by Joel Travis
“Need a ride?” he asked again.
“I’m taking the bus.”
“Is that it?” he asked, pointing at a bus which had pulled up to the bus stop. “Looks like you’re going to miss that one. Hop in, we’ll catch him at his next stop.”
I knew hitchhiking was dangerous, but I couldn’t remember whether it was dangerous for the driver or the hitchhiker. I wondered if he had candy in the car. That’s how I felt, like I was walking home from school and a nice man wanted me to ride in his cool car.
“Get in,” he said, “before it’s too late.”
I wondered what he meant by that. I went around to the passenger side and hopped in. If he was evil he would kill me whether I accepted the ride or not. Might as well take the free ride.
“Thanks, I appreciate this,” I said.
“No trouble at all.”
At the next stop we caught up to the bus. We passed the bus.
“That’s my bus back there,” I said. “You don’t need to take me all the way home.”
“I’m not taking you home.”
I swallowed some air. “Where are you taking me?”
“Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“Well, this is your lucky day. Lunch and drinks are on me.”
Funny, it didn’t feel like my lucky day. “You’re taking me to lunch?”
“That okay with you?”
“Not really. I don’t even know you.”
“I’m Carl,” he said. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and offered it to me. I felt stupid shaking it, but I was taught to shake hands with anyone who wanted to shake.
“I’m Brit,” I said. “I have a feeling you already knew that.”
“Sit back, relax, enjoy the ride.”
He turned the music on again. I bobbed my head to the beat. He started to bob his head, too. Two cool dudes listening to cool tunes on their way to lunch. Seemed perfectly normal, but it wasn’t.
We took the tollway south to downtown Dallas. I tried to think of who might have sent Carl to pick me up and take me downtown. Guys like Carl work for guys like Cesar. I shuddered at the thought. I didn’t want to have lunch with Cesar. Bad for the digestion.
But Carl had picked me up on Cynthia’s street. How would Cesar have known I could be found there? Maybe it wasn’t Cesar who sent Carl. Maybe it was Sergio, wanting to know why I had visited his wife two of the last three days. A nosey neighbor could have tipped him off. If Sergio was a jealous husband, I didn’t want to have lunch with him, either.
We pulled to a stop on San Jacinto, outside a hovel of a bar—a small wooden shack across the street from the downtown bus depot. I had seen the bar before, always wondering why it hadn’t been demolished to make room for a skinny skyscraper.
Carl opened the bar’s heavy metal door and shoved me through the doorway. I went sprawling, landing on all fours. I crawled a few feet, hoping to avoid a kick in the tail from Carl’s pointy black shoe. There was an undignified aspect to my entrance. I had crawled out of bars before, but never in.
The bar I crawled into was a dump, just as I had expected. A small room with a bar and stools, two wooden tables, two booths at the back, a silent jukebox, and two bare light bulbs screwed into ceiling sockets. No bartender behind the bar; no skank waitress to greet and seat. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I looked around the room to see who was hosting this luncheon.
#
I often hear people commenting on what a small world it is. Speaking as someone who has no car, I can assure you that the world is plenty big. And yet, as I looked around the bar, I had to admit that the world is not so big that you won’t run into folks from your past in the strangest places.
I recognized the man leaning against the back wall. The wife-beater shirt, the huge arms, and the telltale tattoos—one scorpion and one Satan—which I remembered from the municipal golf course. It was him all right, the redneck golfer whose tee shot had struck Sheila’s leg on the first fairway. The same redneck who’d attacked me just because I’d told him to keep his balls away from my wife. The very man who might have killed me with his bare hands if I hadn’t fought him off with a three-iron until the club pro kicked us off the course without a refund.
The redneck didn’t seem to recognize me without my sporty golf visor. He nodded at Carl, but that was his only sign of recognition. I rose to my feet and looked back at Carl so the redneck couldn’t get a good look at my face.
“Where’s he at?” Carl asked the redneck.
“Men’s room.”
“Let him know we’re here.”
The redneck nodded again, a more agreeable fellow than I remembered from the golf course. He ducked into the back hallway.
“Who’s in the men’s room?” I asked.
“From now on, you speak only when spoken to. You got that?”
I nodded like the redneck had done. Carl grabbed my collar and lifted me off my feet.
“I said to speak when you’re spoken to!”
My constricted collar felt like a noose. “Okay,” I choked out in a hoarse voice.
He released me and gave me a shove. “Go sit in the booth at the back.”
“I’ll save you a seat,” I said.
The redneck came out of the hallway and went behind the bar. I slid into the back booth, facing Carl and the front door, my back to the hallway.
I heard footsteps behind me. Carl smiled. I didn’t smile back. All I could think about was how my head was sticking up above the booth and how easy it would be for the man behind me to put a gun up to the back of my head and squeeze the trigger. I made a sudden movement, lowering my head as I reached across the table for the salt. I tried to make it look like I really needed the salt fast, but it must have come off like I was nervous and afraid, because all three men laughed.
Carl said, “I followed him from his brother’s house. He took three buses, walked to a three-story house and went inside for a couple of hours. When he came out, I picked him up on the street.”
I expected to hear someone say, “Good work, Carl.” But Carl got no credit. I figured he must be one of those under-appreciated thugs who everybody in the organization knows will never quit no matter how he’s treated, because he enjoys the work and it fits his personality.
I was dying to know who was standing behind me. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck. I thought I might turn my head around and nod confidently, like I wasn’t surprised to see who he was. Like I was one step ahead of the game. Upon further contemplation, I discarded that plan. Maybe the man behind me didn’t want me to know who he was. Once I knew his identity, he might have no choice but to kill me. My new plan was to respect his privacy and speak only when spoken to.
#
I know of no man on earth who can intimidate me. Had I known who was standing behind me, literally breathing down my neck, I would have had no fear, regardless of who he was. Even if I heard him start up a chainsaw, I would have feared only the chainsaw, not the man. But I didn’t know who was standing behind me, so the natural instinct fear of the unknown overtook my nervous system, forcing me to shake like the last leaf on the tree.
A wise President once warned that we have nothing to fear but fear itself. Of course, that’s what fear of the unknown is—fear itself in its most frightening form. The President was wise to be afraid. For it is not the weird Scoutmaster sleeping in our tent that scares us as children, but the ghost we think we hear calling out in the night, dancing his freakish jig just outside the tent’s flimsy flap.
Some men might have broken down under the pressure and cried like a baby. Others might have broken up and laughed like a mental patient. But I am not a man who crumbles in the face of adversity. I had my wits about me. First, I realized that the air blowing down my neck was not coming from the man behind me, but from the ceiling fan. Next, I realized that I was not facing certain death. If the goal was to kill me, Carl wouldn’t have brought me to a public place. He’d have taken me t
o a deserted warehouse or alley, not a crappy bar where some derelict might stumble in for a drink.
I was beginning to feel better when my peripheral vision detected movement to my right. Someone was walking around the booth to take the seat opposite me. He squeezed his huge gut into the booth, such a tight fit that I wondered how he would ever get out again. Cesar looked the same as always—strong as an ox and poorly groomed, except for the neatly trimmed mustache. A wild mane of hair framed his greasy, pockmarked face.
“Two beers!” he called out.
The redneck poured out two draft beers. He came over and set one down gingerly in front of Cesar. Then he slammed the other mug down in front of me, causing beer to splatter my face. I wondered if he had remembered me from our altercation on the golf course. Probably not. You can’t expect a redneck to remember every fight he’s ever had.
“Thank you,” I said, wiping the suds from my face.
Carl approached our booth. “You want me to stick around?” he asked Cesar.
“Fuck off.”
Carl fucked off, leaving through the front door.
“Drink up, little man,” Cesar said.
I took a sip, wondering if the redneck had slipped something poisonous into my mug. Cesar chugged his beer down. I smiled politely.
“You think this is funny?” he said. “You think I won’t cut your balls off?”
“I don’t think … think it’s funny,” I said. “It’s not funny. Don’t cut my balls off, Cesar.”
Cesar slammed his empty mug down on the table. “You think you can screw me over and just go on with your life?”
“No, of course not. If you’re referring to my deathbed confession, you have to understand that I was under heavy medication—”
“Shut up!” He leaned across the table. “Now you listen to me, little man. The vice detective, Forest Gardner. He’s a friend of yours, right?”
“My brother’s friend. I don’t know him too well. Never really got to know him.”
“You know my secretary, Sylvia. She says Gardner has been coming around my office. I don’t want him coming around anymore. Understand?”
“I understand. Thing is, he’s not under my control.”
“You tell your detective friend that you made up everything you said in your confession because you had a grudge against me. Tell him I had nothing to do with your gambling racket.”
“He won’t believe it.”
“Make him believe, Brit.”
I noticed he’d addressed me by my name, instead of calling me “little man” again. For some reason this lifted my confidence. Cesar needed my help with Forest, which meant that he needed me to be alive. I felt this gave me enough leverage to cut a deal before he cut my balls off.
“Maybe we can make a deal,” I said.
“You’re something else,” he said, shaking his head. He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket. I had a few seconds to think while he was lighting up. Once again, I called on my wits. No response from the wits.
Cesar tilted his head back and blew smoke at the ceiling fan. “What’s the deal?”
“I refuse to discuss it with your friend over there eavesdropping.”
Cesar told the redneck to get lost. The redneck followed Carl’s example and went out the front door.
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “The police will soon haul me in for questioning, thanks to whoever framed me for murder.” I paused so he could jump in and confess that he was the one who had framed me, in case he wanted to take credit for a job well done.
“What murder?” he said.
“Melvin Hedgeway’s murder.”
“Melvin Hedgeway is dead?”
“He’s been missing for a year,” I said. “Ever since he placed that insane bet with me.”
Cesar smiled, puffing on the cigar.
“Cesar, you and I both know you would never have approved a bet for a hundred grand. I didn’t want to go behind your back, but I couldn’t pass up a sucker bet.”
“No sucker can.”
“Okay, so I lost. Funny thing is, Hedgeway never tried to collect. Unless he tried to collect from you.”
“Why would he try a fool thing like that?”
“Hedgeway used to place his bets with you before I came onboard. Probably lost his ass. I figure he’d get some satisfaction out of collecting from the man who’d won thousands of dollars from him in the old days. Besides, he’d know I wouldn’t have a hundred grand stashed under my mattress. You’re the money man.”
“I wouldn’t have paid off your sucker bet.”
“Yeah, I know. But what if he didn’t know? What if he threatened to go to the cops and take down your whole operation unless you paid him?”
“Never happened.”
“And I suppose your brother never followed me to Las Vegas.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You saw Julio in Vegas?”
“Couldn’t miss him. He was lurking in the hallway right outside my room.”
“What did he want?”
I was getting nowhere, so I switched the subject back to the police.
“Your name is bound to come up when the cops interrogate me, because my motive for murdering Hedgeway is the bet I lost while I was working for you. I’ll be expected to spill my guts and cut a deal to testify against you in exchange for immunity on the gambling charges. That would get me off the hook for the illegal gambling, so all they’d have me for is murder. You’d be on the hook for organizing and financing an illegal gambling organization. To build a case against you, they’d probe into all your business dealings, financial transactions—”
“Just tell me the deal,” Cesar said.
“The way I see it, it would be to our advantage if I was never interrogated. The only way I can avoid it, however, is if I clear my name by finding Hedgeway’s killer.”
“Where do I come in?”
“You’re already in,” I said. “I know you’re mixed up in this somehow. If you didn’t kill Hedgeway, you’d be wise to tell me what you know.”
Cesar puffed on the cigar as he reached a decision.
“Okay,” he said, “but you’re not going to like it.”
Chapter 16
Whenever someone says “you’re not going to like it” to me, I brace myself for the worst. It’s amazing the way folks know what I won’t like. Not once have I ever liked what came after “you’re not going to like it.”
Personally, I don’t use that introductory phrase when I deliver bad news. I always get straight to the point, as in: “I ran over your cat. He’s dead.” I figure the sooner the other fellow gets the bad news, the sooner he can start restructuring his life.
Cesar said, “Before I tell you what I know, give me the book.”
“What book?”
“The book you recorded your bets in while you were working for me.”
“Oh, that book. My betbook.”
“You don’t need it anymore.”
Apparently, Cesar didn’t know that Marty had the betbook. I saw no need to tell him.
“Someone broke into my gym locker and swiped the book while I was in the hospital recovering from the car crash. I assumed that someone was you. If you don’t have it, who does?”
He slammed his massive fist on the table. “Don’t fuck with me, little man!”
“Are you saying your guys didn’t break into my locker?”
“The book was gone,” Cesar said.
“Well, I don’t have it.”
“You know where it is.”
“I wish I did.”
“How would you like to go on another ride with Carl?”
“Look, Cesar, that book can be used as evidence against both of us. I want to find it as much as you do. I really hoped you had it.”
“Then the police have it,” he said.
“I don’t think so. If the police had it, Detective Gardner wouldn’t need to drop by your office hoping to ask you a few questions. He’d have tangible evidence. You
’d have been dragged in for questioning by now.”
Cesar smoked his cigar as he pondered the situation. Meanwhile, I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my forehead to the tip of my nose. I twitched my nose, but the drop wouldn’t budge. I could feel additional sweat forming on my forehead. If Cesar noticed me sweating, I was a goner. He’d assume, quite correctly, that I was lying my ass off.
“You’re sweating like a pig,” he said.
“It’s hot as hell in here, Cesar.”
“It’s not hot where I’m sitting. And you’re sitting right under the fan. You’re not sweating because it’s hot.”
“Of course I am,” I said as sweat poured from every pore.
He shook his head. “You started sweating after you said you didn’t have the book. After I asked if you wanted Carl to take you for a ride.” He put the cigar out. “I’ve been sitting here trying to decide if you were telling the truth. Watching you sweat.”
My face was drenched—an incriminating mixture of sweat and tears.
“Wasn’t hard to decide,” Cesar said. “You’re telling the truth.”
“I am?”
“You don’t have the book. If you did, you’d have offered to hand it over when I threatened to send you out with Carl. You didn’t know where the book was, so you started to sweat in fear for your life. You’ve always been a chicken-hearted little man.”
I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that my reputation as a chicken-hearted man had finally paid off after all these years. Of course, I am not a chicken-hearted man. That may be my reputation, but a reputation is only everyone else’s opinion of you. They can’t look inside you to see what’s really there. If they could look inside me, they’d see the heart of a lion lodged inside the chicken heart.
#
“Hedgeway came to my office one day,” Cesar said. “I hadn’t seen him in years.”
“When was this?”
“When did you say he disappeared?”
“A year ago,” I said. “Last November.”
“It was about … about six months before that. May or June.”
“What did he want?”
