the blond kid whom she had referred to as _Betty_. "Mostly we drink coffee. Betsy's a blonde?

"So's Moira," the old woman said with a look of distaste. Then she added with a smirk, "Dye job."

I made a point of not noticing Lydia's hairdo. "Betsy's about eighteen or nineteen?"

Lydia nodded. "Moira's pushin' forty—if she'd admit it."

"So you think Betsy's the one Leon's covering for?"

"Who else is there?" she roared. "Not that Eli didn't have it comin'. What he done to that girl all them years is a crime. Not that anybody 'round here'd believe it. Eli was always puttin' on the straight and proper when it counted. And it counted plenty when Woods needed the votes. But I knows what I knows."

"Why not Moira?" I asked. "More than one woman has killed to protect her daughter."

Lydia picked up the jug of whiskey and gave her lemonade another flooding. "Bleached out like bad ink on good money, that bitch. Leon might've stuck his neck out for Moira a few years back. But, not after she rubbed his nose in her dirty business with Eli. No, he's protectin' Betsy."

"Eli was still involved with both Betsy and Moira?"

"You ain't no priest," Lydia cackled. "Them two don't have a pot to piss in, exceptin' what Eli hands out. He waves the long green and they come a runnin'."

"Did Leon tell you about Eli and Betsy?"

She wagged her head. "I seen 'em out front. Many a time when he brung that girl home, after dark." Lydia's face put on a wistful faraway mask, then. "Sitting in that big car of his. Him pawing her and her crawlin' all over him, doing what a girl her age ought not be doin'. If I was a God fearin' woman I'd say it was a mortal sin—at least at her age. Nothin' wrong with a woman like me getting' a little on the side. Are you married?"

"Divorced. But Eli's well over fifty and if Betsy's in her late teens"

She jabbed her chicken bone finger straight down on the tabletop with a loud tap. "Weren't then. More like twelve. And age or not, it ain't right a girl doin' the dirty with her uncle. You see where I'm headed, copper?"

"I'm trying not to think about it, Lydia."

She gave me a piteous look before shaking her head. "Betsy could get knocked up and have a kid with two heads. Now a woman like me you don't have to worry about getting in the family way. You ain't drinkin', man. Does it need another coaxing?"

I shook my head and reluctantly took another taste of the hideous yellow concoction. It burned all the way down, and back up like shards of dirty glass floating on molten asphalt. "Did Moira know about Betsy's relationship with Eli?"

"'Course," Lydia bellowed. "They both did. Leon may be numb from the neck up but he ain't blind. And, Moira—well a woman knows when the servicin's over, even if it ain't from her own husband. They knew, all right."

"Did Leon talk to you about that?"

"Blubbered about it many a night."

"What about Moira?"

"Moira was mad as a wet cat. Screaming and yelling at Betsy like the kid had killed somebody. That's when Leon kicked the shit out of Eli, giving that horny old bastard a three week hospital stay."

"Why didn't Moira call the police?"

"Hell's bells, man. Start thinking with what you got between your legs. Moira was after Eli's money. And, puttin' him in the joint ain't no way to endear herself. She kept shut and she made Leon keep shut and she kept Betsy doin' what she'd been doin'. The way I figure it, Moira planned on giving Eli's money tree a good steady wag only it didn't take."

"Why not?"

"Don't rightly know. One day I heard her braggin' how she was gonna' be livin' high and wide. Next, she was sulking and waitin' on Leon to die. Somethin' changed her tune big time, and quick."

"Did Leon ever talk to you about his brother's business?"

Lydia slurped her glass and then said, "Just that damn gas station across the street. Poor Leon was too good-hearted to turn people away. They'd come in with a sob story and a promise to pay, and Leon'd give 'em credit. The whole neighborhood owes him. But not one'll stand up to say anything good about him. Except for me, a 'course."

"You like Leon?"

"Wasn't I the one who talked Leon out of killin' Eli after he found out Betsy was still seein' the dirty bastard? Wasn't I the one who told Leon to call that snot-nosed Bascomb? 'Course I like the hairy bastard. I just prefer he stay up-wind when he comes 'round."

I felt like the impotent old man whose young wife just told him he was to be a father. "When did Leon find out Betsy was still seeing Eli?"

"Just last week. Come over here and cried like a baby. I tried to tell him to forget it. Betsy's all growed up, I said. But the more Leon drank the madder he got. Sure as hell I figured Eli was gonna' get his ribs stove in, good and proper if I didn't do something. So I slipped Leon a little something to calm him down. That's when the hairy son-of-a-bitch slept for two days on my kitchen floor. Not, that Moira would give a shit or even notice."

"And you still don't think Leon killed Eli?"

"'Course not. Leon don't know nothin' 'bout guns. If he'd done it, he'd have done in Eli good and righteous with them big fists."

"Maybe Eli pulled a gun on Leon. Leon could've taken it away and used it."

She jumped to her feet and leaned across the table toward me, her long nose twitching like a vulture's beak about to bite. "I know Leon and I knew Moira before she married the hairy bastard," Lydia shouted. "And I'm here to tell she's capable of anything, including murder. And I should know. That bitch worked for me and my old man when we owned that truck-stop over on the interstate. We got the full low-down on her back then. That slut's been nothin' but trouble since and before."

"Trouble, how?"

"Always tryin' to get her hooks into anything in pants that looks like money," Lydia grunted. Then she slumped back into her chair, looking limp and tired. "Moira'd latch onto 'em, easy enough, her bein' a fair lookin' piece. But she couldn't hold 'em any longer than a weekend. Tried that with my son, too. But, I set her straight, quick enough. My boy was married and not about to get tied up with the likes of some jailbird. I set her straight, all right."

"Why didn't J-D Bascomb do something about Eli's affair with Betsy?"

Lydia leaned forward her face pink with renewed interest. "How? By the time Leon got around to complaining to Bascomb, Betsy was of age. It was only Leon's word it all started when it did. Moira refused to wade in on Eli. Probably 'cause he had her by the shorthairs on somethin' big-time. And, no way was Betsy gonna' point the finger at the man. He bought her a goddamn new house. Betcha didn't know that either!"

"You said Moira was a jail-bird. How so?"

"Sweet Jesus, don't you guys do any digging?"

"I'm new on the case. Why was Moira in jail?"

"Second degree murder. Killed her first husband. Put the gun to the back of the poor bastard's head and blew his brains out. Moira claimed self-defense sayin' her old man beat her. But, the jury didn't buy that bullshit. She did five years hard time and was out on parole when she worked for me: still is, for that matter. Even then she was whoring around. Got herself knocked up right off: probably didn't even know the guys name."

"When did she kill her husband?"

The old woman shrugged. "Can't rightly remember." She once more sagged back in her chair. "Long time ago. Some days it feels like a long time. Some days it don't. Some days I'd like to kill the bitch, myself, for the way she done Leon."

"Do you think Betsy's capable of murder?"

"With a mother like Moira, she's capable of anything."

"Did you talk to Betsy about her relationship with Eli?"

"Sure as hell is hot, I did," Lydia roared, sitting up drunkenly. "And, you know what she said? It don't matter since Eli weren't blood. Well, it sure as hell does matter. Blood or not you don't get it on with your uncle. That fool kid had some lame idea Eli was going to make her a partner. Partner, hell. All he was after was between her legs."

"Betsy knew the kind of business Eli was in?"

"'Course! I asked about it one time. But she just giggled and said I was too old to understand. I damn well understand plenty. And, whatever Eli was up to it sure as hell wasn't suited for a young girl. I told that to Eli, too. Right after that, the kid moved out."

"Where's Betsy living, now?"

The old woman leaned her scrawny forearms on the table and shrugged. "Got a new house and is gone: all's I know. And, since then I don't see Eli comin' around. But that other bastard makes the trip, often enough."

"Somebody else was giving Betsy the eye?"

"Not Betsy! Moira. Big cop. White hair and half an ear."

"Delaney?"

She nodded. "That bastard's so twisted a fair breeze would screw him in the ground."

"Will Moira be back, soon?"

"Today?"

I nodded.

"Maybe; maybe, not. She's got a cleaning business. Used to be just her. But now she's got other women workin' for her. I don't know where she is today. But, tomorrow she and her whole crew are at that Catholic Orphanage over on Gilmore. The Children of God Orphanage, it's called. Moira cleans there for free. Penance for her sins, I'd say if I was a church-goer."

Her chin tilted down, then, and her forehead thumped the tabletop.

I said, "Does your son live close enough to check on you, Lydia? I could give him a call."

"His grave's within driving distance." Lydia sadly raised up. "Not that it does me any good. I got a new car in the garage but I can't drive it—lost my license. Delaney said I was driving drunk when I tried to run the half-eared bastard down. I was, too. Otherwise, I'd have hit the crooked son-of-a-bitch. One of these days I'll try that again and do it right."

I stood up, surprised by her revelation. "Why did you do that?"

"Don't matter no more. You got kids?"

I shook my head.

"I had hopes for grandchildren you know. My Davey married what I thought was a good woman: smart, hard worker. But, after his funeral she ain't been to his grave once. I go every Sunday. Now I got to decide whether to be buried next to my son or my old man. I miss the old fart, sometimes."

I thanked Lydia for her help and turned to leave.

"You ain't goin' already?" she blurted, in disappointment. "I'm just beginning to warm up to you."

"I've got an investigation, Lydia," I said. "But, you've been very helpful."

"You want me to keep an eye on what goes on, next door?"

"If you think it would help."

She nodded toward the window overlooking Leon's property. "How about that?"

I looked out through the pink chintz in time to see Delaney going up Leon's front walk. He did not bother to knock. He simply pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked the door and went inside.

"Bastard makes himself right to home," the old woman cursed. "When Moira gets back they'll have a tumble, and then about midnight he'll leave. It's that way anytime Leon's gone. You think you can take Delaney in a toe-to-toe?"

"You think I ought to try?"

She held up her gnarled hands and made a pair of knobby fists. "I'd do it myself if it weren't for my arthritis."

"And my money'd be on you, Lydia." I headed out the way I had come in.

# **Chapter 9**

After leaving Lydia Thornton, I made the trip back to Eli's estate. As I reached the archway a yellow Mercedes two-seater roared out. Behind the steering wheel was a young blond woman. She had bare shoulders, a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and a heavy foot. The little car fishtailed back and forth as it sped away, like a salmon swimming inland just ahead of a hungry shark. The car's rear plate read, 'Nadine.'

I punched the accelerator and jammed through the gears until I was in sight of the mansion. Then, I cut the engine, disengaged the clutch and let the truck silently roll to a stop at the base of the front door steps. No other cars were in sight, but several drops of freshly leaked oil glistened on the asphalt, like shiny black buttons. I got out of the pickup, gun in hand and waited, listening. There was no sound other than my thudding heart.

I crept up the steps on tiptoe. Just outside the doors lay a crushed cigarette butt stained with red lipstick. I picked it up. The lip marks disclosed the same sickle-shaped scar I had seen on my last visit. I could not help but wonder if the woman who had left it was the dedicated cleaner, one of the blondes from Eli's bed, or even the agitated Nadine.

Inside, I did a sweep of the main floor but found no one. In the living room behind the television, a section of carpet had been pulled back to disclose a removable wooden panel. Beneath it was a small storage compartment. It was empty except for a dusty residue. I dabbed one finger into it and held it to my noise. There was no getting around it. Eli's way with female callers had something to do with his love for cocaine.

I searched the second floor. Nothing had been disturbed since my last visit so I holstered the Mauser and went to the top floor. There, I concentrated my efforts on the master bedroom. I thumped walls. I stomped floors. I peeled back ventilation covers. The one consistency with cokeheads is they always split their holdings to minimize losses, in the event of a police raid. Moreover, there will always be a little something to encourage bed-play. I came up empty. Wherever Eli had his nighttime nose-powder, I was not going to find it.

I drifted into the closet and took another look around. A hook on the wall behind the row of suits seemed out of place, so I tugged it. As it tilted forward, a panel near the floor slid open. I squatted down and found a large lazy Susan stacked with recorded videos marked with dates that went back several years.

I closed the panel leaving the tapes where they were, and then went over to the mirrored bed. The strands of blond hair and the lipstick smears were as I had left them. McAllen's police forensic unit was either the world's sloppiest, or they did only what Delaney instructed. I picked up several of the strands and examined them carefully. They were not from an artificial wig. The color difference between the hairs was distinct enough to suggest they came from more than one person. I slipped these into my light bill's envelope and then used my pocketknife to make scrapings of the lipstick smears. I deposited these into the folds of a clean handkerchief and then headed back down to the main floor.

At the bar in the living room, I poured a drink. As I sipped it, I slid my hand along the bartop's underside. Near one end, I found a button and pushed it. A wall panel across the room popped open just as Tanya had described. I finished my drink and then walked over to the opening. Behind it was a cast-iron staircase that coiled downward into darkness. I fumbled inside the opening and located a light switch. After giving it an encouraging flick, a chain of beams flooded the staircase with blue light. I followed the metal steps down.

The basement did double duty as the garage. Its walls and floor were poured concrete. Embedded in one of the former was a heavy gray steel door—the kind warehouses and hospitals used to secure areas from fire. Not far from it was an old Rolls Royce Silver Arrow with darkly tinted windows and a red leather interior. I gave the vehicle an envious look, inside and out. The interior was spotless and from the deflated state of the vehicle's tires the shiny automobile had not been driven in some time.

The basement floor made a curve and ramped upward to a heavy steel garage door. An infrared beam spanned the distance across the entrance. I walked up and ran my hand through the beam but the door did not budge. Apparently, the radio transmitter Leon had shown me was necessary for leaving as well as entering.

I went back down the ramp and over to the fire door. The cylinder lock above latch guaranteed it would not budge without a little encouragement. I took out my lock picks and after some manipulation of the tumblers managed to release the catch. In the shadows beyond the doorway, I saw the familiar outline of drug processing equipment resting on rows of long, stainless steel tables. I went inside, found the switch to the overhead fluorescent lights, and flicked them into life.

On the laboratory's floor was a thick dusting of cocaine. Boot tracks left by a man with immense feet trailed back and forth through the white residue from one corner of the room, to the steel door. Each boot print left behind a distinctive swirl pattern not unlike a coiled lariat. I could not be sure but, from the size of the prints, I was betting on Delaney.

If I was correct, the big cop had raided the joint. Moreover, from the number of trips the boots made to the door and back, I guessed that there must have been several hundred pounds of the stuff. Delaney was now a rich man, presuming he could find someone with money-enough to make that big buy. And, presuming Dominic Portello did not find out who had filched the goodies.

When I got back upstairs, I could see a dark shroud spreading along the horizon, as if the sun had died. I checked my watch and started to wind my way through the shadows toward the front door. With a little luck, I could get to the diner before Tanya quit serving. And with a little more I could convince her to cater to my whims one more time.

"You're trespassin', Old Son," a disagreeably familiar voice broke the silence.

I jerked toward it and saw Delaney standing near the window overlooking the garden. His silhouette looked like a lump of black dirt against the murky backdrop. I casually unbuttoned my coat and murmured, "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

The big cop switched on a lamp and grinned at me. In one hand was an empty glass that looked like it had been used to hold goldfish. "I spotted you walkin' down the alley behind Leon's shack and I said to myself, I bet that Old Boy's going back to Eli's. And, here you are."

"I wanted to relive the romance of our first meeting. It's the pixie in me."

He set down the smeared glass, scratched his bobbed ear and then moved toward me. "A body turned up, this afternoon: a Mex by the name of Miguel Rodriguez. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Shot was he? Twice? Same gun? Once through the chest? Once through the neck? Both at close range? Both after the poor bastard was already dead? Nope. Don't know a thing."

He chuckled under his breath. "You do have a way with words, Old Son."

"Mommy was a gypsy fortune teller."

Delaney snorted with amusement. "The coroner says despite being shot twice, the actual cause of death was a broken neck. Like somebody gave it a good twist—somebody who know what he was doing."

"Some bastard masseuse didn't know his own strength. Don't you hate it when that happens?"

"We don't have a killing around here in five years. Then you show up and we got bodies stacking up all over. Why is that, Old Son?"

"I guess I put people in the mood to clean house. Why didn't you arrest Eli for molesting Leon's daughter?"

Delaney stopped and pulled out a fat Cuban cigar. "Leon got no kid," he said, casually putting the tobacco wrap into his gold holder.

"I'm talking about Betsy."

"Betsy's Moira's girl. Leon had nothing to do with that."

"You're evading the question, Delaney."

The big cop shrugged. "By the time Leon turned old Eli in, Betsy was of age; nobody but Leon was talking about what might've gone on before. Nothin' we could do, want to or not. You know how that is."

"Especially if there's a shortage of want."

He gave me a yellow grin as he took out his lighter. "What evidence did I have? Leon? That crazy old woman livin' next door to him? Eli said his dilly-dallying with Betsy didn't start 'til she was seventeen; in this State that makes her legal-meat. And if you're wonderin' if I talked to Betsy, I did, and she confirmed it. As did Moira. That messin' was all in Leon's imagination."

"Or in Eli's cash. When are you going to release Leon?"

"Not my call, Old Son. Bascomb wants him held for trial and that's all she wrote. He'll get sent up all right. No question of that."

"Which leaves this nice little bit of heaven going to Moira?"

"Probably. Eli had only Leon as kin. And she is married to him."

"Sort of puts _you_ in a position to retire in style."

He looked at me across his lighter's flame, as he puffed the cigar to life. "What are you getting' at, Old Son?"

"You and Moira are planning to take up where Eli left off. His little cocaine operation must've brought in a million a year."

Delaney stuffed his lighter back into his pocket. "You got cocaine on the brain, Bishop."

"Been in the basement lately?"

He took the cigar from his mouth and blew smoke in my direction. "Come again?"

"There's a cocaine processing lab in the basement. The inventory's been lifted by a guy with big feet. But there's enough dust left behind to give a good party. I left the door open if you're interested."

He slurped the end of his cigar holder as a haze of blue smoke rose slowly around his head. I tried to make up my mind as to whether I had worried him. A moment later I got my answer: a gun appeared in his hand pointed in my direction.

"I have underestimated you right from the beginning, Old Son," he conceded. "Put your hands up."

I did as instructed. "There were three blondes in Eli's life. Moira, Betsy and Nadine. It wasn't you who killed Eli. So it had to be one of them."

He clucked his tongue before saying, "I gotta' give you credit, Old Son. You been in town less than forty-eight hours and already you got names and big ideas. Fact is, I'm not only surprised, I am in awe. But, you're dead wrong about the killing. Now take out your gun real slow and friendly like: two fingers, understand?"

I drew my suit coat aside to expose the Mauser. Then I gripped its butt with thumb and fingers. "Moira's still on parole for killing her first husband." I pulled the weapon clear. "Shot down exactly as Eli. Killing me won't cover that up."

Delaney clenched his jaws and puffed his cigar. "Lydia Thornton's got a big mouth. Set the gun on the floor and kick it over to me."

I leaned down and rested the Mauser on the carpet. Then I stood up and booted it hard, sending the gun skidding past him.

He smirked.

"Suppose that old woman told you about me shootin' her kid, too?"

"From the sound of it, a lot of padding went into making it a clean kill."

He jerked the cigar from his mouth and jabbed it through the air at me. "I caught that sneakin' son-of-a-bitch trying to burgle a bank. When he spotted me, he started shootin'. I had no choice, Old Son. But, she don't believe it. Crazy bitch tried to run me down."

"Too bad she missed."

He took out a sap with his free hand, and then holstered his revolver. "I did some checking on you, Old Son. And it was a real enlightenin'."

I winked. "You just had to know my favorite color."

"Cut the fag act. You've got more notches on your gun than Billie the Kid. Fact is, I was told point blank you were not one to mess with unless my funeral arrangements had been made."

"Those Portellos are such kidders. I'm a pussy-cat."

He winked as he headed for me. "This sap'll make sure of that."

"Dead or not, the Portellos will want answers about Eli. They're a little sensitive when several million of their inventory disappears. I can help you with that. Shall we say a sixty-forty split, mine being the heavy end?"

"Like hell."

He lunged for me like a rocket launched from a skid. I sidestepped to dodge his swing, then twisted back and caught him in the groin with my left knee. He yelped like a whipped dog, and skidded across the carpet on his chin, cursing and moaning.

I trotted over to the Mauser, picked it up, and then turned to face him. "Get up and try it again, Delaney. With enthusiasm this time."

He crawled onto his hands and knees staring back at me like a hungry tiger, his ragged breath wheezing. I fished out a cigarette with my free hand and stuffed it between my lips. He cursed, and then dragged himself to his feet.

"You gonna' use that thing, or you just stand there making me look stupid?"

I smiled, thinking he was speaking to me. "I'm just enjoying the moment, Delaney."

He chuckled then and gave his head a despairing wag. "Which will be short lived, Old Son."

It all happened in a split second. I smelled lavender. I sensed movement behind me. After that, something made a swishing sound just before it caught my skull. I would have turned to complain but I was too busy dropping into something very deep, and very black.

When I got to the bottom I landed on a pile of pillows. They were soft, silky and every color in the rainbow. As I sat up somebody handed me a glass of red wine. I drank and grinned as all around me danced naked gypsy women. Each had toes decorated with gold and silver bells. Each offered mysterious delights. I gulped the wine and leaned back on the pillows. To hell with Delaney. He would have to wait on his sap lessons. I had far too many other things to do.

# **Chapter 10**

My eyes opened to steel bars and green walls swimming under hazy fluorescent lights. I was face down on a concrete floor with a sour taste in my mouth. Bells were ringing somewhere. Most were off key, which I attributed to the funeral Delaney had given me. Things could have been worse. I could be sharing my cold slumber with Leon.

"On your feet, Bishop," a deep voice boomed. "I've got charges for you."

I rolled over onto my back and blinked as I waited for God to list my discredits. I tried to recall a few moral points from my jaded past—none came to mind. My entire life had been squandered on self-indulgence. On the plus side, I had a wonderful collection of memories, mostly involving the fairer sex, a few attributed to wagers that had paid off in my favor, and one involving a pepperoni pizza.

A hand touched my shoulder. Since the big-guy was about to toss me into hell anyway, I figured I had nothing to lose by giving him a couple of love taps. I swung, but my maker was either smarter than I had expected, or damn lucky. I hit something on the first throw, but my punch was lacking its usual panache. The second swing just made a breeze through empty air.

A moment later, a voiced roared, "Stand up, you son-of-a-bitch."

I countered there was no need to get personal just because I had. A moment later, Bascomb loomed above me like a raging monolith in a sweaty suit holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose.

"Did Delaney kill you, too, Bascomb?" I asked.

"You hit me again, you sorry bastard, and you'll never see daylight. Do you read me, Bishop?"

I sat up and glanced around blearily. "Where are the damn gypsies?"

"What in god's name are you babbling about?"

I got to my knees and waited a moment until my eyes focused. Then I let them drift. The jail cell I was in had few accommodations. There was a bed bolted to one of the walls. Next to it was a stainless steel toilet. The latter was girdled on the other side by a small metal sink. My stomach had stopped rolling so I crawled over to the bed.

Its mattress smelled of urine and six legged creatures that crept carefully along in the dark. I patted myself on the back for deciding to sleep off my headache on the floor. No sense in compounding my situation with a vermin infestation. I dug my fingers into the tacking and clawed my way upright. It took several tries but finally my wobbly legs allowed for a passable turn. This permitted me to face Bascomb with only a modicum of swaying. He had a newly filled manila folder in one hand and was daubing a bloody handkerchief against his nose with the other. I tried not to grin.

"What brings you to my hell, Bascomb?" I quipped.

He tilted his head back and pressed the handkerchief against his nostrils. "I arrived at Eli Huggins' just as Delaney was dragging you out to his car." He spoke with a distinctly nasal tenor. "You'll do fifteen years for attacking him. Not, to mention the assault on me, as well as trespass and illegal entry charges!"

"Cruising for a snort? Or did you have legitimate business at Eli's?"

His chin dipped until we were eye-to-eye, then he shook the folder at me. "What I do and when I do it is none of your goddamn business. Jesus. I think you broke my goddamn nose."

"Instead of charging me, I should get points for exercising Delaney and beatifying your mask."

His big red face hardened. "The way you exercised that dead Mexican?"

I staggered over to the sink and washed my face. "Could be it was self-defense, Bascomb," I gurgled into the running water. "The two rounds that went through his carcass ought to give you some clue the situation was less than friendly. And considering his criminal past, his family connections, and me not being the shooter I'd say you owe me a thank you."

He waved one hand violently. "You broke the bastard's goddamn neck."

"It doesn't have to be a _big_ thank you."

"Jesus, it won't stop bleeding."

"You've got a lot of bigger things to worry about than that, Bascomb."

"Meaning, what?"

I wiped my face on my shirtsleeves and turned to face him. "Dominic Portello's due in town: he may already be here. Your pal Delaney's running a fast game on him. And when it all goes wrong, the bloodshed at the Alamo will be small-time compared to what happens in McAllen. Did Delaney tell you about Eli's little cocaine operation?"

"I don't believe this shit."

Like hell, he didn't. I could see him adding up what I had said with what he knew as fact and coming up with the wrong number each time.

"Well? Did he?"

"No. Because there was no cocaine operation. Hell, I've known Eli Huggins my entire life."

"He made his millions supplying the Portellos."

"For your information, he was a retired real-estate investor."

"And, I'm little orphan Annie. Right now, your pal has several hundred pounds of the stuff in his private stash. He took it right after Eli was hit. And if you don't want to believe me, take a look in the lab."

"What goddamn lab?" he demanded into the bloody handkerchief.

"The one in Eli's basement. And while you're down there, ask yourself if you've got enough life insurance."

Bascomb lowered the handkerchief from his swollen nose. "Are you threatening me? Because I'd love to add that to the charges."

"Get your head out of your ass, Bascomb. Did Delaney mention the lab in the basement? Did he mention anything in the basement besides the Rolls? Did he send forensic down there to take samples of the dust coating the floor? Did forensic make that long walk to Eli's bedroom and scrape the lipstick from the pillowcases, or bag the hair left there? If they did, I'm your mommy. Oh, one more thing. Why wasn't Moira questioned? She had plenty of motive for killing Eli and she has a history murder by gunplay."

"Says who?"

"Says Lydia Thornton. Moira used to work for her. It's easily verifiable."

Bascomb's shoulders dipped in resignation as he went over to the sink and rinsed out his handkerchief. "I'm fostering a growing hatred for you, Bishop."

"Can't take hearing the truth? Delaney had Moira kill Eli to take over his drug operation. Delaney was set to kill me last night. That's what my fight with him was about. I got cocky and careless after dropping him. And, somebody who'd come out there with him blindsided me. I'd be worm food now, but you showed up. Don't get me wrong, Bascomb. I'm grateful as hell. But, you'd better open your eyes before you end up in the spot I just left."

Bascomb wiped the blood smear from his nose, then he began to pace. Most of his footsteps were treading on my ringing bells but I didn't mind. He was now a nervous man.

"Were I you, I'd check the hotels in the area. Ask if they've got reservations for Portello. Then I'd check Delaney's bank accounts!"

Finally, he stopped and shouted, "God damn it, Bishop. There isn't a better cop than Delaney, anywhere. I'd stake my life on that."

"Maybe, once. Maybe Eli Huggins made some of his money in real estate. But that's history, Bascomb. Right now you've got a cop playing fast and loose with people who don't have a sense of humor. That puts everybody's life on the line, including yours."

Bascomb turned away, one hand clawing at the back of his thick red neck, both legs moving away from me. "You've got it all worked out, don't you? Nothing you've said can't be verified. And as much as I'd like to see you do twenty years on a chain gang, I don't think you're stupid enough to lie under these circumstances. Jesus. And I was in such a good mood coming down here."

I waited until he got to the cell bars and spoke to his back, "You'll need my help, Bascomb."

He whirled and started for me. "You will keep your sorry ass out it."

I tried to set myself. However, I must have looked like a marionette trying to work its own strings. Bascomb stopped in mid-stride halfway across the cell and simply stared.

"You can't handle the Portellos alone," I said. "And, until this is over you can't trust anybody. Not your priest. Not your Mommy. Nobody. Nobody but me, Bascomb."

He tossed the manila folder onto the cell's bed. "I wouldn't trust you to do my goddamn laundry, Bishop."

"Then, you'd better make funeral arrangements for both of us."

He walked over to the bars and grabbed them like an ape hoping to get fed. "Delaney's no fool, Bishop. If he's holding like you claim, he'll have a scapegoat to hand the Portellos."

"You blew _that_ for him when you showed up at Eli's last night. Dominic Portello might've bought it. But Salvator wouldn't have. He and I go back too many years for him to be suckered into thinking I boosted his goods. Right now Delaney needs to find someone else, and quick. Somebody with brains and connections. Somebody like you, Bascomb."

His mouth gaped in shock. "How in hell could all this have happened? If Huggins was crooked as you claim, how could Delaney have gotten situated with him?"

"Extortion is the usual procedure. But Delaney bought his way in."

"With what, for Christ's sake? You know what a cop makes."

"He conned somebody who had ready cash."

"Who?"

"Davey Thornton."

His face fell as realization and probability fell into alignment. "Thornton. I remember him."

"You want my help or not, Bascomb?"

Bascomb dragged on pink paw across his mouth, wiping the nervous sweat forming on his upper lip. "One man dies and the whole goddamn town goes to hell in a hand cart. Which leaves me sweeping up the dirt left behind with you."

"It could be worse. You could be facing this alone."

"Guard," Bascomb yelled, as he whirled back to the bars. "Guard, get me the hell out of here."

# **Chapter 11**

It was nearly noon by the time I made bail and signed for my possessions at the property window. Delaney had impounded Leon's truck so I caught a cab to a car rental location. From there, I drove to a motel and took a room. While I ate a delivered pizza, I dredged through the telephone directory for the Children of God Orphanage. It was listed. I dialed the number but received a recording that the line had been disconnected. When my belly was full, I got directions to the orphanage from the motel clerk, and then took the rental for a spin.

As places for children went, the Children of God Orphanage was not the most endearing. It stood behind a massive cast-iron fence on a ten-acre tract of desert land just outside of McAllen. The administrative building was a two-story brick affair with stained glass windows on the front, each adorned by iron bars. A big steel-girder Cross stood near the entrance. It had been white once, but most of the paint had flaked off exposing rust. Behind the main structure was a pair of three story dormitories, also brick with bars on the windows. There were no trees, bushes, grass or shrubs. I found a spot for the rental in the visitor's lot and then went inside.

The lobby was a cold barren place like an autopsy room. The walls were green tile, the floor was red terracotta and the ceiling was swirls of yellowing plaster. At the room's center was a cardboard thermometer, the kind that gets colored red during fundraisers. It touted the importance of expansion to keep pace with an ever-growing population of unwanted children. Most of the temperature line remained unpainted.

"What do you want?" a shrill voice called out.

I turned toward the sound. An elderly nun dressed in a black habit hobbled toward me like a lame terrier, chasing a rat.

"Outsiders are not allowed in here." Her wrinkled white face was fat and round, pushing forward from the oval pressure brought about by her habit's starched face binding. Her eyes were blue and as cold as artic ice. She must have had lips but I could not see them, her slit-like mouth merely another wrinkle in the bulge. "This is a private facility."

"So am I," I responded. "I'd like a word with Moira Huggins just the same. She runs the cleaning service."

The old nun looked me up and down as if I were a kidnapper, intent on stealing one of her charges. "You cannot walk around anywhere you please. There are rules! You have to see Mother Superior first"

"Don't let me stop you, Sister. Point and I'll go."

The old nun leaned forward and squinted up into my face like she was trying to read my dirty thoughts. "You'll follow me!"

She smelled of cleaning fluid and mothballs, like my fourth grade teacher, Sister Clara. Instinctively, I nodded and retreated from her reach.

She did an about face that any drill sergeant would have envied and stalked off without so much as a glance back, knowing the power she represented would cause me to follow, even to the bowels of hell.

I kept cadence, my eyes down turned in shame. It was fourth grade all over again, and mother superior was about to find out I had been looking up Mary Ellen Parker's dress.

I dogged the nun past an open cafeteria filled with chattering children, through a pair of green swinging doors, and down a dark hallway cluttered with discarded school desks. Some time later, we came to a terminus that doubled as a small dimly lit reception area paneled in black walnut.

"Should I start dropping breadcrumbs?" I said to the nun's back. "Or are we getting close?"

"Silence."

Her backward scathing glance sent chills down my spine. Thank God Mary Ellen Parker had been wearing underwear.

We stood beneath a fluttering fluorescent ceiling lamp in front of a wooden reception desk. Another nun, much younger than the one escorting me, was keying upon an old gray typewriter—the kind that were considered obsolete at the turn of the previous century. A door a few feet beyond her was marked, _Mother Superior_ in tarnished gilt. A little girl dressed in the orphanage's blue and green plaid uniform sat on one of the low wooden benches lining the paneled walls. She was about eight years of age with big brown eyes and milky skin.

She managed a weak smile before returning her stare to the floor.

I knew exactly what she was doing there. I had been through the same drill a dozen times or more, during that memorable fourth grade. One was expected to sit with eyes lowered, whispering prayers, while awaiting Mother Superior's indulgence.

The old nun pointed to the nearest bench. "Sit. I will inform Mother Superior of your presence."

I settled myself on one end, trying not to bruise my chin with my knees. The old nun whispered to the one behind the reception desk, and with a light tap on the door proceeded into Mother Superior's office.

I was weighing the prospect of excommunication when the little girl whispered, "You in trouble, too, Mister?"

The young nun behind the typewriter clucked her tongue and the little girl's eyes fell back to the floor. I left the bench I was on and took a seat next to the kid.

"Things don't look good," I whispered. "What's your name?"

The little girl smoothed out her skirt, gave the nun at the typewriter a worried glance before whispering, "Rita."

"Why are you here to see Mother Superior?"

"I passed a note in class." Rita sighed dismally. "That's against the rules."

"I got caught doing that when I was your age," I told her sympathetically.

Rita's eyes grew big and she gave me a stunned look before blurting, "That must have been some note for Mother Superior to call you down here now."

The nun sitting at the reception desk stifled a laugh and then resumed typing.

"That's why it's best to follow the rules, Rita," I said, trying to keep a straight face. "The penguins never forget."

The old nun came out of Mother Superior's office, glared at me down the length of her stubby nose and then curling an index finger. It took me several tries to force my cramped leg muscles into motion. I finally got to my feet and hobbled forward like a condemned man.

Mother Superior was standing behind a large hand-carved mahogany desk gilded with gold. Matching straight-back chairs cowered in front of it. She was about my age, short and slightly plump with pink cheeks and a surprisingly warm smile. I was not sure if her white habit meant virtue or forgiveness. For Rita's sake, I was hoping for the latter.

"I'll be right outside your door, Mother Superior," the old nun announced in an authoritative tone. "If you need anything, cry out." With obvious reluctance, she shut the door after herself.

"Sister Madeline thinks you're a gangster," Mother Superior said. "She's certain she's seen your photo on a wanted poster at the post office. Are you?"

"Not since graduating from St. James Academy. But, while I was there, most would have agreed with the Sister Madeline."

She smiled. "I'm Sister Mary Ellen. Who might you be?"

I told her who I was and that I represented Leon Huggins.

She nodded sadly, told me to sit down and then settled in the swivel chair behind her desk.

"I was very sorry to hear about Mr. Huggins' arrest. He used to come here with Moira and talk to the children about his boxing career. The little boys in particular loved hearing those stories. We try to curb any exposure to violence, so Mr. Huggins' tales were not as exciting as I'm sure they could have been. Nevertheless, I had always thought him to be a very nice man. Has he seen a priest?"

"If you're concerned about his immortal soul, Sister, Leon didn't kill anybody. That's why I want to talk with Moira."

She gave me a surprised almost hopeful look. "But, I understood there was a confession."

I nodded. "Leon's protecting someone."

"Who?"

"I'm hoping Moira can help answer that."

The nun folded her milky hands and then leaned her forearms on the desktop, tilting her upper body slightly toward me. "It would have been more appropriate for you to discuss that situation with Moira somewhere else, Mr. Bishop. We try to protect the children from such issues."

"She wasn't available, and there are issues I can't divulge which made this my only option. The last thing I want to do is create unrest among your charges. So, I'll make certain Moira and I discuss the situation out of earshot."

Mother Superior gave me an understanding nod and then closed her eyes as if she might be praying. After a moment she said, "Moira and her people are in one of the children's dormitories right now." Her eyes opened and once more, her face offered me encouragement. "I'm sure you understand why we don't allow anyone but authorized people there. Is Moira in danger?"

"I don't think so." I was not altogether convinced my statement was truthful, considering her apparent relationship with Delaney. Nevertheless, I was reasonably certain that trouble would not follow Moira to the orphanage. "Will she see you before leaving?"

Mother Superior nodded. "She has to return the keys to the dormitory doors. Were you there when Mr. Huggins was murdered?"

I shook my head. "Leon collected me from the airport and we discovered Eli's body together."

She smiled. "Then he could not have done that dreadful thing."

"You like Leon?"

"Very much. He was a gentle man around the children despite his former profession. I got the impression he had never wanted to be a prizefighter: that his brother had pushed him into it. Leon loves raising flowers. Did you know?"

I shook my head.

"He raises them at his brother's home," she continued. "Gladiolas were a favorite of his. Mine, too. Whenever he visited, he brought me a large bouquet. Their colors cast a wondrous glow across my office. I'm glad he has a friend like you, Mr. Bishop. He has so little to look forward to."

"Meaning Moira?"

Her eyes dipped but she said nothing.

"Did you know Eli, Leon's brother?" I asked.

She leaned back, her hands pressed together in prayer fashion. "I met him once at a fund raiser. He was polite and extremely generous. In fact I was hoping he might make another donation and then I heard about his demise."

"But you didn't like Eli?"

Her cheeks pinked slightly. "I'm usually quite good at interpreting what people are really like, despite their actions or, appearance."

"You think you've got my number?"

She laughed. "You may wait in the cafeteria for Moira, Mr. Bishop. Naturally, I cannot force her to speak with you. I will tell her you are there."

"You're raising funds for another dormitory? I saw the thermometer in the entrance."

"We have more children than we can house properly. If we cannot increase our bed-count, we must begin turning those in need away. It's a law and we must abide by it."

"I thought there'd be a long line of people waiting to adopt."

She shook her head. "Healthy, normal Babies, yes: adolescents or the infirm, no. So often, we hear of those who are willing to fight—perhaps die, for the unborn. Yet I rarely see an application from them seeking a child."

"The cause is the thing, Sister, not the outcome. I am curious about one thing. Why would someone prefer an infant over a kid who didn't produce dirty diapers on the hour?"

"Babies are like puppies, Mr. Bishop: small cute faces and no bad habits. People fall in love with what they see, not who the infant will become. Those willing to take responsibility for an adolescent are extremely rare. Do you have children?"

I wagged my head. "Marriage doesn't work for me. And my profession doesn't offer much in the way of a home life."

"I can't tell you how often I have heard those excuses."

My cheeks burned. "How much money are you hoping to raise?"

"We will need at least three hundred thousand: an immense sum. Nevertheless, I pray for a miracle every day. Are you a wealthy man, Mr. Bishop?"

"My car's paid for and I make enough to meet my bills—if I don't get too extravagant. But, I'll try to send something your way before I leave town. What's Moira's arrangement with you?"

"She donates her company's services. Why?"

"I've never met her so I'm trying to get a feel for her personality. Did she approach you about the work? Or, were you advertising for a cleaning service?"

"We were soliciting estimates."

"She was the low bidder?"

"From time to time business owners contact us to offer materials such as wood, bricks or equipment. In most cases these are items that have been fully depreciated, completely worn out and even when not, are of little value to us. We take nearly anything offered, of course, hoping to dispose of it. And in exchange we give a donation certification in whatever amount is requested. In Moira's case, she offered her services free of charge."

"Is there honor among tax deductions?"

"I am not one to judge, Mr. Bishop."

"I'm surprised Moira's services are free. Not only is her time and effort provided at no cost. But, by being here she's giving up time for work that could have been done elsewhere, work that would have earned her money. It's called benefit foregone in the finance world. It's unusual someone in her economic situation would do that. Does she store anything here? Cleaning equipment or supplies?"

Mother Superior shook her head. "We don't allow that. As for her contribution, it's no different than a physician providing free medical care for our children."

"Most physicians are in better financial shape than Moira."

"I get the feeling there is more to your interest in her than you've told me, Mr. Bishop. Do you suspect her of being involved in Mr. Huggins' murder?"

"No reason to," I said, and stood up. "How much longer before Moira will be finished?"

Mother Superior checked the watch clipped to her habit's bodice and then stood up. "Moira's probably on her way to my office, now. Sister Madeline will escort you to the cafeteria, Mr. Bishop. If your inquiries disclose that Moira is in trouble, or you have reason to believe our children may be in danger, I would appreciate knowing."

I walked over to the office door, stopped and then turned back. "There's a little girl waiting to see you. What's the rap for passing a note in class?"

"Rita? Why do you ask?"

"Misplaced paternal instinct. In my day such a stunt was akin to desecration and the penalty was nothing to joke about."

"Rita is a little girl who always bends the rules. It's her nature. She will be that way her entire life: nothing I do will change that. However, rules must be enforced. And by consistently applying this enforcement, all the children benefit. I hope you understand."

I nodded. "But that doesn't answer my question."

"We no longer flog children. Rita will have some prayers to say and must apologize to the class—that is all. Nevertheless, I am pleased you expressed concern for her. It confirms my assessment of you."

Sister Madeline poised by the door like a fat, hungry, hawk. Mother Superior told the older nun to escort me to the cafeteria where I would be meeting with Moira, and then signaled Rita to enter. Without remark, Sister Madeline motioned me to follow. I gave the kid a reassuring pat on the shoulder and then followed the hawk.

By the time we got to the cafeteria, the children I had seen earlier were gone. Sister Madeline pointed to one of the tables and told me to sit. Then she settled herself at another, some yards away. From there she kept a cold, calculating eye upon my every breath. I imagined her planning to lash me to a rack, naked and completely vulnerable to her whims. Yes, it was fourth grade all over again.

After nearly twenty minutes of Sister Madeline's staring a tall, slender blond woman entered the cafeteria. She was about forty, dressed in a red plaid shirt, blue denims, and men's workboots. As blondes went, she was a breath-taking beauty. Her hips swaying slightly as she approached. Clearly she was someone who understood the power of her sexuality and was willing to make the most of it.

When Moira reached me, Sister Madeline cleared her throat in warning, as if I might leap up with lustful intent. The warning was timely. After watching Moira's approach, I was seriously considering it.

"I'm Moira Huggins," she said in a silky voice.

I stood and introduced myself.

Moira gave absolutely no reaction to my name. Her eyes were deadpan; she took no interest in my face, clothing or hair. I sensed she felt no joy at seeing me.

"Let's go outside," she murmured, nodding toward the nun. "I've got a business to run and I don't like sharing my dirt with the world."

"Are you sure you want to chance it? I'm single, horny and I don't think Sister Madeline's bagged her limit in men this season."

Moira turned and walked away, obviously not enjoying my off-color effort at humor. I cast Sister Madeline a wink and then followed a pair of swaying hips wherever they were headed.

A few yards away from the administrative building Moira stopped, and turned. She casually crossed her arms over her ample breasts. "Leon and I are separated. He lives out at Eli's palace and I live in the shack his brother gave us. I mind my business and Leon minds his. And, that's the way it's going to continue, understand?"

"That's between you and Leon. I came here with questions about Eli."

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her jeans and stuffed one into her mouth. I took out my lighter and offered some flame. She inhaled deeply as it lit, letting her green eyes shut momentarily, as if someone with gifted hands was taking personal inventory of her most private assets. Then she backed up a step and gave me a questioning stare.

I said, "In case you haven't noticed, your husband's in jail on murder charges."

"Leon confessed to killing Eli. Why shouldn't he be?"

"You don't care he's going to die?"

She inhaled on the cigarette, again. "Why should I?" As she spoke the smoke flooded over her full lips and out her delicately flared nostrils.

"He confessed to protect someone."

"Leon hasn't the brains for it." That said, she twisted away and headed toward the parking lot.

I kept pace with Moira, talking to her back. "Leon doesn't have the brains for a lot of things. But he's still protecting someone. I think it's you."

"I hate his guts and he knows it. Why in hell would he protect me?"

"Leon's the devoted type. And you have a way of bringing that out in a man—the tight jeans, I think."

"He nearly beat his brother to death a few months back. This time he did the job right. Why don't you go home and leave me in peace, Mr. Bishop?"

"If not you, then Leon's protecting Betsy."

Moira stopped and looked back at me. "Betsy?"

"Your daughter. Blond, about eighteen, likes rich men."

Her cheeks reddened and she shouted, "Betsy had nothing to do with Eli Huggins."

"I know all about Eli and your daughter, Moira. I also know you didn't report him to the police when you should have: when something could have been done to stop it. What did Eli hold over you?"

"You'd better watch your mouth, mister," she growled. "There are laws against slander."

"Laws against murder, too. You put the bite on Eli but he turned the tables on you. How?"

One of her hands shot up, forming a small fist. She took a threatening step toward me.

I grinned, "Like to play rough?"

"Mind your own business."

"Right now, I'm minding Leon's. And I'm not about to stop until I get to the bottom of Eli's murder. You did a stretch for murder once. Husband wasn't it? You put a gun to his head intending instant divorce."

Her face went white. "I suppose you've been talking to Lydia."

"I've talked to a lot of people. The point is _you_ should be the prime suspect in Eli's murder, not your husband."

"I did my time. Now back off."

"You're still on probation, Moira. And that means a trip back to the barn if you take a misstep. That includes possession of illicit drugs."

She cast me a worried sidelong glance. "I make a point of not doing that."

"Were you at Eli's the day he was killed?"

Her chin dipped and then her head gave a remorseful wag. "I wasn't there. And I'm sure my kid wasn't. Now just leave me alone."

"In a hurry to get home to Delaney?"

She tossed the cigarette butt to the ground. "What the hell do you want from me?"

"Let's start with a little pity for your husband."

"Look, I married Leon to get an easy life for me and my kid. He was living with Eli and I thought that palace would do just fine for Betsy, and me. But after I married the oaf, I ended up in somebody's castoff cracker box across the street from the gas station my husband ran for his rich brother. Every hour of every day, it was nothing but hand to mouth. To say the least, I was disappointed. Well, I'm still disappointed because I deserve better."

"Delaney's a big step down from Leon. What's he offering you, Moira? Money once the cocaine is sold? Or is he controlling you the same way Eli did?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." She stalked off.

I hurried after Moira, grabbed one of her arms, and jerked her to a stop. She batted free, cursing me.

"You killed your first husband exactly as Eli died. You've been intimate with Eli, ongoing. Your daughter's been sexually abused by him for years. And despite this, you aren't even a suspect in Eli's murder. Delaney must've put the fix in. I'm going to change that. By the time I'm finished you'll be back in your six by eight cell—unless I get some cooperation."

She let got a cold, uncaring laugh. "Do your worst, Mr. Bishop. Now, it's been a long day and I'm beat. So, if there's nothing else"

"I imagine Delaney gets impatient when you're late. But I guess he's got a right—considering he's footing the tab for you."

She took a swing at me screaming oaths.

I caught Moira's arms and jerked her close. "You're hooking your cart to the wrong horse, Moira. Delaney's about to take a fall and he'll bring you down with him."

"Stay away from me, you bastard."

"The cocaine's going to get you killed. Can't you see that?"

"Go to hell!"

"How 'bout I just point your probation officer to where you're storing it for Delaney?"

She quit struggling, her mouth gaping. "What?"

"Your boyfriend's up to his good ear in trouble. And when the Portellos finish with him, they'll come looking for you. I hate to think what a blow torch will do to your beautiful face."

I let go of her and watched Leon's dream hurry away. I could understand why he still adored her. A woman like Moira could hold the power of life and death over a man.

# **Chapter 12**

Elgin Warehouse was a five story poured concrete cube the size of a square city block. A white brick facade wrapped around its glass-paneled main entrance to try and give it that sophisticated upscale look. I used one of the double doors to get in out of the late-afternoon sun. To my delight, I was greeted by a leggy brunette with jade eyes, a strong set of white teeth and twenty pounds of silicone buried in the flesh beneath her blue sweater.

"What can I do you for?" she asked with a provocative jiggle.

I leered at what God had not given her until they stopped moving. "I couldn't ask, now. Not after the way you've improved the blood-flow to places I haven't paid attention to, in years."

She giggled and gave her artificial mammaries another shake. "I love to please."

"Well, in that case is the manager in?"

She leaned across the counter letting her overflowing charms polish its top. "What's he got I don't?"

"Nothing comes to mind at the moment," I replied. "You're perfectly equipped for either short or long term dedication."

Her pink tongue darted naughtily back and forth across her upper lip as she smiled. "I prefer long. Lately short is all that's been offered."

"I'll pencil you in for some overtime come Thursday."

She let go a long ripple of silver laughter. "Why wait? I can work wonders any day of the week."

"Hell! I bet you could make a blind man see."

"Not yet," she cooed, petting my face with her eyes. "But, I'm working on it. I suppose you want to rent space?"

"Preferably somewhere close to you with an option on all-night exploration."

She gave me a wink, and then reached under the counter. I heard a buzzer sound in the distance. And almost instantly, a short rat-faced guy wearing a badly fitting toupee opened the unmarked door behind her, and scurried over.

"I'm Mr. Davis, the manager," he said in a high squeaky voice. His green plaid suit was the kind that advertised drip-dry, with no wrinkles. It had wrinkles, was dry and had definitely attached itself to a drip. "What can I do you?"

I told him who I was and that I owned an international retail distributorship that would be expanding to McAllen and I needed secure warehouse space. His little black eyes sparkled as he foresaw a sales-bonus arriving in time for Christmas.

"We have restrictions on foodstuffs, explosives and flammables," he said, adjusting his dirty brown tie. "Otherwise, nearly anything is acceptable. And our annual rate is the most cost-effective in the entire area."

"What about inflatable sex dolls?" I quipped, giving the brunette a wink.

He pinked as his eyes nervously darted to her. She laughed and shook her head, as if refuting a minor indiscretion.

"I—I don't see how they would pose a problem," Davis stammered, returning his gaze to mine. "Provided they are stored deflated and in unmarked boxes. This is the Bible-belt, Mr. Bishop, and some of our clientele are extremely sensitive."

"Others just hate getting the _short_ end," the brunette giggled.

Davis gave her a red-faced glance before explaining that each renter had a particular area for storage: some secured, others shared. Secured storage was more expensive.

"Most of my goods would be glassware," I told him. "Very long thick stems. Each one is a handmade import. I'll need assurances there is no chance of theft."

The brunette giggled and swayed back to her desk. "Nothing better than long and thick."

Davis's neck reddened as he stared after her. "Expensive glassware and inflatable sex dolls," he murmured. "That has a ring to it, I grant you." Then he returned his attention to me and asked, "How do you display your merchandise?"

"The dolls flex their stomachs to get a good grip on the stems, silly," the brunette quipped.

"Do any of your current clients store similar goods?" I asked. "You see the crystal is extremely sensitive to barometric pressure changes."

"I'm not sure"

"There's a lot of that going around," the brunette interjected. Then she pointed an index finger up before letting it droop. "One second it's where you need it. The next it takes an unexpected dip."

"Sounds serious."

Davis loosened his tie, his face now crimson. "We don't have anyone with your particular inventory combination. However, we have one who stores glassware. Naturally, I could not discuss our arrangements with her. We pride ourselves on confidentiality. It's our most outstanding feature."

"A rare thing, considering so little else stands out these days." The brunette smiled, the tenor of her words placing emphasis upon 'little' and 'out.'

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his sweating brow. "I wish you wouldn't talk like that."

"Thank God for you." I gave one of his hands a firm shake. "I can't tell you how infuriating it is to have some gossip bantering about the details of one's equipment. Particularly during times of dipping disadvantage."

He glanced over at the brunette again before muttering, "I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Bishop."

"Could I see that storage area? Just to get an idea of how it's setup? It would relieve my mind. I've had so many insurance issues of late and I can't bear another theft."

He thought for a moment and then nodded. "I don't see why not. I couldn't actually let you in there, you understand?"

"Confidentiality about your equipment," I said, nodding in agreement.

I gave the brunette another wink, and then let Davis lead me to a section on the warehouse's second floor. It required a pass card to reach that level. A separate card reader mounted to a steel fire door released an electric lock. This, in turn, gave us access to a long passageway lined with chain-link. The latter rose from concrete floor to the concrete ceiling, segmented into cubicles of various sizes. As Davis strode proudly ahead of me, I noted that each storage area was further secured by a solid steel door blessed by a heavy tumbler lock.

After a brisk walk, he stopped. "This is it." He patted the door to a section was the size of a semi-trailer. Inside were about 100 brown shipping boxes. On several I saw the name, 'Moira'.

"Well I'll be damned," I said, feigning surprise. "Don't tell me Moira Huggins leases this?"

The manager started to nod, but caught himself. "I cannot say, either way," he said. "You understand, of course?"

I nodded. "Equipment confidentiality."

"Er, have you known Mrs. Huggins long?"

"Old friends. From long before she married Leon. In fact, I'm having dinner with her, tonight. Is it true her husband's in some sort of trouble with the police?"

"Terrible thing," Davis said. "I've tried to be the soul of consolation."

"You see Moira often?"

He cleared his throat. "Not _that_ often. She has a very busy schedule. She and I have, shall I say, an understanding."

"Really? She'd always preferred someone very large—when it came to understandings—before she married. Have you met her husband?"

His face fell with dismay. "Only once. I knew immediately he was the violent type. An ex-boxer, you know. Er, how large?"

"Well, I don't like to brag." Then I clucked my tongue appropriately and tapped the chain link. "I like what I see, but couldn't someone cut their way through that?"

He stoked the mesh lovingly. "It's titanium. Cutting without a torch would be impossible. With one, it would still be a very risky and time-consuming task. No thief in his right mind would attempt it. Er, you knew Moira well?"

I nodded. "Intimately."

"Was she ever desperate? I mean, what about in an emotional emergency? Did Moira ever settle for, shall we say, medium?"

I wagged my head. "Length and girth are key, I'm afraid."

He sagged back against the wire mesh, looking weary and defeated. "Most, disappointing."

"What about risk from break-in? The pass-card is a good deterrent but..."

One of his arms made an expansive motion. "We have the latest in warehouse security. Motion detectors, heat sensors, video cameras and of course an automated sprinkler system. I don't suppose she drinks to excess?"

"And wouldn't notice any short comings? Not that I remember." Then I nodded toward the boxes. "How many will fit in this size space?"

His chin took another dip. Then with a mournful sigh he replied, "Moira has over a hundred, now. That's probably all it can hold without stacking the cases more than head-high—not recommended. Things have a way of tumbling unexpectedly."

I held up one forefinger and then let it curl downward. "Most embarrassing, I imagine."

"Yes, well, each space is customizable and it is up to the lessee to determine its utilization—within the bounds of our requirements, of course." He offered me a sad smile. "I'd always been told that size doesn't matter."

"A rumor started by the short-set, no doubt. When can I move in, as it were?"

His shoulders sagged in despair. "As soon as a contract can be executed," he droned. "I had such dreams."

I tapped on the mesh. "What if something bigger was needed?"

"Naturally, we could lease you something larger—not an entire floor at this time. However, there is substantial space on the ground floor."

I looked around, carefully evaluating the risk of breaking into the place. Access from below was out since the floor was reinforced concrete. I looked up. Access from above was not possible for the same reason. The only way in or out was through its steel door. To manage that, I would need a card from someone leasing space on this floor. "I would prefer space on this floor."

"I'm afraid, this entire level is booked."

So much for plans 'A thru Z'. "Now, I'm disappointed."

"How much are your inflatable sex dolls?" he asked.

"With or without a vibrating vagina?"

He stood erect his eyes suddenly bright. "It vibrates?"

I nodded. "I designed it with Moira in mind. How can I get to my storage area if you're out ill, for example?"

"Your access card such gets you past the main entrance and allows exclusive admittance to your assigned floor. After using the access reader, you merely go to your particular spot and with the issued key gain admittance to your goods. We prefer not to offer duplicate keys for security reasons. However there have been exceptions."

"What about after hours, access?"

He shook his head. "If you need that, you'd better look for one of those drive-in pay-stations. We have a strict schedule and there is no variation."

"That's a bit of a drawback. You see I'm out of town frequently on buying trips. Can I send someone in my stead to retrieve merchandise?"

He nodded. "Happens all the time. In fact, just the other day one of Moira's... er, this client's hired-help came with a delivery. Naturally, you would be responsible if your property is stolen under those circumstances."

"Fair enough. One last thing, my trucks are rather large and I don't want to inconvenience your other tenants while I'm moving in. Is there a time when it isn't too busy?"

He nodded. "Just after noon is usually the slowest. However, I'm not available at that time on the off-chance you need assistance."

"Is your receptionist here?"

His face renewed its red glow. "She's usually gone during that timeframe, as well."

"Ah, out for some exercise, I'm sure. She looked very fit. I take it she's quite fussy about what she puts in her mouth? Complains when it isn't just right?"

He offered a feeble smile. "Among other things. We could—or rather, I could—make other arrangements on a particular day if you have issues that can be resolved only during that timeframe. Naturally, there would be a service charge."

"Dear me what a surprise. I hadn't expected that."

"It seems to be the thing everywhere, lately," he sighed.

"Does the charge depend on the time duration? Or what is to be accomplished?"

"Both, actually. It can be very frustrating. Oh, you mean here? Well, time is the issue."

"Especially if you want it right then and there. Still, I'm sure it's well worth paying."

He took out his handkerchief and daubed his neck. "Some days I'm not."

After he escorted me back to his office, I was given a look at the security system's central control panel. I commented on the pretty red lights, while silently noting it was a brand that offered little leeway in circumventing. After which, I promised to return in a few days to sign a multiyear lease. He was holding back tears of joy as I left. The brunette was licking her lips.

# **Chapter 13**

I returned to my motel room, ate an early supper of delivered chicken and then took a nap. Just after dark, I got up and drove back to Leon's neighborhood. The lights in his house were off and the shades were tightly drawn against the milky rays of a full moon. I parked the rental down the block and then strolled back, keeping to the shadows so Lydia Thornton would not notice my arrival. Another session with her lemonade would likely be terminal.

When I reached Leon's little piece of heaven, I crept across the weed-choked yard to the front door. In so doing, I went past an overgrown lime tree. Its withering fruit flooded the night air with a citrusy perfume and its inch-long thorns offered the unwary a painful reminder that some trees are for looking, not touching. Unfortunately, I had. I wrapped the bleeding finger with my handkerchief as I listened at the door.

All was silent from within.

I used a credit card to slip the latch, and then stepped inside into air hot enough to wilt wax or unbridled ardor. All about me was the pungent stench of disinfectant. I shut the door, switched on my penlight and waved it about. The flare from its narrow white beam disclosed a desperate but immaculately perseverant lifestyle. Mended furniture rested upon a threadbare rug, drawn blinds covered rotted window frames, and faded roses highlighted age-browned wallpaper. Moira had used and reused until there was nothing left, before reusing again.

At one end of the front room was an old upright piano. I went over and touched its top expecting to disturb a thick layer of dust. But, the wood was immaculately clean. I should have known better. After all, Moira was a house-cleaner by profession and cleanliness is next to—what had Lydia Thornton said about doing penance for sins? Regardless of Moira's shortcomings, she was undeniably a survivor.

The kitchen offered little more in the way of emotional or spiritual uplifting. Its ceiling sagged like dirty cardboard from decades of absorbed rainwater. The yellow linoleum rippled like sand on a beach. And in one corner, an ancient Frigidaire rumbled against the heat. Between it and a rust-shedding gas range was a blue Formica counter graced by aluminum pots and kettles of a long forgotten vintage. Across the room, dishes stood like naked beggars in a rubber drying rack, which drained into a chipped cast-iron sink. An old stainless-steel frying pan rested in the bottom of the latter, collecting the plunk-plunking from a leaking faucet. Next to it a small plate held the remains of somebody's breakfast—damp toast slimed with something brown.

A door opened onto a dismal backyard. I lit a cigarette and looked out through upon grass that was being replaced by spreading splotches of sand. The door was latched but not locked: the lock had been broken some time in the ancient past and never repaired. There was no hurry for such an extravagance. Intruders would not likely select this resident as a candidate for anything but pity.

I followed a crack in the linoleum to a narrow hallway. This took me to three tiny bedrooms, and a bath at the rear of the house.

One bedroom smelled of Leon. On its drab green walls, framed photos reminisced the boxer's heyday. At one time, he'd been the center of attention for celebrities and national political figures—each was proudly photographed shaking Leon's hand. When you are on top, everybody wants to be seen with you. Once you fell from your mount of fame, no one offers the time of day.

Next to a closed window in Leon's room stood an old pine bureau. Tattered underwear and boxing paraphernalia filled its drawers to overflowing. Behind it, a fist-sized hole was punched through the wall-plaster. A single bed was neatly made and fitted with an army surplus blanket and crisp clean sheets, faced the window. Beneath was a pair of worn, corduroy slippers, placed as if their owner would soon enjoy their comfort again.

In the closet, I found faded work-shirts monogrammed with 'Discount Gas' and Leon's name. Cuddled underneath on the same hangers were frayed denims—all that remained of the boxer's business acumen. After leaving the ring, Eli had set Leon up in a business even a child could run successfully. Leon had failed everyone's expectations. He had tumbled from the height of sports fame to become a figure of fun and pity.

The bedroom across the hall was a candy-pink shrine to a young girl. On a long wooden shelf above a lace-covered bed stood a row of plastic award-cups. Each had 'Betsy Huggins' engraved on the base. A framed photo of a blond girl rested on another shelf. She looked to be about fourteen years of age and wore a blue satin gown, as if going to a school dance. There should have been a gangly young boy posing with her for the snap. Instead, it was a middle-aged man with a gaunt, pale face and greased back black hair. Eli Huggins had a broad, knowing smile upon his face, and I hated him for it.

The last bedroom held a woman's abandoned hopes. It was as sparsely furnished as the others were, but just as tidy. Brown chenille covered the bed. A small play-worn teddy bear sat upright against a pillow, as if on guard. It must have been a discarded toy from Betsy's childhood. Somehow, I could not see Moira curled up with it.

The closet held a tan leather jacket, some denims, a few dresses and a several other scraps of wear-weary clothing. Numerous pairs of tired shoes occupied the floor: high-heels, flats, walking shoes, a pair of work boots and several sets of sandals. A taped-up box on the overhead shelf contained stacks of newspaper clippings. These covered Leon's rise in the boxing world, followed by his abrupt fall after losing his boxing license for taking the fall to Johnny Paean. Beside the box, was an unused scrapbook—another unkept promise to the one man who would always adore her.

I went over to the bureau and searched its drawers. Her underwear was neatly folded and of the type selected by frugal women. There were no lace frills, no slinky silks, no naughty satins. Just stacks of cotton practicality. Secreted beneath one of these was an Elgin Warehouse pass-card upon which was taped a single brass key. I stuffed the find into my pocket and closed the drawers.

In the bath, face cream and cosmetics littered the glass shelves of a rusty medicine chest. There were various shades of lipstick, but none were close to the red I had seen on the cigarette butts. Moira had not been one of the blondes on Eli's bed.

Back in the living room, I made another sweep. I paused at a frilly red tablecloth covering an old portable television and hit the power switch. Not so much as a hum. A potted cactus rested on the cloth, as if a prickly replacement for the set's intended use. Just as well. There was so little on television worth watching, these days. At a wall-phone near the front door, I stopped and picked up the receiver. The line was dead—probably replaced by something cellular. I took one more glance at what life meant for Moira, turned my back on the dismal scene and then went outside.

I shined the penlight in through one of the garage's dirty windows. The interior was empty except for dusty gym equipment, along one wall. I could picture Leon planning his comeback while placing the tools of his trade in there. Each piece leaning haphazardly against another—like Leon's dreams for success.

Down the street a dog barked. A moment later, a car's headlights came into view. It was heading in my direction so I switch off the penlight and concealed myself behind the lime tree. When the driver signaled to turn into Leon's driveway, I crouched low and waited.

There was a blonde behind the old car's steering wheel. After the engine gasped into silence, she got out and adjusted her skirt. It was dark and skin-tight with white polka dots. As she moved toward the house, her swaying hips offering a hint at the abundant pleasure that waited beneath.

At first glance, one might think she was the epitome of contentment. However, on second consideration one noticed her eyes staring bleakly from either side of a finely formed nose. In the moonlight, they were dark: the hollows of a woman who viewed life from afar, never participating. A plush protrusion above a neatly chiseled chin served as her mouth. It was not smiling, it was not angry, it was devoid of desire and emotion. When she reached the stoop, a teasing breeze caught her scent and tumbled my senses with fragrances of lavender and gin. Albeit the same woman, this was a different Moira from the one I had seen at the orphanage.

I waited until she was inside, then I crossed to the abandoned gas station. Dusty fuel pumps stood amidst years of dumped trash, overgrown weeds and shrubs. I found an old wooden crate and settled upon it behind a dwarf olive tree. Then I opened the pint of Rye I had brought along and let its musky taste revive my being.

Across the street, lights had gone on in the living room, backlighting the shades. Behind one, I saw Moira's silhouette grimly pacing, like a tormented shadow. In one hand she held a glass, in the other a cigarette. And every few uneasy steps she would stop, take a drink and inhale from the burning weed. It was obvious she was expecting someone—someone she was not looking forward to being with, someone she feared, someone who probably had big feet and a scarred face.

Several minutes later, another silhouette appeared on the shade: that of a big man wearing a Stetson. Moira turned toward him, dropped the cigarette into her glass and then waited. A moment later, he wrapped his shadow about hers in a fiery embrace. She submitted, her arms hanging limply at her sides. After they parted, the lights dimmed and the two of them moved to another room.

Half a pint later, Moira came out onto the stoop, alone. The tan leather jacket and a pair of tight denims from her closet had replaced the polka dots. The jacket pockets nuzzled both her hands as she strode across the street. Each step she took was measured and unhesitating, each was fearless, each was prompted by something or someone, each brought her closer. I could understand Leon's unswerving devotion to Moira now. In addition to her beauty, she had courage and determination that no amount of money could improve upon.

Moira followed the gas station's broken walkway through the overgrowth, directly to where I sat. She stopped and stared down at me. She was not afraid. She was not curious. She had something specific on her mind—something she was not quite ready to act upon. I recapped the Rye and leered up at her.

"Who says prayers don't get answered?"

Her voice rustled low. "What's a little boy like you doing in the bushes in the dark?"

I grinned and got to my feet. "Just playing by myself. It's more fun with two, but some nights a guy has to make do."

Moira smiled. It was a nice smile—wide and white: the kind that promised a lot of the things and warned of many others. "I knew it was you as soon as I saw a glowing cigarette over here. Do you find me so irresistible, Mr. Bishop?"

"Step closer—you'll get the idea."

She moved forward and kissed my lips. It was a light touch and ended with her backing away holding a small chrome-plated pistol pointed at my middle. Instinctively I dropped the pint, and reached for my Mauser.

Moira was expecting that.

"Don't!" she snapped, unruffled by the prospect of gunplay. "You'll be dead before you get it clear!"

"Mugging?" I asked, eyeing the weapon. It was an old .32 caliber revolver. Slowly, I raised my hands. "Or, is this an invitation to play rough?"

She bobbed the gun barrel in my direction. "Game is over, Bishop. Just keep your hands where I can see them."

I flashed my palms. "I'm disappointed, Moira. I was hoping we'd get better acquainted before it came to bloodshed. I'm still open to an offer, in case this is just a tease to keep me interested."

"No tease, Bishop."

"Pity. When I'm not playing private detective I enjoy giving all night massages, sipping Manhattans, and the action that goes on in between. How was Delaney tonight? Down to his usual standard?"

"Let's get to why you're here," she snapped, giving the gun another waggle.

"Are you the one who blindsided me at Eli's?" I asked, rubbing the knot on the back of my head. "I seem to remember your perfume."

"I'm also the one who called Bascomb and told him to get his fat ass out there before Delaney killed you. You owe me Bishop—big time. Now, what do you want?"

"I came by to offer my services. If you give me a chance, you'll figure out I'm a big improvement over Delaney—in all departments."

"I didn't realize you two shared intimacies—or were you peeking in my bedroom?"

"Just an educated guess."

"An improvement over him wouldn't take much. I usually vomit after he leaves."

"Did he send you over here?"

She shook her head. "He was too busy pawing to notice you."

"And you find staring outside while he's doing his best helps the situation?"

"You _were_ peeking."

"What's your arrangement on the cocaine split? Maybe I can improve upon that."

She gave me a cold laugh. "You can take Delaney—no question there. I'm not so sure about your follow-through. With Delaney I know where I stand."

"And everything else, I'm sure. But you can do better. Put the gun away and I'll give you a demonstration."

She cocked the hammer back. "Not tonight, handsome."

"Before I die answer me one question. How close to Dominic Portello did Delaney push you?"

"Nobody pushes me anywhere."

"He would've tried. I'm just curious about your opinions on the naughty Sicilian. It's something to spend eternity thinking about."

"I should kill you right now. It would save a lot of bother later on. But, I won't. Not if you give me your promise that you'll walk away and never bother me again."

"Not to mention the bouquets from Delaney for the effort. Can I put my hands down?"

She backed up a step nodding. "Just leave me and mine alone. Okay?"

"You'll need me once the Portellos get here."

"Delaney can take of them."

I wagged my head. "Not on his best day, Moira."

"You underestimate him. Delaney's got it all rigged. In twenty four hours we'll double our take and the city of McAllen will be offering up two Sicilian funerals."

"Delaney's offering to sell back the coke? They'll tear him apart."

"He's convinced the Portellos somebody else copped the goodies."

"So Delaney fakes it as the middle man to get the cash. Then Enrique tries his hand at a big time hit. Where do you fit in?"

She grinned. "I make the funeral arrangements."

"Three way split?"

"A million each."

"Until the boys get greedy and decide to cut your out."

Her eyes narrowed. "They won't."

"Eli's estate is worth millions, Moira. With a little planning you and Leon could sell off enough to set yourselves up for life and then some. Why walk away from a sure thing to chance some action that will likely get you killed?"

Tears flooded from her eyes as she blurted, "And live with that bozo for the rest of my days? I want more than that."

"You don't want Leon. Okay. Divorce him and split the pile. Either way you'll be better off than with Delaney."

"I signed a prenupt when Leon and I married—Eli insisted on that. It hands me ten grand if I divorce the bum. What does ten grand buy these days, Bishop? Not even a good used car." She raised one arm and drew the jacket-sleeve across her face, wiping away the tears. "You could be right about Delaney crossing me. Maybe I should reconsider your offer."

I moved toward her, closing the distance between us. "And the side benefits?"

She tilted her head to one side in girlish fashion, let the gun tilt toward the ground and stared at me down the length of her nose. "Anything you want."

"I take care of Delaney and Enrique and then the Portellos. In exchange I get an even split on the proceeds and you. Not bad for a beat-up old guy like me."

She wrapped her arms about my neck. "Do we have a deal?"

I pulled her close. "I want one more little thing."

"Name it."

"I want who killed Eli."

Her arms dropped until they rested like barriers against my chest. "And how am I supposed to know that?"

"Delaney would've told you."

She back away suddenly angry. "I don't get much pillow-talk from him. And even if he wasn't in his usual hurry, the bastard's not about to let me in on anything that could get him put away permanently."

"I don't think Delaney did it."

"Of course he did."

I shook my head. "There were two blondes with Eli the day he was killed. It had to be one of them."

Moira raised the gun, pointing it at my chest, her eyes darting around the perimeter as if her worst fears had been realized. "We could've had a nice time, you and me."

"The blondes were Betsy and Nadine. Which one pulled the trigger, Moira?"

A web of fear spread across her, drawing Moira's trembling mouth into a closed pouch. "Leave it be."

"Eli sent Leon to the airport instead of coming himself. He could have sent a cab or a limo if a business problem had come up. But he sent Leon. That means he needed Leon out of the way. Why? Because Eli knew Betsy was coming. And Betsy would have brought her friend; Nadine."

Moira's hand flexed upon the pistol's butt. "Looks like I'll have to do the job after all."

Her finger tightened on the pistol's trigger and I lunged forward. The gun went off as I knocked it out of her hand, the round burning my shoulder as it passed through my coat. I grabbed her wrist and twisted, hard.

She took a swing at me with her free hand but I caught the blow and then pinned her arms against her sides, jerking her tight to me.

"I should have killed your right off."

"Betsy would've talked to you after leaving Eli's, Moira. She would've told you everything. Who killed, Eli?"

Moira stopped struggling, tilting her forehead against my chest. "Leon," she murmured. "Betsy called all upset. She said Leon had shot Eli and then driven off. I told her to keep her mouth shut. I didn't figure the bozo would confess." Then, she purposely pressed against me, molding her groin firmly against mine. "What difference does it make, now?"

She was leading me on but I let her warmth dazzle my senses anyway. It was a nice feeling, something I had not enjoyed for a very long time. When her chin tilted up and her mouth parted, I kissed her. Her tongue darted in, stirring the ashes of my passion into a raging fire. She went limp in my arms and I released her wrists.

With a sigh, she wrapped her arms about my neck, her tongue diving deeper. She was eager. So, was I. My hands wandered. She helped. It was bliss.

When I let go of Moira, she teetered back on wobbly legs gasping, "What's wrong?"

I went over to where her gun lay, and picked it up. "Where can I find your daughter?"

Her wagged. "I told you, Betsy said it was Leon."

I walked back to Moira, my eyes studying the milky bulges of warm flesh between the cups of her bra as they jutted from her open blouse. "I don't buy it, Moira."

Moira made a sidelong retreat, buttoning her blouse. "You'd better git while you still can."

I popped open the pistol's breach and stared down at the cylinder. Two rounds had been fired, one at me. The other was probably in Eli's brain. I stuffed her pistol into my pocket. "What will you tell the Portellos when they learn you're storing the cocaine at the Elgin warehouse, Moira?"

She stopped and stared back at me as if transfixed. "I—I... How did you... I don't know what you're talking about."

"Too late for that. Delaney needs somebody to take the fall on the theft. That somebody will be you, Moira. He'll empty out the bin except for a couple of boxes, just so he can prove to the Portellos that you were storing the stuff. Then he'll leave a few thousand hidden in your house, just to prove you got the payoff. After that he walks away, leaving the Portellos to do their work. They'll spend a week killing you."

With a curse at my being, she whirled away, racing headlong back to her house.

I made a noisy exit from the gas station's shrubs. Then, I took a detour back to the rental. By the time I got its engine started, Moira was driving away as fast as her tired automobile could sputter. I gave her some distance, put the rental into gear and followed.

# **Chapter 14**

I tailed Moira down the freeway for nearly half an hour. At the Bussan off-ramp, she exited onto a dirty strip of asphalt heading south.

I followed.

The narrow road wound through miles of scrub desert to the little town of Mission. There, she hooked a right just past the first intersection and drove into a collection of human misery called The Hampton Mobile Home Court.

The trailer park was a 1940's era creation that had skidded its way into the new millennium with an upscale neon sign. The marker flickered a bright green promise of low rates, good neighbors and safe living. Notably absent was any comment concerning weed-choked streets or sleeping within arm's reach of another's nightmares.

Moira sped through the darkness as if she had made the trip a thousand times before.

I lagged back, tracking her taillights and trying to avoid exchanging doors with parked cars. Most of the mobile homes were lit up like 'B' movie sets, replete with resident drunk. Most exuded noise from thumping stereos, arguing voices, or the tattletale cries of hungry children. I gave her more headway and tried to ignore the sounds. Life was good in Texas. Just not at the Hampton Mobile Home Court.

At the terminus of the dark street I came upon her parked car. It was sitting in front of a new doublewide, directly behind a small red convertible. Moira was at the home's front door rattling its aluminum frame with her fists as if she were about to die and it was the last barrier to heaven.

I dowsed the rental's headlights, pulled to the curb several trailers back, and let the engine idle.

"Betsy!" Moira called. She pounded the door, again. "Betsy, it's mommy. I have to talk to you, honey."

When the door opened, a wash of yellow light flooded out, engulfing Moira like golden fire. She grabbed the doorknob, rushed in and jerked the light after herself.

I pulled away from the curb and let the rental roll forward.

A few yards behind Moira's car, I set the brake and shut off the engine. From within the doublewide, I could hear raised voices. Women were arguing but I was too far away to make out what was being said. I assumed their tiff was focused upon Eli's murder—Moira threatening, Betsy not agreeing.

My guess was at odds with what occurred next. While one voice still shrieked in anger, Moira stormed from the doublewide. The light once more flooded after her like an exploding torch chasing its user. Without a backward glance, she jumped into her car and sputtered away.

A pretty blonde wrapped in a light colored blanket reached out and drew the screen door closed. The girl's face was older than what I had seen in the photos at Leon's house. There was no denying it belonged to Betsy.

I tore several pages from my notebook and folded them over, envelope-fashion. Then, I got out of the rental, followed Moira's tracks to the doublewide, and rapped on the door.

From within, a girl's voice sobbed, "Mommy?"

"Western Union," I responded.

The door opened a crack and the blonde peered out. She was no more than eighteen, small boned, and blue eyed. Tears had washed mascara onto the bridge of a tiny upturned nose. A crimson smear spread from her thin lips up across one cheek. Her blanket slipped and I got a good look at all that God had granted her through a sheer lavender nightdress. I liked what I saw. I did not like the guilt deep inside me.

"What do _you_ want?"

The nightdress drifted defiantly in the night breeze, clinging invisibly one moment; riding up evocatively the next. She smelled of Shalimar and lost innocence. I felt a loathing for Eli Huggins as well as my dark-sided self.

I waived the folded pages. "Telegram for Betsy Huggins. It's from Eli Huggins. Sorry, about being a day late. We had a flu outbreak and nobody could get here 'til now."

Betsy's eyes blinked at me several times in confusion, but she said nothing.

"There's cash," I quickly added. "So I'll need a signature. My last stop kept my pen. Do you have one?"

Betsy nodded, and then stepped away, leaving the door ajar. I nudged it open just as she dropped the blanket to the floor near a small desk. I waited until she was busy fumbling through one of its drawers before creeping inside.

From behind, Betsy's petite form was like that of a child who had suddenly found womanhood. Her hips were slightly flared, her waist tiny, her back narrow.

I felt uneasy in my stare, and let my eyes meander around the front room as I quietly closed the door.

A yellow shag carpet kept company with wood-grained Masonite walls and a small collection of carefully matched furniture. Artwork was in evidence—suspended from the Masonite above a brown davenport. It consisted of two leaping, gray cats painted upon black velvet. In front of the davenport, the floor was littered with fast-food debris and piles of laundry.

Two tabby-cats moved from the chair adjacent to the davenport, stretched and then trotted over to the blonde's discarded blanket. They curled upon its warm folds and quickly closed their eyes. A third cat napped obliviously on the back of recliner near the kitchen doorway; it was white and fuzzy. Against the wall opposite the davenport was a new television set. A rock video blared through the speakers. The singer was dressed in something silky and feminine, despite his thick beard.

Music had changed a tad since I last paid tribute.

Adjacent to the TV was an aquarium of dead fish. They floated in bloated abandon as the air pump gurgled bubbles in unison with the rock-music.

I noticed a pair of women's boots near my feet. Fresh, greenish scars marred their white leather—similar to markings seen on the footwear of children after a day of climbing trees. If the cleaning woman had clamored down from Eli's terrace, Betsy had either followed or led the way.

She turned, pen in hand. When Betsy saw me standing inside by the door she waxed white.

"What's up with you?" she demanded. "I didn't tell you to come in." She crossed her arms over her barely concealed breasts and stared at me as if I was death, incarnate.

I took out my P-I identification and held it up. "My name is Deacon Bishop. I'm a Private Investigator working for Leon. All I want is information."

Betsy grabbed the blanket, dumping its sleeping occupants unceremoniously onto the carpet. She clutched it to her bosom like a shield.

"Get out of here." She sidled toward a wall phone just outside the kitchen doorway. "If you don't, I'll scream."

I put my identification away, went over to the davenport and sat down. "Not until we talk. Do you have any smokes? I ran out on the drive over here."

She stared at me a moment, bewildered by my actions and doubting my intentions. Then, she straightened up, draped the blanket about her shoulders and strode over to the telephone. "I'm calling the cops."

"Ask for Captain Delaney," I coached. "While you've got him on the horn you might mention you were at Eli's when the old bastard was killed. Don't worry about me. I'll wait with you. I promise Delaney won't be long. He'll want to talk to both of us about what you were doing while Eli was getting his brains jelled—and, more importantly, who you saw do it."

She grabbed the handset and glared over at me. "You think I'm bluffing don't you?"

I wagged my head. "He'll want to talk with Nadine, too. You remember Nadine, Betsy. Blond, nice yellow car, has a flair for powdering her nose through a straw. You and she partied with Eli just before Satan called him home."

Betsy slowly returned the handset to its cradle. "Me and Nadine didn't see nothin'."

I had expected her denial, probably precipitated by Moira's visit. "You two were out on the patio. Your back was to the tree. Nadine was facing it. _She_ saw the killing. She told you who did it. Then the two of you climbed down the tree. You hid out until the killer left. After that, you hightailed it for home. Neither of you reported it to the police, which can only mean you were either afraid to, or you knew Eli's killer."

One of her small hands flared across her whitening throat. "No," she gasped. "You got it all wrong, Mister."

I jabbed a thumb toward her boots. "Don't lie to me, Betsy. You left white shoe polish on the railing and your boots are scarred and stained from the climb down. Forensics will match up what's on them to the tree next to the terrace. Trees have a unique DNA, the same as people. You were there, and you were scared enough to risk breaking your neck to get down in a hurry."

She squinted across the room at her boots for nearly a minute before saying, "It wasn't like that—not exactly!"

"What was it like? Exactly?"

Betsy squirmed as if there was a fire under her but said nothing.

"Maybe it would be best if you called Nadine. If you get her over here, I'm sure we can settle this before Delaney catches on."

She twisted her body into an angry pose. "You can't tell me what to do."

"I _can_ tell Delaney you were a witness. Would that suit you?"

Her pose went limp with fear. "I didn't see nothin', honest."

"Nadine did. What did she tell you, Betsy?"

Her blond head wagged back and forth like a little girl refusing a dose of bad tasting medicine, but she remained silent.

"Moira warned you to keep quiet. She warned you against telling me because I'm liable to queer her blackmail plans. She warned you against telling Delaney because he'd kill you if he knew. And she wants you to claim you saw Leon do it."

She let go an anguished cry, "Please, go away."

"Betsy, I'm no genius. If I figured out you two saw Eli get killed, it won't be long before Delaney does. And once he puts on the pressure, you and Nadine will have to testify it was Leon—or die. Leon will face lethal injection, then. Is that what you want, Betsy?"

"It wasn't him. He'd never do that. We were there all right. And we were on the balcony, all right. But Leon didn't do it."

One of the evicted cats took up residence on my lap. The animal's contentment seemed to ease Betsy's fears. She let out a sigh of resignation and then returned to the desk and settled upon its chair, staring at me.

"It's me or Delaney, Betsy," I prodded. "If you won't talk to me, I'll tell him what I know—what I suspect you know."

Her hands went to her face. "I gotta' talk to Nadine first," she sobbed. "I just have to talk to her."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you. Please go away."

Based upon Betsy's wailing insistence, the key to Eli's murder clearly rested with Nadine and someone with whom she was involved. That meant Moira was no longer in the running as the shooter. And likely as not, Delaney was not involved.

"Telephone her," I urged.

She dropped her hands and took a deep breath, her breasts rising like ripe plums beneath the nightgown. Then she pointed to my lap's tenant. "Beatrice usually doesn't like men. Careful. She's not afraid to use her claws."

"Animals and old ladies love me. It's the rest of the world that gives me grief. We can meet Nadine someplace else if she won't come here—now would be best."

Betsy glanced across the room to the clock above the television. "She'd still be out with him."

"Who?"

Her eyes dipped, and she folded her hands in her lap.

"Call her cell-phone," I suggested. "The longer you wait the worse this will get."

"Nadine doesn't like being bothered when she's with him."

"What's the boyfriend's name?"

Her eyes darted up to mine like blue fire. "That's none of your business."

I stroked the cat's thick brownish fur. "Was Leon a good dad, Betsy?"

She dragged one bare forearm beneath her dripping nose. "When Mommy let him be. He used to be a famous boxer. Did you know that?"

"I saw him fight several times. In his day he was probably the best there was."

Her face brightened, then. "When he married mommy, he ran a gas station right across the street from his house. I used to help there. He'd pump the gas and I'd tell the customers about all the stuff we sold—in case they needed things. We were going to be partners when I grew up." Then a sadness took control of her features and she added, "That didn't work out."

"Was Eli a good uncle?"

"He was okay, I guess."

"Lydia Thornton didn't think so, did she?"

Betsy flushed red. "Eli isn't blood if that's what you heard."

"Leon's in jail for murder, Betsy. Do you want him to die for something he didn't do?"

"Mommy said they wouldn't do that. They'd just lock him up for a while."

It was my turn to shake a head. "He'll die. Delaney can't afford to have him live."

She bent over her chin nearly touching her knees wailing, "No, no, no."

"Anything you tell me will stay between us, Betsy—I won't say a word to anyone. But you have to help Leon. Why don't you start by telling me about Eli?"

She sat up wiping her eyes on the blanket. "He's real rich—was real rich. He liked nice things—and so do I. Pretty things."

"Moira sent you to him that first time, didn't she?"

Betsy turned away, as shame twisted a net of red around her face. After many seconds of silence she said, "We needed money. Mommy was sick. Leon wasn't doin' any good at that gas station. So, Eli offered to help—if I'd come over and keep him company." She turned back half rising as she cried, "He wasn't blood."

"I'm not judging you, Betsy. I'm just trying to understand. You visited Eli often after that?"

"He would come by the house and I would go with him—but, just when Mommy told me. He always took me to nice places—real fancy restaurants. And everybody there was real nice to me. Then we'd go back to his house." She paused then, her cheeks pinking. "He has a real pretty house. With lots of pretty things. Have you seen it?"

I nodded. "It's very nice. It'll be Leon's if we can get him clear of this murder. You could live there with him, then. Wouldn't you like that?"

"Mommy says that pretty place'll be ours if Leon stays in jail."

"Could be at that. But only if Leon takes the fall."

She swallowed thickly staring at me as if I was a player in her worst nightmare. Then she glanced about, a small smile trying to make itself known to her small mouth. "Eli gave me this, last year. It's all mine—paid for and everything!"

"Tell me about Eli's business."

Her voice tinkled with laughter. "It's a big secret. Nobody knows about it but him, and me—and, now mommy. I was going to run it when he got too old. Guess she'll do it, now."

"Running cocaine is a high-risk business."

She gave me a startled look. "Did mommy tell you about it?"

I wagged my head.

"Eli always had me dust my nose a little when I visited—even when I was just little. He said it would help me relax. It did, too. I was always real relaxed when I was with Eli. Everything went like a dream. Sometimes I'd be there the whole day and it seemed just like minutes."

Beatrice rolled onto her back and let out a purr that rumbled like a tiny diesel along my thighs. "Was it Nadine's boyfriend who shot Eli?"

Her smile faded. "I don't want to talk about it. And you can't make me."

"Leon thinks you killed Eli, Betsy. That's why he confessed. Right now the only way I can save him is to find the real killer. See what I mean, Betsy? Do you want him to die for something somebody else did?"

Fresh tears streaked down her cheeks. Then she put one hand to her mouth, and let her front teeth stab into the forefinger like marble daggers. "I can't tell you all of it. Not 'til I talk to Nadine. But, I can tell you some. Maybe that would be enough?"

Whatever she was willing to divulge was better than nothing. "Let's hope so."

A small pink tongue flicked at the red on her mouth. Her eyes brightened as if she had suddenly remembered something funny. "Nadine and me were in bed," she explained. "Eli was watching us. He liked to watch—and, you know. I think he liked that better than doing it. We both had a real good buzz on—Eli always had the best stuff. But just when we were really getting into it he said he heard a car and got all shook. Scared maybe, I'm not sure. Anyway, he said we had to leave and told us to get dressed. I wanted to stay. I liked staying at his house. Sometimes I'd walk around it for hours, just looking at all the pretty things. Nadine didn't care whether we stayed or not, as long as she got her stash topped off. She already had a nice house."

"What happened?"

She fingered her mouth for a moment, twisting the plush lower lip back and forth. "Eli got dressed. Real careful-like. Making sure he looked real good, almost like he was going on a date. Or meeting somebody important."

"Or, like he had been working instead of watching you and Nadine?"

Betsy thought for a moment and then she nodded. "Maybe. Anyway, Nadine and me put our clothes on. And we started to leave, but then Nadine wanted to dust her nose. So we went out on the balcony. It was warm and sunny—nice, you know? The table out there has a glass top. She dumped out a packet, razored it into a line and then snorted it. I had some coffee and we sat there just enjoying the sun. It was a real nice morning—not too hot because there was a breeze. I could smell grass being cut somewhere.

"Anyway, a little while later me and Nadine heard arguing. Then we heard Eli yelling real loud about somethin'. I didn't understand it, at first."

"Did Eli come back upstairs?"

She raked her fingers through her hair sending the blondness back over her shoulders like strands of spun gold. "It just got quiet, then," she replied. "Nadine gave her nose another line while I put out my cigarette. That breeze felt so good. I must've gone to sleep. Some while later, I woke to a scream! I stood up and looked around, but I didn't seen nothin'—then. Nadine was out, sleepin' off her buzz. Then there was another voice yelling—real loud and mean soundin'. I couldn't hear the words. After that, there was a pop sound."

"Gunshot?"

She shrugged and picked at the blanket. "Just a pop. I went over to the balcony thinkin' I might see what it was all about. That's when I heard—anyway, after that I got Nadine up on her feet in a big hurry. I told her we had to get out of there, but-quick. She couldn't climb the tree. She was way too high—she could barely stand. So she had no choice but to go down the way she'd come up—through Eli's bedroom. I was so scared crawled down that old tree as fast as I could."

"Was it a man you heard yelling at Eli?"

Betsy looked down at her hands as women often do when they lie. "I'm not sure. I was too scared."

"Did Moira drive you out to Eli's that morning?"

She shook her head. "Nadine and me both drove separate. We always did that. Like I said, I liked to stay and she didn't. We parked in the garage under the house."

"How did you get into the garage from outside?"

"We each have one of those button thingies, you know. Eli gave them to us so our cars wouldn't be noticed when we visited. He was always real nice about things like that—he didn't want us to be embarrassed."

"You got down from the tree—what then?"

She chewed her lip, again. "I ran over to the garage door and waited for Nadine to drive out."

"Then, you saw the killer drive away?"

Again, her eyes dipped. "The garage door opened and Nadine drove out, but fast. I ran into the garage and got into my car. The garage door shut, then. And I had trouble getting it open—it jammed sort of. It took me the longest time. But when it did open and I drove out, I saw feet by the hedge—shoes, really. I knew it was Eli. So, I stopped the car and went over. There was blood on the ground under his head and his face was as white as milk. I knew he was dead. Even though I'd never seen a dead man before, I just knew."

I leaned toward her, setting the cat on the floor. "Tell me who it was, Betsy."

Her hand dropped away from her face. "I can't. Not 'til I talk to Nadine!"

"Okay. Whose idea was it that you and Nadine go to Eli's that morning?"

Betsy stared down at her hands. "Mommy called me the night before. She said Eli wanted to see me and Nadine. Nadine was gettin' low on her stash so I knew she'd be willing. So, I said okay."

"Was it normal for him to contact you through Moira?"

Betsy shrugged. "When I was still living with mommy, that's how he did it."

I pointed toward the kitchen doorway. "But you've got a phone now. Doesn't Eli have your number?"

"'Course he does—did. I suppose he just forgot, or he was talking to Mommy about somethin' else—money, probably. I heard her talkin' money with Eli lots of times. I don't know."

"You and Moira argued tonight. What about?"

"You're like one of them fortune tellers. You know everything."

"About Eli's killing?"

"Sort of. She told me I was to say Leon did it if anybody asked."

"You agreed to that?"

"No reason not to since Leon confessed, mommy said. She said they'd never give him death. They don't execute people who confess."

For someone born in Texas, she was pretty naïve. "Then what was the argument about?"

"Mommy just wanted me to help her."

"Do what?"

She stared off to the side as if I would not be there when she looked back. Then she said, "I don't want to talk to you, no more."

I stood up and casually moved toward her. "Why not give me the name, now? You can talk to Nadine later"

"No." Betsy cried and scrambled to her feet. She turned away, jerked open a drawer then turned back pointing a small, chrome plated pistol at my middle. "Get out. Get out. If you don't, I'll shoot."

I continued towards her. "Did Eli give you that gun?"

The pistol shook her in hands as her finger coiled around the trigger. "Don't come any closer—please."

"I'm not going to hurt you, Betsy." I continued moving. "I'm trying to help Leon. Leon loves you Betsy, remember?"

Perspiration beaded on her forehead. She still held the gun but was now pointing it down, at the floor. Her eyes puddled with tears as she stared up into mine. I took the pistol and slipped it into my pocket.

"Who gave you the gun?"

She clutched her hands to her face and sobbed, "Nadine. I wouldn't have shot you, Mister—not really."

"How were you supposed to help Moira?"

Betsy shivered. "Delaney. She wanted me to help move some boxes. He'd gone out of town on some trouble and wasn't going to be back for another day. She said they had to be moved right away, tomorrow. I told her I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"I don't like Delaney. I don't like him at all."

"Is Moira going to the warehouse tomorrow?"

Betsy shrugged. "I'm not sure. She got mad and ran out when I said I wouldn't help."

I took out a business card and set on the desk. "I'm going now. After you talk with Nadine, call my cellphone number. We don't have to meet here. You pick the place and I'll drive to you."

"Tell Leon I love him, will you?"

"He'll like hearing that, Betsy."

# **Chapter 15**

My sleep that night was intermittent—mostly because of Tanya. Just after dawn, I begged off and suggested we break for nourishment. She declined and went to sleep. I got dressed and drove to a greasy spoon near the airport. I had no illusions about Betsy's blind devotion to Nadine—if her friend refused to cooperate Betsy would follow suit. As she had said, Eli was not blood—and neither was Leon.

After steak and eggs I drove out to Eli's and got inside unnoticed. In the bedroom closet, I tugged on the hook behind his suits and watched with anticipation as the wall panel popped open. The tapes were gone. Delaney was not fast or efficient, but he was dogged. For a brief moment, I considered stopping by his office and asking to borrow a few for the evening's entertainment. I decided against it. Delaney was probably still viewing them for purposes of blackmail. I made another search looking for the bedroom stash, coming up empty as before. Then I headed for the McAllen City Detention Center.

I identified myself as Leon Huggins' attorney and asked to speak with my client. The old guard nodded with disinterest and, after giving me a sloppy frisk, escorted me to an empty interrogation room. I settled into one of the gray metal chairs framing the square oak table in the center of the room, and made a mental run-through on what I would tell the boxer. A big part of my plan included short shallow breaths and long strings of words to limit the strain on my sinuses. To my surprise, Leon arrived clean-shaven and bathed to the point of smelling antiseptic.

"They said my lawyer was here," he muttered when he spotted me.

I pointed across the table at an empty chair. "Take a seat, Leon. We need to talk."

The guard who had brought Leon took up a position by the closed door. The boxer hesitated a moment and then did as I had instructed.

"What's to talk?" he said. "I'm here. You should be gone."

I asked, "They treating you okay, Leon?"

He folded his gnarled hands and rested his wrists on the tabletop. "They burned my clothes," he mumbled with a mournful shake of his head. He stared down at the orange fatigues he had been issued as if they were part of his punishment. "They said they had to 'cause they couldn't get the stink out."

"You got new clothes."

He looked up and gave me a dismal stare. "I don't cotton to this color."

"Makes you easier to shoot during a jailbreak. Food okay?"

"Ain't bad, I guess. Not to my liking, but I get three squares." Then he gave the guard a furtive glance before leaning across the table and whispering, "What you still here for?"

"I won't collect the five hundred you promised if they execute you, Leon."

He leaned back offering a lame shrug. "I take the fall and everybody but you's happy, Mister. I guess somebody's gotta' pay. Might as well be you."

"Have you seen a real lawyer?"

His right hand went to his forehead and his eyes clenched shut. "Kid come here day after I check in. He don't like me much. I tell him I confessed and he ain't got to do nothin' so he jumps up and calls me names. I don't like him much either, so I call him names."

"Who was he?"

His hand fell away and he sighed, "Randolph Widgeons. Never seen a kid get so mad so quick. He tells me keep shut and he's gonna' fix my mess. I tell him I don't keep shut for nobody but Eli. That's when he shook that finger of his at me. So, I let him have it. Suppose I'll get in trouble for that, too."

"Not if they pump you full of poison first. Is Widgeons still alive?"

"He was breathing, last I saw. They come with a stretcher and carried him out—real careful like."

"Sounds like a promising first meet. Let's talk about Betsy, Leon."

One hand shot across the table toward me, the index finger pointing at my chest like a gun barrel. "You keep clear of her, Mister."

"Keep your hands back," the guard growled.

Leon tucked his fists beneath the table but he remained leaning forward like a hungry tiger. "You keep clear."

"Betsy and a friend of hers by the name of Nadine were at Eli's when he was killed," I said. "I know that because Betsy told me. I also know she wasn't part of the killing, also because she told me. Now if it's her you're trying to protect"

"You got no right scarin' that child."

"She's not a child anymore, Leon," I countered. "Which is probably why she pulled a pistol on me."

His eyes bugged. "Betsy got no gun."

"Not now—I took it from her. But the gun's the same caliber as the one used on Eli. She told me Nadine had given it to her."

Leon jumped to his feet, and leaned across the table toward me. "First you say she don't do it. They you say she got the gun what did. What're you pullin', Mister?"

The guard rushed forward, grabbed Leon by the shoulders and unceremoniously shoved the boxer back into the chair. Then the guard resumed his position at the door. Leon was still wound tight like a coil spring.

"I also have the revolver Moira tried to shoot me with," I continued. "It's also the same caliber as the gun used on Eli."

Leon's mouth gaped as he stared at me like a man whose life had suddenly turned upside down. "What's goin' on, Mister? I ain't in here but days and you're sayin' my wife tried to kill you and my little girl did too? My girls don't cotton to guns 'cause I don't cotton to guns."

"What's going on is, you're about to die for nothing, Leon. I don't think Betsy or Moira were involved. I think Nadine is the key to this whole thing. Somebody she's hooked up with killed your brother. Is _she_ worth dying to protect?"

He made an angry fist and thumped it into his open palm. "Should've killed that black-headed bastard."

"Who, Leon?"

"You know. Port-something! I told Eli he was no good."

"Dominic Portello's an item with Nadine?"

"I seen 'em together at Eli's one time. She on his lap. His hand up her skirt!" Leon knotted and unknotted his hands, his face suddenly twisted in torment. Finally he sobbed, "I don't want to die, Mister. But, it's too late. I signed the paper."

"I'll talk to your attorney, and we'll get that taken care of."

Leon inhaled deeply and then exhaled as if the breath hurt his lungs. "That ain't gonna work, Mister. That lawyer's not gonna' talk to nobody tryin' to help me. Not after I broke his jaw like I done."

I muttered an impatient curse. "Let me worry about that. Who is Nadine?"

"That mayor's girl! She ain't no good! I tell Betsy but she don't listen to me! She used to listen. Not no more." Leon leaned forward and then spoke in a confidential manner. "That Nadine's always gettin' Betsy to do things good girls oughtn't to do. Always puttin' ideas in Betsy's head."

Pieces suddenly fell into place. Dominic's interest in Nadine was no doubt prurient, but his goal was much more far-reaching. By controlling Nadine, he had gained a foothold on local political power. And that meant added protection for the cocaine smuggling. "What kind of ideas, Leon?"

He gave the guard another furtive glance and then lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Parties. Men. You been around, Mister. You know what happens. I tried to talk to Betsy but she don't believe me. All Betsy sees is what Nadine tells her to see. Moira says it's just girl stuff and I should keep shut. Well, it ain't just girl stuff. It's trouble, Mister."

"Was the mayor ever at Eli's parties?"

His chin dipped then he looked up grinning proudly. "Not _them_ parties. But he come to visit at least once a month. I got to shake his hand and everything. Eli had all the right friends."

"Were you around when the mayor and Eli were talking business?"

He wagged his head. "That was when I would run them jobs for the mayor. Real important jobs. Eli'd tell me, 'get dressed in that driver uniform.' Then the mayor would give me a stack of boxes to deliver. I got to drive Eli's big car and everything."

"Drive it where?"

"All over town. Deliverin' boxes to the rich folks."

"What was in the boxes?"

Leon made a monkey face. "Don't know. Just stuff in boxes. I got tips from those deliveries—five or ten dollars each. Eli said I could keep that."

"Big boxes? Small boxes?"

"Not big. Not small. Just boxes."

"Was the Mayor ever at Eli's when Dominic Portello was visiting?"

He gave me a bleak smile. "I seen him one time. I was havin' trouble with the zipper on that uniform so I didn't leave 'til late. That's when I spotted that Port-bastard drive in! Him and his friends walked right up to the front door and inside—not even knocking."

"Just sit tight, Leon." I stood up. "I'll try to convince your lawyer to help. If he won't, I'll get the judge to appoint someone else."

"What about Betsy?"

"I'll bring her by for a visit, real soon. That's when you'll have to convince her to tell me what she knows—understand?"

He nodded his head as a sudden gleam came to his eyes. Then he gave me a hopeful smile. "You're my only friend, Mister. And I'm real sorry for all them terrible things I been thinkin' 'bout you."

"You and the Pope, Leon. Is there a local actor's group?"

"Sure. I helped them out once. Big play 'bout a boxer and his last fight. Got to be in the ring they set up, and standing in front of all the people, and everything. But they wouldn't let me talk any words. They tried but I just couldn't keep them words straight."

"Where was this play?"

"Over on Gilmore! Ask for a fella' named Ramón! He's in charge. Kinda' funny fella'. You gonna' be an actor, Mister? 'Cause I can give you some pointers on how to stand in front of lots of people. The most important one is not to scratch. Ramón don't like it when fella' scratches. I learned that right off."

"I'll keep that in mind. See ya, Leon."

# **Chapter 16**

After leaving Leon, I drove to Gilmore Street. The playhouse was on the corner. It was a brick affair that had been a church in its distant past.

They were rehearsing something about a dead cat's ghost. Ramón was easy to spot. He was the middle-aged guy in the pink bodysuit and leopard scarf. I offered broad congratulations on his upcoming success. He was so delighted with my verbal bouquets he gave me a hug. Then he confided about being constipated due to production deadlines, overwrought due to cost-cuts and the fact that his wealthiest admirer had just been murdered, and devastated that his leotards were not holding in his spare tire. I assured him that he had genius to fall back on.

"It's so rare to meet someone who understands the difficulty of directing theatre," Ramón fawned. "It's always the actors who get the rewards when the play succeeds and it's the director who gets hate-mail when it bombs."

"Eli was a friend of mine, too." Then I rubbed my nose and snorted. "His death is a real tragedy."

Tears formed in Ramón's eyes. "I know what you mean. He used to buy all our costumes."

"Were you and he..."

Ramón wagged his head dismally. "We had everything but chemistry. He even entrusted his most prized possession to me—a box of artifacts from his days as an archeologist in Tanzankistan, or somewhere. God knows what the police will do with them."

I knew little in the way of Eli's history. But I had doubts that a man of his lifestyle would be willing to endure the rigors of an archeological dig. Whatever Ramon was holding, I was certain they were not artifacts. "That stuff should be donated to a museum," I insisted. "I couldn't bear to think of crude hands pawing his finds!"

Ramon wrapped his arms around my neck and began to sob. I gently patted is back until he eased away. "You must think me an emotional wreck."

"I think you have beautiful sensitivities!"

"It's just I felt so much for Eli. And now"

"Would it be possible for me to at least see the artifacts?" I asked. "It would mean so much to me!"

"Let me finish rehearsal and then I'll show you the box. Moreover, I think you should be the one to take charge of it. I would deliver it myself but in my position—any hint of scandal, particularly that of murder, could be professionally devastating!"

"I understand completely."

He gave me a relieved smile. "Now, that we have Eli's situation settled, why don't you tell Ramón what brought you here today?"

I explained my need for some help with makeup at a production in Weslaco, and asked if he could recommend someone with extensive expertise in the area of scars. "The director is not up to your stature," I confided. "Of course. And, I do want to be the best I can."

Ramón applied a little spittle to one arching eyebrow. "They're such animals in Weslaco. They simply have no taste. Still, as you say, one must do one's best. Well, I'm sure our Jerald can help you. Now sit down and watch. I want your opinion. Now, I've made a big change in the next act. Instead of this being a boring murder mystery, I've decided to make it into a musical! There'll still be death, mutilation and mayhem on the stage. But with a background of tastefully artistic nude dancing."

"Brilliant," I wildly clapped my hands. "I've always said, there's no reason a grisly killing can't be done tastefully."

An hour, filled with hairy dancers wearing nothing but cat faces, later, Ramón announced it was time to break for lunch. Ramón promised to be back in a tick with the box and then singled out a longhaired youth and instructed him to assist me.

"I'm a straight arrow," Jerald told me, in a very deep and determined voice. He was a squat, dressed in a green sweatshirt and blue corduroys. "I'm just letting you know so there's no misunderstanding."

"It must be a trip working here."

"You ain't seen nothing yet. In the last act, they all climb on top of the dead guy and purr. What's on your agenda?"

"I'm looking for a way to create whitish scars on my face: the big ugly kind. And I need a way to make my left ear look clipped at the lobe. It has to look for-real up close."

Jerome went over to one of the tables and took a bottle of milky fluid from his makeup kit. "Draw the scars on with makeup pencil and then fill the lines in with this. As it cures it rises and wrinkles. Your own mother wouldn't know they were phonies. As for the ear, just darken the part you want to look clipped, fold it under and glue it in place with spirit gum."

"Can you run me through the traces?"

"For a c-note."

I handed him a stack of twenties.

An hour later, I was parked in a rented van at the loading dock behind Elgin Warehouse. I was not as tall as Delaney, but the scars Jerald had painted on my puss were a close enough match to fool anybody but the big cop's mother. Beside me was a box containing several statuettes of Mayan gods. Each clay piece was obviously a recent reproduction. Which confirmed by assumption that Eli had not been an archeological type and begged the question, why would Eli bother to have Ramon store them?

"You gonna' be long, bub?"

I got out and looked toward the voice. It belonged to a skinny old man in brown coveralls. When he saw me, he gave a halfhearted salute.

"Didn't recognize you at first, Captain Delaney," he said. "You got another load to put up there?"

"Need to haul it all out this time," I told him.

He glanced about scratching his groin. Then he said, "I got three eighteen-wheelers due any minute. Might've been better to call ahead."

I climbed up onto the dock and opened the back of the rental truck. "I did. But your receptionist put me on hold and then cut me off."

He blew me a breath of sour beer. "That brainless bitch couldn't carve a plug for a dog's ass. He leaned closer. "The only reason the boss keeps that big-titted cow around is for screwin' purposes. Trouble is, he's getting all the goodies and we're dealin' with her foul-ups."

"The least he could do is share the wealth," I remarked.

He made a disgusted face. "That could be dangerous especially for a man my age with my ticker."

I dragged out a dolly. "It's worth a hundred if you can get me enough help to load this truck before your semis arrive."

The old man's eyes brightened. "In advance?"

I dug out my money clip and peeled off two fifties. "I'll go on ahead and unlock. Second floor—you know the spot."

He snatched the bills from my hand with the speed of light, and then he hurried into the warehouse yelling in broken Spanish. I pushed the dolly in after him.

The elevator and Moira's pass card got me to her storage area. Her key got me past the steel door. I had just swung it wide when the elevator doors opened and three grinning Mexican's came running toward me, each dragging a flatbed cart. I pointed at the boxes.

_"Cargue el ramo entero en mi camion,"_ I told them. "Load the lot."

Twenty minutes later, the van was full and I was on my way. As I drove, I used my cell phone to call Fort Worth. After getting Salvator Portello on the line, I disguised my voice with a chirping British accent and informed him that Eli was dead and there had been a cocaine theft from Eli's basement. To make sure there was no confusion, I added that Delaney was the culprit. I could not help but giggle to myself as I envisioned Salvator trying to reach Dominic.

After grabbing some lunch at a fast-food. I still had three tasks to take care of before dark. First, getting rid of my disguise, second finding a hiding place for a hundred or so boxes of ugly plastic. And, third, figuring out why Eli placed such a high value on phony relics.

# **Chapter 17**

_Casa Woods_ was on Dumont Avenue: a sleepy boulevard in a suburb of McAllen girdled by neatly planted Hinckley's oak. A white-stone wall topped with pointed black iron bordered the property. Beyond its flowerbeds of blood-red Irises, mulched ground became several acres of neatly trimmed green. The Casa, itself, was a salmon-colored stucco, four-story affair with white stone trim and a terra cotta tile roof. The front windows were leaded. It was slightly larger than Buckingham Palace with several patios, each large enough to embarrass a soccer field. Along one end was a swimming pool. The latter was a bit small for a battle cruiser, but in South Texas, one must make do.

I parked the rental in the gravel turnaround and walked up a short flagstone stair to steel front doors. They were a deep blue, about nine feet tall and rounded at the top. Instead of a peephole, a small leaded window in one opened inward for the curious. All about me was the murky scent of cut grass. And from somewhere came the mating call of a Vireo striving to raise voice above the buzzing sounds of lawn trimming equipment. I knocked and wondered why I had not gone into small-town politics.

Some time later a tall elderly man with silver hair and thick, bushy eyebrows opened the door. He was thin as a rake and dressed in a swallowtail tuxedo replete with shoes shiny enough to shame a mirror. When he saw me, his long bluish nose tilted upward as if he were testing the air for rancid pork. I got the impression I should have called at that back entrance.

"Deacon Bishop," I said, handing him a business card that bore only my name. "I'm calling on Nadine Woods."

He glanced at my offering before letting his dry green eyes give me a once over. "Is Miss Nadine expecting you, sir?" He had a British accent.

I told him she was not but added, "I'm sure Nadine _will_ want to see me."

"May I tell Miss Nadine the reason for your visit?"

"Blue silk sheets and matching pillowcases. The nose powder was free, but the mirror above the bed extra."

The butler stared at me curiously for a moment, then nodded. "I will let her know that you are here." He stepped aside. "Please come in."

I moved past him into a mausoleum style foyer. The walls were white marble, inlaid with Celtic-patterned silver. The domed ceiling was a Roman feast depicted in leaded glass. The floor was ginger terracotta with an engraved design. It was a quiet, cool shadowy place where one could gather for prayers, murder or perhaps a combination of both—still feeling that one dwelt in rare good-company.

"I can see why the mayor's running for reelection," I remarked. "This place is a little big for my taste. But, I guess I could get used to it." Then I asked the butler his name.

"Reynolds, sir," he replied, and turned on his heels. "This way, please."

I followed Reynolds from ginger terracotta along black marble to white carpeting deep enough to warm cold ankles. I flexed my toes and noted the firm yet soft feeling of my shoes digging into the finest of woven wool. I was in an open-beamed room that had a huge bay window, partially cloaked by sheer curtains, overlooking the back forty. Another panel of glass, also with sheers, glanced out onto a string of garages. The room's furnishings were French in design; the tables marble-topped, and the paneled walls black walnut. It smelled of cigar smoke and dreams of the newly rich. Portraits of men, women and children decorated the walnut. Some of the paintings were of a long by-gone era if clothes were any indication. Others were from times more contemporary. Of these, three were clearly from the present-day. All had been painted quite recently. All the people had similar facial features. All smacked of an ego gone wild in a desperate effort to establish socially acceptable provenance.

"The family Woods?" I asked the butler, nodding towards the wall hangings.

"As you say, sir," Reynolds agreed, with obvious distaste. "Miss Nadine is having breakfast. Unless she objects to the early hour she will be with you, shortly."

"Does she object to early hours?"

A wisp of a smile tugged at the old man's blue lips. "Frequently, sir."

"It must be a trip for a guy like you working here. A bunch of rednecks trying to make themselves into bluebloods."

"A trip is often on my mind, sir."

Reynolds went out, his footsteps dying along the hallway. The door shut. Then there was silence. I went over to the bay window. Outside, the lawn was getting concerted care from a large crew. Some mowed. Some trimmed. Others fertilized. Every effort was extended with all the loving care that tax-money can buy. I lit a cigarette and moved to the other side of the room.

There were ten garages sitting wall to wall: the kind rich people have to store adult toys and naughty secrets. One of the doors was open. Inside I saw a bright yellow convertible. Its front license plate read, 'Nadine'. How had Betsy put it? 'Nadine had a _nice house_.' I guess _Casa Woods_ qualified in a pinch.

A fax machine rested on a table next to the window. I went over to it, making note of the telephone number someone had kindly affixed with tape to the handset. Then I let my fingers do the walking on its menu key. The history-list showed only one number over the past six months. And that number had a Mexican prefix code.

"You don't look like a millinery salesman," a girlish voice chirped behind me. "What happened? Did your tailor die?"

I turned to see a blond girl about the same age as Betsy. She was lanky and dressed in black leather that left her midriff bare. Her oval face was embedded with bits of gold and silver jewelry. Her thin lips were crimson. Her slightly upturned nose delicately chiseled, the nostrils slightly red. Her eyes were large and cobalt blue. Above these thin straight eyebrows matched her hair-color. She could have passed for a rebellious high-schooler except for the recent burns around her navel—cylindrical dots of bright red about the diameter of a cigarette.

"Don't let the suit fool you. It's what's underneath that counts. Nadine Woods, I presume? Or, should I have said, how's tricks?"

She crossed her arms and tilted her head as her eyes drifted back and forth over me. "I'd say you were a cop, but I know all the cops in this town. You Federal?"

I shook my head. "Just trouble. Eli Huggins gave me your name. Said you were quite a party girl and he had the snaps to prove it. He also said you were handy with guns. I thought I'd stop by to see if he'd steered me straight."

Nadine's face went pale and she glanced nervously at the open door, "Never heard of him."

I'd have known she was lying to me even if I hadn't seen her driving away from his home. "Sure you have. He was fiftyish, thin, liked to be entertained in bed by matching blondes: preferably the underage kind who didn't mind being videotaped. Last time you saw him was Thursday. He was hot them. These days he's cooling in the morgue. Oh, there's a nametag on his right toe because somebody put a bullet in his brain. Still no bells? What about Dominic Portello? You also came highly recommended by him. In fact, I understand you and Dom are quite close. He brings the cigarettes and cocaine. You bring the handcuffs."

My reference to cocaine drew a mesh of lines across her face and her eyes became deep, dark bismuth chips. She went to the door and silently shut it—like a nun might close the entrance to her cell as a prelude to those very private moments. Then, Nadine clasped her hands at her waist and sauntered toward me, all composure again.

"Blackmail?" she was no longer intimidated.

"Blackmail is such a dirty word. But, from the look of this place it has potential." I pointed at her belly. "Dom does like his play on the heated side, doesn't he? Where's he staying? Here?"

She tossed her head letting blond tresses fall across her shoulders like a gilded shawl. "And you're going to do what if I don't do what you want?"

"I'll let you know after you tell me about Eli's killing."

She lifted a corner of one lip and shrugged. "How should I know?"

"Playing the innocent might work for Dom. He's always been one for teases. But, I'm a completely different kettle of fish. Did Dom kill Eli?"

She turned and swayed back toward the door. "I'm quite busy, Mr. Bishop. So why don't you take your questions elsewhere?"

"I can't see Dom doing a hit on Eli and carelessly leaving a body around. Brother Salvator frowns on such a _faux pas_. But, your father is another matter. Amateurs often kill without giving consideration to the corpse they're creating. And dead bodies are such a weighty problem. Usually first-time killers run away, hoping for the best."

Nadine stopped and turned back, her face red. "I don't like you."

"I've always had trouble making friends. But you'll get used to me. What happened out at Eli's? Did Daddy find out about your little drug habit? Or did Eli get careless with his videos?"

"First I'm supposed to know Eli somebody. Then I'm supposed to know another guy you call Dom. And now you're telling me my father killed the first guy?" She laughed the tight, sneering little laugh often offered up by those unfettered by conscience. "For all I know, Mr. Bishop, you did it."

I blew smoke in Nadine's direction as I studied her. She was not what I would consider attractive—not even when I'd been a young man. Her chin was too small and too sharp. Her cheekbones were too high. She had a habit of drawing her upper lip away from her teeth as she spoke, as if some invisible puppeteer was controlling it. The lower lip drooped at one corner, whether talking or not, as if she was not sure whether to laugh or cry.

"I wasn't the one playing sheet-bingo with Betsy in Eli's bedroom," I taunted. "Surely, you remember Betsy? Blond, your age, about your weight and build. She has cats and rattles easy."

Her hands dropped nervously to her waist where they toyed with her belt. "You'd better get out of here."

I wagged my head. "And leave you wondering? I had a little chat with Betsy. According to her, you and she drove out to Eli's and parked in the garage—separate transportation, of course. After that, the two of you went up the metal staircase and entered the living room through the wall panel. Eli was waiting. He sipped scotch while the two of you did a line or three of cocaine—just enough to set the party mood. Then, Eli took you up to his bedroom and put on music to squirm by. You wore nothing. Betsy wore less. He got naked and started the camera. It was all very family-oriented."

"Betsy" Rage twisting Nadine's face into something round and ugly. "I told the bitch to keep her stupid mouth shut."

"I'm glad to hear you're the one with brains. I had doubts until, now. Shall we do business? Or, would you prefer I give the video to the press?"

Her eyes grew large. "Video?"

I patted my pocket. "I took a little memento from Eli's entertainment library. The close-ups of you at Betsy's fount were awe inspiring!"

She crept toward me on shaky legs. "I don't have any money."

There was an ashtray on the windowsill near the fax. I smudged out my cigarette. "Somebody shot Eli. I want that name."

She disengaged her eyes from mine and looked beyond me into the darker corners of her shadowy past. "Why don't you ask Betsy?"

"I did. Betsy said she'd have to talk to you first. Then she gave me your gun. Somehow, that gave me the impression you killed Eli."

Renewed anger flared across her face like boiling blood. "No. But if I had my gun I'd kill you."

"I believe you. Was your father there, Nadine?"

"Ask Eli after you land in hell." Nadine jerked a pack of cigarettes out of her slacks and went over to the window overlooking the yard-workers. "I'm busy. So take your goddamn video and scram."

"Sounds like I should be talking to your father. Is he here, or at his office?"

She stuffed a cigarette into her mouth, turned back to me and lit it. "My father won't believe a word you say." She blew some smoke at me, and then spoke through it with a soft sneer. "I'm his little princess."

"There's always Bascomb."

Two chiseled clefts formed between her blond eyebrows and she burst into shards of laughter. "Bascomb is my godfather. How do you think you'll make out, now, old man?"

I patted my pocket again. "If _he's_ not interested, there's always television. It's an election year and the sight of you squirming on top of Betsy would make delicious news." I sniffed loudly and rubbed my nose. "How's yours this morning, Nadine? Mine's a little stuffy. Oh, that's right. Dominic fattened up your supply."

Her face hardened, cracking at the corners of her mouth. "You won't be so smart when I tell him about you."

I took a videotape from suit coat pocket. It was blank but she had no way of knowing that. I waggled it over one shoulder as I headed for the door. "By that time it will be too late!"

Nadine rushed after me catching my arm; trying to take the tape. "No."

I shoved her away with more than a little roughness. "What will the world think of the mayor's little princess after seeing this?"

"You can't! Please! It will—" Her voice suddenly jammed in her throat and she fell silent.

"I can and will if you don't cooperate. Was your father at Eli's?"

Her eyes clenched shut and then she nodded.

"Did he kill Eli?"

The door opened and a fat man of fifty plus years came into the room. His round, mottled, fat face was grimly set below a high-domed bald head. That latter made his jutting ears look like television dishes that had slipped their moorings. His broad nose drooped over a Hitler moustache. His thin lips rippled above a stubby chin. He wore a dark blue suit, his tie crimson, as was the folded handkerchief jutting from his breast pocket. His shirt was pearl-white. From the lack of wrinkles around his popping green eyes, he was a devotee of surgical rejuvenation. One of his small, pudgy pink hands held my business card. He snapped it against his fingernail as he moved toward me.

"I'm Philip Woods." He glared at me.

"His Excellency the Mayor. I didn't realize you'd be home this time of the day. Late night? Or, just lazy?"

Splotches of red came to his cheeks the way it does when anger rises in a man. He stopped, tossed my card to the floor "What's your business with my daughter, Mr. Bishop?"

"I didn't tell him anything, Daddy." Nadine raced over to her father.

"Leave us, Nadine." Woods gave his daughter a shove toward the door.

Her cigarette dropped from her fingers as she ran out. Woods went to the door and closed it. I picked up Nadine's discarded butt. We glanced at each other then he drifted to one of the chairs framing the bay window, and sat down.

"You got a lot of balls coming to my home and threatening my little girl."

"I'm an asshole," I admitted, examining the lipstick smear on the butt. It bore the telltale sickle-shaped scar. "But that's my nice side. What was your business with Eli the day he died? And don't try to deny you were there."

His neck stiffened but he said nothing, continuing to stare out at the lawn workers.

I stuffed the butt into my pocket and walked over to where Woods sat.

He ignored me as if his muteness would somehow make me disappear. I tapped his shoulder. Still he sat and stared.

Finally, I spun the chair around so he was facing me. "You killed the bastard, didn't you?"

A frightened snicker crept from his throat like a rat squeaking out in terror at a weasel. "You can't prove a thing."

I feigned walking past the chair. As I got along side, I swung down with my left hand and grabbed him by the throat. Then I squeezed. He kicked and squirmed, clawing at my wrist with both hands. I clenched my fingers tighter and tighter. After a few seconds, his face contorted in terror and he began to whimper. When his eyes rolled back into his head and his body went limp, I let go. His throat rattled but his breathing quickly steadied. I watched the wet stain spread across his crotch.

Forty seconds later, Woods came around. He tried to rise from the chair but I convinced him otherwise with a right hook to his midriff. He clutched his big belly and sagged back. The wet expanded, running down both legs.

"The way I figure it, you and Delaney came to an understanding," I told him. "You would take care of Eli and he would find a fall-guy. After that, the pair of you planned to run Eli's not so little smuggling operation."

"You won't get away with this." His hands massaged his throat.

"Why not? You expect to get away with murder."

He cast a strained look at me. "I haven't killed anybody."

"I think a grand-jury will see it otherwise."

Woods made a frantic roll over one of the chair arms like a pig rushing for the trough. He landed on his knees with a loud groan. I stepped forward and gave his fat ass a kick that sent his nose skidding along the carpet. He rolled on his back, his face white, his nose streaming blood and his hands and feet raised in a protective posture.

I lit a cigarette and blew smoke at him. "Did Delaney mention Enrique Rodriguez and Moira Huggins were also promised a cut?"

He gaped.

I continued, "The even split he offered will have to go four ways—unless one or more of you are removed from the partnership. It won't be Enrique: far too dangerous a move when the Portellos have their sights set on finding the missing cocaine. Moira? Delaney has her penciled in to take the Portello heat once the cocaine buy-back is arranged. That leaves you as the patsy. Delaney'll haul your ass in. Charge you with murder. With his testimony, your conviction is assured."

The Mayor got to his feet, wiping the blood from his nose and mouth on his suit sleeve. He offered a confused, frightened stare. "You're just spouting off. You're fishing for information. Well, you won't get anything from me."

I sat down in the chair next to the one he had vacated and casually crossed my legs. The lawn workers were moving onto another area of the lawn. "Interrogations are a specialty of mine, Woods. We can make it hard or easy. It's up to you. But one way or another I'll get to the truth."

The door burst open and Delaney rushed in, gun in hand. When he spotted me, he took dead aim. My Mauser was still under lock at police headquarters and I hadn't brought the little guns I'd taken from Leon's women, so there was nothing I could do but grin.

"No," Woods shouted, rushing to Delaney. "Jesus. Not, here. Take him to the desert."

"Too risky." Delaney's finger coiling around the trigger.

"For god's sake think, Delaney. You shoot me in here and the Mayor'll have to get this whole room redone. The carpet alone will cost a fortune—not to mention this comfortable chair."

"I'll foot the bill."

The big cop tried to push Woods out of the way, but the mayor was determined to save his sanctuary and pushed back. Delaney fell over his own big feet, dropping his gun.

I leaped up and charged. I managed to kick Woods in the head as the pair scrambled for the gun. Delaney got his hands on it. But I sidestepped as he turned to fire, and brought my knee up hard catching him in the face. He crumpled and I grabbed his hair with my left hand, raised my other knee into his chin and then introduced my right fist to the base of his skull. He went limp, dropping the gun.

"You killed him." Woods gasped in awe. "Just like that you killed him."

"That would be too easy, Mayor. I'll give you twenty-four hours to get your affairs in order and turn yourself in. It's the only way you'll beat the death penalty. After that I'll be back."

Nadine was leaning against the rental car, waiting. Tears had smeared her makeup and her nose was red.

"Please don't tell my Daddy I said he was out there."

"Why did your father kill Eli?"

She glanced back toward the door and then stared down at her feet. "He was there. I saw his car. But he wouldn't have killed anybody."

"I think your father is capable of anything—when it comes to money."

"But it wasn't him."

"Had to be. Come with me to Bascomb's office. If you make a statement now, you won't be charged with anything."

She stared up at me and wagged her head frantically. "No. I can't. He wouldn't have. He couldn't have. He's my Daddy."

I did not like what I was hearing so I took another tack. "Why did you give Betsy a pistol?"

"Delaney told me to. He said Betsy should have it in case you got tough."

"The gun is registered to you?"

Nadine nodded. "Daddy bought it for my eighteenth birthday."

I pointed to her belly. "Where can I find Dominic?"

Her arms encased her cigarette-burned middle in a protective hug. "He's staying at the Ventura Hotel. Does daddy know about him, too?"

" _I_ didn't tell him. Was he with your father when Eli was killed?"

He head shook. "Dominic came to town the night before, to see me. Betsy got me on my cell-phone while I was at his hotel the next morning. She wanted me to go to Eli's with her."

"You told Dom about the killing?"

"I called him after I got home. Dominic got real upset when he heard what happened. He said I wasn't to see him for a while—not until all this blew over. And, I sure wasn't to tell anyone about us. Then he went on about his brother already going ballistic about the cocaine being gone."

"How did he find out about that?"

"He just knew."

There were only three ways Dominic Portello could have known about the cocaine theft before my call to Salvatore. First, he had been out there after Delaney walked off with it. Second, somebody told him it was gone before it actually disappeared. Third, he had ordered Delaney to carry it off. I liked the last option. It was like Dom to pull a fast one on Salvatore. Whether he would survive it was to-be-determined.

"Delaney and your father are sort of close," I told her. "Is Delaney a friend of yours, too?"

Nadine opened her mouth to speak. Then she closed it and put a small, confiding smile upon her face. She made a croaking noise, and her eyes melted with tears just before her chin dipped.

For a moment, I thought she was having some sort of fit and reached for her shoulders. But, she batted my hands away, and then raced off.

I got into the rental and drove away. Delaney's request to give Betsy the pistol all but guaranteed it was the murder weapon. The problem was linking it to whoever pulled the trigger. Woods could have had company on his visit to Eli—company like Enrique—company who did the hit. Or, Eli could have been dead when Woods arrived, company or not. His keeping quiet about what he knew could be motivated by greed, rather than fear.

And, I could be up for knighthood.

# **Chapter 18**

The setting sun reflected from the gleaming glass of the Shelby Building like a melting glob of rose-gold. As buildings went, it was an architect's ten-story uninspiration consisting of steel and glass surmounted with several radio antennas, each decorated by blinking red lights. The structure stood midstreet, just above the economic meridian that split Shelby between the haves, and have-nots. The latter had their own reflection on the building. It girdled the sun's glow with splashes of blue neon: a nice color from a nice sign advertising live nude dancing, and cut-rate pornography.

I found a spot in the adjacent parking ramp and took the stairs to ground level. On the street out front, a cop had pulled over a male bicyclist and was handcuffing him. The offender was offering a determined objection that the truth did not always meet the eye. In his case, however, that defense would not likely serve. He was completely naked. As I walked past, I could not decide whether the cyclist had abandoned outer and under wear in an effort to brag about what he had, or if he was hoping for an offer from someone extremely desperate. I decided upon the latter and hurried inside through the Shelby's glitzy front entrance.

According to the directory in the lobby, attorney Randolph Widgeons had offices on the third floor. I caught the elevator behind a group of nuns, and went up. As a faction, they were vociferous in their derision of the bicyclist. Each made statements of disgust. Each shivered with revulsion at the memory of his nudity. And from the pink cheeks, shining eyes and lilt in their voices, none had ever enjoyed herself quite so much.

I got off on Widgeons' floor and trailed the door numbers to his office. A stout woman with purple hair and smeared pink lipstick was working behind a glass-topped reception desk. A bowl of floating yellow rose blossoms sat at one front corner of her domain and large box of pink tissues occupied the other. In between was an intercom box owing its existence to the god of silver plastic.

When she heard my name, her big brown eyes flickered slightly with recognition. Then she quickly explained that Mr. Widgeons was with a client but would be available shortly. She casually added that she would let him know I was waiting and that I should take a seat. As she spoke, her stare never wavered from the computer terminal. Her fat fingers never missed a tap as they danced across the keyboard like stubby pink sausages.

The receptionist's unwavering dedication to duty offered my mind's eye an unfortunate picture of her having sex. She had it all down pat—making each efficient movement according to prewritten instructions, as she ignored the terrified man. She was mechanically thrashing. He was praying for premature ejaculation. And, the bed was straining at all its supports. Life was good at my age—when one lived alone.

The reception area's thick gray carpet was dotted with wrinkled leather chairs that looked like hovering black prunes. I sat in one, taking note of the sign on the wall opposite, which declared that smoking was forbidden. I girded my addiction, crossed my legs, and tried to appear calm as I listened to hidden speakers in the ceiling play taped music. I could not decide if it was gospel gone-country, country gone-pop or simply a bad collection of elevator noise. Nevertheless, the bobbing head of Widgeons' dedicated receptionist indicated she was a devout listener.

Several paintings adorned the white stucco walls. I was reasonably certain each had been purchased to offer a calming influence on potential clients, but my interest in prancing ponies and grazing cattle was limited. When faced with a long wait without comfort of nicotine, I preferred nubile naked brunettes sprawled wantonly upon black satin sheets and giving the viewer a come-hither stare. That artistic genre did nothing in the way of calming my frayed nerves. However, it did make my cravings more tolerable by focusing bodily needs upon other areas.

It took nearly a half hour of ankle scratching and leg crossing before the intercom buzzer sounded. From within its bowels came a rather high-pitched muffled voice letting the receptionist know Widgeons was again available. Ms. Purple-hair called out my name, jabbed a chubby thumb over one shoulder toward an unmarked door, and then announced that Mr. Widgeons was waiting. I thanked whatever God was listening before quickly getting up and moving.

As I entered, Randolph Widgeons was staring out one of the many windows in his oval office. He was a mousy little man with thinning blond hair and a drooping brown moustache—the latter temporarily framed by a chin brace. His double-breasted blue suit was cut in the current fashion and looked expensive. His leather shoes glinted like black gold. He wore a crimson bow tie resting upon the collar-points of a white silk shirt. And there were ample amounts of gold on his wrists and fingers.

At first glance, Widgeons looked to be in his early twenties. However, the crows-feet at the corner of each eye belied that impression. Still, he was the successful type most young women would greedily bring home to meet mommy.

"How can I help you Mr. –?"

After identifying myself, I explained my reason for wanting his time. Then I walked over and we shook hands.

Beyond him was a huge aluminum desk cast in abstract form with a smoked-glass inset. Under it were nearly a dozen color-coded heat-sensing switches. The two customer chairs in front of it were just as abstract. Both offered half a back cushion and hard metal for weary bottoms. I decided it was a time saving method to keep his clients talking.

"Leon Huggins doesn't like you much," he told me. Then as a laugh caught him by surprise, he moaned and touched the base of the brace. "Me, he likes even less. Take a seat."

"Are you still representing him?" I asked.

Widgeons winced, again. "Until the court reassigns his case. Under the circumstances, I cannot serve his needs." He paused and gave me a suspicious look. "No offense, but private investigators are not known as bleeding-heart types. Moreover, from the look of your suit you can't afford to hang around McAllen on an empty promise to pay. So, why bother with Leon Huggins?"

"Stubbornness, mostly. No, that's not true. I feel sorry for the poor bastard. I take it you were roped into his defense to meet your pro-bono requirements?"

Randolph went over to his desk and sat down in the high-backed, black leather chair behind it. Then he leaned back touching the fingertips of both hands together to form a steeple. "It's mandated we members of the bar donate a certain number of hours each year. But this is not one of those situations."

I tried out one of the customer chairs before asking, "Who's footing the bill?"

The steeple became two waving palms. "You know I cannot tell you that."

I glanced around at a room filled with items from a modernist's dream. One wall was occupied by a sophisticated stereo system, another was dedicated to the world of expensive television. On the ceiling a huge glass panel gave an ongoing ticker-tape display as the stock market, ebbed, and flowed.

"I met with Leon this morning," I told Widgeons. "He said you took offense to something and that's what started the slugfest."

"Hardly a slugfest." Widgeons shrugged painfully. He leaned forward, extending his arms and letting his palms pat the top of his desk. "He swung and I went out. Nevertheless, the short and long is I lost my temper, he lost his, and I'm not about to risk that again. I'm not considering charges against him if that's your concern."

I shook my head. "Captain Delaney's hustling Leon to the executioner. That's worry enough."

His eyes brightened and the patting stopped. "You don't like Delaney?"

"He's got a vested interest in Leon's funeral."

"Our local police legend plans to retire this year and making an example of Leon will let the old boy go out with laurels. What makes you such an adamant loather of our infamous crime fighter?"

"Probably the same as anyone else who knows him. Is there a chance I can induce you to remain as Leon's defense counsel?"

Widgeons wagged his head. "Too much misery and too little reward. My jaw's still in one piece but it's cracked. I've got several thousand in dental-caps to replace, and right now I've got all I can do to bear the pain without tears."

"I can make it worth your time to reconsider."

He leaned back still wagging his head, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "With respect, Mr. Bishop. And you couldn't earn enough in ten lifetimes to change my mind."

"I'm not talking money, Widgeons—although if you clear Leon of this mess he'll be worth millions. What I'm offering is a political leg up."

He pursed his lips and made another steeple with his fingers. "You've got connections to political row all the way down here?"

"My connections run a little lower down. I've got dirt on Woods—enough to put him out of politics and into prison for the next century."

Widgeons leaned forward on his forearms, suddenly interested. "What dirt?"

"Is it Bascomb you're working for?"

He snapped his fingers impatiently. "What dirt?"

"The kind that leaves a gap in the political machine for a smart young lawyer to fill. Who's calling the shots on Leon's defense? You, or the money-man?"

"How I handle Leon's defense is up to me. What makes you think I'd want to be mayor, Bishop?"

"It's the first step to the governor's office and from there a shot at the Senate, or the Presidency. You're too good to settle for the legal fees garnered in this burg. So the only reason you're still around is the intent to take on Woods when the time was right."

He folded her hands and winced. "I'd intended to do so this year. But, I couldn't free enough time to campaign."

"Leon didn't kill Eli. And there's enough behind what's really going on to make headlines worldwide. By the time the dust settles on this, you'll be a national hero. Still not interested?"

Widgeons fiddled with his tie indecisively. "I read the arrest report and the autopsy findings, Mr. Bishop. Leon recanting his confession will have little impact."

"It might, if the right lawyer was handling his case."

He pointed to his jaw. "This is just a sample of Leon's work. Did you know he nearly beat his brother to death six months ago? Eli was in the hospital for three weeks. The old bastard nearly died."

I nodded. "So, I've been told—repeatedly. But Leon wasn't charged."

"The point is, he's capable of extreme violence with little or no provocation. I'm not interested in taking up residence in a hospital ward."

"With his fists he's a problem. But, Eli was shot, the gun pressed to the back of his head execution style. Leon wouldn't kill his brother that way."

"That's debatable."

"I'd say it was a certainty. Why would Leon use a gun when his fists could just as easily handle the task?"

Widgeons tugged at the lobe of one ear. "According to the police report, Leon and you discovered Eli's body. Was he late picking you up at the airport?"

I shook my head. "My flight was twenty minutes early and Leon was waiting for me. It took us at least an hour to get from the airport to Eli's place, and he was _not_ holding back the horses. That means it took Leon at least that long to get to the airport. When I got to Eli, rigor mortis had not set in. The old boy was limp as a freshly killed goose, his skin temp near normal."

Widgeons got to his feet and strolled back to the window. "Eli's body was pumped full of cocaine. He could walk but not too fast. Standing was possible but not in a high wind. According to the coroner, the drug delayed rigor mortis by at least an hour—perhaps longer. What does that do to your theory?"

I heard my own teeth grit. "I think your coroner needs some remedial training. Regardless, Leon's not a gun handler."

The attorney leaned toward the glass as if he were a sun-starved vine. "How many of the murders you investigated for Dallas P-D resulted from a tool found by the killer at the scene?"

My teeth gritted, again. "Even if Eli pulled the gun, Leon would have simply disarmed his brother. Assuming he did kill Eli, Leon would have used the tools a boxer knows best, his fists. The initial hour after the average first-time killer has transgressed is one of extreme agitation. They are usually terrified to the point of vomiting. Eye-contact is extremely difficult, if at all possible. Conversations are usually disconnected because their brain is running full tilt trying to evaluate the likelihood of arrest. When I first talked with Leon, he was as calm as well-laid whore. No way had he murdered his brother."

Widgeons turned around and gave me a quick smile that made him wince, again. "The prosecution will see it this way. Leon kills Eli and runs. While making his escape, he remembers you are coming. Who better to discover the body than the P-I hired to protect Eli? He drives to the airport and awaits your arrival. Was Leon supposed to me you?"

"No. My expectation was that Eli would be there. Still, waiting for me at the airport just to make sure I discovered the body takes someone with cold calculating style. Leon's hot headed."

"Why should he be worried? Eli's not going anywhere. If an innocent happens upon the corpse before you two get there, so much the better. No matter how the discovery pans out, he's got you as his alibi."

"What were the results of the acid bath tests on Leon's hands?"

"No nitrate residue. He could have worn gloves."

"His clothes were checked as well?"

"Those results came back as inconclusive. Nitrates were found but not to the level expected. Regardless, we still have the confession."

"He was nearly out of his mind with grief. He was desperately trying to protect someone."

"He did a small part in a local theatre production."

"Leon doesn't have the smarts to handle an acting job. And I've got a local director who can attest to that."

Widgeons came over and stared down at me. "Leon merely played the mournful brother. That kind of routine does not require brain-trust material, or acting skills."

"It does require analytical thought, which Leon lacks."

"Leon's not as stupid as he lets on, Bishop. I've known him since I was in grade school. He taught boxing for the park system. I was flyweight champion for the city, despite my recent fisticuff failing. That meant a lot of time in the ring with him. Leon's steady, he is quick and he has organization skills. He sets up his plan, follows a course of action, and does not waver until its completion."

"In the ring, I agree. I saw him box during his prime. But, it's been a lot of years since then—a lot of booze. And murder is a far stretch from toe-to-toe swinging. Unless a killer's done the deed several times before, he's going to demonstrate some level of panic—which I did not observe in Leon."

Widgeons threw his arms up in despair and walked away. "Leon confessed. Why confess if he's not guilty? The man's going to get lethal injection, not do a short stint on the work-farm."

"Which blows still more of your theory to hell, Widgeons. Why go to all that trouble of establishing an alibi with me and then confess? I've investigated over one hundred homicides. Not once did any suspect do that."

He threw his hands to his hips. "Because Leon discovered his wife had been there. Leon feared she would fall under suspicion and a confession was the only way to protect her. Was that not your initial surmise?"

I nodded and shifted in the chair, uncomfortably. "He's not protecting Moira. I think he was protecting his stepdaughter, Betsy. And, yes, she had been there—how he learned that I don't know."

The attorney toyed with his moustache as he walked back to his chair. "Wife or daughter, where's the difference? Go back to Dallas before you waste more of your time, and mine."

"The difference is right here." I set the guns I had taken from Moira and Betsy on his desk. "Can you get these to an independent ballistics expert? And then get the results delivered to Bascomb so he can have his team compare the data from these guns with the bullet taken from Eli's brain?"

He stared at the weapons as if they were something from outer space. "Leon had these?"

I shook my head. "Novelties picked up in my travels. But I think they make good candidates for the murder weapon." Then I touched the revolver I had taken from Betsy. "This one I'd bet a year's pay is it."

"Where did you get them?"

"You in or out, Widgeons?"

He scratched his nose thoughtfully. "In. But I want your assertion that you don't know for a fact that either of these weapons was used on Eli."

"My theory is solely based upon the caliber, from whom I took it and the circumstances around the individual's possession of it."

He took out a pen and tapped the revolver. "Who gave you this?"

"Who's paying for Leon's defense?"

His smile didn't hide his grinding teeth. "It'll take a couple of days. And if Bascomb finds a match in one of these, he's not going to be patient as to how I came by them. You're not my client, so I have no obligation to protect you."

I nodded. "Point him my way and then kick his ass to hurry the sorry son-of-a-bitch along."

Widgeons folded his hands and leaned forward resting his forearms upon the desktop. "You said something about dirt."

"For starters, Leon's brother was running a major cocaine import operation. He supplied the Portello crime family. Delaney and Mayor Woods were Eli's partners."

Widgeons' mouth dropped open in utter surprise. "You can't be serious."

"I can prove some of it now. I'll expect to have it all by week's end. You might take a look at the drug-processing lab in Eli's basement. It's been emptied but any honest forensic tech could validate my claim on the cocaine."

"That was not in the police report."

"It probably is now. I've made Delaney a nervous man."

"Illicit drugs put a whole new complexion on Eli's murder."

"Add that to the fact Dominic Portello was a steady visitor to Eli's home, and you're nearly home free. Factor in that Dominic is a regular playmate of Nadine Woods who was also a playmate of Eli's, and who might be the sometime sex-toy of one big Irish cop, and you can coast your way to an acquittal."

Widgeons stood, suddenly agitated. "The bastard! I can't tell you how many times I've driven by that mansion of Woods and wondered how a nearly illiterate low-life could finagle it."

"What can you tell me about Eli?"

"I did some contract work for him a few years back—nothing since. Are you sure about the Portellos' connection to Woods? I can't afford a screw-up on that."

"I'm sure. Nadine's gets hot flashes each time Dom trails his cigarette across her tummy. What was the contract for?"

Widgeons shoved his hands into his pockets and went back to the window. "It was a loan agreement. Technically, I cannot divulge its details."

"Was Philip Woods the borrower?"

He gave me a surprised over-the-shoulder glance before saying, "Him, or somebody else."

"What was the money for?"

"It wasn't discussed in my presence. I assumed to bail out the borrower from overextended investments. The local economy had taken a tumble. It took so long to come back I nearly had to fold my practice and sign on with another law firm."

"Who precipitated the contract?"

Widgeons tugged at one ear, as he thought. "I can't say with any certainty. Eli arrived one morning, laid out the details for the contract, and then a week later he and the borrower executed the document. The interest rate was high but not usurious."

"Eli took a list of holdings as security?"

"An addendum to the contract delineated each as to type and value. As I recall Mr. Huggins wanted everything the borrower owned. I got the impression he was hoping the contract would be dishonored."

"Did this borrower say why he was willing to take such a risk?"

He shook his head. "I think it was either borrow from Eli, or go under. I suspect he would have signed a contract with Satan to stay afloat."

"What properties?"

Widgeons pursed his lips in thought and then said, "Real estate holdings, mostly. There were several local retail outlets, as well."

"The real-estate was the borrower's home?"

"No. It amounted to rental property in McAllen—mostly four-plexes. And there was also a large tract of land along the border, in Mexico—not worth much at the time. Eli was most specific about that parcel being among the assets pledged."

"River front, is it?"

"The land is desert. It became some sort of mining operation, as I recall. I'm not sure if the land was being mined or if it was simply the offices for the firm."

"Mining for what?"

He raised his shoulders and then let them slump.

"How long before the liens were released?"

Widgeons returned to his chair. "I didn't handle that. Nevertheless, by a coincidence, I was having a discussion with a legal friend and he mentioned filing the releases. That was about three months later."

"How large a loan had Eli advanced?"

"In round numbers, a million."

"Where is this mine?"

"Near Renosa."

"I'd like to take a look at that property. Do you know how to get to it?"

"I can put you in touch with somebody who would know. We used a Mexican attorney to register the lien on that property. How does an old loan agreement fit into Eli's murder?"

"If my suspicions are right, it's the core of the smuggling operation and was likely the reason Eli was killed. My suspect list is a short one and it's changed frequently. But right now I think a pair of Mexicans did the actual killing. I also think they were hired by Delaney—who probably conspired with Woods. Then the plan was to put the hit on Betsy's doorstep."

Widgeons grinned and squirmed in his chair, as if vibrations of the best kind were suddenly emanating from it. "Self-righteous Philip Woods smuggling drugs and paying for a hit—assuming you're correct, of course. It's like finding out the pope had a sex change. It doesn't really impact anything directly. But you begin questioning and remembering."

"How did Delaney hook up with Eli?"

Widgeons leaned forward as if suddenly relishing my company. "That happened rather sudden. It was about ten years ago Woods was enjoying his first term as Mayor and was trying his best to get Delaney kicked of the force. There was a lot of talk about that. Then it got real quiet from the Woods end of the world. After that, Eli and Delaney were fast friends."

"Delaney bought his way in?"

"That would be my guess, but where he got the money I can't say. He was always a nickel short when I saw him." Widgeons grinned at me. "I'm beginning to like you, Mr. Bishop."

"I prefer long engagements and candlelit dinners."

Widgeons laughed.

"Then you're set to continue with Leon?"

"Unless he wants me off the case. The only way I can get him off is for you to come up with the real killer's name—and enough proof to convince a jury. Without that, I'll be able to blow smoke fast and furious over the drug connection. But an acquittal would be iffy at best. This is the Bible-belt. Lots of folks take a dim view of prizefighters down here. Getting a Texas jury to ignore that is as tough as getting a cowboy to pay taxes. Maybe it gets done in the end, but he's not happy about it."

I stood and thanked him. "Who do I speak to in Renosa?"

"Pedro Martinez. His office at that time was right on the main strip above a pharmacy—probably still is. I'll phone that you'll be paying him a call in the near future."

I left Widgeons to his gloating and headed south.

# **Chapter 19**

Renosa was a dusty, tourist trap. Its one main street was lined on both sides with shanty style shops. Color-coded day-trippers dragged bulging shopping bags from store to store, grinning like they had caught the last train to heaven. I parked the rental in a pay-lot across the street from a pharmacy that boasted an attorney in residence. There was gilding on the upper story window that read, ' _Pedro Martinez El abogado en la ley'_ with an arrow pointing to the side of the building. I went over and took wooden steps up, two at a time.

" _¡Los saludos y salutaciones, mi amigo!_ " Martinez greeted me. He was short, plump, and clean-shaven, dressed in neatly pressed beige suit. His black hair was cropped short in business fashion. His wrists jangled with layers of gold jewelry. "I was told to expect you, Mr. Bishop. I understand from Mr. Widgeons you have an interest in the Blue Turf Mining Company. Do you plan to purchase it?"

As lawyers went, Martinez did not put up much of a front. His offices consisted of two rooms: a nearly barren reception area sans receptionist, and his private office. The former contained half a dozen dusty waiting chairs. The décor in the latter consisted of a scarred wooden desk, a green metal swivel chair, five gray metal filing cabinets and two straight-back customer chairs. In both rooms, Casablanca fans whirred sloppily overhead, mixing hot air with more hot air. I decided he was either painfully honest or painfully poor in court.

"I've got something else in mind."

His thick black eyebrows arched and then fell in disappointment. "I was very surprised to hear from Mr. Widgeons after all these years." Martinez moved behind his desk and sat. He pointed to one of the customer chairs. "Regardless, it was good to hear his voice. He requested I extend all professional courtesy to you at his expense. Something is amiss at the mine?"

I sat down. "You tell me."

Martinez made a tee-pee out of his fingers, pursed his thick lips and studied me carefully, as if there might be a profit in his discerning what I knew. "It is a very secretive operation. No one is allowed there without a pass procured from the owner. I might be able to obtain photographs or a video tape of daily activity if that would help."

I loosened my tie against the stifling heat. There were four of us in his tiny office. Martinez propped in the swivel, me perched in one of the straight backs, a big brown spider propagating her web at one corner of the ceiling, and a large black cockroach paddling up one wall. Martinez, the spider and I were on the clock. The roach was just passing through.

"What kind of mining operation, is it?" I asked.

Martinez fished a plastic toothpick from inside his suit-coat and prodded a molar. "My knowledge—that of everyone in town, for that matter—is limited to hearsay." He noisily sucked his gums. "I can attest to its general activities. That is to say, there are people working at the mine from time to time. I, myself, have seen trucks entering and leaving, although not on any regular schedule."

"How long do these active sessions last?"

"Not long," he replied, examining the results of his mouth-dredging. "There is often a long period of inactivity in between. In fact, the approach road sometimes overgrows with weeds." He wiped the toothpick off with his fingers and then returned it to his coat pocket.

I lit a cigarette. "That fits my suspicions."

His upper lip curled, flashing a shiny gold front tooth. "What suspicions, Mr. Bishop?"

"How can I get out there?"

The swivel chair squeaked with his disappointment. "I can direct you, of course. However, entering without a pass would likely get you killed. There are armed guards in residence, day and night. I could petition the owner for a pass. But he would have to concede a reason that required your presence. And, even if that were valid, my friend, permission could take months in coming, assuming I was successful—to which, I can offer no guaranty."

"And the owner is?"

"Why, Philip Woods; the mayor of McAllen. I thought Widgeons told you."

"Mines have to be inspected from time to time in the United States. Same requirement in Mexico?"

He sat up straight and adjusted his suit. "There is a certificate of operation that must be renewed annually. It does require an inspection. However, the inspector would come from Mexico City, not here. And who is to say he has not already completed his obligations at Blue Turf for this year?"

"Meaning he collects an envelope of cash for doing nothing."

Martinez made a vague gesture. " _Eso podría ser, por supuesto_. If I had some idea of your specific interests I might be in a better position to serve."

"I take it this mining operation butts up against the United States border?"

He thought for a moment tugging at the fat lobe of one ear, his eyes on mine like we were new neighbors on opposite sides of a fence. Then Martinez's gold tooth sparkled. "I'm beginning to understand. _El contrabando!_ Yes, from its entrance you can almost toss a stone into your country. And, the trucks are bringing in the goods to be smuggled. Human cargo, I assume?"

"Cocaine. How many are at the mine?"

His brown eyes widened. " _¡Mi dios!_ " He withdrew a manila folder from a lower desk drawer and set it in front of himself.

"I took the liberty of updating my files after Widgeons telephoned," Martinez said with no small amount of satisfaction. "There are three men out there on a regular basis, not considering who might be in the delivery trucks. According to my sources the regulars are two Security officers and a Mining Engineer. Their titles are fictitious of course."

"Do you know any of them?" I asked.

Martinez nodded grimly. "Strictly on a professional basis."

"You were their defense attorney on the last charge?"

"Charges, plural. And, naturally, I was successful. By name they are Jesus Agora, Ramón Niagara and Thomaso Femora. My brother-in-law is Renosa's chief-of-police. _Cualquiera que emplearía ellos tiene algo de otra manera que seguridad, en la mente!_ "

"Anyone who would hire them has something other than security in mind?"

"Or so he says."

"Maybe, your brother-in-law can get me in there. Absent owner or not, the police have a right to look around."

The cockroach gave the spider web a wide birth as it headed for the base of the overhead fan. I blew smoke in its direction and wondered when the spider last had lunch.

Martinez offered a dismal shrug. "I would have to speak with him before making such a commitment. The mine is a local politics issue and his willingness would depend upon whose side of the political machine Philip Woods' money is riding. Unfortunately, that would not be until tomorrow, at the earliest. Today, he is at the doctor in Metamora—prostate problems, you know. Nevertheless, don't worry. Renosa has a very nice hotel with excellent accommodations. My cousin owns it so I can get you a special rate."

I shook my head. "I don't have time for an overnight stay. Write out directions to the mine and I'll see what I can manage on my own."

He thought for a moment and then said, "Widgeons would be horrified if you were delivered back in a coffin. It would be safer if I drove you."

"This could get messy, Martinez."

He spread his hands palms up. "I am being extremely well paid. Do you have a sidearm?"

I shook my head. "There was a little problem back in McAllen and it was confiscated by the locals."

Martinez opened one of the lower drawers in his desk, took out an ancient .45 automatic and shoved it across to me. Then he fumbled under his suit coat a moment and withdrew a small-caliber snub-nosed revolver. I picked up the automatic, checked its clip, set the safety and then stuffed the tire weapon into my suit-coat.

"I don't think we'll need these but it's best to be on the safe side," he remarked, as he checked the rounds in the weapon's cylinder. "What do you plan?"

"I want a look inside the mine. It'll take maybe twenty minutes. What's your plan to get me to it?"

Martinez considered my question for a moment and then snapped his fingers. "Insurance investigator. Insurers demand annual inspections of commercial properties. Why not mines, as well? We will go out there on that premise, I being the local attorney the insurer contacted, you being their inspector. I have just such an order for a factory north of town. I will simply have that document replicated by the stenographer next door with the mine being the object of interest. She is my sister, so we can rely upon her discretion."

I was not convinced an insurance agent demanding access to the mine would get me anywhere near it, unless to bury my bones. And I was even more skeptical about going out there armed with a tired Colt and his feeble snub-nose as our only means of defense. However, Martinez was confident enough for both of us and his being along just might do the job. After all, my part of hell was long overdue for a good freezing.

"Have any of the locals worked at the mine?" I asked. "Other than the goons guarding it?"

His lips pursed and then he nodded. "Several that I knew. But that was early on," Martinez replied. Then he spread his hands deprecatingly. "Unfortunately, they are all dead."

"Something unpleasant and unexpected?"

He nodded grimly. "Of one kind or another. Accidents, of course. And if one did not consider the low probability of those incidents happening to one small group of individuals, those deaths would go unnoticed."

"Did your brother-in-law investigate them?"

"As best he could—considering there were never witnesses. Unfortunately, there was nothing to indicated murder. In one case the individual was under his car changing its oil when it fell off the jack. In another, the individual was repairing a leaking roof and fell to his death. In all cases, a plausible accident."

"Who owns the property on the American side?"

His gold tooth winked at me. "I thought you would be interested so I made some inquiries. I cannot guaranty accuracy but according to my sources that land is owned by Eli Huggins of McAllen, Texas. Do you know who he is?"

"Lately, he's dead. What kind of business is it?"

"A gas station facing a dirt road that nobody travels on. Not the best place to build such a facility. Nevertheless, trucks do stop there—infrequently."

"In synch with truck arrivals at the mine?"

His brown eyes went dreamy. "Possibly. Cocaine, eh? A lot of money could be made with an operation like that."

"Has Philip Woods been out to the mine lately?"

Martinez shrugged. "He was in my offices to sign the purchase agreement years ago," he said. "Since then I have not seen him." He folded up his file and secreted it back into his desk. "But another man, a big American, has been out there quite frequently. I see him in town at least once a month. I don't know his name, although my brother-in-law might. He has a face full of scars—quite hideous."

"Delaney. He's captain of Police in McAllen."

His eyebrows arched again. "So it is that type of arrangement, eh? My brother-in-law will be jealous. You think Mr. Woods is part of the cocaine smuggling? Or is he merely a dupe?"

"Part and parcel; but I don't have enough evidence for an indictment. I'm hoping to find that at the mine. How long before we can leave?"

Martinez checked his watch. "We'll drop off the inspection order at my sister's office and then have lunch. That should give her plenty of time to type it. I would say we should arrive at the mine shortly before dark—not an imprudent delay, let me assure you. They will not be able to telephone the insurance company to verify our intentions. Accordingly, they will have no alternative but to accede to our request. What would you like to eat?"

He stood up and grinned. I got to my feet wondering if I was about to have my last meal.

"My cousin owns the tortilla factory," he continued, "which supplies the entire town. She also has a delightful café that serves true Mexican cuisine, not the phony tourist fare you Americans are handed. Come. One bite and you will die before leaving Renosa."

As we walked out, the cockroach disappeared behind the fan's base and the spider crawled into the center of its web. Neither had any interest in mines. As I followed Martinez down the steps to the street, I guessed that the two insects had more brains than he and I, put together.

# **Chapter 20**

It was evening by the time Martinez and I reached the gravel entrance to The Blue Turf Mining Company. The sun was settling on the horizon. The birds were beginning their nightly twitter. And a bullet-riddled sign mounted on the access gate greeted us with, ' _Tresspassers será el disparo_ '. Trespassers Will Be Shot.

"Friendly place," I remarked.

Martinez stopped his old Chevrolet and swallowed thickly. "Let's hope it does not get any more unfriendly. There has been no reported trouble. So, the sign is probably more bluff than anything. Still..."

A quarter of a mile ahead was a mud-brick house. Beyond it was a small metal shack; in front of which was parked a tired looking pickup truck. And some yards to the right of the shack was a square opening into the side of a huge grassy hill, framed on both sides by what looked like open doors.

"That the mine?" I pointed to the hill.

He nodded sharply, sending a dribble of nervous sweat from his forehead across the bridge of his nose. "Last month I was driving past on my way home and saw a truck backed up to it. Two men were unloading boxes and carrying them inside."

Approximately 200 yards east of the hill stood the razor-wire fence that marked the United States border. Another 100 yards beyond this was an old gas station.

"Who controls the rackets in these parts?" I asked.

" _Pueda a Dios tiene la misericordia,_ " Martinez moaned. "Him, you don't want to get involved with! Enrique Rodriguez, the bastard. I have not seen him around lately. However, that does not mean anything. He has family to watch over his operations."

The name made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. "He's got a brother who's a junkie? Miguel?"

Martinez gave me a worried look. "How... Please tell me you have not had trouble with those two."

"There's only one now. Miguel's dead. Enrique, as far as I know is still in McAllen. Is he hooked up with the three men living out here?"

" _Pueda él quema en el infierno desde hace diez mil años."_ Martinez daubed the sweat on his worried brow with his right sleeve before adding, "Nothing goes on that Enrique does not have a piece of. How did Miguel die?"

"I broke his neck."

" _Pueda a Dios tiene la misericordia._ " He clenched his jaw tightly for a moment and then asked, "I think we had better leave. Tomorrow I will speak with my brother-in-law. And tonight we'll have a nice supper at the Renosa Steak House. Later, perhaps, some private entertainment—all on my expense account with Widgeons. How does that sound?"

I took the automatic he had given me and jerked back the slide. "This can't wait." I let the rusty metal squeak forward dropping a round into the firing chamber. "Just drop me here. I'll take care of my business and meet you down the road a mile, or so."

"Too late," Martinez said and pointed at a man coming out of the house. "One of them has already seen us."

I jumped out as if I belonged there, opened the gate and then crawled back into the car. "Just drive in and drop me. I'll take it from there."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm the insurance inspector; right? All I need is a few minutes in the mine to satisfy my curiosity. I'll slip the guard a few bucks, and tell him I'm in a hurry. With a little luck"

"You'll need a great deal more than a little if Enrique is out here. Does he know you killed Miguel?"

"Ringside seat."

He let go a moan as he wagged his head in despair. " _La madre de dios,_ " he muttered, dismally. Then he put the old car into gear. "We will have to bluff this through. Let me do the talking. I have had several successful dealings with Jesus Agora. He is the one in charge. If Enrique is around or expected, I will scratch my ass. If not this should be a cakewalk, as you Americans say."

"I don't like putting you at risk."

"I can handle myself. But, let me take Jesus through the paces at my own speed. If he senses he is being rushed, he will get suspicious. So just sit in the car like you're bored."

I dug out my money clip and peeled off five twenties. "Offer him this as a teaser."

Martinez took the cash and then said, "I'll hold this in reserve. Initially, I'll explain you've had too much tequila and we've got women waiting. And the quicker you can take a peek in the mine to satisfy your responsibilities, the better."

"And if he doesn't bite?"

"I'll hand him the money and suggest that you and I bring the women out there for a party. After that he will have other things on his mind and you will get your look around." Martinez muttered a short prayer before stepping on the accelerator.

The guard watched our approach with obvious agitation. When we were close enough for him to count heads, he quickly went back into the house. I dried my damp palms on my slacks and hoped it was not because he felt the need for more ammunition.

Three minutes later Martinez parked his car and got out. After doing a lazy stretch, he called out for Jesus. Almost immediately, the screen door opened and a fat man dressed in baggy blue dungarees and a dirty white T-shirt stepped onto the porch. Martinez hurried over to him with his hand extended while cooing niceties in guttural Spanish.

The pair shook hands, talked for several minutes. Then Martinez handed the man the phony inspection order.

After reading the document, the fellow shrugged and then went back into the house. Martinez turned and strolled back to the car; grinning like a Cheshire cat.

I got out as he reached it and whispered, "Are we set?"

"That one is Jesus," Martinez explained, softly. "He's going to get the keys to the mine entrance. I'll have to send a few women out here when we get back, but Widgeons can afford it."

"How many are in the house?" I asked, moving over to him.

"I couldn't see anyone through the screen. However, I heard two men talking inside so I suspect it is just as I told you. Relax. We've got nothing to worry about."

"He's taking his time with those keys," I muttered. Then I let my eyes drift. The shack I had noticed from the road was marked, _'Los Explosivos'_. Then I looked over at the mine entrance. My eyes nearly bugged out as realization sunk in. No matter how you cut it, open doors meant no keys were necessary. "We'd better get the hell out of here; quick."

Martinez glanced back at the house. "What for? We're clean and green as you Americans say."

"The mine entrance is already open."

His eyes darted from my face to the mine and then back. "You worry too much. Relax. Jesus probably didn't realize it."

I gave the house a concerned stare. It was possible someone had opened the mine without notifying Jesus. It was also possible that pigs would someday fly. "It's still taking too long. Get in the car and let's get out of here. I'll come back on my own after dark."

"Jesus didn't even ask for a bribe!" Martinez grinned. "As long as we're out here, let's finish it."

I wiped the sweat from my eyes and then went back to the rider's side of the car. "He could have machined those keys by now. Come on."

Martinez laughed. "You keep this up and you'll die of stomach ulcers. When we get down to the mine, I'll keep him busy about the women. Jesus has quite a reputation with the ladies. And I, with all modesty, I can boast the same. While we compare notes you can snoop."

The curtain covering the front window suddenly jerked open. "Get down." I hit the dirt.

A second later, automatic gunfire crackled from inside the house blowing out its front window and dropping Martinez, his smile frozen upon his face. I let out a cry as if I had been wounded. Then I jerked out the Colt and crawled beneath the car. Surviving that much, I slid along the dirt to the driver's side. Martinez was dead. Half a dozen rounds had ripped through his head and back; but he was still grinning.

After what seemed like an eternity, I heard voices. Then the front door to the house creaked open. I took aim as Jesus and another man crept out. Each was holding an Uzi. My finger coiled around the automatic's trigger, snuggling it back against the sear. If it did not fire or it jammed, I would soon be fast-stepping it behind Martinez on my way to hell.

Jesus paused and crouched low trying to see beneath the car. Then he motioned the other man to go on ahead.

I waited until Jesus straightened before firing. The first round hit him in the chest. The next two caught his partner in the groin. As the second man hit the grass, I sent another through the side of his skull. Almost immediately, a long burst of machinegun fire spurted from within the house. The bullets pinged through the car, blowing out tires and ripping the ground around it. I kept still, taking aim at the house and watching.

Minutes passed before I saw movement behind the front window. That movement came from a big sombrero atop the head of a very nervous little man. I fired two rounds as he leaned out the window. He gave a loud groan as he fell forward, one of the upright shards piercing his middle and pinning him to the window frame like a Christmas decoration. I waited several more minutes and then crawled from beneath the car.

Beside the rear quarter panel, I paused to count the number of rounds in the automatic's clip. It was empty. I discarded the weapon and crept toward the two dead men on the walk. I paused by Philippe and picked up his Uzi. After a brief prayer, I charged into the house.

It smelled like last week's chili cook-off. From the tiny living room, I saw a small kitchen and the hallway to what I assumed were even smaller bedrooms and the inevitable diminutive bath. A shadeless floor lamp, two overstuffed sofas, a tattered black vinyl chair and a cigarette-burned coffee table furnished the front room in poverty-stricken panache. A veil of flies danced above four bowls of chili. My stomach knotted as I saw that fourth bowl. Someone was not accounted for.

I gave the insects a wide berth and carefully crossed the room to the kitchen. It was empty except for a small rattlesnake coiling along the floor. Shivers went up my spine as I watched the snake disappear beneath the cabinets. I gave the Uzi a nervous check to make certain a round was in its chamber and then crept toward the rear of the house.

The two bedrooms were empty. The bath was another story. Unaccounted was sitting on the toilet. One of his forearms rested atop a wear-weary fax machine. His head was tilted back, his torso slouched back against the commode's water tank. And his bent legs were splayed; a roll of toilet paper resting upon his naked groin.

He could have passed for sleeping except one eyeball and his chin were gone; blown away by stray rounds. I touched the side of this throat but there was no pulse.

I slung the Uzi over my shoulder and headed back to search the bedrooms. In addition to the usual matching set of sagging steel cots and bare closets, one had an old pine clothes-bureau. I dragged out each drawer in turn and dumped its meager contents onto the nearest mattress. The heirs of these men would be disappointed. Frayed underwear, rusty shaving utensils, porno magazines and a small notebook made up their combined estates.

I thumbed through the notebook. The entries were in crude, sometimes misspelled Spanish. Through a little imagination and patience, I was able to translate what had been recorded. The notebook was a fax log documenting a series of transmissions to a single telephone number—the one assigned to the fax machine in Philip Woods' home. Each entry recorded the fax's content—mostly a listing of plastic plates and drinkware.

I stuffed the notebook into my pocket, and returned to the kitchen. Inside the refrigerator, I found a plastic freezer bag containing nearly five thousand dollars in United States currency. I pocketed the bag and then started for the living room.

I was about to open the front door when it banged into my head knocking me back on my heels. As I grappled to bring the Uzi to bear, a young man rushed in wielding a shotgun. From the look on his frightened face, there was no discussing the situation.

I hit the floor and rolled just as he started blasting.

By the time he had fired his third round, I managed to get off a spray from the Uzi. The bullets caught him in the chest and throat, dropping him without so much as a cry. I got up and sent another burst into his back to make certain there would be no more surprises. Then I made my way outside.

Next to Jesus, I squatted down to rummage through his pockets. Other than car keys and several unused condoms, he left the world with nothing. I took the keys, hoping they fit the old pickup. Then I removed the clip from the other man's weapon and put it into my pocket before trotting over to the mine.

Beyond its entrance lay a huge concrete culvert. Mounted on wooden planks bolted into the culvert's concrete were ore car track-rails. These descended at a shallow angle along the culvert's fifty-foot length until they reached the end. Then the descent tapered off and the tracks disappeared into darkness embraced by gray stone blocks.

Electrical switches just past the doors actuated a double string of lights. These ran from the culvert's opening to well out of sight below. I walked down to the end of the culvert, climbed into an ore car and released its brake. It rolled forward along the track, slowly picking up speed as it continued its descent toward the United States border.

Several minutes later, the car rattled to a stop against buttresses in front of a set of closed steel doors. I got off, dropped out the clip from Philippe's Uzi and replaced it with the full one taken from his partner's gun. I was not expecting any more trouble, but when in the spider's web, a little forward thinking is wise.

I pressed an ear against the door. On the other side, I could hear men's voices and a radio playing. They were speaking English so I assumed I was now under American soil. The way this underground passageway had been built, anything and everything could be secretly transferred from Mexico to the United States with no one being the wiser.

The return trek was an uphill struggle. And by the time I reached the mine entrance my feet hurt, I was out of breath, and my legs were nearly numb. I turned off the lights and then paused a moment to catch my breath. Outside, fading sunshine had turned to moonlight. The house was darkly reassuring, so I stumbled out and headed for the explosives shed. This had been a costly trip. I was not about to leave without closing down the Mexican part of the cocaine connection.

I had the shack door open and was blissfully using a crowbar I'd found next to a case of dynamite when I sensed something or someone beside me. I whirled, reaching for the Uzi, when a sharp pain erupted at the side of my skull. My eyes closed, my knees buckled and I felt myself falling. Seconds later, I was chasing those damn gypsies, again.

# **Chapter 21**

Life with the gypsies had just gotten interesting when something slapped my face. I ignored it because I had finally tackled one of the women and was just about to ensure the immortality of my line. But, a second slap forced my reluctant return to consciousness.

My eyes fluttered open and I realized I was back inside the mud-brick house—this time tied to a chair in the kitchen. Somebody had hauled away the bodies I had left in the living room. In their stead a nervous young man stood by the kitchen entrance holding a sawed off shotgun. He was watching me with wide eyes as Enrique Rodriguez loomed over me, grinning.

I tried to take a swing at fat Mexican, but the ropes had me pinned. I kicked him in the groin, instead. Enrique jumped back with a yelp, holding onto his crotch and groaning. As he bent over I saw a patch of blood-soaked gauze taped to the top of his skull. Tanya had done a good job with the bat. Just not good enough.

"I'll kill you, man." Enrique screamed.

The rattlesnake I had seen earlier stuck its head out of a mouse hole and flicked at the air with its red tongue. It was getting the same bad vibrations from Enrique as I was.

"I'm impressed, Enrique," I quipped, keeping an eye on the snake's head. "No matter what side of the garbage pile you crawl out of, you've got the same stink."

He cocked his arm and started toward me, but caught himself when the front door banged. A moment later Delaney waltzed into the kitchen. The big cop was sweating and red-faced except for the scars on his cheek. Those stood out like writhing white worms.

"Did the son-of-a-bitch talk?" Delaney roared at Enrique.

"Nice to see you're still with us, Delaney," I interrupted. "I've been keeping an eye on a relative of yours. He's hiding in that mouse hole below the stove. Cute little fellow—has fangs and a rattle."

"I just got started, man," Enrique told the big cop. "And then the son-of-a-bitch kicked my balls, man."

"Enrique's been telling me how he's cut his own deal with the Portellos. According to him, you've been dropped from the program."

Delaney looked from me to Enrique but said nothing.

"He's full of shit, man." Enrique retreated a step, scaring the snake back into it dark domain. The Mexican pointed a threatening finger at me. "I'm gonna' make you pay for that, man."

Delaney dragged a kitchen chair over, setting it so its back was toward me and I was staring at his ugly face. Then he straddled its seat resting his arms across the chair-back. "How we gonna' work this Old Son?"

"How about you untie me," I suggested. "And after I kick your ass around this dump a few times, I walk out of here?"

The big cop grinned and shook his head. "You always got a comeback, don't ya?"

"Let me work on him a little, man," Enrique pleaded. "I make the bastard talk. Big time."

"Just because I'm tied to this chair, Enrique?" I said. "Hell, I can whip your ass with my eyebrows!"

Delaney leaned forward. "Where's my stuff?"

"K-Mart bought the lot," I whispered back. "They needed something for their blue light special."

He slapped me.

I took it and grinned.

"You got but one chance outa' this, Old Son," Delaney warned as he stood up. "That's dead. How you die depends on how you cooperate. Now, where's my stuff?"

"Is that anyway to offer incentive, Delaney? "Give a guy a little hope, for Christ's sake. If I'm going to die, why should I give a shit how?"

Delaney gave me a backhanded left. "You'll care plenty by the time Enrique finishes."

"Yeah, man," Enrique chimed. "You care plenty, man. I gonna' kick your ass all round this place for killing my brother. And then I gonna get really pissed off with you about my blue balls."

"Think, again, you idiots. I die and so do you. The Portellos are not about to let you morons live after the loss of their cocaine!"

The big cop gave an unconcerned shrug. "Everybody has shrinkage."

"Not the Portellos."

Delaney leaned over me and said, "Then, you'd better help me out, Old Son."

I blew him a kiss. "Not when I can foresee you tied spread-eagle with Dominic putting a blowtorch to your Irish pride and joy."

"Maybe I do that to you, man!" Enrique chimed at me. Then he waved an arm toward the living room and told the kid with the shotgun, "Go find me a goddamn blowtorch."

The kid gave out a weak smile before asking " _Qué en el infierno es una lámpara de soldar?_ "

"How do I know what the hell a blowtorch is? Just get it."

"Stay put," Delaney growled at the kid.

"When Dominic finishes with Delaney he'll start on you, Enrique. My survival's the only hope you yo-yos have of living out the week."

"I don't like what this son-of-a-bitch is sayin', man," Enrique shouted to Delaney. "You told me, fuck those Sicilians. You told me, we're gonna' be runnin' things from now on. You told me all kinds of shit man. Well, what're we runnin' with, man? That bastard's got the cocaine. He don't wanna' talk, we got shit and them Sicilian's are pissed."

The big cop studied Enrique. I could tell from the look on the Irishman's face he was not happy with his partner.

"You're beginning to worry me, Mex," Delaney growled.

"Fuck you, man." Enrique's rage was rising. "Even if that bastard talks, we still got trouble, man. I say we get the fuck out of town 'til this shit blows over."

"Good thinking, Enrique," I remarked. "Unfortunately, when you cross the Mafia there's no place to hide—ever. They never stop looking. The longer it takes them to find you, the meaner they get when it comes to reparations. I knew a guy who hid from the Portellos for almost twenty years. They caught up with in Rio. Gave that guy the dip treatment: took him nearly a week to die."

"Oh, yeah?" Enrique shouted at me. "Well, maybe I give you the dip treatment, man." He turned to Delaney. "What's the hell's the dip treatment, man?"

Delaney took out his sap and returned his attention to me. "I'm gonna' start off by breakin' your jaw." He kicked the chair he had been sitting on out of the way, stepped forward, and slapped-tapped leather-cloaked lead against my chin.

"Real smart, Delaney. Broken jaw and I can't talk even if I wanted to. Did you vote him boss, Enrique? Or were you gone the day the dummies cast their ballots?"

"Shuttup," Delaney shouted. He thumped my shoulder with the sap. It hurt enough to puddle my eyes. But my bones held together.

"Delaney's going to get you killed, Enrique," I gritted. "And, if you think the Portellos can't touch you here, think again. They've got contacts all over the world."

Delaney hit me again. I let out a groan this time, which pleased him no end.

"I'll take you to the shipment, Enrique," I continued. "After that, I'll even help you work out an arrangement with the Portellos that'll keep you in new Chinos and silk for the rest of your days. All you gotta' do is shoot Delaney."

Again, the sap hit my shoulder. Again, I groaned.

Enrique began to pace. "I don't like that dip thing, man," he told Delaney. "And what about that shrinkage? We better get the hell out of here before they're all over us like stink on a dead chicken. That Portello bastard was down here, man. He knows all about this place. He knows about me."

Delaney pointed to me as he glared over at Enrique, "You just worry about getting this piece of shit to talk."

"I thought you cross-dressing black-leggers were tougher, Delaney," I quipped without too much of a whimper. "Let's switch places and I'll show you how it should be done."

The Mexican jabbed the air in my direction before shouting to Delaney, "I want him as dead as anybody, man. He killed my goddamn brother. But, I ain't gonna' screw over them Mafias, man. I say we hand him over to them. Let them get their own shit back."

"Another good plan, Enrique," I chided. "Only trouble is, the Portellos won't believe I've got the coke. And I sure as hell won't help out by admitting it. You better go home and kiss your momma goodbye—for the last time."

Delaney grabbed Enrique by the throat. "You gutless son-of-a-bitch. You do as I say or you won't have to worry about the Portellos. I'll kill you for them!" Then he shoved the Mexican across the room before whirling back toward me, the sap raised. "This time I break your collar bone, Old Son."

Delaney's cell phone rang before he could make good on his threat. He checked the calling-number display and then with a worried curse, hurried outside. Enrique moved back over in front of me looking scared.

"Is shrinkage like when you go swimming in cold water?" he asked. "'Cause I don't want them Portellos shrinking my head, man."

"More or less. Only a little less personal."

"Then what's this dip treatment, man?"

"Sulfuric acid in a barrel. Dominic's a real enthusiast, especially if he's dealing with a guy who's got family."

Enrique wagged his head in disgust. "He makes the family watch, man? _¡Qué un pedazo de basura!_ "

I shook my head. "No, he puts _them_ through it first. That way the clown who crossed him knows the suffering of his loved ones before it's his turn."

Enrique swallowed hard. "I kill him he tries that with my mother, man."

"You won't get the chance, Enrique. You keep kissing Delaney's ass and mommy'll be dangling from a rope with her toes tap-dancing on the acid before the week is out."

"Nobody messes with my mother, man," he screamed at me. "Now where's the goddamn stuff?"

"I'm dead, remember? There's no reason to talk. I'll be in my grave listening to your momma begging for help."

Enrique grabbed for my throat. I managed to tip the chair sideways, ducked his pass and in the process tripped him. He tumbled hard, landing on one wrist. I heard it snap, then his bellowed agony. Delaney rushed in cursing, gun drawn. The young guard shifted from one foot to the other, waving the shotgun, wall-eyed with fear and confusion. I was sideways on the floor grinning.

"What the hell's going on?" the big cop demanded.

"Enrique doesn't like me anymore, Delaney," I told him. "Tell him he's a bad boy."

"He broke my fuckin' wrist, man," Enrique screamed from the floor.

"I warned you about my eyebrows, Enrique. Next time you'll take me seriously."

Delaney looked from Enrique to me before muttering, "How in the hell"

All the shouting must have worried the snake. It lunged from the mouse hole and tried to slither past Enrique's fat backside. The kid with the gun let go a scream and then fired at the serpent. The blast missed the creature but sent several pellets into Enrique's fat backside. He let out another bellow and rolled in pain, sending a spray of blood in all directions.

Delaney jerked my chair upright, then dragged Enrique to his feet, and checked him out quickly. "Get him to a goddamn doctor, you idiot," he roared at the kid with the gun.

"I'm gonna' chop you up with an axe, man," Enrique whimpered, as he hobbled past me towards the door, the seat of his chinos soaked in blood. "And then I'm gonna' make you eat yourself."

I grinned at Delaney. "Looks like your plans are falling apart."

"Always on top, ain't ya?" Delaney grunted.

"My life expectancy's a bit longer than yours, anyway."

He smirked. "That was your pal Dominic on the horn. Salvatore just arrived in town to pay his respects on Eli's passing. And for reasons I have yet to discover, they already know about the missing coke. Now, how could that be, Old Son?"

"I told you Enrique'd cut a side deal."

"That's as may be. Or not. But they're looking at me for answers. And they want them tonight—in McAllen. That buys you about fourteen hours, Old Son. Because, tomorrow I'll be back. And if you haven't talked, I'm gonna' drag your sorry ass out to a fire ant mound and stake you down. Those little bastards may be small but they do like fresh meat."

"Six, two and even I'll be the only of us still alive tomorrow night, Delaney."

He roared and hit my left collarbone with the sap.

It was not enough to break it, but close. I pretended to faint from the pain. Through squinted eyes, I watched him back away. After a moment, he yelled and two young Mexicans rushed in waving pistols. In pidgin Spanish, the big cop told them to lock me in the explosive's shed, chair and all. I let my eyelids slip closed and smiled to myself.

# **Chapter 22**

Minutes later, dusty crates, darkness, and the acrid odor of sweating dynamite surrounded me. I tried shifting the ropes binding my wrists but without success. An amateur had tied me up but his workmanship was good enough to keep me seated. I glanced around for something to ease my predicament, and noticed an oval-shaped silhouette on top of one stack of crates. A kerosene lantern. And, that meant glass, which breaks—which results in shards that cut, which could put me back in the game.

I rocked my chair back and forth until I had enough momentum to skip its legs in the lantern's direction. I moved only about an inch. However, my aim was dead-on. Rock twice, lunge once. Rock twice, lunge once. If nothing else, the exercise would do me a world of good.

Ten minutes later my knees nudged the crates upon which the lantern stood. My lunge jiggled the lantern a bit, but it remained staunchly in place. I tried shifting my weight forward to shake the stack, but the lantern continued steadfast. Finally, I rocked the chair back and flung myself headlong, as hard as I could. My skull butted the stack, toppled it over and sent the lantern careening. The lantern bounced off a nearby wall and then ricocheted back in my direction. As it hit the floor it clattered. The crash was followed by sharp tinkles and the smell of kerosene. If the place didn't catch fire and the dynamite didn't explode, I still had a chance at escape—presuming a floor strewn with broken glass didn't shorten my existence. _Life could not get any better than this,_ I told myself.

I tucked my chin forward to protect the back of my head as I fell. As my shoulders bounced off the floor, a blaze of fiery pain shot across them and up my neck. A warm, wet trickle spread slowly across my back. Ah the luck of the Irish. My brilliant plan had put me right on target with the shards.

For the next few minutes I squirmed, kicked and fondled the dusty floor until one of my hands touched something smooth. I grabbed it between thumb and forefinger, sending more pain toward my brain as another blood-flow headed in the opposite direction. I let go a curse. That taken care of, I proceeded to drag the shard's edge against my bounds.

I had seen movie-heroes cut through ropes with all manner of tool. Despite the risk of infection, terminal bleeding and massive disfigurement, not once did any hero fail in this effort. Unfortunately, I was not gifted with a script. With each slice not only did I feel pain followed by more dripping blood, but I suffered growing doubts that my efforts would ever result in my freedom. At least not without earning me the nickname, _stubby fingers_.

Time passes quickly when one is having fun. After half an hour of less than blissful sawing, I decided the fun I was having would likely result in a blood transfusion, require several hundred stitches and necessitate a few tons of antibiotics. Not only were my shirtsleeves soaked with life's leakage, but my movements shook the chair. Which meant that most of the tattoo on my left forearm had been shard-filleted into memory.

Still, I was very pleased when the last of my binds fell away, and I was able to stand.

I checked my wounds. All fingers were in place, albeit one looked a bit ragged. The tattoo was still there but the heart was missing its lower point. And the veins in my wrist were still whole. One palm would likely need stitching to make it stop grinning at me, but I was alive and that was something to be thankful for. Or not, depending on who was on guard outside.

I staggered to the shed's door. There, I listened for a moment. After hearing neither man nor beast, I leaned my weight against it. The barrier creaked open about an inch and then held fast. I pressed my face to the wood and let one eyeball scan through the narrow opening between door. With a little help from the moon's dim glow I made out the silhouette of a padlock straining against hasp. It was simple security, but it held the door shut.

Kicking the door open would likely make enough noise to wake the dead and lay me out amongst them. So, I crept back through the darkness and felt around among the dynamite crates for the crowbar I had used earlier. Moments later, I had the power of steel in my hands.

For several minutes, I applied continuous rocking pressure between door and hasp. My efforts were much akin to dancing upon a coil spring. The harder I worked, the more the door seemed to bounce in closed delight. Finally, there was a low creak as the screws in the hasp's mounting plate released their grip. I then seized the pry-bar in club fashion and eased the door open.

Ah, the sweet smell of unguarded freedom. I started out, but a covey of bats flitting past sent me backpedaling. They swooped up, around and back several times, making only the slightest squeaking sounds as they scooped insect life out of darkness. At last they moved on and I was able to stand proudly beneath the smiling moon.

In front of the house was a single pickup truck. Presumably, most of the hired help Delaney left behind had gone home to wife and children. Except for Enrique, of course. He was likely on his belly with his bare ass in the face of some kindly physician skilled in the setting of bones and the awkward removal of shotgun pellets from punctured posteriors.

A gust of wind brought music to my ears, then. From within the house a radio was offering up soft salsa. And despite the shortage of window glass, I could just make out the silhouettes of two men making the most of the moment. From behind the front window curtains, I saw their forms moving in unison. It looked like they were dancing. At least I hoped they were dancing. Regardless, it was almost romantic. Two lonely men, in a lonely business, at a lonely outpost sharing an all too brief union as they did the light fantastic.

I controlled the impulse to rush over and cut in. Then I and went looking for Martinez' car. I found it behind the house, covered by a moth-eaten tarp. After pulling off the dusty covering, I saw him crumpled up in the backseat. He did not look as optimistic as when he'd told me we had nothing to worry about—probably because of that sudden introduction to St. Peter. Still, I felt a wave of pity for those who loved him.

The object of my quest was still holstered under his left arm. I jerked out the small pistol and checked the cylinder for rounds. It would not offer much resistance to a hail of fire from an Uzi. But six shots of .25 caliber were better than waving a pointy stick when faced by a gorilla. So, I slipped the weapon into my pants pocket and headed to the mine entrance.

The doors were still open. And why not? As far as Delaney and company were concerned, I was safely tucked away with their dynamite collection. I checked my watch. There were at least four hours before dawn. If I hurried, I could plant dynamite in the tunnel and still be at the IHOP in McAllen for the noon special. I strode back to my shard-lined hovel with a smile on my lips. This night I would finally test my own ideas about the big bang theory.

Minutes became hours as I set boxes of explosive at five-foot intervals along the entire length of the tunnel, each linked by a single stick of dynamite equipped with fuse and detonator cap. And by the time I had finished my work the sun was just lapping away at the stars.

I staggered back to the mine entrance, lit a cigarette and then squatted down by a fresh reel of fuse. I merely had to crimp a blasting cap on it, force the cap into one of the dynamite sticks in the first box, and then unroll the fuse on my way to the pickup. After that, I would drive away leaving an explosive parting gesture. I just loved it when a brilliant plan comes together.

It was then I heard another pickup truck arrive, and my heart sank into my shoes. Not expecting to be disturbed in my workings, and confident that my intellect was superior to those who would detain me, I had left the shed door open. I hate it when a brain-dead plan falls apart.

I peeked outside. The truck held Enrique and the kid with whom he had gone for medical aid. The former had a new cast on one forearm and a tear in the seat of his stained chinos. He was limping and cursing as the pair headed into the house. The latter was walking head-down behind Enrique, presumably still apologizing for his wayward fire. The former waved his good arm, vowing to become my worst nightmare. Little did he know as the pair went inside that I was already living it.

I affixed the fuse to the cap, stuffed it into a dynamite stick, and then trotted out, spinning the reel to let the fuse roll out. When I got to their truck, I glanced inside. To my delight, they had left the keys in the ignition. Confident that all would soon be well in my world, I cut the fuse from the reel, lit it and then quickly climbed behind the steering wheel.

"Sweet dreams, Enrique." I turned the key.

Instead of spinning the starter cogs against the engine's ring gear, the battery merely groaned in complaint, then went dead. I got out and stared at the billowing white smoke and scorched dirt left behind by a fuse that was burning fast and hot toward the mine. There was only one option outside of suicide—the tired truck parked near the dynamite shed.

I raced over to it and jumped in. Its owner must have held the weary vehicle in high regard. Its keys were gone. I was about to try and hotwire it when the young guard came out carrying his shotgun. When he saw me in the truck, he let out a cry and took aim. I pulled out Martinez' revolver and fired three times. At least one round hit the young man. His knees buckled, pitching him forward onto his face.

That's when the first box of dynamite went off. The explosion nearly blew the truck over on its side as the blast sent the doors paired at the mine entrance skyward. I jumped out of the truck and watched with guarded delight as the steel rectangles arched high over the house before gravity plunged them through the its roof. If there was anybody still sleeping, several hundred pounds of twisted metal had just made a rude wakeup call.

After jumping back into the pickup, I leaned down and grabbed the covey of wires near the base of the steering column. I sent my fingers walking along their length up to the ignition switch. Quickly I tore the wires free of their connection, twisted the ignition wires together and then touched these to starter wire. There was a spark, followed by the truck's engine turning over. It sounding like a coughing donkey, but what with the next explosion overdue, I did not think anybody but me would notice. To my relief, the engine gasped into life, belching blue smoke and backfires.

I had just shifted the transmission into low gear when the house's front door opened. Two disheveled men staggered out looking utterly confused. One was Enrique. I assumed the other was one of the shadow dancers. I popped the clutch. As the truck lurched forward, I stuck my arm out the window and emptied the revolver in their direction. They dove for cover. As I roared past, I heard Enrique scream in agony. This sound was followed by the detonation of the second box of dynamite. If the forthcoming explosions did not kill him, Enrique would likely need another trip to his favorite medico.

As I hit high gear, the truck's back window shattered. Somebody amongst the nearly departed still had enough self-control to pull a gun and give fire. I crouched over the steering wheel and slammed the accelerator to the floor. There was an immense blast from the tunnel as more dynamite came to life, followed by absolute silence. I let go a relieved laugh. Delaney would be doubly disappointed. Not only was I gone and still breathing. But, the next load of cocaine would be delayed—permanently.

# **Chapter 23**

After getting medical treatment for my glass-related lacerations at McAllen's hospital, I made a quick stop for lunch and then returning to my motel room. There I showered, shaved and had a cigarette before crawling into bed. Sleep never felt so good—as long as I didn't move, or breathe, or sneeze, or...

It was nearly dark when I awoke. I caught a quick bite at a fast-food joint and then drove the rental to the Daisy Diner. I went in the back way and caught Tanya's attention.

She hurried over to wrap her arms about my neck. "When you didn't come back I thought you'd found better digs."

"I took an unexpected detour." I winced and eased from her grasp. "Is your shift over?"

She nodded. "What's the plan?"

"Drink or three?"

She cocked her head and gave me a warm-all-over smile. "Is that all you want?"

"I'm a little tense."

She moved against me enticingly. "I'm an expert at fixing that—or have your forgotten?"

"I was hoping you'd offer. But, be gentle this time. I have a small leakage problem—in several hundred areas."

She gave me a long wet kiss before whispering, "Let's go upstairs."

Forty minutes and six changes of bandage later, Tanya and I were parked in the asphalt lot behind a long low brick building of rather pinkish heritage. On its flat roof a huge neon sign spelled out _'Snake Pit'_ in blinking red script. There were a dozen other cars in the lot. And, through one of the building's half-curtained windows, I saw couples seated at tables, and others clinging to each other in romantic dance. All wore jeans and wash-faded shirts.

"I take it this isn't frequented by McAllen's Who's Who," I remarked as I got out of the rental.

"It may look a little rough," she said, "but it's all right and we won't have to worry about Delaney showing up."

"I suspect our fearless cop is long past giving anyone worry. If his impromptu meeting with the Portellos went as I hope."

"Delaney's a survivor. Don't underestimate him."

Inside we faced a long, horseshoe-shaped bar. Behind it was a lanky fellow in a black t-shirt who had not shaved in several days. He was serving stool-bound patrons while dancing in a rather wobbly fashion—a good indicator he was a connoisseur of his own creations.

"What's the draw for this place?"

She laughed, slightly embarrassed. "My husband used to take me here. It has memories."

The bartender abruptly stopped his rendition of the Frug, grabbed a liquor bottle, and then took a swing at the bar-top. I could not tell if he was demonstrating his talents for drum-rolls, or killing a creepy-crawly. His entourage clapped drunkenly when the bottle shattered, so I assumed it was the former.

"Memories of what?"

She smiled sadly. "Just memories."

The place had a band dais adjacent to the bar. The small stage had become a storage area for broken chairs and crumbling tables rather than the focal point for entertainment. From somewhere else a jukebox provided dance music. To the left of where we stood was a long row of shadowy booths. Nervous couples with darting eyes occupied most of those. They huddled together in whispers while covertly watching, lest they be recognized by curious stares. Beyond them was a pool table—the only alternative entertainment to body movement. A dozen men stood around it as cues rattled, balls clattered and angry voices rose over wagers changing hands.

Tanya led me to a vacant table near the dancers. We sat down and a buxom brunette waitress descended upon us. I requested a Manhattan on the rocks with bitters. Tanya asked for something to rev her engine. The waitress said she had something that would put the 'H' in horny, and then hurried away after giving me a naughty grin.

"When I was first married," Tanya murmured, nostalgically, "my husband and I took dancing lessons. He didn't like it much. But he went through the motions to please me. He was very sweet that way. These days I don't get out often enough to enjoy what we learned."

"You're not dating the right kind of people."

She drew a deep frustrated breath. "I'm not dating anybody."

" _I_ don't count? Hell, I'm an excellent dancer—if you don't have toes."

Her eyes wavered against my stare and then softened. " _You_ count. I'm just not sure if our arrangement does."

One of the drunks at the bar called loudly for service as he honed his fly-catching skills. From where I sat, I could see he had a system whereby he would lean forward, purse his lips and then blow softly—presumably to force the fly to clamp down its wings. Then, he would make a quick swipe, clench his fist, hold the victim up to his ear and grin. It seemed to be a plan for success because at each grab his fellow inebriates cheered loud, and long. After which, the flycatcher would release his captive so he could catch it again.

I reached across the table and touched one of Tanya's hands. "Cheer up. Things could be worse. I could have you out on the floor giving your feet a workout with my heels."

She laughed. "I was just wondering what was going to happen between you and me. So, far our relationship amounts to me keeping you bandaged—in between ash-haulings."

"Am I a fun guy or what?"

"By the time you get back to Fort Worth you'll have forgotten me."

"Don't underrate yourself, Tanya."

The waitress returned with our drinks. She gracefully accepted the tip I offered. The look on her face suggested it fell far short of expectation. I pretended not to notice and gave Tanya my most endearing leer.

"Let's get down to cases, Bishop," she said over the rim of her Daiquiri. "You're not the marrying type, so you didn't bring me out to propose. I don't have any money, so this isn't a buildup for a loan. You've already ravaged me twice, so seduction isn't on your mind. This leaves the night's real agenda a great big question."

I gave my Manhattan a finger-stir. "I had a speech all worked out—something cute and memorable. You jumped the gun and dumped my program down the sewer. I guess I'll have to try the truth and hope for the best."

She rubbed the frosty glass against the tip of her chin. "Something new for you?"

"It only happens when I'm short on time. Leon's still in trouble and if Delaney's still alive, so are you and I. What it comes down to is I need your help to pull off a small miracle."

"Doing what?"

"To start with, providing information. I'm interested in what you can tell me about the Mayor of McAllen."

She leaned forward on her elbows while giving my right leg a playful nudge with her toe. "For all your wayward charm, I don't think you're Philip Woods' type."

"You haven't seen me in a dress. I've got killer legs and an ass you could crack walnuts on—at least when I'm wearing a padded girdle."

She set down her glass, chuckling. "Okay. Where should I start?"

I tasted the Manhattan before saying, "Married, I take it?"

She leaned back and wagged her head. "Widower. Ten years, give or take. He's got a daughter. Nadine, I think. I've never met her. But, she made the news a few years ago when she won some middle-school award for beekeeping. It actually made the front page in our little burg. Gives you some idea of how exciting life gets in McAllen. What's your angle on him?"

"He's part of the Eli Huggins cocaine-coop."

Tanya's mouth gaped in disbelief. "No way."

"It gets better. Daughter Nadine is a coke addict and used to be one of Eli's playmates: probably one of the blondes you saw at his party."

Tanya slumped back in her chair. "I don't believe it."

"I would've had videotaped proof from Eli's remembrance library, but Delaney beat me to it. The other kid was Betsy Huggins, Eli's niece."

She made a disgusted face. "My god. His own niece?"

"How close is Enrique Rodriguez to the honorable mayor?"

"As far as I know, they don't even shake hands. Is he involved in this thing, too?"

I nodded. "Probably the successor to his recent partnership with Delaney. What are Woods' chances of reelection?"

"He hasn't been caught with his pants down—at least not until your news hits the presses. Are you certain he's hooked up with Delaney?"

Again, I nodded. "Any rumors of a violent streak?"

She eased forward and let one finger trace the rim of her glass. "As far as the local gossip goes, our honorable mayor is the epitome of social conscience. The papers'll want proof before tearing down his lily-white façade."

"When you were at Eli's party, did you meet Salvator Portello?"

Tanya gritted her teeth. "That, creep from Dallas has a brother? Jesus, his mother was short on brains as well as birth control."

"Sal was Anna's first kid. Dominic was her mistake. You'd remember Sal. He's short, gray, and slightly built, wire rimmed glasses and jet black eyes that don't miss a thing."

"Nobody by that description was there. But I didn't stay long. I got fidgety after the creep tied up some woman. When he started getting his kicks burning her with cigarettes, I knew it was time to leave."

"How did the blondes react to Dominic's sadistic hobby?"

She thought for a moment before saying, "I don't think they believed it was real. You're not planning that for me, are you?"

I wagged my head. "But keep the thought. According to Betsy, and indirectly confirmed by Nadine, Mayor Woods' little girl is now involved with Dominic Portello."

"Why, for god's sake? He's old enough to be her father."

"It could be love. Nevertheless, Nadine's got some funny kinks and a nasty habit that only Dominic can tend to, now that Eli's dead. I think she latched onto Dom knowing Eli's taste for the underaged would soon put her out of his circle of special friends."

"That poor kid."

"My choice in suspects for Eli's killing keeps changing. If I believe Betsy's need to speak with Nadine before telling me what happened, I get a picture of either Nadine or Woods or Dominic at the trigger. However, if what Nadine told me is true, it falls to someone hired by our fearless cop—and that points the finger at Enrique. I can link up all the connections to the drug business but I still don't have anything firm on the murder."

"It has to be Delaney and company."

"After my diversion in Mexico I'm not so sure. He couldn't have done the job himself, considering his driver was along all morning—a kid with a weak stomach and eyes on being the best cop McAllen ever had. Moreover, the only one he could have safely hired to kill Eli is Enrique. However, Enrique was like a rabbit dancing in front of a fox every time I brought up the Portellos. No way did he have spine enough to take out their man without making immediate plans to take a lifelong vacation someplace below ground."

Tanya made a dismissive gesture. "If Woods is your next guess, he doesn't have the balls for it."

"If you're right, that leaves Nadine or Dominic. And Salvator is a stickler for clean kills. Leaving Eli's body on the lawn would not be Dominic's style—and not tolerated by Sal. Which leaves me with Nadine—whom I can't see plugging the old bastard."

"Maybe it was somebody else? Somebody we don't know about yet. Or, maybe it was Leon." She took a sip from her drink.

"If you're trying to make me feel better, you're doing a lousy job."

"Now you look worried."

"Why should I be? I've got clean underwear and matching socks on."

"One sock's navy and the other's black. Let's consider the possibility the Portellos made a bad decision in their hiring practices. Let's say they paid some local to do the job and he got sloppy. That would give you a long list of potentials. Because border towns like this are swarming with low-life's, looking for a quick buck."

"The Portellos make a practice of killing their own, very privately, so to speak. If they wanted _you_ dead they'd hire it out. Someone they knew like me, or someone who worked for them like Eli, they'd do themselves—and, Dominic would've been the shooter. But there would have been no body: no way, no how."

"Maybe Eli was so coked up he pulled a gun on Dominic. Maybe Dominic killed him in self-defense and before he could deal with the body, you and Leon showed up."

"Now that you bring it, up that could be a possibility. Actually, Dominic's done it before—I couldn't prove it, mind you. But in my own mind I was satisfied he was responsible."

She set her elbows on the table, made a bridge with her fingers upon which to rest her chin. "Murder of a drug dealer?"

"Bar owner. It was about twenty years ago. I was with Dallas P-D Homicide. We got a call on a poisoning—strictly amateur work. The killer had used an over-the-counter pesticide. The bar owner's wife claimed it must've been an accident. Unfortunately for her theory the dead man had drunk too much of the bitter tasting stuff for that to be the case. A regiment would have died with the amount he had in his stomach. Initially, I was satisfied the wife had done it. She was having an affair with one of the barmaids who worked for her husband. Moreover, on several occasions the bar owner had been physically violent with her to the point of hospitalization. In addition, the pesticide used was the one I found in the family garage—purchased by her just days before. That gave her means, motive and opportunity. Nevertheless, as the investigation progressed it became clearer and clearer she hadn't done it. I was still convinced she knew a great deal more than she was saying, but she had not been the killer."

"Who was?"

"Her daughter. The girl was a cokehead about Nadine's age and the bartender's wife was protecting her. Anyway, I started digging and after about a month, I picked the girl up on a narcotic's bust. She was carrying three kilos of smack in her rucksack. When the kid learned from her attorney she would be looking at twenty years in the joint, she got scared and offered a deal. She'd roll over on who ordered her father's murder if she got immunity on the drug tag. I wanted no part of that, but the prosecutor took the bait and ran with it. That's when the girl claimed she'd killed her father on the instructions of her drug-dealer."

"The creep?"

"One of his underlings. I got my warrant and picked the pusher up. Once he realized what he was facing, he offered to cop a plea in exchange for something bigger. I agreed to consider it. That's when he told me the order to kill the bar owner came down directly from—Dominic Portello."

"Then why is the creep still on the street?"

"Without corroboration it would be the dealer's word against Dominic's. And, I couldn't find a motive for Dominic to want the bar owner dead. Dominic has his faults, but he doesn't put contracts out on civilians for kicks. Moreover, the bar was small potatoes—too small for the Portellos to want, even for money laundering. In addition, brother Salvator was extremely sensitive about the family image. Which meant a mistake like that could put Dominic at the wrong end of a contract. The prosecutor decided not to pursue Dominic's role in the murder and settled for the pusher."

"Which left the girl free?"

"She got unexpectedly absent, soon after. And before we could get to trial, so was her pusher. Both killings went unsolved because we had no bodies—typical of the Portello style."

Tanya took another taste of her drink. "But if you knew Dominic was responsible, why couldn't you bring him in for questioning?"

"I did. In fact, that used to be one of my hobbies. I would haul him in. Ten minutes later his lawyers would show up and haul him out. But for ten minutes I had the bastard by the short hairs and he knew it. Not that it got me anything. My point in this trek through history is the slim possibility that Dominic may have run a variation on that game with Nadine. He points at Eli and she pulls the trigger."

Tanya shifted on the chair, cocking one arm over its back. "But, how could Dominic con Nadine into taking that risk? If you're right about it all, the bar owner's daughter probably had her drug supply cut off until she did the deed. Eli would have kept Nadine well dusted to ensure continued access to her favors."

"You're forgetting that Nadine had aged beyond Eli's taste in female flesh. In time there would be little reason for him to continue supplying her. He would've had other fields to furrow."

She rattled her blond curls in disagreement. "Who says Eli had another piece somewhere? Both Nadine and Betsy admitted being there when he was killed. It only follows they were invited."

"Betsy told me Moira ordered her to visit Eli. She was supposed to go alone but got cold feet and called Nadine. Leon claims Eli had an important meeting that morning—something unexpected. Something that meant Eli could not meet me and he sure as hell did not want Leon hanging around for."

Tanya made a disgusted face. "Moira sent her own daughter?"

"Moira was after the cache of cocaine Eli had in the lab. I think she figured if the girls kept Eli busy, she'd have a chance to empty the lab without anyone being the wiser—at least until the Portellos wanted to take delivery. And by that time Eli would have no idea who had done it."

"Moira volunteered all this?"

"Considering she tried to kill me, it's the only way the figures."

She rolled her eyes in amusement. "You do have a way with women, Bishop."

"It's a curse. But, the side benefits are unbeatable."

Tanya leaned forward, her hands in her lap. "So Moira has the cocaine?"

I shook my head. "Had. I've got it, now."

Her voice cracked as she gasped, "All of it?"

"I had some free time between ash hauling sessions."

Tanya snapped her fingers, her eyes wide, he cheeks flushed with the feeling of success. "Eli caught her at it and she killed him."

I shook my head. "She didn't take it. Delaney did. Moira was just storing it for him—you remember how that goes."

The music on the jukebox changed tempo and Tanya glanced over at the dancers. Then as she turned back, one hand quickly reached under the table and pressed my knee. "Here comes trouble."

# **Chapter 24**

I turned toward the entrance and saw a familiar face. It was Bascomb. And his actions suggested he was looking for someone, in particular. When his eyes fell upon Tanya and me, he tucked his chin and strode directly over to our table.

"Slumming, Bascomb?"

He apologized to Tanya for intruding and then asked if she would take a seat at the bar while he talked to me privately. She gave me a nervous look and then left.

Bascomb settled across the table from me looking very unhappy. He grabbed Tanya's abandoned napkin and then fiddled with it for many seconds before saying, "I want answers, Bishop, straight answers."

"Throw a question out and we'll see what happens," I responded.

He leaned toward me and tapped his index finger on the table like a woodpecker rat-tatting a tree. "Somebody went to war in Mexico last night."

I dropped my cigarette to the concrete floor and crushed it beneath my heel. "It's the heat, Bascomb. Happens all the time in the heat. Pay no attention."

His eyes swept the room and then refocused on mine. "There still looking for bodies but so far the count is six. Seems somebody blew up a mine outside of Renosa after shooting the shit out of several lowlifes and one highly respected attorney by the name of Martinez."

"How respected can he be with a cop for a brother?"

Bascomb's mouth drooped. "Who said he had a brother?"

"In Mexico it would be a miracle if he didn't. What are you getting at?"

His face went through several phases not unlike the changes of the moon. "Mexican authorities think it was an American. One was seen leaving with Martinez."

I leaned forward and tapped the tabletop with a fingertip. "Six will get you seven it was Delaney."

Bascomb gritted his teeth and he leaned back in his chair muttering a curse. "The Portellos are in town—both of them. Took over the top floor of the Ventura Hotel. You were spot-on about those two showing up. Which probably makes you right about Delaney. Which does not make me happy."

I said, "They called Delaney last night. He went to meet with them about issues of the very worrying kind. Have you heard anything of our fearless friend today?"

"To hell with Delaney." One of the prosecutor's hands became a fist and he thumped it on the table in front of me. "I don't think you understand my problem."

I lit a cigarette and shook my head. "Outside of Delaney, no."

He was silent for a moment and then he said, "Every mother's bastard son I've put away over the last ten years will demand release based upon Delaney's corruption. I'll have to retry half of the goddamn prison population. And, most of those will likely walk because they were convicted on Delaney's evidence, alone."

"Think of it as job security, Bascomb."

"It will bankrupt the county."

I suddenly realized that if Bascomb had found me, Delaney might not be far behind. "How is it you found me, here?"

He pawed the sweat from his red cheeks. "I hired a private detective to keep an eye on you," he muttered, with half a grin. "You said I couldn't trust anybody around here, so I got an independent from out of town. Unfortunately he lost you at the Mexican border. What were you doing down there?"

I grinned. "Getting my nails done. There's this little place at the end of an alley that has topless manicurists. I'll take you with me, next time."

He glanced back as if to see if anyone was listening. "Maybe this will wipe that smirk off your face," he said. "I plan to have Delaney arrested tomorrow."

"You can't! It'll blow my plan."

Bascomb's face twisted in disgust. "What plan? You've spent your whole life shooting from the hip and hoping for the best."

"Maybe. But, I can prove Woods was Eli's silent partner."

He tapped a tattoo on the tabletop with his thick fingers. "You're out of your mind. I stood up for his kid when she was baptized."

"You want the real bad news?"

He threw his arms up in exasperation and slumped back in his chair. "Ah, shit."

"I think your goddaughter killed Eli Huggins."

Bascomb got to his feet spittle running from one corner of his mouth. "No way am I buying that, Bishop. Nadine's a sweet kid."

"I'm sure she is when she isn't coked up."

"Coked up? Why you..."

I skidded the notebook I had taken from the house at the mine, across the table. "Sit down before you draw flies and take a look at that. The entries are in Spanish and the cocaine's described as retail goods. But, it's the information on each shipment. How many cases and what it cost. And if your Spanish isn't any worse than mine, you can see each report was faxed to the same telephone number. That number reaches the fax in the mayor's home. Pay him a visit. You can verify for yourself. He's got the number taped on the machine."

Bascomb slumped back down. He picked up the notebook and paged through it. After several moments, he tossed it onto the table as if it smelled bad. "I suppose the next goddamn thing you'll tell me is my priest's is a woman."

"Naw. That's just his fantasy."

He leaned forward and gritted, "How the hell did you survive out there and Martinez didn't?"

"Because your favorite cop wants something I've got. Otherwise, I'd be sharing digs with Martinez. Delaney came to the Blue Turf Mine last night. He talked. I talked. We didn't come to an agreement because the Portellos cut in on our action and demanded he return to McAllen—which he did."

Bascomb clawed at the back of his neck as if something or someone had jabbed a knife, in there. "Sounds like I won't need that arrest warrant after all."

"You can pencil in Wood's name, instead."

Bascomb spread one hand, palm up. "What do we do now?"

"I'm going to need two subpoenas for appearance at your offices in the matter of Eli Huggins murder. The names are Salvator and Dominic Portello: the date and time, leave open. I'll fill them in as I play this out and let you know."

He rubbed his eyes and groaned, "Any reason besides you're crazy that you'd think I'm going to do it?"

"Time to face your fears, Bascomb. The barbarians are on your doorstep and those Sicilians are not going to leave until they find their goods."

He made an impatient swing with one hand. "The only fear I've got is waking up and finding you in charge."

"You going to get me the subpoena's or not?"

He clenched his fists and began a long low muttering of curses. Finally, he asked, "What'll you be doing while I'm committing perjury before a judge?"

"I have a few things in mind. Oh, and don't go out to your ranch until this thing is over."

His mouth fell open and then his eyes bugged wide. "How many goddamn bodies have you put out there?"

I shook my head. "None—yet. Do you have Delaney's cell-phone number?"

Bascomb gave me a nervous nod. "What for? The bastard's probably dead already. Now, what the hell's going on at my ranch?"

"Write down the number. I'll need it later."

"You said he went to meet those Sicilians. They're sure as hell not going to let him walk away."

"They might, once they're convinced he no longer has the stuff."

"Then who does?"

"Me."

"Sweet Jesus!" Bascomb thumped the table again and then dragged out a pen. After which, he scribbled a telephone number on the napkin in front of me. "I don't want to know a damn thing about it." He covered his eyes with his hands. "Now, what do I say to the Portellos when they show up with the subpoenas?"

"Interrogate them for an hour, at least. Dominic Portello was a common visitor at Eli's place, Leon can vouch for that. Just hammer away on that point giving them the idea you've got Dominic penciled in for a hypodermic needle. I need them busy while I do some window dressing."

He stared at me through a fan of fingers. "What window dressing?"

"You don't want to know."

Bascomb jumped to his feet, toppling his chair over backwards. "I sure as hell do not."

"Good. I'll also need four smoke bombs. No heat, just lots of black smudge."

"And, where in hell am I supposed to get those?" he roared.

The entire bar fell silent and all eyes were focused upon Bascomb. Quietly, I told him, "You must have local talent on the docket who's looking for a break. Just tell him to get busy."

# **Chapter 25**

After Bascomb left, Tanya and I made a quick exit.

It was not until we were nearing her flat that she got up enough courage to ask what Bascomb and I had argued over. I explained it was a simple matter of creative differences. She did not laugh.

"Delaney killed your husband," I said.

She brought her knees up and hugged them as if trying to warm her soul. "I could have gone the rest of my days without hearing that."

"Why didn't you tell me up front?"

She was silent for a while before telling me she did not think about him anymore.

I did not believe her, but did not press the issue.

As we parked in the lot behind the diner I said, "If I'm going to finish what I've started, I need to run a game on Salvatore Portello. And to make that work, I'm going to need some help."

Tanya shook her head. "If you mean me, no thanks."

"You want to nail Delaney, don't you?"

She gave me a sidelong sneer. "Not if it'll get me killed. I loved Davey. But nothing's going to bring him back."

"You didn't always feel that way."

"Who says?"

"Me. You set your sights on Delaney because you wanted something bad enough to keep from puking while he pawed you! And that, sweet thing, was revenge."

Her eyes focused coldly on me as she bit her words, "What of it? I had a right, didn't I?"

I shook my head. "What was Lydia's idea? You'd get him cornered in his own dirt and she'd show up to blow his brains out?"

Tanya grabbed the door but I reached out and gripped her left arm. "Don't touch me."

"Don't deny you still want Delaney dead, Tanya."

She settled back in the seat, her face saddened by painful memories. "If I thought I could get away with it, I'd kill him tonight—like I've killed him in my dreams for a thousand nights."

"Help me and I guarantee he won't come out of this alive."

She stared at me for nearly a full minute. "You'd kill him for me?"

" _I_ won't have to. The Portellos will see to that—they may have already done so. But if the thought of me killing the ugly bastard improves my chances for long tawdry nights with you, let it stay. What was your husband like?"

"Davey was one of those people who looked for shortcuts. He always had big plans, always wanting to give me things I didn't need, or care about. I told him as much. But it didn't matter. Lydia laid a chunk of change on Davey when we got married. That, should've set us up comfortable—not high fliers but nice just the same. I even had a little house picked out—until Delaney came into the picture."

"Delaney needed financing and your husband thought he could turn a profit?"

She nodded. "For what, I was never told. Something big, according to Davey. Something that would pay us back a thousand-fold. But, somewhere along the line the arrangement changed. Delaney cut Davey out the deal—cut him out cold. My husband figured Delaney should've made good. Delaney saw it another way."

"So your husband threatened to go to Bascomb, which resulted in Davey Thornton becoming a McAllen statistic."

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she nodded. "Lydia wanted to kill Delaney straight off—she actually tried to run him down. I decided to get cozy with him until I caught Delaney with his hands in somebody else's pockets, or worse. Then we'd get justice for Davey through the courts." Her voice broke off and started again sounding like she had swallowed a bucket of tears. "I thought I'd die the first time Delaney groped me. But, I gritted my teeth and saw it through. I kept telling myself that one of these times I'd get the goods on him. One of these times I'd make him pay for Davey—and all of it."

"But the incident over the plastic glasses blew it?"

She bowed her blond head under the weight of failure. "I didn't dare continue the charade. Moreover, I didn't know how to shut down whatever he might have going. I tried following Delaney, but that got me nothing but high gasoline bills and sore feet. He was too smart. Whatever he needed doing, he got somebody else to do the dirty end. After a while, I gave up. Had I known what those damn, ugly glass held." Her gaze turned inward, reviewing the past. Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly. "What do you want me to do?"

"Salvator doesn't believe in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy or disappearing goods. He would've put hard questions to our unfriendly cop. He would've put them in a hard way. If Delaney survived, it was because he convinced Sal that he—Delaney—was the only way the cocaine would be returned. On that premise, Sal would've given Delaney a deadline to produce the stuff and turned him loose. You want Delaney. I want the Portellos. This is our one chance to succeed."

"But if Delaney's alive he'll be followed by those creeps."

"So much the better."

"Why do I have the feeling you want me to play footsie with those creeps?"

"I'd do it myself, but my best dress is at the cleaners."

She let out a snort of bitter laughter that jangled her bracelets. "The things I do for love."

"For me, or Davey?"

"What makes you think Delaney hasn't convinced those goons that you have their goods?"

"I'm sure he's tried. The problem is, Salvatore knows I'm not the type to haul off several million in cocaine with the intent to profit by it."

"So the creeps will be watching Delaney while I do what?"

"Reintroduce yourself to Dominic. Remind him of that party at Eli's. He'll link you to Delaney and run to Sal."

Her front teeth smeared with red lipstick as she bit her lip. "Thanks. They'll think I'm the one hiding the stuff for Delaney."

"That's when you offer to help find the stuff for a small cut to get you clear of Delaney, for good." I handed her the napkin etched with Delaney's cell-phone number. "Call Delaney as soon as you can. If he answers, tell him you've run into me and you know I've got the cocaine. Say if he's willing to cut you in on the action you'll find out where it is."

"And if he isn't?"

"He's alone on a short lead with a world of problems pounding his ass. You'll sound like his savior. Just don't make too hard a deal with him. I want him to think you're the biggest bargain he's run across."

She lifted her shoulders only to let them slump. "Oh, God. And then what?"

"Once you tell Delaney the cocaine's at Bascomb's ranch, he'll contact Sal and offer to make an exchange. Cash for the coke. I need to be at whatever exchange-point those guys cook up. That's why it's essential that you suggest the swap location to Dominic. Someplace where Delaney will figure he's got the upper hand, and where Dominic won't worry about going."

She narrowed her eyes and thought for a moment. "There's an old gravel pit. It's just a deep hole full of water surrounded by mountains of sand and rock. Delaney talked about it as a place he's used in the past—for payoffs. He might go for that."

"If Delaney doesn't, you'll have to let me know where."

"Where will you be while I'm risking my neck—and parts you hold dear?"

"Close. Come on. I'll take you to the Ventura. I want you to take a suite there. And don't be afraid to use room service."

"And, who's paying?"

"It's the least I can do. Oh, don't be alarmed if the Portello clan has a very bad day in the near future."

She tapped my wrist with one manicured finger. "And, if Dominic gets romantic notions?"

"You're hiding out from Delaney, remember? All you want is a few bucks to set you up somewhere else. He'll keep his distance—if you insist upon it. With the cocaine at stake Dominic won't dare risk having anything go wrong. Salvatore is an unforgiving brother."

"And how am I to do this insisting? From a coffin, for instance? They're not about to go somewhere I've suggested without taking me along. And if they do what I think they're going to do to Delaney, I'm not likely to make it back to the hotel—alive."

I nodded. "Which is one of the reasons why I have to be there. You can still back out. But if you carry it off, I'll make it worth your while."

"Are we talking love or money?"

"Money. Six, possibly seven figures."

"My mother always said I had shit for brains."

# **Chapter 26**

I waited until the next afternoon and then I went to Bascomb's office. He handed me the Portellos' subpoenas and told me he had talked with Delaney. As suspected, the big cop was still out of town and obviously worried about something—probably his own neck due to a Sicilian connection. I told Bascomb to be vague as to sightings of me. He countered that he would like that on a permanent basis.

I had a late lunch at Eggie's Café and then drove to the Ventura Hotel. It offered rooms with very few roaches, a restaurant without any recent history of ptomaine poisoning and a bar that served highballs as well as draft beer—but not necessarily in clean glasses. Moreover, if you were willing to pay for special entertainment, the bellhops would provide it for a small fee. As far as I was concerned, a night in Texas did not get any better than in McAllen.

The hotel desk clerk was a self-involved man under thirty with ferret-like eyes, long brown hair clasped neatly in a ponytail, and a nose that rarely dipped below ceiling level. I asked if anybody on the top floor was in. He glanced back at the key coup and nodded his head before walking away. I chalked up his lack of friendliness to a bad case of hemorrhoids and went into the bar.

A young, clean-cut Hispanic man in a white shirt and black slacks was polishing glasses as I sat down on a stool. I dug out a twenty and dropped it on the bar, then lit a cigarette.

"What'll it be?" he asked, giving me a wide grin.

"Beer. I'm also looking for some people. Eight men in expensive dark suits."

His grin faded. "Friends of yours?"

I wagged my head. "Have you seen them around, today?"

He pointed to the door marked 'Café' at the far end of the room. "Went in about thirty minutes ago after having a few drinks."

While the bartender drew my beer, Tanya walked in. She settled three stools down from me and ordered a Daiquiri. Then she leaned on the bar as if her back was holding up the world.

The bartender brought me over my beer and asked, "You the one those guys are waiting on?"

I shook my head, again. "I'm the one they never like to see. Why?"

"Two of them are nervous as a cat in a dog pound. From what I overheard, they've got a real hard-on for somebody. If it was you I thought I'd give warning."

He went away and rattled bottles to mix Tanya's drink. I took out a cigarette and pretended to search for a match. Then I got up and walked over to her and asked if she had a light.

"I think so." Tanya casually opened her purse.

"How're things going?" I whispered.

"I hooked up with the creep last night and did what you said. And now I'm waiting to die," she whispered back.

"Dominic and Delaney connected yet?"

She nodded. "As soon as I gave out Delaney's number, the creep took out his cell-phone and made a quick exit. If you pass a church in your travels light a candle for me!"

"Just hang in there," I murmured. "Did you let Delaney know where I'd put the stuff?"

"I thought he was going to offer me marriage, he was so grateful!"

"Has Dominic mentioned anything about Delaney getting in touch?"

"I don't think it's happened yet. I got the impression Delaney was still out of town. By the way, Salvatore told me in no uncertain terms that I was to not wander without telling him where I was going. I'm getting a real bad feeling about this." She handed me a book of matches. I lit my cigarette, dropped the matchbook on the bar and returned to my stool.

I nursed my drink until Tanya left. Then, I waved the bartender over.

"Another draft?" he asked.

I held out a twenty-dollar bill for him. "I'm going to need some help."

He glanced at the café sign and then waved his hands dismissively. "Not with those guys."

I peeled off another twenty. "All you do is deliver a note to me after I hand them some paper. Then, you say a guy by the name of Delaney called and left the message in the note. That's it."

"I got a wife, a kid and the meanest mother-in-law you've ever heard of. I could use the dough, but it ain't worth getting killed over."

I peeled off another twenty. "The Canola set won't bother you. They'll be too busy worrying about me."

"You a cop?"

"Used to be. Now, I'm just a pain in the ass."

He hesitated a moment and then pocketed the cash. "I tell you a guy by the name of Delaney called, hand you a note and that's it?"

I nodded. I wrote a cryptic message on a napkin before handing it to him. "This is what you give me. If things get a little rough, ignore it and follow through on your lines. Got it?"

He swallowed thickly. "How rough?"

"Nothing coming your way. Just stay loose and follow the routine. You're with me on this, aren't you?"

He nodded but I was not sure he would turn up on cue. Either way, I had no choice but to finish what I had started. I drained my glass, got up, and went into the café.

Salvator, Dominic and two of their goons stood out like a Mohawk haircut on a priest at the Vatican. They were gathered at a long table on one end of the restaurant and eating so noisily it sounded like a hog convention at a full trough. If Bascomb had been right on the headcount, four of the Portellos' people were up in the rooms—presumably guarding the cash brought to complete the drug buy-back.

I took a deep breath, painted on a plastic grin and strolled over.

"Look what the cat dragged in," Dominic remarked with childlike amusement when he spotted me.

Before I could take another step, a pair of mountains with greased black hair, big bellies and bulges under left arms barred my path. I had dealt with both men in the past. One was named Herb. The other was called Studsy, for reasons I could not fathom.

"How's tricks, Dominic?" I quipped. "Glad to see your shrink let you have sharp utensils, again. Can I have a few minutes of your time, Sal?"

Salvator Portello looked at me with reluctance and no pleasure. Then he pointed to his plate. "I'm eating."

"One minute," I persisted.

Studsy gave me a shove. "Scram, Sam."

I countered with a grin and a hard right hook that sent him spinning across the floor. Herb waded in and I caught him in the groin with my knee before dropping him with a fist to the back of his skull.

"I hate to be a pest," I said and moved past the fallen men. Then, I jerked out the process papers and tossed them onto Sal's and Dominic's plates. "But, either way you've been served."

Salvator frowned and jumped to his feet. "What the hell's this?"

"Love notes from the local prosecutor," I explained. "There was a murder. Some drug runner by the name of Eli Huggins—a business partner of yours I understand. Anyway, the prosecutor wants an informal chat—just to set the record."

Sal tossed the subpoena back at me. "I just got here, you crazy son-of-a-bitch. I'm on vacation and I got nothing to do with some local-yokel getting whacked."

"So call a lawyer," I countered. "And while you're at it, ask Dominic what he was doing when the dead man breathed last. Sloppy workmanship, Dom. You left the body right on the front lawn, for Christ's sake. How many times did old Frank and Salvator tell you: 'No bodies; no evidence'?"

Dominic's eyes went white with surprise. "I had nothing to do with that, Sal. I ain't been down here in years, I swear to God."

"You've been here all week, Dom!" I insisted. "Nadine, remember? Blond, talkative and likes that burning sensation while roped to a bed. I just talked to her. She thinks you're the cat's pajamas. Or was it the cat's asshole?"

Dominic dropped his fork and tried to swallow his tongue.

"What's this bastard talking about?" Salvator demanded.

"Nothing, Sal. You know Bishop. He's a lunatic."

Salvator tossed his napkin down on the table. "Since when do you schlep paper around, Bishop?"

"Since I heard _you_ were involved. You know what a sweetheart I am when it comes to crime-bosses, Sal."

Herb was standing and looking sick. He helped Studsy up and then they waddled toward me on rubbery legs.

There was a light tap on my shoulder. I whirled one hand cocked to find the bartender cowering there. He was shaking so bad I had to reach down and take the napkin I had given him.

"What's this?" I asked, as I stared into his terrified eyes.

"Somebody called Delaney just telephoned," the bartender quaked. "He left that message for you. That's all I know, I swear."

I nodded and watched the kid hurry away.

"What's it say?" Salvator demanded, hurrying around the table like a hungry tiger.

I turned back towards Sal and asked, "Friend of yours?"

The hard white edges of his teeth glinted. "You know where the bastard is?" Salvator demanded.

I shrugged. "Rumor has it his brother's having a sex change operation. I think Delaney went to visit him or her, whatever the case may be at this point. They were very close."

"I heard about creeps like that," Herb spat.

Salvator grabbed for the napkin but I jerked it out of his reach. He snapped his fingers and pointed to me. A moment later, Studsy had me around the neck vowing to tear off my head, and Herb was testing the durability of my wrists. I let the note slip from my hand.

"If I'd noticed you drooling sooner I'd have offered, Sal," I wheezed through my flattened windpipe.

"Let the bastard go," Salvator told Studsy. Then he read what I had written on the napkin before asking, "What money?"

"What's that to you?" I asked, feigning indignation.

"What goddamn money, you fucking sack of shit?" Salvator's voice warned me I had pushed him to the limit.

I casually adjusted my suit. "I helped Delaney a couple of days ago," I replied. "He has this cut-rate kitchenware sideline that needed babysitting. And since he had to be out of town because of his brother, he asked me to deliver the stuff to this ranch south of here."

Salvator's eyes widened. "What kitchenware?"

"Plastic glasses," I explained. "Big ugly ones. Is momma short on glassware, Sal?"

Dominic rushed over his face red. "Where is it, you sorry son-of-a-bitch?"

"None of your business," I countered, not very cleverly.

He grabbed me and I give him a quick combination that sent Dominic toppling backward over the table. I turned to Salvator. "When are you going to put a leash on him?"

"How many crates of these—glasses are there?" Salvator growled.

"About a hundred. It was hell loading and unloading from that damn rental truck, so I wasn't worried about keeping track. Now you'll have to excuse me. I met this blonde with the biggest..."

"Where are the glasses, Bishop?" Salvator interrupted, giving my check a light tap.

Dominic struggled to his feet and staggered back, this time staying beyond my reach.

"Like I told you, Sal, a ranch. I put the cases in the barn as Delaney asked, and then left. You got a problem with that, talk to him."

"I'd like to!" Salvator gritted. "But he's been out of pocket since I questioned him about things. I guess I must've rubbed him the wrong way."

I fanned one hand in front of my nose. "Maybe it was your breath, Sal," I quipped. "That garlic can be a real exit-line."

Salvator jabbed me hard in the chest. "You're going to take me out there."

I countered, "My blonde is waiting—sorry."

Salvator jabbed me hard in the chest, again. "You're going to take me out there, now."

"How about I just give you directions?" I suggested forcing a grin. "I haven't had a real good time in a very long time, and that blonde..."

"You won't be having a good time ever again, you lousy bastard," Salvator screamed, "unless you see this thing my way. Now move."

Studsy took out a sap and tapped it against his empty palm. Herb opened his coat and jerked out a Makarov pistol. Like it or not, I was going with them.

"Say 'pretty please'."

He grinned. "Pretty please, you fucking dead man."

# **Chapter 27**

Bascomb's ranch amounted to three thousand acres of scrub trees wrapped around a rambling one-story stone ranch house, and a sagging horse barn. The former's windows were boarded up and what had been lawn in front of it was now a display area for waist-high thistles and knee-high fire ant mounds. Steel gates, flanked on either side by miles of white planking, framed the approach road. Herb stopped the limousine there and waited for instructions.

I was jammed in one of the back seats with Dominic, an ex-boxer by the name of Cootie, Studsy and another of Dominic's bodyguards by the name of Tramp. Salvator had the copilot's seat. During the entire trip, Cootie scratched his chest while Tramp played with his gun. I pretended to snooze leaning my head on Tramp's shoulder, and muttering sweet nothings in his ear. It had been a long crowded drive, and if there was no rush to get back to town, I was reasonably certain Tramp and I would soon be engaged.

"Wake the son-of-a-bitch up!" Salvator growled.

Tramp gave me a sharp elbow in the ribs. I dutifully sat up straight and quipped, "Are we there yet, ma?"

"This the only way in?" Salvator demanded, pointing at the gate.

"Unless you've got wings," I replied. "The chain's just draped over it. I had to cut it because Delaney forgot to give me a key."

Sal jabbed a thumb at the side window and Tramp got out. He hurried up to the gates and unhooked the chain. Then he swung the gate wide and motioned Herb to pull forward. Afterward, Tramp got back into the limo and we drove over to the barn.

"Tramp, you and Cootie check out that house while Studsy deals with this," Salvator ordered, pointing through the windshield. "I don't want no surprises. Anybody's in there, you bring them to me."

I followed Studsy out of the limo and over to the barn doors. The new padlock I had put on the hasp was still intact. Car doors slammed behind me as Salvator and Dominic got out. Herb stayed behind the wheel his head rubbernecking.

"That stuff ain't in there," Studsy growled. "And I pay you back big-time for that low-blow at the hotel."

"And, I thought we were friends, Studsy," I whined. "Didn't I take out your sister even though everybody else said she looked like a Chimpanzee?"

He jerked out his gun and pointed it at me. "That's another thing I'm gonna' enjoy popping you, for. She was gonna' be a nun, before she ran into you. Now the crazy bitch is fuckin' anything in pants."

"Have I got talent for breaking in the new ones, or what?"

Studsy raised his gun to strike me but I hooked a foot behind his left knee and toppled him backwards to the ground.

"It's just a matter of balance, Studsy."

"Put that goddamn gun away and open the goddamn doors," Salvator growled at him.

Studsy gave me a furious glare and then scrambled to his feet.

"You'll need a crowbar," I told Sal. "I put the lock on after dumping off his stuff and mailed the key to Delaney—specific instructions."

"The son-of-a-bitch is worried about thieves, huh?" Salvator snapped his fingers and pointed at the car.

Studsy trotted over to the trunk and pounded on its deck. From within the limo Herb pulled release latch and the trunk popped open. Studsy rummaged around in it. After several seconds, he returned with a bolt cutter.

"Do the honors, Shamus," he growled, and jabbed me in the ribs with the cutter.

I took it from him and went over to the lock. For a moment, I held my breath. If the cases were not as I had left them, I was as good as dead. Then I cut the lock and pushed the barn doors wide.

Dominic giggled nervously as the sun glinted on stacks of brown cardboard boxes. "At least they're all here, Sal!"

"No thanks to you," his brother grunted.

"Delaney's alright, Sal," Dominic said. "He just had the stuff moved to protect our interests after Eli got whacked. If he hadn't, most of the stuff would've been grabbed by the cops during the investigation."

"Which is why we're supposed to pop for a payoff or he flushes the stuff?" Salvator countered, angrily.

"You pissed him off, Sal," Dominic said. "Shouldn't have accused him of stealing!"

"I never trusted that ugly bastard from day one."

Dominic let go another nervous laugh. "Don't worry about it, Sal. He won't take the money. He was just jerking your chain."

"You goddamn right he won't take it," Sal roared. Then he pointed at the boxes. "Count. Make sure everything's there!"

I lit a cigarette and smiled to myself as Dominic scampered from case to case counting on his fingers. Then, I drifted back over to the limousine. Near the ranch house, I saw Tramp dancing around, batting his pants legs. Cootie was following him bent over like a sniffing hound as he scratched his ankles.

"Will you look at them two assholes?" Herb grunted, staring at the gyrating men. "What the fuck are they doing?"

I knew what they were doing, but I could tell Herb didn't. Which gave me the beginnings of a plan. Playing on his obvious homophobia might just tilt things in a direction I could use.

"You never can tell, can you?" I said, as Tramp and Cootie continued their examination of the ranch house. "At least they're not in drag."

He gave me a surprised glance and the nodded. "It looks like they've gone goddamn queer, don't it?"

"Far be it from me to cast the first stone, Herb."

"Wouldn't surprise me a bit if they both had brothers getting' sex change operations, too," he grunted, as he stared at the pair. "And to think I went to goddamn Tramp's wedding. Probably married a fuckin' guy with tits. I heard about them, too. Disgusting what doctors do these days."

"I'm with you, Herb. And it ain't just a problem with Sicilians. We had a couple Norwegians on the force that went the same way. Both married and churchgoers. Then, one night they missed a call. The captain sent out a patrol to investigate. And there they were, in the back of the cruiser pumping each other's buns."

He gave a dismal wag of his head. "Christ, what's the world coming to?"

"How's the family, Herb?" I asked. "You're brother still living with that guy who does needlework?"

"They're just good friends," he snapped. Then he leaned over the steering wheel, and tapped the windshield. "Those two start pumping anything and I'm gonna' shoot the both of 'em."

"The hell of it is, Herb, that stuff's contagious." "Once it starts in an organization it spreads like wildfire. One minute you're dressed to the nines in silk suits. The next you're wearing lavender shirts, tight chinos and thinking about getting a flower shop when you retire. You raise roses, don't you Herb?"

Herb spat out the limo's side-window just missing my arm. "It's because I like the goddamn smell, wise ass."

I patted his shoulder. "You're just too good a Catholic, Herb. I think you should've been a priest."

He nodded seriously. "That's what ma tells me. I just couldn't do without the broads or I would've."

"Is she still running that whorehouse in Nevada?"

He nodded before pointing at the two men by the ranch house. Tramp had his suit-pants off and was rubbing his legs as if showing off his muscles. While Cootie flogged his own legs with a piece of sagebrush as his other hand groped inside his pants.

"Sweet Jesus. Will you look at that? You can't tell me they ain't gone queer." Then Herb hit the electric locks. "I suspected Cootie from the start! Wearin' that fancy cologne and those fancy-spancy fold-over-cuff shirts."

"Thank God you're not sharing rooms with him at the hotel," I mused.

"Not no more, I ain't. Those two goddamn queers can bunk together."

I moved to the rear of the limousine and called out to Salvator, "If you're about done taking inventory I've still got time to make that blonde."

Salvator said something to Dominic and then walked over to where I stood. "Who owns this place?"

"How in hell would I know?" I replied. "Delaney, I suppose. Ask Bascomb."

"Who in hell is Bascomb?" Salvator raged.

"He's the county prosecutor. You'll be talking to him tomorrow, remember?"

Salvator jabbed me hard. "You pull a stunt like serving me with subpoena again and it'll be the last thing you do, understand?"

I blew smoke in his face. "Little things like your threats keep my spirits up, Sal."

He slapped me hard across the face. "I got plenty of reason to drop you in the ground, right here. So cut the cute act, Bishop. Now, where's this cop friend of yours hiding?"

I shrugged. "I've told you what I know."

"Maybe I need to have Tramp and Cootie help you to know more?" Salvator threatened.

I pointed to the goons running toward the limo from the house. Both men were now stripped to their underwear, waiving their clothing in the air.

"You may have to wait until they've had a quiet moment, together," I mused. "I think the spring air has gripped their emotions."

Salvator did a double-take and then yelled at the approaching men, "Have you two lost your goddamn minds?"

"Bugs!" Cootie shouted back. "Bit my balls."

"They're eating us alive," Tramp chimed.

Salvator whirled back to me. "What the hell's going on out here?"

I shrugged. "Fire ants, I suppose."

Salvator thumped my chest, again. "One last chance. Where's your pal?"

I jabbed him hard, rocking Salvator back on his heels. "If Delaney gets in touch I'll let you know. I don't like him putting me in this soup and I'm sure as hell not going to cover for him. As for anything else, I've done my bit to help you. You got your shit back, so keep your hands to yourself before I get miffed and kick your ass all over this barnyard."

Salvator backhanded me across the face. It stung and my arm cocked and my fist locked before I realized it.

Studsy noticed the commotion and rushed toward me, gun raised and shouting for Sal to drop to the ground.

Salvator lifted one hand to stop the approaching guard. "One day, Bishop. And, I'm gonna' have the pleasure of burying you, personally."

"But, not today, huh? That blonde is unbelievable, Sal."

He turned and moved several steps toward the barn "Let's go. Cootie, you and Tramp sit on this. I'll have a car delivered with instructions as soon as we get back to town. If Delaney shows up beforehand, kill the bastard."

"For Christ's sake, Sal, this is gonna' take more than a goddamn car to move," Dominic said.

"We ain't moving shit, you idiot." Salvator gritted. "We're going to let your pal Delaney pick up the lot. Now, shut the goddamn barn. And I want Delaney watched around the clock. But don't interfere with him. I want him to think the exchange will go as planned."

"Sal, we only Bishop's claim that Delaney's behind this!" Dominic protested.

Salvatore gave me a cold glare. "Bishop's not about to make a fatal mistake; are you Bishop?"

I grinned. "Not with that blonde waiting for me, Sal. Can we go? I'd hate to think this delay has put her off the boil."

# **Chapter 28**

The next morning, I reapplied the scars on my face, matching those of Delaney as best I could remember. Then I put on the same getup I had used at Elgin Warehouse and drove the rental back to the Ventura Hotel. It was just after noon when I parked in the ramp near the Portellos' limousine. They were scheduled to meet with Bascomb at 1:00 so I ate the sandwich I had taken along, and waited.

Fifteen minutes later Dominic and Salvator, followed by two men I did not recognize came out of the elevator and went over to the limousine. From the look on Salvator's face, I guessed the attorney he had sent for had not yet arrived. Life could be tough in the fast lane.

After the limo drove off, I got out of the rental and dragged the toolbox I had bought for the occasion from its trunk. I was counting on a maintenance man showing up on the Ventura's top floor not to alarm Herb and Studsy. I was also hoping Tramp and Cootie were still out at Bascomb's ranch waiting for Delaney to show up and not filling out a poker foursome. If I were recognized, they would deal me Aces and Eights with no chance to fold.

I rode the elevator to the floor below the top, and got off. Then, I took the steps up the last flight. An elevator arrival meant no place to hide or run if things went awry. And although steps were not much better from an entrapment point of view, downward shots tended to go high.

At the top level, I pushed open the door and bumped out making as much clanging and banging as I could manage without tearing down a wall. As expected, Herb and Studsy rushed from room 422 with their guns drawn.

"Nobody on the floor," Studsy shouted.

"Gotta' fix the air-conditioning," I told him, tilting my face to give them a clear view of the makeup scars. Then, I pulled the billed cap lower over my face. "Room 420's blocking the chill-down-flow to 320. I don't do something quick there could be hell to pay."

"Nobody on the floor," Studsy repeated.

"Jesus Christ," I yelled back. "We got a bunch of old people in 320. Right now, they're so fucking hot they're running around naked trying to cool off. Most don't mind 'cause they're horny as hell. But, the nuns in 312 are screaming holy murder." Then I jabbed the air in front of me, cocked my head to give the pair another view of the makeup scars and asked, "You guys supposed to be carrying guns in here? Sign at the check-in says no guns allowed."

"That's our business!" Herb snapped.

"Could be the police business, too."

Studsy gave me a sidelong stare and then holstered his weapon. "You gonna' be long?"

"Ten minutes tops," I said. "You can watch if you want."

Herb tapped Studsy on the shoulder and said, "We're missing the game."

"Ten minutes, you better be done!" Studsy growled. "'Cause I'll be back."

I grinned and nodded.

When the two of them went back into room 422, I banged over to 420 and picked the lock. Then, I entered and took the two smoke bombs Bascomb had provided out of the toolbox. They were a bit larger than I needed, each nearly filling my palm. However, more is always better when it comes to diversions. I set the bombs on the floor on either side of the door and lit their fuses. Within seconds, the room was filling with billowing black smoke.

"Fire!" I screamed at the top of lungs. Then I grabbed a hammer from the toolbox and then ran out into the hallway. "The goddamn air conditioner's overheated."

Studsy and Herb scrambled out, nearly tripping over each other in wide-eyed panic.

"Hit the bricks, boys," I shouted. "This whole place'll go any second."

"We can't leave," Studsy shouted back.

"Jesus Christ," I complained. Then I pointed to the smoke pouring out of 420. "If you assholes can't move I guess we'll have to put that goddamn fire out ourselves. Get some goddamn water while I rip the cover off the condenser. Move it. Or this whole goddamn floor'll go up."

When Studsy turned and rushed back into room 422, I signaled Herb to follow and went back into 420. As he ran in after me, I sidestepped through the smoke and quickly gave the hammer a little exercise on the side of his skull. Herb let go a low curse but another firm rap gained the cooperation I needed, and he dropped like of bag of old clothes.

I got back out into the hallway just as Studsy reappeared with an ice bucket sloughing water. I quickly pointed toward the smoke and yelled, "That fool pal of yours went in there. Kept screaming about money. I tried to stop him but he went anyway and he ain't come back out."

As Studsy dropped the ice bucket and rushed past into 420, I gave the hammer another exercise session. He hit the carpet chin on and lay still. I rapped him one more time to make sure he would not come around unexpectedly, then I picked up the smoke bombs and hurried into the bath. There, I dropped them into the toilet and jerked the flush lever. The water flowed over as the bowl filled, killing their smudge and leaving a pile of soggy mire in the bottom of the commode.

Figuring I'd use the distraction I'd started the previous day at the ranch, I spent the next two minutes stripping the unconscious men. Then I dragged Herb over to Studsy laying him head to Studsy's groin. After which I pocketed their weapons and left the pair in a 'what-are-friends-for pose.

It took me nearly thirty seconds to locate the money. It was stuffed in a suitcase and shoved behind the davenport. I opened the case and guessed at the amount being several million, before lugging it toward the stairs. As I passed a fire alarm on the way, I busted the glass. I wanted to make sure Studsy and Herb had unimpeachable witnesses to their romantic compromise of security. And, nothing would be more unimpeachable then the firemen who would find them.

The fire engines were just arriving as I drove out of the parking ramp. I was not sure if firefighters had a sense of humor. Nevertheless, I was reasonably certain Salvator would not find the money-loss amusing after he heard two of Mafia's finest were found engrossed in bliss at the time of the robbery.

# **Chapter 29**

The mountainous hills of gravel and sand at Bailey Gravel Pit looked like giants huddled in conference that night. Rain fell from a boiling black sky as I climbed over the locked gate that secured the entrance. I had parked the rental among a grove of cottonwoods, back about a quarter-mile so as not to alarm the expected visitors.

As lightning crackled white above me, I crept along the entrance road, keeping as low as possible in the darkness until I found a position that gave me a fair view of the entrance and a clear shot at the surrounding area. There, I clutched the collar of my suit at my throat, crouched down in the wet sand, and let the rain pelt the top of my head as I waited.

Three soggy cigarettes later, I heard a rumbling engine. I got up like an old dog and turned toward the entrance to see who had arrived. The cold rain was falling harder, now, its drops striking the ground with sputtering splats that bounced ankle high. I saw a pair of headlights on the approach road. Lightning disclosed a dark colored sedan—a late model four-door with no front plates. I crouched low keeping my eyes on the car as it made a slow loop around the center of the pit before stopping, its nose pointed in the direction from which it had come. A moment later, its headlights went out.

I took out one of the Makarovs I had confiscated from Herb and Studsy. Then I crept forward taking a flanking position behind a chest-high row of crushed rock about twenty yards from the idling car. I could not see who occupied it.

A moment later, the trunk popped open and Tramp got out, followed by Cootie. They hurried through the rain to the rear of the vehicle and dragged out two bodies. From the size of the corpses, I guessed they were Studsy and Herb. After the bodies, they lugged a pair of concrete blocks and two lengths of rope. They tied the blocks to the dead men's ankles, dragged the corpses over to the water and dumping them in.

That done, Tramp pointed off to the right. Cootie headed in the direction indicated and Tramp went left—both men disappearing into the darkness to some point of watch.

Several thundering minutes later, another vehicle drove in. It was an old truck with out-of-state plates. The wheezing vehicle parked parallel to the first car but about thirty feet away, blocking my view of the former. I could see one dim silhouette in it. From his size and lack of caution, I guessed it was Delaney. He left the engine running and the headlights on.

I was about to move to a better observation point when I heard footsteps crunching toward me. I ducked down, taking aim at the noise just as Enrique came into view. He was limping and had a bandage wrapped about his head and over his left eye—something fashionable to match the cast on his left forearm. In his right hand was a rifle equipped with a nightscope. Unaware of my presence, he slogged past me in the rain to where I had originally stood. There, he flattened himself on the mud and took aim in the direction of the vehicles.

I returned my attention to the Delaney's truck. Dominique Portello's head rose up as he climbed out of the car. Moments later, Delaney got out of the truck. Then the two men greeted each other like old friends before hurrying to the back of the truck. Dominic, clad in a khaki trench coat, looked the part of the clever spy. Delaney wore a red slicker and was nervously rubbernecking.

Dominic asked about the cocaine. Delaney immediately slid open the door on the truck box. Dominic took a small dark case from his raincoat's pocket and unzipped it. Then, he climbed into the truck-box. There was nearly two minutes of him shuffling about before he climbed out and nodded his head. As he returned the case to his pocket, I heard him tell Delaney the money was in the car's trunk and the keys were in the ignition. Then Dominic suggested they simply exchange vehicles. I held my breath and waited, knowing there was no money and the proverbial shit was about to hit the fan.

Gunfire erupted from two points as Delaney reached the car's trunk. He dropped hard and remained still. Dominic let go a laugh of praise before calling something to Tramp and Cootie about checking their kill. Then he pulled down the door sealing the truck's box before climbing into the vehicle's cab. He started the engine but sat where he was until the bodyguards reached Delaney.

At that moment, Enrique opened fire. Cootie and Tramp fell to the sand like bags of old clothes. Dominic floored the truck's accelerator, spinning its duals as he desperately tried to escape. Enrique struggled to his feet as the truck fishtailed around the far end of the pit. Enrique peppered the SUV with bullets. Dominic must have been hit, because a moment later the vehicle plunged into the water and sank.

Enrique waited a moment and then called out to Delaney. The big man sat up and then sagged back against one of the car's rear tires. He was hurt, but far from dead. I took aim and waited while Enrique hurried toward the big cop. When he was helping Delaney up, I sent three rounds into the Mexican. Enrique let go a curse, staggered back and then fell. I fired two rounds at Delaney. However, he made a dive over the back of the car—whether my aim had added to his misery I could not tell. I was hopeful. I moved forward intent upon finishing off the big cop.

As I neared Enrique, I squeezed off two rounds into his back. He offered no complaint. Then I swung wide of the car's trunk keeping the Makarov aimed toward it. I was expecting to find Delaney crouched and ready for me. But, he was gone, a trail of footsteps heading toward the last mountain of gravel indicating his escape route.

Without warning, someone leaped from the auto's back seat and raced towards the gravel pit's entrance. It was a blond woman running as if her life was dependent upon her escape.

I heard pistol fire and saw a flash near the water's edge. I assumed Dominic must have gotten out of the truck alive. I emptied the Makarov's clip in that direction and then went after the woman. I was not sure if I had hit Dominic but I was betting on Delaney making certain the Sicilian no longer troubled this world. Regardless, it was time to make a quick exit.

When I reached the cottonwoods I saw movement over by the rental. I crept over to it and found Tanya crouched beside one of the rear tires. She let out a scream and tried to run when she saw me. But I yelled at her back and she skidded to a stop.

"You bastard, Bishop," she screamed, rushing back to me. "You nearly got me killed." She took a swing at me.

I ducked and grabbed her, pinning her arms to her sides. "How is it you came along for the ride?"

"The bastards said if Delaney didn't show up, I was dead meat. Apparently somebody stole their suitcase full of money and they figured it to be Delaney, with me as his helping hand."

"You're okay, now," I said and escorted her over to the rider's door.

She took another wild swing at me as I opened it. This one connected with my left cheek. It did not hurt much—too little weight behind the blow. However, it irritated me. So, I grabbed her arm and then jerked her close.

"Okay," I said. "You've hit me. Can we stop playing, now?"

"I've never been so scared in my life."

"You'll have to get out of town for a while," I told her. "I'll give you the cash I promised—it's nearly a million. That should help heal your nerves."

She stared up at me. "This is it, understand? I've done my part and that's all I'm going to do. No more."

"You can stay at my place, in Dallas. I should be done here in a day or two."

"And then what? You'll send me mountain climbing with big-foot? Shark feeding with Jaws? Or, do you prefer I try a little blindfolded bullfighting?"

"I sort of thought you and me could play house."

She let go a curse, jerked free of me and got into the rental. "I've had enough of you for several lifetimes!"

# **Chapter 30**

I dropped Tanya at my hotel and then drove over to Leon's, through slick streets depopulated by cold rain. The lights were on in the little house when I arrived, and Moira's car was in the drive. I parked behind it and then trotted up the wet walk. At the door, I listened.

From within, I heard someone sobbing. I could not tell if it was Moira, Betsy or another woman. Fearing the worst I tried the knob. The door was unlocked but the latch felt sticky in my hand. I let go and looked at my palm. It was covered with coagulating blood. My heart hit my feet as I imagined Delaney in there. I took out the Makarov, carefully twisted the latch, pushed the door open and then crept inside.

A column of light fell came from the kitchen doorway. Beyond it, the sobbing continued. It was the low, weeping of someone suffering aftermath, not the wailing of current pain. If Delaney had been the cause, it was not likely he was still here. However, I moved forward with my gun at the ready.

I stopped at the doorway. Moira sat at the table holding her head in her hands as if offering it to the gods. Her shoulders heaved in despair and her knuckles were white with anguish as her fingers crushed her hair. There was a smear of blood across her swollen chin and down one forearm. Beneath the chair closest to me was a pool of thickening blood. I sidestepped heading down the dark hall toward the bedrooms.

Leon's and Betsy's were as I had last seen them. Moira's bed was stripped of its coverings. I found these on the floor in the closet, the chenille spread soaked with something sticky and dark, with the stench of Jade East emanating from it. Delaney had been there and Moira had bandaged him before he went on his way.

I returned to the kitchen, moved silently across the floor to the nearest chair and sat down. Moira's head jerked up like a Jack-in-the-box. There was a plum-sized bruise on one cheek and blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth. She dragged herself up like a crippled old woman and glared at me.

"Get the fuck out of here." Her mouth sprayed the tabletop with foamy blood.

"You patched up Delaney," I said. "Where did he go?"

A tiny trickle of red ran out of her mouth to form a large drop, dangling from the end of her chin. She swatted it with the back of one hand as if it were a fly before breaking down into a tirade of sobs and curses.

"He worked you over?" I rested the Makarov on the tabletop.

Moira regained control and then limped over to the sink. Without a word, she grabbed a butcher knife from the rubber drying rack and started back to the table. When she was within two feet of me she screamed, "Get out." She flourished the weapon overhead in dagger fashion. "Get out or by Almighty God, I'll kill you."

I leaned back in the chair and casually crossed my legs. "How long ago did he leave?"

The hand holding the knife wavered a moment. Then, Moira lowered her arm and let the weapon drop to the floor. She stared at me, like a lost child seeking help from an ogre.

"Why couldn't' you leave things alone?" she sobbed. "There was no need for you to get involved. Why didn't you just go home?"

"I have to find Delaney, Moira."

She made a defeated gesture. "I didn't ask his goddamn plans when he finished here. But, if I were you I wouldn't stand still too long. Moving targets are harder to hit."

"He's hurt bad," I said and stood up. "He's tough enough to handle the blood-loss better than most, but he's got to have somewhere to hole up while he heals. Some place the Portellos won't know about."

Moira slumped back into her chair. "As long as it's not here, I don't give a shit."

"Did he finger you in the cocaine theft?"

"Ask him."

"Who cut the deal with Dominic. Whose idea was it to hit Eli? You or Nadine?"

She chuckled bitterly before getting up and going over to the stove. "You're so goddamn smart, aren't you?"

"I've had my moments."

"Dominic Portello wasn't involved, smart guy. That would've been too easy."

Her answer stunned me. "Nadine was on her own?"

A sharp, bitter laugh erupted from deep within her throat. Then she gritted, "Nadine had nothing to do with it either, you stupid shit."

"That just leaves you—or Betsy."

"More Bishop brilliance. You should've been a detective."

Moira lit a flame under a dented aluminum teakettle, opened a tin on the counter, and selected a tea bag. Then, she retrieved a mug from the draining rack and set both on the table.

I gave the gun a spin. "Cigarettes?"

She cast me a furious glare. Then she fetched a pack from the Frigidaire's freezer compartment, and tossed it at me. I caught it with one hand.

"I should've let Delaney kill you."

"Why didn't you?"

"In my own stupid way, I thought you were insurance against him: someone I could fall back on if he crossed me."

I tore the pack open and lit one. She moved back to the stove and checked the flame under the teakettle.

"I still could be, Moira. You're going to need some help, with or without Delaney. The Portellos took a bad fall tonight because of him. Salvator's going to take revenge on those responsible. You were Delaney's playmate. And that makes you one of the living dead."

"I'd just as soon be dead. Everything I planned went to shit. There's nothing left."

"Things are about to get worse. I've had both guns tested by a ballistics lab, Moira. The one I took from you and the one I took from Betsy. I'm waiting on the report before going to Bascomb."

Moira whirled toward me her face ashen. "Betsy doesn't have a gun."

"She said Nadine had given it to her; a small chrome-plated revolver."

Moira's knees buckled, but she caught herself. Then the teakettle coughed and she reached behind and turned off the burner. From the look on her face that was the gun used on Eli.

"When did you talk to Betsy?" she asked, almost hopefully. "Tonight?"

"I followed you out to her place the night you and I got better acquainted in the bushes, across the street. Betsy told me most of what happened. About her, Nadine and you being at Eli's when he was killed. Her admission about being there and her being in possession of the murder weapon won't bode well with Bascomb. It might even get her a lethal injection."

"No."

"You don't think Nadine will admit giving her the gun?"

Moira shook her head. "Betsy didn't do it."

I jabbed one finger through the air in Moira's direction. "That leaves only you."

She dragged her fingers through her hair, her face contorted with emotion.

"I can help you Moira—with Bascomb and with the Portellos. But you've got to tell me the truth."

Her chin dipped. "It wasn't me. I swear to God it wasn't me."

She was telling me the truth, which left me short on suspects. The only other player I knew about was Woods. However, I had not figured him for the gunplay type. "What's next on the agenda? Blackmail? Is that it?"

Her eyes darted sideways as eyes often do when an unpleasant truth is heard. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Woods may payout to begin with, Moira, but that won't last. In time he'll find another Delaney and point him in your direction—assuming the Portellos leave you breathing."

Moira slumped into her chair. "You son-of-a-bitch!"

"Why did Woods kill Eli?"

She raked her fingers through her hair a moment. The she whispered, "Nadine."

"Because of her cocaine habit?"

"Cocaine, sex, what difference does it make?"

"Why didn't Eli simply point a finger at Woods and sic Delaney on him instead of calling me?"

Her hands clasped at the back of her neck as if it ached. "Eli was going to get rid of Delaney. The profits weren't high enough and one less split meant that much more for the little turd. Eli thought he was so goddamn clever. You were supposed to be the patsy. He'd called Dominic and asked if they knew a P-I with some blood-history. You came highly recommended."

"It's a family tradition—either way you take it."

Moira laughed grimly. "Eli was going to kill Delaney after he got you on the case. It was all supposed to end in a shootout—with no survivors. One dead cop, one dead P-I, and Eli grinning at the graves. He was a real sweet guy."

"And out of love, you warned Delaney?"

"Love is just a four letter word, asshole. I wanted Delaney to turn on the runt and wring his scrawny neck. For years Eli had taunted and tormented me about Leon. For years he would dangle the cash I needed until I agreed to dance whatever tune he played."

Moira's face twisted ugly then. "He was disgusting. Little girls weren't his only kink. He enjoyed handing out pain. If we needed money, either Betsy or I would have to go to him. And if I went, the little shit would tie me up and..."

"You could've turned the tables on Eli over Betsy."

"And have him point at me as her pimp?" She leaned back in the chair rubbing her eyes. "You've seen Eli's place. That's nothing. You should see his bank accounts. He has tens of millions. More than he could ever spend. And with all that, Leon got nothing but handouts—pocket change, nickels and dimes."

She sat up abruptly flinging one hand in the direction of the living room. "We cannot even afford a goddamn phone!"

"So, when you heard Delaney was about to be history, you figured forewarning the big Mick would insure Leon inheriting Eli's money."

She grinned ruefully. "Delaney goes to jail, Leon inherits and I walk away with half the community property. It should've been a foolproof plan! Only the stupid Irish bastard didn't believe me. Delaney thought I was making it all up to cause a split in their partnership. He said he had promises from Eli that after this year the runt would retire. And that would mean Delaney taking over the operation."

"Which put you on the spot."

"I knew Delaney would talk to Eli. So, I was cold meat unless I did something quick."

"But Woods wasn't stupid enough to believe your story about Nadine and Eli. He would've talked to his daughter and she would've denied it."

Moira laughed. "I sent him a videotape. Who can deny what's on TV?"

"Which brought him gunning for Eli."

She nodded. "That night, Eli called me at the orphanage. He wanted me to come around, said he was getting lonely. I figured it was a setup so I suggested Betsy tend his needs, said I'd come by in the morning. He liked that. Only Betsy was out that night. So, in the morning I went over to her place and told her to get out to Eli's."

"Betsy went and you followed?"

"She refused to go alone. I figured my time was about run out, so I called Nadine. She was interested. And by the time Nadine got finished talking to Betsy the two had agreed to drive out to Eli's right away. I waited until Betsy left, then I took a cab over to Woods' office. I made him play the tape in front of me. His face went dead white when he saw his daughter with Eli. That's when I told him she was out there for another session. He was cursing, drinking and vowing to kill Eli when I left. I warned him that Eli planned to release edited versions of the tapes to the mayoral opposition candidate, showing Nadine clearly in all her coked up glory. That sent him ballistic. He took a pistol from his desk drawer and stormed out."

"You took a cab to Eli's?"

She nodded. "When I got there, just the girls' cars were parked out front. I didn't know what had delayed Woods, but I had my own key so I let myself in. Upstairs I could hear Eli roaring high and the girls giggling. I wasn't sure how long it would take Woods to get his courage up. But, I knew he would get there soon."

"You sent Leon to meet me?"

She shook her head. "Eli must've done that after the girl's arrived. Leon was already gone when I got there."

"So you hung around waiting for Woods while Betsy was upstairs with her uncle?"

"Don't moralize me. I know your history."

"Woods showed up on cue?"

"I was on my second scotch when he roared into the place staggering drunk and yelling for Eli. I crouched behind the bar and watched. When Eli didn't come down, Woods went upstairs. I heard Nadine scream. Then, a few minutes later, there were frantic footfalls on the steps. Then I saw Woods force Eli outside. I went to the window and watched from behind the curtain. Woods was raving wildly about Nadine. Eli tried to calm him down, but it was no good. Finally, Woods shoved Eli to ground. Eli begged for mercy. Woods wouldn't have any of it. He moved behind him, pressed the gun to Eli's head and fired. I saw the gun jump in Woods' hand. Then Eli fell forward. Woods rolled him over onto his back and was about to shoot him again when Nadine came running out. She begged her father to leave Eli alone. But, it was too late. Woods told Nadine to go home. She jumped into her car and left. That's when he came back inside and telephoned Delaney. He staggered right past me not even noticing."

"He told Delaney what he had done?"

She nodded. "They talked a few minutes while I hid behind the couch. After Woods left, I went upstairs to get Betsy."

"Betsy saw it?"

"She was gone by then."

"You stayed, afterward. Why?"

She looked at me askance. "No way out. The cab was gone, Eli was dead, and his Rolls had a flat tire. So, I sat and waited for Delaney to get there. Only you and Leon showed up first. So, I hid behind the wall panel."

"Cab service, remember?"

"All right. I stayed to clean up after Betsy. The stupid little bitch was so scared god knows what she left behind. You were kind enough to point out the cigarette butts. I would've missed those."

"When Leon confessed, you must've thought that to be a godsend. You still had a shot at inheriting Eli's estate as Leon's wife. Failing that, Betsy would inherit and you would coerce control of it from her. And while you were living the high life you could spend your free time blackmailing Woods and Delaney."

"Without Woods, the cocaine connection would have died," she said. "So, that meant Delaney would do whatever was necessary to keep our esteemed mayor out of trouble—and that meant taking me into their partnership."

"A girl like you is one in a million, Moira."

Moira filched a cigarette from the pack she had given me. I lit it for her. "Don't talk so high and mighty. You saw Betsy in that flimsy negligee during your—how did you put it—little chat? What crossed your mind, then? Fatherly devotion? Or, did your feelings run a little lower down?"

I went over to the sink, turned on the tap and snuffed out my cigarette. I did not like what I had just heard—perhaps because it was true.

"How did the cocaine get from the lab?" I asked.

"Delaney grabbed the glassware and took them out to the warehouse."

I moved back over to the table and stood across from Moira. "Delaney must've said something to give you an idea where he was going."

Moira got up and took her cup over to the sink. The corners of her mouth had whitened, as if she had bitten into something sour. "There's a guy by the name of Aaron Andrews at the trailer park where Betsy lives. He used to be a medic in the army. Delaney knows him from way back. He'll likely stay there. The manager of the park can show you—if you grease his palms a little."

"Does Delaney know I was at Betsy's?"

Moira turned around and nodded. "The stupid bitch called Leon, her sweet daddy. The call was recorded—they always are. And, Delaney got a transcript. I told him he had nothing to worry about from her. She'll be okay."

"She's a loose end; like you, Woods, and Nadine. He'll start with Betsy to see how that settles, then work his way around."

Her eyes grew big as she stared at me. "He told me not to worry. He said he'd hide out until things cooled down and then come back for us."

"Get hold of Bascomb. Drag him out of bed if necessary. Have him meet me at Betsy's. And, whatever you do, don't call the cops. We don't know which ones can be trusted and Delaney may be monitoring their calls."

# **Chapter 31**

When I got to Betsy's doublewide, the front door was slightly ajar. It was dark inside except for a dim snake of light that slithered across the carpet from one of the back rooms. Doleful music played softly from somewhere within. I tried to imagine Betsy sprawled on the bed worrying about Leon, or kneeling beside it in prayer. However, the unset latch suggested someone else had called on her before my arrival. And they were in there with her, or waiting for me. I took out the Makarov, slowly pushed the door open, and crept inside.

I listened for a moment but other than music and my own breathing, heard only silence. My right hand flexed on the gun as I eased off the safety. Then I headed toward the music. Odds were, Betsy was okay, just careless in her habits. Odds were, she was still alive. Odds were, Delaney was too weak and scared to leave his hole. In mid-step the pungent scent of Jade East bathed my face. Something flashed at the corner of my eye, sending me headlong to the floor. The odds were never in my favor and seconds later I was back chasing naked gypsies.

I opened my eyes to lamplight and humming. I was sprawled upon the carpet with Delaney seated on the davenport a few feet in front of me, dimly lit by a lamp on the adjacent table. He had one arm in a sling. His hand was thickly bandaged and oozing blood. His shirt was torn just below his ribs and behind the tear were more bloody bandages. The round he had stopped must have passed through his hand and into his side. Despite this he looked rather serene. Above his white head was a halo of smoke from his cigar. And, his long, crossed legs rocked his bulk back and forth in time to his self-made sound.

I sat upright and touched the back of my head. My fingers came away sticky with blood. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"Old Son," Delaney sighed, "you and me are coming to the end of the line." He blew a smoke ring, and then slashed it with the forefinger of his good hand. "The cocaine's gone, gurgling up in that goddamn gravel pit. I don't know whether Enrique killed that son-of-a-bitchin' Dominic before you killed him, but I surely hope so. However, my distress is that everything I have worked for all these years has just been shot to hell."

I glanced about to see make sure we were alone. There were no other eyes watching so I casually let my own drift. The cats were curled up on the back of the couch as far away from Delaney as they could manage. And the Makarov was sitting on the table, next to him. I considered making a dive for it, but as the odds were still running against me so I let that idea pass.

I asked, "Where's Betsy?"

Delaney glanced sideways at his watch, and then waved a hand casually toward the bedrooms. "She's being looked after, Old Son," he replied. "You hear where I'm comin' from, Old Son? I've got about two days to live if those Sicilians follow form, unless I come up with a way out of the country. And you're sitting on all their money which should rightly be mine. Now, that ain't fair."

"Complain to Salvator."

Beatrice, one of Betsy's cats, left the couch and trotted toward me.

"I did," Delaney whined. "Soon's I got clear of that gravel pit. He tells me I stole it and how he's gonna' chop me up into sausage for his pizza shops. Now, we both know I didn't take that money. And we both know he don't have it. Which leaves only you, Old Son. Three million dollars in clean cash and you got it."

The cat gave me a meow greeting and then snuggled against my knee, purring insistently. I picked her up and settled the animal onto my lap. Immediately she coiled over on her back and batted at my chin. Her claws were retracted but I could feel their dagger-like tips tickle my beard stubble.

"What's in it for me?" I asked.

Delaney let go a loud snort. "I don't figure I owe you shit."

"Think again, Delaney. You're short on time and I've got nothing to lose by taking the loot to my grave."

"I sorta' figured you for a sore loser."

"But a very rich one, Delaney. Don't forget that."

"I ain't!" He chewed on the end of his cigar for nearly a minute before asking, "What've you got in mind?"

"Even split."

"Like hell. Twenty percent."

"I can get that much as a recovery fee from Salvator."

He shifted his bad arm, grunting from the pain. "Assuming you're alive. And I got a little to say about that."

"Dead men don't talk, Delaney."

I saw someone creep toward the living room from the shadows cloaking the trailer's bedrooms. It was Woods. He looked sick, his face a pasty white. And in one of his pink hands was an empty syringe.

"Betsy's dead," he said in a whimpering voice. "She went to sleep, just like you said."

Delaney stood up and took out his revolver. As he moved over to Woods, his shadow crawled up the wall behind him, crept across the ceiling and then scampered down the wall opposite.

"You get scarce until I get back," he told the mayor. Then, he grinned over at me. "Let's go, Old Son. I'm gonna' give you that even split, seein's how you and me have been through so much these past few days."

I got to my feet, still holding the cat. "What about Woods? If you plan on cutting him in, it comes out of your share."

Delaney looked over at the trembling man and asked, "You want a piece of it, Mayor? Me and my new friend are going to pick up three million dollars. I'll give you half of my half. How's that for an offer you can't refuse?"

The mayor dropped the syringe and shook his head as if he knew he would never return. "I wish I'd never gotten into this."

"He's a worried man, Delaney," I said. "Worried men talk."

"You got nothing to say, do you Mayor?" Delaney asked, with a snort of laughter.

Woods wagged his head and retreated a step, back into the shadows.

"I didn't think so," Delaney giggled. Then, he waved his gun toward the doublewide's front door, and came toward me. "Time to get the goodies, Old Son."

I feigned dizziness to let him get within arm's reach. Then, I tossed Beatrice into his face.

His revolver boomed and Delaney shrieked in agony as the cat's claws dug canyons across his eyes as she tried to gain a paw-hold on his flesh. As he tossed the animal, I jumped him, jerking the weapon from his grasp. Then, I clubbed Delaney across his temple with the gun's butt.

I hit him hard. More than once. More than I needed to. But not nearly as much as I wanted. I hit him hard enough to feel the bones crush and see blood spurt out of one ear, and eye. I hit him hard enough to hear his lungs empty for the last time. And then I hit him hard, again. When he dropped to the rug he became quiet: no movement, no words, no breathing.

"You had no choice," Woods whimpered, as he moved from the shadows. "I'll swear to that. Delaney would've killed all of us if you hadn't done what you did."

I turned toward him, cocking Delaney's revolver.

"No," the Mayor shrieked.

"Is that what Betsy said, before you jabbed that syringe into her arm?" I asked.

"I didn't want to. Delaney made me. He was going to kill her anyway. And, if I hadn't done as he said he would have killed me too. You've got to believe me."

"I do believe you."

I did not hear the first shot, or the second, or the third. I did not feel the gun jerk each time it discharged or its hammer click-click on the fired cartridges, as the cylinder rolled round and round. I just kept squeezing the trigger at a dead man until he stopped quivering.

Betsy lay in the master bedroom like a little girl having sweet dreams. There was a small dot at the crook of her left arm. I touched her throat, but as Woods had said, she was dead. No more would the world hear her laughter; no more would she make plans or share dreams. There was nothing more for Betsy except endless sleep. I bent over her and kissed her goodnight.

A car door slammed, and I hurried back to the living room. I squatted and put the gun into Delaney's hand. Then I stood up and headed for the front door.

Before I reached it, Moira rushed in, her eyes wide, her mouth gaping. When she saw the dead cop she stopped, one hand clutching her throat.

"Where's Bascomb?" I asked.

She crept over to Delaney, still staring at him as if a god had died. "Is he..."

"And a delight it was," I replied. Then, I repeated my question.

She turned and stared at me a smile of relief tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Hehe wasn't home," she stammered. Then, she looked up at me. "I left a message. Thank God you got here in time. Where's Betsy?"

"In the bedroom." I pointed to the Woods' corpse and then added, "I'm afraid I was late. The good Mayor pumped her full of cocaine just before Delaney killed him. There wasn't anything I could do. Delaney was holding the gun on me."

Moira groaned and rushed past me, to Betsy's bedroom. I went over to the davenport, sat down and lit a cigarette. A few moments later, she staggered back, her face gaunt and gray.

"You had the foolproof plan, remember?" I said. "All that money was going to be yours. Well, you got it. Leon'll be free to inherit and as his wife that'll give you a claim for half under community property. How does it feel to be a rich woman, Moira? All it cost you was your daughter."

Her shoulders sagged. "You bastard. You goddamn bastard."

"Of course it will be a while before you can spend any of it. That little matter of Eli's murder might keep you occupied somewhere else for a few years. But, right at this moment you're worth millions—less the cost of Betsy's funeral."

She dragged her hands across her face in grief. Then they dropped and she stared at me down the length of her nose. "It should've worked out. I had it all figured. Eli would be dead so he couldn't point any fingers as to who was there when the stuff disappeared. I'd even made a copy of the key to the lab so after Woods had finished with Eli and gone, I could've hauled out everything. Nobody would've known, not even Delaney. It should've worked."

"You just didn't plan on Woods being Delaney's partner in crime."

Her head wagged. "I thought he'd run scared. Instead, the girls cut out before I could stop Betsy and then you and Leon showed up. After that, it became Delaney's play and I was down to hoping for scraps."

"You should've come forward when Bascomb got there. You could've told him what really happened. Leon would've been cleared and you could've shared Eli's estate."

Her eyes blinked with realization and then she grinned. "I still can! I'm still legally married to Leon!"

"Except you told me about the video tape, remember? You told me how you sent it to Woods hoping it would bring him to such a rage he would kill Eli. Well, on that prediction you were right."

Her smiled faded then she smirked, "It's only your word against mine. And what of it? I didn't tell Woods to kill Eli."

"No. But, you saw him come in with a gun. You watched him go upstairs. At that point you could have called the cops. But you didn't. When Woods forced Eli outside, you could have called someone for help. But you didn't. After Eli was dead and Woods was gone, you could have called. But, you didn't. When your husband was charged in his brother's murder, you could have come forward and cleared up the entire mess by pointing at the mayor. But, you didn't. I'd call that conspiracy, minimum. Accessory after the fact a likelihood. You'll be an old woman by the time you get out. And Leon will have long-since divorced you from his wealth."

She crept forward both hands outstretched, pleading. "No."

I stood up, my rage building. "Then there's Betsy's murder. You knew when Delaney left your house that he was going to kill her. I'll give you points for trying to stop him. I'm assuming that's why he worked you over. But, you didn't follow through after he was gone and you were safe. You could've called the cops. You could've called Bascomb. Hell, you could've told the old woman next door. Lydia would've gone after Delaney guns blazing and no questions asked. You knew Betsy was weak and in time she would talk about Woods, Eli and the rest of it. All that money was too much to risk over the life of one young woman, so you sat down and waited for the bad news."

"Delaney said if I called anyone he'd kill me, too. I loved my Betsy."

"Love? When? You offered her up to Eli since she was a kid. He paid for his perversion and you collected. Betsy was just a little girl doing what Mommy wanted, with no choice in anything."

Moira backed away. "You can't prove any of it. Leon loves me, he'll always love me."

I went over to the telephone and picked up the receiver. "I can prove enough to bring in an indictment by a grand jury. As to a conviction, I'll leave that to others."

# **Chapter 32**

Speculation concerning the deaths of Eli Huggins, his niece Betsy, Captain Delaney, the five men at the gravel pit, and Philip Woods filled the morning papers. One journalist pointed at increased gang violence. Another claimed it was the direct result of a breakdown in family values—particularly since Moira was arrested for complicity. And another attributed the deaths to the expansion of organized crime. Still others were convinced it had to do with alien abductions gone terribly wrong. It was all good reading over scrambled eggs and ham.

After finishing my meal, I shoved my suitcase into a taxi and pointed the driver to the county detention center. I had just enough time to see Leon released before my flight. I was not sure what I would say to him about all of it. I was not even sure he would talk to me, considering the outcome. Nevertheless, I felt driven to make the effort—if not for him, then for my own conscience.

Leon was sitting on the courthouse steps dressed in new clothes: plaid shirt, denims, and county-issue boon-dockers on his big feet. He looked like man with nowhere to go and all the time in the world to get there.

When I paid the driver and got out, the boxer offered nothing but a morose stare. I grinned at him, and held up a cardboard sign with his name scrawled upon it. It took him a few seconds to catch the significance. Then he got up, walked over and jabbed it with a finger.

"You the boxer, Leon Huggins?" I asked.

"Not no more. And, I still owe you five hundred dollars."

"Forget it Leon. It's been taken care of."

He looked away sheepishly. "I wish _I_ was."

"You inherited whatever Eli owned. A mountain of money in the bank and that big ranch."

He shook his head as if he did not believe me, before staring down at his heavy work-shoes. "That ain't my style."

I purposely leaned over and smelled his shirt. "You even smell good. And, once the ladies of the town find out you're a man of means, they'll be lined up at your door."

He shrugged as if the entire world had abandoned him. "Betsy's dead. Moira's in jail. Eli's dead. I'm all alone, Mister. I've never been alone before. Always there was somebody to look after me. Now, I got nobody."

"You're a big boy, Leon. You can take care of yourself."

Tears puddled in his brown eyes. "I'm so dumb I can't even make change."

"Don't worry about that. You can afford to leave big tips."

He reached out and gripped my arm, pleadingly. "Can't you help Moira like you helped me?"

Guilt twisted my guts as a stared at the pain in his battered face. But, it let go as the sight of Betsy lying dead flashed behind my eyes.

"There's nothing I can do, Leon. I'm sorry. Truly, I am."

"All she was trying to do was get us better things. That was always the way of Moira. She never wanted nothin' for herself."

Leon smiled at me like I was his long lost cousin. "You see it too, ain't that right? You see her just like I do."

"I see something, Leon."

He slapped me hard on the back. "I knew it. And, we're gonna' get her off, ain't we?"

"I telephoned Widgeons. He'll be going out to your new place later on today. There are papers for you to sign."

He wagged his head like a little boy faced with a strapping. "Can't do that. Eli always done that."

"Widgeons will help you, Leon. Just do as he says."

The boxer scratched the gray stubble on his chin. "I sure hope he don't take a swing at me, again," Leon murmured. Then, he snapped his fingers. "He gets mad just like that. I felt real bad breaking his jaw like I done."

"With the fees he'll be getting for helping you, I think Widgeons will be on his best behavior."

The boxer thought for a moment and then his eyes brightened and he swung one arm toward the traffic. "There's an orphanage over yonder. And, they called Bascomb and told him they was gonna' give me a job."

"You don't need a job, Leon. You're a millionaire."

"But, this is a good job, Mister!" he said excitedly. "They're needing somebody to come in and help with the kiddies at sports. And, they picked me. Can you believe it? Me. They ain't gonna' pay me nothin' but I figure I can get a job nights to tend to my needs."

"You don't need work, Leon. You don't need night jobs or day jobs. Relax. Chase women. You'll like women, Leon. And, they'll like you, now that you understand soap. And if you get tired of that, go fishing."

He put his hands akimbo at his hips and pursed his lips in thought. "But, I don't like fishing, Mister."

"Then, call me up and I'll cheat you at cards!"

He stared at me as if God had given me angel's wings. "You'd never cheat me."

"I'd cheat you out of every nickel you've got, Leon—believe it."

"But, you're my friend!"

"Which shows you can't trust anybody! Come on. I've got a plane to catch."

He shifted his clothes around as if to make himself more presentable. "Could we stop and see Moira on the way?"

I could see that it was hopeless trying to make him see her as she was. "I guess I can catch the next flight. Come on. We'll pick up your truck at the impound lot."

He took a few steps and then stopped. He signaled me to step closer before whispering, "That nice nun who runs things at that orphanage told Bascomb a big secret. They got a whole suitcase full of money from some guy."

"The hell, you say!"

"Yeah. They're building more places for the kiddies to live and a big playground for sports. And, maybe someday a gymnasium. That's why they decided they needed me. Because that guy what dropped off that money said they couldn't have it unless they took me on."

"He probably stole that money from somebody else, Leon."

"That's what Bascomb said. I think he knows who the guy is, too. But, the way I figure it, even if he did take that money his heart was in the right place. And we need a whole lot more people like him around here."

"Leon, trust me when I tell you that one of him on this earth is enough."

"You know him, Mister?" Leon asked, in awe. "'Cause I'd sure like to thank him. But every time I asked Bascomb about him all I heard was 'son-of-a-bitch'."

"I know the guy like he was my brother, Leon. Come on."

"You got a brother, Mister?"

"No, I don't have a brother. Just walk, Leon. You remember walking. That's how we get from one place to the next. You put one foot in front of the other and everything in between goes forward."

"Hey that works."

THE END
We hope you enjoyed DEAD ON by Michael Paulson, the first book in the Deacon Bishop Detective series. Be sure to check out the other books in this series as well as more mysteries and thrillers by Michael Paulson

# Books by Michael Paulson

Blind Woman's Bluff

Cherem

Dead On* (Available FREE at most eBook distributors)

Deadly Age*

Deadly Sting*

Deadly Trade*

Deadly Turn*

I, Philibert Q. Winslow

The Van Gogh Deception

Who Killed Michael Douglas

*Deacon Bishop Detective series
