lazy dog.
“So what are we going to do now?” Betty asked as she squatted behind me.
“First, stop sneaking up on me,” I said.
“You didn’t call,” she said. “And I was afraid you never would.”
I leaned back far enough to see her face. She looked as if she hadn’t slept any better than I had. “You’re right,” I admitted. “I probably wouldn’t have. I need to work some things out.”
“Let me help,” she said. “I’ve got to help. I’m involved, too, remember.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I suspect that things are going to get worse before they get better.”
“Some people are better in a crisis,” she said, “than they are in day-to-day life.”
“Don’t I know it?”
She leaned down to help me out of the Jacuzzi. It was a little more difficult than either of us expected. “How do you feel?”
“As if I’ve been hit by a train, love.”
“Well, keep it in mind, old man; you aren’t as young as you used to be.”
“Hell, I never was,” I said.
FIVE
It took another full day of moving carefully between my bed and the Jacuzzi and gobbling pissy little pain pills before I could climb into Betty’s pickup so she could drive me by the locker, where I gathered up enough drugs to allow me a little movement, then she dropped me at Carver D’s house. Carver D had been burning cyberspace oil. He hadn’t dug up anything more on Sissy Duval, except that she wouldn’t come to the telephone or return messages and that after her husband’s death, she had sold the bar and license to a chain of self-service laundries down in the Rio Grande Valley, a chain that was suspected of washing more than dirty shorts. They had kept Billy Long as a manager until his untimely death, then quickly gave his job to the pudgy bartender, Leonard Wilbur. Carver D had pulled the court files on the Dwayne Duval shooting. He had been killed by a college kid from Mexia, Texas, a Richard Wylie Oates, who, except for traffic tickets, had never run afoul of the law before and whose folks were even cleaner. Oates had been convicted of second-degree murder, with Steelhammer on the bench. The jury had sentenced him to a huge jolt of hard time, which he was still serving outside Huntsville. He’d done fifteen and had been twice denied parole. Enos Walker had an older brother living in Austin, a preacher. But he didn’t answer his telephone or return messages, either.
“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Carver D suggested as he handed me the Molly McBride registration tape back, along with a sheaf of head shots of the lady in question. “You want to borrow Hangas?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but as soon as I get my ride back, Betty’s going to chauffeur me around.”
“Y’all back together?”
“Together might not exactly be the right word.”
“What’s that mean?” he asked, wiggling in his antique chair so hard that I thought the wheels were going to pop off.
“You don’t want to know,” I told him. “You have any luck with the serial number on the piece in Betty’s purse?”
“Got it as far as a gun dealer in Little Rock,” he said. “Usually a dead end there.”
“Well, thanks.”
“It’s great to be nosy for a purpose,” Carver D said. “Watch your back, man.”
“Just as soon as I can stand to look at it,” I said. “Now call me a cab.”
“You’re a cab.”
* * *
A couple of days later when Phil Thursby got back from Houston, where he had managed to plead a capital murder down to manslaughter-one even though the crackhead rich kid from Clear Lake had been caught on video and confessed to killing a Vietnamese convenience store clerk, he came into the bar while I was behind the stick giving Mike a much needed break. Thursby hopped on a stool, and shook his head slowly, almost painfully. Thursby had a high forehead above thick black-rimmed glasses and looked like a teenager playing a criminal lawyer in a high school play. But he had pale blue
“So what are we going to do now?” Betty asked as she squatted behind me.
“First, stop sneaking up on me,” I said.
“You didn’t call,” she said. “And I was afraid you never would.”
I leaned back far enough to see her face. She looked as if she hadn’t slept any better than I had. “You’re right,” I admitted. “I probably wouldn’t have. I need to work some things out.”
“Let me help,” she said. “I’ve got to help. I’m involved, too, remember.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I suspect that things are going to get worse before they get better.”
“Some people are better in a crisis,” she said, “than they are in day-to-day life.”
“Don’t I know it?”
She leaned down to help me out of the Jacuzzi. It was a little more difficult than either of us expected. “How do you feel?”
“As if I’ve been hit by a train, love.”
“Well, keep it in mind, old man; you aren’t as young as you used to be.”
“Hell, I never was,” I said.
FIVE
It took another full day of moving carefully between my bed and the Jacuzzi and gobbling pissy little pain pills before I could climb into Betty’s pickup so she could drive me by the locker, where I gathered up enough drugs to allow me a little movement, then she dropped me at Carver D’s house. Carver D had been burning cyberspace oil. He hadn’t dug up anything more on Sissy Duval, except that she wouldn’t come to the telephone or return messages and that after her husband’s death, she had sold the bar and license to a chain of self-service laundries down in the Rio Grande Valley, a chain that was suspected of washing more than dirty shorts. They had kept Billy Long as a manager until his untimely death, then quickly gave his job to the pudgy bartender, Leonard Wilbur. Carver D had pulled the court files on the Dwayne Duval shooting. He had been killed by a college kid from Mexia, Texas, a Richard Wylie Oates, who, except for traffic tickets, had never run afoul of the law before and whose folks were even cleaner. Oates had been convicted of second-degree murder, with Steelhammer on the bench. The jury had sentenced him to a huge jolt of hard time, which he was still serving outside Huntsville. He’d done fifteen and had been twice denied parole. Enos Walker had an older brother living in Austin, a preacher. But he didn’t answer his telephone or return messages, either.
“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you,” Carver D suggested as he handed me the Molly McBride registration tape back, along with a sheaf of head shots of the lady in question. “You want to borrow Hangas?”
“Thanks,” I said, “but as soon as I get my ride back, Betty’s going to chauffeur me around.”
“Y’all back together?”
“Together might not exactly be the right word.”
“What’s that mean?” he asked, wiggling in his antique chair so hard that I thought the wheels were going to pop off.
“You don’t want to know,” I told him. “You have any luck with the serial number on the piece in Betty’s purse?”
“Got it as far as a gun dealer in Little Rock,” he said. “Usually a dead end there.”
“Well, thanks.”
“It’s great to be nosy for a purpose,” Carver D said. “Watch your back, man.”
“Just as soon as I can stand to look at it,” I said. “Now call me a cab.”
“You’re a cab.”
* * *
A couple of days later when Phil Thursby got back from Houston, where he had managed to plead a capital murder down to manslaughter-one even though the crackhead rich kid from Clear Lake had been caught on video and confessed to killing a Vietnamese convenience store clerk, he came into the bar while I was behind the stick giving Mike a much needed break. Thursby hopped on a stool, and shook his head slowly, almost painfully. Thursby had a high forehead above thick black-rimmed glasses and looked like a teenager playing a criminal lawyer in a high school play. But he had pale blue
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