Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston (14 page)

I remembered Lela Hoffman. I reached for the receiver, then hesitated. What if I was just wasting more time, time that was growing more valuable with each passing second? What could she provide me?

With a wry grin, I muttered. “I couldn’t be any worse off than I am now.” I dialed information.

Occasionally, I meet someone who truly surprises me. Lela Hoffman was one of those. Her answering machine took my message after informing me that she would soon return from her morning tour of the island on her Harley.

An eighty-something on a Harley? I chalked it up to fun-loving mischief with an answering machine until I received a call sometime later from Lela Hoffman. In the background, I heard breakers crashing on the beach. “This Tony Boudreaux?” Before I could reply, she continued. “Got your message. Do I know you?”

“No.” I told her of my meeting with Sergeant James Wilson. “When I told him I wanted to talk to someone who knew the best and worst of Galveston, he told me to get in touch with you.”

“You a reporter or what?”

From the tone of her voice and the way she spoke, I had the feeling this wasn’t a senile old broad I could spin a yarn on. “Nope. Private Investigator. Out of Austin.”

“Austin? Ain’t we got no P.I.’s in Galveston that we got to go to Austin for one?” Her voice was demanding, the words shrill with a hint of sardonic humor

I didn’t know how to answer so I stuttered. “Well, I’m …  I’m sure … ah … sure that you do. It’s just that I don’t know anyone around here that I can get a straight answer from.”

“How do you know you can get it from me?”

“I don’t.”

She chuckled. “You a looker?”

“Beg your pardon.”

“Are you good looking?”

I decided two could play the game. “Ugly as sin.”

“Oh.” Her tone sagged in disappointment. “Well, I got no time today. My schedule’s full. This is my morning to tour the city on my bike. I’d give up sex before I’d miss my rounds of the city.”

Sex? Eighty something? I couldn’t resist laughing. “I sure wouldn’t want you to give up sex. When do you think you will be free?”

“Don’t know.” Then she said. “You a bike rider?”

“More or less.”

“Skinny or fat?”

“Skinny.”

“Tell you what. I’ll pick you up. You can ride around the city with me, and we’ll talk.”

I was speechless, a reaction I seldom experience.

She must have taken my silence for consent. “Where are you?”

Without thinking, I replied. “Sea Gull Motel. On … ”

“I know where it is. Be there in five minutes. Wait out front for me.” She spat out her words like a machine gun and then she hung up.

I replaced the receiver and shook my head, wondering just what kind of mess I had myself in now.

Virgil wasn’t too keen about being left behind. I explained. “No way we can all fit on a Harley, Virge.”

“I can follow in my car. Something happens to you, Blevins will be on me like a thick coat of ugly.”

I cocked an eyebrow at his skewed analogy. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Lela Hoffman was right on time, and certainly not what I expected. Instead of a little old gray-haired woman putt-putting into the motel parking lot, a diminutive figure in black leathers and helmet with a black visor dipped sharply into the parking lot, roared down the drive, braked abruptly, and slid to a halt six feet from me.

A gloved hand flipped open the visor and an animated face smiled at me through all the wrinkles framed by short tufts of gray hair. “Boudreaux? I’m Lela Hoffman.” Her light blue eyes sparkled.

She stuck out her hand, and I took it. I wondered if I should shake it or kiss it, but her quick, firm grip gave me my answer. I shook it. “Yeah. Tony Boudreaux, Ms. Hoffman.”

Arching an eyebrow, she looked me up and down like she was inspecting a side of beef. With a nod, she said. “You are a looker. Call me Lela. Now grab the helmet on the sissy bar and hop on the bush pad. I’ll show you our fair city.”

I climbed on and immediately wondered what I was going to hold on to. The top of her head came to my chin. “Grab my waist, but don’t let your hands roam.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied, grinning at the back of her helmet.

“Leave the visor up. I’ll go slow so we can talk.  And I promise, no catwalks.”

“Catwalks?” I frowned.

“Yeah. You know, wheelies.”

I gulped and held on to her waist desperately.

The waves crashed against the sandy beach as we headed down Seawall Boulevard. The acrid odor of gasoline and exhaust mixed with the tang of salt air.

Lela gave me a running account of the history of the massive concrete wall that protected the city from the treacherous storm surges of threatening hurricanes.

We pulled up to a light. “But, you didn’t call me for a history lesson,” she abruptly announced.

“No.”

“So?”

I blurted out. “So, a cop got killed four nights ago. Guy named Frank Cheshire. I was told he was dirty. I need proof.”

She turned her head and gave me a sidelong glance. “You think I know?”

“I asked Sergeant Wilson who knew the best and worst of the city. He gave me your name. I want to hear all the rumors and gossip about dirty cops. Who they were, who contacted them, who paid them. Anything you can think of.”

The light changed, and we sped away. “You don’t want much,” she called over her shoulder.

“Not much,” I yelled back.

“I could make some people awfully angry.”

“They’d get over it.”

“Not the ones I know.”

The population drops drastically in Galveston during the winter, permitting leisurely touring of the city, along the palm lined boulevards, past the imposing mansions, down the narrow lanes.

Lela began her narrative back in the fifties when the city began promoting tourism. “In addition to the community spirit, the city’s determination, there was always an underworld presence,” he said. “Hidden, never discussed. But it was there.” And for the next hour, she embroidered her story by pointing out the various sights and landmarks from Pelican Island to the Strand and to the tall ship, Elissa.

Finally, she pulled into a McDonald’s and cut the ignition. “It’s coffee time,” she announced, leaving her helmet on a mirror. I put mine on the sissy bar and followed her inside.

Everyone from the hamburger flippers to the smiling cashier spoke and waved to her. She led the way directly to a booth against a wall of glass overlooking Galveston Bay. Moments later, two coffees arrived.

“They know you, huh?” I grinned at her, noting her short cut gray hair and twinkling blue eyes that seemed to be peering deep inside you.

“Lord, yes. I’ve been coming here for years. Amazing how much gossip you can pick up here.”

“Tell me about Sam Maranzano.”

She shrugged as she poured cream and spooned sugar into her coffee. “Not much. He came along after I retired.”

“I thought you were still with the News.”

“Oh, I am, but only twenty or thirty hours a week. No more of those sixty and seventy hour jaunts.”

Eighty-something, and she called twenty or thirty hours a week retired. I hoped I could retire as graciously. “I see.”

“Yeah, but I keep up with things. Maranzano is the new boy on the block. Takes care not to move on to Abbandando’s turf.”

“Abbandando’s that big.”

She laughed, and her eyes twinkled. “Literally, yes, figuratively, no.”

I grinned at her humor. “He is porky.”

She snorted. “You’re being generous. He’s so fat you could show the cinemascope version of “Gone with the Wind” on the seat of his pants.”

We both laughed. She continued. “No, Abbandando has ties back east. An uncle. Joe Vaster, who has his finger in every dirty pie you can name, drugs, prostitution, numbers … you name it, he has it.”

“Vaster? I’ve heard that name before. Albert?”

She sipped her coffee. “Abbandando’s cousin. He came down here sometime back. I figured old man Vaster wants his son to keep an eye on Fatso.”

Suddenly, one of my theories picked up some support. “Abbandando is wanting to move out on his own?”

“That’s what I heard. Then little Albert shows up.”

“Cheshire work for Abbandando or Maranzano?”

“Both of them. He was like a ping-pong ball. You never knew who was paying him.”

“How much of that goes on?”

“You mean, how many cops are dirty?” she shook her head. “Not many. Galveston is a good department, but there are some bad ones. It’s that way everywhere.” She hesitated, nodding slowly. “Some high up, very high up, but then that’s where the real temptation is—not the nickel and dime stuff a beat cop gets.”

I hadn’t touched my coffee, too caught up in her animated revelations. “Can you give me some names?”

She gave me a sly look. “Nope. But, I’ll do you one better. Find the political action committees that support the elected officials. See who’s on them. You’ll have your answer.”

Political action committees? I frowned momentarily, then it struck me—elected officials, the sheriff, district attorney, judges. I chided myself. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “Yeah. Yeah, I see what you mean.”

She pushed her empty cup away and started to rise.

“One more question.”

Pausing halfway from her seat, she frowned, then slowly sat back down. “Just one.”

“How about a date tonight?”

Her frown vanished. We both laughed. “You couldn’t keep up with me, Sonny,” she replied, giving me a lewd wink.

Eddie Dyson was my information man. A reformed stool pigeon, Eddie developed an affinity for the Internet just short of blood kin. Thanks to his exorbitant charges, I was forced to develop my own skills. Though they could not begin to compare with Eddie’s, they served me well back at the motel. 

As Eddie had told me earlier, because of the Internet, there were no longer any secrets. You just knew how to find the information.

I pulled up a search engine, typed in
George Briggs Political Action Committee
, and within twenty seconds, was staring at a list of donors to his last campaign.

The first name hit me between the eyes. Allied Cement. I scrolled down the list. I stopped at Maritime Shippers, Abbandando’s company. I whistled. Virgil looked around from the John Wayne B-western on TV.

I clicked on Abbandando’s company. My mouth dropped open and then a slow grin closed it. Lela knew what she was talking about I told myself as I read aloud the name of the donor, “Peter Abbandando.” In the next column was the amount donated. $100,000.00. 

Scrolling down the list of political beneficiaries of Maritime Shippers, I was rewarded with a list of all candidates who had received donations. Three of them, all councilmen, received $50,000.00 each for the previous year’s campaign.

Hastily, I called up Allied Cement.

And I was not surprised that Director Jerry Cook had also  donated a $100,000.00 to Briggs, and $50,000.00 to each of the other three councilmen.

With heavy donations like those, Briggs, Abbandando, and Cook had to be sleeping in the same room, if not the same bed.

Suddenly, a panorama of limitless possibilities spread out before me.

A couple days earlier after discovering the coke Briggs had ordered planted in my room, I came to the conclusion that Briggs wanted to bury me deep in Huntsville to protect someone or something. At the time, I had no idea exactly what he was protecting, but from what I had learned since, there were half-a-dozen possibilities, ranging from bribery to—well, maybe even diamonds.

If he were so desperate to protect whoever or whatever, then perhaps he might even take that extra step, murder. That would explain the drive-by attempt and the three goons on the dock that night. It could even explain the shooter out at Allied Cement.

I studied the PAC donor list. This had to be the relationship to which Lela Hoffman was alluding. The way it looked to me was that Abbandando, Allied Cement, and George Briggs could pass for the world’s first set of Siamese triplets.

I skimmed down the list of PAC’s, searching for more donors to Briggs. One donor looked familiar, British Paint Company. I’d never heard of it, so why should it seem familiar?

A dozen different scenarios raced through my head. This information had tossed a wild card into the deck, and all of a sudden, it looked like time for a re-shuffle.

Chapter Sixteen

I pulled out my note cards and for the hundredth time, began rearranging them. The process is similar to brainstorming in that by altering the juxtaposition of cards, different ideas can be stimulated, some germane to the subject, others completely irrelevant.

Several fruitless minutes passed as I studied each new arrangement. Suddenly, I froze, staring at the card describing the wingtip slipper. Next to it was the card from the first night, the night I heard running feet just before Cheshire went on his shooting spree. A couple pieces of the puzzle fell into place. I stared at the cards in disbelief, wondering how I had managed to be so dense.

“Whatcha see, Tony?” Virgil had scooted his chair around to face me. “Find something?”

“Maybe. I think maybe I did. Something that I had been missing all along.”

He frowned at the note cards. “So?”

Pausing to gather my rearranged theories, I began. “Okay. Now, there’s a lot of holes here, but bear with me. Maranzano says Cheshire isn’t on his payroll. Maybe not, but Cheshire learned of the diamonds from somewhere. I figure Maranzano because I got a call from the police station. The caller claims Cheshire and Maranzano were in a smuggling caper together. But Cheshire took it a step farther. He and Morrison were planning a double-cross. They were going to hijack the diamonds from Maranzano. Someone else was out there that night, I mean besides Ben and me. I heard running feet. We also know that a fresh patch of cement was poured on Abbandando’s pier that night.”

Virgil shrugged. “Where you going with this?”

“What if Abbandando and Cheshire were in the caper together to double-cross Maranzano? And what if Albert Vaster got wind of their collaboration?”