Chapter 13
I returned to my motel room, ate an early supper of delivered chicken and then took a nap. Just after dark, I got up and drove back to Leon's neighborhood. The lights in his house were off and the shades were tightly drawn against the milky rays of a full moon. I parked the rental down the block and then strolled back, keeping to the shadows so Lydia Thornton would not notice my arrival. Another session with her lemonade would likely be terminal.
When I reached Leon's little piece of heaven, I crept across the weed-choked yard to the front door. In so doing, I went past an overgrown lime tree. Its withering fruit flooded the night air with a citrusy perfume and its inch-long thorns offered the unwary a painful reminder that some trees are for looking, not touching. Unfortunately, I had. I wrapped the bleeding finger with my handkerchief as I listened at the door.
All was silent from within.
I used a credit card to slip the latch, and then stepped inside into air hot enough to wilt wax or unbridled ardor. All about me was the pungent stench of disinfectant. I shut the door, switched on my penlight and waved it about. The flare from its narrow white beam disclosed a desperate but immaculately perseverant lifestyle. Mended furniture rested upon a threadbare rug, drawn blinds covered rotted window frames, and faded roses highlighted age-browned wallpaper. Moira had used and reused until there was nothing left, before reusing again.
At one end of the front room was an old upright piano. I went over and touched its top expecting to disturb a thick layer of dust. But, the wood was immaculately clean. I should have known better. After all, Moira was a house-cleaner by profession and cleanliness is next to—what had Lydia Thornton said about doing penance for sins? Regardless of Moira's shortcomings, she was undeniably a survivor.
The kitchen offered little more in the way of emotional or spiritual uplifting. Its ceiling sagged like dirty cardboard from decades of absorbed rainwater. The yellow linoleum rippled like sand on a beach. And in one corner, an ancient Frigidaire rumbled against the heat. Between it and a rust-shedding gas range was a blue Formica counter graced by aluminum pots and kettles of a long forgotten vintage. Across the room, dishes stood like naked beggars in a rubber drying rack, which drained into a chipped cast-iron sink. An old stainless-steel frying pan rested in the bottom of the latter, collecting the plunk-plunking from a leaking faucet. Next to it a small plate held the remains of somebody's breakfast—damp toast slimed with something brown.
A door opened onto a dismal backyard. I lit a cigarette and looked out through upon grass that was being replaced by spreading splotches of sand. The door was latched but not locked: the lock had been broken some time in the ancient past and never repaired. There was no hurry for such an extravagance. Intruders would not likely select this resident as a candidate for anything but pity.
I followed a crack in the linoleum to a narrow hallway. This took me to three tiny bedrooms, and a bath at the rear of the house.
One bedroom smelled of Leon. On its drab green walls, framed photos reminisced the boxer's heyday. At one time, he'd been the center of attention for celebrities and national political figures—each was proudly photographed shaking Leon's hand. When you are on top, everybody wants to be seen with you. Once you fell from your mount of fame, no one offers the time of day.
Next to a closed window in Leon's room stood an old pine bureau. Tattered underwear and boxing paraphernalia filled its drawers to overflowing. Behind it, a fist-sized hole was punched through the wall-plaster. A single bed was neatly made and fitted with an army surplus blanket and crisp clean sheets, faced the window. Beneath was a pair of worn, corduroy slippers, placed as if their owner would soon enjoy their comfort again.
In the closet, I found faded work-shirts monogrammed with 'Discount Gas' and Leon's name. Cuddled underneath on the same hangers were frayed denims—all that remained of the boxer's business acumen. After leaving the ring, Eli had set Leon up in a business even a child could run successfully. Leon had failed everyone's expectations. He had tumbled from the height of sports fame to become a figure of fun and pity.
The bedroom across the hall was a candy-pink shrine to a young girl. On a long wooden shelf above a lace-covered bed stood a row of plastic award-cups. Each had 'Betsy Huggins' engraved on the base. A framed photo of a blond girl rested on another shelf. She looked to be about fourteen years of age and wore a blue satin gown, as if going to a school dance. There should have been a gangly young boy posing with her for the snap. Instead, it was a middle-aged man with a gaunt, pale face and greased back black hair. Eli Huggins had a broad, knowing smile upon his face, and I hated him for it.
The last bedroom held a woman's abandoned hopes. It was as sparsely furnished as the others were, but just as tidy. Brown chenille covered the bed. A small play-worn teddy bear sat upright against a pillow, as if on guard. It must have been a discarded toy from Betsy's childhood. Somehow, I could not see Moira curled up with it.
The closet held a tan leather jacket, some denims, a few dresses and a several other scraps of wear-weary clothing. Numerous pairs of tired shoes occupied the floor: high-heels, flats, walking shoes, a pair of work boots and several sets of sandals. A taped-up box on the overhead shelf contained stacks of newspaper clippings. These covered Leon's rise in the boxing world, followed by his abrupt fall after losing his boxing license for taking the fall to Johnny Paean. Beside the box, was an unused scrapbook—another unkept promise to the one man who would always adore her.
I went over to the bureau and searched its drawers. Her underwear was neatly folded and of the type selected by frugal women. There were no lace frills, no slinky silks, no naughty satins. Just stacks of cotton practicality. Secreted beneath one of these was an Elgin Warehouse pass-card upon which was taped a single brass key. I stuffed the find into my pocket and closed the drawers.
In the bath, face cream and cosmetics littered the glass shelves of a rusty medicine chest. There were various shades of lipstick, but none were close to the red I had seen on the cigarette butts. Moira had not been one of the blondes on Eli's bed.
Back in the living room, I made another sweep. I paused at a frilly red tablecloth covering an old portable television and hit the power switch. Not so much as a hum. A potted cactus rested on the cloth, as if a prickly replacement for the set's intended use. Just as well. There was so little on television worth watching, these days. At a wall-phone near the front door, I stopped and picked up the receiver. The line was dead—probably replaced by something cellular. I took one more glance at what life meant for Moira, turned my back on the dismal scene and then went outside.
I shined the penlight in through one of the garage's dirty windows. The interior was empty except for dusty gym equipment, along one wall. I could picture Leon planning his comeback while placing the tools of his trade in there. Each piece leaning haphazardly against another—like Leon's dreams for success.
Down the street a dog barked. A moment later, a car's headlights came into view. It was heading in my direction so I switch off the penlight and concealed myself behind the lime tree. When the driver signaled to turn into Leon's driveway, I crouched low and waited.
There was a blonde behind the old car's steering wheel. After the engine gasped into silence, she got out and adjusted her skirt. It was dark and skin-tight with white polka dots. As she moved toward the house, her swaying hips offering a hint at the abundant pleasure that waited beneath.
At first glance, one might think she was the epitome of contentment. However, on second consideration one noticed her eyes staring bleakly from either side of a finely formed nose. In the moonlight, they were dark: the hollows of a woman who viewed life from afar, never participating. A plush protrusion above a neatly chiseled chin served as her mouth. It was not smiling, it was not angry, it was devoid of desire and emotion. When she reached the stoop, a teasing breeze caught her scent and tumbled my senses with fragrances of lavender and gin. Albeit the same woman, this was a different Moira fr
om the one I had seen at the orphanage.
I waited until she was inside, then I crossed to the abandoned gas station. Dusty fuel pumps stood amidst years of dumped trash, overgrown weeds and shrubs. I found an old wooden crate and settled upon it behind a dwarf olive tree. Then I opened the pint of Rye I had brought along and let its musky taste revive my being.
Across the street, lights had gone on in the living room, backlighting the shades. Behind one, I saw Moira's silhouette grimly pacing, like a tormented shadow. In one hand she held a glass, in the other a cigarette. And every few uneasy steps she would stop, take a drink and inhale from the burning weed. It was obvious she was expecting someone—someone she was not looking forward to being with, someone she feared, someone who probably had big feet and a scarred face.
Several minutes later, another silhouette appeared on the shade: that of a big man wearing a Stetson. Moira turned toward him, dropped the cigarette into her glass and then waited. A moment later, he wrapped his shadow about hers in a fiery embrace. She submitted, her arms hanging limply at her sides. After they parted, the lights dimmed and the two of them moved to another room.
Half a pint later, Moira came out onto the stoop, alone. The tan leather jacket and a pair of tight denims from her closet had replaced the polka dots. The jacket pockets nuzzled both her hands as she strode across the street. Each step she took was measured and unhesitating, each was fearless, each was prompted by something or someone, each brought her closer. I could understand Leon's unswerving devotion to Moira now. In addition to her beauty, she had courage and determination that no amount of money could improve upon.
Moira followed the gas station's broken walkway through the overgrowth, directly to where I sat. She stopped and stared down at me. She was not afraid. She was not curious. She had something specific on her mind—something she was not quite ready to act upon. I recapped the Rye and leered up at her.
"Who says prayers don't get answered?"
Her voice rustled low. "What's a little boy like you doing in the bushes in the dark?"
I grinned and got to my feet. "Just playing by myself. It's more fun with two, but some nights a guy has to make do."
Moira smiled. It was a nice smile—wide and white: the kind that promised a lot of the things and warned of many others. "I knew it was you as soon as I saw a glowing cigarette over here. Do you find me so irresistible, Mr. Bishop?"
"Step closer—you'll get the idea."
She moved forward and kissed my lips. It was a light touch and ended with her backing away holding a small chrome-plated pistol pointed at my middle. Instinctively I dropped the pint, and reached for my Mauser.
Moira was expecting that.
"Don't!" she snapped, unruffled by the prospect of gunplay. "You'll be dead before you get it clear!"
"Mugging?" I asked, eyeing the weapon. It was an old .32 caliber revolver. Slowly, I raised my hands. "Or, is this an invitation to play rough?"
She bobbed the gun barrel in my direction. "Game is over, Bishop. Just keep your hands where I can see them."
I flashed my palms. "I'm disappointed, Moira. I was hoping we'd get better acquainted before it came to bloodshed. I'm still open to an offer, in case this is just a tease to keep me interested."
"No tease, Bishop."
"Pity. When I'm not playing private detective I enjoy giving all night massages, sipping Manhattans, and the action that goes on in between. How was Delaney tonight? Down to his usual standard?"
"Let's get to why you're here," she snapped, giving the gun another waggle.
"Are you the one who blindsided me at Eli's?" I asked, rubbing the knot on the back of my head. "I seem to remember your perfume."
"I'm also the one who called Bascomb and told him to get his fat ass out there before Delaney killed you. You owe me Bishop—big time. Now, what do you want?"
"I came by to offer my services. If you give me a chance, you'll figure out I'm a big improvement over Delaney—in all departments."
"I didn't realize you two shared intimacies—or were you peeking in my bedroom?"
"Just an educated guess."
"An improvement over him wouldn't take much. I usually vomit after he leaves."
"Did he send you over here?"
She shook her head. "He was too busy pawing to notice you."
"And you find staring outside while he's doing his best helps the situation?"
"You were peeking."
"What's your arrangement on the cocaine split? Maybe I can improve upon that."
She gave me a cold laugh. "You can take Delaney—no question there. I'm not so sure about your follow-through. With Delaney I know where I stand."
"And everything else, I'm sure. But you can do better. Put the gun away and I'll give you a demonstration."
She cocked the hammer back. "Not tonight, handsome."
"Before I die answer me one question. How close to Dominic Portello did Delaney push you?"
"Nobody pushes me anywhere."
"He would've tried. I'm just curious about your opinions on the naughty Sicilian. It's something to spend eternity thinking about."
"I should kill you right now. It would save a lot of bother later on. But, I won't. Not if you give me your promise that you'll walk away and never bother me again."
"Not to mention the bouquets from Delaney for the effort. Can I put my hands down?"
She backed up a step nodding. "Just leave me and mine alone. Okay?"
"You'll need me once the Portellos get here."
"Delaney can take of them."
I wagged my head. "Not on his best day, Moira."
"You underestimate him. Delaney's got it all rigged. In twenty four hours we'll double our take and the city of McAllen will be offering up two Sicilian funerals."
"Delaney's offering to sell back the coke? They'll tear him apart."
"He's convinced the Portellos somebody else copped the goodies."
"So Delaney fakes it as the middle man to get the cash. Then Enrique tries his hand at a big time hit. Where do you fit in?"
She grinned. "I make the funeral arrangements."
"Three way split?"
"A million each."
"Until the boys get greedy and decide to cut your out."
Her eyes narrowed. "They won't."
"Eli's estate is worth millions, Moira. With a little planning you and Leon could sell off enough to set yourselves up for life and then some. Why walk away from a sure thing to chance some action that will likely get you killed?"
Tears flooded from her eyes as she blurted, "And live with that bozo for the rest of my days? I want more than that."
"You don't want Leon. Okay. Divorce him and split the pile. Either way you'll be better off than with Delaney."
"I signed a prenupt when Leon and I married—Eli insisted on that. It hands me ten grand if I divorce the bum. What does ten grand buy these days, Bishop? Not even a good used car." She raised one arm and drew the jacket-sleeve across her face, wiping away the tears. "You could be right about Delaney crossing me. Maybe I should reconsider your offer."
I moved toward her, closing the distance between us. "And the side benefits?"
She tilted her head to one side in girlish fashion, let the gun tilt toward the ground and stared at me down the length of her nose. "Anything you want."
"I take care of Delaney and Enrique and then the Portellos. In exchange I get an even split on the proceeds and you. Not bad for a beat-up old guy like me."
She wrapped her arms about my neck. "Do we have a deal?"
I pulled her close. "I want one more little thing."
"Name it."
"I want who killed Eli."
Her arms dropped until they rested like barriers against my chest. "And how am I supposed to know that?"
"Delaney would've told you."
She back away suddenly angry. "I don't get much pillow-talk from him. And even if he wasn't in
his usual hurry, the bastard's not about to let me in on anything that could get him put away permanently."
"I don't think Delaney did it."
"Of course he did."
I shook my head. "There were two blondes with Eli the day he was killed. It had to be one of them."
Moira raised the gun, pointing it at my chest, her eyes darting around the perimeter as if her worst fears had been realized. "We could've had a nice time, you and me."
"The blondes were Betsy and Nadine. Which one pulled the trigger, Moira?"
A web of fear spread across her, drawing Moira's trembling mouth into a closed pouch. "Leave it be."
"Eli sent Leon to the airport instead of coming himself. He could have sent a cab or a limo if a business problem had come up. But he sent Leon. That means he needed Leon out of the way. Why? Because Eli knew Betsy was coming. And Betsy would have brought her friend; Nadine."
Moira's hand flexed upon the pistol's butt. "Looks like I'll have to do the job after all."
Her finger tightened on the pistol's trigger and I lunged forward. The gun went off as I knocked it out of her hand, the round burning my shoulder as it passed through my coat. I grabbed her wrist and twisted, hard.
She took a swing at me with her free hand but I caught the blow and then pinned her arms against her sides, jerking her tight to me.
"I should have killed your right off."
"Betsy would've talked to you after leaving Eli's, Moira. She would've told you everything. Who killed, Eli?"
Moira stopped struggling, tilting her forehead against my chest. "Leon," she murmured. "Betsy called all upset. She said Leon had shot Eli and then driven off. I told her to keep her mouth shut. I didn't figure the bozo would confess." Then, she purposely pressed against me, molding her groin firmly against mine. "What difference does it make, now?"
She was leading me on but I let her warmth dazzle my senses anyway. It was a nice feeling, something I had not enjoyed for a very long time. When her chin tilted up and her mouth parted, I kissed her. Her tongue darted in, stirring the ashes of my passion into a raging fire. She went limp in my arms and I released her wrists.
With a sigh, she wrapped her arms about my neck, her tongue diving deeper. She was eager. So, was I. My hands wandered. She helped. It was bliss.
When I let go of Moira, she teetered back on wobbly legs gasping, "What's wrong?"
I went over to where her gun lay, and picked it up. "Where can I find your daughter?"
Her wagged. "I told you, Betsy said it was Leon."
I walked back to Moira, my eyes studying the milky bulges of warm flesh between the cups of her bra as they jutted from her open blouse. "I don't buy it, Moira."
Moira made a sidelong retreat, buttoning her blouse. "You'd better git while you still can."
I popped open the pistol’s breach and stared down at the cylinder. Two rounds had been fired, one at me. The other was probably in Eli's brain. I stuffed her pistol into my pocket. "What will you tell the Portellos when they learn you're storing the cocaine at the Elgin warehouse, Moira?"
She stopped and stared back at me as if transfixed. "I—I… How did you… I don't know what you're talking about."
"Too late for that. Delaney needs somebody to take the fall on the theft. That somebody will be you, Moira. He'll empty out the bin except for a couple of boxes, just so he can prove to the Portellos that you were storing the stuff. Then he'll leave a few thousand hidden in your house, just to prove you got the payoff. After that he walks away, leaving the Portellos to do their work. They'll spend a week killing you."
With a curse at my being, she whirled away, racing headlong back to her house.
I made a noisy exit from the gas station's shrubs. Then, I took a detour back to the rental. By the time I got its engine started, Moira was driving away as fast as her tired automobile could sputter. I gave her some distance, put the rental into gear and followed.