Southern Select (The Dutch Curridge Series Book 2)

by Tim Bryant

  Next day, I told the story to Ruthie Nell, and she said I did bear some resemblance. “A thinner, older Lefty,” she said. That was back about the time “I Love You A Thousand Ways and “If You’ve Got The Money, I’ve Got The Time” were brand new and burning up the radio waves. I liked his music— I thought he had a much better voice than Ernest Tubb and most of the singers going— and I guess I liked him a little more for having the good luck to look like Alvis Curridge Jr.

  In February of 1952, he played a package show at the ballroom, and I got to meet him. He was young and no taller than me at 5 foot eight, not a bad looking fella at all. He remained one of my favorites.

  Before the record was over, Merriweather turned around and said, “So, you fellas don’t look like brothers. You the Three Musketeers or something like that?”

  “I don’t even know these guys,” Pudsey said. “Would you kindly pull over and let me out?”

  “He has to make water,” said Slant Face.

  “He’s helping us track down a very valuable guitar,” I said.

  Merriweather looked over at Bismuke, who seemed to be trying his best to not pay any attention.

  “And so you think Walter has your guitar,” Merriweather said.

  “I don’t play guitar,” said Bismuke.

  He slowed down and signaled, and I recognized the place straight away. County Line Liquor sat right on the line between Tarrant and Johnson Counties and was owned by a man who’d once been a Baptist preacher in Dallas. He’d found his wife in bed with one of his church members and shot both of them. Got off mostly because he’d been such a poor shot that neither had been gravely wounded, partly because the jury just felt bad for him. Anyway, he annulled his own marriage and gave up religion, moved to Fort Worth and got rich selling alcohol.

  We all spilled out of the car and took off for the store, Pudsey running pell-mell for the little boys’ room, Slant and me taking the whiskey aisle by storm.

  I grabbed a bottle of Kessler, as I was a little low of funds and needed some cigs too. I pointed out a flier tacked to the wall, announcing an upcoming show by Issaquah Johnson & The Lo Down Shames and suggested that we make plans for it. I recognized Issaquah in the picture and the guitar player too, although both were camouflaged in matching blue and white seer suckers. Slant looked less than eager.

  “You sure we’re not wasting time, Dutch?” he said. “This is starting to feel like a wild goose chase.”

  "And where better to be when we're hunting down a wild goose?" I said.

  Where else would we learn half the things we might learn hanging around with these guys. It was a question I was waiting for Slant Face to answer when Pudsey appeared on the aisle, looking like the saddest hound dog on the porch.

  “Hey guys, Sheriff King didn’t give me my money back. I don’t suppose you can slide me a loan.”

  I told him I didn’t suppose I could, but Slant ponied up a few dollars.

  “What you got in exchange?” he said.

  “What do you mean?” Pudsey said. “I ain’t got nothing but what you see. You want my hat?”

  Slant didn’t want the damn hat.

  “I never had Cat Man’s guitar,” Pudsey said. “I’d trade that dang thing for half a bottle of hooch.”

  Adolphus Merriweather took one piss in the Cut Rate and another for good measure outside against the brick wall, and everybody piled back in, same place and order as before.

  “You don’t think I’m paranoid, do you, Dutch?” Slant Face said.

  “Not all the time. Why?”

  “Patrol car just pulled in over there,” he said.

  “I see that.”

  “He look familiar to you?”

  He looked like a deputy from the Fort Worth Sheriff’s Department. I saw them all the time. Counted them in my sleep.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s the same guy hanging around Peechie’s,” he said. “You know, the one following us around the Acre.”

  “I don’t know that guy,” I said.

  “Neither do I,” said Slant. “That’s why I recognize him.”

  Bismuke switched the radio back to KLIF again— “Johnny Guitar”— and we were on our way. There never was a man like the one they called Johnny Guitar. So Peggy Lee said.

  I guess women like guitar players because they're dangerous. Not so dangerous as real outlaws, but enough to make it feel like something risky. It doesn't work the same with detectives, even if we hang out with outlaws and musicians. Riding in the back of the Savoy, though, I could feel the headlights of the law right behind me. I didn't want to turn around and look. Didn't want to give myself away that easy. Didn't matter, I knew we were being followed.

  25

  Slant Face didn’t waste any time this time.

  “So I don’t mind killing a man that requires killing, Mr. Merriweather,” he said, “but I’d prefer to see a record of his deeds and misdeeds.”

  “Patrick Cavanaugh?” Merriweather said.

  “If that’s who you aim to kill.”

  Merriweather lit a cigarette and blew a half-assed smoke ring.

  “Bastard swindled me out of twenty grand,” he said.

  He ashed in his hand and shook it, like the ash was dice and he was ready to roll.

  “The son of a bitch had me poisoned. Thought he’d leave me to die, and he’d scram with the loot. I might not live to see sunrise, but I’ll be goddamned if I don’t take him down with me. What have I got to lose?”

  There was a car in front of us, a black sedan, and I could see a kid in the back window. He was shooting at us with an imaginary pistol and ducking down below the seat.

  "What makes you think Patrick Cavanaugh poisoned you?" I said.

  Merriweather spied our little shooter and instructed Bismuke to pull closer.

  "Took me a while to figure it out," Merriweather said. "I met the son of a bitch at Peechie Keen's Bar & Canteen. He was pouring drinks the night I met him, and he was still pouring drinks the night I fell sick in the middle of Thirteenth and woke up the next morning in the goddamn hospital."

  The next time the kid’s head poked up in the window, Merriweather pulled the 28 Smith and Wesson and leveled it right between his eyes, which got big as saucers. Merriweather laughed a laugh that rattled in his bones.

  “We really need to get you back to the hospital,” Bismuke said. I agreed.

  “I ain’t gonna die on a hospital bed,” Merriweather said. “If you’re half the friend that you claim to be, you’ll pipe down and keep driving.”

  “I’m a little uncertain here,” said Slant Face. “How exactly do you guys know each other?”

  Bismuke was still trailing the sedan by less than a car’s length, so I wasn’t exactly happy when he turned around again to join the conversation.

  “I came to town with Patrick. We didn't meet this joker 'til we got here.”

  I looked at Slant Face, who had once told me, when you see a crack of light, you've got to be ready to stick your dick in it. I knew what he meant. I was going in.

  "So you're from Chicago," I said.

  "I'm from Waukesha, Wisconsin," he said, "but I met Patrick while he was bartending in Chicago. Anthony Cavanaugh was my doctor."

  I was beginning to see why Melvin Chambers had pushed us toward Gipsy Gulch. Melvin had obviously found out the connection. I wondered how much more he knew. Again, I decided to play dumb. It's something I'm good at.

  "I didn't know he had a doctor in the family," I said. "Imagine that."

  "The doctor still in Chicago?" Slant Face said.

  "He's retired."

  "That's too bad," I said. At times like this, we were a good team. Or, as Ruthie had once put it, we worked like we had one good brain between us. "With your friend here being poisoned and all, we could use a good doctor."

  "He wasn't that kind of doctor, pal," Bismuke said. "He was a specialist."

  The car grew quiet again, but it also grew dark. The car lights behind us had vanished. I began to
wonder if I had been wrong. Maybe it had just been a man on his way home from work. Even cops had to do that sometimes.

  I watched the street lights reflect off the interior of the car, going in and out of time with the music on the radio, until it lulled me into the space between alertness and sleep, and I almost dropped my drink.

  I wasn't the only one who didn't like the quiet.

  "All I know is I'm going to blow a hole in Patrick Cavanaugh big enough to bury him in," said Merriweather.

  That drew chuckles all around, even if Merriweather didn't appreciate it. He was serious. Dead serious. I thought he was seriously losing it.

  I asked him how he'd happened to come down with the hepatitis. I was only half interested in knowing, but I knew I had to keep talking to stay awake. I also thought it might be constructive to point out that it could be what was actually doing him in.

  "I got a bad liver," he said. "I go in, rest up for a while, I come out a new man."

  I wondered how many times he'd been in and out.

  "You're certainly a new man tonight," said Bismuke.

  "Yeah, well," said Merriweather. "Sometimes you pick your poison, sometimes the poison picks you."

  So here was this man who thought himself dead on his feet, and yet, far as I could see, he was alive as he could hope to be. And meanwhile, we were driving across town to kill a man who was already dead and buried. I don't know if Ruthie would have laughed or cried.

  "The Patrick Cavanaugh I knew wouldn't poison anybody," I said. It was a timid defense— I wasn't sure how well I did know the guy anymore— but it was needed, and it was right.

  "Buddy, how many ways can I tell you, you don't know what the hell you're talking about," said Merriweather. "The son of a bitch has it coming. Hell, Anthony Cavanaugh's liable to kill him before I get to him. Wouldn't surprise me one iota.

  It seemed like the whole car slowed to a crawl.

  Scenario #4: Anthony Cavanaugh killed his brother Patrick. Motive: Patrick was a liability. Patrick had taken money. Patrick was bribing him. Patrick had done something to tip off the FBI. Their mama loved Patrick better. It was always the family ties that got twisted up into knots and choked off common sense and decency. The warning note had been for Merriweather.

  26

  "Why?"

  Merriweather looked at Bismuke. Bismuke must have read his expression like a fuel gauge. If he did, he saw that the road was still long and there was still more fuel to burn than he might have hoped. He took a breath deep enough to suck half the air out of the car and started talking.

  "Patrick recruited A here— Adolph— to drive back to Springfield with me," said Bismuke. "We had to get some funds that he'd left in a safe place there. Funds he needed to get his hands on before Anthony spent it."

  "Anthony's money," I said.

  "Anthony's money," Bismuke said.

  Peechie's would have been as perfect a place as any for running into characters like Merriweather, down-on-their-luck and looking for a way to make a quick score. Lawful or not, it all spent, especially in the Acre.

  "What did he pay you for it?" I said.

  "Ten grand a piece to make the trip," Merriweather said. "Another ten to be paid later. And I'm tired of waiting."

  A guy could tend bar until the end of time and not make that kind of coin.

  "So Patrick was involved with the whole deal with the hospital then," I said.

  "No," said Bismuke. "He was getting it for Anthony. Anthony could have never driven back into Illinois, much less walked into the First National Bank in Springfield and asked for the key to a safe deposit box. It wasn't even safe for me to walk in and do that."

  Anthony had likely been tucking away money in different banks for years. I wondered how much he had banked away.

  "So who has the money now?" I said.

  "Patrick does," Merriweather said. "You starting to see the picture?"

  Bismuke looked like a torn man. He was driving the car, but he wasn't a man with murder on his mind. I could see that. He knew Patrick. Had come down from Illinois with him. Trusted him. And yet, he didn't seem to know that Patrick was dead either.

  "Where you figure you're gonna find Patrick Cavanaugh?" I said. I wondered which one of them would answer. I watched both of them as closely as I could.

  "He has an apartment on Sixth Street," Merriweather said. "Little place over a feed and seed store. He'll either be there or at Peechie Keen's"

  Up until that moment, I hadn't seen a visit to Peechie's in the cards. I loved the idea of bursting into there with this posse. We'd be the worst bunch of trouble since the Daltons. My reputation would be ruined.

  "I can walk into Peechie's and check it out" I said.

  Merriweather grinned.

  "Now you're starting to make sense."

  So the plan was hatched that Slant Face and I would walk into Peechie's, because we did that on a regular basis and everyone knew us, and we'd sit down, grab a drink and either confirm that Patrick was behind the bar or return to continue on to his place, just a few blocks east.

  As we cruised toward Hell's Half Acre, I listened to Merriweather tell the tale about driving to Springfield, Illinois. I wanted to hear every detail, which fueled his fire and nudged him on, but, in reality, I was taking mental notes and hoping a few helpful crumbs would spill from his lips as he unreeled the story.

  "Patrick told me up front, there was money to be made. Why else would I care about driving to Springfield, Illinois? He never told me what the money came from. He just swore it was legal, that we weren't robbing no banks. I didn't hear the story until we were on our way, Walter and I."

  "All we had to do was walk into First National Bank of Springfield, show them the safe deposit key, empty the box and bring in back to Texas," Walter said.

  "Did Patrick tell you where the money was from?" I said.

  "Or what it was for," Slant Face said.

  "He told me," said Walter. "It wasn't stolen money. It wasn't illegal money. It was the money that his brother Anthony had worked hard for and put away. Now, Patrick said, Anthony was hiding out and couldn't get to it. It was sitting there and nobody knew it."

  I imagined the place crawling with cops, waiting for someone to walk in with the key. Why had nobody known?

  "Why would they?" Merriweather said. "He'd been socking money away for years."

  "Sure, but he couldn't just come driving into town and walk into a pubic bank," said Bismuke. "They had a one-way ticket to Joliet waiting for him, and he wasn't in any hurry to collect it."

  "So you got it thinking what?" I said. "That Patrick was going to somehow get it to Anthony?"

  "That about sums it up," Bismuke said. "They're brothers."

  "I walked in and got the money," Merriweather said. "And don't think I didn't consider going out the back door with it. Walter here got worried he would run into somebody he knew. As if he'd ever lived in Springfield. It was easy as pie. The bank officer even asked if I needed assistance."

  "How much money was it?" I said.

  "Two fifty," Merriweather said. "Right to the penny."

  I wondered how much a space a quarter of a million would take up. Did it really fit in a safe deposit box? With room left over. According to Merriweather, it had all been neatly bound up in three stacks. He'd put it into a saxophone case and walked right out the door he walked in through.

  "A saxophone case?"

  "My suitcase was too big," Bismuke said.

  They had gone up through St. Louis but took a longer route back home, west to Missouri and then down through the mountains.

  "We didn't know there were mountains," Bismuke said. "What did we know?"

  "We wanted to be sure we didn't have anyone following us," said Merriweather. "Patrick had warned us. We took 185 toward Hannibal because there was less traffic. Plus, Walter said the Mississippi River ran through Hannibal, and we might follow it back south."

  "Mark Twain came from Hannibal," Bismuke said.

&nbs
p; We stopped at the red light in front of the Cut Rate, and I might have asked to stop for more supplies if I didn't know we were heading for Peechie's. I did see something else I wasn't expecting to see, and I told Bismuke to pull over.

  "You're not picking up a whore in my car," he said.

  "That's no regular whore," I said. "That's Dulcie Boon."

  I opened my door and asked her if she would be so kind as to climb in.

  "We're on our way to kill Patrick Cavanaugh," I said. "I didn't think you'd wanna miss this."

  She looked at me like I'd gone plumb batty, but I pushed over toward Pudsey as far as I was willing to go. She shook her head and slid in.

  "What in tarnation?" she said.

  I introduced her to everyone in the car, and she extended her hand and smiled like a real lady. Dulcie, this is Walter Bismuke, the owner of this fine new Plymouth Savoy. Dulcie, this is Adolphus Merriweather, the man who's decided it's time to kill Patrick Cavanaugh. Dulcie, Slant Face Sanders, Pudsey Robinette. It caught her up with what was going on, as succinctly as possible under the circumstances.

  "I'm surprised Melvin Chambers isn't here," she said.

  "Who the hell is Melvin Chambers?" Merriweather said. He had the face of a kid who'd thrown a party only to have a bunch of strangers show up and eat all the cake.

  "I know Melvin Chambers," said Walter Bismuke. "You think he'd join us?"

  At this point, I was pretty sure that Bismuke was just stalling for time, trying to keep the side show going long enough that Merriweather would either lose interest in the main attraction or fall asleep and miss it.

  It was Saturday night, so I knew where to find Melvin Chambers. Where are all newspaper people are on Saturday night?

  "At Peechie Keen's," Bismuke said.

  "Home in bed where we ought to be," said Pudsey.

  Not on your life. Saturday night is a newspaper office's noisiest night of the week. Saturday night is all hands on deck, everyone prepping the Sunday morning edition for breakfast tables across the city. Ruthie and I had always gone to Saturday matinees at the Deal, and it was mostly because prices were cheaper, but it was also because she never got a Saturday night off.