Dead On

By Michael Paulson

When a scruffy ex-boxer picks up P.I. Deacon Bishop at the south Texas airport, Bishop worries that he's made a long trip for nothing. Because Leon Huggins doesn't look like he could pay a bar tab, let alone a detective's retainer. But Leon isn't the client--not at first, anyway. Leon's brother is supposed to be the client but then Eli Huggins ends up dead. Bishop can't walk away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Preece
• Release date: Apr 27, 2009
• ISBN: 9781602150102

Michael Paulson

Michael Paulson lives in Austin, Texas and writes hard-boiled mysteries set in the streets of Austin and surrounding parts of Texas. Paulson grew up surrounded by crime and crime families and draws on his own background in creating the colorful characters and criminals who feature in his stories.

Book preview

Chapter 1

He was standing in McAllen's air terminal; slack-jawed and dewy-eyed, holding a cardboard sign with my name scrawled in red crayon. Behind him, a loudspeaker droned a speech from the mayor, Philip Woods. His honor was up for reelection and promising to get tough on crime, no matter the cost, or implications. It was a promise each voter could cling to in hopes of a better, safer tomorrow. It was also a promise the Mayor would have trouble keeping. Because in Texas, when it came to crime, implications always run deeper than expected.

I stopped in front of the sign-holder and jabbed the cardboard with my finger. In response, his wet brown eyes flickered into focus. They drifted from my face to my shoulders to my shoes, and then back to my face as if not certain I was real.

You the detective? he asked, dully. His face was like a vacant lot. His softly spoken words coming slow and painfully, like work from a man shortchanged for his labors. You Deacon Bishop?

I could smell gin on his breath and the rancid sweat clinging to his oozing pores. Naw, I replied, fanning the air in front of my face. I flew here from Dallas because I have this thing for cardboard.

My presence in McAllen related to a request from Eli Huggins; a businessman reputedly rich enough to start his own country. The poor soul in front of me looked like he would have trouble buying a cup of coffee without getting a donation.

I hope to god you're not Eli Huggins! I blurted, as the memory of his expense check bounced around in my head.

Eli's my brother, the sign-holder said. He let the cardboard slip from his big fingers, to the floor. I'm, Leon.

Leon Huggins was well past middle age, short and wiry. What I could see of his body had a lot of hair; gray on his head and three-day beard, black on the backs of his hands and arms. His sunburned face was crisscrossed with deep crags. He had old scars above his eyes, along the ridgeline of his cheeks, and across the bridge of his flattened nose: markers prizefighters got for winning second place.

Eli sent me, he continued, rubbing his flattened knuckles. He's waitin' on you back home.

A dim light came on in my head as I eyed Leon's dirty T-shirt, big hands and baggy jeans. Leon Huggins, I grunted. Boxer, welterweight. Maybe twenty or twenty-five years back, right? A real contender.

His bushy gray eyebrows shot up forcing the skin above into deep furrows. Then he grinned at me showing a mouthful of decay-blackened teeth. You got a memory, Mister.

I laid five hundred clams on your last bout, Sweets, I gritted. You took a dive to a nobody by the name of Johnny Paean. Five hundred was a chunk of change back then! And, it took a lot of sweat to get. That's the reason for memory.

The boxer's grin twisted into a savage growl, Never tanked, no how.

I jabbed my forefinger into the middle of his hard chest. Naw, I gritted. You kissed the mat 'cause it felt good.

He stiffened toward me like a pit-bull ready to charge; his hands clenched into meaty clubs; his voice hissing, Best keep shut, Mister.

I had lost bets that size a hundred times or more over the years, without batting an eye. Nevertheless, that particular wager was now a red-hot poker twisting my guts: one that would not quit until I got satisfaction.

Third round, I remembered. Paean tossed a jab followed by a half-hearted combination. You took the blows and folded like a limp dick.

Ain't gonna' tell you again.

I coiled my fingers and set myself. I'll settle for a piece of your hide.

A black scowl contorted the boxer's face. He muttered a curse and quickly cocked one arm, ready to swing. I gave him a hard stare, and waited. Seconds ticked. Eyes locked. Breathing stopped. Finally, Leon relaxed and let his arms drop to his sides. I started breathing, again—disappointed and relieved.

Memory ain't good, he grunted. Leon shook his shoulders back to relax the muscles, and then retreated a step. Not clear on what's what some times. And that goes back some. Maybe I got things crossed. Maybe you did, too.

I splay my fingers to get the blood flowing back into them. Not, likely Sweets.

His stubbly chin drooped to his chest as if he were a small boy caught dipping into a cookie jar. Then, he stuffed his big hands into his jeans-pockets and stared down at his ragged running shoes, completely defeated.

A wave of pity swept over me and I felt very small and petty. I'll get my grip, I muttered, and headed for the luggage carousel.

Twenty minutes later, I was on the parking ramp's top deck, gasping hot air as I followed Leon across the sizzling concrete. Eli was supposed to get me, I called to his back. What happened?

Truck's over yonder, Mister, Leon said, with forced politeness. You'll see Eli soon 'nough.

I trailed along feeling like a Popsicle tied to the business end of a blowtorch. I hope to god the air in your truck's working. It must be a hundred in the shade.

Hundred-ten! Leon said proudly over his shoulder, as if he were responsible for the heat. Them temps make my bones feel young. Then he tossed me an apologetic backward glance before adding, Truck got no air but windows, Mister.

Under my breath I sighed, It probably doesn't come with a low-moral blonde either.

He stopped behind a 40's vintage pickup and gave me a feeble grin. The pearl-black paint on the old truck glistened like molten tar. And the chrome glinted like it had been dusted with diamonds.

Ain't she somethin'? Leon asked. One of his big hands reached out and stroked a fender like it was a woman's thigh. All I got. Only thing's really mine.

He walked the length of the vehicle and back, staring at it as if the truck were alive and awaiting his attentions. I watched and wilted, still worrying about Eli's check.

Twenty-five coats, he continued. Me and my daughter Betsy polished her up in between. Glows like love, don't she? I call her Moira—after my wife.

I wiped the sweat from my face with a handkerchief. Then I grimaced as a gust of wind brought his stench to my nose. Married a mouth-breather, did you?

Leon rubbed at an invisible spec of dust on the truck's chrome license-plate holder. Then, slowly, his eyes rose to meet mine. You're clear on Johnny Paean, he said quietly. He nodded as if reaffirming the long-past transgression. Tanked all right: deep as it'd go. He spat on the concrete, as if the admission had fouled his mouth. Weren't my call. Never's my call! Not, then. Not, now.

I set my suitcase into the truck-bed, took off my suit-coat and draped the sweat-dampened garment over one arm. Even the Pope has options, Leon.

He gave me a grin. I'm good for the five-hundred, Mister. You'll see.

I let my gaze wander over the poor slob. If he had two quarters in his pockets, they belonged to somebody else. How much did you get for throwing that fight?

His grin faded. Then he moved to the driver's door and opened it. Nothin', he murmured. I never got nothin'. Eli's got them angles.

He crawled into the truck's cab and settled behind the steering wheel. I got in on the rider's side and immediately wished I was somewhere else. The pickup smelled of gasoline, and Leon. I rolled down the side window and prayed for a clean, cool breeze.

Chapter 2

Nearly an hour later Leon pulled the truck to a stop in front of a white, stone archway somewhere out in the boonies. Running away on either side were horizons of gleaming razor wire: the kind correctional facilities used to deter inmate escape. Between the risers, yellow wrought-iron gates stood open. Beyond, a narrow strip of blacktop rippled across a neatly trimmed lawn like an old belt. A quarter-mile along it, a red tile roof rose amidst a grove of trees.

I wiped the sweat from my brow. What? No tower guards to plink off passersby?

At that moment, I was simmering in a pool of my own sweat. In fact, everything I had on was soaked and creeping for higher ground.

Leon swallowed thickly. Somethin's wrong, Mister.

A chill suddenly darted down my spine and I glanced about. However, there was only heat, dust and scrub brush for miles. For Christ's sake, give me a hint, Leon.

A dribble of perspiration tracked down the length of his flat nose until it dangled from the tip, like a foul smelling dewdrop. Them gates got rules, he said with respect. Then, he tapped the windshield and pointed at the arch. Them gates is locked 'less Eli says unlock.

Maybe, your brother took a drive.

Leon shifted on the seat as if his backside was dodging a vagrant spring. 'Lectric, he explained. Radio-box control. He dug a garage-door style transmitter out of his pants pocket and held it up. Eli's got one, too. Somethin's wrong, all right. Eli don't cotton to open gates.

A twitching at the nape of my neck suggested I take Leon's case of nerves as gospel. Did Eli give you the package I shipped?

There, Leon grunted, and pointed to the truck's glove box.

I opened the compartment. Inside were a lock-pick kit and my Mauser pistol. I took out the gun, checked the clip, jerked back the slide and let it fly forward to load one round into the chamber. Then I set the safety, lowered the hammer and shoved it into my shoulder holster. The probability of running into lethal trouble on a hot afternoon at a millionaire's estate in South Texas was well off the scale. So was meeting Leon Huggins.

The boxer glanced at me and shivered. Don't cotton to guns, Mister.

I pointed toward the rooftop and growled, Just drive, Leon.

We roared through the arch, took a curve on two wheels, and then caught air over a sharp rise. The lawn sprinklers sputtered streams of liquid silver onto brown grass, and steaming asphalt. The truck skidded on the wet. I let go a curse, and then quickly said a prayer. Leon was quiet, wide-eyed and lead-footed.

The roof we headed for belonged to a Spanish style mansion the size of a football field. It had three levels of white stucco with black wrought-iron ornamentation on the windows. It nestled among flapping banana palms, tall cottonwoods and twisted eucalyptus trees, like a gigantic cupcake.

How many servants? I asked, as he pumped the brakes.

I do, for Eli! he growled. No need for nobody else.

You traded your jockstrap for a feather-duster?

Leon flushed crimson. Cleanin' woman comes in for that.

The asphalt formed a nice neat drive-around in front of a wide flagstone walkway. The latter wound between two concrete benches up three rows of white stone steps to a pair of red steel doors, one of which was ajar. There were no other vehicles in sight. Leon stopped the truck, and shut off the engine.

I don't see a car, I said. You're sure Eli didn't go somewhere?

Parkin's underground.

Let's go!

He shook his head. No pass-card.

Your brother won't let you into his garage?

Eli don't cotton to nobody goin' down there but special friends.

What do these special friends do for him, you don't?

Leon's chin dipped before offering a shrug in reply.

Your brother was shy on details, I grumbled. What kind of trouble's Eli in?

Not sure, Leon muttered. Maybe shakedown. Maybe somethin' else. Tried to tell Eli I handle problems. He says, stay clear. So, I stay clear.

You said shakedown. Who might be doing the shaking?

The boxer spat out the truck's side window. Not sure, Mister, Leon replied. Cop, maybe. Big bastard. Tough. Not, too tough for me. Maybe them others. Maybe no shakedown at all. Maybe something else.

My mouth went dry. There was nothing I liked better than dealing with a dirty cop—except swimming naked with hungry sharks. This cop have a name? I asked.

Shawn Delaney. Don't like him much. He don't like me, either. You know him, Mister?

I shook my head. I guess that explains why Eli was nervous as a transvestite in a nunnery, when he called. What was your brother's schedule for today?

Leon stuck an index finger into one hairy ear and rotated the digit like a plumber cranking a closet-auger. Meetin'. Big meetin' come up all sudden-like. That's why he sent me to get you.

Meeting with who?

The boxer's fingers coiled and then recoiled around the black steering wheel as if he were milking the life out of it. Eli don't say and I don't ask. Then he murmured in a worried voice, Somethin's wrong all right. Somethin's terrible wrong.

I crawled from the truck like a soggy bagel and grimaced up at the searing sun. It hung over my head like the thrusters of a rocket engine running at full throttle. I'm going to take a look around, Leon. I'm the nervous type so stay put, understand? If you come up on my blind side, I'm liable to get impulsive and blow your damn head off. That'd be a relief to my nose, but it might ruin your day.

Leon chewed his lower lip, and nodded.

I let my eyes drift. Drawn drapes sealed the mansion's windows in navy blue. An overgrown spirea hedge twisted along the North side of the house like a pink and green dragon. Here and there a dandelion danced among the grass blades like a yellow-faced clown. Nothing seemed out of place except for the open door at the top of the flagstones.

Eli's dead, Leon sobbed. He'd be out by now if he was alive.

I looked over at the boxer through the truck's side window. Sweat was dredging a path through grime and oil across his face, making him look like a weeping clown. During all my years investigating homicides with Dallas P-D, not once had a devoted relative expressed the belief that a missing loved one was dead before the body was found. The not so devoted often did, mostly out of hope that tears would sell innocence over guilt. I took out my pistol, clicked off the Mauser's safety and then rubbernecked toward the flagstone.

When I started up the steps, I noticed something that looked like a dark blue bag behind the hedge. At one end of the bag was a pair of brown shoes poking through the shrubbery, the pointed tips tilting toward the sun like shiny leather arrows.

At that moment, I realized Eli's check was the least of my worries.

Behind me, the truck door slammed. I whirled toward it taking aim at the sound only to see Leon racing toward the hedge.

Eli! he bellowed. Eli!

By the time I reached the shoes Leon was kneeling beside a gaunt, ashen-faced corpse. The dead man was dressed in an expensive suit. His starched white shirt was crisply pressed. His red silk tie was knotted perfection. And his dyed black hair was trimmed, greased and combed straight back over his round head, in Valentino style. Even his nails had been done to the nines, manicured and polished with clear lacquer. The only flaws were grass-stained knees on his pants and the deceased's unseeing eyes staring up at me as if I had solved all the world’s problems. Somebody had—at least for Eli Huggins.

They got Eli, Leon wailed. Then the boxer's fists pummeled the ground, in frustration. They got my brother.

I squatted next to the corpse and touched the back of Eli's neck. His skin felt cooler than the surrounding air. I turned his head and saw a small-bore bullet wound at the back; it still dribbled blood. I lifted one of the dead man's arms and let if flop back to the grass. There was no way for me to be absolutely certain when the killing had taken place, but rigor mortis had not set in. That meant the millionaire had been dead less than an hour, which gave Leon an alibi.

Who, Leon? I asked.

The boxer gently stroked his brother's pale face. Maybe Delaney, he muttered. Maybe them others. Ghosts, maybe. I dunno.

What others?

Big-shots. Come from out of town. I told Eli they was no good. But he don't listen—he never listens to me.

Names, Leon. I need names.

The boxer's face, hardened as he looked into my eyes. I don't know no names, Mister. All I know is Eli's dead.

You must have heard Eli mention somebody.

Leon lolled his head back clenching his eyes shut against the sun as he tried to think. After what seemed like several minutes he let his chin flop forward. One of them was called Port-something, maybe: a black-haired bastard. He don't cotton to me so Eli don't let me hang 'round, when he come.

A bad taste flooded my mouth. Portello? Dominic Portello?

Leon nodded, his eyes wide with sudden hope. That's the fella.' You know him, Mister?

I nodded, grimly. The Portello crime family controlled the illicit drug trade across all of Texas and several states north. If Eli Huggins was receiving visits from Dominic, I had no doubts as to how the dead man had made his millions.

I tilted Eli's head to take a closer look at the bullet wound. Scorched hair from the muzzle-blast surrounded the opening. This meant the killer had pressed the gun against Eli's skull before firing. From the size of the hole, I estimated the murder weapon's bore to be .32 caliber. I laid the dead man's head back against the grass. There was no exit wound, which meant the gun had been an older, low-velocity model. If Dominic Portello ordered this hit, it was not his style. A Portello contract meant no body—ever.

Leon stared at me as if I were God's messenger. It was him what done Eli? Portello?

I shook my head. Not their style, Leon.

As soon as I heard my own words, I knew I had made a mistake. The boxer leaped to his feet; rage spreading across his face like fire through a sawmill.

Kill the son-of-a-bitchin' Delaney!

I sprang up and grabbed Leon's arm. We don't know Delaney did this.

The boxer spine went headstone-rigid. Then he caught my jaw with a sharp left cross. The unexpected blow rocked me back on my heels, nearly dropping me. It took several seconds to regather my senses. By then Leon was in a dead run for the truck. I gave chase and tackled him by the pickup's rear tires. I was a decade younger and fifty pounds heavier. On Leon's side were experience, fury and determination.

For the next five minutes, we shared agonizing moments. Some included rolling on the asphalt amidst swinging fists. Some included standing upright and trading punches. My part of the experience involved lessons in pain and humility. Finally, Leon hooked me in the ribs and turned. I could not take it any longer so I infused a calming influence over his retreat by introducing the Mauser's butt to the back of the boxer's head. He let out an angry groan and then his knees buckled; dropping him like a dirty, hairy bag to the blacktop.

After depositing the unconscious man in the shade, I limped to his truck, slipped on my suit coat and then grabbed the ignition keys. After which, with gun still in hand, I headed inside the mansion.

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