Death in the Distillery (25 page)

Suddenly, a couple of pieces of the puzzle slid into place.
The relatively weak financial status of Alonzo Jackson had
bothered me. Such a status could be the result of monthly
blackmail. With his income, he should have accumulated
more than the ninety thousand or so despite a spendthrift
family.

And it could explain why Seldes wasn't being blackmailed. Patterson already had one sucker. Seldes was insurance against the possibility of the first blackmail scheme
falling through.

I hesitated. A tenuous idea about the tractor popped into
my head, and as abruptly disappeared. I struggled to pull
it back. I had the crazy feeling it was the answer to my
questions. But try as I might, the idea, the thought, evaded
my efforts.

I glanced anxiously at the door. I wanted to talk to
Alonzo Jackson, but before I could chance seeing him, I
had to find out what kind of tricks Danny was pulling by
sending his goons after me.

To accomplish that, I needed a bargaining tool, a reason
for Danny and his bosses to back away. But, all I had was
a mountain of speculation, a sheath of stolen bank records,
and a far-fetched theory. And a theory without the basis of
solid facts was not the stuff to make bargaining worthwhile.

Obviously, someone thought I was getting too close to
something. That's why the goons showed up. While Danny
never admitted Cleyhorn was the one responsible for the
first warning, he never denied it. I was convinced Cleyhorn
was the contact to whom Danny had earlier alluded.

I focused on Cleyhorn. His financial status was impressive, even for a lawyer. So why was he investing in calls
and puts? Next to Russian roulette with five out of six cylinders loaded, playing options is the riskiest investment a
man can make. I was no whiz at stocks, having lost money more than once on poor investments. In fact, I'd lost money
on calls and puts.

I knew options. I could understand Cleyhorn buying
calls. Calls were speculations upon rising stock values, but
puts were gambles on falling values. Cleyhorn knew Chalk
Hills stock would rise, so his options should have been
calls. And some were.

So why would he invest two hundred thousand on the
chance Chalk Hills value would drop? Last Sunday, both
Morrison and Cleyhorn were concerned the murder would
cause prices to plummet, yet a week earlier, he had purchased July 100s. Contracts set to expire at the end of July.
Something didn't fit. No sane man invested in puts unless
he knew the stock was primed to take a plunge. And a
plunge in Chalk Hills stock was nowhere in sight.

I leaned back and stared at his financial records. Ten
years earlier, I spent two thousand dollars gambling that
the value of TNT Publications would drop. The stock rose,
and I was wiped out.

The only way Cleyhorn could come out on this investment was if the value of Chalk Hills dropped. And he was
too smart to take that kind of risk based solely on the vagrant caprices of the stock market. He had to know something.

Suddenly, I had my bargaining tool with Danny
O'Banion: Cleyhorn's anticipation of Chalk Hills stock
dropping. I wondered how Danny's bosses would react to
that.

Now, all I had to do was get to Danny before his goons
got to me. And I wasn't fooling myself that they wouldn't.

Probably every mutt on the street had a description of
my pickup. I'd be fingered before I went a block.

But, it was a chance I had to take. I glanced at my watch.
Almost eleven. If I could make downtown Austin, swing
off at the Second Street exit, from there I could make it on
foot if necessary.

They caught up with me on 1-35 just as I passed Ben
White Road.

A black Chrysler pulled up on my left and tried to force
me off the Interstate. I slammed on the brakes and, as he
shot past, I pulled in behind him and accelerated, driving
my bumper into the rear of the vehicle. It fishtailed, and
the brake lights flashed.

A face appeared in the rear window, then a dark object.
I didn't wait to figure out what the object was. I swerved
right, cutting through the traffic, heading for the shoulder.

Tires squealed. Horns blared. But I made it across two
lanes and bounced over the grass to the access road where
I took the first right.

On the Interstate, the Chrysler tried to reach the outside
lane, but traffic blocked him in.

I wound through back roads until I reached Riverside
Drive, expecting at each corner to run into the Chrysler
again. The lights of downtown Austin beckoned. I kept my
head and eyes moving, peering into every shadow, every
driveway, parking lot, knowing that sooner or later, I'd spot
the Chrysler.

We spotted each other just as I pulled onto the access
road to the Town Lake Bridge spanning the Colorado
River. This time, the Chrysler whipped behind me and
pulled up on my right and opened the show with bullets.
One punched a hole in my back window. I ducked and
swerved at the limo. The goon hanging out the window
screamed and jerked his head back in the open window the
instant before I slammed into them, knocking them into the
concrete barrier.

Metal shrieked. Sparks flew.

Abruptly, I hit the brakes and tried to pull in behind the
large car, but the driver had learned his lesson earlier. His
brake lights flashed again. I bounced off his front fender.

A line of traffic came up behind us. I cut in front of the
upcoming traffic and roared onto 1-35, heading for the first
exit past the bridge. My old Chevy pickup was no match
for the Chrysler on the Interstate.

It was an eerie feeling. They had silencers, and the only
way you knew they were firing was the ping of a slug tearing through metal, or popping as it punched a hole in
the window.

A thousand thoughts ran through my brain as I sped
down the Interstate. Foremost was the fact the gas tank was
behind the seat. All it would take was a single slug, and
the pickup would balloon into a ball of fire. Such a possibility made priority-setting easy. I was getting out of the
truck as fast as I could.

I shot off the freeway and down the Second Street exit
to the three-lane access road that had been cut into the side
of a steep limestone hill. Ahead, two vehicles stopped for
a red light at Cesar Chevez Street.

Without glancing either way, I whipped around them.
The Chrysler stayed on my tail. The light at Sixth Street
changed as I reached it. Abruptly, the rear end of the pickup
whipped crazily to one side. The goons had hit a tire.

I fought for control as I cut across the access road,
bounced over a curb and clattered across the parking lot of
a Texaco convenience store at the corner of the access road
and Seventh Street. Behind the store, a hill rose sharply.

Slamming on the brakes, I leaped from the pickup before
it stopped and darted up the sidewalk into an older neighborhood, searching for some dark cubbyhole where I could
hide. At the top of the hill, I raced across the street and
hurried past the Mercado Jaurez Restaurant.

Dogs barked. A cat darted in front of me. Behind, I heard
shouts, and then headlights shot over the crest of the hill.
I rounded a corner and dashed into a thick growth of jasmine and bougainvillea.

Seconds later, two dark figures raced past. I waited until
the echoes of their footsteps had died away before backtracking. I paused at the corner. Across the street was the
Texas State Cemetery, eighteen acres of darkness.

The four-foot fence was wrought steel, each bar about a
foot apart. If I could jump it ... I shot across the street.
Just as I reached the fence, sparks flew from one of the
steel posts and the whining hum of a ricochet broke the
silence.

"There he goes."

I vaulted the fence, snagging my pants on one of the
spikes and tumbling headlong to the ground. I leapt to my
feet and headed deep into the shadows of the cemetery. I
muttered a curse. Of all places to confront Danny's goons.
A cemetery. Despite the fear coursing through my veins, I
couldn't resist a wry grin at the irony of my situation. At
least, they wouldn't have far to go to bury me, or them.

Ahundred- and-forty-eight-years-old, the Texas State
Cemetery is filled with majestic tombs, greater-than-life
statues, and massive headstones, all in various stages of
condition. Ancient oaks and pecan trees provided cool
shade from the relentless Texas sun during the day, and
welcome hiding spots at night.

I paused in the shadows behind a marble crypt and
peered into the dark behind me. I had no idea how many
soldiers Danny had sent. Three at least. Maybe four.

To the west, the noise and lights of Austin filtered
through the thick canopy of limbs and leaves. Danny
O'Banion was less than seven blocks away in his office. I
grimaced. This wasn't the time for me to confront anyone,
especially three or four anyones in a dark cemetery. This
was the time to run.

Staying in a crouch, I zigzagged across the graveyard,
heading for the west gate. Time dragged. I could hear my
pursuit, moving slowly, steadily, and they had separated.

Suddenly, a gravelly voice sounded just to my left. I
froze and sunk into a crouch deep in the dark shadows of
a headstone. "Any luck?"

A distant voice replied. "Keep looking."

The voice drew closer. I strained my eyes in an effort to
pick out substance from shadow. Without warning, a sil houette appeared over me, close enough that I could reach
out and touch. I held my breath.

A sharp pain stung my ankle. I had squatted in a bed of
fire ants, and the little carnivores were chewing on my ankle. I couldn't budge. Even the slightest movement would
sound like a gunshot.

The looming silhouette stood motionless for what
seemed like hours. His arm moved, and I heard the unmistakable ripple of a zipper. I doubled my fist, ready to bust
him where it hurt most, but he turned his back when he
relieved himself.

By now the ants had gravitated up my calf and were
proceeding toward my knee, trying to gnaw the flesh from
the bone. Sweat dripped from my forehead, but I remained
frozen in the shadows.

Then a distant shout sent him in motion. He zipped his
pants and finally disappeared into the inky night.

I tried to count to fifty before I moved, all the while
trying to push the burning stings from my head. When I
hit twenty, I said to heck with it and scrubbed my hand up
and down my leg.

Staying in a crouch, I dashed to the next headstone, pausing in the shadows to scratch at the biting ants. By now,
my leg was on fire all the way up to my knee. I knelt and
pulled up the leg of my jeans. Peering into the darkness
around me, I scratched at my leg, smashing the little savages.

Ten minutes later, I ducked into the shadows cast by a
large monument, an obelisk mounted on a pyramid, and
peered down at the west gate. The Daughters of the Alamo
had planted shrubs along the fence years before, and by
now, the shrubbery had taken over the fence. If I reached
those shadows without being spotted, I could slip across
the street and cut through a few backyards, and slide down
the hill to the Interstate access road.

There was no traffic on Navasota, the adjacent street, and
all the houses facing the cemetery were dark. I glanced over their roofs. The golden glow of streetlights lit several high
rises, and the traffic on 1-35 was a muted roar.

Moving slowly, I eased toward the gate, every sense
alert. I saw nothing, heard nothing. I paused behind an oak
several feet from the fence and studied the shadows, searching for any movement.

Finally, I chanced it. On the balls of my feet, I sprinted
the short distance separating the tree from the fence and
pressed up against the shrubs, rustling the leaves.

"Hey. Who's that?"

The guttural voice froze me. My heart thudded in my
chest. I peered into the darkness, trying to make out any
movement. Then I heard footsteps on the other side of the
fence. They headed for the west gate, which was less than
ten feet distant.

Moving slowly, I wedged myself into the shrubs, hoping
the shadows would hide me.

The footsteps grew faint, then more pronounced as the
goon passed through the gate and headed back toward me.
I blinked at the sweat stinging my eyes and flexed my fingers about my Colt.

The crunch of gravel and leaves grew louder. Abruptly,
a silhouette, less than two feet away, passed between me
and the cemetery. I held my breath.

He continued walking.

My shoulders sagged in relief. I waited a couple of
minutes after his footsteps faded into the darkness, and then
I slipped past the gate and raced across the street to the
first corner and ducked into the shadows.

A dark figure appeared down the block, so I sprinted
west on Eighth Street, which ran up and down two steep
hills before dead-ending into San Marcos Street.

By the time I reached San Marcos, my lungs were burning, and I was gasping for breath. I hid in the shadows,
trying to bring my thumping heart back down from the
heart attack range. Across the street were the walls of the
French Legation, a Greek revival structure complete with
stone walls, constructed in 1839.