The Ying on Triad (9 page)

She blushed violently. "Oh, heavens no. I-"

"Sorry, Mrs. Simms, but I had to ask"

She smiled demurely. "That's all right, Mr. Boudreaux."

"One other question. There was a video camera in the
office, but there was no mention of it in the trial transcript. It seems to me that would have offered irrefutable
proof of the murderer."

"It most certainly would have, but one of the technicians had installed the tape incorrectly. It didn't expose,
or whatever it does"

Stifling my excitement at her last remark, I rose and
offered my hand. "I see. Thank you very much for your
time."

"You're more than welcome, Mr. Boudreaux."

I hesitated. "If you don't mind, Mrs. Simms, I just
thought of one more question about the technician who
serviced the videotapes. By any chance do you happen to
remember what he looked like?"

Her eyes brightened. "Oh, dear me yes. A sweet, fair
complected young man with red hair. He always stopped
and chatted with me when he changed tapes or whatever
it was he did. Red-ah, his name's Red-"

I supplied the name for her, "Tompkins?"

"That's it!" she exclaimed. "Red Tompkins"

Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Back in my pickup, I pulled out my cards. I glanced up
and spotted the edge of the drapes in Mrs. Simms' picture
window pulled aside a few inches. She was watching. I
smiled, waved, and then quickly jotted my notes.

I mused over the information I had garnered from Mrs.
Simms. There was no question that she was telling the
truth, and that her testimony had been damning. Packard
barged in; she heard shots; she saw Packard hurrying into
the elevator.

But, if the alleged film was to be believed, someone
else had been present. And she had seen the Asian emerging from the elevator. I discounted his hiding in the storeroom after doing Hastings. Chances are the police would
have searched it as part of the crime scene. But there a
distinct possibility the killer could have darted into the
executive lounge and escaped through a window-if there
was a window.

I glanced at my watch as I made a note to check that possibility. 10:00. Plenty of time to run down Sen. Sam
Bradford and Don Landreth, Hastings' campaign manager.

Bradford was in Washington, which effectively
squelched any interview with him, so I concentrated on Landreth, whom I managed to run down at his ranch outside Marble Falls, fifty or so miles to the west.

Placing a call, I got Landreth's voice mail. I left my
name, number, and a brief explanation of the purpose of
my call. I considered driving over, but if he was not
around I'd have wasted two or three hours that could not
be spared.

My stomach growled, and I realized I had not eaten
since early morning. I glanced around, searching for
someplace to silence the gurgling sounds coming from
my belly.

I stopped at the first light. A maroon car pulled up
behind me. Years and makes are beginning to elude me.
At my age, I can discern a car and a pickup, but that's
about the extent of my expertise.

I drove through McDonald's for fries, a burger, and a
Coke. I ate as I tooled south down Mopac Expressway
toward the Double Eagle Bar and Grill. I hoped to visit
with the bartender who worked the shift when the brief
fight occurred between Hastings and Packard.

The expressway was packed, which was no surprise. I
have no idea how many vehicles race up and down those
lanes everyday, but if I had a penny for each one, I'd be
rich.

I hung in the outside lane at a steady sixty miles an
hour, steering with one hand and eating my fries and
burger with the other as the other drivers zoomed past.

Suddenly, the shriek of metal deafened me, and my
pickup jerked to the right, bounced over the shoulder, and
shot down a thirty-degree grassy incline. I dropped the
burger and grabbed the wheel with both hands, at the
same time slamming on my brakes.

Cars and trucks jammed the access road toward which
I was hurtling. There was no room for me to fit in. I was
about ten seconds away from slamming into the side of an eighteen-wheeler cattle truck. I stomped the brakes
harder and spun the steering wheel to the left, hoping the
pickup wouldn't flip. As the rear end skidded into a oneeighty the Silverado shuddered to a halt mere inches
from the access road as the cattle truck roared past with
an angry blast from his ear-splitting klaxon horn.

I dropped my forehead to the steering wheel and
breathed a short prayer. The door jerked open.

"Hey, buddy. Are you okay? You hurt?"

When I managed to focus my eyes, two worried young
men were staring at me.

"I thought you was a goner," one said.

I tried to laugh, but all I could do was croak, "I did too."
I shook my head slowly. "I don't know what happened"

The other man pointed to the expressway. "A car up
there ran into you. They knocked you off the road."

"Yeah," the other chimed in, "it was kind of dark red,
you know, maroon. Looked like a couple of Chinese guys
in it. We stopped to see if you was okay before we thought
to get their license number"

"Looked to me like they did it on purpose," remarked
the second one.

At that moment, an Austin P. D. cruiser pulled up, overheads flashing.

For the next thirty minutes, we went over and over the
incident. The cops took notes for their report, chalking it
up as an accidental sideswipe.

"If it was an accident," I asked. "Why didn't they stop?"

"Look, Mr. Boudreaux," the young officer explained.
"He's probably one of those dipsticks with a dozen warrants out for him. He can't afford to stop"

I disagreed with his assessment, but I kept quiet. I just
wanted to get on my way.

When I looked at the side of my pickup, I almost cried.
My brand new Silverado, only three months old, now sported an ugly dent streaked with maroon paint in the
side of the driver's door.

As I pulled back onto Mopac, I came to the sobering
conclusion that someone wanted Bobby Packard to die,
and not just the state of Texas.

The middle of the afternoon is usually a slow time for
restaurants and bars, even an upscale bar and eatery like
the Double Eagle on Austin's south side. On the lobby
wall, a mural of two bald eagles, wings spread, talons
extended, ready to claw its victim, greeted me. Through a
large arched door to the right was the dining area. To the
left was the bar.

Two men sat on stools at the end of the bar, heads
together. The bartender, a tall, slender man with the long
fingers of a pianist nodded to me. "Yes, sir. What'll it be?"

I climbed on a stool and eyed the enticing collection of
liquor on the sideboard behind the bar. After the incident
out on Mopac, I was sorely tempted to steady my nerves
with two or three stiff shots of Jim Beam Black Label, but
instead I simply grinned. "I've got me a problem, and I
need help. Lots of help"

"You've come to the right place"

"Truth is, I'm looking for the bartender who worked
here ten years ago. And to make it doubly difficult, I don't
even know his name"

He nodded sympathetically. "Yep. I'd say you got a
problem"

"Have you been here long?"

"Six years, but the old boy I work with, Pop Wingate,
he's has been here since the Garden of Eden" He grinned
and chuckled. "For an old man in his eighties, he's something else"

I forgot about the sideswipe. "Great. How can I get in
touch with him?"

"He comes in a 6:00 tonight"

The clock on the wall read 3:30. "I'd sure like to talk to
him now. Is there anyway I can get his home number?"

He flexed his long fingers. "I don't give out phone
numbers, but tell you what. I'll call him, and let you talk
to him. Okay?"

I grinned. "That'll work for me"

Five minutes later, I headed east for Airport Boulevard.

Twenty minutes later, I knocked on the door of apartment 129 at the Airport Towers Complex, trying to imagine an eighty-plus-year-old bartender.

The door opened, and Pop Wingate invited me in for
what was going to be a revelation in more ways than one.

To say I was surprised when I saw him was an understatement of the same magnitude as calling Noah's flood
a passing shower. Astonished probably fits the moment
better, for from the top of his shiny baldhead to the rubber flip-flops on his feet, Pop Wingate was an amiable
eighty-something in the body of a forty-year-old. Tan as
Louisiana swamp water, he wore sweats and a tank top.

"Tony Boudreaux?" He extended his hand.

Still speechless, I took it, "That's ... me" I shook his
hand, marveling as his firm grip. "You're Pop Wingate?"

He grinned, and from that grin I could tell he took
delight in the bewilderment scribbled across my face.
Instinctively, I knew I was not the first person to stare
gape-mouthed at him. "In the flesh" He stepped back.
"Come in, come in. Would you care for some refreshment, tea, beer, water?" He gestured to the couch next to
one wall.

Sitting, I declined his offer of refreshment, unable to
get over how youthful he appeared, how tight his skin
was, how few wrinkles he had. Resisting the impulse to
grill him about his discovery of the fountain of youth, I
admitted. "This might be a wild goose chase, Mr.
Wingate."

"Call me Pop, and if it is a wild goose chase, so be

"Ten years or so back, there was a fight in the Double
Eagle."

He laughed. "Not just ten years ago, son"

I laughed with him. "I can imagine. Anyway, this particular fight involved Albert Hastings. At the time he was
governor-elect. He-got-into a fight with a man named-"

Pop cut me off. "Bobby Packard"

For the second time in as many minutes, I was at a loss
for words. Finally, I managed to stammer out. "You knew
him-them?"

The amiable smile fled his face. He aged twenty years.
"Yeah, I knew them. But the fight you're talking about, I
didn't see. I wish I had, but my shift ended before it happened. My partner Billy Ruiz saw it

I grimaced. "What about him? Is he still around?"

Pop shook his head. "No. He died five or six years ago.
It's a shame too. Billy was a nice guy. George-that's the
skinny bartender you talked to earlier-took his place."

I shook my head. "Just my luck"

"Not necessarily," the older man said, a mischievous
glint in his eyes. "Billy saw the fight, and if he told me about it once, he told it a hundred times. Believe it or not,
I have the entire fight memorized blow by blow, not that
there were that many punches thrown"

His reply buoyed my hopes. I leaned forward. "What
happened?"

"According to Billy, it wasn't much of a fight. Bobby
Packard was at the bar. He was a good customer. Never
bothered anyone, never caused any problems, and he was
always quick with a joke. Well, sir, according to Billy,
Albert Hastings and another man in a suit came out of the
dining room. Hastings was really plastered, and when he
saw Bobby, he cursed and took a swing from the back"

His face darkened. "That was the kind of no-account
Hastings was-hitting from behind. He hit Bobby on the
shoulder, knocked him to the floor. Hastings cursed and
kicked Bobby. Bobby jumped up and busted Hastings in
the face and sent him sprawling. The other guy backed
away, holding his hands up like he didn't want to fight"
Pop drew a deep breath and released it noisily. "And that's
all there was to it, such as it was" He paused, then added.
"Personally, I'd have given a week's pay to see Hastings
get what was coming to him"

I arched a single eyebrow. "So, I take it you didn't care
for Hastings"

His eyes turned cold. "No. Hastings-" he paused and
looked up at the ceiling, searching for words. Finally, he
dropped his gaze back to me. "I don't know if Bobby
killed him or not, but the man deserved what he got. He
treated those around him like second-class citizens, good
enough only to wipe his boots. I had heard a lot about
him. I don't have any hard proof, but if even a third of
what I heard was right, he deserved a seat at the right
hand of old Satan himself."

"Such as?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, I don't have no proof."

"Tell me anyway."

"You name it. Bribe money from contractors; carrying
on with other women; drugs" He eyed me keenly. "Tell
you what. Get in touch with Sally Reston. She was one of
the girls who hung around there back then. She had a few
dates with Albert Hastings"

I jotted her name. "Dates?"

"Yeah, you know. She worked the bar. Classy gal, never
caused no trouble"

"She still over there?"

"Naw. Age caught up with her, and the young eighteenyear-olds got her business. She was a decent girl though.
Last I heard she was running a day care center for kids
somewhere between Round Rock and Georgetown north
of here"