Death in the Distillery (26 page)

The Interstate was two blocks beyond the French Legation. I darted across the street and ducked into a narrow
drive that followed the south wall of the historical landmark.

Just as I reached the top of the hill, headlights hit the
trees above my head. I dodged into a clump of bougainvillea and waited until the long, black Chrysler slowly
passed. Inside the vehicle, the dull glow of dash lights cast
a scowling face in stark relief.

I had crouched in the shrubbery between two houses,
each with a fenced backyard; one a chain link, the other a
stockade. I hated fenced backyards.

Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted the brake lights of
the Chrysler at the base of the hill. He was turning around.
I turned back to the fenced yards. I chose the chain link,
figuring if it held a Doberman or Rottweiler at bay, by now
the beast would be ripping at the fence in an effort to get
at me. Now was the time I wished for a safety on my .38.
It didn't even have a first click on it as a safety. If I had
to use it as a club, the thing would probably discharge and
give me away. Hastily, I ejected a cartridge and placed the
hammer on the empty chamber.

I took a deep breath. "Okay, Tony. Go!" I yanked open
the gate and raced across the yard, expecting an uproar.
Uneventful seconds later, I vaulted the back fence and
stumbled down the rocky slope and sprinted across the access road, hoping to lose myself among the homeless winos
living under the Interstate.

I slowed to a walk, turned up my collar, and jammed my
hands in the pockets of my jacket in an effort to blend into
the clusters of aimlessly wandering winos and homeless
men. Several accosted me, but I ignored them.

Four blocks ahead, the lights of the Green Light Parking
Garage beckoned. Now that I had managed to shake his
goons back at the cemetery, my next problem was how to
reach Danny O'Banion without picking up a couple of
rounds of slugs.

Austin is unique, a melange of old and new. The older
buildings, many constructed of the native white limestone,
fill the city blocks on the periphery of the newer construction downtown. Alleyways, indigenous to the thirties and
forties, crisscross the older city blocks, creating innumerable sleeping nooks for the homeless.

I shuffled into an alley, just across the street from the
parking garage. I couldn't tell if any of Danny's buttonmen
were watching or not, so I continued the role of a drunk
and slumped into the darkness beside a dumpster, feigning
sleep.

No one paid any attention.

Long minutes passed as I sat in the darkness, peering at
the garage from under my eyebrows, waiting for an opportunity, a suggestion as to how I could make it inside.
Around two o'clock, a black limo pulled into the garage,
but Danny's soldier refused to let the vehicle up the ramp.
The driver jumped out and bellied up to the well-dressed
goombah. I couldn't hear his words, but from his gesticulations, he was furious.

The soldier nodded, pulled out a cell phone and spoke
into it. The gesture seemed to pacify the driver, who nodded to the vehicle.

A short time later, Danny, his collar unbuttoned and his
red hair rumpled, appeared from an elevator, spoke briefly
with the driver, who then returned to the limo and drove
into the night. I waited until things had time to calm down
before rising to my feet.

I stumbled across the street, my fingers wrapped about
the Colt in my pocket. Staggering into the garage, I lumbered toward the goombah.

He shook his head when he spotted me. "Hey, lush. Beat
it. You ain't sleeping it off in here."

He reached for my shoulder, but I spun his arm away
and jammed the .38 under his chin. "Okay, buster. Not a word. Do what I say, and no one gets hurt." I nodded to
the elevator. "Over there."

I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn't
back away now if I wanted.

Danny stared at me in surprise when I pushed his buttonman into the office ahead of me. Baby Huey jumped up
from the couch and jammed his hand inside his coat.

I swung the Colt on him. "Hold it right there." From the
corner of my eye, I glanced at Danny. "I don't want to hurt
anyone, Danny. I just don't want them hurting me before
I get a chance to talk. Understand?"

He hesitated, then gave a terse nod of his head.

Huey and the buttonman disappeared.

I studied Danny. The faint smile on his lips was overpowered by the icy glare in his eyes. Slowly, I laid the .38
on his desk and stepped back. "I meant it, Danny. I don't
want to hurt anyone."

He glanced down at the Colt, then sat on the couch. He
spoke, his tone crisp and business-like. "I can't let you
leave here alive. You know that, don't you?"

"That what your bosses told you?" I crossed the room
and stared out the window. The streets were empty, but
that meant nothing. In the distance, an approaching storm
sent flickers of light through the heavy clouds.

"Business is business, Tony. I told you not to stick your
nose in something you didn't know anything about."

I turned back to him, chuckling.

He frowned. "Either you know something I don't, or
you're a fool."

For some strange reason, I felt sorry for Danny. He had
all the trappings of wealth, yet he was only a gopher, a
well-paid one, but still only a gopher for his bosses. "I'm
going to do you a favor, old friend."

He arched an eyebrow. "A favor? You're in not much
of a position to be doing anyone a favor."

I sat on the corner of the desk and grinned at him. "I
don't know how much your friends have invested in Chalk Hills, but I can tell you this. Soon, by the end of July,
they're going to lose every cent they have invested in the
operation. And whatever the scandal will be, their names
will be part of it."

Danny wore a good poker face, but still, I saw the involuntary twitch of an eyebrow indicating his surprise. I
continued. "Now, you can waste me and keep me from
proving Patterson was murdered. That won't stop whatever's going on out there."

He just stared at me with the eyes of a predator shark.

I continued. "William Cleyhorn, attorney for Chalk Hills
Distillery, invested two hundred thousand on the gamble
that the stock values would fall."

That got his attention. "Go on." He leaned forward.

"What do you know about calls and puts?"

"Calls and puts for what?"

"An investment strategy, Danny. Options. Risky, but if
someone hits everything just right, they can make a king's
fortune."

He looked at me in pained disbelief. "Is that all you got,
stock market crap? Forget it."

"Forget eight million? Maybe even sixteen?"

Danny's eyes popped open.

I continued. "That's what Cleyhorn stands to gain if
Chalk Hills' stock drops to twenty bucks a share. More if
it drops lower. That's enough jack to make anyone take a
chance."

"What are you talking about?" He shook his head, clearly
puzzled.

"Look, Danny. There is an investment strategy available
so that if you think a stock is going up, you can buy a call
contract which gives you the right to purchase that stock
at the strike price."

He stared at me blankly.

I started over, this time trying to keep it simple. "A contract gives you the right to buy or sell stock at a certain
price. That price is the strike price. Follow me so far?"

He arched an eyebrow impatiently. "So what?"

"Okay. Now, if your strike price is fifty, and two months
later, the share price is seventy, you can still purchase the
stock for fifty. And you make twenty bucks a share. Understand?"

"Yeah. Go on." A faint frown knitted his eyebrows, but
the first traces of understanding filled his eyes.

"A put is just the opposite. You purchase a contract
which lets you sell stock at a given price-the strike
price-regardless of the current value."

His frown deepened.

"Okay. Let me explain it this way. Cleyhorn bought the
right to sell a hundred, maybe even two hundred thousand
shares of Chalk Hills stock at a price of one hundred dollars
a share. They're called July 100s, which means they mature
at 11:59, Eastern Standard Time on Saturday following the
third Friday of July. If, at that time, the shares are worth
one hundred dollars each, he'll break even, but if the shares
drop to twenty dollars a share, he'll sell at a hundred and
make eighty bucks on each share." I paused. "Figure it out.
Eighty times a hundred thousand. Eight mil. Twice that if
he bought two hundred thousand."

Danny shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. From
what you're saying, he's guessing that the distillery stock
will fall."

I grinned. Little Danny O'Banion understood. "Exactly."

"But, why would he do that?"

I shrugged. "You tell me. Why would anyone invest two
hundred thousand dollars on something like that? Two hundred thousand isn't the kind of money to gamble with. The
only answer is that he knows something. And whatever that
something is, it will cause Chalk Hills stock to drop clear
down to the basement by the end of July."

He studied me several moments. "What does Cleyhorn
have to do with Patterson?"

I chuckled wryly. "That I don't know. I stumbled across
this stock market business when I was trying to find out
who had reason to kill Patterson."

He puckered his lips thoughtfully. The chill faded from
his tone. "You got proof of all this, Tony?"

I pulled out the fourteen pages I'd printed up. "Yeah.
Here. Cleyhorn's financial records are in there." I handed
them to Danny. I still had the disk. "I'm telling you, Danny,
it's going to hit the fan. Sooner or later, your friends are
going to take a soaking if they don't get out of Chalk Hills.
Give this to them. Let them put their own investment counselors on it. Let them figure out why Cleyhorn spent two
hundred thousand on a gamble that Chalk Hills would
crash. If you don't, I'll guarantee you that they'll be coming
after you first."

He studied me several seconds. "What's out there,
Tony?"

I relaxed, slightly. The old conviviality was back in his
voice. "Patterson was murdered. I know how the murder
was done, and I think I know who did it. And I think I
know why Patterson was blackmailing his killer. If I'm
right, then there's another body at the distillery. And I think
I know where it is."

Danny arched an eyebrow. "That's a lot of thinking."

"I know you figure Patterson got his money from drugs.
But tell me this. How many dealers keep bank accounts in
their own name? Huh? I'll tell you. Zilch. No, he got his
money through blackmail. Take a look at those records.
Every month for the last nine years, he made regular deposits above his paycheck. Prior to that, he didn't have a
bank account. Like most of the laborers at Chalk Hills, he
lived from paycheck to paycheck."

Danny arched an eyebrow. "A blackmailer with a bank
account?"

"I thought about that, Danny. Now, Patterson was no
rocket scientist, but he was certain his mark wouldn't stir
up any trouble. So certain in fact, he had no fear of any
incrimination from the bank account. Besides, the payoff
deposits were in cash."

"So, who killed him?" Danny leaned forward.

I hesitated. "There's a chance I'm wrong about the killer, but not about Cleyhorn. Like I said, have your bosses make
him explain why he forked up two hundred thousand in a
gamble that Chalk Hills stock would fall. This other, the
Patterson business, give me some time. Everything I have
is pure conjecture, but I believe it all points to the fact that
Patterson witnessed a murder ten years ago. If I can get
back to the distillery, I know where to find the body."

"What if there's no body?"

A cold chill swept over me. "I'm in big trouble."

Danny chewed on his bottom lip. "We're talking about
my skin too, Tony. I'm not saying a word about this until
you play out your hand. Let's see what you come up with."
He paused. His eyes grew cold. "If you're right, I want to
be the first to know. Understand?"