A Song to Die For (40 page)

“I'd like to get a photo of the band for the entertainment section.” He held up the Nikon and the press pass.

“Sure!” the woman said.

A band member groaned a complaint, but they all filed off the bus and lined up for the camera.

“Which newspaper?” the woman asked.

“Houston.”

“Okay. Which one?”

“Highest bidder. I'm freelance.”

“Oh. How will we know when the photo comes out? We're putting together a press package.”

“You got a card?” Franco asked. “I'll send you a clip.”

“I'm all out of cards, but I'll write down my information,” the woman said, climbing back into the bus.

“All right, everybody look at the camera,” Franco said. He flashed a shot at them. “That ought to do it. Wait, don't move! I need everybody's name so I can identify all of you correctly.” He pulled the notepad from his shirt pocket, along with a pen, and began writing down the names:

Metro Morales, Lindsay Lockett, Tump Taylor, Luster Burnett, Creed Mason, Trusty Joe Crooke.

“Thanks,” he said, turning away with a grin.

“Wait!” The woman came out of the bus with her name and contact information handwritten on a scrap of paper.

“You won't forget now, will you, Mr…”

He tucked her note into his pocket. “Gotta get to the dark room. Deadlines.”

“Hey, do you have a card?”

He shrugged his apology, noticed that the one called Creed was watching protectively over the young woman from the bottom step of the bus. “I'm all out, too. I'll contact you.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Franklin. Tom Franklin. I'll be in touch.” He turned and walked away.
Jesus, what a pushy broad.

As Franco headed for the gate, he saw some commotion there. Ambulance lights approached. A crowd had gathered around the scrawny photographer he had coldcocked. The band hit the last lick on a big finale, and Franco heard the shrill voice of that superstar, Dixie, saying, “Good night, Houston! Dixie loves you!”

“Oh, hell,” he groaned. He couldn't exit through the backstage gate—not with the victim's camera and press pass around his neck. The little guy had come to quicker than he had thought. Still, he had the camera and press pass for now, so he decided to use them to get onstage, as if he intended to take some photos of the finale from the wings. He climbed the back stairs to the stage level. The starlet, Dixie, was still blowing kisses to a rowdy, adoring crowd. She was real slinky-looking—just the kind of woman Franco liked. As Dixie held everyone's attention, Franco decided to ditch the camera, dropping it into a box of microphone or speaker cables. Some roadie was going to get a new camera out of this deal. It would probably wind up in a pawnshop at the next town on the tour.

Dixie finally grew weary of taking her bows and strutted offstage, right toward Franco. As her entourage and the stagehands showered the starlet with compliments, Franco dug deep into his wallet for his actual Las Vegas business card. She approached him, and looked blankly toward him, expecting more approbation. Franco had other things to say:

“How would you like to play Vegas?”

Her eyes actually focused on him.

“I own the biggest casino in town.” He tilted his card toward her. “I'll get you all the crank you can snort.” He had her figured for a cokehead. Just look at those eyes.

Dixie smiled. “I'll have my agent call you.” She reached for the card.

Franco snatched it back. “No agents. You want to play Vegas, you call me.
You
call
me
.” He gave her the card, noticing that her smile lingered and her eyes clung to him. As her entourage dragged her away, he saw her mouth the word
Okay
.

He shrugged. That was a long shot. She had probably already dropped his card. The cleanup crew would sweep it up with the litter. On the other hand, a guy never knew. She might actually take the bait. Who wouldn't want to play the biggest casino in Vegas?
Vegas
, baby! She might prove useful to him in getting to the old-timer's band. Franco had done his homework, and knew there was a link between Dixie and that guitar player from the other band—the guy called Creed. If he could get the old-timer's band to Vegas—home turf—the stupid stage name would be a lot easier to deal with. He might even end up under a root ball of a pine tree on the ranch in the mountains.

Franco's moment of euphoria quickly wore off as he realized he now had no choice but to file out of the stadium with twenty thousand idiot country fans.
Great
. Still, he was in a much better mood than when he had arrived. He had obtained what he came for. This thing was a hair trigger's pull from being over. He knew who Charles Biggerstaff Jr. was now. He couldn't wait to call Papa and tell him the good news.

 

41

CHAPTER

Hooley sat in his truck, thinking, brooding, reminiscing, regretting … Hours had passed as he waited for one Charles Biggerstaff Sr. to return to his home. A stakeout gave a man a lot of time to think. He missed his ex-wife sometimes. Years ago, she used to greet him at the door, no matter how late. She'd get out of bed and make him dinner, or breakfast—whatever the hour called for. That was long ago.

He had busted some real bad ones over the years. Survived a few gunfights. His career was a distinguished one. But now he was staring an imminent retirement in the face. How was he going to get by on his pension? The divorce had decimated his savings. Gasoline prices were going up every day, and that drove the price of everything else up. He'd have to hire out as a private detective, he guessed.

He was listening to the radio, fighting off sleep. KIKK, “kick” radio. Pretty good country station. They played some of the good old stuff. Earlier tonight, sitting here in his truck down the street from Biggerstaff's mansion, he had heard a tribute to Luster Burnett. The deejay had said Luster was performing again, and was opening tonight at some stadium for Dixie what's-her-name, the country bombshell. Hooley briefly considered abandoning his stakeout and going to the concert. Now he regretted not doing it, for it was almost midnight and Biggerstaff had not returned home.

Hooley had arrived in the afternoon, walked up the door of the Biggerstaff home, and rung the doorbell. Mrs. Biggerstaff wouldn't let him in. Her husband had given her strict instructions not to talk to anyone. Where was Mr. Biggerstaff? Golfing. Which golf course? She had slammed the door in his face.

So now he was waiting, wondering if he had been spotted staking the place out, feeling all the boredom and loneliness and uselessness of his chosen career eat away at him inside.
To hell with it.
He reached for the key in the ignition. Somewhere in the neighborhood, he heard the acceleration of a big block engine. Hooley took his hand off the key. Headlights swooped around a corner, and a bronze Cadillac Coupe de Ville followed them into Biggerstaff's driveway, like a boat sailing into harbor.

Hooley was already out of his truck and trotting toward the Cadillac. Biggerstaff had popped the trunk open from inside. He stepped out, walked aft, and muscled his golf clubs out of the open boot. Sensing Hooley's approach, he looked over his shoulder, a sudden fear registering on his face.

Hooley had his badge out. “I'm a Texas Ranger. Hooley Johnson.”

“Jesus! You scared the hell out of me!”

“Little nervous, Mr. Biggerstaff?”

“People don't lurk in the dark in this neighborhood.” He slammed his trunk lid. “Now, you'll have to excuse me, it's late.”

“Hold on. I came a long way to talk to you.”

“My lawyer has instructed me not to talk to anybody,” he said over his shoulder.

“This is off the record.”

“Doesn't matter.” He was lifting the garage door.

“You don't have one of those automatic openers? Fancy house like this?”

“The battery in my clicker went dead,” he said, defensively.

“Dang, that's rough. About this lawyer of yours. Where can I have a word with him?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.” Biggerstaff pushed the garage door up over his head.

“You can't even say who your own lawyer is?”

“He's not my lawyer. He's my insurance company's lawyer.” Biggerstaff slammed the heavy golf bag into the corner of the garage and started pulling the garage door down, with himself inside, and Hooley outside.

Hooley caught the door and held it open. “Wait. Listen to me. They told you not to talk, but did they tell you that you weren't allowed to listen?”

Biggerstaff looked Hooley in the eye. He looked scared. “No. I guess they didn't tell me I couldn't listen.”

“I'm going to reach into my shirt pocket for my card.” He did so, Biggerstaff's eyes following his every move. He handed the card to Biggerstaff. “Don't lose that. You're gonna need it. Sooner or later, this thing is gonna blow up in your face, and you're gonna find yourself in a whole lot of trouble—with the law, or something worse. You know what I mean by something worse, don't you?”

Biggerstaff nodded, reluctantly.

“When that kind of trouble comes, who do you want on your side? The Texas Rangers, right?
Right?
”

“All right!”

“You sleep on it, Mr. Biggerstaff. If you can. Keep your doors and windows locked. Have your lawyer call me. Better yet, call me yourself, and I'll tell you what you're up against. Oh, and Mr. Biggerstaff…”

“Yeah?”

“Try to call me before you or somebody in your family ends up
dead
.” He took his hand away from the garage door and took a step back.

Biggerstaff rolled the door downward, slamming it with a metallic crash that made the neighbor's poodle bark.

 

42

CHAPTER

Franco finally got free of the concert crowd and the resulting traffic jam and found a pay phone outside a supermarket. He happened to look up at the name of the store as he stepped into the phone booth.

“Piggly Wiggly? Are you kidding me?” he muttered.

He called Papa Martini.

“
Who's this?”
his father said, gruffly.

“Hey, Pop, it's me. What are you doing?”

“Pouring my third nightcap. Where the hell have you been?”

“I went to a country music concert in Houston.”

“What, three weeks in Texas and you've turned into a friggin' redneck?”

Franco chuckled. “You've heard this young country singer, Dixie Houston, right?”

“I don't listen to that crap. You know that.”

“But you've seen her on TV. Tits and ass and country twang. I know you've seen her.”

“Yeah, maybe. So what?”

“She was good, that's all. The crowd loved her. And there was an old-timer who opened the show. I met the band.”

The line was silent for a moment.
“Franco, the bug man came today. We're clean.”

Franco knew that the “bug man” was the family expert who regularly swept the Martini mansion and phone lines for surveillance devices. “You're sure.”

“Dead sure. Where are you calling from?”

“A phone booth in Houston.”

“That's my boy. Now, what the hell's going on?”

“I've been chasing down this lead the last couple of days. I didn't want to bother you about it until I knew it was the real deal. The guy driving the boat that night—the night Rosa bought it—I'm ninety-nine percent sure that he's a musician named Charles Biggerstaff Jr. He plays in a band with this old-timer trying to make a comeback in country music. That's the band I met tonight. I got a look at the guy.”

“You looked at the guy who drove the boat?”

“Ninety-nine percent sure.”

“Not good enough.”

“Pop, I'll beat it out of him until I'm a hundred percent sure before I whack him.”

“Okay, that's better. How are you gonna kidnap him?”

“I don't know yet. He's with this band all the time. I'll have to catch him alone somewhere.”

“Who's the old timer making the comeback? The band leader?”

“Luster Burnett.”

Papa was quiet for several seconds.

“Pop?”

Franco heard his father break into a wheezing fit of laughter that culminated in a coughing fit.

“Jesus, Pop. The smokes. You gotta cut back.”

“Luster freakin' Burnett! Why didn't you say so?”

“Pop? What?”

“Come on home, Franco. We'll handle this from here now.”

“But Pop, I found the guy. Ninety-nine percent sure.”

“I said come home. I'll explain when you get here. We're gonna lure the rat right into the rat trap!”

*   *   *

Creed felt the bus shift and looked toward the open door to find Dixie's bodyguard stepping aboard. The guard looked past him, to Luster.

“Miss Houston extends an invitation for you to join the party on her bus.”

“The whole band, or just Luster?” Kathy said, suspiciously.

“There's not enough room for the whole band.” He looked at Creed. “She said you could come, too.”

Luster got up. “Come on, Creed. Let's be neighborly.”

“Don't go,” Kathy whispered as the bodyguard shuffled off the bus and Luster walked forward.

Creed got up to follow Luster off the bus. “This is business. She's trying to steal my song, and she needs to know that I'm on to her.”

Kathy got up, followed him off the bus, held him back as Luster walked toward Dixie's Prevost with the bodyguard.

“Let her have the damn song. You've got new stuff coming out now. A whole new live album.”