Bino's Blues Page 20

  “Or casing one of those big homes out there,” Bino said. “Or let me guess, you were looking for directions to Texas Stadium.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Wimpy said. “Anyway, I’m standing there with my hands in my pockets and, boom, there’s the guy. Stanfield T. Morton in the flesh, cruising along in, get this, a fucking Jaguar. Hundred bucks he stiffed me for not two months earlier, now he’s tooling around in a sixty-thousand-dollar auto.”

  “Those swindler guys,” Bino said, “they get back on the street and in action … ”

  “They can come up with some bread,” Wimpy said. “Now my friend Stanfield T, at this particular time he has the misfortune to stop not fifty feet from where I’m standing. I hotfoot it over to the curb, open the door, and slide into the seat right next to the guy. He looked like he seen a ghost, I hold out my palm and I say, ‘Old buddy. How ’bout my hundred bucks?’ He goes through the bullshit, you know? Plays like he’s looking in his pocket, and guess what?”

  “He doesn’t have it,” Bino said. “That kind of guy never does. He’s forgotten to go to the bank or something.”

  “Yeah, it’s always something. But it don’t work this time with me,” Wimpy said. “I lean back and I say, ‘Well, until I get my hundred, you got you a companion. Where you go I go, pardner.’ ”

  “That threat should have gotten you paid in a hurry,” Bino said.

  “He says, Well, I’m on my way to a meeting, where I’m going to, lessee, close a deal, I think this fucker called it. Says he’ll meet me back at that same street corner in a couple of hours. I had a big picture of that so, ‘Yeah, okay,’ I tell him, ‘you can close this deal with me along to make sure you ain’t getting screwed.’ ”

  “I expected more bullshit, tell you the truth,” Wimpy said. “But he throws the Jag in gear and away we go. First thing I know we’re headed east on Northwest Highway, and guess where he was going?”

  Bino pictured the area, Northwest Highway near Preston Road, and rolled his eyes. “Arthur’s.”

  Wimpy’s forehead tightened. “How the fuck you know that?”

  “Lucky guess,” Bino said. “It’s the spot where a lot of heavyweights go.”

  “We roll into the parking lot,” Wimpy said, “and one of these twerps in a uniform runs up and stands right in our path.”

  “Valet parking attendant,” Bino says.

  “Been me,” Wimpy said, “I wouldda run over the little shit, but not Stanfield T. He gets out like he’s Donald Trump, gives the kid a bunch of shit about not scraping his fenders. Then Stanfield T. borrows a dollar to tip this punk. What an asshole, huh?”

  “Well, maybe not,” Bino said. “You don’t tip something you’re liable to find some dents.”

  “Not if the bastard wanted to keep all his teeth would he dent my car,” Wimpy said. “Anyhow, in we go. It’s about, five, five-thirty and it’s happy hour.”

  “There a combo playing? Cute little singer, looks Oriental?”

  Wimpy started. “How the fuck you know that?”

  “I go there, to Arthur’s sometimes.”

  “You’re a big fucking sucker, then,” Wimpy said. “Hey, you know it’s two bucks for a beer in that joint?”

  “It’s expensive,” Bino said. “Tell me something, Wimp. What were you wearing?”

  “Slacks and a sport shirt. Why?”

  Slacks and a sport shirt were Wimpy’s idea of duding out. Likely the same outfit he’d worn to a sentencing once. The slacks were orange, the sport shirt bright green. “Just wondering,” Bino said.

  “We met these guys,” Wimpy said. “Rusty Benson was one, and I don’t mind telling you I was glad to see somebody that probably had a little scratch in his pocket. I was beginning to think my buddy Stanfield T. Morton was going to drink on me, at two bucks a beer. There were three of these guys at a big round table. One of ’em, this soft-looking guy in a fancy suit, kept telling about his own scam, some kind of deal selling Vegas tour packages.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Bino said. “Pete Kinder.”

  Wimpy tugged at his ear. “How the fuck you know that?”

  “I … just a minute, Wimp.” Bino studied the printout in earnest, squinting, reading each name, finally pausing over the very last entry on the list. Kinder, Peter S. Mail and wire fraud, represented by Rusty Benson in Judge Hazel Burke Sanderson’s court.

  Case dismissed Thursday, three days after Bino had talked to Kinder at Arthur’s; two days after Rusty’s arrest in Houston. Bino mentally kicked himself; he’d only been studying cases in Edgar Bryson’s court. Jesus, if Rusty had been in jail at the time, what lawyer had represented Kinder in the dismissal motion? Bino knew the answer to that one. Kinder’s charges had been set aside on the motion of the United States Attorney. Goldman. Had to be in chambers, Bino thought, back there in the judge’s office with no one around to witness what was going on. Goldman had dug up another stool pigeon. Bino said to Wimpy, “I met the guy once, with Rusty.”

  “The whole bunch of ’em,” Wimpy said, “was buyin’ rounds and tippin’ waitresses like it was going out of style. Except for Stanfield T., of course, the guy owes me the hundred bucks which ain’t got two cents in his pocket. Not for long, though. The Pete Kinder guy comes up with a bankroll you wouldn’t believe, starts doling out money, one for you, one for you, that kind of shit. Only time in my life when some high roller tells me he’s going to close a deal and it’s not a lot of bullshit. Kinder gives Stanfield, must have been five thousand dollars, a hundred-dollar bill at a time.”

  “You get your hundred bucks?” Bino said.

  “You shitting me? I snatched two of ’em before Stanfield can get the money in his pocket and then give me some song and dance. I been knowing this kind of guy for years.”

  “Two of them?”

  “Yeah. A hundred he owes me plus a hundred for the irritation of getting fucked around for so long.”

  “You swiped an extra hundred,” Bino said.

  “Hey, guys like Stanfield, he never missed it. He was going to tip it off to some waitress if I don’t get it. These guys get a big wad in their pocket... I got to make a living, you know?”

  “Ever think of getting a job?” Bino said.

  Wimpy’s eyes widened. “What for?”

  “Never mind.” Bino glanced into the living room. Half now had the fifty-one-inch Mitsubishi tuned in, a life-size Jose Guzman on the mound, stretching, checking the base runners, going into an abbreviated windup with ducks on the pond. Half had taken off his shoes and had his stockinged feet up on the coffee table. The phone sat ready near Half’s

  right big toe. Bino said to Wimpy, “You get any idea why this Kinder was being so generous?”

  “I figured it was none of my business,” Wimpy said. “But, yeah, I found out.” Wimpy tugged on his earlobe. His hair was drying, split ends frizzing out around the sides of his head. “Stanfield tells me, in between drinking one highball after another, four bucks apiece for those fucking things and this is happy hour. Stanfield tells me, he says, ‘When things are going good I spread a little cash around. Give it to old Rusty for investment purposes.’ That way he gets busted, he’s got credit with the lawyer.”

  “Maybe you ought to try that yourself,” Bino said. “Build up an account.”

  “What Stanfield tells me, Rusty gives some of the money to this Kinder guy, who salts it away with this stockbroker. Then when any of Rusty’s clients run out of cash, the broker sells some off this account and feeds it through Kinder back to the guy.”

  “You hear any of them tell the broker’s name?” Bino said.

  “He’s the other guy sitting there at the table. These guys all start getting boozy, they start toasting him. Larry some-thing-the-fuck.”

  “You didn’t hear his last name?”

  “Might have, I don’t remember. I ain’t looking to make no investm
ents. I need a stash, I leave a little with this hooker I know.”

  “Someone you trust,” Bino said.

  “Not necessarily,” Wimpy said, “but if the hooker goes and pisses my money off at least I can take it in trade. Some stockbroker loses your cash, what you going to do about it?”

  “What did the guy look like, this Larry?”

  “About your age,” Wimpy said. “Only this guy’s in better shape, looks like he does something besides sit around on his ass. Maybe lifts a few weights.”

  “I’m thinking about doing some of that.”

  “Well, you ought to. All you pretty boys, you don’t realize you get older you start to sag.”

  Bino patted his own midsection, picturing the health spa membership which Tirelli had bought him. “Say, I know a guy that’s a stockbroker, runs in some fast company,” Bino said. “His name’s Larry, come to think about it, I went to college with the guy. Guy with a thick head of hair, dresses nice … ”

  “I don’t know about that,” Wimpy said. “Could use some more color in his outfit.”

  “Maybe a little conservative for your tastes,” Bino said. “He looks in shape, maybe like a defensive back.”

  “I don’t know from shit about football players,” Wimpy said. “What this guy looked like to me, maybe one of these nekkid dancers, only too old to wave his dong for the ladies no more.”

  “Yeah, but you get the idea,” Bino said. “Larry Murphy, that ring a bell?”

  “I told you, I don’t remember. But that sounds like the guy. When the broads come over to the table, I thought he was gonna strip right there, the way he was flexin’ his muscles. I can’t stand assholes like that.”

  “They had women with them?” Bino said.

  “I was about to tell you” Wimpy said. “All these guys, when they got money the first thing they think is getting some pussy. One of these broads was the dead lady. Rusty Benson’s old lady, only I didn’t know who she was till I seen her picture on television. She sat across from him, acted like she wasn’t attached to nobody.”

  “This was a few months back?” Bino said.

  “April, I think. Now, don’t ask me, but this Kinder gives her a few hundred which she packs away in her purse. She and Benson don’t hardly speak. Looking back on it, I think the only reason them broads dropped by the table was for her to pick up some money. I figured, none of my business, maybe she left something with this stockbroker to invest for her. Her and the other broad was talking about going home to change, like they were living together.”

  “Could have been,” Bino said, “while Rusty and Rhonda were separated. They weren’t getting along for a while, which would explain why they weren’t on such friendly terms. Jesus, a roommate?”

  “Roommate, housemate, how I know what the fuck they were sharing?” Wimpy said. “I thought I was giving you something new, till you said you already knew the broad.”

  “Not real well,” Bino said. “I just saw her around. How could you miss her, the way she used to gallery golf tournaments in those bare midriff numbers. Had the flaming red hair.”

  Wimpy looked puzzled, then his features relaxed. “Oh. I ain’t talking about the Rhonda Benson broad you said you knew. I mean the roommate.”

  Bino tilted his head. “I didn’t say I knew any roommate.”

  “Yeah, you did. Right when I told you about Stanfield T. taking me to this joint. The singer with the band.”

  Bino had his mouth open to speak, but now paused. He frowned. “Jesus, you mean Carla?”

  “I don’t know her name, but yeah, the cute little Oriental-looking broad. Man, what I wouldn’t give.”

  “Wimpy, you sure you’re remembering right, that these two women were living together?”

  “I got no problem with my memory,” Wimpy said.

  Bino leaned back and expelled air through his lips. Jesus, this was … He grabbed the printout, began with the first line, and went all the way through the list. No way could this be, not Carla. Nope, no Carla Carnes, nowhere. Bino felt somewhat better. Wimpy must have heard them wrong, Carla must have just stopped by the table during her break, maybe for a drink. There was a guy named Carnes on the federal printout, but no Carla. That’s a relief, Bino thought, for a second there I thought …

  Wait a minute.

  He moved the pencil back up the list and stopped with the point beside the name Carnes, Christopher C. The other columns across read: 3, HAB Writ, Pending. Court 3 was Judge Hazel Burke Sanderson. The code in the second column meant that the old heifer had approved a writ of habeas corpus, which normally meant an order transferring a prisoner from the federal joint to a local jail so the prisoner could testify for the government in some poor schnook’s trial. The writ for Carries, Christopher C, was still pending, which meant that the guy was probably in federal custody out at Mansfield, where he would remain until the U.S. Attorney was finished with whatever he’d wanted the prisoner for to begin with.

  Carnes, Christopher C.

  Two C.C.’s, Carla had said.

  Bino rocked back and looked at the ceiling. “Jesus fucking Christ … ”

  “Listen,” Wimpy said, “you ain’t fixing to have a seizure or something.”

  Bino sighed. “Naw, I’m all right. I’m just thinking, maybe I’ve been getting screwed in more ways than one.”

  “Everybody’s getting screwed, one way or the other,” Wimpy said. “You’re just finding that out, huh?”

  24

  BINO WATCHED NIGHT FALL THROUGH HIS KITCHEN WINDOW. HE stared morosely out as the sun set, making way for twilight to crawl across the courtyard in dismal, ever-deepening shades of purplish blue. An occasional star twinkled bravely through the light Dallas smog. He continued to sit, his chin thrust out, his arms folded in disgust, his long legs stretched out to their fullest, his ankles crossed on the corner of the table. He’d fixed a Scotch on the rocks a couple of hours earlier but hadn’t touched the drink. The dark amber liquid faded in color as the ice cubes shrank, then melted completely away. The Natalie/Nat King Cole duet tape he’d put on the stereo had long since run its course, and pops from the stand-up speakers occasionally punctured the silence.

  Finally he swiveled his head. The kitchen was in darkness, the single courtyard gaslight throwing weak rays on the table and making shadows on the floor. The digital wall clock to the

  right of Cecil’s tank showed seven minutes after nine. Cecil’s eyes were closed, the Oscar floating motionless near the white gravel on the bottom. Bino rose, flipped on the fluorescent light over the sink, and poured the diluted Scotch down the drain. Then he slouched disconsolately into the den, flipped the tape over, and pressed the play button. Natalie and Nat crooned in unison into “A Blossom Fell,” father and daughter blending their voices across the gap of time. Bino flopped down on the sofa and stared at the phone.

  Finally he picked up the receiver and punched a number in. After four rings a click sounded in his ear, then a soft and friendly female voice said, “Hello?”

  He got up and trailed the cord behind him as he walked over to reduce the volume on the stereo. “Hi, Dode,” he said.

  There were four solid beats of silence, after which Dodie said, “Hello.” The word now followed by a period, the tone less friendly.

  Bino sank back down on the sofa. “I was just wondering what was going on,” he said.

  “There were a few calls after you left the office yesterday. I didn’t bring the messages home with me. Maybe I should’ve.”

  “No, I mean,” Bino said, moving his rump forward on the cushion, “what’s going on with you?”

  “I’m pretty well caught up on the pending files. I should have the next six months’ docket on your desk Monday morning.”

  “That’s not what I was calling about.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Nope. I was wondering, ju
st, how you’re doing. Maybe if you’ve got a few minutes to talk.”

  More silence, followed by, “Let me guess. Your girlfriend dumped on you.”

  He sat up straighten “Why would you say something like that?”

  “Because nobody’s shot at you that I’m aware of.”

  “Huh?”

  “In the past nine years you call me at home for two reasons. Either somebody’s dumped on you or somebody’s shot at you. If I think it over I might remember another reason, but it’s always something that’s got you all mopey.”

  “I’m not all mopey, Dode,” he said, then under his breath murmured, “not exactly.”

  Her voice took on a cheerier tone. “You’re not? Well, then, it was nice talking to you.”

  “Dodie.”

  Ten more seconds of silence, then, “Yes?”

  He leaned back and reclined his head. “You ever have anybody you thought you could trust, anybody like that lie to you?”

  “Not anybody really important lately. The really important people don’t care enough about what I think to lie to me. They just blurt out the truth and think it’s—”

  “Now wait a minute. You mean me?”

  “—funny if I get upset. Why, no. Why would I be talking about you?”

  “Well, I certainly care enough about what you think to ... oh, hell, Dode, you know what I mean. It’s why I confide in you.”

  “She did dump on you, eh?” Dodie said.

  Bino looked at the ceiling. “Not entirely.”

  “Yes, she did. I can tell. Ha, ha.”

  “What I was wondering,” he said, “if you’re not doing anything, maybe I could come by.”

  “I have a date.”

  He looked at the clock. “Kind of late to be going out. With this Robert?”

  “With this, that’s my business. It’s Saturday night, in case you don’t know it. Things don’t start jumping until ten, ten-thirty.”

  “I could be there in fifteen minutes. We could chat for a half hour or so.”

  There was a rustling noise on the line, likely Dodie switching the phone from one ear to the other. She’d be sitting on the edge of her bed, or possibly in her kitchen talking on the wall phone. “So I can sit at your feet and bow?”