Buffalo Bayou Blues (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 15)

by George Wier

  “Cover your sister!” I shouted over my shoulder, and noted that Jessica was already shielding Jennifer’s body with her own, even as she screamed at me. I tuned her out.

  I was to the front door and out it as the last panel of glass caved inward and final bullet slammed into the one of the upright supports, sending wood splinters flying.

  The vehicle was a white van, a recent model, and it was already moving down the street and accelerating away. I got the license number—3KJ-M7K—and hurriedly made a meme out of the numbers and letters: “Three Kings and Jacks with Maidens Seven Kneeling.” I repeated it to myself half a dozen times as rapidly as I could until it conjured an image of the same.”

  I ran back inside as the van made the next block up. I was back to the table within seconds.

  “Anybody hurt?” I shouted.

  “I’m okay,” Jennifer said.

  “Jess?” I asked.

  “Uh. Fine. What the fuck?”

  “I know. I know. I shouldn’t have brought you kids, no matter what.”

  “I’m fine,” Cottonmouth said. “Thanks for asking. Bubba?”

  There was no answer.

  “Bubba?” Cottonmouth raised his voice.

  I was moving to Bubba before Cottonmouth could regain his feet.

  The boy stirred and looked up at me. “I’m okay,” he said in a sheepish voice.

  “Don’t scare me like that,” Cottonmouth said.

  “I think,” Jimmy Atwell began, then didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he fell from his chair.

  “Jimmy?” Cottonmouth said. Then he shouted. “Jimmy!”

  I noted the thin trickle of blood from the corner of Jimmy Atwell’s mouth. His eyes stared straight ahead, parallel with the floor.

  Looking down at him, I could see where the bullet had entered his body—somewhere between the fifth and sixth rib. It had likely traveled through one or both of his lungs. Given his general state of health, the odds were against him.

  “Tell Gingie,” he whispered, “that I loved her anyway.”

  I watched as the man died. I had seen people expire before, and it’s always a horrific sight. And yet, in the same instance, it had somehow become anticlimactic to me somewhere over the years. There was no great whoosh as the being departed the body, no salient and singular moment separating life from death. There was only one minute and then the next.

  “I’m sorry, Cottonmouth,” I said. “He’s gone.”

  “Oh no,” Rick said. Somehow he had crept up on us. “He can’t be dead.”

  I knelt and felt Jimmy Atwell’s carotid artery. Nothing. I looked up at Rick and at Cottonmouth and shook my head.

  “Rick,” I said. “Go ahead and call the cops. They probably already know, and will be here in a second anyway.”

  “Did you see who did this?” Jessica asked.

  “Three Kings and Jacks,” I said, “and Maidens Seven Kneeling.”

  “Huh?” Jennifer asked.

  “Repeat it for me,” I told Jessica. “Three Kings and Jacks, and Maidens Seven Kneeling.”

  “Oh. The plates. Three King John Mary Seven King. You should learn your codes, dad. I mean, you’re a Special Texas Ranger.”

  “I’ve got my system. Rick, is there a blanket or something we can cover Mr. Atwell with?”

  Rick nodded. He was already on the phone, and there were tears on his cheeks. His face was red with the loss of his boss; possibly the loss of a friend.

  “You okay, Jennifer?” I asked.

  “I’m okay. Never seen a person die before.”

  “I’m sorry you were here to see it. I’m never taking you anywhere ever again.”

  She came and took me by the hand.

  “What, honey?” I asked, and looked down at her.

  “Sit down, dad,” she said.

  I sat down in Jimmy’s chair. “What is it?”

  “Daddy, don’t you ever run toward danger like that. Ever again. I am so telling mom.”

  “I know you are,” I said. I was suddenly overcome with something. I don’t know whether it was joy, or sadness, or a mingling of both. My daughter was growing up, and she would make a fantastic adult. Also, she was alive, having just survived a harrowing misadventure. To top it all off, she was taking it all in stride, and she was more concerned about her father than she was her own life. I took her in my arms and held her to me, squeezing her tight.

  “Dad,” Jessica said. “We know you love us. Now stop making a scene.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “I love you, too, silly girl. And I’ll make a scene whenever I want.”

  Cottonmouth Dalton slowly arose from his kneeling position next to his fallen friend. He came eye level with me for an instant as I looked over Jennifer’s shoulder and held her tight. His face was frightful.

  “Cottonmouth,” I said, quietly. “What are you going to do?”

  “Enough is enough,” he said. “I’m going to go and kill Dale Horner.”

  “All right,” I said, and grasped his arm. “But first, who is Gingie? I really need to know.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  T he police showed up within minutes and came in with guns drawn. Jessica held up her badge and I held up mine.

  “We’re the victims here,” Jessica said, and gave the cops the license plate I’d given her, and of course she used the correct code format while doing so. “And we have a fatality here.”

  The cops holstered their weapons and came on in.

  “You’ll need the coroner,” I said. “And a couple of homicide detectives.”

  “And who are you?” the policeman asked. “I’d like to take a look at that badge.”

  “Bill Travis,” I said, and handed the officer my wallet. “Here you go. I’m a Special Ranger. The gentleman on the floor is Jimmy Atwell.”

  “I’ll be damned,” the policeman said. “You’re right. It sure is. Everybody knows Mr. Atwell. He was a fixture in Houston when I was a kid. The man knew everyone, and everyone knew him. Who would want to do something like this? Or is this possibly a terrorist action?” The cop was almost silver-haired, and I pegged him at close to fifty years of age.

  “Terrorist? Not to my knowledge,” I said. “I think it’s a plain old garden-variety murder, whether intended or not. Whoever was shooting the place up couldn’t have seen anyone inside through the tinted windows. I figure they wanted to mess up the place so it couldn’t open tonight. Looks like they succeeded.”

  “And how do you know that?” I asked.

  “Because,” Cottonwood said. “We were sitting here when two blues musicians called in and cancelled for tonight’s performance, that’s why. No more than a minute later, the place starts going to hell around us, and Jimmy was dead. The man...saved my life.”

  “Officer,” I said, “this is Mr. Atwell’s best friend, Willard ‘Cottonmouth’ Dalton. He’s a blues musicians and one of Mr. Atwell’s staunchest allies. He was going to be playing and singing tonight.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” the cop said. The nameplate above his badge read: J. Whittaker.

  “What’s the J stand for?” I asked.

  “Oh. Jack.” He held out his hand and I shook it. “How’d you get the license plates of the shooter or shooters?”

  “Because,” Jennifer said, “my father is foolhardy, and runs toward danger. He was running to the door while they were still shooting in here and the rest of us, besides Mr. Atwell, were already on the floor.”

  “Running towards the bullets?” Officer Jack Whittaker said. “Now that sounds just like a Texas Ranger. If you don’t mind, Ranger Travis, that’s going in the report.”

  “It should,” Jennifer said. “Because it’s definitely going in the report to mom.”

  “Officer Whittaker,” I said. “Meet my daughter, Jennifer Travis.”

  Jennifer shook the officer’s hand.

  “I’m his daughter, too,” Jessica said.

  “Law enforcement family,” the younger cop said. “I th
ink I like you people.”

  “Okay,” Whittaker said, and at that moment more cops came rushing in. “Looks like we’re all secure here, fellahs. Somebody call the coroner. We’ll need someone down here from homicide. And get a Justice of the Peace.”

  “Do you know the time of death?” the younger cop asked. His nameplate read: R. Townes.

  “I do, Officer Townes,” Jessica said. “I glanced at my watch the instant he died. Habit.”

  “Good habit,” Whittaker said.

  “I’m ready to go,” Cottonmouth said. “Need to take my grandson home.”

  I turned to look at him, and he apparently read what was on my face, because he plopped down in one of the chairs. “Ah shit,” he said.

  “What is it, grandpa?” Bubba asked.

  “Bill’s face. We’re gonna be here for awhile.”

  *****

  As it turned out, we were there another two hours before we were released. This was somewhat of a record. Having established our bona fides, there was little question into what had led up to us being there at that exact moment, the wrong answer to which would have required several hours of additional questioning, most of it downtown at the precinct in separate interview rooms. As it stood, we were free to go, but not before I was able to lay it on a little thick for the homicide detective who interviewed us all after Officers Whittaker and Townes took their leave to return to duty elsewhere in the city.

  I told the officer about how I suspected Dale Horner, the Chief Executive Officer of Atwell, Inc., as well as the owner-operator of the Blues Palace, the son-in-law of the decedent, and a rival in the entertainment business. I spoke briefly on the subject of having been to Mr. Atwell’s trailer, and of how I had chased off a couple of his security guards.

  The homicide detective, Charles Gresham, jotted down the information as nonchalantly as a meter reader writing out a parking ticket, nodded in all the right places, and thanked me for my service. He took my badge number and the number for the Texas Rangers barracks in Austin, and told me he’d be in touch if he had any information for me or needed to ask me anything. I demurred to comment on the fact that it had become my investigation, and that I was simply being courteous to him.

  We left as the yellow police tape was going up and the sun was going down. There were a lone news truck parked in the intersection behind us, but the street had been blocked off by a couple of traffic barriers—a temporary closure due to the shooting. As we got into the Expedition, we waved to Rick, who was busily sweeping up glass in the front room. I supposed that he would be working most of the night to secure the place: I imagined him having to special order some four-by-eight sheets of plywood to tack up over the broken out windows until a glass company could come and do their bit. But since the owner was dead, I wondered who would be cutting the checks. Was the place rented? And if so, who was the landlord? One question led to another, and they all swirled ‘round and ‘round in my head.

  As Jessica started the engine, I wondered what was going to become of Rick.

  “Where to?” Jessica asked from the driver’s seat.

  “Home,” Cottonmouth said. “Need to drop off Bubba with Delphina.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I need to find a good hotel for my girls. Then you and I can go find Mr. Horner and talk to him. And on the way, you can tell me about Gingie.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Jessica said. “I’d like to hear this story before we are summarily dismissed. I’m kinda tired of talking. Just want to listen.”

  “Yeah,” Jennifer said.

  “Yeah,” Bubba added.

  “What about it, Mr. Dalton?” I asked.

  And so, on the way back to Harrison Street, Cottonmouth told us what he knew.

  *****

  Her name was Virginia Anne Atwell before she married Dale Horner, and Gingie was supposed to be short for Virginia. Apparently, as I suspected, Gingie had been behind the problems between Dale Horner and Jimmy Atwell from the beginning. It was never really simply the conflict between the two men, but instead a father and daughter issue.

  As far as Cottonmouth knew, Gingie blamed her father for the death of her mother. Cottonmouth didn’t know the circumstances surrounding Cynthia Atwell’s death, but he knew about when it had occurred. The moment I heard of it, I knew I had to discover it for myself, which meant speaking with Mrs. Horner.

  He laid all of this on us as the last of the twilight gave way to full dark, and he ceased speaking when we pulled up in front of Delphina’s place—if indeed it was her place.

  Ms. Delphina came out as Bubba and Cottonmouth got out.

  “What happened?” I heard her ask.

  “Jimmy Atwell is dead,” Cottonmouth said.

  She covered her mouth in shock and stopped in her tracks. “No!”

  Cottonmouth nodded. Then we watched as she came to him and the two of them embraced.

  “There’s a history there,” Jessica said.

  “I know it,” I replied. “Been wondering ever since we arrived.”

  And at that precise moment, my cell phone rang.

  *****

  “Where are you, Hank?” I asked. “And how is Ms. Bee doing?”

  “She’s fine,” he said. “We had us a long talk, in person. It was good seeing her, but now I’m coming to the crossroads at I-45 in about five miles, and I was wondering whether I should turn south and meet up with you, or head on back to Austin?”

  “That was a fast meeting. No time for, uh, poetry.”

  “Not much time for that, nope. How are things going down there? Any fires need putting out, or what?”

  As he was saying this—or rather, asking—a hundred things went through my head at once. If I told him about the death of his friend’s friend and benefactor, he would come down. Also, he wouldn’t rest until whoever had done it was either in custody or dead. A host of ill things on the wind could potentially descend upon Harris County, and I didn’t desire in the least to be in the crosshairs, particularly with any portion of my family along for the ride.

  “No fires,” I said. “Everything is fine as frog’s hair.”

  “Well, that’s unusual. In fact, it’s downright peculiar.”

  “Maybe so, but there you go.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t come?”

  “I’m saying that the kids are tired and so am I. We’ll be finding a hotel for the night, and then we’ll be headed home sometime tomorrow. So, you’re welcome to come on, or you can head on home. It’s your call.”

  There was a pause, and I could hear the wheels turning in my friend’s head.

  “Well, I expect I’ll head on home, then. Give Willard my regards, if you would. And my apologies for not coming.”

  “Oh, we settled that out in the first five minutes. And his issues have all been resolved.”

  “Good to hear. Good to hear. All right then.”

  I knew what was coming, and sure enough, the line went dead. That was Hank all over again. His “all right then,” was the same as any other given person’s “Goodbye.”

  I breathed.

  “Dad, you just lied your pants off,” Jessica said.

  “Yeah,” Jennifer asserted.

  “It wasn’t technically lying,” I rejoined. “First of all, he no longer has to help Cottonmouth with his problem, because Jimmy Atwell is no longer among the living. Second of all, I’m already here, so I’ll do what I came to do and get to the bottom of it all. So, the overall fire has been put out.”

  “But a new one’s burning,” Jessica said.

  “Daddy, do you lie to mom and us like that?” Jennifer asked.

  “All the time, honey,” I said. “All the damn time.”

  She smiled and nodded.

  Cottonmouth got back into the Expedition and closed the door.

  “Cottonmouth?” Jennifer asked him.

  “Yes, Miss Travis?” he turned in his seat to look back at her.

  “Is Ms. Delphina your girlfriend?”

 
“Hoo boy, but don’t you ask the questions! Sometimes she is, and sometimes she ain’t.”

  “What about right now?” Jennifer asked.

  “I reckon right now, she just might be.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Jennifer said.

  Jessica reached her hand back and the two of them did their little fist bump.

  “Where are we going now?” Jessica asked.

  “Pull up a Fairfield Inn on that GPS system of yours,” I said. “I’ve got some unused Marriott points on my card, and I can put you kids up in comfort and it not cost me a dime.”

  “After that,” Cottonmouth said, “you and me are going to settle matters. For once and for all.”

  I nodded. I wanted to say something, but the words failed me. Instead, I settled back in my seat as Jessica got us moving forward, and watched the lights of the neighborhood move past us.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I thought of about four phone calls I needed to make and decided to take them one by one. First I called Julie, who hurriedly asked to speak with first Jennifer, and then Jessica. I gritted my teeth as each of them reported that nothing extraordinary had occurred. Patently missing was the fact that we had all been shot at, and that we had all witnessed a man’s death. When the phone came back to me, I decided not to put on my Everything-Is-Just-Peachy voice, and instead sounded the way I felt—bone tired and ready for a long nap. We exchanged the obligatory ‘I love yous’ and hung up.

  Next, I fished out the business card for Houston Police Homicide Detective Charles Gresham. The phone rang several times before he picked it up.

  “Gresham,” he said.

  “Bill Travis. Any luck on that license plate I gave you?”

  “Well, it is registered to Clark Tanis. I have the address, and a couple of uniforms are headed over there now to take a look and see if he’s home, and if he is, they’ll interview him and ask to see his van. If he won’t comply with that, I have a sergeant ready to walk in to see a judge and have a warrant issued to inspect it. Also, if Mr. Tanis’s demeanor is less than agreeable, he’ll be hauled in and the van impounded. I’ll keep you posted on that, if you’d like.”