The Next Time You Die

by Harry Hunsicker

  Tess asked if we wanted some green tea. Nolan nodded. I said, sure, tea would be nice. Tess went to the kitchen and brought us back three steaming mugs in less than a minute. It was an instant-hot-water thing on her sink, she explained. The domestic activity seemed to calm her.

  We drank tea. Nobody spoke for three or four minutes.

  “How do you know he’s gone?” Tess placed her mug on the coffee table next to a crystal bowl of potpourri.

  “We don’t,” I said. “It’s an assumption. He’s not here at the moment, though.”

  “What happened to your head?” She squinted at my partner’s lacerated scalp.

  “Hank was being a wuss, rolling on the ground.” Nolan smiled. “Baldy got the better of me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Tess said.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  Nolan put a sympathetic hand on the woman’s shoulder. “What did he do to you?”

  No response.

  “We need to know everything about that guy so we can get him.” I put my mug down. “That’s what we do. Stop people like him.”

  “You can’t stop him.” Her voice was soft, a struggle to hear. She pulled her robe tighter. “Please excuse me for a moment.” Tess jumped up and went into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  “Now what are we gonna do?” Nolan stood up and took her tea mug into the kitchen.

  “I’d like to get a big glass of Glenlivet and a Vicodin.” My knee was stiffening. I massaged it gently.

  “No, dumbass.” Nolan came back to the living room and sat down. “I mean about her. She’s a basket case. We can’t just leave her here.” Occasionally my partner makes sense.

  “You’re right.” I stood up pressed my ear against the bedroom door. “Maybe she’s got some friends she could stay with.”

  Nolan walked to where I stood. She pulled me away from the door. “That guy is beyond bad. If there was an Olympic Fuckstain Team, he’d be captain.”

  “What about that duplex on Washington?” I said. “We could put her there.”

  Nolan cocked one eye. “The place next to the crack house?”

  I ignored her and hobbled back to the middle of the room.

  The bedroom door opened. Tess McPherson came out wearing a pair of jeans, tennis shoes that looked like hiking boots, and a denim jacket over a white shirt. She carried a leather overnight bag. She looked at both of us. “What? You think I’m spending the night here?”

  “No.” I smiled for an instant. “We’ll find some place safe for you.”

  “Thanks. I don’t really know that many people in town.” She went to a polished-wood breakfront, fished a key from her pocket, and unlocked one of the bottom doors. She pulled a green canvas pistol case out, unzipped it, and removed a small black semiautomatic pistol. She racked the slide back, let it fall, and then stuffed a magazine in the grip of the weapon.

  “Daddy didn’t feel right, me not having a gun in the big city.” She stuffed the firearm in her overnight bag.

  “Daddy sounds like a smart guy.” I opened the door to the hallway and peered out. It was empty. I turned and motioned to the two women standing in the living room. We left.

  The trip to my truck was uneventful. The party atmosphere had grown. More people were outside now, walking, talking, enjoying themselves. I backed the Tahoe carefully, splitting the crowd so they flowed around me as if I were a branch stuck in a swift-moving creek. Bullet Head could be anywhere among them, watching.

  I exited the Chelsea Tribeca Meadow as fast as possible and soon we were heading north of downtown on McKinney Avenue, past galleries, restaurants, and high-rise apartments. We decided that Tess would spend the night with Nolan, at the house she rented a block away from a strip of bars on Greenville Avenue. I headed that way and crossed over Central Expressway at Knox Street.

  “Is there a place to get a drink near your house?” Tess said.

  “Uh-huh.” Nolan flicked her knife open and shut in the front of the truck. “One or two. You feel like a drink?”

  The woman nodded.

  At Nolan’s house, I pulled into the driveway and parked in back.

  The Greenville Avenue Bar and Grill, formerly a gritty live music club now converted into a semi-respectable restaurant and drinking establishment, was a couple of hundred yards to the east. The three of us hopped out of the truck and walked that way.

  The bar and grill had been there for probably seventy-five years and the building it occupied had housed similar endeavors for another fifty before that. According to some old drunks I knew, the place had reached its zenith in the late seventies as a fixture on the regional music scene.

  The reason: a smart-ass kid from South Dallas who could play a guitar like the unholy offspring of Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton. To this day they still mourn the premature curtain falling on hometown favorite Stevie Ray Vaughan.

  We managed to find three stools at the bar. Tess ordered a Bombay Sapphire martini straight up. Nolan got a Shiner Bock while I indulged in a single-malt scotch only a few years younger than our guest. The place was crowded, which seemed to act as a balm on our new friend. Safety in numbers, I guess. The bartender placed our drinks in front of us along with a bowl of salted nuts.

  “There’s no way he could have followed us, is there?” Tess downed half her drink in one swallow, her eyes restlessly surveying the crowd. “And he couldn’t do anything with all these people, right?”

  “We’re okay.” I tossed a peanut in my mouth. In fact, I had made several false runs and double-backs on the way to Nolan’s house. We were in the clear. Our respective homes were also untraceable; the utilities and ownership records were under aliases.

  “Tell us what happened.” Nolan made circles on the bar top with her beer bottle.

  Tess was quiet for a moment. “He didn’t hurt me, if that’s what you mean. Didn’t even touch me . . .”

  “Start at the beginning.” I ran a finger around the rim of my glass.

  “I had just taken a shower. I was going out for drinks; my friend wanted to set me up with this lawyer.” As she talked she kept her gaze locked on the half-empty martini glass in front of her. “I went to get something out of the kitchen. And there he was, holding my cat.”

  “How did he get in?” Nolan said.

  Tess shook her head. “I have no idea. The door was locked.”

  “What did he do?” I rubbed my knee. It was still tender.

  “Nothing. I mean, he never touched me or anything like that.” Tess shuddered. “He just talked.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “He said he knew a hooker in Houston that looked just like me. Till he had to beat her to death with a baseball bat because she ripped off his boss.”

  “Yeah, he’s a real sweetheart, that one.” Nolan signaled for another round of drinks. “What else?”

  “He said bad things about my father.”

  “What?” Nolan and I spoke in unison.

  Tess closed her eyes. “He said he was going to kill him, after he raped me and my mother and made Daddy watch.”

  Nolan patted her on the shoulder as glasses clinked and laughter tinkled around us.

  “Nobody’s going to do anything like that.” I hoped my tone of voice conveyed a sense of confidence that I definitely did not feel.

  The second round of drinks arrived. Tess finished the last bit of number one and slid the glass across the bar.

  “What was it he wanted?” I said.

  She shook her head again. “He never told me. It was like he didn’t care about the goal, only the chance to hurt somebody.”

  “Sociopath.” Nolan’s voice was a mutter.

  Tess nodded. “Yeah. A real-life one.”

  “Anything more?” I knocked back half a shot of scotch.

  Tess shook her head and then said, “No. . . . Wait. He did say something else.” She frowned. “It didn’t really make sense, though.”

  “What was it?” I motioned to the bartender for the
check.

  She bit her lip, obviously thinking. “He said things were gonna be different in Dallas. What do you think he meant?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  We got back to Nolan’s house at about nine. I checked all the windows and doors while Nolan showed Tess the spare bedroom. We made plans for tomorrow. Tess had said she had never heard of Linville or his ministry, so first up was another visit with the good reverend, hopefully a come-to-Jesus talk from which we could get a solid lead on our assailant. After that I wanted to find Reese Cunningham and learn about his connection to Billy Barringer.

  I drove home and thought about the events of the past day, trying to piece together the who and the why of it all.

  Tess’s story about hookers in Houston made me think Bullet Head might be mobbed up. But what was he doing here in Dallas?

  At one time the Barringer crime clan had planned to infiltrate the urban areas of the state from their base of operations in the piney woods of East Texas. Mostly it was all talk, and Billy’s incarceration and subsequent death ended their plans. While the Barringers had connections in Louisiana and among South Texas border families, they were tenuous at best, sometimes overlapping ventures that in the interest of the mutual good were ignored in the fringe areas. But maybe there was a link I couldn’t see.

  Nothing had resolved itself by the next morning. I fed the dog and limped around the kitchen for a few minutes, stretching and working my knee. It hurt at first but gradually eased to a dull ache. To clear my head I wandered the streets of my neighborhood for thirty minutes, moving a at a fast walk rather than the usual jog, in deference to my knee.

  At a convenience store on Gaston Avenue, I passed the day laborers hoping for a contractor or two to come by and hire them on a Saturday. The work was backbreaking, the pay only a few dollars an hour, most of which would be sent home to Mexico by next weekend. I passed a new Thai restaurant next to an old pool hall and across the street from a typewriter repair store. The new and the not so new and the buggy-whip maker.

  At the abandoned doughnut shop, I gave the legless man in the wheelchair a five-dollar bill like I did most mornings when he was around. We talked about the happenings in our little section of Big D, mostly who got arrested for vagrancy and how the price of discount-brand beer kept going up. I asked him if he still had my phone number in case he ever wanted to get off the streets for a while. He nodded and said yeah, maybe when it got cold. I told him he was always welcome and that I still had his Purple Heart and two Silver Stars locked up in my safe whenever he wanted them back. He said thanks and rolled away. I wondered again for the hundredth time where I might be if a Viet Cong mine had taken my legs off in some nameless rice paddy.

  At home, I hit the weights in the basement and worked a little on the body bag hanging from the rafters. I turned on the coffeepot before taking a shower. Afterward, I plunked a piece of ham in a cast-iron skillet. When it was warm, I fried two eggs. Everything went on a plate. The eggs got a good soaking with Tabasco, and breakfast was ready. I ate, watched the morning news shows, and skimmed the paper.

  By eight-thirty, I was in my truck headed to the office. A few minutes later, I parked in my spot behind the office. An unmarked police car and a cherry red late-model Mercedes sat in front, the latter out of place in the neighborhood.

  For some reason I decided to go in the front door.

  The first thing I saw was Bullet Head, sitting on our one good sofa and drinking coffee from my favorite cup, the one I got from the softball league a couple of years earlier.

  I reached for my gun but stopped when I saw the two cops sitting in the easy chairs in the corner. The first one was about nine feet tall and wore a uniform, corporal bars on his shoulders.

  The second one was a black man in a three-button, dark gray suit named Franklin Delano Jessup, a homicide sergeant I’d had a run-in with a while back. He was in his early fifties, salt starting to weave its way through his close-cropped hair.

  Bullet Head placed my mug on my wagon-wheel coffee table, on a two-year-old copy of D Magazine. He crossed one leg and ran a finger down the crease of his pants. “That’s him, Sergeant.”

  The black detective and the nine-foot-tall uniformed officer stood up.

  “He’s the one that killed that poor Messican boy.” Bullet Head remained seated.

  “Lee Oswald. Again in trouble. Who would believe it.” Jessup took a step toward me, hands by his sides.

  “What the hell is going on?” I looked from Jessup to the bald man and back again.

  “We got a dead gangbanger and two people who put you at the scene,” Jessup said.

  “And who the hell is he?” I pointed to the man on the sofa. “You always let civilians ride along for this kind of stuff?”

  “This is Mr. Jesus Rundell.” Jessup jerked his head at the man in the cream-colored linen suit and terra-cotta T-shirt. “Mr. Rundell is a . . . uh . . . fellow law enforcement officer.”

  “For who, Miami Vice?”

  Nobody laughed.

  “We need to go downtown,” Jessup said. “Clear some things up.”

  “That guy assaulted me last night.” I pointed to the man on the couch.

  Rundell made a tssking sound and stood up. “They’re all the same, aren’t they? It’s always somebody else’s fault.”

  “Let’s make this easy,” Jessup said. “You’re not under arrest, so there’s no need for handcuffs and all that.”

  “Check him for weapons.” Rundell brushed the wrinkles from his jacket. “His type is always armed.”

  “Thanks.” Jessup’s voice betrayed a hint of irritation. “I was just getting to that.”

  “He’s from South Texas.” I pulled up my denim shirt, displaying the butt of my Browning. “Probably working for one of the border cartels. Have you checked him out at all?”

  The uniformed officer moved behind me and pulled my pistol from its holster. He did a quick pat-down and took the Seecamp .32 off my ankle and the Benchmade lock-back knife from my waistband. He also pocketed my cell phone.

  “I am insulted.” Rundell puffed up. “I am an honorary member of the Houston Police Auxiliary.”

  “Where’s your decoder ring?” I balled my fist.

  Rundell’s face clouded for just a moment. Jessup opened the front door and said, “Let’s go.”

  They put me in the backseat of the unmarked unit. Rundell got in the red Mercedes. He followed us to the Jack Evans Police Headquarters, a shiny new building just south of downtown, not too far from Lucas Linville’s place.

  During the ten-minute ride, I tried to initiate conversation with Jessup, but he wouldn’t respond.

  They stuck me in a windowless room on the third floor. It could have been a conference area for a midlevel company. A large mirror dominated the wall on one side of the room. A framed NO SMOKING sign hung on the opposite wall. The place smelled like fresh paint. The carpet looked brand-new, and the seats around the lacquered wooden table were upholstered leather.

  Interview rooms had come a long way. I tried to recall the last one I had seen. Albuquerque, maybe. Something to do with a former high school buddy and a redheaded call girl.

  Ten minutes stretched to twenty and then forty-five. Almost an hour after leaving me there, three people entered. Jessup and two guys in blue suits. He introduced them as assistant district attorneys. They looked as if they were about twelve. They sat on either side of the detective.

  “You need anything?” Jessup smiled. “A cup of coffee?”

  “Am I charged with a crime?”

  Blue Suit One scribbled something on a yellow pad.

  “Not at the moment, no.” Jessup kept the pleasant expression on his face, trying for the good cop effect. It might have worked if I hadn’t been aware of how big a hard-ass he could be.

  Blue Suit One pushed the pad in front of Jessup. He ignored it. “Yesterday morning a Mr. Carlos Jimenez was found in his room with his throat cut. Guy been worked over pretty bad. Fingers broken. R
eal messy.”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “You think you need one for some reason?”

  I didn’t reply.

  The two blue suits leaned behind Jessup and had a whispered conversation. When they were finished, Blue Suit Two jotted something on his yellow pad. He paused, squinted at me, and wrote some more stuff.

  “Let’s be reasonable here.” Jessup leaned back in his chair. “We’ve got two people who can place you at the scene.”

  “My lawyer. Here. Now.” I spoke softly so there would be no misunderstanding. One of the witnesses had to be the purple-suit-wearing pimp, not the most reliable of testimony.

  “Hank, this is just a friendly visit.” Jessup smiled again. “Let’s run through the whole thing and see if we can make sense of what all happened.”

  “There’s nothing to run through,” I said. “Are you denying me the right to counsel?”

  Blue Suit Two tapped his notepad and looked at Jessup.

  “We can get your lawyer.” Jessup quit smiling and waved a dismissive hand at the suit. “That’s the hard way. And that will make me want to fuck with you when we’re through. You don’t want that, now do you?”

  The room grew very quiet. He was right: A homicide detective at a big-city police force could make my life very unhappy if he so chose.

  I shrugged but didn’t say anything.

  Jessup leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. “Where were you yesterday morning?”

  I told him. Everything except finding Carlos’s still-steaming corpse. I was sure that not reporting a dead body was against the law and would cause the suits to get acne or something. I told him I had knocked on the door but no one answered. Then I told them who I saw on the stairway. Bullet Head, now identified as one Jesus Rundell.

  “What was he doing there?” I said.

  “You’re not the one asking questions.” Jessup steepled his fingers and looked at me.

  “The guy is a professional creep. He leaves a trail of slime wherever he goes.”

  “He’s a cop.”

  “He’s in the police auxiliary.” I slammed the table. “There’s a slight difference.”