Death in the Distillery (21 page)

On the coffee table lay a stack of puzzle magazines beside his push-button telephone. Nothing remarkable there.

The ringing of my telephone interrupted my thoughts. It
was Janice. She started off pouting because I hadn't called
her. Within the first two or three sentences, she managed
to whine, "You just don't care about me anymore."

I rolled my eyes. "You know better than that. I've been
busy working for your aunt."

"Too busy for me?" Her voice trembled. "It's been almost a week."

"I'm never too busy for you, Janice. You know that. In
fact, I'd planned on giving you a call today." It was a lie,
and we both knew it. I continued. "I thought we might have
a nice meal at the Old San Francisco Steakhouse and then
go out dancing. It's been a few weeks since we've done
that."

She giggled. "I'm hungry for some of your gumbo.
Shrimp and oyster. You make it better than anyone in Austin."

I muttered a curse. Gumbo takes a couple of hours to put together. I glanced at the snapshots on the snack bar.
With a sigh of resignation, I decided they could wait.
"Gumbo it is."

"But, I want to go dancing too. Why don't we have some
drinks and dance a little at the club, then go to your place
for gumbo?"

I hesitated, recognizing her subtle hint and her none too
subtle intent. What the heck, I told myself. Maybe I did
need a break. Sometimes a body becomes so involved, he
overlooks the obvious. Besides, what would an evening on
the town hurt? "Sounds good to me."

Her voice was bubbly. "Great. I'll pick you up at nine.
We'll go in my Miata."

After replacing the receiver, I pulled a bag of fresh
shrimp and a bag of oysters from the freezer. While they
thawed under a stream of hot water, I assembled the remainder of the ingredients and whipped up a chocolatecolored roux-the Louisiana secret of delicious gumbosjambalayas, and etouffees.

I turned the gumbo off before it was ready. Another fifteen minutes after we returned, and it would be tasty and
steaming hot, ready to be added to a bowl of simmering rice, the result of which would be a full stomach and clear
sinuses.

I sniffed the familiar, rich aroma of the gumbo. No cuisine could match Cajun cooking. I licked my lips when I
thought of savory stuffed pork roast, delectable chicken and
gravy, or sinful pot roast in aspic, all over steaming rice.

The evening was just what I needed, some relaxation
after five days of constant work. Despite our differences
and her wealth, I usually enjoyed being with Janice, and
that night was no different.

After a few drinks and some close-quarter dancing, we
returned to my place. Forgetting my earlier resolve, I made
us a couple of stiff bourbons, and while I heated the gumbo,
she disappeared into the bedroom, returning moments later
wearing my robe and nothing underneath.

Needless to say, we gobbled the gumbo hastily, ignoring
the splatters on the snack bar. I fed her a shrimp, which
she engulfed with her full lips and, with a naughty gleam
in her eyes, sucked on the first two joints of my finger.

With a seductive smile, she headed to the bedroom.
"Give me a few seconds."

I nodded, hastily shedding my own clothes.

I waited a few seconds after the door closed, then hurried
to it. I opened the door and looked at her on the bed.

That's when I froze.

I stared at the digital clock on the nightstand. Threefourteen. "I don't believe it," I gasped. "I don't believe it.
That's it. That's it."

"Tony? What's it?"

"That's it. That's it."

I turned on my heel and hurried into the kitchen, trying
to visualize the snapshot of the Texas clock on Patterson's
wall. My pulse raced as I pictured the points of the Texas
Star in my fevered brain. The top point of the clock was
twelve, the next two, the next-

I felt my throat constrict. Emmett Patterson, the puzzle nut. Could that be it? I fumbled for the kitchen light and
grabbed the snapshots. I laid the tip of my finger on the
other points. Four, eight, ten.

Fumbling through my notes, I pulled out the set of sixteen numbers: 1210841084284212. I jumped up and
slammed my fist on the snack bar. "Son of ... that's it. The
combination is set up by the numbers on the points of the
clock."

I scrabbled through the papers on the snack bar for a
pencil and started crunching numbers. Typical of his puzzle
fetish, Patterson had left one neat little conundrum.

Janice, a sheet wrapped about her, stormed into the
kitchen, her short brown hair mussed, her face flushed, and
her lips puffy with unfulfilled passion. "Tony, what is going
on?" She stomped her foot.

"Just aminute." I held up my hand to silence her.

If I had paid attention, I would have seen the shock on
her face. That I should forego her physical pleasures for a
handful of snapshots was beyond her comprehension.

But, typically, I paid no attention. I continued scribbling,
hastily sketching out the clock to find the lost numbers.
After several seconds of stunned disbelief, she spun on her
heel and stomped back to the bedroom, slamming the door
behind her.

I ignored her.

The landlady banged on the wall.

I ignored her too.

Emmett Patterson must have had a poor memory to set
up such a puzzle as a reminder. Once you figured out the
delivery of the numbers, the remaining sets were simple.
Beginning with twelve, he counted off the next three points
of the star counter-clockwise. Each succeeding set, he began with the preceding point on the star. I reread the numbers in my notes: 12, 10, 8, 4, then 10, 8, 4, 2, then 8, 4,
2, 12.

Now, all I needed was the next logical set of numbers,
the set I hoped was the combination of the safe. I jotted
them on the slip of paper: 4, 2, 12, 10.

Outside, a horn honked.

The bedroom door slammed. I looked up, and Janice, her
clothing askew, glared at me. "That's my cab. I'm getting
out of this place." She stormed across the kitchen, slammed
a lid on the remainder of the gumbo, cradled it in her arm,
and murderously eyed me up and down. With a toss of her
mussed hair, she snapped at me, "Get some clothes on!"

Then, gumbo and all, she left, slamming the door again.

And the landlady banged on the wall.

I continued to ignore her.

Too excited about my discovery to worry about Janice's
feelings, I quickly dressed and jumped into the pickup and
slammed the door. Pulling on the street, I glanced into the
rearview mirror. Two headlights pulled out behind me.
Huey the Faithful. I'd forgotten about him. I cursed loudly.
If I drove out to Chalk Hills this time of the morning,
Danny O'Banion would know something was up. Reluctantly, I pulled in at the next convenience store and bought
some day-old doughnuts and a loaf of bread, and then returned to my apartment. It was four o'clock.

When I reached my apartment, I discovered that in her
fury, Janice had forgotten her Miata. I made sure it was
locked before I went inside, where, for the next two hours,
I stared at the combination, trying to imagine what could
possibly be in the safe for Emmett to go to such lengths to
protect. I beat a path between the snack bar and the front
window, checking on Huey.

One thing I could say for him, no dog was any more
faithful to his owner.

Sometimes, a guy who works his tail off gets a break.
Not often, but sometimes the gods smile, and they smiled
on me. A piece of luck came my way at ten minutes after
six. My Old Faithful, Eddie Dyson, called.

"Just got in, Tony. Saw your message. What's up?"

I wish I could say Eddie called me so quickly because
he liked me. The truth is, Eddie is the consummate hustler,
the transcendent businessman in the world of the flammer,
fleecer, and flimflam man. He called because he knew he was going to get a nice piece of jack from me. So, I told
him what I needed.

He took my unusual order with the cool aplomb of the
professional dipsy-doodle. "Let me doublecheck this, Tony.
Beatrice Morrison, William Cleyhorn, Alonzo Jackson,
Thomas Seldes, Claude Hawkins, Emmett Patterson, and
Mary Tucker. You want financial histories ... if they have
one, right?"

I glanced at the front window. "You got it, Eddie. Any
problems?"

He laughed. "This kinda stuff? A snap. Seven big ones
is what it'll cost you. You online?"

"Seven? That's kinda steep."

"I got palms to grease, Tony Boy. The price of doing
business. Now, you online?"

I hesitated, not understanding the question. "Online? You
mean on the web?" What was he asking that for?

"Yeah. The web. The big WWW. What else?"

Uncertain of just where his question was taking us, I
replied warily. "Sure. Why?"

,.Your e-mail take attachments?"

"Yeah."

"Give me your address. Once I fill your order, I'll e-mail
you the information. You got Visa or Discovery?"

"What do you want to know that for?"

He chuckled. "Hey, Tony. I'm a businessman now. All
legit. That's the way of the world today. Give me your Visa
number, and I'll bill your account for the seven Cs, just
like QVC or Time Life."

I hesitated again.

Eddie explained impatiently. "This way, Tony, you and
me don't meet. Anyone watching, they don't see nothing.
No one sees nothing swap hands. You get what you want,
and I get what I want, all in the privacy of your apartment.
No cookies for no one to connect us. Simple. You see?"

I saw, and why not? Personally, I couldn't see any difference in buying information from Eddie Dyson Inc. or a Thomas Kinkade canvas from QVC. I laughed. "Christ,
Eddie. Sometimes you truly amaze me."

"Hey. I amaze myself at times. But, you got to stay up
with the technology today if you want to be successful.
Now, what is it, Visa or Discovery?"

"Visa."

"How long will this take, Eddie?"

He chuckled. "Not long. This is the age of technology."

I stared at the receiver after he hung up. To paraphrase
an old maxim, technology makes strange bedfellows. And
instead of warily greasing some slimy hand in a dark booth
in the local sleaze bar, I would simply wait in the comfort
and security of my own home for the goods. This new
technology was indeed changing the way people do business.

No sooner did I hang up than the phone rang. It was
Marty Blevins. Gone was his usual southern drawl, that
lazy, languishing twang. In its place was a demanding and
strident screech. "You still on the Morrison business?"

"Yeah. You know I am, Marty. You told me Wednesday
to stay with it." I half-grinned, thinking maybe he was
tanked up on Gentleman Jack bourbon.

"Yeah? Well, I'm telling you now to back off. Get your
lanky rear into the office Monday. I got work for you. A
boatload of subpoenas you're gonna serve."

I held my temper. "What the crap's going on, Marty?
You..."

"I ain't arguing. You be in the office Monday or find
yourself another job. You do what I say, or you're fired."

My temper went south. "Listen, you fat ..."

The whirring buzz of a dead line interrupted me. I glared
at the receiver. "You dumb, stupid ..." I struggled to find
the right word to describe Marty Blevins, but considering
he was the armpit of the world, words failed me. He was
so dumb, if he tried to sniff coke, he'd get ice cubes stuck
in his nose.

I resisted the impulse to slam the receiver back in the saddle. My luck, I'd break it and be out twenty bucks for
another.

Usually, I'm a fairly calm person, not given to impulsive
reactions. I like to think through a situation. Of course, half
the time I think through something, I end up wrong, but
still, I consider the matter as carefully as I can.

So, I calmly put coffee on to brew, then calmly brushed
my teeth, calmly shaved, and calmly sat at the snack bar
with a cup of coffee and tried to figure out what put a burr
under Marty Blevins' saddle at six-thirty on a Saturday
morning.