Dead On, Page 3

  Chapter 3

  Black marble floors took me across an oval foyer down a cool dark hallway past a rambling collection of mismatched rooms each furnished with disconnected ruins, and into a spacious modern living area. The latter was a lofty affair with an open-beamed ceiling, skylights and hanging plants. Persian rugs and French furniture dotted a polished oak floor. Light earthy tones decorated the walls along with numerous pieces of abstract art. Glass panels partitioned one side from floor to ceiling against a large flower garden in the back yard. Red, yellow and purple Gladiola blooms dominated the outdoor scene. In front of one a ruby-throated hummingbird dove into the blooms. Then after putting its wings into reverse, it made a fast forward arc and disappeared. In my mind’s eye, I pictured Eli sitting here staring out at buzzing bees and flitting hummingbirds, while counting his ill-gotten gains. I rubbed the swelling bruises on my face and enviously wondered what it was like to be so rich.

  A long, low, glass table stood in front of a floral davenport. On its dusty surface, three crystal tumblers nuzzled each other. Bright red lipstick of slightly different hues smeared two of the rims. Behind the glasses rested a sconce shaped ashtray. Within it mounds of tobacco ash competed for presence with a dozen red-smeared cigarette butts. I picked up two of these and compared the lip prints, and coloring. The reds were slightly different in shade like on the glasses. The imprints had been made by two pairs of painted lips, one of which had a small sickle-shaped scar. I took the plane-ticket envelope from my pocket and dropped the butts into it. Then I stuffed it out of sight before glancing around. The floor needed polishing and the windows were long overdue for a little muscle behind a rag. Whatever Eli's cleaning woman provided it had little to do with her chosen profession.

  A cream-colored telephone on a small glass end table, beckoned. As I picked up the receiver I heard the thump-thumping of running feet coming from the front entrance. My hand gave the phone a white-knuckled squeeze as Leon came into view and I reached for my gun. He stopped short when he saw me. From the look of death in the boxer's eyes I knew what he had planned, and cursed myself for not handcuffing him to the pickup's rear axle

  "Keys," he growled.

  I shook my head. "Killing Delaney will just get you hanged, Leon." We didn't hang people in Texas any more, we gave them lethal injections. The end result was the same, though.

  The boxer tucked his chin and came for me. I cocked the Mauser and tilted the barrel toward his chest. Despite his age and lack of condition, he was as tough as week-old stew meat. And I was not looking forward to another slugfest.

  "Keys," he growled again, still moving.

  I discretely set the gun's safety and hoped he would not call my bluff. "Careful, Leon." I snugged my finger around the gun's trigger. "Even on your best day you couldn't beat what's pointed at you."

  His wet eyes focused on the weapon's muzzle, and he stopped. Leon looked from the gun, to me and then back to the gun. I could almost hear him thinking as the seconds ticked past like minutes. He was weighing his situation and not finding many options.

  "Have a seat and let me handle this," I told him. "The law will deal with whoever killed Eli."

  He uttered a sigh of resignation and backed up a step.

  "No good calling no cops," he said, softly. He offered me a sour grin. "Ain't nobody gonna' do for Eli, none. Cops're all gettin' the nod from Delaney. J.D.'s all right. But, there's just J.D. and he ain't no cop."

  I set down the telephone receiver and let the blood flow back into my hand. "Who's the woman?" I asked, and holstered the Mauser.

  Leon gave me a blank stare. "Woman?"

  "You remember women, Leon. They're soft, nice to fondle and prefer men who bathe."

  "Ain't nobody here but you and me, Mister."

  I jabbed a finger toward the ashtray and glasses. "Are you telling me, Eli wears lipstick?"

  Leon's eyes bulged. For many seconds he said nothing, staring at the coffee table. Finally, the boxer moved over to it and looked down at the ashtray, as if the butts were demons in need of slaying.

  "She must have a name, Leon?" I persisted.

  "Cleaning lady," he muttered, making a sloppy effort to cover up. He dragged one hairy forearm across his sweaty face and managed a plastic grin. "Lazy bitch ain't good for nothin'. Just sits and drinks and smokes. I told Eli, fire her. But he don't listen to me—he never listens to me."

  "Where can I find this cleaning woman?"

  The boxer's eyes drifted back to the ashtray. Anxiously, his hands went into his pants-pockets, back out, then back in.

  "I just want to talk to her, Leon," I prompted. "She might've seen something."

  His breath began to gasp like a frightened bull standing on the killing grid. I watched and waited for an explosion.

  "Look," he finally bellowed, shaking a threatening finger at me. "Eli don't cotton to me stickin' my nose. And, the same for you."

  "Eli's dead, Leon! Now, what's her name?"

  Leon looked from the ashtray to me, and then back to the ashtray. It was as if his befuddled brain was struggling to conjure up a rational response.

  "Try moving your mouth, Leon," I urged. "That's how it works. You move your mouth, and I hear the words."

  "Don't know," he mumbled. He dragged his palms across the back of his grimy neck as if it ached. Then he backed away from the table moaning, "Don't remember. Gotta' think."

  "You're lying, Leon."

  The boxer shook his head as if he were a child, throwing a tantrum. "No. No. No!"

  I picked up the telephone receiver, again. "If she was here when it happened, she could be in danger."

  The boxer's beefy hands grabbed at his head as if he was trying to rip it off. "Leave her be, Mister!" he raged. "She's not in this. She didn't do nothin'. She don't know nothin'."

  "That's not for you to decide," I said, and dialed 911.

  With a frustrated sob, Leon staggered out of the room.