Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston (18 page)

“Yeah. But ain’t seen the one we’re looking for. These are all twenty-one down here too.”

By now, the last container had been removed from the deck and the holds unsecured, revealing three huge black squares opening into the bowels of the vessel.

Engines whining, three great shore cranes swung their arms around, dropping lines into the respective holds. Pallet loads of cargo were slowly off-loaded from two of the holds onto waiting trucks and rail cars. The third hold held more containers.

I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of my pickup. I couldn’t see Janice inside. I hoped she had decided to take a nap, but a sinking feeling in my stomach told me differently. I shook my head. I thought the world of her, but she could be mighty stubborn at times.

Suddenly, a bright yellow container leaped out at me from the hold of the Voyager.

I slapped the binoculars to my eyes. On the side of the yellow container was the bright green logo of a paintbrush. At that moment, my phone jangled. “Yeah, Virge. What’s up?”

“He’s here, Tony. He’s here. I tell you, I saw him.”

“Hold on, Virge. Who?  Calm down. Who are you talking about?”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t look like Morrison.  Morrison is blond. This one has black hair, but he just came down the gangplank. He’s wearing red overalls, and he’s carrying a yellow can in his hand.” 

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“It can’t be. I’m staring at the container of British Paint now. This has to be the one.”

“I don’t care. There’s some guy here, and he’s carrying a yellow can in his hand.”

I jammed the binoculars to my eyes. I couldn’t spot our man, but Pier 23 was three hundred yards distant. I groaned. Why did everything have to be so difficult?

“You sure it isn’t Morrison?”

“He’s wearing a cap and sunglasses. And he’s got a limp. I don’t know who it is, but he’s carrying a can of the paint.”

Chapter Twenty

I glanced at the yellow container being lowered to the ground. Hastily, I tore my eyes away and leaned as far over the railing as I dared while scanning the bustle of activity at Berth 23 with my binoculars. “Where is he, Virge?” I yelled into my cell phone. “I don’t see him.” 

“He’s just now reaching the bow of the ship. Looks like he’s cutting across Pier 22 heading for Abbandando’s warehouse.”

Abbandando’s? One of the fat man’s boys? Had to be. I thought fast. I had to reach him before he entered the warehouse. Once inside, we were sunk. He’d take the diamonds straight to Pete. “Keep me posted of his location, Virge. I’m coming down and try to catch up to him before he gets to the warehouse.”

I clambered down the stairs to the dock, at the same time trying to keep my eyes on our man. Suddenly, a familiar voice froze me in place.

“Tony. Where are you going now?”

I looked around at Janice who was standing at the base of the stairs looking up at me.

“I was bored,” she said. “Let’s go. We’ve been here over an hour.”

Virgil’s voice crackled over the cell phone. “Hurry up, Tony. He’s getting closer.”

There was no time to explain anything to her, so I grabbed Janice by the arm and dragged her after me. “Then come on. We don’t have time to waste.”

“But … ” She stumbled, caught her balance, and fell in behind me, her high heels click, click, clicking on the dock. “What’s the hurry?”

Ignoring her, I spoke into the small phone. “You still see him, Virge?”

“Yeah, but he’s getting closer. I’m after him.”

Janice yanked on my hand. “Tony. Stop. What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you later. Now come on.” Ahead of me, empty freight cars awaited loading on the tracks in a long curve. Out of sight around the curve of freight cars was the entrance to Abbandando’s warehouse.

Suddenly, Virgil exclaimed. “Look out, Tony. He’s heading in your direction. Along the tracks.”

I jerked to a halt. I looked around, guessing I probably had less than thirty seconds before our boy rounded the curve in the tracks. If he spotted me, no telling what he would do.

We were standing beside the open doors of an empty freight car. I tossed the duffel bag inside, grabbed Janice by the waist and set her on the threshold, and hoisted myself inside.

“Tony, what—“

I held my finger to her lips. “Hush. Back here,” I whispered, grabbing the duffel bag and hurrying her to the rear of the car. “I’ll explain later,” I whispered. “Wait here.”

Before she could protest, I crept to the edge of the open door and peered outside. The uniform clad stevedore limped around the outer curve of the track, then cut diagonally across the dock toward the open warehouse door.

He had me puzzled. Was this blond-haired guy one of Abbandando’s, or had Morrison taken a partner?

I surveyed the area.  The only hiding spot was a maintenance vehicle halfway between me and the warehouse.

I had one chance, one very slim chance. If I could make the vehicle without the courier spotting me, maybe I could get to him before he reached the warehouse.

I caught a movement from the corner of my eye. It was Virgil. He had rounded the curve, then ducked back.

We both held our breaths and watched as the courier grew even with the parked maintenance vehicle. Abruptly, he halted, glanced around, then slowly limped to the pickup and deposited the can in the pickup bed.

Straightening, he scanned the area once again, brushed his hands together in satisfaction, then headed back toward the train. I stepped back, just enough so I could keep him in sight, but not so much he could spot me back in the darkness of the empty car. To my surprise, his limp vanished. That’s when I became suspicious.

I frowned. What was he up to? Another goombah double-crossing someone? He couldn’t have been one of Abbandando’s. I shrugged. I wasn’t going to worry about unraveling all the confusion. All I wanted was that can of diamonds.

When the thief disappeared from sight, I unzipped the duffel bag and retrieved the yellow can of British Paint. Time for Plan B, or C, or whatever.

After warning Janice to stay back in the shadows of the  car, I paused in the open doorway of the freight car, scanned the dock quickly, then leaped to the ground. My heart thudded in my chest. Less than a hundred yards away was a fortune in smuggled diamonds, just waiting for me.

Suddenly, it hit me that the diamonds were indeed worth millions. Millions! And why did I want them? To prove Frank Cheshire and District Attorney George Briggs were dirty in an effort to clear me of the shooting of Ben Howard.

On the other hand, if I had millions, why should I even worry about Cheshire and Briggs and Howard? Greed reared its ugly head.

I stumbled on the concrete and fell to my knees, tearing a hole in the knee of my overalls. My can of paint rolled a few feet before I grabbed it. I glanced around the dock hurriedly, hoping my fall had drawn no notice. Why had I ever paid Ben a visit to begin with? I would have been better off returning to Austin and my one exotic fish, the little brain-damaged Albino Tiger Barb, Oscar.

Before I realized it, I was standing at the side of the maintenance vehicle, a white Chevrolet C-250. I looked into the bed. A dozen or so cans of paint were jammed into a corner.

I lifted my can of paint over the side of the pickup. Before I could make the switch, a squeal of tires jerked my attention away from the paint. I looked up to see a Lincoln Town car racing from out of Abbandando’s warehouse, heading directly for me, smoke boiling up from the rear tires.

I could say that with cool aplomb, I simply turned and walked casually toward the freight cars, but the truth is, I panicked and ran, the yellow British Paint can swinging wildly in my hand.

Naturally, the Town car intercepted me before I reached the train. I stood staring at the rolled-up black windows. I remember thinking they were blacker than midnight down on a Louisiana bayou.

With a soft hum, the rear window eased down. ‘Mustache Pete’ Abbandando waved a clean-picked barbecued rib at me, the grease from which plastered his thin mustache to his fat lips. He nodded. “Hello, Tony. Going somewhere?” He glanced at the yellow can in my hand and dragged the tip of his tongue across his mustache.

I figured I was about two seconds away from entertaining a dozen slugs from an AK-47. “Not really, Pete. Just taking a stroll along the docks. Foreign ships always fascinated me.” I rolled my eyes at my own idiocy.

He nodded to the can. “You planning on going somewhere with my property?”

I gaped at him for a moment, unable to believe my ears. Was the impossible so likely? Did he really think I had grabbed the can Morrison had placed in the bed of the pickup? With eyes wide open and a childlike innocence spread over my face, I replied. “Your property, Pete?” I held up the can of British Paint. “This can of paint? This is yours?”

The passenger door popped open, and a nattily dressed thug lumbered out. He scowled down at me.

I looked at Pete who simply nodded. “You’re a good boy, Tony. Don’t get hurt. Not yet. Give Crusher the can of paint.”

Taking a deep breath, I played at being reluctant, but under Crusher’s glowering stare, not too reluctant.

‘Mustache Pete’ broke the tense silence. “Don’t be no hero, Tony. My experience is that heroes usually get hurt bad.”

I gave Pete a lopsided grin. “Heroes don’t run on my side of the family, Pete. Here.” I offered Crusher the can. I shivered when I saw the disappointment on the big man’s face upon my so willingly giving up the can of paint. “Sorry to disappoint you, Crusher.”

“Huh?” His overhanging eyebrows and broad forehead wrinkled in a frown. “Huh?” His frown deepened. I saw right then that whimsical sarcasm was not Crusher’s forte.

“Take the can, Crusher,” Pete said, a touch of impatience edging his greasy voice.

Towering over me, Crusher took the paint. I had the distinct feeling he would have no problem crushing the gallon can in one hand and my throat in the other.

I took a step back, trying to stay in the loser role Pete pinned on me. “Now what? Joe Vaster is going to be upset.”

Pete leered at me, his thick, fat lips turning inside out, hiding the thin mustache below his flaring nostrils. “What can I say, Tony? Poor old Sam Maranzano will help us out on this.”

I looked around. I couldn’t see Virgil, and Janice, who, for once, must have done as I asked and remained in the freight car.

Pete arched an eyebrow at Crusher who then obediently shook the can. Glass rattled inside. A smug grin replaced the leer on Pete’s porky face. At Pete’s nod, Crusher set the can on the floorboard in front of the shotgun seat of the Town car.

I stilled the anticipation boiling my blood. What should I do when Pete drove away, go immediately to the can of diamonds still in the bed of the pickup; leave them until later; call the police; or—-?

With a grunt, Pete slid to the far side of the rear seat. His command cut off the plans I was laying. “Now, Tony. Climb in.”

“Huh?”

He patted the seat at his side. “Here. We’re going for a trip.”

I took a backward step. “I don’t think so, Pete. I have backups out here.”

He laughed, the old Richard Widmark sneer. “You mean them two?”

I looked around to see two goons marching Janice and Virgil toward us. I groaned.

Without warning, my head snapped back as a powerful blow struck me in the middle of the back, slamming me toward the open door of the Town car. “Mister Abbandando, he say inside.” Crusher growled. “Now!”

Reacting impulsively, I spun and swung a wild right at Crusher who simply grabbed my fist and leered at me. “You want me to hurt him, Mister Abbandando?”

“No, Crusher. Not yet.”

I made a wild stab at bluffing my way out. “People know I’m here, Pete. They’ll find my pickup and ask questions.”

He half snorted, half chuckled. “In five minutes, that piece of junk you call a pickup will be a three by three square of metal on the way to the foundry.”

To his credit, ‘Mustache Pete’ didn’t immediately measure us for cement shoes. Instead, he marched us to the elevator and whisked us up to the fourth floor.

A custodian in dark blue overalls with ‘Maritime Shippers’ blazed across the back and wearing a billed cap perched on one side of his bald head was busy sweeping up trash. I just caught a glimpse of him. He looked strangely familiar, but I didn’t have time to wonder about him for they shoved us into a storage room that had been converted to a lounge and left two goons to watch us.

Shelves containing janitorial and toilet items lined two walls. A small TV sat on a table next to a refrigerator along the third wall. The couch on which they shoved the three of us took up the fourth wall. A door beside one of the shelves opened into a tiny bathroom with a small window.

“Sit. And keep your yaps closed.”

The two buttonmen took the straight back chairs on either side of the room, about halfway between us and the TV. Each sat stiff-backed, glaring at us and resting a short-barreled, blue revolver in his lap. Part of the frame was shiny where the serial number had been filed off. The grips were wrapped with tape. Hit pieces. Designed for a one-time use, then dumped.

For the first few minutes, we remained silent. I wondered if we were scheduled for the one time use of the snub-nosed revolvers.

Fortunately, a Roadrunner cartoon was on, challenging our guards’ intellectual capabilities. The two goons were torn between keeping an eye on us and guffawing at the misfortune of Wiley Coyote.

The blasting of the TV and the cackling of our guards covered our whispers. “What are they going to do with us?” Janice glanced at them fearfully.

Virgil arched an eyebrow. I whispered back. “I don’t know, but we can’t afford to wait around and find out.”

I searched the room for weapons. All I saw on the metal shelves were rolls of toilet paper, stacks of white cakes for commodes and urinals, brown rolls of paper towels, and cans of air fresheners. Not much against two handguns.

One of the guards laughed, his attention focused on Wiley Coyote falling into an almost bottomless canyon, followed by a boulder the size of the Queen Mary.