me
from the station attendant, a tired-looking woman wearing a Kenny
Chesney t-shirt. She had her long, straight hair tied back to
reveal ears that each had at least a dozen metal studs lining the
rim from top to bottom.
“You know anything about
the place next door?” I asked, gesturing towards Boot
Scooter’s.
“Not much, ‘cept it’s been
closed for at least three years that I know of, maybe longer. I’ve
only been around here three years since my momma got sick, but I
ain’t ever seen it open.”
“Do you ever see anybody
around there?”
“No, not in a while. Some
Mexicans were supposed to be gonna fix it up to make a dance hall
or something, but that’s been a while. Probably just as well, if
you know what I mean. I sure wouldn’t want to be workin’ nights if
they did open up somethin’ like that.”
She passed the credit card
receipt through to me before continuing.
“Yeah, I guess they
couldn’t get things worked out with the mafia around here,” she
continued. “You do know that place belongs to the Odessa Mafia
don’t you? My boss-lady told me they used to run enough drugs out
of there to get the whole town high. And, she said there was always
plenty of whores hanging around.”
“Would you mind doing me a
favor?” I asked, fishing a business card out of my pocket and
sliding it through to her. “Give me a holler if you see anything
going on next door.”
“Is there a problem?” she
asked, with her eyes wide.
“No, no problem at all. A
client of mine asked me to look around at some real estate
properties for him and I’d just like to keep an eye on that
one.”
After leaving Boot
Scooter’s, I drove by the other businesses on my list. The
Shiny-Side Car Wash was a three-bay self-wash affair on a
lower-income residential street. The same graffiti artists who
worked on Boot Scooter’s had paid it a visit at some point in its
history. Someone had jacked open the coin boxes long ago and an
abandoned shopping basket full of trash sat parked in one of the
bays.
I recognized the
distinctive building style of the Gameland Arcade as belonging to a
failed chain of Mexican food restaurants that I had eaten in when I
was in high school. Plywood covered to the large arched windows,
except for the very top of the arch, which was exposed. By standing
on the stucco ledge I was able to see enough inside to tell that
the building was empty and partially gutted.
Equally abandoned was the
Burger Blaster Drive-Inn, although the employees of a video rental
store in an aging strip-mall next door were parking their cars in
its driveway. A trio of gangling skateboarders was doing their best
to figure out a way to work a rusted pipe railing surrounding the
place into one of their acrobatic tricks.
Things were beginning to
add up. I haven’t always been the quickest guy to catch on, but I
was beginning to suspect that the businesses I had just visited,
which were all making regular large cash deposits at a bank located
in a town twenty miles away, might just be part of a
money-laundering scheme.
On the drive back to
Elmore, I called Jay Bradley and asked him what information he
could give me on the businesses. He explained that when a business
opened an account with the bank, they were required to provide a
copy of their articles of incorporation or other legal papers
showing their formation. I asked if he could have someone make
copies of the information for the five businesses on my
list.
* * * *
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
That night, I was in Angie
Robbins’ kitchen, helping her heat up some tamales and refried
beans for our supper as I sipped a Shiner Bock beer and admired her
Wrangler jeans. The business attire she wore when she was working
looked good on her, but the jeans added a whole other dimension to
my interest.
That afternoon, after
picking up the bank account information Jay Bradley had copied for
me, I’d called Angie to ask her if she recognized either of the
from the station attendant, a tired-looking woman wearing a Kenny
Chesney t-shirt. She had her long, straight hair tied back to
reveal ears that each had at least a dozen metal studs lining the
rim from top to bottom.
“You know anything about
the place next door?” I asked, gesturing towards Boot
Scooter’s.
“Not much, ‘cept it’s been
closed for at least three years that I know of, maybe longer. I’ve
only been around here three years since my momma got sick, but I
ain’t ever seen it open.”
“Do you ever see anybody
around there?”
“No, not in a while. Some
Mexicans were supposed to be gonna fix it up to make a dance hall
or something, but that’s been a while. Probably just as well, if
you know what I mean. I sure wouldn’t want to be workin’ nights if
they did open up somethin’ like that.”
She passed the credit card
receipt through to me before continuing.
“Yeah, I guess they
couldn’t get things worked out with the mafia around here,” she
continued. “You do know that place belongs to the Odessa Mafia
don’t you? My boss-lady told me they used to run enough drugs out
of there to get the whole town high. And, she said there was always
plenty of whores hanging around.”
“Would you mind doing me a
favor?” I asked, fishing a business card out of my pocket and
sliding it through to her. “Give me a holler if you see anything
going on next door.”
“Is there a problem?” she
asked, with her eyes wide.
“No, no problem at all. A
client of mine asked me to look around at some real estate
properties for him and I’d just like to keep an eye on that
one.”
After leaving Boot
Scooter’s, I drove by the other businesses on my list. The
Shiny-Side Car Wash was a three-bay self-wash affair on a
lower-income residential street. The same graffiti artists who
worked on Boot Scooter’s had paid it a visit at some point in its
history. Someone had jacked open the coin boxes long ago and an
abandoned shopping basket full of trash sat parked in one of the
bays.
I recognized the
distinctive building style of the Gameland Arcade as belonging to a
failed chain of Mexican food restaurants that I had eaten in when I
was in high school. Plywood covered to the large arched windows,
except for the very top of the arch, which was exposed. By standing
on the stucco ledge I was able to see enough inside to tell that
the building was empty and partially gutted.
Equally abandoned was the
Burger Blaster Drive-Inn, although the employees of a video rental
store in an aging strip-mall next door were parking their cars in
its driveway. A trio of gangling skateboarders was doing their best
to figure out a way to work a rusted pipe railing surrounding the
place into one of their acrobatic tricks.
Things were beginning to
add up. I haven’t always been the quickest guy to catch on, but I
was beginning to suspect that the businesses I had just visited,
which were all making regular large cash deposits at a bank located
in a town twenty miles away, might just be part of a
money-laundering scheme.
On the drive back to
Elmore, I called Jay Bradley and asked him what information he
could give me on the businesses. He explained that when a business
opened an account with the bank, they were required to provide a
copy of their articles of incorporation or other legal papers
showing their formation. I asked if he could have someone make
copies of the information for the five businesses on my
list.
* * * *
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
That night, I was in Angie
Robbins’ kitchen, helping her heat up some tamales and refried
beans for our supper as I sipped a Shiner Bock beer and admired her
Wrangler jeans. The business attire she wore when she was working
looked good on her, but the jeans added a whole other dimension to
my interest.
That afternoon, after
picking up the bank account information Jay Bradley had copied for
me, I’d called Angie to ask her if she recognized either of the
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