Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 12 - Murder Among Friends (16 page)

I sipped the coffee and once again shivered, this time because at that moment, I somehow knew Carl Edwards was
dead. I couldn’t prove it, but if he were the one who fell to
the floor during the heist, he had to be. In fact, I told myself, taking another leap forward, Carl Edwards could have
been the body Salinas Sal saw being transferred from one
car to another that night at Barton Springs.

I started to create a file for Raiford Lindsey, the president
of the credit union, before I realized I had yet to hear from
Eddie Dyson on either Lindsey or Frank Cooper.

Going online, I e-mailed Eddie an inquiry, and then returned to my work.

I built a file for Cooper, based upon our conversation the
day he walked with me to my pickup.

He identified Edwards by the herringbone suit and his
voice. He said he had simply wandered into the anteroom
next to the vault and stumbled onto the heist. Edwards then
shot him. He also testified that the slight man wore gloves.

Leaning back, I reread the file, and then thumbed back
through my cards in case I had left out any pertinent information. I noted where I had asked Cooper if Edwards had
ever mentioned a fishing trip at Falcon Reservoir, and he’d
said no. I spotted his remark that Edwards had ordered him
to lie down. I stared at the ceiling trying to recall his words.
I checked my cards. I would have sworn he said Edwards
shouted at him to lie down. Obviously, I had failed to document that remark.

Still, the two guards had only said they heard voices. I
made a note to check with them.

My next file was on Elizabeth Romero, Lindsey’s executive secretary. Like ninety-nine percent of the employees, she could offer no motive for Edwards. She saw him that
day, noting he could barely talk because of laryngitis from
a cold that had him wheezing and hacking.

To finish off our conversation, she informed me that
everyone in the credit union knew the armored car
schedule.

My next file was Marla Jo Keeton, a perceptive employee who alleged Marvin Busby was in debt. She referred
to one of the tellers, Judith Perry, as having a relationship with Busby. She also had informed me that even if
she knew where Carl Edwards had gone, she would never
tell.

At that moment, the phone rang. I answered it. Danny
O’Banion’s terse voice spoke. “Tony. We got your old man
down here. You better come over”

Five of my apartments would fit in Danny’s office. While
neither he nor I could pronounce half the brands of his
furniture and decorations, they were all expensive. So naturally, I cringed to see my old man sprawled on a white
leather couch, his mouth gaping open and snoring like a
chainsaw, and the mud from his heels smearing the cushions.

Before I could ask, Danny explained, “My boys picked
him up at the Golden Gull Bar a couple of blocks from
your place. Brought him down here and fed him some beer
and hamburgers” A faint smile played over his boyish face.
“He can’t get in trouble here”

“Thanks.”

Danny grew serious. “You know you can’t trust him at
your place all by his lonesome”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I replied, a little testy. Danny lifted an eyebrow. I shook my head. “Hey, I didn’t
mean nothing. I’m upset with him. I appreciate what you
did.”

He waved off my thank-you. “Forget it” He paused. “Tell
you what. I know you’re busy, and you can’t keep an eye on
him twenty-four/seven. Leave him here. I’ve got room”

I shook my head. “Thanks, but no thanks. That’s too
much trouble. I can take care of him”

Danny shrugged. “Whatever you say. The offer is always
open”

Traffic was heavy when I left Danny’s with John Roney
leaning against the door, his head back on the seat, still
snoring.

1-35 was bumper-to-bumper, side-by-side as far as the
eye could see. One little fender bender, and the whole mess
would be tied up for hours. That’s why I usually opted for
the business route. Lamar Street was choked also, but there
were side streets that offered the opportunity to skirt any
pileups.

Sometimes I’d laugh at the irony of modern progress.
We built freeways to lessen traffic congestion only to have
the interstate end up more congested than the streets they
had been designed to alleviate traffic from. Crazy, huh?

My mind was a thousand miles away after leaving
Danny’s place. Without thinking, I hit the entry ramp for
1-35 North before realizing what I had done. I cursed myself, then flexed my fingers about the wheel, and settled
down to join the stampede of vehicles heading north.

Most of us were jammed too closely to worry about
passing other cars, but there are always those who like to
bob and weave, darting in front of one and then another.
One of the problems interstates face is that, if you leave more than a few feet between you and the car ahead,
some joker will consider it a double-dog-dare challenge
to shoehorn a twenty-foot-long vehicle into a fifteen-foot
opening.

I’m a coward when it comes to traffic. I always stay in
the outside lane and within the speed limit. After some experience, you learn to ignore the shouts and gestures tossed
at you.

When the massive Peterbilt rolled up on my left, I gave
it a cursory glance, but then as we started to approach an
overpass, it eased toward me.

I honked, but it kept coming. “Hey, buddy, back off,” I
shouted, knowing the driver couldn’t hear me. I shot a
glance at the overpass. Off to my right was a sloping grassy
median stretching gently to the feeder road some hundred
feet distant.

The Peterbilt moved closer.

I honked again.

The massive tractor came even closer.

My tires hit the small curb. I fought the wheel.

The overpass guardrails loomed larger. And just beyond
the guardrails was a fifty-foot drop straight down to the
highway below. If I hit the rails, I’d flip head over heels to
the boulevard below.

I had a choice: the guardrails or the grass.

Taking a deep breath, I jerked the wheel to the right and
shot down the grassy slope, at the same time slamming on
my brakes and fighting for control of the pickup.

The feeder road, jammed with traffic, loomed ahead.
Slamming on my emergency brake, I spun the wheel hard
to the left, sending the pickup into a 180-degree spin,
and coming to a sliding halt only inches from the feeder
road.

I closed my eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, at the
same time cursing the careless driver of the big rig.

I glanced at my old man, who was rubbing his bony fists
into his eyes. He looked around and grumbled, “What’s going on? Don’t you know how to drive, boy?”

I just stared at him. Finally after my nerves settled, I
pulled onto the feeder road and headed home. My old man
had gone back to sleep, a state from which he did not
emerge until we pulled into the drive. He awakened long
enough to stagger inside and collapse on the couch.

I went into the bathroom and washed my face. I stared at
myself in the mirror. My black eye was beginning to turn
yellow, and the knot was slowly shrinking.

I slipped behind my computer and continued work on
my files. I glanced at my note cards. Judith Perry was next.
A slow grin played over my face when I remembered how
infuriated she had become with Marvin Busby.

Before I could begin work on her file, an e-mail message
beeped. Anxiously I went to my mailbox, hoping for a
response from Eddie Dyson.

There was one, but not what I expected. The message
was from my ISP’s mail administrator stating that there was
no record of such an address for Eddie Dyson.

I muttered a short curse. There was no logic in cyberspace, just a bunch of loonies buzzing around changing addresses at will. Chances were in ten minutes, I’d have a
response from Eddie.

At that moment, the phone rang. It was Neon Larry.
“Tony. What’s up?”

“Nothing. What’s the problem?”

His voice became guarded. “I ain’t sure, but Goofyfoot
came by a few minutes ago. He’s got something I think you
need to hear”

I drew a deep breath and closed my eyes. I had about all
I could handle right now. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

Neon Larry grunted. “I ain’t sure. I don’t think so. From
the way he talked, some goons is planning on doing something to your old man, maybe waste him”

I glanced over my shoulder at my old man, who was still
snoozing on the couch. “What is this, Larry? Some kind of
joke?”

“Nah. That’s what Goofyfoot told me. I don’t know,” he
added, half serious, half joking. “The old bum might have
got some bad whiskey, but I figured you ought to know
about it”

I paused a moment to consider my next step. “If you see
Goofyfoot around, tell him to wait. I’ll be down in about an
hour. Feed him beer to keep him there. I’ll pay you”

Without replacing the receiver, I broke the connection,
and then dialed Jack Edney, an old friend and nouveau
millionaire-eight times over. Money hadn’t changed him.
He was still the consummate slob, but his wealth had turned
his slovenly habits into fashion.

He didn’t argue when I told him I needed him to look
after my old man for a few hours. “You bet, Tony. No
problem”

We arranged to meet at his new office at the intersection
of Ben White and Highway 290.

I dropped off John Roney, a twelve-pack of Old Milwaukee, and a bag of burgers at Jack’s with the promise that I
would explain it all when I returned. “It might be nothing”
I glanced at my watch. “Maybe an hour, maybe two”

He grinned, his pan-shaped face almost cherubic in its
innocence. “We’ll be here”

As usual, tourists, natives, and drunks jammed Sixth
Street; as usual, all parking spaces were filled; so as usual, I
pulled into a Loading Zone, rummaged through my stack of
magnetized signs I kept behind the seat, retrieved two imprinted with the logo BLEVINS’ BREWERY, and stuck one to
the outside of the driver’s door and one on the passenger’s
door.

Neon Larry waved at me when I entered. He pointed to
the hall leading to the rear of the bar. I nodded and headed
back to his office, where I found Goofyfoot lying on Larry’s
battered couch, his phlegmy eyes staring at me.

He’d been sleeping, but the faint hiss of hinges opening
awakened him.

One curious fact I’ve noticed over the years about the
homeless, unless they’re drunker than a skunk: you can’t slip
up on them. There’s an animal wariness that comes from living on the edges of society, sleeping in culverts, hiding in
cardboard boxes, and taking what you can get when you
can get it.

He sat up and grinned.

I sat beside him and pushed twenty bucks in his grimy
hand. “What’s this about my old man?”

The wizened man frowned. “I heard it from Downtown.
Him and me was at the convention center last night. Big
shindig dinner. Some of the stuff they throw away ain’t never
been touched”

Nodding impatiently, I prompted him. “I know. Now
what do you have to tell me about my old man?”

“Well, we was talking about Sal and what happened to
him. Downtown said three guys talked to him that morning, asking if he knew your pa. When he said he did, they gave
him five bucks to tell them where he was. He didn’t know
except he was staying with you”

I started to ask just how Downtown had learned that John
Roney was with me, but then I remembered I had told Goofyfoot. I grinned wryly when I thought of the old saw from
when I was a kid, You don’t need a telegraph or telephone,
just tell a woman. Well, that aphorism should be amended
to tell a bum. Not one piece of information was privileged
on the street if it would buy a beer or a burger or a cigarette.

I studied the old man. “So what made Downtown think
they were going to do a number on my old man?”

Despite being in a closed room, the slight man leaned
forward. “They was the same ones that went after the
Butcherman”