Bino's Blues

by A. W. Gray

  But somehow, through all the porno tapes, booze, and bullshit, Murphy had been right. Not on purpose, not by a long shot; Kinder was certain that Murphy hadn’t given a hoot whether the price on the Avco options went up or not, so long as he received his commish on the deal. But an early summer merger had brought about a two-for-one split, and Pete Kinder’s fifty-grand investment was now worth a quarter of a million. It was his only remaining asset except for a checking account that now contained six hundred bucks. Six hundred, that is, if the condo owners did their usual farting around with Kinder’s two-thousand-dollar check and didn’t deposit it for a month or so. If the condo people tried to negotiate the check anytime soon, Pete Kinder was going to be living in the street.

  A man came out of Wick, Hamill & Co.’s inner offices. He looked Middle Eastern, with pinched features and olive-com-plexioned skin, and wore a dark three-piece Armani suit. He hurried through the reception area with his briefcase banging against his leg, and didn’t glance in Kinder’s direction. Bobbi watched the visitor leave as if she was sizing up his bankroll, then pressed a button on the switchboard. In a few seconds she said, “Mr. Kinder to see you.” Then, in hushed tones loud enough for Kinder to hear, she said, “No, there’s no one. Come on, Larry, that’s not my job!’ She pressed another button and said to Kinder, “You can go on in,” then pointedly ignored him. Kinder avoided looking at her as he went on in.

  • • •

  Larry Murphy kept his ankles crossed on the corner of his desk as he considered his choices. The toe of one of his gray lizard boots was scuffed; he rubbed the marred spot on the back of his pants leg. He cradled the phone between his neck and shoulder and trimmed his nails with a silver clipper.

  “Anybody with him, Bobbi?” Murphy said. He brushed a quarter moon of fingernail from his dove gray slacks.

  “No, there’s no one,” Bobbi said.

  “Well, find out what he wants. Shake your ass at him, he’ll follow you anywhere.”

  “Come on, Larry, that’s not my job.”

  Murphy punched the keys on his computer terminal and pressed the enter button. He frowned. Damn, that Avco was up another point, which would make Kinder’s stash around two and a half. Lessee, five percent of that … Touchy situation, Larry-boy, too many players sweating indictments for any smart broker to let the word get around he’s swinging with Pete Kinder. Still, shit on a stick, five percent of …

  “Send him on in, Bobbi,” Murphy said. A man with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, jutting cheekbones, and a pointed chin, he hung up, stood, and packed his tapered shirttail deeper beneath his waistband. On his wall were two ornate silver picture frames. One enclosed a certificate for his lifetime endowment membership in the S.M.U. Mustang Booster Club; in the other frame was a color photo of Murphy himself in a foursome at the Byron Nelson Classic Pro-Am, along with Lee Trevino, Mickey Mantle, and Bino Phillips. Murphy sat down and folded his hands on his desk in a businesslike posture. His brows knitted as he reached down to rattle his bottom drawer. Locked. There were videotapes of Deep Throat and The Devil in Miss Jones in the drawer along with some recorded conversations with investors who hadn’t known they were being taped. Tools of the trade. Visible through his picture window, sunlight filtered through the light Dallas smog. The spire on top of the old Mercantile Bank Tower was blurred in haze. The door swung open and Pete Kinder came in. He looks like death warmed over, Murphy thought. He flashed a grin, stood, and extended a hand, “dome in this house, old podnuh.”

  Kinder’s grip was fish-limp. He sank into a padded armchair.

  “Oil’s down to eleven a barrel,” Murphy said, sitting. “Got ’em jumping out windows. Fuckin’ Ann Richards, if that woman’s elected governor come November the oilmen are all dead meat. But that’s not your problem, Pete-boy, your Avco’s solid as a rock. What’d I tell you when you bought it, huh?”

  Kinder’s eyes were hay fever watery. “I’ve got to get right to the point, Larry. The shitstorm I’ve gotten into is draining me. I need to dump everything. I’m at bedrock and I need cash.”

  “Gosh amighty, Pete, I sure hate to hear that. Damn those feds, it’s getting to where a man can’t make an honest buck any more.” Murphy frowned. “You know, what’s in your name, it’s not all yours.”

  “I’m not talking what I’ve got invested for other guys. Just mine. Just that Avco. The other stuff, I’ll let it lay.”

  “With Rusty’s okay I’d—”

  “Nope,” Kinder said. “The Avco, that’s all.”

  Murphy produced a form and a gold ballpoint. “Sure, Pete. You know how it works, old podnuh. Just gimme your John Henry on this sell order and it’s a done deal. Getcha a check, less commish, in four working days.” He slid the form over in front of Kinder.

  “Well, there’s a problem.” Kinder’s voice wavered slightly. “The four days isn’t soon enough. I need some sort of advance, Larry. Not much, a couple of thou to tide me over till the big check comes. The bail bondsman got damn near my last nickel.”

  Murphy tilted back and clasped his hands behind his head. “That’s a tough one, podnuh. It’s flat-out against SEC regs for us to … ”

  “I’ll pay interest.” Kinder licked his lips.

  Murphy sat forward. Kinder’s problems, he thought, were nothing short of tough shit. Play with the big boys … “You checked this out with Rusty?” Murphy said.

  “Nope. Five hundred. Two grand gets twenty-five hundred.”

  Murphy relaxed as he thought it over. Haste makes shrinking bankrolls. The money would come to Murphy’s office, and there was no way for Kinder to cash the check and make the dodge without paying him. “I guess I could do it personally, Pete,” Murphy said.

  “Done,” Kinder said.

  While Kinder signed the sell order, Murphy took a Dallas Cowboys money clip bulging with currency from his pocket. He counted out twenty crisp new hundreds, popping each one in turn, and shoved the money over in front of Kinder. The soft round guy’s gaze was on the Pro-Am photo. As he shoved the bills into his pocket without counting them, Kinder said, “I saw that guy last night.”

  Murphy felt a twinge of panic. “Mickey Mantle? You talked to the Mick?” Shit on a stick, Mantle was into the options, and doing business with Pete Kinder could easily queer deals with guys like Mickey Mantle.

  “Not him,” Kinder said. “The tall guy.”

  Murphy’s forehead softened in relief. “Oh, Bino. Bino Phillips, I went to college with the guy. He’s a lawyer.”

  “Of course he’s a lawyer,” Kinder said. “All I’ve met lately is lawyers. The guy told me to cop a plea, Larry, he’s the only one that’s told me that. The other guys all want to try the case, at four million dollars an hour or some shit. What do you know about the guy?” He squinted at the photo.

  Murphy studied Bino’s image as well, the slightly jutted jaw with a determined set about it, the steady blue eyes under a hank of white short-cut hair. Murphy scratched his chin. “Well, I’ll tell you, podnuh,” he said seriously. “If Bino Phillips told me something, I’d put a lot of stock in it. Not many lawyers would I say that about. But that guy, yeah.”

  8

  BINO STOPPED AND CASHED A CHECK. THEN HE HAD LUNCH AT Bek’s, a cafeteria-style eatery in the tunnel beneath One Main Place featuring greasy hamburgers dripping with chili, and finally headed on to the Davis Building. An old woman in a ragged dress had set up a display in front of the building entry. Laid out on a rolling cart were bunches of pink and yellow roses wrapped in wax paper, and red and orange azaleas in plastic pots. Bino paid two-fifty for six yellow roses, then rode up on the elevator sniffing the flowers’ fragrance until he noticed another passenger—a tall, thin pimply kid in a UPS uniform—giving him funny looks. Bino let the roses hang down by his side and riveted his gaze on the far wall. The kid snickered as Bino exited the car.

  Outside his office Bino threw open the door an
d stayed out in the hall. He thrust the roses inside across the threshold with a flourish as he sang out, “Da-daa” He stood in place for fifteen seconds, waving the flowers around, then peeked around the doorjamb. No Dodie. The reception area was vacant.

  Bino thought, Oh. Then, feeling sort of stupid, he dropped the roses on her desk and went on inside to flop down in his swivel chair. To hell with her, she could find water for the damned flowers on her own. The walk to and from the federal building, coupled with the double-meat cheeseburger he’d eaten, had done a lot to clear the cobwebs from his brain. Nonetheless his head throbbed just enough for him to feel sorry for himself, so he sat for a while and did so.

  He considered checking the machine for call messages, mainly because he suspected that Half-a-Point Harrison might be trying to get in touch, but just thinking about Half out there in Vegas with all those showgirls and galloping dominoes caused a sharp pang of jealousy. Nope, to hell with the messages. Right now Bino wanted Dodie and no one else; wanted her to tell him how great he was as a lawyer, and to nod agreement while he sounded off about what a horse’s ass Goldman was for trying to put the screws to Tommy Clinger. That’s what Bino needed, a sounding board. Where the hell was Dodie when he needed her?

  Dodie’s soft voice now drifted in from the reception area. “Wow, it was delicious. Call me later, huh?” Honey literally dripped from her tone. Seconds later she said, “Whee, flowers. Bino, did you … ?” She came in sniffing the roses, carrying the wax paper bundle in both hands. “They’re beautiful. Thanks, boss.”

  Bino folded his hands and put on his most serious look. “Sit, Dode. We need to have a talk.”

  She sat across from him and blinked expectantly. “Okay.”

  “It’s these lunch periods,” he said. “They seem pretty lengthy.”

  Her grip on the flowers tightened. “It was only an hour, and it takes fifteen minutes of that to walk all the way to the West End. The new crabmeat and oyster bar. I made Robert hustle through his meal so fast that the poor thing’s probably got indigestion, because I was in such a hurry to get back here and hold down the fort while you were in Lieutenant Clinger’s hearing. Which, by the way, why aren’t you?”

  “They put the case off, and that’s a long story,” he said. “But that’s not what’s under discussion here. It’s you leaving in the middle of the day with God-knows-who and—”

  “Now hold on, Mr. Phillips. I’m not neglectful.”

  “And what about this Robert? Who the hell is this guy?”

  She looked down at her lap. When she raised her head she showed an impish grin. “So that’s it. Wow, I didn’t know you were so interested in my private life. Most of the time I’d have to get down on all fours and trip you before you’d notice I was around.”

  He folded his arms. “Well, I am interested.”

  “Well, why don’t you start showing it, then?” There was a flush in her cheeks, visible through her light makeup.

  “I do show it,” Bino said. “I’m … well, sure, I’m interested, Dode. I’ve got a lot invested in you.”

  Her smile faded. “Invested? I’m not some piece of property, sir. Away from this office I’ll do what I want.” The roses were taking a beating as she drummed them angrily against her thigh.

  “I don’t mean that you’re a piece of property, Dodie, I just—” He stopped in midsentence as the phone rang. “Let the machine take it. I’m not through,” Bino said.

  “Oh, yes you are.” She reached across his desk to snatch his receiver up. Her tone a bit huffy, she said into the mouthpiece, “Lawyer’s office,” and then listened and placed her clenched hand on her hip and said stiffly, “May I ask who’s calling?” Her eyebrow arched. She thrust the phone at him. As if each word were snipped off with scissors, she said, “It’s Carla something-or-other.”

  The look on Dodie’s face gave Bino a real charge. Robert, huh? Into the phone he cooed, “Yes?”

  “Toodle-ooo,” Carla said. “Have you recovered?” Dammit, Bino thought, where does she get her energy?

  He said, a little too loudly, reveling in satisfaction as he watched Dodie’s backside twitch as she stalked back to her desk, “Carla? Great, great. Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Is there something wrong with your phone?” Carla said. “You’re about to puncture my eardrum.”

  “No, the phone’s all right. What’s new?” Bino said.

  “I just called to tell you you must be my lucky charm. We’ve got a new gig.”

  “A what? Has somebody filed a complaint?”

  “No, silly,” she said. “Gig. Job. Four nights at the Hyatt Regency Skyroom in Houston. Not just hard rock, either, show tunes and dance music. You wouldn’t be-lieve the money. We start tonight.”

  Bino thought, Houston? Small world, half of the people he knew seemed to be going to Houston. He said, “Well, it could be that I’ll have some business down in the bayou.”

  “And it could be that I’ll shanghai you down there even if you don’t,” Carla said. “Two-thirty flight, Southwest Airlines?”

  He pictured her panty-covered rump as she’d boogied across his living room floor to Harry Chapin. “I’ll be there,” he said.

  “I’ll be waiting,” Carla said. She hung up.

  He sat there for a moment with a dumb-looking grin on his face, then went out into the reception room and said to Dodie, “I’ll be out of town a few days. Listen, call Rusty Benson’s office for me. Leave him a message that if he needs me I’ll be at the Hyatt Regency, downtown Houston.”

  “I wouldn’t take my briefcase if I were you,” Dodie said. “It might have a bomb in it that’ll blow you all to hell.” She looked through her Rolodex, found Rusty’s number, and furiously punched the buttons on the phone. Bino hoped that she didn’t break a finger.

  It was straight-up two o’clock when he made the curve off Mockingbird Lane and entered the Love Field access road, rolling along between billboards announcing that Southwest Airlines loved you, that Hertz gave you a better deal than Avis, and that Budget had both competitors nailed to the wall. In the long-term parking area he nestled the Line in between a Dodge Caravan and a green Mazda. He strolled into the terminal with his suitbag over his shoulder like William Holden in Picnic. All at once he spotted Carla. She looked fit to be tied. In the middle of the terminal’s marble-tiled floor was a world map the size of a handball court. Carla had her feet planted somewhere in the vicinity of Topeka, Kansas. Her hands were balled into little fists and resting on her hips. Her lips were pouty and her almond-shaped eyes were narrowed. Beside her were three suitcases the size of dressers, and at her feet sat a round leather cosmetics case with a strap attached.

  She said, “You took your time. Smokes.”

  He eyed the suitcases. “Did you say four nights at the Hyatt Regency, or four months? Jesus Christ … ”

  “Ha, ha. They’re costumes, mostly. And it’s going to be zero nights if we don’t get a move on. Come on, hurry. The boys are already at the gate. Dondi thinks you’re a narc.”

  He wondered if he could lift any one of the suitcases, much less all three. Backache City, he thought. Then he grabbed a dolly and breathed heavily as he tugged her luggage aboard. Between huffs and puffs he said, “Well, why didn’t the boys load this stuff? There’s four of the boys and only one of me. Who thinks I’m a narc?”

  “They had plenty to do,” she said, “loading all those drums and bass guitars and amps and whatnot. Dondi. You know, the Elton John type with the big rose-colored glasses. The drummer, does the vocals with me. It’s five after, Bino. God.” She wore jeans with puffed legs and six-inch stitched cuffs.

  “Yeah, okay, I’m going,” he said, pushing the cart toward the ticket counter. Behind the counter were chic young women in orange and yellow Southwest Airlines uniforms, selling tickets, tagging luggage, and pointing directions to the proper gates with manicured nails. Carl
a jiggled along beside him, taking two steps to his one in an effort to keep pace. Bino said, “I got to tell you that hurts my feelings. Hell, a narc doesn’t look like a narc. If he did he’d never get to bust anybody. A narc looks like Serpico. You ever see Serpico?

  She giggled. “Tell Dondi that. I even told him you liked to toot some yourself once in a while, just to set him at ease. He goes, ‘Yeah? Anybody see him?’ I’m like, ‘No,’ and he goes, ‘See? Get him on the witness stand and he’ll lie about it.’ He wants me to feel you up to see if you’re wearing a body mike.”

  “Jesus Christ, Carla, you told him I like to toot? How do you know he’s not a narc?”

  They checked the luggage—the Southwest Airlines lady almost lost her smile when she got a load of Carla’s suitcases— then charged up the ramp, through the security checkpoint, and reached the gate just as the passengers were starting to board. The Creepers, minus Carla, were already in line waving their boarding passes. All four musicians wore blue blazers. Now Bino remembered Dondi, a short, pink-cheeked guy with shoulder-length hair, wearing rose-tinted glasses with lenses the size of dinner plates. Visible through the huge plate-glass window, a tractor hauled loaded-down baggage carts alongside a waiting jet. The outer shell of the Boeing Stretch 737 was painted into a caricature likeness of Shamu the Killer Whale.

  Carla said to the musicians, “I told you we’d make it. You guys remember Bino, huh? From last night.”

  Dondi eyed Bino head to toe. “Yeah,” Dondi said. “I talk to him, I’m gonna have witnesses.”

  9

  POLICE CAPTAIN TERRY NOLBY HELD THE PHOTO AT ARM’S length, closed one eye and squinted through the other. “What’s Bino Phillips got to do with anything?”