Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston (15 page)

The light of understanding brightened in Virgil’s eyes. “You mean … ”

“Yeah. Now I know this is pure conjecture, but I think there’s a good chance that Albert Vaster is buried in the new concrete berth at Abbandando’s.”

Virgil’s eyes bulged. “What?”

“I believe Abbandando helped get rid of his cousin.”

“Why would he do something like that?”

“Good question. Now answer me this. What would it take to put away your own blood kin? How about millions in uncut diamonds? Now here it is. Abbandando was in the hijacking scheme with Cheshire. Albert stumbled on to his scheme. It stands to reason, Albert would contact his old man back East because of the possibility of a gang war if Maranzano discovered Abbandando’s duplicity.”

“Okay. I got you.”

I continued. “Abbandando had Cheshire off the boy, called his friend, Cook, to bring in a load of cement, and they buried the one guy who could ruin them.”

“Who’s the Cook dude?” He paused. His eyes lit up. “That guy at Allied Cement?”

“The very one. He is also the Director of the Allied Cement Political Action Committee, a committee that donated a $100,000.00 big ones to George Briggs’ campaign last year for the district attorney’s office. Both Cook and Abbandando donated a hundred G’s.”

It was Virgil’s turn to whistle.

“You know,” I added. “I don’t believe Briggs set me up because of the shooting. I think he just doesn’t want me nosing around.”

“Could be.” Virgil arched an eyebrow. “Could be. But, what’s Briggs’ part in all this? If he’s responsible for what you say, what’s he got up his sleeve?”

I shrugged. “Greed makes a person go to extremes. Maybe that’s it.” For the first time, I put my feelings into words. “Maybe the diamonds. Maybe something else.”

“Sounds kinda iffy to me.”

He was right. It was iffy. I had absolutely nothing to focus my theories, simply a conglomeration of half-baked ideas without a foundation.

A knock at the door gave me that foundation.

Ted Morrison stood sheepishly in the open doorway, his pale face purple and yellow from bruises. “Tony.”

I held my temper. “You got some more dope to plant?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry about that.”

Virgil came to stand behind me. He sneered. “Yeah. We can see the tears.”

I thought about Janice, which helped me resist the urge to slap Morrison senseless. On the other hand, I was going to be in enough trouble with her anyway when this hit the fan. A sound beating wouldn’t elicit that much more yelling from her. “What do you want, Morrison?”

He dropped his gaze to the floor and shifted from one foot to the next. “I just wanted to apologize. That’s all. I got nothing against you. They made me.”

Virgil caught his breath.

“They?” My senses became alert. A tiny spark of hope burst into flame. “Who’s they?”

He glanced nervously over his shoulder. “Can I come in?”

I hesitated.

He grinned sheepishly. “Honest. This is legit. I got nothing up my sleeve.”

Inside, he stood nervously in front of the TV.

“Looks like you fell down a couple times after you left here,” I said, commenting on the bruises about his face.

He laid a finger on a yellow bruise on his cheekbone. “Yeah. They was pretty upset that you stiffed them.”

“Who’s they?” I held my breath, wondering just how far Ted Morrison was prepared to go. I still held out hope that he’d testify for me.

He glanced at the closed door. “Look, the reason I’m here is that I’m blowing this place. I got a feeling someone’s measuring me for a cement jacket, so I’m outta here. But I ain’t leaving before they get what’s coming to them.”

Virgil and I exchanged puzzled looks.

Morrison continued. “I don’t know all the details, but Frank Cheshire claimed the D.A. and Abbandando was thick as thieves.”

So I was right. But that didn’t make me feel any better. Worse, in fact. If the district attorney was dirty, there was no way I could clear my name by proving Cheshire dirty. I managed to croak out a question. “In what way?”

He shrugged. “I never heard for sure, but all I know is that they was planning on hijacking a shipment of diamonds that belonged to Joe Vaster and lay the blame on Sam Maranzano.”

I caught my breath. Joe Vaster! He was big time.

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “So Maranzano was telling the truth. He wasn’t mixed up in this.”

Morrison’s allegations had knocked a couple holes in my theory. “Looks that way,” I replied, at the same time realizing that there as a good chance the phone call from police headquarters concerning Cheshire and Maranzano had been a deliberate attempt to mislead me. “What else?”

Morrison shook his head. “That’s all I know except Frank and me was planning on switching the shipment before handing it over to Abbandando and Briggs.”

I eyed him narrowly. “They hired Cheshire to pick up the goods?”

He nodded nervously. “Yeah.”

“And he planned on switching it on them?”

Morrison shrugged. “Yeah.”

I whistled softly. “But the shipment was initially intended for Joe Vaster.”

“Yeah. Through Abbandando’s warehouse.”

“How were you going to manage the switch?”

“Frank never got around to telling me.”

“How was Vaster to make the pick up?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Virgil looked up at me. “You think maybe his kid was the pickup man, Tony?”

I shook my head. A plate of spaghetti didn’t have as many loose ends. “Who knows, Virge? Who knows?” I looked back at Morrison. “When is the shipment due?”

“Frank never told me.” He paused, looking from Virgil to me. “That’s it. That’s all I know.”

I have a tiny voice somewhere deep in my head that tells me when something is, as Shakespeare so eloquently put, rotten in the state of Denmark. I didn’t hear that tiny voice, but I was still suspicious of Morrison’s motives. “Why are you telling me this?”

He pointed to his bruised face. “Call it my way of getting some revenge. After the cops finished working me over, I realized how far I was in over my head. I got scared.” He glanced at the closed door. “I’m scared now.”

I arched an eyebrow. “How’d you end up working with the cops to begin with?”

Morrison shrugged. “After Frank got it, they paid me a visit. I’m guessing Frank mentioned me to Abbandando, and from there it went to the D.A. He probably sent the cops for me. They found a kilo of coke in my apartment. That’s was the pressure they used to get me to plant the stuff in your room.” He looked me squarely in the eyes. “It was me or you. I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “Will you go to court with me, testify for me? We not only take care of Cheshire but Abbandando and Briggs to boot.”

He shook his head emphatically. “No way, Man. I never been as scared as I am right now. All I want to do is go someplace far away where I can start over, where nobody knows me. This ain’t the kinda life I want.”

“You could be subpoenaed.”

He smiled sadly. “Sorry, Tony. I’d change my story.” 

I took my last shot. “Abbandando might come after you.”

A wry grin curled his lips. “I never met Abbandando. You’re the only one who knows this part of the story.” He hesitated. “For fifteen years I’ve hustled, thinking I would score big and end up driving a fancy car. But, I got nothing to show for it. I finally got smart and figured there must be a better way. My way sure ain’t worked. I know what kind of crud I am for letting you down, but I just won’t risk it. I’m sorry.”

The truth is, I understood what he was saying, and slapping him senseless wouldn’t help, nor would tossing him to Abbandando.

He paused at the door and looked back. “You probably don’t believe what I’ve told you. Just to let you know I’m on the up and up, I ain’t a cousin or nephew to those two broads in Austin. That was another scam.”

His announcement surprised me. “But the DNA tests? I know Beatrice Morrison. I know how exact she is.”

He opened the door. “Maybe so, Man, but there’s always a way.” He gave us a sly look and explained. “I just supplied a family sample of DNA and bribed the technician.”

Ten minutes after Ted Morrison left, the phone rang.

“Boudreaux? This is Wilson, Sergeant Wilson. I’m trying to run down Ted Morrison. Seen him lately?” His voice was thin and weak. He was on a cell phone. I glanced at the window overlooking the parking lot where I had met him a couple days earlier.

Warning bells went off in my head. “Not since last night.”

He paused a moment. “Oh. Not this morning, huh? Figured you two might have hit it off.”

I had the eerie feeling that James Wilson was toying with me. “Why would you think that?”

“No reason. You met with him a couple times, and if I’m not mistaken, he is the cousin to a lady friend of yours.”

Though his remark took me aback momentarily, I ignored the comment. “Like I told you. He was here last night when some of your guys came to my room with a search warrant and took him away.” I hesitated, then decided to see what I could get from Wilson. “If I see him, is it important for him to get in touch with you?”

Wilson hesitated once again. “No. Don’t worry about it. No big deal.”

I sat staring at the receiver several seconds after I hung up. There was no question in my mind that Wilson suspected Morrison had paid me a visit. 

“What’s the matter, Tony?”

“I’m not sure, Virge. You remember when you were a kid and got into trouble. You mother would question you about it although she already knew the whole story. You know?”

With a chuckle, he nodded. “I know.”

“That’s exactly how I felt talking to Wilson. I got the feeling he knew Morrison had been here. So why the questions?”

“Maybe Morrison shouldn’t of been here.”

Virgil’s remark gave me a idea. “Yeah. Yeah, and why shouldn’t he have been here?”

“Huh?”

“I think you’re right. For what possible reason could Wilson have for Morrison to stay away from me?”

A broad grin split Virgil’s square face. “So he wouldn’t tell you what he just told you.”

I grinned back at Virgil. “I think you’re right, Virge. I think you just hit the proverbial nail on the head.” I paused, suddenly aware of the ramifications of our new little theory. I frowned.

Virgil’s grin faded. “What now?”

“If we’re right, this means Wilson is in the scheme with Briggs and Abbandando.”

“Yeah,” Virgil replied, plopping down in a chair. “Makes you wonder just how many are involved.”

My stomach growled.

Virgil grinned. “Me too.”

I looked out the window. The sky was gray, and the north wind blew spray off the whitecaps in the gulf. I shivered. “This is a day for gumbo, Virge. You ever had Louisiana gumbo?”

“I don’t know about Louisiana, but we got a gumbo soup here.”

I grinned to myself. Louisiana gumbo is to soup as a standing rib roast is to a Vienna sausage, but I just nodded. “Sort of.”

“Let’s get some.”

Had I been back in my own apartment in Austin, I could have whipped up a tasty gumbo, but I had learned the hard way that Texas gumbo was a thin, watery imitation of a truly delectable dish. “I’ll settle for a hamburger and fries.”

We took Virgil’s car, a new Pontiac Grand Am. I stared out over the gulf as we headed down Seawall Boulevard, trying to decide on my next step now that Morrison had bailed out on me. Whatever it was, I had to move fast. The first vessel, the California, was due in tomorrow.

“Drive-thru okay with you, Tony?”

“Huh?” I looked up. Ahead was the Seawall Hamburger Shack.

“I said is the drive-thru okay.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Five minutes later, we were headed back toward the motel. Traffic was typical for mid-afternoon. As we passed 26
^th
Street, an eighteen wheeler with a bright yellow trailer pulled up to the corner and stopped. In the middle of the trailer was a green paintbrush. I glanced at it idly, then turned my eyes back to the front.

Suddenly, I stiffened. The paintbrush!

I jerked around and stared out the rear window at the truck. Across the side of the yellow trailer was a bright green logo of a paintbrush. Above it were the words, British Paint Company, in bright green Britannic Bold font—the same as the unopened can of paint that I saw under the kitchen sink at Frank Cheshire’s apartment.

“Virge!”

He jerked around when I shouted. “What the … ”

“Hurry. Back to the motel,” I yelled.

He frowned at me. “What’s up?”

My voice trembled with excitement. “I think I just found our answer. If what I think is on the list of political action committees, I’ll know where to find the diamonds.”

I leaned back in satisfaction. British Paint made sizeable contributions to the same candidates as did Maritime Shippers and Allied Cement. “That is no coincidence, Virge,” I said, pointing out the donations. “None at all.”

“Now what?”

With a mischievous grin, I looked up at him. “We’re going to find us a stash of fake diamonds. Let’s go. We’ll take my truck.”

He looked at me as if I were crazy.

The truth was, I was saner than I had ever been.

Chapter Seventeen

I took the stairs two at a time to Cheshire’s apartment on the third floor. Once inside, I went directly for the kitchen. Virgil tagged after me, taking three steps to my two.

“Where are you … ”

His voice trailed off when I opened the cabinet door beneath the sink. I looked inside and froze. 

There were the same bug sprays, the same trash still overflowing and growing even riper, but only one can of paint, the one that had been opened and then tapped shut. Traces of red paint had dried to the rim of the can. The second can, the unopened one, the British Paint can, was missing.

I dropped to one knee and cursed.

Virgil bent at the waist and stared under the sink. “What?”

“A can of paint is missing.”

He looked around at me with a frown. “Huh?”

“There. Next to the red paint. There was another can there. A yellow one. British Paint Company.”