Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 06 - Extracurricular Murder by Kent Conwell

establishment.
    Like most clubs along Sixth Street, Borgia’s interior was
twenty feet wide and seventy-five deep. A bar, packed shoulderto-shoulder with patrons, lined the first forty feet on one side.
In the back corner of the room was a stage, on which four
glassy-eyed musicians-a generous use of the word-in various states of undress banged on a piano, thrummed on a guitar,
sawed on a bass fiddle, and screeched on a saxophone.
    Round tables, each with four chairs, filled the remainder of
the room. At first glance, I figured about eighty or ninety bodies, probably twice as many as the fire marshal would approve.
I surveyed the room.

    Next to the wall, near the front window, a pale hand waved.
I made my way through the smoky room. A lone woman with
half-shut eyes sat at the table, a cigarette dangling from her
brightly painted lips. Her dark hair was straight and looked as
if some time had passed since it had seen a good brushing. She
wore a shapeless raincoat on which the water still beaded.
There was a split in the plastic at the bend of her elbow.
Overweight, she had reached that point where age is hard to
guess. The puffy, blotched skin could belong to anyone from
thirty-five to fifty-five. But, I wasn’t about to guess, not aloud.
    “You the one who called?” I stood behind a chair, staring
down at her.
    She squinted up at me, a faint sneer curling her lips. “I’ll take
a beer.”
    I hesitated, then shrugged. Why not? I got us each a draft
beer and sat across the table from her. She slurped the beer and
dragged the back of her hand across her lips. A dribble ran
down her pointed chin and dripped on her raincoat.
    Resting my elbows on the table, I leaned forward. “What’s
your name?”
    She shook her head. “That ain’t important.”
    I chuckled and patted my pocket. “If we make it worth your
while, it is. For all I know, you could be figuring this was an
easy string to pull. Take the money and run.”
    For several seconds, she stared at me, a mixture of greed and
resentment flaring in her eyes. Greed won out. “Carrie Cochran.
That’s my stage name. I danced out at Dreamstreet with Franny.”
    “Go on.” I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest.
    A wry grin played over her lips. “Like I said, I worked with
Franny out there. We danced together when her hubby-to-be
started hanging around. He was well off, she said, and he was
pressuring her to marry him. She didn’t love the guy, but like I
said, he had money.” Carrie shrugged. “I told her `What the
heck. Forget about love. Marry the guy. Money’s better than
love any day.’”

    “Obviously she followed your advice.”
    She snorted. “Yeah. At least, they got married, and she left
Dreamstreet. I hung around a couple more years, but finally …” Her voice grew soft and bitter. “Well, see for yourself.
Time caught up with me, and I had to leave the runway. Those
lecherous old men out there wanted to slobber over them thin
little high school girls.”
    She sipped at her beer and continued. “Anyway, a few years
later, Franny ran me down. I’m a hostess at the Marquee Club.
Nice place. Good job. Good future.”
    I noted the frayed collar of her blouse. “That’s nice,” I replied.
“So Franny, Mrs. Holderman, looked you up?”
    “Yeah.” She nodded emphatically. “She told me her old man
had a big insurance policy on himself. Offered me a couple of
thousand if I found someone who would whack him. Said she’d
pay five thousand for the job.” She drained her beer.
    I slid my untouched beer across the table to her. She gave me
a nod. “Anytime,” I said. “Did you find someone?”
    “Naw. Talked to a couple. But the money wasn’t there for the
risk, and Franny wouldn’t go no higher.”
    I did some fast calculating. The time frame fit in neatly with
Holderman’s affairs with Eunice Seebell and later, Kim Nally.
And that was about the time Holderman started going to Lupe’s