A Song to Die For (20 page)

“Let's start with the
boy
part. When was the last time somebody called you a white boy?”

“When I was about eleven.”

“That's my point. A man doesn't want to be called a boy.”

Having retrieved the lure, Hooley cast again. “Okay, there ain't no colored
men
on the Rangers.”

“Thank you. Now, about that
colored
part. I never understood a white man calling a black man
colored
.”

“Why the hell not? You're colored. Black.”

“Exactly. A black man is born black, stays black, and he dies black.”

“Yeah…” Hooley flipped a sidearm cast toward some weeds sticking out of the water near the shore.

“A white man turns red when he's mad, blue when he's cold, green when he's hung over … and you guys call
us
colored?”

Hooley ceased reeling the lure to absorb what Special Agent Doolittle was getting at. He saw the images in his head. Red, blue, green … A smile stretched across his face, and he began to laugh. “Well, goddamn, Mel, if you ain't right about that! I've seen some technicolored white son-of-a-bitches in my time!” He doubled over and listened to his own laughter echo across the water. “All right, from now on it's African-American gentlemen. How's that?”

“Thank you,” Mel said, smiling. He picked up the fishing pole and made a heave with it, slamming the lure down on the surface of the water a mere three feet from the boat.

“Ha! You look a little
green
with that pole, Mel! This ain't lacrosse, it's fishin'. Just flip it out there with your wrist, son!”

“Do I look like your son?” Mel made a better cast.

“That's more like it, young African-American gentleman, who is no kin to me whatsoever.” Hooley shot a wry grin toward Mel just in time to see his rod bend. “Set the hook! Reel, Mel! That's a whopper!” He grabbed the net. “Hold the rod tip up! Straight up! That's it!”

The bass broke the surface of the water and danced on its tail in front of the ascending amber orb of the sun.

“Wow!” Mel cried. “Oh, my God!”

“Reel him in close. Don't let him under the boat, he'll cut the line on the prop! That's it! Closer…” He made a swoop with the net and scooped up the writhing lunker. “Woo-ha!” he cried, happier than if he had caught the fish himself. “That bastard'll go seven pounds, maybe eight!”

“Holy mother!” Mel said, wide-eyed. “That's the first fish I ever caught in my whole life! That was a rush!”

“I told you it was gonna be good fishin' this morning! Throw another one out there. Let's catch enough for supper, then we'll cruise the lake for evidence.”

Hooley caught three fish, and Mel one more, though none was as big as Mel's first catch. After throwing the last bass in the live well, Hooley pulled up the trolling motor, fired up the outboard, and showed Mel where the boat carrying Rosa had presumably hit the submerged tree in the cove.

“I found a piece of wood, looked like from a wooden boat, stuck in that tree and took it to headquarters for analysis. Found out yesterday it was mahogany.”

“So we're looking for a Chris Craft, or some similar boat.”

Hooley nodded. “Maybe a Correct Craft or a StanCraft. They're all similar.”

“Who registers boats in Texas?”

“That would be the Parks and Wildlife Department.”

“Surely they list the type of boat, or the make and model.”

“I've already got my assistant, Lucille, on it. It's gonna be a long list, but maybe something in there will help us.”

Mel nodded. “So, which way did the boat go from here?”

“Pure guesswork. It was apparently headed out of this cove and on to some other part of the lake. It's not the biggest lake in Texas, but there's a lot of shoreline, and a dozen communities and little lakeside developments. For all we know, the boat could have been pulled out of the water at some boat ramp.”

“What's your hunch?” Mel asked.

“I'm wary of hunches.”

“I agree. We still have to follow all the leads, not just the hunch. Still … What's your hunch?”

“My hunch is the boat sank. Antique wooden boat, no emergency flotation, heavy inboard motor. But, if it sank, that's bad for us. It'll be hard to find underwater.”

“Yeah, this isn't Lake Tahoe,” Mel added. “You can see fifty feet deep there. In this muddy water, you can't see two feet.”

“So what do you recommend we do, Special Agent Doolittle?”

“Ask the public for tips? Information on a classic wooden boat on or near Lake L.B.J.? Possibly a damaged boat?”

Hooley smirked and shrugged one shoulder. “Worth a try. But this thing has already been publicized as a mob hit. That tends to scare witnesses off. Let's cruise, and get a feel for this lake. Maybe we'll talk to some folks on some docks or somethin'.”

Mel nodded, and the outboard roared itself into a grinding scream as the fishing boat went skipping across the glassy surface on this almost windless morn. They sped past miles of undeveloped lakeshore, Hooley pointing out herds of deer and flocks of wild turkeys to Mel.

Reaching Blue Cove, the first of the lakeside communities, they checked at boat ramps, resorts, lakeside neighborhoods. They found nothing of use to them in their investigation.

“Is this lake always this dead?” Mel asked as the outboard slowed to an idle. They were entering the no-wake zone of a cove along Horseshoe Bay, a swank development featuring brick and rock homes spaced rather close together on the lakeshore, each with its own dock or boathouse, some of which were actually enclosed with garage doors. Though the day had turned out sunny and warm, they saw no one on or near the water.

“It's a weekday, and we're between seasons. The snowbirds have gone home, and the natives ain't quite ready to work on their sunburns.”

“Snowbirds?”

“Yankees. The rich retirees who can't handle the cold winters up north anymore, so they come down here to winter. They migrate down here in flocks.”

“And the natives?”

“Water-skiers, fishermen, campers, college kids. And these rich people who own these fancy lake houses. They come to L.B.J. from all over the state. Folks from West Texas will drive six hours to find some water to cool off in. Houston's only four hours to the east. Folks there come to escape the humidity, the fire ants, and the mosquitoes.”

“Seems like a pretty popular part of Texas.”

“Suits me. But it's gettin'
too
popular in my opinion.”

Mel pointed forward as the boat rounded a bend in the narrow channel. “Hey, there's a guy on a dock up there.”

Hooley looked ahead and saw an elderly man standing on his private pier, slowly cranking a fishing reel. The man was wearing Bermuda shorts that revealed pasty white stick-figure legs, a golf shirt, and a Houston Astros ball cap.

Hooley cut the motor as they drifted by. “Catchin' anything?” he said, trying to muster some casual cheer.

“Not with that Mercury chuggin' along through here.”

“Sorry about that. Hey, you know anybody around here who has an old antique woody? Maybe a Chris Craft, or something like that?”

“Who wants to know?” The old man squinted. “Hey, wait a minute. You're that Ranger. I saw you on TV.”

“Captain Hooley Johnson.”

“Who's this?” the old man said, pointing at Mel. “A suspect or something?”

Mel shook his head in disbelief of the redneck-ness of this place.

“No, this is my sumo-come-loudly partner, Special Agent Mel Doolittle, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

“The F.B.I.?”

“You catch on quick.”

“The boat may have been damaged,” Mel said.

“Or not,” Hooley added. “Have you seen a boat like that around here?”

The man reeled in his fishing lure. “This is about that dead mob princess, isn't it?”

“Is that what they're calling her on TV now?” Hooley said.

“I don't know anything about any of that. This is the first time I've even been to the lake since last August.” He began backing away from the water.

“You live in Houston?”

“What's that to you?” the old man said.

“Nothin',” Hooley replied. “I just noticed your ball cap, that's all.”

“I don't know anything about any of it. Now listen, you two get out of here. I don't want you casting up into my boat and tearing the upholstery.”

“What?” Hooley said.

“You dumb shitheads. You're not going to catch anything today, anyway. The wind is wrong.”

“Well, you're fishing, too,” Mel said, beginning to chuckle at the grumpy old fart.

“You're probably Republicans, too.”

“Listen here, now,” Hooley growled, “you can call me a shithead, but don't go callin' me a Republican!”

“I'm late for my tee time!” the retiree snapped as he stormed away.

“Nice talking to you,” Mel groaned, unable to disguise the sarcasm in his voice. He turned to Hooley. “People
are
nervous.”

Hooley nodded. “That ol' boy may have been a little
too
nervous. But … That's just a hunch.”

*   *   *

Later in the evening, Hooley grilled the bass fillets over a charcoal fire in the backyard of his house on the outskirts of Liberty Hill while Mel studied a map of Lake L.B.J. spread across the kitchen table. Mel had just asked a question Hooley thought he heard correctly over the sizzle of the fillets on the hot grill.

He yelled into the open back door of the house: “If you're asking about that channel where we talked to the nervous old fart, I'd say it was a twenty-minute boat ride to The Crew's Inn. Stir those taters on the stove, will you?” He forked the slightly blackened fillets onto a plate and walked inside.

Mel was at the stove, poking at a skillet with a wooden spoon. “Seems reasonable our antique boat owner might make the trip from there to the bar for a beer.”

Hooley raked the map aside and placed the platter of fish on the table. “Those spuds done?”

“I guess,” Mel said. “They smell good.”

“Bring 'em.” Hooley grabbed a loaf of store-bought bread in a plastic bag. “If I knew how to make hush puppies, I would. We'll have to settle for plain ol' white bread. He noticed the brand name of the bread: Rainbow.

“Look here, Mel.
White
bread.
Rainbow
.”

Mel scraped the potatoes and onions, grilled in butter, onto the two plates waiting at the table. “Supports my theory, doesn't it?”

“Ha!” Hooley used a bottle opener to pry the caps off two Lone Star long necks. “Dig in!”

They began shaking salt and pepper everywhere, and devouring the bass fillets and potatoes. Hooley opened a jar of pickled jalapeños and grabbed one with his fingers. “You want one?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” Mel said.

“You don't have a hair on your ass.”

Mel looked insulted, and spoke through a mouthful of his dinner: “Okay, give me one, then. Hell, give me two!”

Hooley used his fingers to drop two whole peppers on Mel's plate. As if to show the way, he bit off about a quarter of his own jalapeño. Mel followed his example. Hooley waited. Mel began to squirm. His eyes began to tear up.

“Ha!” Hooley reached for his cold beer, again showing the way. As Mel guzzled, Hooley handed him a slice of white bread. “This helps. You hollerin' calf rope?”

“Huh?” Mel said, tears running down his cheeks as he stuffed bread past his teeth.

“Hollerin' uncle?”

“What?” He sucked in air, then reached for the beer bottle again.

“Are you
givin' in
?” He took another bite from his own jalapeño and chased it with a fork full of potatoes and grilled fish.

“Hell, no, I'm not giving in, uncle calf rope, or whatever!” He wiped a tear away and took another bite of the little green torpedo that seemed to have exploded in a ball of fire inside his mouth.

The phone rang. Laughing, Hooley got up to answer it. “Hello … Oh, howdy, Dolph … We've got some leads, some things to follow up on … Agent Doolittle? Yes, sir, I've been treating him with the
warmest
of hospitality. He's right here, you want to talk to him? Okay…” He held out the phone to Mel, his palm over the mouthpiece. “Try not to harelip the governor.”

Panting for cool air, Mel got up and reached for the receiver. “The governor? Of Texas?”

Hooley smirked. “No, of Rhode Island. Of course, Texas! Governor Briscoe.”

Mel took the phone. “Good evening, Governor Briscoe. This is an honor.” About then it was plain to Hooley that Mel realized he had forgotten to grab his beer. Wild-eyed, he ran to the end of the curled telephone line, but couldn't make it stretch far enough to reach the beer bottle and keep his ear to the governor at the same time. Desperately, he snapped his fingers at Hooley, and pointed at the Lone Star. “Yes, sir, we're concerned that the owner of that boat may be in danger if the killer gets to him before we do.”

Hooley slowly fetched the bottle and had a few seconds of fun holding it just beyond Mel's grasp before finally handing it to him.

“Yes, sir, we're treating it as a possible double homicide.” He guzzled beer so fast that it poured out of the side of his mouth. Wiping his cheek on his sleeve, he panted in relief. “Yes, sir, a waste of two young lives…” He took another swig. “I agree, Governor…” He looked at Hooley. “It leaves a bad taste in my mouth, too.”

Hooley felt such a peal of laughter coming on that he had to leave the kitchen lest Dolph should hear him guffawing over the phone.

 

18

CHAPTER

Franco found out about the place in the classified ads of the local weekly newspaper under “Houses for Rent.” The front page of the same newspaper featured a sketchy story about a young woman from Nevada who had lost her life on Lake L.B.J. last Saturday night or early Sunday morning. He read the article, only to see if the small-town newspaper hacks might have stumbled onto something he needed to know, which of course they hadn't. His main purpose in purchasing the paper was to find a place to stay while he was looking for the schmuck who had given his late, adopted cousin her last boat ride. He found just that in the classifieds. The ad boasted lakefront houses for rent to tourists and fishermen, by the day or year-round.