Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 09 - The Crystal Skull Murders Read Online Free Page A

shrug, I brushed her question off. “Nothing.”
    She eyed me a few moments, then asked, “Did we
find out anything important back there?”
    Pulling out of the parking lot, I headed back to the
Red Rabbit on Sixth Street. “Sometimes, it isn’t what
we find, but what we don’t find.”
    Her brows knit. “You lost me”
    “Remember my little theories. One of them was that
perhaps the killer had not found the pawn ticket?” She
nodded, and I continued. “But since it wasn’t in Rosey’s
effects, then I think we can say the killer did get it. Follow me?”
    A confused expression knit her brows.
    I explained, “All that means is we’ve got one less
theory to research.”
    She shook her head slowly. “That isn’t much”
    A chuckle rolled off my lips. “No, but it’s more than
we had a hour ago”
    We rode in silence for several moments. Finally, she
cleared her throat. “I get the feeling you don’t want to
talk about it, but that was a nice thing you did back there”

    I looked around at her. “What?”
    “Burying the old man.”
    I didn’t know her well enough to explain about my
own father, and how, if sometime, somewhere, he were
found dead in an alleyway in Dallas or the park in Tucson, someone would give him a decent burial. I flexed
my fingers about the steering wheel. “Thanks”
    At that moment, we pulled up in front of the Red
Rabbit. There were no parking spots. Doreen looked
around at me with a smug grin on her face. “No parking
spots, so what’s your secret?”
    I whipped into a loading zone behind her red Jag and
hopped out.
    “You’re begging for a ticket.”
    “Think so?” I grinned at her and tilted the back of
the seat forward. I rummaged through a dozen magnetized signs until I found the one I wanted. I pulled it out
and slammed the door. “Here’s the secret,” I said with a
smug grin of my own.
    The sign read, Blevin’s Brewery: We Deliver. And I
promptly stuck it on the side of the door.
    Doreen arched an eyebrow. “Who’s going to believe
that?”
    I laughed. “Everyone”

     

As we entered the open door of the bar, I spotted
Getdown in the rear of the room. Seated across the
table from him was a light-complexioned black man
with a shiny bald head.
    At that moment, a cockroach the size of a rat scurried
across the worn wooden floor in front of us. Doreen
stiffened. “Ugh.”
    I chuckled. “Steady there,” I quipped. “I’ll defend
you.”
    She didn’t laugh. I rolled my eyes.
    At seventy-four, Getdown Joe Sillery had successfully managed to stay aboard the roller coaster ride of a
business that teetered precariously on the brink between the law and the lawless. Rumor had it Getdown
had solid mob connections. Rumor had it he was big time into drugs. Rumor also had it that if you sent a particular e-mail to five hundred people, Dell Computers
would give you a laptop.

    I shouldn’t admit it, but I know for a fact they do not.
    That’s why I never paid any attention to rumors.
    The fat man was cleaning up a platter that, if it were
his usual brunch, had once held four cheeseburgers,
fries, and two apple turnovers. As we drew near, the
light-complexioned young man rose and disappeared
down the hall to the rear of the building.
    Getdown Joe barely topped five feet, both in height
and width. He rolled when he walked, but he was
rightly labeled as the biggest proponent of Hip-Hop in
Austin. His club was routinely jammed with customers,
all more than willing to pay the exorbitant prices his
club demanded.
    Licking the grease from his sausage-thick fingers, he
looked up at us. “You the ones Blevins’ sent?’
    “Yeah” I introduced Doreen and myself. “We’ve been
doing a little snooping around” The leftover aromas of
the greasy cheeseburgers floating above the table were
mouth watering. Behind me, I heard Doreen’s stomach
growl.
    He gestured to the chairs at the table. He shook his
head. “Don’t it figure.