A Song to Die For (7 page)

He started the Shelby and drove slowly out of the parking lot. Returning to Highway 71 without passing a single car, he turned toward Austin, minding the speed limit. He memorized Celinda's phone number and tore the Jack in the Box receipt into tiny bits that he threw like confetti out of the car window.

Finding a pay phone at a 7-Eleven on the outskirts of the capital city, he put the call in to his father, waking him up, remembering that Vegas was two time zones west.

“I fixed the problem, Pop.” Always wary of phone taps, the Martinis forever had to dance around the facts.

“The one from the ranch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. So, that's it?”

“Uh … There might be some follow up … repairs.”

“Shit. How many?”

“Two that I know of.”

“That you know of!”

“I'm on it, Pop. I'll handle it.”

Papa Martini sighed, which led to a long, hacking cough.

“Jesus, Pop, you need to cut back on the smokes.”

“Yeah, that's what my doctor tells me, too. Just handle the problem, Franco. You see what happens if you let termites go too long? You sure I don't need to call an exterminator?”

“I can handle it!” Franco blurted, insulted at the insinuation. “It's not like I invited the termites into the house in the first place!”

“Yeah, yeah. Good point. That was Rob. He never understood how to take care of his property.”

“I'll call you when I'm finished.”

“Okay. Be careful,
capice
?”

“Yeah, don't smoke so much, will you? Love you, Pop.
Ciao
.”

“Ciao, bambino.”

He chuckled a little at the comforting familiarity of his father's New York–Italian accent. Paulo Martini had come to Vegas by way of Havana, where he had learned to run casinos before Castro kicked the Americans out. He had lived in Nevada for thirty years, but would never shed that Brooklyn dialect. Franco, on the other hand, had grown up mostly in Las Vegas, and could turn the Yankee accent on and off to suit his purposes. In fact, he could affect a number of regional American speech patterns to meet his needs.

As he dialed Celinda's number by memory, he decided his news anchorman's generic voice would serve him best when he spoke to her.

After just one ring, the answer came.
“Hello?”
a woman's voice said, anxiously.

“This is agent Mark Dorsey from the F.B.I. I'm calling for Rosabella Martini. Is she there?”

There was a long pause.
“The F.B.I.? Is she in trouble?”

“Is this Celinda?”

“Yes. Is Rosa in trouble?”

“Rosa left your name and number on my machine. I got the impression she would be staying with you in Austin. Is she there?”

“No. She didn't show up last night. What's this all about, Agent…?”

“Dorsey. She didn't tell you?”

“No. She only said that she was in a bit of a fix and she needed a place to stay. She sounded scared.”

“Look, Miss … I'm sorry, Rosa didn't leave me your last name.

“Morales.”

“Miss Morales. I can explain what's going on, but it's not the kind of information I want to talk about over the phone. Do you mind if I come over? It won't take long.”

“You're in Austin?”

“Just got in.”

There was another long pause, then Celinda gave up her address and directions to her apartment, located not far from the intersection of Congress and Riverside. Franco left the phone booth and found the apartment complex within twenty minutes, but chose not to use the parking lot there. A few blocks away, he found an empty parking lot outside a club called Armadillo World Headquarters. What kind of stupid name was that? He left his Shelby there and walked to Celinda's apartment complex located on Town Lake. Nice complex. It had a swimming pool, and even a boat dock on the lake. He knocked on the door. It cracked open, then reached the end of the safety chain.

“Agent Dorsey?” she said.

“Yes. Miss Morales?”

“Can I see some ID, please?”

“Of course.” Franco took his fake F.B.I. credentials from his hip pocket and held them up to the crack in the door. The badge and photo ID were excellent forgeries, produced by the finest craftsmen in the syndicate. The door closed, the chain rattled. The door opened wide to reveal a very pretty Hispanic woman, Rosa's age, with long black hair. She wore jeans and a T-shirt from the University of Texas. She was barefoot. Her toenails were painted. She turned into the apartment so he could follow her in. She was just as attractive walking away, shapely in an athletic way. He saw a pair of well-worn running shoes in the hallway, a diploma over a desk in the living room. The radio receiver was lit up on the stereo system, and a newsman was reciting the weather forecast for the day.

She turned back to face him. “Sorry I had to see some ID. You probably think I'm paranoid.”

“I think you're smart. You gotta be, young girl living alone.”

“Actually, I live here with my boyfriend, but he's gone on a canoe trip with his buddies. Five days down the Brazos.”

Franco saw in the way that she rolled her eyes that she disapproved of such trips. He nodded at her, but he was listening to the radio newscaster as she turned into the kitchen.

“Coffee?” she asked, walking into the adjoining kitchen.

“… Breaking news when we return. A disturbing discovery by fishermen on one of our Highland Lakes…”

“Yes, please.” Franco rushed for the stereo system and turned the big volume knob down on the receiver.

She brought two cups from the kitchen and sat at the dining table, looking a bit perplexed at the radio, having noticed that the volume had decreased.

“I turned that down,” Franco said. “Sorry, I have hearing loss from the war. I can't separate sounds if there's too much noise. I hope you don't mind…”

Celinda shrugged. “No, that's fine. So, what's Rosa gotten herself into? Is she in trouble?”

Franco took the coffee. “Rosa's a good girl. She just got mixed up with the wrong guy.”

“How wrong? Cream? Sugar?”

“Black's good. Rosa got swept off her feet by a guy in Vegas. I can't tell you his name, but he's the biggest heroin dealer from LA to Houston. I think she saw something she wasn't supposed to see. She's on the run from this guy. He's a bad dude.”

“Oh, my God.”

To Franco, she seemed sincerely shocked by all the information. That was good. She knew nothing, so she could have told no one anything.

“So, she reported something to the F.B.I.?”

“It's not quite that simple. I met Rosa at her father's restaurant a couple years ago. We dated a few times, but she couldn't deal with a cop's routine.”

“Or lack thereof?”

Franco nodded, and continued with his made-up backstory. “A couple days ago, she left me a message on my home phone, saying she was hiding from her boyfriend, and didn't know who else to call. I was on a stakeout and didn't get the message until just a few hours ago. She said I could find her here. All she gave me was your first name and a phone number.”

“Weird. Why me?”

“I gather you and Rosa went to school together?”

“Yes, but we weren't that close. I knew her from our sorority house. We partied a little together with the rest of the girls, but I have to admit I was surprised to hear from her. Maybe she picked me because of my criminology degree. I'm going to law school now.”

“That's probably it. She needed a place to hide, and someone she could trust, but someone distant enough that she couldn't be traced here. Good choice.” He sipped from his cup. “Mmmm. Good coffee.”

“Thank you.”

“So, when was the last time you heard from her?”

“She only called that one time. Yesterday. She said she was in New Mexico and needed a place to stay in Austin. She told me she'd be here in the middle of the night, but she never showed. What do you think happened?”

“There was a possible sighting of Rosa with a man in a boat last night on Lake L.B.J. Did she have a friend on the lake that you know of?”

“I honestly couldn't name one of Rosa's friends, unless it would be one of our sorority sisters. But I don't know any of her guy friends. I'm sorry I'm not of much help.”

Franco took another sip of the coffee. It really did taste good after the long, tiring night. “You've been a big help, actually, Miss Morales.” He stood up. “I have a feeling Rosa will check in with you this morning, so when she does, will you call me? I'll be staying at the Holiday Inn across the lake.” Franco pointed, for he could see the hotel on the opposite lakeshore through the window.

“Sure,” Celinda said. “I could almost shout at you from the window.”

He laughed as he turned the radio volume back up, louder than it was before, then walked to the door. She got up and followed close behind him. “Oh, let me give you my card. It's got my office number on it.”

Franco reached into his blazer and pulled his twenty-two from the shoulder holster. Celinda was holding her hand out for the card. He did it quick, so she wouldn't have time to be frightened. The silencer jutted past her hand, to her chest. He pulled the trigger twice. Both bullets must have gone right through her heart, because she buckled and fell like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The look of shock on her face faded in seconds, and he knew it was a clean kill.

It was a pity, really. He had enjoyed talking to her. This was Rosa's fault, not his.

He holstered his weapon and picked up the two shell casings that had flown against the wall to his right. He went back to the radio, and turned the volume down lower. He took a paper napkin from the table and wiped his fingerprints from the coffee cup and the radio knob, then the doorknob. He hadn't touched anything else. He was sure no one had seen him enter the apartment. Now, he could peek out through the window to make sure no one would see him leave. He turned the knob with the napkin, closed the door, and walked away.

Franco did not return to his car. He had spotted a sporting goods store nearby called Sports Nation. It was one of those franchise joints that were beginning to crop up across the country. There, he bought shorts, a jock strap, a jogging suit, a T-shirt, socks, and a new pair of running shoes. He paid in cash.

He took his bag of athletic gear to a hotel he saw across the lake, walking over the Congress Street bridge to get there. He checked into a room, showered, and sacked his old clothes up in the bag from the store. He put on the new running clothes and left the hotel. Finding a public trash bin on the street, he stuffed the old clothes in it. Before he recrossed the bridge to get to his car, he walked down under the bridge, where there was a jogging trail along Town Lake. He went to the lakeshore and stretched as if he were about to begin a run. When he was sure no one was watching, he dropped his murder weapon into the lake.

You couldn't be too careful these days. The evidence the cops were getting out of carpet fibers, hair samples, and tiny blood spots was amazing. Franco kept his head shaved for that reason. He had had all the carpet removed from his car. And he always ditched murder weapons and the clothes he wore after a hit.

With his mind free of those worries, he realized that he needed rest. Then he had to buy a wardrobe he could wear around town, as he had not had time to pack when leaving Nevada. Next, he had to find out who the guy with the classic woody boat was on Lake L.B.J. Oh, yeah, he thought as he approached his car in the parking lot. Got to get rid of those Nevada plates.

 

7

CHAPTER

Creed woke to the smell of Gail's stale perfume, and felt her arm draped over his bare chest. He opened his eyes, remembering that he had brought her home last night, stayed for a drink, and then just stayed. Remembering, he smiled, but didn't want to wake her. Best to sneak out if he could. Creed had consumed only half of his whiskey at the poker game, and less than half of the nightcap Gail had poured him. He felt pretty bright-eyed. She, on the other hand, had taken a few more drinks while serving at the gambling barn, and had finished both of her nightcaps. She was still out cold.

The shades were drawn, but Creed could see daylight around their edges. Typical night owl, Gail knew how to darken a room for sleeping all day. The purple glow of a lava light illuminated a clock on the nightstand: 9:45. Creed slipped out from under Gail's arm and crept into the bathroom for a long pee. Then he found his clothes, dressed, and stepped quietly out of the apartment door.

Gail lived in a garage apartment in a neighborhood north of the UT campus. The neighborhood was Sunday-morning quiet as Creed made his way down rickety wooden stairs. He got into his van, found his bearings, and soon was on his way down Guadalupe Street, known locally as “The Drag.” He detoured into East Austin to Cisco's, an established Mexican restaurant with the best breakfast in town. Relishing his huevos rancheros with frijoles and potatoes, he thought about the gig last night, the growl of the Fender Twin amp, the appreciative crowd, and that one wrong note he wished he hadn't hit on the Strat. Then he thought about the poker game, the botched robbery, and Gail. He chuckled to himself, sitting alone there at his breakfast table, sipping his coffee. It wasn't every night a guy could play to a packed house at the Armadillo, survive a gunfight, and get laid.

After breakfast, he headed for Lake Austin, where his houseboat waited in the marina. Turning down the drive to the boat slips, he saw some pretty college girls in bikinis piling into a ski boat with their boyfriends, getting a head start on their tans on this unseasonably warm day in early spring. Lucky guys, he thought. He wondered if he should have gone to college instead of Nashville. That would have kept him out of the war. He wondered if it was now too late for both—college or Music Row. How would a war vet be accepted on campus? But he didn't see himself in the corporate world, not even in the music business. Maybe it was time to go back to Nashville and start over in the clubs and studios. His guitar playing was back to ninety percent. But what were the chances of getting a second big break, this time without the charisma of Dixie driving the deal?