Two Bits Four Bits (11 page)

“I’m not sure I’m
comfortable having it either,” I said.

“Look,” he said. “I know
you can’t get back into the box without showing some official
identification that proves you’re one of the authorized people on
the signature card. And if somebody from Kwik-Stop starts asking
about the key I’ll just stall them until I can get it back from
you.”

“I guess I could do that,”
I said. “But now let’s see if you really trust me.”

“Shoot. I’m feeling
accommodating today.”

“I’d like to get copies of
those signature cards you mentioned. I don’t really need the
signatures, but the names of the people authorized to open that
box.”

“No problem. Let me get
Beth Ann to make you copies.”

“Thanks. And, if you could
also jot down Russell Chilton’s cell phone number for me I’d really
appreciate it.”

While he wrote the number
down, I took an empty envelope from a stack next to a computer
keyboard on the desk. I slipped the safe deposit box key inside and
sealed it, then signed my name across the seal. I slid it across to
Bradley and he put his signature next to mine and slid it back. I
pocketed the sealed envelope and the card Bradley handed me with
Russell Chilton’s cell phone number.

“What will you do about
the key when Eva comes back to work and notices it
gone?”

“I’ll ask her why she had
it and tell her I’ve got it locked up down at the Main Office. Then
I’ll contact you to get it back if her explanation makes any sense.
But I can’t imagine any circumstances that would lead me to give it
back to her. I might turn it over to somebody from Kwik-Stop, but
the bank can’t afford the liability of one of our employees
controlling both keys to any customer’s safe deposit
box.”

After a couple of seconds
he added: “Do you really think she’ll be coming back to
work?”

I didn’t answer him, but I
had my doubts.

* * * *

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

Friday morning, after
stopping at Lita’s Little Mexico Restaurant for a quick breakfast,
I drove south to Odessa. The previous evening I’d used Dad’s old
Remington typewriter to type up a list of the businesses and
addresses that Jay Bradley and I had found on the deposit slip
books inside Kwik-Stop Convenience Stores’ safe deposit box. I
wanted to scout them out to see if I could figure out if they had
anything in common from a look-see, or if I would need to dig
deeper and risk drawing attention to my snooping. While I was
typing the list up, I noticed that Dayton Clark, the Odessa
attorney I’d found connected to WTEG was one of the parties
authorized whose names were on the safe deposit box signature
card.

As I was driving into
Odessa, I saw a large office supply store and pulled in. Spending
half an hour struggling to get Dad’s Remington to work correctly
had convinced me that if I was going to spend some time looking
into Russell Chilton’s murder I’d need a few things. I rolled a
shopping cart up and down the aisles, dropping into it a package of
legal pads and some colored note cards. I stopped at a display of
laptop computers and read the features on each model. I finally
settled on one and then picked out a combination printer and fax
machine. While I waited for a store clerk to bring boxed models of
what I’d selected from the storeroom in the back of the store, I
noticed the store had a copying and instant printing department.
So, before I left the store I had some business cards printed with
my name, cell phone number, my investigator’s license number and
the words “Private Investigations”.

After leaving the store, I
started looking for the address on the Kwik-Stop Convenience Stores
deposit slip. When I left Jay Bradley the previous day, I’d looked
at my notes from the visit to the library and discovered that the
address the phone book listed for WTEG, Inc. was the same as the
address on the Kwik-Stop Convenience Stores deposit slip. So, there
was at least a common address connecting the two
businesses.

It only took a few minutes
to find the address. I had expected to find a convenience store or
maybe a headquarters located in an office building. Instead, the
address belonged to a large unmarked metal warehouse that could
have been the location of an oilfield parts house or well servicing
company. There were three cars in the dirt parking lot beside the
building, but no visible activity and no sign identifying the
business housed inside. There were two large garage doors towards
the back of the building and an entry door towards the
front.

Thinking about it a
little, the location and type of building made some sense if
Kwik-Stop bought items in bulk and stored them in their own
warehouse. But I knew from working convenience store robberies back
in Austin that most stores had a storage room large enough to hold
extra stock, replenished regularly with deliveries from wholesale
distributors.

Of course Kwik-Stop may
have been looking for an office location and moved into a building
that an oilfield service company had left empty, and weren’t really
using the building for a warehouse, only for office space. It
seemed unlikely that renting this type of building would be cheaper
than renting an office, but there could be other circumstances.
Maybe the owner of Kwik-Stop also owned WTEG, Inc. and also owned
the building, lost his oilfield company renter, and decided to
headquarter both businesses in it rather than let it sit
empty.

My curiosity got the
better of me, so I pulled into the dirt lot and parked at the end
of the row of cars. I pulled a few of my new business cards out of
the box they came in and slipped them into my shirt pocket, and
grabbed my straw Stetson from the seat. Then I unwrapped the bundle
of legal pads and pulled one out and scribbled a few words on the
top page. I knew the white western style shirt, khaki pants, boots
and hat I was wearing would make me look like I was in law
enforcement, and that’s the initial impression I hoped to
make.

The entry door opened onto
a small passageway with a closed door leading to the right, towards
the end of the building where the garage doors were, and an open
doorway leading straight ahead to an office. A television was on in
the office and I could hear the canned laughter of a sitcom, echoed
by chuckles from at least two men. As I stepped into the office
doorway, one of the men sitting behind a battered metal desk turned
his gaze from the TV to me.

“What can we do for you
pal?”

He was of medium build and
looked to be in his early 30’s. There were two other men who were
larger and avoided my eyes when I looked their
direction.

“I’m Buddy Griffin,
private investigator,” I said. “I’m just out making some sales
calls today. I’ve been doing some work investigating the theft of
oilfield equipment off of drilling locations, and I thought y’all
might need some help too. Are y’all in the oilfield? I didn’t see a
sign outside.”

“We don’t need any help
like that,” he said, turning his attention back to the
television.

I glanced at the legal pad
I carried.

“Are y’all WTEG, Inc.? I
thought that sounded like a drilling company or
something.”

He turned and looked at me
again, clearly irritated that I was continuing my sales spiel. But,
my mention of WTEG had gotten his attention.

“No, we’re not a drilling
company. Like I told you, we don’t need your help. Thank you for
stopping by, though.”

“Well, here, let me leave
you a card.”

I unsnapped the flap on my
shirt pocket and pulled out one of my new business cards and passed
it across to him.

“I do all sorts of
investigations and security work, so if you ever need any of that
type help, don’t you hesitate to give me a call. I’m based in
Elmore, but I work this whole area.”

He read the card before
answering.

“Well, if we need any help
flushing out any criminal element, we’ll be sure to give you a call
Officer Griffin.”

The other two men
sniggered at this, the first noise they had made since I had
interrupted their sitcom laugh-fest.

“Just Buddy,” I said. “Not
Officer, just Buddy.”

He gave an exaggerated nod
and flipped my card onto the desktop as he glanced at his cohorts
and rolled his eyes.

“Okay, Just Buddy. Thank
you again for coming in. We’ll be in touch if we need
you.”

Walking to the pickup I
mentally critiqued my performance. I had probably put a little too
much twang in my voice, but I was going for the ‘good old boy from
the oil patch’ image, and I think the whole package of the hat,
western shirt and twang worked together pretty well. The main
reason for my visit had been to drop the WTEG name and then leave
my name behind, just to see if it brought any response.

I was hoping the smartass
behind the desk would tell whoever was in charge of the operation
that someone from Elmore had been nosing around. Sometimes in a
murder investigation, dropping little seeds here and there, like my
mentioning of the Russell Chilton murder to Benny Shanks at the
Pumpjack Club a few days earlier, could bring about new leads. I
knew that sooner or later, when interested parties began to hear my
name enough times, they would have a strong motivation to reach out
to me, either to give me information that would help or to try to
get me to back off. Either way, I would know more than what I knew
today.

The other address for
WTEG, the one from the deposit slip, led to a run-down cinderblock
building on the outskirts of Odessa on the highway leading south
out of town. Graffiti artists and gangster wannabes had tagged the
building’s peeling red paint, including the eight-foot tall letters
spelling out the name Boot Scooter’s. A large sign on pillars
situated near the highway in front of the building bore the same
name, with a smaller white changeable sign panel beneath it. The
letters on the white panel had at one time been arranged to read
“CLOSED”, but the wind had blown two of them away, leaving only “LO
ED” and the “D” looked like it could fall momentarily.

There were no signs of
life around, but a gas station several hundred yards to the south
was open, so I rolled past Boot Scooter’s and pulled up to one of
the station’s empty pumps. After filling the tank, I stepped into
the tiny building next to the pumps and dropped my credit card into
the metal pass-thru beneath the bulletproof glass that separated me
from the station attendant, a tired-looking woman wearing a Kenny
Chesney t-shirt. She had her long, straight hair tied back to
reveal ears that each had at least a dozen metal studs lining the
rim from top to bottom.

“You know anything about
the place next door?” I asked, gesturing towards Boot
Scooter’s.

“Not much, ‘cept it’s been
closed for at least three years that I know of, maybe longer. I’ve
only been around here three years since my momma got sick, but I
ain’t ever seen it open.”

“Do you ever see anybody
around there?”

“No, not in a while. Some
Mexicans were supposed to be gonna fix it up to make a dance hall
or something, but that’s been a while. Probably just as well, if
you know what I mean. I sure wouldn’t want to be workin’ nights if
they did open up somethin’ like that.”

She passed the credit card
receipt through to me before continuing.

“Yeah, I guess they
couldn’t get things worked out with the mafia around here,” she
continued. “You do know that place belongs to the Odessa Mafia
don’t you? My boss-lady told me they used to run enough drugs out
of there to get the whole town high. And, she said there was always
plenty of whores hanging around.”

“Would you mind doing me a
favor?” I asked, fishing a business card out of my pocket and
sliding it through to her. “Give me a holler if you see anything
going on next door.”

“Is there a problem?” she
asked, with her eyes wide.

“No, no problem at all. A
client of mine asked me to look around at some real estate
properties for him and I’d just like to keep an eye on that
one.”

After leaving Boot
Scooter’s, I drove by the other businesses on my list. The
Shiny-Side Car Wash was a three-bay self-wash affair on a
lower-income residential street. The same graffiti artists who
worked on Boot Scooter’s had paid it a visit at some point in its
history. Someone had jacked open the coin boxes long ago and an
abandoned shopping basket full of trash sat parked in one of the
bays.

I recognized the
distinctive building style of the Gameland Arcade as belonging to a
failed chain of Mexican food restaurants that I had eaten in when I
was in high school. Plywood covered to the large arched windows,
except for the very top of the arch, which was exposed. By standing
on the stucco ledge I was able to see enough inside to tell that
the building was empty and partially gutted.

Equally abandoned was the
Burger Blaster Drive-Inn, although the employees of a video rental
store in an aging strip-mall next door were parking their cars in
its driveway. A trio of gangling skateboarders was doing their best
to figure out a way to work a rusted pipe railing surrounding the
place into one of their acrobatic tricks.