Death in the Distillery (14 page)

I poured us each three fingers of bourbon, wondering
what insanity was behind O'Banion's muscle. I handed
Jack one and downed the other. "I'll be back," I said,
smacking the glass down on the snack bar. "You be all
right?"

,.You got any pills?"

"In the bathroom. Some painkillers the dentist gave me
last year. Hold on." I grabbed a bottle of Tylenol with codeine, and poured him another drink. "Take a couple.
That'll help. Hey, take four."

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Where you going?"

I didn't have time nor the inclination to explain my destination to Jack. "Back later. And don't call the cops, not
yet." I slammed the door behind me. Fire blazed in my
eyes. I was ready to kick tail, even Godzilla's if I had to.

I remembered Danny's assurance, Just look for the black
Lexus. That'll be Huey. Sure enough, the Lexus was parked
across the street.

He rolled down the window when he spotted me approaching. "Take me to Danny," I growled. "I'll follow."

Without a change in his bland expression, he pulled away
from the curb. I hurried back to my pickup and caught up
with him at the light.

Danny's office was on the sixth floor of the Green Light
Parking Garage a couple of blocks west of the Convention
Center in downtown Austin. One of his goons was stationed
at each ramp ascending to the upper floor. Obviously,
Danny didn't like walk-in company.

Danny O'Banion looked up at me from behind his desk.
He denied the muscle adamantly. "Sure, I've sent mugs out
when I had to, but I didn't do this, Tony. That's gospel."

I glanced at Godzilla, I mean Huey, standing next to the
door, his barrel-sized arms crossed over his chest. I looked down at Danny. He had no reason to lie. Even if I tried to
take him, most I could do was get in one punch before
Huey took me apart. Danny knew it, and I knew it. "So,
who's behind it? And what's it all about?"

Danny glanced at Huey and gave a terse nod. Silently,
the big man left the room. There was a skeptical pitch in
his voice. "So, you think there's a possibility that Patterson
was murdered, huh?" He gestured to the leather chair behind me. "Sit. Be comfortable."

His question caught me by surprise. I struggled to keep
my voice level and deliberate, but my mind was racing.
Who had Danny talked to? Morrison? No. Probably Cleyhorn. That's who. Morrison contacted Cleyhorn as soon as
I left, and the attorney burned up the phone lines. But, what
was his connection with Danny O'Banion? Could Cleyhorn
be the contact Danny had mentioned at our first meeting?
More questions than I had answers for buzzed around inside my head. "News travels fast," I replied with what I
hoped was just the right touch of wry humor.

He grinned crookedly. "Bad news, this time. Why didn't
you tell me?"

I leaned back and crossed my legs. "When? I just got in
from the old lady's. She doesn't believe me. Wants me to
keep digging. I planned on seeing you tonight."

Leaning forward, Danny fixed his eyes on mine. "She's
smart. Now, tell me what you found."

"All right, but first, who kicked the blazes out of Jack?"

"Tell me what you found first. I'd like to know why your
friend was worked over."

"Fair enough." I told him everything, except about the
hidden safe. When I finished, he leaned back, a skeptical
expression curling his lips. I knew exactly what he was
thinking, so I said it for him. "Yeah. You're right. What I
have is mostly speculation, except for the injury on the
back of his head. The autopsy report said blunt. The frame
of the discs could not have made a blunt injury. The sharp
corners would have split the skull."

"Sounds weak to me."

"Not to me."

Danny leaned back and tented his fingers over his chest.
"Okay, say it was murder. How did the killer do it?"

"Simple, he rode on the tractor beside Patterson, hit him
in the back of the head, and when Patterson fell, the killer
jumped off the tractor."

A sly grin curled Danny's lips. "How did he escape the
discs?"

"Huh?" I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The discs were tandem, right? How wide? Thirty feet?"

I hesitated. "How did you know that?"

His grin broadened. "It's my job to know, Tony. Now,
stop and think. If the discs are thirty-feet wide ..."

"Jesus," I muttered, suddenly recognizing his point. If
someone had jumped from the tractor, he would have
leaped right in front of the discs. "I didn't think of that."

He winked at me. "Think about it. You're the private
eye."

His gentle chiding rubbed me the wrong way. "All right,
what about his money? The six grand. You tell me, where
did he get his money?"

"Drugs. Maybe he was a dealer." Danny shrugged.
"Can't tell about anyone these days," he added with a glint
of amusement in his eyes. "People got no morals."

I shook my head. "No. The autopsy said the only drug
residual in his system was alcohol."

Danny laughed. "Not every dealer is hooked, Tony. You
know that."

I grimaced. I'd botched it again, but I wasn't about to
admit it. "That's open for debate. Now, who did the job on
my friend?"

The smile faded from Danny's lips. "You don't need
names, Tony. Trust me on this. What I can tell you is that
those who muscled your friend don't want any publicity.
They want you to stop. Drop the murder angle. Do the rest
of the investigation. Let it go in the books as an accident.
You admit yourself that most of what you have is circum stantial. As for the money, well, the guy mighta picked up
aluminum cans as a hobby."

"Driving a Yenko Camaro?"

"So, what's a Yenko? Sounds like some kind of lizard."

I chuckled. "An expensive lizard. It's about a thirty-fivethousand-dollar car. Twice that if it's original."

The sarcasm was heavy in his reply. "Maybe he took out
a loan." Danny rose and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply,
then pointed the cigarette at me. The orange glow on the
tip faded. "I don't want you hurt, Tony. Listen to me. Forget the murder business."

I started to protest, but he held up his hands, palms out,
to stay me. "No one has instructed me to say a thing to
you. This is all on my own. I got a call telling me that you
had just been reminded that the death was an accident. That
was all that was said. That's all that needs to be said. Trust
me. Someone passed the word to the big boys and ..

"Cleyhorn," I spat out, convinced the attorney was the
contact Danny had suggested to his business associates.

Danny shrugged, his expression indifferent. "Who
knows? Could be. Anyway, Cleyhorn or someone passed
the word to the big boys. They sent you a message. The
message was meant for you, not your friend. But you best
believe me when I say there will be consequences if we
don't listen to them." He drew a deep breath. "And I emphasize we."

Sometimes I'm too stubborn for my own good. I suppose
I got it from my grandfather who farmed rice in the blacklands of Louisiana. Moise Boudreaux. That was his name.
You had to be pigheaded to farm rice. "Gambling with
God," he laughed one night as he rocked on the long porch
at the old homeplace. He was always in a jovial mood in
the evenings after a hard day's work, followed by a solid
meal of maque choux, andouille, red beans and rice, all
washed down with a couple of glasses of white port.

My temper flared. "Maybe I should take the consequences."

Danny gave me a benevolent grin. His tone became gen tly supplicating. "Why, Tony? Patterson was nothing to
you. You spent two days digging up a lot of circumstantial
garbage that the cops wouldn't even spit on. You made
eight hundred bucks. The birds are singing, and God's in
His heaven. All's right with the world. Step out of this
before it blows up on us all."

I grinned at his impromptu eloquence. And he did make
some sense. Still I had mixed feelings. I didn't like for
anyone to tell me what to do, to make my decisions. That
was one of my problems, and I'd paid for my mulishness,
more than once. Maybe now was the time to exercise a
little discretion, which to my way of thinking was another
word for lying. "Tell you what. I'll turn what I got over to
my boss. Let him decide."

I watched Danny carefully, trying to see if he believed
me or not. I didn't like lying, but I was still a member of
the good-guy, bad-guy mindset. I hated to see someone beat
the system. On the other hand, I didn't want someone beating on me.

Danny's eyes narrowed, and he started to protest, but I
quickly added. "Don't worry. None of what you told me
goes beyond this room. I'll just give my boss what I've
found, and that's it." I leveled with him. "The truth is,
Danny, I figure my boss will want me to stay with her, to
prove it was an accident. Four big ones a day pays the rent,
and Marty isn't the kind to turn it down. I'll write up a
report on everything I found and then let him decide. Whatever he says is fine with me. Okay?" I crossed my fingers.
"And if you want, I'll give you a copy and let you and
your friends decide on the next step. That oughta make
them feel better."

He studied me a moment, his eyes narrow with suspicion. "They ain't jacking around, Tony. Don't press it.
Keep on the murder angle, and you won't last two days. If
that long."

I winked at him. "I'm no dummy."

He relaxed. "We go back too far, Tony. I don't lie to you. Be smart. Play the percentages. Just hope your boss
does too-for his sake," he added with a leer.

I glanced at my watch. "It's late. I'll see Marty and call
you back."

I chewed over the matter during the drive to Marty's
apartment. I had mixed emotions. I hated leaving a job half
done, but I hated even more the idea of some big goons
leaving me half done. I'd long since replaced the philosophical conundrum of bravery versus cowardice with one
of practicality. Do what is best at the time. That gem of
philosophy was pragmatic, realistic, sensible, and above all
else, usually painless.

Still, something about the whole Emmett Patterson scenario disturbed me. I had the feeling that I was looking at
the proverbial tip of the iceberg, that beneath the surface
lay ninety percent of a story someone didn't want exposed.
I tried to push the thought from my head, but I knew it
would keep nagging at me until I put it to rest. And the
only way I could do that was learn the truth, even if I did
nothing with it except satisfy my own curiosity.

By Beatrice Morrison insisting I prove the death an accident, whatever her reason, I had the perfect opportunity.
As long as I played it close to the vest.

But, one slip ... five minutes after Danny's friends figured I was trying to build a murder case, I would be part
of the new Interstate.

I was right about Marty. To heck with justice. Where's
the money? That was where his interest lay.

"That's all you found?"

"Yeah. But, I think the injury on the head could warrant
another look," I added without much conviction.

He shrugged. "Forget it."

Marty Blevins was the epitome of the fictional private
eye at home; rumpled, bearded, red-eyed, and toting a glass
of bourbon. Now that I think about it, that's usually how
he was at work also. That was probably one of the reasons
he had been three times divorced and hit with two palimony suits. Looking at him, I cringed when trying to imagine his
palimony partners. He plopped down on a sagging couch
that groaned under his weight. He glanced expectantly at
my hands. "You write it up yet?"

I remained standing. If you sat with Marty, he expected
you to drink, and while I've nothing against the timehonored PI tradition of guzzling spirits, I didn't want to get
tied up with him until midnight. I still had to call Danny
with Marty's reply. "I'll type the report tonight. It'll be on
your desk by eight in the morning."

He downed the rest of his bourbon. "Okay. Write it up
and we'll send a copy to the old lady."

"I'll take it out. She asked me to. She told me to keep
snooping around. Like I said, she wants absolute proof the
death was an accident."

He frowned. "She loony or what? The cops already said
it was an accident. Ain't that good enough for her?"

"That's what I told her. I told you before, she wouldn't
listen. Truth is, I can't figure her or her lawyer out either.
But, it's still four hundred a day for the agency."

That got his attention. "Yeah. Hey, what am I griping
about? Go ahead. Take her the report. Saves me postage.
And don't worry about telling the cops what you think."

"You don't think anything is there, huh? I mean, the guy
being murdered." I crossed my fingers waiting for his reply.

"Naw." He shook his head. His jowls flopped.

I felt a sense of relief at his answer. I had turned over
my findings, and my employer didn't want to investigate
the case as murder. Who could complain now? Certainly
not Danny or his bosses. "Okay. See you in the morning."

He struggled to stand.

I waved him down. "I'll show myself out, Marty.
Thanks." I hoped I was doing the right thing.

On the way back to my place, I popped into an HEB
supermarket and grabbed a twelve-pack of Old Milwaukee,
a pizza, then remembered Jack. I grabbed a box of Twin kies. Jack probably couldn't chew pizza, but maybe he
could gum his way through the Twinkies.

I was right. He was so full of Tylenol and my bourbon
that I couldn't understand a word he uttered. His eyes glittered. I glanced at Oscar. The little fish was still alive, still
swimming in circles.

"If you're hungry," I said, holding up the box of Twinkies for Jack.

He staggered into the kitchen area after me. He slurred
his words. "Whut es y'u go ere?"

I frowned.

He jabbed a finger at the bag. "Whut y'u go ere?"

"Oh, what do I have here?"

Jack nodded.

With a sweep of my arm, I pulled out the pizza. "Pizza.
Underways Combination Deluxe Supreme pizza with fortyseven toppings."