Tough Baby (Martin Fender Novel) (11 page)

Only, they hadn’t spoken to each other in three years, and that was why I was driving out over the high wooded hills on Ranch Road 2222, resisting the sideways pull of the winding road, thinking about how Vick had reacted to Bingo’s achievement of success like a spurned lover, like every dollar that Bingo accumulated was another act of infidelity. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t been partners in Bingo’s most successful ventures, it only mattered that Bingo had a huge house overlooking Lake LBJ and several black cars, including at least one Mercedes, while Vick Travis was still a junk salesman.

It was a blindingly hot morning with the convertible top down, the air clear but heavy with the smell of the ubiquitous cedar, and as I savored the road’s swings to the left and right, it seemed that the situation had its own goofy symmetry. Vick and Bingo needed each other. Vick needed Bingo’s money. Bingo needed to keep Vick off the stand if and when he went to trial. It didn’t matter that, aside from the minor local records that Bingo had financed, most of Vick’s firsthand information on Bingo’s payola machinery was probably twenty-year-old news. I knew I wouldn’t want him testifying at my trial—on either side. The jury wouldn’t even hear his testimony; probably they’d just look at the 320-pound monster and say,
Whoa, crime
is
ugly, ain’t it?
I briefly considered the possibility that Bingo was blackmailing Vick himself, just as a test of loyalty.

But Vick wouldn’t be likely to incriminate himself and thereby risk having the IMF deal blow up in his face. Besides, in Vick’s opinion, Bingo was too busy with his own legal problems to know anything about the IMF deal. However, someone knew. Someone who knew that Vick had something to hide.

The theory of the loyalty-test-blackmail scheme seemed to collapse under its own weight, raising more questions than it answered, and it fell apart completely when I heard the mellifluous Spanish-inflected tenor on the telephone, saying, Sure, come on out, I’m sure I can be of some help to poor Victor.

But I still wanted to ask him if he knew Retha Thomas.

&&&

The house was just off the road, high up on a scenic overlook, precariously situated just before a curve that dropped sharply down toward the lake. The place screamed for attention with matching turrets jutting up from the second-floor balcony, Texas flags waving in the breeze, but to take a good look at it while driving by was to risk going off the side of the mountain or colliding with an oncoming car.

I parked next to a black Mercedes station wagon, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. A Mexican boy in huaraches and white shirt and shorts greeted me, let me in, and escorted me out back, all without speaking any English.

Three Hispanic men sat poolside drinking Big Red sodas as they watched an androgynous-looking teenage girl dive off the diving board. All three wore sunglasses, and all three giggled like school kids as the girl hit the water and they were showered with the spray.

The one in the middle wearing a black cowboy hat and a white
guayabera
put his Big Red down on the wrought-iron table, smiled, and extended his hand.

“Hey Martin,” he said as he pumped my hand, “how’s it going?” He pointed to a chair across from him, and before I got a chance to answer, added, “You know, you’re one hell of a bass player. Damn good.”

“Thanks, Mr. Torres.”

“Bingo, Martin, Bingo. Everybody calls me Bingo that I like. I don’t like somebody, I send Roberto here to shoot them, right, Roberto?”

Roberto nodded, a stone-faced caricature of a Mexican gangster with an electric-blue suit and a black shirt, the collar open wide so you could see his turquoise necklace. The other companion looked vaguely like a professional man on holiday, a doctor or a lawyer. His suit was more conservative, his smile more tentative, his Rolex half hidden by a five-button cuff. He remained nameless.

“Martin, who was that guy, played a black Les Paul, left- handed, upside down?” he said, still smiling, scratching the back of his neck.

“Spider Wilcox?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. You played with him back in ’79, didn’t you? Down in Harlingen, big rock festival?”

“Yeah, I played with him.”

“That was a good show, Martin. You guys rocked their socks off, man.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I promoted that show. I made ten thousand dollars. Thank
you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “So you understand why I’m here?”

“You said that poor Victor is being blackmailed, because of me?”

“I’m afraid so. Because of Danny Cortez, actually.”

He laughed, looked at his companions, who were looking slightly uncomfortable, and not because of the heat, and then looked back at me, and wasn’t smiling anymore. “Don’t mention that name again, Martin. OK?”

“OK.” Evidently Bingo Torres, as Danny Cortez, had done some things besides act as executive producer and sing “It’s a Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World” in Spanish. Things that the feds would probably like to add to their indictment.

“So how come poor Victor needs this twenty thousand dollars? On the phone you said he wanted to
borrow
the money. That is what you meant, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said. He can pay it back real soon. It would be a very short-term loan.”

He nodded. “That’s good, because I have to wonder something. On the phone you say he needs the money because someone wants to go into business with him, but someone else wants to tell this prospective partner that poor Vick used to be partners with me. Am I right so far?”

“Yes, Bingo.”

“You can’t tell me who this person or persons are that want to go into business with him, but you say they would not go into business with him if they knew he used to associate with me.”

“That’s right.”

“You know how that makes me feel? You know it hurts my feelings?” It wasn’t something I’d considered, but I nodded sympathetically, just the same. He leaned forward. “Whenever I get a feeling, Martin, you know what I ask myself? I ask myself, Is this feeling just a sign of weakness, the voice of a demon or malevolent ghost of one of my family’s past enemies, come to distract me? So I ask myself in this matter, Are my feelings really hurt, or is it a sign? A sign that someone is trying to
fuck
with me. Are you trying to fuck with me, Martin?”

“I assure you, Bingo, that I’m not,” I said.

“Vick isn’t asking for twenty thousand in exchange for not talking to the feds about me, is he?”

“No. It’s a personal business matter, as I described.”

He repeated the question, his voice a bit higher in pitch, but lower in volume, almost a soft whine. “Vick isn’t asking me for twenty grand to keep his mouth shut?”

“No. That really isn’t what this is about.”

He sniffed, pushing his lower lip up under his upper so that it made a bulldog face. “No, Vick wouldn’t ax me for money to keep his mouth shut because,
ntimero uno,
he doesn’t have the
cojones
for it, and
numero dos,
if he wants me to help him keep quiet he knows I’ll cut off his
dick
and shove it in his
mouth."

Roberto and the nameless one were like bookends. He didn’t even have to defer to them for support. I had no one. So I was nervous when he said, “Have you ever been hang gliding, Martin?”

“No.”

“This hill before us is a very good launching point. If you jump off here, you could sail for hours on the air currents, probably glide all the way to Lake Travis.” He took a thoughtful sip of Big Red, smiled, and added, “If you had the sail. If you don’t have the sail on your back, you jump off the cliff here, and you just die. Short ride. Very short ride.” Bingo’s cohorts stood like trained Dobermans, came over, and flanked me. Either
ride
or
die
must have been their attack word.

“Wait,” I said, “I’ve got something to show you.”

His eyebrows perked up. His soldiers eyed me cautiously as I reached inside my jacket and produced my contract with Vick. Bingo looked it over, then did some mental calculations and tossed the contract back at me.

Shaking his head, he said, “That shop isn’t worth over ten, fifteen thousand. He’s got big debts, you know. Maybe seventeen, eighteen tops, if he’s still got some good guitars. But

it wouldn’t make sense even for a bumbling fatso to give it to you in exchange for extorting twenty thousand out of me.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Well, Martin, I hope you’re not lying to me. And I hope that for your sake, Vick is serious about paying back the money soon. I already have a lawyer bleeding me to death.”

“Yes, he’s serious. I don’t think he wants to stay in your debt a minute longer than possible.”

“Poor Victor’s new partner must be expecting things to get a whole lot better in the
ropa usada
market. Or did one of his little bands get a contract or something?”

“Tammy Lynn Johnson seems to be getting some play on the college charts,” I said, looking for a reaction.

There wasn’t. Not, at least, one that was visible. “I don’t listen to college radio,” he said. “Would you like a Big Red, Martin?”

“No, thanks. Are you going to be able to do it?”

“Oh sure, Martin. Sure. Glad to do old Victor a favor. Tell me, is he still over on East 1st Street?”

“Yeah.”

“Does he still sleep there, upstairs?”

“I suppose so.”

“Still fat?”

“Oh, yeah. Looks like he was poured into his clothes and forgot to say when.”

The poolside scene jumped up and down in the lenses of his shades as he nodded, but the expression on his face did not change. “Lotta kids still hanging out at his store? Guitar pickers and guys like that?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you suppose they want out of Victor?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if they know. Maybe they’re hoping to pick up a name or get him to make a phone call, giving them a recommendation, or maybe they’ve got no other air-conditioned place to hang out for free. Vick has accidentally done a couple of people some good in the past, hasn’t he?”

“Maybe so, Martin. Maybe so.” He adjusted his hat, smiling, baring his teeth. “Are you sure you can handle this thing for Victor?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“You sure you don’t want me to get somebody to take care of it for you?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“OK. I don’t have the money here. Come back tonight. I’ll have it. Make it eight, OK?”

“That’s fine.” I got up and we shook hands. “One more thing, Bingo.”

“What’s that, amigo?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have known a girl?”

“Retha Thomas?”

“Yeah. Know her?”

He shook his head. “No, Martin. Bingo can’t help you there. I heard about it. Are they after you?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, trying to sound as confident as you can sound with an answer like that.

The three pairs of sunglasses were aimed up at me, then shifted away in tandem. The androgynous girl was back on the diving board. As I opened the back door and felt the rush of air-conditioned air colliding with the humidity and me, I heard the splash.

Then the giggles.

&&&

I stopped at a diner when I got back to town. I had ice tea, chicken-fried steak, and a newspaper. The headline story concerned a local state representative’s fall from grace. He’d fathered an illegitimate child from a union with a girl in a massage parlor. His wife told reporters that he subscribed to several “pornographic magazines like
Penthouse.
” He admitted that he had a drinking problem, joined AA and became born-again. He was forced out of office anyway. In the last three paragraphs of the story were certain details. One, he hadn’t lived with his wife in over a year, and two, he’d been supporting the mother of the child since her second month of pregnancy. Three, he’d run unopposed in the last two elections. He was a dedicated liberal, a hard worker, and had an impressive congressional record. It seemed like just a few years ago the congressman’s indiscretions would have earned him little more than a slap on the hand and a spate of bad jokes, but that was then and this was now and he was going back to Dripping Springs to raise chickens.

I flipped through the rest of the paper to see what else had changed since I’d been gone. But I couldn’t concentrate.

I wondered why the South Texas Payola King wasn’t aware that Tammy Lynn Johnson was catching on. You didn’t have to listen to college radio, you could read about it in the trade magazines. Hell, you could hear about it in idle chatter down at the Continental Club. He didn’t know about Tammy Lynn, but he’d heard about Retha Thomas. I did no better with this question than I did with reading the paper. I didn’t even know why it should bother me.

I pushed around the remains of food on my plate and tried imagining the conversation I’d have with Ladonna if I called her now at work. Hello, darling, I’d say, Everything’s OK now. I’ve gone to work for Vick Travis. He’s being blackmailed, you see, because he used to be partners with the South Texas Payola King. South Texas is more popular than ever, but payola isn’t. That’s why he’s being blackmailed. If his association with Bingo comes to light, he won’t be able to sell his catalog to a major record label. Why am I helping Vick Travis, though? Because he’s my only link to Retha Thomas. Retha came to Austin from Los Angeles and the only thing we know she did with her time here is go around to the local hip spots and ask questions about Vick. Vick has this thug who works for him who’s been known to get violent with a weighted flashlight—you know, Ed the Head, the sometime bouncer at some of the clubs I play in. The Payola King is no peacenik, either. But I’m going to borrow twenty grand from him on Vick’s behalf, in the hope that the blackmail thing is connected with Retha Thomas’s coma. I feel obligated to her.