Texas Tango: A Flint Rock Novel

Flint Rock is retired after thirty years as a professional pilot. He lives alone in San Marcos, Texas. He meets a friend in San Antonio for a drink at the bar of the Menger Hotel next door to the Alamo. Teddy Roosevelt recruited men to follow him up San Juan hill in Cuba at the Menger Bar. Surrounded by Spanish American War photos, in a warm ambience of aged dark wood, Flint's chat with his friend was interrupted when a strikingly attractive woman with long blond hair laid a business looking card on the table in front of him. On it was elegantly printed: "I have heard how good you are, and I want to meet you." The woman left the bar. The card had her name, email address, and a phone number. As it turned out, the woman is a psychiatrist in private practice in Austin, Texas. She has a problem. Someone has tried to kill her and she has no idea who or why. Flint gets involved when there is an attempt on his life because of her communicating with him. Flint's investigation takes him to Italy to the Amalfi Coast. He is shot at in the Roman ruins of Pompeii and again in nearby Naples. In a surprise twist Flint and his psychiatrist client meet an Indian guru in Athens where a crucial clue is uncovered. Attempts at assassination happen in the shadows of the Parthenon. Surprises happen all the way to the end of the story.

TEXAS TANGO

A Flint Rock Novel

by

Glenn Smith

Copyright © 2011 by

Glenn Smith

All Rights Reserved

Published through

Kindle, Inc.

Foreword

This is a work of fiction.
 
The plot and characters are my inventions.
 
Any resemblance between characters in the story and real people, alive or dead, is not intended.
 
Most places mentioned are real
.

Chapter 1

Flint Rock’s smart phone sounded.
 
It was Laura Syms, a woman whom he had recently met in Austin.
 
She proposed they have a drink.
 
“I’ll see you at 4:00
P.M.
at the Menger Hotel bar in San Antonio,” she said.

“Today?”
Flint clarified.
 
It was Friday, December
31, already after 2:00 in the afternoon.

“Yes, today.
 
Unless you are too tied up.”

Flint, in his early fifties, recently retired as a senior captain with American Airlines, thought for a few seconds.
 
Laura was sexy, physically attractive, smart, energetic, and . . . not much past twenty-five years old.
 
He was divorced, unsure of whether he wanted the challenge of a close friendship with her.
 
He thought of Waylon Jennings singing
I've Got Heartaches Older than You
.

“I need to be in Austin by 7:00,” he told her.
 
San Antonio to Austin is only an hour and twenty minutes except in rush hour.
 
If he left the Menger at half past five, he could keep his meeting commitment.

“Oh," Laura replied.
 
"Well . . . I suppose I can let you loose whenever you need to go.
 
I was thinking that, well . . . that the Menger is a nice hotel.
 
Sort of a shame to waste it, don’t you think?”

“Yes, the Menger is a nice spot,” he said.
 
He didn’t bother to tell her that he had spent a honeymoon there in the distant past.
 
“But that will have to wait till another day.
 
Would you rather have a drink some other time?” Flint asked.

“No, today is good.
 
But don’t be surprised if I try to change your mind about a room at the Menger.”

Flint smiled to
himself
, let her invitation pass.
 
“I’ll meet you at 4:00.”

They hung up.
 
Flint was in his house in San Marcos fifty-six miles north of the Menger.
 
It was New
Year’s eve
.
 
Low clouds suggested rain.
 
It was 68° and humid.
 
A cold front was due any moment, so Flint slipped on a goatskin A2 flight jacket, headed the British racing green Mazda MX5 toward Interstate
35
 
An
hour later he entered a high rise parking lot between the San Antonio River and the Menger.
 
His small car fit into a compact spot on the fourth floor.
 
He made his way to the elevator, walked two blocks and stood in front of the Alamo.

The Menger Hotel and the Alamo sit next to each other, separated by Bonham Street, facing a small plaza.
 
Flint strolled down to the thick glass doors that define the hotel's front wall.
 
He pulled the smooth brass handle, walked into the lobby.
 
It hadn't changed much since it was new in the 1880s.
 
He admired the plant filled atrium cascading light over a Baldwin player piano.
 
He took a comfortable chair halfway between the front desk and the entrance doors.

While he waited Flint thought about Laura.
 
There are two kinds of Texas women.
 
Those who belong to the Daughters of the Republic of Texas—that is, had a family member in Texas before statehood in 1846— and those
who
came later.
 
Laura’s mother was a DRT member.
 
Therefore so was Laura.
 
Flint’s mother, now deceased, was a first generation Texan.
 
Her parents were from Tennessee and North Carolina; however, she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live anywhere but Texas.
 
Both mothers used the phrase “our Texas heritage.”
 
It meant something patriotically special that could not be defined and didn't need to be.

Laura rarely spoke of her own family background.
 
Or of her having been a cheerleader at Southern Methodist University, the most expensive college in the state.
 
She had a cum laude B.A. in journalism from there as well as a J.D. in law.
 
The license plate on her two
seat
, yellow Honda S 2000 convertible said “Native Texan.”
 
The phrase was printed on the metal plate itself—a special plate that could only be acquired from the DRT.

Flint’s reverie shifted at the sight of a strikingly beautiful woman who was looking straight at him from where she stood inside of the Menger’s double entry doors.
 
Wind had started kicking up and seemed to have whisked her inside.
 
She smoothed her hair as her eyes and Flint’s met directly.
 
She started in his direction, changed her mind, turned right till she walked behind a pillar in the lobby

Flint wondered who she was.
 
He noticed that her impeccable, dark blue wool skirt matched her jacket.
 
The Versace silk scarf filling the open neck of her blouse was an abstract original.
 
Her dark hair would have looked great no matter how she wore it.
 
Smooth white tights matched her blouse.
 
No undergarment lines showed anywhere.
 
The shoes—expensive, understated low spike heel pumps by Yves Saint Laurent—were harmonious with her medium sized shoulder bag.
 
One pearl on each ear lobe was the only jewelry.
 
She moved like she had a graduate degree in quiet assurance.

Flint realized that he was in some other place when he caught himself looking where she had disappeared.
 
He turned his head through a 140° sweep from left to right and saw Laura talking to a person at the front desk.
 
She walked toward him, no slouch in the looks department herself.
 
Flint stood to greet her as she gave him an obligatory peck on the face and a much stronger one on the other cheek.
 
She smelled good, glowed with a confident smile.
 

They walked side by side down the hall toward a placard on the wall.
 
It read “Menger Bar.”
 
Just past the sign, Flint pulled open French doors on their left, followed Laura into a richly dark space.
 
The bar had been only eleven years in existence when Teddy Roosevelt used it in 1898 as his headquarters while recruiting Rough Riders to follow him up San Juan Hill in Cuba.
 
Three dozen framed black and white photos of Roosevelt and his men occupied the available wall space.
 
The bar’s interior deliberately replicated a pub near the House of Lords in London. Both bars’ interiors include cherry wood and polished brass throughout, as well as French mirrors and English fixtures.

At 3:55
P.M.
, Laura and Flint were the only patrons.
 
Laura ordered a frozen margarita in a glass rimmed with lime and salt.
 
Flint took unsweetened tea.
 
Throughout the South, including Texas, one must specify “unsweet” iced tea or it comes supersaturated with sugar.
 
The outside of the tall glass was already wet from condensing humidity.

Laura raised her drink.
 
Flint touched his big tea tumbler to the salt on the edge of her glass.
 
As Laura drank, a rivulet of condensation on the crystal bowl of her stemware dripped into her cleavage, causing her to gasp.
 
A tiny shaft of sunlight glinted through her blond hair as she shook her head laughing.
 
Laura asked Flint why he had decided to make a living as a pilot.

"It was more appealing than running the family ranch," he responded.
 
He started to amplify when the door through which they had entered opened.
 
The stunning woman from earlier at the lobby entryway walked in.
 
She moved straight toward Flint, laid a business looking card on the table in front of him near his drink.
 
She
smiled,
turned and walked smoothly back through the heavy French doors.
 
The card had written on it:
 
“I have heard how good you are.
 
I want to meet you.”
 
On the other side, in an elegant type face, was a web URL.

“Ummm!”
Laura said.
 
“I have heard how good you are too.
 
I have first dibs.”
 
Flint slipped the card in his shirt pocket.
 
“Any idea
who
she is?” Laura asked.
 

“No clue.”

“Well, then, let me get you up to speed.
 
Her name is Ava Milan.
 
Doctor Ava Milan, that is.
 
M.D. from the University
of
Texas Health Science Center in San Antonio and a Ph.D. in psychoanalytic theory from Rice University in Houston.
 
She is in private practice in Austin.”
 
Laura paused then added, “I am one of her clients.”

“Do you know anything about the card?” Flint wondered as he extracted it from his pocket and handed it to Laura.

“It looks like it is a dating service.
 
There is one in New York called
Cheekd.com
, originated by a woman named Lori Cheek, and another called
FlipMedating.com
—as in ‘flip the card and see how to meet me.’
 
Both services use cards with something outrageous on them as well as a web site where one can go online to get in touch if interested.
 
This is the first I have seen in Texas.
 
You have to admit, it’s an easy ice breaker.”

“I suppose,” Flint replied.
 
“But she doesn’t look like the kind of person who needs help breaking ice.
 
Why doesn’t she simply get you to introduce her?”

“Not sure.
 
I have only been seeing her for a short time.
 
I don’t believe that I’ve mentioned knowing you.
 
When she handed you the card, she didn’t look at my face.
 
It is rather dark in here.
 
So
she
 
may
not know that I know you.”

For the next hour Flint and Laura chatted.
 
A few minutes after 5:00, Flint paid, said he needed to retrieve his car and head north to Austin.
 
Laura pretended to pout, reminded him that she had checked and she could get them a room.
 
He smiled, said he’d take a rain check, left her ordering another margarita.

Light mist started as Flint walked briskly.
 
He zipped his jacket.
 
The temperature had dropped ten degrees and was still headed down.
 
As he swung open the driver's side door, a woman stepped from the nearby elevator.
 
He recognized her as his and Laura's server at the Menger bar.
 

"Sir, Miss Laura said you might need this."
 
She spoke with a coquettish tone.
 
Her extended hand held Ava Milan's ice breaker card.