by Bill Crider
He ate his last french fry. When he was finished chewing, he said, "I might. I could do it on the phone."
"Good. I'll take you home."
"And then what? Go read your book?"
"We'll see," I said.
Dino wasn't happy with that answer, but at least it had stopped raining and we didn't get wet on the way back to his house.
I probably would have read the book, but there was someone at the house when I got there. He was sitting in a big black Mercedes sedan, looking out through the windshield at the bay. You couldn't see the Gulf from the house.
Nameless wasn't much of a guard cat. He was sitting on the porch, waiting for someone to open the door and let him in. The guy in the car wasn't bothering him at all. If the guy had some Tender Vittles, Nameless would probably go off with him.
When I stopped the Jeep, the visitor got out of the Mercedes. He was tall, taller than I am, and much wider through the shoulders. He was wearing an expensively tailored suit, not exactly the preferred Island wear even in the winter, but his face didn't match his outfit. It was a hard face, one that you could strike a match on, and the eyes were like black marbles.
He walked over to the Jeep. "Your name Smith?"
"That's right," I told him. And then to prove that I had a snappy comeback for every occasion, I asked, "What's yours?"
For a second I thought he wasn't going to tell me. He just stood there and looked at me out of those hard black eyes, as if he weren't sure whether to break my neck then or wait until a little later. The way he was built, he could do it whenever he wanted.
But he didn't break anything. He told me his name.
"Alexander Minor," he said. "You can call me Alex. I want to ask you something."
I got out of the Jeep and walked past him to the house. I opened the door and let Nameless in. Then I turned to Minor.
"You want to come inside?" I asked.
He didn't. He wanted to get whatever it was that he'd come for and get out of there. But he didn't say that. He just walked over to where I was holding the door open and went in the house.
My parlor wasn't as bare as Patrick Lytle's, but it didn't look like anything in this month's House Beautiful either. There was an old couch covered with something that might have once served as the seat covers on a twenty-year-old Plymouth and a couple of chairs. Aside from an old Quasar TV set, that was it.
"Have a seat," I said.
Minor looked at the couch with distaste.
"It's clean," I said. "The cat hasn't started shedding yet this year."
Minor sat down. I left him there and went into the kitchen. Nameless was standing patiently by his bowl, and I put about half a pack of Tender Vittles in it. He started purring and eating at the same time. I don't know how he does that.
Minor was still on the couch when I went back into the living room. I'd sort of hoped he'd be gone, though of course I'd known he wouldn't.
"They tell me you find people," he said.
I sat in one of the chairs. "Who's 'they'?"
"Cop named Barnes."
It figured. If you're a guy like Minor, you want to let the cops know you're in town. They're going to find out soon enough, and if you've already talked to them, you're covered.
"He's wrong," I said. "I used to find people. That was a long time ago."
"That's not what Barnes says. He says you're looking for some guy right now."
"Barnes has a big mouth."
Minor nodded. "Cops are like that." The voice of experience.
"Who did he tell you I was looking for?" I asked.
"Guy named Harry."
There was no use in denying it. "All right. I'm doing a favor for a friend. What does that have to do with anything?"
Minor put his right ankle up on his left knee. His shoes were handmade and worth more than Dino had paid me so far. I thought about asking for a raise.
"I'm looking for the same guy," he said.
Somehow I wasn't surprised. "Why?"
"I'm an attorney," Minor said.
Now I was surprised. "An attorney?"
"Right. Like I went to law school, passed the bar. You got a problem with that?"
The problem was that he didn't look like an attorney. He looked like somebody's hired muscle, if not something worse. Naturally I didn't want to tell him that. He might take the opportunity to prove that I was right. He certainly looked as if he'd enjoy it.
"No problem," I said. "I was just wondering why you were looking for Harry. What's his last name, by the way?"
"What, you don't know it?"
"Not until today," I said. "And he's been around here all my life."
"It's Mercer, Harry Mercer. And don't ask me his middle initial. I don't know it."
"Why are you looking for him?"
Minor didn't hesitate. "He has some money coming to him."
I held in a laugh. "Money? Harry?"
"He had a sister," Minor said. "In Dallas." He pulled an envelope out of his suit coat and handed it to me. "It's all in there."
I took the envelope and removed the letter. The sister, Gennie Mercer, said she was employing the firm of Minor and Douglass to look for her brother in the matter of an inheritance. It could have been written by any one; it could even have been genuine.
"I didn't know Harry had a sister," I said.
That didn't bother Minor. "You didn't know his last name until today."
He had me there. "What do you want from me?"
"I want you to help me find Harry Mercer," he said.
Sixteen
When Minor had gone, I went into the bedroom, put on the five-CD set of Elvis' 'fifties recordings, set the player to shuffle, and listened for a while. Nameless came in, but he didn't listen long. He went to sleep.
Minor was lying about why he wanted Harry, and he was no more an attorney than I could sing like Elvis. Barnes would have known that too, and he'd probably sicced Minor on me just to stir the pot and see what rose to the top.
I figured that Minor was tied in with one or the other of the gambling interests, maybe even the same people that Macklin had been hooked up with. If that was the case, then he was in town to find out who'd killed Macklin.
If that weren't the case, Minor might even be the killer. He certainly looked the part.
But how did he know about Harry? The answer had to be Barnes again. I'd underestimated Barnes. He'd figured out from my questions that I thought Harry was in the Retreat when Macklin was killed.
Minor would have gone to the cops first, found out all they knew, and then start using it. He would have had plenty of time to fix up the phony letter. The right people, and he would know them, could have told him all about Harry. Even that he had a last name.
Minor's attorney cover didn't have to stand up to close inspection. All he had to do was stay out of trouble long enough to find Harry. Then Harry would tell him who killed Macklin. Or Minor would kill Harry to eliminate the only witness. I didn't know what Minor's job would be after that.
I'd told Minor the same thing I told Lytle, that I already had a client and that I couldn't help him. He tried to make it "worth my while," as he put it, but I didn't let him.
He took my refusal better than I'd thought he might, but I knew that didn't mean a thing. I'd have to watch my back from here on out. If Minor couldn't find Harry on his own, he'd be lurking around. Of course I'd been intending to keep a close watch on my back. After all, I'd already been shot at.
Which reminded me. I got out of the chair and walked to the little closet in the side wall of the room. I had to reach high up on the shelf to get the box I wanted. I took it over to the bed and opened it. The sheepskin-lined leather case was still there. I took out the case and undid the zipper. The 7.65 mm Mauser -- you can call it a Luger if you want to -- was inside. I returned the box to the closet.
There was another box I had to get, but it was in a drawer in the kitchen. I follow gun safety precautions. I keep the pistol and the cartridges in
separate rooms.
Of course, if anyone were to break in the house with evil intentions, I'd be dead before I could find the pistol, run to another room for the cartridges, and load the clip. On the other hand, I would never shoot myself with a pistol that was supposed to be unloaded.
I took the cartridges into the bedroom and got the pistol. Nameless watched me with gray-green eyes, not any more interested in what I was doing than he was interested in the voice of Elvis Presley, who was now singing "I Was the One."
I took the pistol and cartridges into the living room. The TV set was on a cabinet with sliding wooden doors. My pistol cleaning gear was in the cabinet. I got it out and enjoyed the oily smell of the rags for a minute before I cleaned the Mauser. Then I loaded the clip.
OK, so it was against the law to carry a pistol. I was going to take the chance; it would be a lot more effective against a threat on my life than carrying something equally illegal like, say, a half dozen dildos. If someone took another shot at me, I was going to shoot back, though I didn't intend to kill anyone, not if I could avoid it. I just didn't like working at a disadvantage.
I put the pistol back in the case and zipped it up. I read a few more chapters in Look Homeward, Angel, and then it was time to go to work.
It wasn't really work, however. I was talking to Cathy Macklin again, so it was more pleasure than business. For me. She looked at things a little differently.
"I told you before, Mr. Smith. I don't really know anything about my father."
"Call me Truman," I said.
She smiled at that. It was a very nice smile, and it lit up her blue eyes.
"I didn't know anyone was named Truman anymore," she said.
"There aren't very many of us. But we're all men of sterling character. Also we're hungry all the time. Would you go to dinner with me?"
She didn't know how to take that. Maybe I was rushing things a little.
"It might be easier to talk over a meal," I said. "And you might even find out that you liked me."
"Anything's possible," she said, though she didn't sound as if she really believed it.
"Is that a yes?"
"I have a motel to run," she said. Then, seeing my disappointment, she added, "But I suppose I could get Barbara to take over."
I asked her who Barbara was.
"She's a friend. She's also my assistant manager when I need a break. She comes in and answers the phone, takes reservations, handles registration for the drop-ins."
"Do you take a lot of breaks?"
"Very few, actually, but you look like you might be worth talking to."
"Some people think I tell interesting stories," I said. "Most of them are a lot older than you, though. The people, I mean, not the stories."
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to take a chance," she said. "I don't take many of them, either, and Barbara tells me I should take a few more."
I liked Barbara already.
We went to Gaido's, which I liked because of the giant mutant crab perched over the door as much as the food, even though the food was quite likely the best on the Island. It was also considerably more expensive than my lunch had been, though that didn't matter. The company made up for it.
During dinner I found out a little more about Cathy Macklin, about how she felt about growing up with an absentee father, about how easy and difficult at the same time it was to plan a funeral for him, about her college days at TCU, about the husband who'd left her after a brief marriage, about how much she liked living on the Island and being able to walk across the street anytime she felt like sticking a toe in the Gulf.
"A lot of BOIs don't like the Gulf," I said.
"That's their problem," she told me, cracking a crab claw. "I love it."
I told her a little about myself, too, about coming back to the Island to look for Jan, about finding Dino's daughter, about the murdered alligator. I didn't tell her much about looking for Harry, however. Finally, over a truly decadent dessert -- vanilla ice cream rolled in pecans and topped with hot fudge -- I got around to asking about her father's old enemies.
"There were probably a lot of them," she said. "But that was a long time ago."
"Can you remember anyone in particular? Anyone who might still be around?"
"I don't see what this has to do with finding your friend," she said.
I decided to trust her. You have to trust someone, and I didn't trust anyone else in this mess. So I told her my idea about Harry having witnessed the murder. I also told her about Alex Minor.
"So you have some competition," she said.
"That's right. And I don't want him to find Harry before I do."
"Why do you think he came to you? Was that smart?"
I'd been wondering about that, myself, and while I had an answer, I wasn't sure it was the right one.
"It might not have been smart," I said. "But it was a calculated risk. He might have been able to buy me off. As it is, he knows that he wasn't given a false lead. I really am looking for Harry. Now he has a choice. He can keep on looking for Harry himself, or he can hang back and follow me, hoping I'll lead him where he wants to go."
"I wish I could help you," she said. "I really do. But I'm not sure I can."
"Just think. If you can come up with a name, that's more than I've got now."
"I'll try," she said.
The Jeep wasn't the most elegant mode of transportation on the Island, but Cathy Macklin liked it. She didn't even mind the way the wind messed up her hair. She asked me to take her for a drive down Broadway, and we passed by some of the glories of Galveston's past: the old Gresham mansion, better known now as the Bishop's Palace; the refined lines of Ashton Villa; and the statue of Winged Victory that was dedicated to the memory of Texas heroes.
We also passed by Sally West's house, and I casually mentioned that Sally was a friend of mine. Cathy was impressed.
"I'd like to meet her someday," she said.
"I'll introduce you," I promised, hoping that meant I'd see Cathy again.
We drove back down the other side of the esplanade, which was planted in tall palms and oleanders. The oleanders were green and thick, but there were no blooms this early in the year. Cathy's dark hair whipped in the wind.
"That was fun," she said when I took her back to the Seawall Courts. "I'm sorry I wasn't more help."
"That's all right," I said. "Maybe we could do it again."
"Maybe." She climbed out of the Jeep. "Barbara thinks you're cute. You could always ask her out if I'm busy."
I'd hardly spoken to Barbara when she arrived to take over the motel for Cathy. Barbara was about Cathy's age, and she seemed quite nice. But it wasn't Barbara I was interested in. There was something about Cathy that had attracted me from the first, and I wanted to see her again.
I got out to walk her up the stairs. "How do you know what Barbara thinks?"
"We have ways," she said. "You don't have to walk me up. I know the way."
I stood by the Jeep and watched her climb the stairs. About halfway up she stopped and turned.
"There was one man," she said. "I don't know if he's still alive."
"Who?" I asked.
"Lawrence Hobart. Have you ever heard of him?"
"Yes," I said. "I've heard of him."
I could have added to that, but I didn't. What I'd heard wasn't good.
Seventeen
Like Braddy Macklin, Lawrence Hobart, better known in certain circles as Larry the Hammer, had worked for the uncles, starting before Macklin had come along. Hobart's problem was that he couldn't resist the one thing that he should have known better than to indulge in: gambling. Whenever he wasn't watching the uncles, he was playing the slots or shooting craps. Not in Galveston, however. He wasn't that dumb. He went up the road to Dickinson, where he thought he could get away with it.
The uncles found out, of course, and they ordered him to stop. Everywhere he went, he found that his credit was no good, and everyone was calling in his markers.
/> He got mad, he got drunk, and then he went after the uncles. Macklin was on the payroll by then, and he was the one who stopped the Hammer one night in the Retreat. The old-timers still talked about the resulting fight, which became almost legendary. Within a few years, the entire population of the Island and a good part of the rest of the state was claiming to have seen it. The people who claimed to have been in the Retreat that night would not only have filled the Retreat; they would have filled the Astrodome and Rice Stadium, too.
Dino and I hadn't been there, though once or twice over the years I'd told people that I had been. The truth was that I would have been too young to get into the Retreat when the fight took place.
Hobart had been whipped, but not before tables had been wrecked, chairs smashed, and patrons walloped by accident. A well-known state senator had gotten a black eye and a broken nose before he could get out of harm's way. Or maybe it had been a Hollywood B-movie star. Or a country singer who later had three number one records in a row. Or all of the above. It depended on who was telling the story. Several people were supposed to have jumped from the windows into the Gulf to avoid getting battered in a similar fashion.
After that, Hobart never worked for the uncles again. According to the stories, he stayed on the Island, getting a job as a bouncer in a small club not affiliated with Dino's family. He might very well be still around, and it wasn't impossible that his old animosities had flared up. I'd have to ask Dino what he knew about him.
But right now I had a few other things to do. One was to see about retrieving a bullet or two from the old marine lab building.
After leaving the Seawall Courts, I drove to the eastern end of the Island and parked in the same place I'd used the previous evening. The Mauser was wrapped in a towel under my seat. I took it out and stuck it in the waistband of my pants. This time, I wasn't going to take any chances. The Mag-Lite was still working, so I took it along as well.
It was even darker than it had been on my last trip to the building. I could hear the sea oats rippling in the breeze, and the lights in the condo windows stood out against the black sky.
