A Song to Die For (36 page)

In the mirror, he watched the guy in the sling using his lips to pull a smoke from a green-colored pack of cigarettes in his good hand. Franco paid his bar tab and stuffed a dollar bill into the tip jar. Average tip. He was just an average guy, having a beer. Or at least that's what he wanted these hicks to think. He turned and started walking toward the door. A songwriter named Willis Allen something-or-other was singing his last song. Something about muskrats. This town was weird. They called this music? If it didn't have a horn section, Franco didn't see the sense in listening to it.

As he approached the exit, he glanced up at the big plate-glass windows facing the street. Instead of looking through them, Franco looked into them. He caught glimpses of the reflection of that white arm sling moving in behind him.

Leaving the bar, he turned left onto the sidewalk. He walked for a few seconds to give Sling a chance to step out of the bar, if indeed the guy intended to tail him. Franco weaved a little to give the impression he was drunk, which he wasn't, of course. That would give Sling a false sense of advantage if he intended anything rough. He took his hotel room key from his pocket.

He walked under a streetlight, tripped intentionally over a seam in the sidewalk, and dropped his room key. He bent over to pick it up. There, looking behind him upside-down, he saw Sling prowling along in tow. He knew, under the streetlight, that the amateur wouldn't see his shadowed eyes, and it only took a glance to know he was being tailed.

A car was coming down the street, so Franco decided to cross in front of it, stumbling blindly, like a drunk, into the path of the automobile. The driver slammed on the brakes, honked, swerved, cursed. The car wasn't really that close, and he knew he could have leapt clear even if the driver had failed to notice him. He turned and shot the bird at the driver, but was really using the opportunity to get a look at the guy tailing him. How big was he? How sober? Why was his arm in a sling? How could he take this guy down?

The other reason for crossing in front of the car was to determine whether Sling would cross the street, too. If so, there was no doubt the bum was up to something. And indeed Franco glanced back to see Sling crossing the street to stay behind him. He was getting closer, too, coming up from behind, smoking his cigarette.

Now Franco used the reflections in chrome bumpers, side mirrors of cars, and angled storefront windows to keep tabs behind him. Even the glass windows across the street told him that Sling was gradually closing in on him. That white sling stood out nicely. He slowed down to give the impression that he was oblivious to the tail. A breeze whipped down the street from behind, and he could smell Sling's cigarette smoke. Menthols. What a puke.

They were far enough away from the noise of the late-night bars that Franco could now distinguish his pursuer's footsteps. That's how close the guy was. Sounded like boots. The heels clicked, the soles slid like sandpaper. Still, he pretended to be unaware. The Driskill Hotel was just over the next cross street: Brazos.

Reaching Brazos Street, Franco ducked right around the corner. He stopped, glanced both ways up and down Brazos for witnesses—especially cops. The street was empty. The last streetlight he had passed was now casting Sling's shadow on the Sixth Street sidewalk. He saw the menthol cigarette butt flip smoking into the gutter. He knew exactly when Sling would round the corner. And here he came …

Franco cocked his automatic in the gimp's shocked face, grabbed his shirt, and slung him around the corner, taking his feet out from under him by tripping him over his own leg planted solidly on the sidewalk. Sling's butt hit the concrete, the back of his head slamming against a brick wall, his breath
oofing
out of him.

“Why the hell are you following me?”

“I wasn't,” the startled amateur wheezed. “I was … Just going to my car.”

“Why are you wearing that sling?”

“Got a busted collarbone.”

Franco used his pistol barrel to whack the guy's collarbone.

“Ow!” he howled.

“Don't mess with me. You were following me. Why?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

“What would I possibly want to talk to you about?”

“I heard you say you were looking for some guy. A musician.”

“So what?”

“Maybe I can help you.”

Franco heard a vehicle turn the corner to his left, looked up Brazos and saw the patrol car coming down the street. “Shit,” he said, quickly locking the safety on his piece and slipping it into pants. “Act drunk,” he ordered, hoisting Sling from the sidewalk to his feet.

The patrol car slowed. “What's going on here?” the cop demanded through the open window.

“My buddy fell down,” Franco claimed.

“Y'all been drinkin'?”

“He's getting married tomorrow. I'm taking him up to his hotel room now.” Franco pointed to the Driskill.

The cop frowned. “If I see you two on the street again, he'll be getting married in jail.”

“Don't worry, sir. He's marrying my sister. She'd kill me if I let that happen.” He watched the car turn onto Sixth Street and head toward easier collars near the bars. “Ya hick,” Franco added.

“So,” Sling said, rubbing the back of his head.

“Come up to the room and tell me more. And take that sling off. You stick out like a sore arm.”

“It hurts if I take it off,” he complained.

Franco thumped him on the collarbone again.

“Ow!”

“Take it off!”

Sling obeyed, and they walked into the century-old Victorian hotel, across the marble floors, past the reception desk, and up the stairs to the second floor. Entering his room, Franco motioned for Sling to sit down in a padded leather chair. At the mini bar, he poured himself a tumbler of bourbon and dropped an ice cube into it, but did not offer one to his guest. He sat on the sofa facing Sling's chair, his briefcase at his elbow on the end table.

“What's your name?”

“They call me Jimmy the Hand.”

Franco laughed, disparagingly. “I don't care what
they
call you. Your name is now Sling. So, what can you tell me, Sling?”

“What's it worth?”

Franco smirked and pulled his briefcase onto his lap. He opened it, the contents shielded from Sling's view by the open lid. “What's it worth? Well, let's see. One hundred … Two hundred…” he pretended to count cash as he screwed a silencer onto the muzzle of a twenty-two. “Is it worth you leaving here alive?” He shut the briefcase lid and pointed the piece at Sling's face.

Cross-eyed, the rank amateur swallowed hard. “I know where you can find the guy you're looking for. The musician.”

“Yeah?”

“He's playing in a band with some old country singer trying to make a comeback—a guy named Luster Burnett.”

“Yeah?”

“I seen the band play. I heard the guy's name in the introductions.”

“The stupid stage name?”

“Yes, sir. But I didn't catch which guy in the band was the guy. I just heard the name.”

In spite of his suspicious nature, Franco tended to believe this guy. He was too stupid to lie convincingly. He fought back the urge to smile. This was the breakthrough he'd hunted for day upon day now. He put the weapon down on top of the briefcase lid. Now, what to do about Sling?

“Why would you want to help me, Sling?”

Sling shrugged. “I got a grudge against one of the guys in the same band. I thought if you were after this other guy, maybe we could work together.”

“I never said I was
after
him. I just said I wanted to find an old buddy, and that was his stupid stage name.”

“I had a hunch you were after the guy, like he owed you money, or something worse even.”

Franco raised his eyebrows. That was the first intelligent thing this idiot had said all night. “So why do you have a grudge against this other guy in the band?”

Sling pointed at his collarbone. “He did this.”

Franco chuckled. “You let a musician kick your ass?”

“He didn't kick my ass. He shot me. It was a robbery at a poker game. I don't know how the guy got the drop on me so fast, but I'm lucky I was wearing a vest.”

“Wait a minute … Who was robbing who at this poker game?”

“I was robbing the poker game. Or trying to. This guy shot me, and my wingmen dragged me away. Lucky we weren't killed because there was bullets flyin' everywhere.”

“Hang on, hang on … Where was this poker game?”

“South of town. But it's a floating game, so it moves every week.”

“So you tried to rob the game and got shot instead? Dipshit.”

“I don't know how the guy pulled on me so fast.”

“You fancy yourself a gunslinger, Sling?”

Sling shrugged. “I've knocked over some liquor stores and gas stations.”

“You ever do time?”

He nodded. “Five years for attempted robbery.”

Franco narrowed his eyes. Something didn't make sense here. Sure, he had been asking around about Junior Biggerstaff. But for this small-timer to just approach him out of the blue seemed too good to be true.

“You know, you're an idiot. What if I was a cop?”

“I know you're not a cop,” Sling said, looking suddenly worried, as if he'd just said too much.

“How do you know that?”

“I know who you are. You might say I'm a fan.”

“A fan? What am I, a rock star?”

“I've studied up on you guys in Vegas. You're Franco Martini. It's my dream to work for you some day.”

“And that's why you followed me?”

“Yes, sir. And…”

“Spit it out.”

“I know why you're in town. I seen it on the news. Your cousin was the girl who bought it on the lake.”

Franco nodded. “Poor, sweet Rosabella. I miss her so much.” His voice was monotone.

“You're looking for the guy who did her in.”

“And you're looking for the guy who shot you at the robbery.”

“Might even be the same guy. At least, they're in the same band.”

Franco bolted the rest of his bourbon. “Sling…” He hoped he would not live to regret what he was about to say. “You're hired.” He tossed a couple hundred dollars to his new employee.

“What's this for?”

“Operating capital. Now listen, you puke. You do what I say, and only what I say. If you screw up, I'll kill you. Got it?”

Sling grinned and nodded as he picked up the cash. “This is a dream come true!”

 

37

CHAPTER

Hooley arrived at D.P.S. headquarters, switched his truck motor off in the parking lot, and just sat there, bits of evidence swirling like whirlwinds in his mind. The leads had all unraveled again, like a busted lariat, its ends dwindling to twisted cords, then to threads that tapered away to nothing.

The anticlimactic raid on the lake rental house yesterday had revealed nothing other than a great dearth of fingerprints. That was enough to suggest to Hooley that Franco had been there, but not nearly enough to prove it. If Biggerstaff didn't have a change of heart soon, and start cooperating, Hooley didn't know what he was going to do to carry this case forward. The only lead he still had out there was the blurry photo of the back of some runner's hood. He had a hunch that runner was Franco, but hunches alone seldom won arrest warrants or subpoenas.

He stepped out and slammed the door of his truck, wincing at the unnecessarily loud metallic thump. His grandfather would have scolded him something fierce for slamming a vehicle door that hard. It was just the distraction of this case. He wasn't himself. He had hardly slept at all last night, running the facts through his mind over and over, wondering what he had missed. He couldn't get the nagging thought out of his mind that Franco Martini still had one more person on his hit list—the driver of the wrecked Correct Craft. What if Franco had already found him?

Entering the building, he marched to Lucille's reception desk and whipped his shades off. “Mornin', Sunshine,” he growled.

Lucille looked up from her typing. “Oh, heavens. You look exhausted.”

“Occupational hazard. Any messages?”

She reached for a leaf of paper. “Yes, Mel said the photo looks like it
could
be Franco, but positive ID was inconclusive. And the toll-free number Biggerstaff called from his house is registered to a construction contractor in Las Vegas. Mel suspects it's a mob cover, but he can't prove it.”

Hooley slumped. “So we got nothin' new?”

“We've got this,” she said, handing a photo to the ranger. “It's the shot of the back of the jogger's hood, blown up as large as the photographer could make it.”

Hooley blinked at it. “What is that?”

“It's a fifty-percent-off sale sticker from Sports Nation.”

Hooley turned the photo sideways, walled his eyes at it. “How can you tell?”

“I buy my niece's softball team uniforms there. I recognized the logo, even though it's blurry blown up like that.”

“Sports Nation. I've seen their commercials on TV. Where's the nearest franchise?”

“We only have one in town. Near Lamar and Riverside.”

Hooley searched the map of Austin he kept in his head. “That ain't far from Celinda's apartment.”

Lucille smiled. “Only a few blocks. I took the liberty of calling the store manager. They recently installed some new video surveillance cameras to catch shoplifters and watch the cash register in case of a robbery.”

“Video? They got tapes?”

Lucille nodded. “Their tapes go back three weeks. The manager said he'd be happy to cooperate.”

Hooley felt his smile muscles tugging at his face for the first time in days. “So, how's the team doing?”

“What team?”