“And what’s Plan B?” I asked him.
He and Leonard exchanged looks.
8.
“The defense of what?” the judge yelled at Veil the next morning.
“The defense of necessity, your honor. It’s right here, in Texas law. In fact, the case of Texas v. Whitehouse is directly on point. A man was charged with stealing water from his neighbor by constructing a siphon system. And he did it, all right. But it was during a drought, and if he hadn’t done it, his cattle would’ve starved. So he had to pay for the water he took, and that was fair, but he didn’t have to go to prison.”
“And it is your position that your client had to burn down the crack . . . I mean, the occupied dwelling across the street from his house to prevent the spread of disease?”
“Exactly, your honor. Like the bubonic plague.”
“Well, you’re not going to argue that nonsense in my court. Go ahead and take your appeal. By the time the court even hears it, your client’ll have been locked down for a good seven-eight years. That’ll hold him.”
9.
Veil faced the jury, his face grim and set. He walked back and forth in front of them for a few minutes, as if getting the feel of the ground. Then he spun around and looked them in the eyes, one by one.
“You think the police can protect you from the plague? From the invasion? No, I’m not talking about aliens, or UFOs, or AIDS, now—I’m talking crack. And it’s here, folks. Right here. You think it can’t happen in your town? You think it’s only Dallas and Houston where they grow those sort of folks? Take a look around. Even in this little town, you all lock your doors at night now, don’t you? And you’ve had shootings right at the high school, haven’t you? You see the churches as full as they used to be? No you don’t. Because things are changing, people. The plague is coming, just like the Good Book says. Only it’s not locusts, it’s that crack cocaine. It’s a plague, all right. And it’s carried by rats, just like always. And, like we learned, there isn’t but one way to turn that tide. Fire!
“Now I’m not saying my client set that fire. In fact, I’m asking you to find that he did not set that fire. I’m asking you to turn this good citizen, this man who cared about his community, loose. So he can be with you. That’s where he belongs. He stood with you . . . now it’s time for you to stand with him.”
Veil sat down, exhausted like he’d just gone ten rounds with a rough opponent. But, the way they do trials, it’s always the prosecutor who gets to throw the last punch.
And that chubby little bastard of a DA gave it his best shot, going on and on about how two wrongs don’t make a right. But you could see him slip a few times. He’d make this snide reference to Leonard being black, or being gay, or just being . . . Leonard, I guess, and, of course that part is kind of understandable. But, exactly like Veil predicted, every time he did it, there was at least one member of the jury who didn’t like it. Sure, it’s easy to play on people’s prejudices—and we got no shortage of those down this way, I know—but if there wasn’t more good folks than bad, well, the Klan would’ve been running the state a long time ago.
The judge told the jury what the law was and told them to go out there and come back when they were done. Everybody got up to go to lunch, but Veil didn’t move. He motioned me over.
“This is going to be over with real quick, Hap,” he said. “One way or the other.”
“What if it’s the other?”
“Plan B,” he said, his face flat as a piece of slate.
10.
The jury was out about an hour. The foreman stood up and said “Not Guilty” about two dozen times—once for every crime they had charged Leonard with.
I was hugging Leonard when Veil tapped me on the shoulder. “Leonard,” he said, “you need to go over there and thank those jury people. One at a time. Sincere, you understand?”
“What for?” Leonard asked.
“Because this is going to happen again,” Veil said. “And maybe next time, one of the rats’ll get burned.”
Knowing Leonard, I couldn’t argue with that. He walked over to the jury and I turned around to say something to Veil. But he was gone.
Death by Chili
“Well, I can almost see murdering someone for a good chili recipe,” Charlie Blank said, “but not quite.”
“What if it had been barbecue?” Leonard asked.
“Now, that’s different.”
“Ah, hah!” I said. “That’s because you’re prejudiced. You think barbecue is The Texas food, when any idiot knows it’s chili.”
“Only if you can’t get barbecue,” Charlie said.
“One thing is for sure,” I said. “Goober Smith’s recipe for chili isn’t going to grace anyone’s dinner table from here on out. Other than the person killed him for it, that is.”
It was a cold, rainy afternoon, dark as night, and we were sitting around Leonard’s dining room table drinking coffee and eating vanilla cookies, which Leonard thinks are some kind of food of the gods, but they’re just these plain ole vanilla things that you can eat about twenty-three zillion of and not realize you’ve eaten anything till you get on the scale. Even if you don’t like ’em much, you tend to eat ’em.
Anyway, we were sitting at the table and Charlie was telling us about Goober Smith. It was a story we’d all heard before, but not the details. Charlie, who’s a lieutenant on the police force, got the story from someone at the cop shop, someone who had been around in 1978 when Goober got his head blown open and went face down in a bowl of chili.
“Whoever it was came up behind him and let the boom drop,” Charlie said. “Killed him deader than the five-cent candy bar, then snuck off with his chili recipe. That recipe used to win all the chili cook-offs around these parts.”
“What I wonder is what this person did with the recipe,” I said. “If they were stealing it to win cook-offs, it never surfaced. Right?”
“Goober’s chili was supposed to be as distinctive as a chicken with dentures. No one could use it if they stole it. Unless they were at home.”
“Must have been some really fine chili,” Leonard said.
“Jack Mays thought it was the best,” Charlie said.
“That the cop told you about this?” I asked.
“Yep. He used to go around to cook-offs all over East Texas tryin’ to see if he could get a taste and figure who killed Goober. Solving the murder was kind of an obsession with him. Everyone else had given up. Course, Jack’s retired now.”
“Now you’re on it,” I said.
“I tinker with it now and then,” Charlie said.
“And how are you tinkering?”
“Not so good. I’ve looked at it from every angle possible. Why would someone come into Goober’s place at night, catch him at the table, shoot him in the back of the head with a Luger, and steal his recipe?”
“What I’d like to know,” Leonard said, dunking a cookie, “is how anyone knows his recipe was stolen. He could have had it in his head.”
“Nope,” Charlie said. “He was adamant about the fact he kept it under lock and key in his wall safe, and the safe was cracked open and money was still in it. Only thing seems to have been missing was the recipe. Least ways, no one ever found it.”
“Seemed to be missing,” Leonard said. “But you don’t know for sure. Right?”
“I guess so,” Charlie said. “Well, it’s all chili through the intestines now, isn’t it?”
“Wasn’t the final official word it was suicide?” I asked.
Charlie nodded. “He was found sitting at the kitchen table, nude. The Luger was on the floor by the chair, and his brains were all over the place, and he was facedown in an empty bowl that had contained chili. There was a pot of it on the stove.”
“What made Jack think it wasn’t suicide?” I asked.
“Funny stuff. The bullet had gone out the top of Goober’s head, hit the ceiling. The casing from the Luger was on the floor behind him, and there was powder residue on h
is hand. No note.”
“Sounds like suicide to me,” Leonard said.
“Problem was, a Luger ejects its shell forward. You put the barrel to your head, the shell casing would have been thrown forward onto the table or the floor. That wasn’t the case.”
“Could have rolled,” I said.
“Floor behind Goober was raised, a living area. It couldn’t have rolled uphill. And the lead in the ceiling. Had Goober put the gun to his head, even if he’d slanted it, doesn’t seem likely it would have gone into the ceiling at that angle. It could have, I guess, but it doesn’t seem likely. Someone else could hold it at that angle more comfortable. It’s difficult to do it yourself and get those results. Add to it the safe was open and the money was there but there was no chili recipe, and you got a mystery.”
“Did Goober have reason to commit suicide?” Leonard asked.
“He was sick,” Charlie said. “Rumor was it was a bad disease of some kind, but what it looks like is someone came up behind him, shot him with the Luger, wrapped his hand around the gun, and let it fall so it would look like suicide. Then they stole the recipe.”
“The safe blown open?” Leonard asked.
“No. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t cracked by someone knew how. Or someone had the combination. An old girlfriend was one of the suspects, but nothing ever came of that. Actually, I still have my eye on her.”
“The Luger belong to Goober?” Leonard asked.
“No one knows. Wasn’t registered. A war souvenir. Goober’s dad had been in World War II, so it’s possible it had been passed down, but if it was, that doesn’t mean Goober shot himself with it. Someone could have used it on him.”
“My uncle had a Luger like that,” Leonard said. “A World War II souvenir. I have it now.”
“Hey, I got to go, boys.”
Charlie put on his coat and I walked him to the door. It was very cold out there. Good chili weather. Charlie and I shook hands, and he drove off in the rain.
When I came back inside, Leonard was pouring us fresh cups of coffee.
“That recipe thing, that is kind of weird,” he said. “A real-life mystery.”
“For what it’s worth,” I said.
“I’ve heard about Goober Smith all my life,” Leonard said. “And the stuff about his chili and his murder and the missing recipe, but I never thought there was anything to it until Charlie gave us the skinny.”
“Want to watch a movie tonight? I see She Creature is coming on. We could pop some popcorn, get some Sharp’s.”
Leonard seemed distant, but he said, “Sure.”
We popped popcorn and watched the movie, but Leonard didn’t really seem into it. He had a kind of glassy stare through it all.
I was making out with this marvelous raven-haired beauty, and she was just about to expose her breasts when she grabbed me by the arm and shook me like I was in a paint shaker.
I came awake to Leonard standing by the couch where I slept.
“Hap,” he said, shaking me, “I solved the mystery.”
“What mystery?”
“Get up.”
“You’re kidding. I was dreaming of and just about to make love to a black-haired beauty.”
“She’ll wait.”
I pushed the covers down and sat on the edge of the couch. I felt like I had been plowed into the ground for fertilizer. Outside the rain hammered the house like a drum solo.
Leonard turned on the light. He brought a chair to the front of the couch and sat down on it. He was holding a Luger.
“This is my uncle’s Luger,” Leonard said.
“That’s nice. Right now I’d like to shoot you with it.”
Leonard held it in front of him. “I’m going to eject a shell.”
“How nice.”
He did. It flew up and over my head. “That was great, Leonard. Now let’s go back to bed.”
“Forward, just like Charlie said.” Leonard put the Luger in his lap. “But if this is the Luger.” He made a gun with his thumb and finger. “And I put it to my head, it wouldn’t fire in such a way as to shoot a bullet into the ceiling.”
“Which is what Charlie said.”
“Right. But, think about this. Goober was naked, as suicides often are. He knows he’s dying, or is going to be terribly ill, so he decides to kill himself. You try and hold the Luger in the normal way, it isn’t comfortable. I mean, you hold it just right it could fire through the head and ceiling, but like I said, it’s not a comfortable way to hold it.”
“I don’t think comfort was on his mind.”
“So he holds it this way, which is really more natural.”
Leonard put his finger to his head, thumb down. “Think about it.”
I did. I was starting to get interested.
“So, when he pulls the trigger, he gets powder burns on his hand, and upside down, it would eject the shell casing backwards, behind Goober.”
“What about the way the bullet went into the ceiling?”
“Well, if it’s flat against the head, it won’t go into the ceiling at all. It could be slanted, held either way, but it’s very comfortable holding it upside down, and easier to give it a slant, and therefore easier to fire through the skull and into the ceiling.”
“As I said, I doubt Goober was all that worried about comfort right then.”
“Okay. But the rest of it adds up pretty good, doesn’t it?”
I thought about that for a moment. “That’s all well and good,” I said, “but that still doesn’t explain the open safe, the missing recipe.”
“I think it does,” Leonard said. “Goober was secretive about his recipe to the point of phobia. So, when he decided to commit suicide it was the one thing he wanted to take with him.”
“But it wasn’t found.”
“Because he ate it.”
“You mean he put it in the chili?”
“That’s what I think. He made up a last batch, tore up the recipe like seasoning, put it in the chili. Had himself a big bowl, then blew his brains out. That way, no one would ever have his recipe. That’s why nothing else was taken from the safe. Simple really. Charlie and Jack are all wet. It wasn’t murder. The first impression was correct. Goober really did kill himself.”
“You know what, Leonard? I think you’re right for a change.”
“Good, now I can go to sleep.”
“Course, it’s all just guess work and will probably never be proven one way or another.”
“I’m satisfied,” Leonard said.
“You going to tell Charlie?”
“Sure. Tomorrow. I want him to know how smart I am.”
Leonard turned off the light, went into the bedroom, and closed the door. I stretched out on the couch and pulled the covers over me. I looked at the ceiling a while.
Sonofagun, I thought. He probably did figure it out.
The rain hammered on the house. Lightning flashed through the curtains over the living room window.
I closed my eyes, hoping the raven-haired beauty would be back.
Lansdale Chili
First, you cook a lot of hamburger meat. I’m not sure how much is a lot, but you know, a lot. Anyway, you brown it, drain off the grease and put it in a pot. Now cut some steak into strips and brown it, cut this up in chunks and put it in the pot. Add a couple cups of water and six to twelve ounces of tomato paste. Put in two teaspoon’s of sugar, four teaspoon’s of chili powder, and ten cut up juicy jalopena peppers. Stir and add more water, be your own judge, but don’t make it too watery.
Now, a dash of cayenne pepper, a dash of tobasco sauce, a teaspoon of garlic or some real chunks of garlic, add one tablespoon of olive oil—that’s so it won’t all clog up like a brick inside you.
Cut up two to three medium ripe tomatoes and toss this into the mix. Slice up a small onion and add it. Half a teaspoon of oregano. A tablespoon or two of black pepper and a half cup of ketchup.
Let this simmer for a damn long time, adding water when need
ed, but don’t add too much. Keep it thick. If it looks a little watery, then add more ingredients. It’s better at this point to add a cat or a parakeet than it is to add too much water.
After a few hours take a Pepcid and have chili.
If it doesn’t taste quite right, you probably followed the recipe too closely or didn’t take enough Pepcid. Throw it back into the pot, add some more of everything but water, and try again.
If your chili comes out of the pan in wads, then maybe you do need to add some water.
Dead Aim
“Too many guns is not like too many guitars.”
—Hap Collins
Each time out, I assume that a job we’re hired to do will be exactly what we think it’s going to be, and frankly, some are. I don’t talk about those much because they’re boring. And for a long time I didn’t think of myself as a freelance troubleshooter, but instead, a guy looking for work to tide me over until I got my career going, whatever that might be. Then Leonard explained to me that I was actually practicing my profession, and that I was good enough at it and it was really what I wanted to do. That all that stuff about finishing out a degree at my age and becoming a teacher, or some such thing, was just so much talk.
After a short nervous breakdown, and a period of finding my center, as they say in martial arts, I got back on the horse, and now I’m riding, in the dark. But I’m at least on the horse and not being dragged around by it. I realized that Leonard was right. I also realized that like it or not, at the bottom of it all, I was a sometime killer.
When Leonard and I accepted a simple protection job, or what seemed simple, I was hoping, as always, that we’d just get it done and go home and Marvin would give us a check that didn’t bounce, and we’d be as happy as a stud horse in a corral full of fillies.
A guy named Jim Bob Luke recommended Marvin’s agency for the job. It’s not exactly a legit job, which is frequently the case. The problem was a lady who had known Jim Bob Luke asked him to help her out. She had an ex-husband who was stalking her, and had actually threatened her, but she couldn’t prove it. It was her word against his. Jim Bob was going to be busy and couldn’t drive to LaBorde to help out, so he put us onto it.
The Big Book of Hap and Leonard Page 11
