Bino's Blues

by A. W. Gray

  “We don’t know, Terry,” an FBI agent said. “We were kind of hoping you’d tell us.”

  Nolby stood from behind his desk and yanked the pull cord; the drapes parted with a rasping sound and waved in reflex from the curtain rod. Sudden additional light flooded the office. Three floors below, a huge sign featured a man parachuting out of a jail window underneath the caption “easy out bail bonds.” Next door to the bond office was another sign announcing that john p. lovelady, attorney specialized in drunk driving and burglary cases. Fucking bloodsucker, Nolby thought. “Phillips and Rusty Benson are lawyers,” he said. “Maybe the other guy’s a lawyer, too. Three shysters out on the town. So what?”

  “You’re not helping, Terry,” a second agent said. “The other guy we already know. Kinder. He’s under federal indictment.”

  “So? Half the world’s under federal indictment. He’s joined the crowd.” Nolby wore a long-sleeve white shirt and pale yellow tie along with an empty shoulder holster. His underarms were soaked with perspiration.

  “We thought that’s why we were having this talk,” the first agent said, “because you wanted out of the crowd.”

  “Look, Mr. Federal,” Nolby said, “you told me you wanted to talk about Tommy Clinger. So okay, I’ll talk Clinger. What’s that got to do with Bino Phillips having a drink with Rusty and some other asshole?” Beneath Nolby’s pointed nose, his lips twitched nervously.

  One agent, tall and thin, sat in a chair before Nolby’s desk. His partner, short with a thick head and wavy blond hair, rested one hip on the table which held the coffeepot. The tall agent fished in his inside breast pocket and produced another photo. “Look this one over, Terry,” he said. “Call it family album day.”

  Nolby stroked his underarm. The short agent wrinkled his nose and averted his gaze. Nolby picked up and studied the photo. Then he went back to his desk, retrieved the other picture, and held the two glossies side by side. “That’s the same table, isn’t it?” Nolby said. “In both pictures?”

  “Right on,” the thin agent said. “The second was taken just a few minutes after Benson left with Kinder. You know the woman?”

  Nolby shook his head. “I mean, you said this was Arthur’s. Didn’t you? The fuck I know about Arthur’s? Two bucks for a beer, I never even been inside the joint. You want to talk bars, talk to me about one of the beer joints over on Columbia Street, what I can afford. So maybe Bino Phillips was trying to get a little pussy. Who knows?” He handed both photos back to the agent. “Couple of massage parlors, maybe a poker game or two, yeah. That I can give you. But Arthur’s, for God’s sake … ”

  “Terry, you’re beginning to sound awfully stupid.” The short agent raised his navy blue coattails and shoved his hands into his back pockets. His hair was parted on the left and he wore glasses with clear plastic frames. “You think we’re giving you all this immunity and getting you reinstated on this police force so we can get Tommy Fucking Clinger? We got him already, Terry, and you, too. Listen, you know what happens to cops in the federal prison system?”

  Nolby pinched his lower lip. “Protection, I heard.”

  “Right. From guys in their own neighborhood, that might have a hard-on. You know how it’s done?”

  Nolby shrugged. “Move them?”

  The agent grinned. “You’ve been studying. Sure, as far from home as possible. In your case, you know where?”

  Nolby expelled breath through his nose. “California someplace?”

  “Duluth, Minnesota, Terry, you and Clinger both. So cold in the winter your nuts might crack in two. You want to try for Duluth, Minnesota, you just keep fucking with us.”

  Nolby flopped into his chair, showing a weak grin. “Hey, I already said I was going to cooperate. What the plea agreement says is that I’m going to furnish information about Tommy Clinger, that’s all. You’re throwing a load at me I’m not ready for.”

  “You don’t read too good, Brother Nolby,” the thin agent said. “That agreement says you’ll cooperate wherever and whenever the Attorney General of this fair land designates.” He leaned closer to Nolby and said in a near-whisper, “Hell, man, aren’t you curious? Don’t you even want to know how she wound up in Houston?”

  “Who? Who you talking about in Houston?” Nolby said.

  The stocky agent leaned on Nolby’s desk. “That’s one for Houdini, isn’t it?” the agent said. “Broad’s getting a divorce and wants to see us about her old man. First thing you know she gets popped and has the inconsideracy to wind up in a ship channel two hundred and fifty miles from here. I’d wonder about that if I was you.”

  Nolby’s voice went up an octave. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, any broad. Hey, I need my lawyer to sit in on this?”

  “Yeah, Terry,” the thin agent said. “Your lawyer. Only he doesn’t happen to be in town at the moment. Now, we’re going to give you a couple of days. For starters. You know nothing about that woman talking to Bino Phillips, right?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Strictly zero.”

  “Not shit.”

  “Okay,” the short agent said. “Assume we buy that. That means you’re going to tell us twice as much about Rusty Benson.”

  Nolby sat down. “Rusty?”

  “Yeah, Rusty. Your lawyer. Also your close buddy for the past couple of years.”

  “What about him?” Nolby said.

  “If you should remember something about old Rusty, then we’re going to have some more things to discuss. Oh yeah. If you don’t, that plea bargain agreement goes straight in the shitcan.”

  Nolby found a paper towel in his desk and mopped sweat from his forehead.

  “Couple of days,” the thin agent said. “That’s Thursday. We’ll be calling you.” He motioned to his partner, and the two agents walked to the door. “Talk to you Thursday, Terry. You think hard, okay?”

  10

  BINO LICKED THE SALT-FROSTED RIM OF HIS GLASS, THEN SIPPED some of the bittersweet margarita to mix and mingle with the salt. Red vinyl-covered foam padding vibrated beneath his elbows to the dum-dum-brrmmm, followed by the clash of baton on cymbals. He had a perfect seat near the entrance to the jam-packed Hyatt Regency Skyroom, Carla shim-shimmying in gold lamé that moved and flowed with her hips and sparkled like sequins in the spotlight. A picture window ran the length of the far wall, and visible in the distance was the faint outline of Cullen Center. On beyond the center were the double rows of lights along Southwest Freeway. The bayou sky was a starless black.

  Being far from home gave Bino a little tremor, a sort of not-quite feeling as though something was wrong, or was about to go wrong in a hurry. The not-quite feeling had begun as the Southwest Airlines jet dipped underneath the ever-present bayou cloud bank, then rode muggy currents of air over marshland, over subdivisions dotted with crystal blue pools, golf courses, and finally over downtown skyscrapers to make a bumpy landing on Hobby Airport’s tar-veined runway. The nearer the plane had come to landing, the more the not-quite feeling had grown. Bino couldn’t have explained it in a hundred years, but every time he left his Dallas turf something bad seemed to happen.

  As the band played their take-five theme and Carla sashayed center stage, Bino plucked a call-message slip from his pocket. The message from Rusty had been waiting for him when he’d checked in, and created a nagging sensation at the back of his mind to mix with the not-quite feeling. There was nothing ominous about the message itself, merely a request to contact Rusty across town at the Inn-at-the-Park, but Bino had made five attempts to return the call without finding Rusty in.

  He came back to reality as Carla slid her pert bottom onto the stool beside him and said, “Socko. Strong set, huh? Well, you’re really with it, where’s my drink?”

  He passed a ten-spot across the bar and ordered her a Tanqueray on the rocks, folded Rusty’s message and put it away, then said to her,
“You bet it was strong. You guys are blowing the doors off.”

  “Okay,” Carla said. “Name the last three numbers.”

  “Well … there’s the Elton John number you and Dondi just sang, and before that … I’m not too good on titles, just the tunes.”

  “And aside from being someplace in dreamland you just don’t remember,” Carla said. The bartender delivered her drink. She picked up the glass, sipped, and made a face. “I don’t know about you, Phillips. Every other man in the joint is salivating for my body, of course, but not old Bino. From you I get reaction zero, unless you want to count a couple of grunts last night while you were screwing me. So what’s the deal?”

  Jesus but she was cute. Bino was conscious of men looking his way as if thinking, Who’s the dumb-looking bozo talking to the singer? “Tell you the truth, I was thinking about Rusty Benson,” Bino said. “I got a message to call him.”

  “Let me guess what he wants. You told him you scored with the singer last night, and he’s calling up wanting to know if it’s any good? God, Bino. Gross.”

  A fat man wearing a gray suit came by and asked her to sing “What’s Love Got to Do with It?” during the next set. She nodded and smiled. The man moved on. Carla crossed her legs, propped her elbows up on the foam padding, interlocked her fingers, and said, “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So Rusty’s in town. And so are you. You going to see him, or what?”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” Bino said, “but not for long. I told him I’d stand by in case he needs me.”

  “Well, he’d better not need you tonight,” Carla said. “We’re going to Gilley’s.”

  “Gilley’s? What’s wrong with this place?”

  “Nothing,” Carla said. “But we’re through here at eleven, and there’s nothing going on downtown after that unless you’d like to get mugged. You see the two women over there?” She swiveled on her stool and looked toward the bandstand.

  Bino followed her gaze. Dondi was seated at a table with two women, a blond with short permed hair and a brunette with hair to her waist. They were no spring chickens but looked trim and fit, and were groomed like pages from Cosmo. Dondi sipped a draft beer; as he bent his head, light reflected from his plate-size lenses. The brunette reached out and pinched Dondi’s leg. He brushed her hand away, deadpan. Bino said to Carla, “I guess you mean them.”

  “That’s the two,” Carla said. “They work in a real estate office around here, and they’re taking all of us to Gilley’s as soon as this place closes.”

  “Great,” Bino said. “You mean, Dondi’s letting me come along, narc and all?”

  She giggled. “Actually he didn’t want to. But I told him maybe he could pawn you off on those two. Dondi likes them younger.”

  • • •

  Bino slammed hard against the backseat door; Carla’s firmness pushed against him, then shifted away as the Seville fish-tailed into the middle lane on 1-45. The brunette was driving, her long straight hair draped over the seat, her slim red-nailed hands gripping the wheel, gold rings on four of her fingers, a martini on the rocks balanced precariously in front of her on the dash. She picked up the drink and sipped, weaving all over the road, drawing an angry honk from a Mercury Sable in the inside lane. She shot the Merc the finger as she said, “Just ’cause I ain’t got a free hand, Bettilu, don’t be get-tin’ no designs on that cute thing. Once we get to Gilley’s it’s every girl for herself, don’tcha know?” The digital speedometer showed 85 per, the freeway lights zooming past like glowing whippets.

  Dondi sat on the front seat console, drinking beer from a long-neck bottle and looking bored. The blond rode shotgun with one arm around Dondi, tickling his ear with a fingernail.

  “Shee-it, Becky,” the blond said. “Let’s just blow off Gilley’s and take this cute thing over to my place. I don’t mind sharin’ him, long as I get mine.” She hugged Dondi.

  He shrugged her off. “I’m like, you broads aren’t hearing me. I like, want to see Gilley’s, I heard a lot about that place. But I can’t be doing no sex, I’m in training.”

  “Ain’t he cute?” the brunette said. She whipped to her left, floored the accelerator, and the speedometer jumped to 95 as if by magic.

  Jesus, Bino thought, slow the fuck down. He leaned forward. “Say, girls. Let’s take a few side streets, whaddya say? I’d like to see some neighborhood scenery.”

  Bino thought that he looked out of place dancing western swing in Gilley’s, doing the push in the world’s most famous honky-tonk wearing tan slacks, a knit golf shirt, and brown Gucci loafers, his mop of white hair bobbing and waving above the crowd. And he knew good and well that Carla looked out of place in her gold lame pants and navy blue spike-heeled shoes, giggling, bumping, and wriggling. Whenever they moved in close to push apart, her nose touched his breastbone. The other dancers wore boots and jeans, the men in Levi’s and the women in Lady Wrangler’s with stitching on the butt pockets, about half of the women sporting sprayed, stand-up beehive hairdos. Probably, Bino thought, everyone else on this freaking dance floor thinks Carla and I are refugees from a circus act.

  “What say we sit the next one out?” Bino shouted. “Take a little break.” He gasped for breath.

  Carla rocked back on one heel, pranced forward, and ducked under his outstretched arm. “What’s the matter, hoss? You ready for the glue factory?”

  “No. No, this is great fun,” Bino said. “I just thought you’d like to go over there and watch the action.” He gestured toward the jerking, bucking mechanical bull. A cowpoke was tall in the saddle, one arm waving, loose as Raggedy Andy.

  She went on boogying. “I don’t picture you riding the bull. Shooting the bull, now that’s a different story.”

  “Carla … Jesus … Christ.” He stopped dancing and stood, shoulders drooping and chest heaving. She stuck out her tongue. He grabbed her upper arm and herded her firmly toward the bull riders. “What’s happened to Dondi?” he said, peering around the dance floor.

  “He hasn’t come up for air if that Bettilu has anything to say about it. I think they may have left. God, Bino, please tell me that this time you brought cabfare.”

  Behind the bull-riding arena was a mile-long stand-up bar, cowboys and cowgirls whooping it up, swigging from longnecks, cheering the riders, groaning loudly whenever someone went ass-over-heels from saddle to sawdust. The mechanical bucking contraption was headless. Handling the controls was a bearded guy whose gut nearly popped the buttons on his western shirt, and every time a rider hit the dirt he cackled in glee. Bino shouldered his way, leading Carla through to lean on the bar. She snuggled into the crook of his arm.

  In a few seconds a bartender with a hawk nose and thin features tipped his hat and said, “What’ll it be, tall podnuh?”

  Bino thought, Now this is carrying the Buffalo Bill shit a little far, but ordered a couple of Lone Stars, trying to get in the spirit of things. On the faraway bandstand the guitars twanged into “Lookin’ for Love in All the Wrong Places.” Bino halfway wished they’d look someplace else.

  The beers arrived; Carla sipped while Bino tilted his head back and swigged. Two burly cowboys came from the bull pen, backslapping and elbowing each other. Both were huge. One had collar-length hair hanging below a light-colored Stetson. His face was craggy, like a rugged Indian’s. His partner was only an inch or so under Bino’s six-six, had thick red hair, and wore a black cowpoke’s hat along with a huge golden nugget—las vegas belt buckle. The redhead sported a walrus mustache.

  Golden Nugget was saying, “That’s two you owe me, Billy Ed. Shit, you’re easy money.”

  “I’ll give you fuckin’ easy money,” Indian said. “Git yore ass back in line, Spooky, I’ll give you— Hold on there, Spooky, what we got here? A little golden girl. Hidy, darlin’.” He showed a crooked grin and leered down at Carla.

  Carla smiled vacantly and watched the
jerking bull.

  The redheaded saddlebuster, Spook, fingered his belt buckle. “Don’t guess she heard you, Billy Ed. Looky here, she’s got her a feller. A big whitefish.”

  Now Bino stared at the bull just as Carla was doing. A groan went up around the bar as another rider bit the dust.

  Billy Ed stood spraddle-legged in front of Bino, hands on hips. “Damn straight,” Billy Ed said. “A whitefish, Spooky, a big ‘un.”

  Bino thought he’d be wise to grab Carla and get the fuck out of there.

  Spook egged it on, hooking his thumbs under his belt. “ ’Spec’ these folks a tad too good to visit with us, huh?”

  Billy Ed licked his lips. “Well, they might be. How ’bout it, little gold girl? You too good to talk to Billy Ed an’ old Spooky? Coupla tired cowhands, been on the range all day?”

  Bullshit, Bino thought. At the bowling alley, maybe. On the range, no way.

  Spook’s mouth twisted in a mean-looking grimace. “She still ain’t talkin’, Billy Ed.”

  “Well, lessee if she can hear this.” Billy Ed bent from the waist until his big crooked nose was just inches from Carla’s. “Hey, bayy-bee,” he yelled. “Seein’ as how we’re among friends, what would you say to a little fuck?”

  Bino’d say this much for Carla, she didn’t let it rattle her. She looked up at Billy Ed as though seeing him for the first time. She showed a sweet smile. “My. What would I say to a little fuck? Why, I don’t know. I don’t see any little fucks around here. I see a big fuck, though. You. So why don’t you get lost, you big fuck?”

  Bino thought, Oh, shit. He stepped forward. “Look, guys,” he said. “This has gone about far enough, don’t you think?” He grinned.

  Spook drew closer and stood beside Billy Ed, the two big cowboys shoulder to shoulder. “Whatcha think, Billy Ed? This here whitefish fixin’ to give us some shit?”

  Bino stood between Spook and Billy Ed as the Yellow Cab pulled into Gilley’s parking lot. The cowpokes had their arms around him like old buddies. Carla stood to one side, looking down at her feet.