A Song to Die For (18 page)

“That's a good song,” Hooley argued.

“Not ten times a night.”

“What did his boat look like?”

“I never saw it. But I seem to recall it sounded like an inboard. A big-block Chevy or some such thing. I can't testify to any of this, you know. I don't want to get mixed up in this mob shit.”

“You're not in any danger from the mob,” Hooley groaned.

“There's been two victims already!” Palmer hissed.

“They were both five-foot-four and gorgeous. If you start growing tits, worry.” He thought of saying something about already having grown a vagina, but he thought better of it.

“You're sure. They're not after me, are they?”

“Why would they be? You don't know shit, and you haven't told me shit, right? Go on home, Mr. Palmer. Thanks for nothin'.”

Palmer sighed and turned away.

Returning to his truck, Hooley found Mel anxious for information. “The guy made you for a cop, all right.”

“Did you get anything?”

“Hell, yeah. We have an earwitness. We're looking for an inboard, big-bore motor.”

“Earwitness,” Mel said, derisively. “Anything else?”

“Only a description of a possible suspect: white, tall, long hair. Likes county music, girls, and beer.”

“And owns a boat with a big-bore inboard motor?”

Hooley nodded. “Sounds like it.”

“That's it?”

“That's more than you got, sumo-come-loudly. Sounds like a fat…”

“Don't say it,” Mel warned. “I got the image.”

Hooley chuckled a little. “That is funny though, ain't it?”

“Racial stereotypes are never funny.”

He swore Mel was holding back a grin. “Sumo-come-loudly. You know, like one of them Jap
rasslers
…”

“I know what a sumo is!” Mel said, letting a chortle escape, in spite of himself. “God Almighty, you are one relentless redneck, Captain Johnson!”

Hooley enjoyed a short chuckle. “There is one more thing. I need you to level with me here, Mel. Are you the only fed assigned to this case?”

“The only
special agent
? Yes.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah, why?”

Hooley told him what Palmer had said.

“That sounds like a description of Franco!” Mel blurted.

“Rosa's cousin, Franco Martini?”

Mel nodded. “He's been known to impersonate officers before. He's good at it, too. He probably has as much information as we do, and he's a day ahead of us.”

Hooley's mood darkened to think that he had been standing on the footsteps of that girl-killing mob punk, the trail just twenty-four hours old. He reached for the ignition and started the truck. “That cockroach is on my stompin' grounds now. And like you said, Mel. I am one relentless redneck.”

 

16

CHAPTER

When Creed got the early-morning call from Luster to come in three hours early for rehearsal, he envisioned a protracted songwriting session. Instead, he found a quarter horse saddled and waiting for him.

“You ride, don't you?” Luster asked.

“It's been ten years or so, but I used to ride on my grandfather's farm.”

“Well, any kid in the world could ride ol' Baldy there, so just hang on. He knows what to do. I need you to help me round up some cows.”

After climbing into the saddle, and settling in astraddle of Baldy, Creed wondered why he didn't ride a horse every time he came here. As they began their ride, he remembered an old saying his grandfather often repeated:

“The outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man.”

The steady gait of the gelding, the mild spring weather, and the morning sun made him feel honored that Luster had enlisted his help. The cool breeze seemed to carry away his worries with the band, his memories of Vietnam, and the hurt he had suffered at the hands of Dixie and her record label.

“Let's kick 'em up to a trot,” Luster suggested. He didn't have all day.

Creed trotted past the first bluebonnet blossoms he had seen this spring, dancing at the bottom of a south-facing slope. The steady trot reminded him again of his grandfather, who claimed that all real cowboy songs were set to the cadence of horse hooves. The rhythm of the trot bolstered the claim as he found himself humming the melody of “The Old Chisolm Trail.”

On a ten-dollar horse and forty-dollar saddle

I wound up chasin' them longhorn cattle

Come a ti-yi yippee-yippie yay yippie-yay …

Riding up onto a crest that afforded a long view, Luster pointed out the herd of cattle below, grazing along the back fence line of his ranch. Judging from the distance they had covered, Creed estimated the ranch at five thousand acres or so. He considered it rude to ask a man how many acres he owned, so he had never inquired. It seemed tantamount to asking someone how much money he had in the bank.

They rode slowly to the right side of the herd of black Angus beeves. The size of the herd also helped Creed judge the size of the ranch, as he knew each cow needed about twenty acres to survive in this part of Texas. Baldy indeed knew the roundup routine. He swung around the herd and began pushing it toward the front of the ranch, where the working pens were located. It turned out that the cattle also knew more or less what to do. Though a young heifer or steer tried to break ranks every now and then, the older cows had been herded to the pens before and knew the futility of resistance. Creed and Luster also used the barbed-wire fences to keep the cattle bunched together and moving. Creed knew he lacked the skills of a true cowboy, but he indulged himself by humming a couple of Sons of the Pioneers classics as he rode drag on Baldy.

After an hour of pushing the herd, the old cows led the rest of the bovines into the pens where Luster shut the gate on them. “That's my kind of cowboying,” he said, dismounting his horse. “You don't think I'd risk getting these guitar-playing fingers tangled in a rope, do you?” He wiggled his ten fingers in the air.

“No, sir. I've seen more than one old cowhand with a missing digit or two. I didn't know you had this big of a herd.”

“I have cattle because I have a ranch,” Luster said, shrugging. “Keeps my ag exemption current.”

Creed knew from working his grandfather's farm that the state exempted agricultural lands from school property taxes. “What are you gonna do with the cattle now that we've got 'em penned?”

“I'm sellin' 'em to keep the I.R.S. off my ass for a while.”

“What about your ag exemption?”

“I play poker with the county tax assessor. He owes me. He'll look the other way until I'm back in the black.”

After dismounting and tying the horses at the stables, Luster invited Creed to take a look at his barn.

“All right,” Creed said, shrugging. He had seen a barn or two, and wondered why Luster's warranted a tour. Walking up to the building, he judged the barn to be a hundred years old, or older, though well preserved, and perhaps even renovated by Luster.

Throwing open the two large wooden barn doors and flipping a handy circuit breaker to illuminate the interior with electric lights, Luster gestured grandiloquently toward a full stage, complete with stage lighting and large sound system speakers. Though the old structure still smelled of hay, it had been totally converted to a performance venue, with a concrete dance floor in front of the stage, wooden tables and chairs around the other three sides of the slab.

“Holy crap,” Creed said, impressed with the setup. “This is great. Have you ever used this place?”

“Not yet. I've been waiting for inspiration. I didn't know it was going to come in the form of poverty. You think you can run this PA system?”

Creed nodded, grinning. “I can figure it out.”

“I want to rehearse in here, today. Get the band used to a stage.”

“Good idea.”

“I called the band and told them to come in early.” He looked out through the open barn doors. I believe that's Trusty Joe driving down through the pecan orchard right now.”

As the band members showed up, one by one, Creed tinkered with the mixing board, the equalizer, the effects, and the amps, gradually getting the PA system tuned into the building. Meanwhile, Luster lifted and propped open hinged windows, letting the fresh spring air and sunlight into the barn.

Within an hour, all the band members were onstage except for Lindsay, who was just pulling up in her Impala. Half an hour later, rehearsal commenced.

The beautiful Texas springtime weather seemed to inspire the band. Apparently, they had all been listening and practicing at home, for they played smoothly through half a dozen tunes as if they had absorbed the old studio tracks from the grooves in the vinyl. They took a short smoke break, then learned four more songs, rounding out a pretty respectable repertoire of ten classic Luster Burnett tunes.

“That's a full hour set,” Creed said.

“Hell, I can stretch it to two hours with a little bullshit between songs,” Luster boasted.

Creed racked his guitar. “I think we're ready for a gig.”

“I've got one booked.”

The band perked up, wanting to know when, where, and for whom.

“We're playing at a public auction,” Luster explained. “And we'll also be auditioning the band for a government organization.”

“Huh?” Tump grunted.

“
Quando?
When?” Metro demanded, just happy to have a gig.

“About two hours from now. That looks like the auctioneer pulling up outside right now.”

“The auction's here?” Creed said. “Today?”

“What does it pay?” Tump asked, propping the stand-up bass against an old barn pole.

“
Does
it pay?” Lindsay added, suspiciously.

“It'll pay,” Luster said, reassuringly, stepping down from the stage. “I don't know how much, but it'll pay more than you expected to go home with when you pulled into the front gate for a rehearsal.”

“What was that about the government organization we're auditioning for?” Trusty Joe said.

Luster stopped and turned back to the band. “Oh, that. That would be the Infernal Revenue Service. I owe them a little money. If we put on a good show, they might let us go out on the road and earn it back. If not, this band is finished. No pressure. Creed, you better get the band up to speed with what's going on in the life and times of the great Luster Burnett.” Luster strolled out to greet the auctioneer.

Creed, who was as shocked over the developments as anyone, found four band members glaring at him.

“I didn't even bring my show clothes!” Lindsay said, her lips pursed in anger.

“You look like a cover girl,” Creed assured her.

“I haven't filed since 'sixty-nine,” Trusty Joe hissed. “The last guy I want to play for is a tax collector!”

“They're after Luster, not you. Trust me, your tax debt is chicken feed compared to his.” Creed frowned at Trusty Joe's reaction, the fiddler's eyes searching for some kind of escape route, or maybe a place to puke.

Tump lit up a cigarette. “Was he serious about the audition? It's a make or break deal?”

“We just had a great rehearsal. We'll do fine. Anyway, what does a tax man know about country music? All he wants to know is whether or not Luster can still sing. And face it, the man can still sing his ass off.”

“I'm going to run home and change,” Lindsay said, getting up from her steel guitar.

“No!” Creed ordered. “You don't have time. Besides, you're in a barn.”

“It ain't no Studio 54,” Lindsay allowed, scowling at the cobwebs in the rafters.

“Let's just take a smoke break, and relax. Grab a beer. Luster put the cooler backstage. Think of it as a paid rehearsal.” He stepped off the stage as Trusty Joe bolted for the back, holding his fist over his mouth.

Stepping outside, Creed saw an eighteen-wheel livestock rig coming for a load of cattle, the trailer taking a whipping from pecan branches as it barreled through the orchard. He shook his head, wondering if touring with Luster would always be this unpredictable; wondering if there was even going to be a tour with Luster after today. He noticed a white sedan following the Mac truck, the unmarked car getting a proper dusting from the big rig.

“Hey, Creed!” Luster shouted. “Bring the horses and push the cows into the chute! Get Trusty Joe to help you. He's a cowboy.”

Creed mounted Baldy and led Luster's horse as Luster guided the driver of the Mac truck back to the loading chute. A man in a suit got out of the white sedan with a briefcase. Creed figured him for the taxman. More vehicles were pulling up to the barn and the pens now. He found Trusty Joe behind the barn and told him to mount up.

“How do I get on?” Trusty Joe said.

Creed dismounted. “You better ride this one. I'll ride Luster's horse.” He showed Trusty Joe which foot to put in the stirrup and helped him get astride Ol' Baldy.”

“I thought you were in a cowboy band.”

“You didn't have to be a real cowboy. Man, if the guys at the Broken B could see me now!”

Creed mounted Luster's bay, which pranced under him with much more vigor than Baldy, but still responded well to the reins. Together they rode to the pens, where Luster was opening a gate to let them in, the auctioneer standing beside him.

“Is the PA still hot?” Luster asked. “The auctioneer wants to check the mic.”

“It's hot. Tell him I can dump the reverb for him if it's too wet.”

“All right, y'all load those cows!”

As Creed and Trusty Joe pushed cattle to one side of the pen, and into the funnel of the loading chute, Creed watched more cars and trucks pulling up to the auction site. Another livestock tractor-trailer rig was rattling up to the pens. He couldn't help but notice one car going against the flow, leaving the ranch: Lindsay's Impala. “Aw, shit,” he groaned.