Death in the Distillery (8 page)

The four were laughing and shouting, obviously drunk.
The three men leaned forward, eyes glittering, each imagining the nectar of Mary Tucker's debatable favors. For a
moment, I hesitated. I was staring at trouble ready to explode. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow. I sipped my
beer, and a tiny flame of irritation licked at my temper.
Why wait? All I wanted was five minutes of her time.

Beer in hand, I slid off the barstool. As one, the four
looked up when I stopped at the table. The eyes of the three
men narrowed, but the shine in their eyes was unmistakable. The nervous rapping of knuckles on the table, and the
stupefying euphoria emanating from the group confirmed
my suspicions. Whether they were kissing Mary Jane or
bouncing goof balls, I couldn't guess, but whatever they
were toking, they were amped sky high. I spoke quickly.
"Mary Tucker? My name is Tony Boudreaux. Mrs. Morrison asked me to visit with you for just a few moments."

I glanced at the men for their reaction, then I continued.
"There was an accident at the distillery, and she hired me
to speak with all the employees. Do you have a few
minutes? I won't take long."

One of the men, a burly gorilla wearing a black tank top,
pushed to his feet. Tattoos and curly hair covered his flabby
arms and rounded shoulders. His belly stuck out like a basketball. He growled at me. "Beat it, buddy. We was here
first." Then he belched.

Wisdom suggesting discretion in this case, I held up a
hand. "Not cutting in, friend. In fact, I'll buy you boys a
round for three minutes of conversation with Ms. Tucker
here."

A second man, long greasy hair and sunken face,
sneered. "Ms. Tucker. Jeez. Who you kiddin', man?"

Mary Tucker's face turned as red as her hair. "Shut your
mouth, you slob." Her words slapped the thin man in the
face. She gave me a gap-toothed grin, then glared back at
the chastened boyfriend. "That's how you're supposed to
talk to a lady. You could learn some manners."

He glared up at me.

I gave her, and me, an out. "Tomorrow at the distillery
will do, but since we're here, I figured to save some time."

The third man, of average build, about fifty, just stared
at me with the coldest pair of black eyes I'd ever seen.

I spoke directly to him. "What do you say, friend? A
round of beers fora couple minutes."

"You're a narc."

Greasy Hair stiffened. Tattoo Arms reached for his hip
pocket.

The bar grew silent. I felt every eye focus on me. I
forced a laugh. "Yeah. A narc. You bet. And you're Tom
Cruise."

A low chuckle from around the room eased the tension.
The other two numbnuts hesitated and turned to my accuser, who kept his eyes fixed on my face. He sneered. "So
you say."

"Look, friend. All I want to do is talk to Mary about an
accident at the distillery. That's it, then I'm outta here."

Mary Tucker dug her long, red nails in Tattoo Arms'
shoulders and jerked him back into his seat. "Sit down,
Rue." She glared at the other two. "Both of you shut up. I
wanta hear about this accident." She turned her watery eyes
on mine. "What happened?"

I looked at her friends, then cut my eyes back to her.
"Can we talk in private?"

She sneered at her admirers. "You heard. Go play some
music or something."

I tossed a ten on the table. "My treat."

Tattoo Arms snorted. "Keep your money."

Grumbling, the three rose and staggered to the bar,
throwing baleful looks over their shoulders at me. I'd made
some enemies.

"Now, what happened, buster?" Mary Tucker turned up her beer and promptly poured some down the front of her
pink tube top. She slapped at her breasts. "Crap. Waste of
good beer." She gave her chin and throat a couple of cursory wipes, then gulped down the rest of her beer noisily.
She sat the mug on the table and daintily stifled a belch.

I located the rear exit, then took a chair facing her companions. I set my half-f mug of beer on the table. "Emmett Patterson is dead. Run over by a tractor."

Her puffy face went blank. I could see my words registering in her eyes. A satisfied grin slowly curled her red
lips. "When?"

"Yesterday morning."

"Heaven be praised. I wish I'd been there to see him. I
hope that no-good died hard."

I pictured the scene in my mind. Steak tartare. "Yes,
ma'am. I think I can truly, say he died hard."

She slurred her words. "So what does the old lady want
from me?"

"Just tell me what you know about Emmett. That's all.
This is just routine, Mary. I'm talking to all the employees."

Her eyes narrowed. "You think I killed him?"

"No. Like I said, I'm talking to all the employees. That's
all. It was an accident."

With a grunt, she leaned back in her chair. A blubbery
roll of white flesh appeared from under her tube top. "He
was slime. I'm glad he's dead. I just wish I'd had the guts
to kill him myself."

I glanced at her friends who were eyeing me warily.
They reminded me of snarling Rottweilers straining at the
leash. "What did he do to you?"

Drunkenly, she jerked her head around and blinked her
eyes, trying to focus on me. "What did he do to me? I'll
tell you what that no-good creep did to me. He knocked
up my girl, that's what he did. He put the screws to everybody. He was the lowest form of scum."

Her eyes filled with tears. Before I could reply, she continued, the words spilling out faster than beer out of a mug. "My little girl was eighteen, and he sweet-talked her into
his bed." She hesitated, then drew a deep breath and barged
on, her voice growing louder. "Her and me talked about it
when she found out she was pregnant. We was going to
keep the baby, you know. We figured her and the kid could
live at the distillery with me. I'd work. We'd make it okay,
but Emmett and her had a fight, and she fell. Miscarried.
Tore up her female parts, the doctor said."

Mary Tucker paused, tears cutting deep channels through
the thick orange makeup on her face. "She never can have
no kids no more." A sob caught in her throat, and a tear
and her thick mascara started to run.

"Where is she now?"

Mary's bottom lip quivered. She dropped her chin to her
fleshy breasts. "I dunno. I come in from work one day, and
she was gone. The note said she had to go out and find
herself." Her shoulders shook, and she wagged her head
from side to side. "Find herself. Ain't that a load of crud?
Poor kid. Ain't heard nothing in five years." More tears
rolled down her cheeks. "Far as I know, she's dead."

I glanced around. Everyone in the bar was watching.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her companions easing
toward us. They saw the tears, and in their besotted brains,
there was only one person to blame. I handed her a handkerchief. "Here, Mary." I glanced at the three hulking
brutes edging closer and closer. I was growing antsy.
"You'll mess up your makeup, Mary. Now, you don't want
to cry, do you? Huh? Do you?" I glanced anxiously at the
approaching Neanderthals.

She nodded, and with a whining sob that could be heard
all over the Red Grasshopper, she dropped her head in her
arms and wailed like a baby.

Maintaining my composure and struggling to be very
professional and matter-of-fact, I rose, nodded to the shaking shoulders, and said, "Thanks for your time, Mary.
You've answered all my questions."

I turned to the front door, but Tattoo Arms stood in my
way. "What did you do to her, buddy?"

The other two glared at me. The quintessence of innocence, I said, "She told me about her daughter. Has she
told you guys about her daughter?" I stepped back and
gestured to the table. "The last thing she said to me was
that since you four were such good friends, she wanted you
to have a chair so she could tell you about her daughter."

They eyed me suspiciously. All the while, Mary Tucker
sobbed and moaned, from time to time breaking into a
screeching, ululating wail that would have shamed every
police cruiser in Austin.

Greasy Hair pulled his hand from his pocket. On his fist,
he wore a set of brass knuckles the size of Alabama.
"Looks to me like you done hurt her, mister."

"Yeah," Tattoo Arms grunted.

Like I said, I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but even a bozo
with the IQ of a refrigerator bulb could see those three
simians were ready to rearrange every attachment on my
body. You know, stick my arms where my legs should be,
and vice versa. I forced a laugh. "Hey, boys. You don't
understand." I reached for my beer and toasted them. "Let
me explain."

Abruptly, I kicked a chair into Greasy Hair's knees and
threw the beer in Tattoo Arms' face. The third goon dived
across the table at me. I jumped back and slammed the mug
down on the back of his head. I leaped for the rear exit
and raced down a narrow hall lined with stacks of beer
boxes, which I yanked as I passed, spilling them on the
floor behind me. Ahead, the back door beckoned.

I slammed through the screen and hit the alley behind
the Red Grasshopper in full stride, sprinting toward the
street. The curses and shouts behind me grew louder. I slid
around the corner of the alley and almost ran into a Jesus
freak garbed in a gray robe and carrying a cross down the
middle of the sidewalk.

I vaulted in my truck. Never had I been so glad to hear
that engine roar to life.

Just as I pulled away from the curb, Tattoo Arms, followed closely by his cohorts, burst from the alley and
slammed into the Jesus freak, sending them all sprawling
to the sidewalk in a tangle of arms, legs, and wooden cross.

The afternoon traffic was murder. In fact, traffic just
about anytime in Austin was murder. With typical Texas
logic, Austinites have decided that 1-35 makes a more convenient main street than Main Street. The drive to the forensics lab took twice as long.

Carrie Jean was waiting in her green Accord, engine running, windows up, and air conditioning on high. She rolled
down her window when I pulled up beside her and, without
a word, handed me a manila envelope.

"Thanks." I winked at her. "I owe you."

She arched an eyebrow seductively, nodded, and drove
away.

I watched as she turned onto Lamar Boulevard and sped
away, trying to imagine what our life together would have
been like. All single people ponder that question from time
to time, but I'd been there once, split the sheets, and in the
process, learned enough to recognize the fact that I did not
possess the degree of commitment marriage demanded.
"We might have made a year," I muttered, knowing full
well that I wasn't willing to share my life with anyone just
now.

Commitment. That was another reason my relationship
with Janice Coffman-Morrison had stalled. I just wasn't
willing to put out the effort. Macho pride was another. She
was rich. I was too hardheaded to be a kept man. Embedded
deep in my psyche by generations of Boudreauxs, all the
way from Nova Scotia to Church Point, Louisiana, resided
the deep conviction that a man took care of his family. The
man, not the woman. "We wouldn't make even a year," I
muttered as I pulled the Chevy into gear and headed for
my place.

Besides, before I settled down, I had a couple of goals;
one to prove my old man wrong wherever the heck he was. The other was to be rich. The former, I could handle; the
latter, a dream.

The apartment was dark, the blinds drawn. Jack lay on
the couch, a rag on his forehead, a moan on his lips. I shook
my head. "You still alive?"

"Barely."

I knew the ravages of hangovers, and like most men,
took a perverted delight in taunting the unfortunate soul
who suffered one. But, at the moment, I was more interested in the file on Emmett Patterson than making Jack's
life miserable. I turned the light on in the kitchen and
opened the envelope.

"Bless your heart," I muttered to Carrie Jean as a sheath
of copied documents slid out.

I flipped through the report, searching for the death certificate. "Here we go," I whispered, holding the document
so the light could catch it. Quickly, I found line thirty-five,
part one. Immediate cause of death. Exsanguination. The
deletion of blood. I arched an eyebrow. No argument there.
All the blood had certainly been deleted from his body.

The next line was the secondary cause of death. Multiple
lacerations. I arched a second eyebrow. No argument there
either. At least, it sounded more professional than chopped
to bits.

The next line gave the coroner's explanation of the
death: Farming accident. The only evidence of residual
drugs in his system was an alcohol level of .21/mgL. I
shook my head in wonder. Over twice the level of legal
intoxication. Halfway to the toxic level of .4. Maybe he did
just pass out. He was drunk enough.

"What do you have there?"

I looked up as Jack staggered in, his bloodshot eyes sunk
in deep holes. "Nothing. Just some reports."