All the Fine Tombstones
by Gary Clifton
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3, 4 |
part 3
Klebleski’s Family Deli was in the Third Ward, two doors off the Gulf Freeway, near the University of Houston. The place was seedy in a seedier neighborhood. I wondered exactly which families brought children to this area.
A sign on the door said: Open 11 a.m. It was 10:40. I pounded on the glass until a double-size Jackie Gleason clone appeared and waved me away. I flashed my old Houston Homicide badge, and he opened right up. A name tag on his sweat-soaked t-shirt informed that he was Big Lou.
“Dave Kratzert, Lou. We’re still chasing leads on Sarah Guthrie’s abduction. Got a a couple more questions.” Cop style, I brushed past him. He placed a restraining hand on my shoulder.
“Look, goddammit, he ain’t did squat.” He gestured to a smaller but otherwise identical copy of himself, who was just stepping around the corner of a low bar. His name tag read “Little Lou,” obviously a junior member of the Klebleski’s, probably a son.
I looked down with as much mock indignity as possible at the hand on shoulder act. The big man dropped the hand, but not the attitude.
They were big ol’ boys, but so was I. My kneejerk plan was to tag Big Lou over that low bar, thus busting his nose, then attend to junior. Plan B was to hurt somebody.
But each Lou was mostly air, and I stepped back. “Look, gentlemen, we’ve had a third abduction, similar to Sarah’s. Rich husband does not want the public to know. Trying to slip around as quietly as possible.”
Little Lou, tears welling up said, “Whut rich husband, mister?”
Something beyond witnessing Sarah’s abduction was going down here. “Sorry, can’t say. Y’all can understand that. Did Sarah come in often?”
They exchanged glances, obviously confused. “Little Lou was down to two visits a month. Thought you was police?”
Little Lou was an ex-con. “Haven’t seen all the files and I’m in a hell of a tight time to try to save a third vic. What do you mean, two visits monthly?”
He ignored the question. “A third kidnapping, Mister...?”
“It’s Kratzert. Why did Sarah come in? She just like the sauerkraut on rye?”
Big Lou spat sarcastically. “Christ, copper, Sarah was my son’s parole officer. He was scheduled off parole in three more weeks. Then the cops accused him of hurting Sarah and, although the bastards couldn’t revoke him, he does another six months of close supervision. Hell, all we did was witness a crime.”
“Sarah was a parole officer?” That hadn’t shown up in the newspaper. “There’s more here guys. Spill or I kick some serious ass.”
Big Lou foolishly reattached his hand to my shoulder. “Out, buster, out!”
I smacked the arm away and helped myself to a grip on his right-hand pinky finger. The big man howled in pain as I gave him a slight push atop the low counter. Little Lou advanced.
“Step closer, son, and I break it off and stick it in his ear.”
Big Lou blurted in pain, “Okay, officer, the kid had a crush on Sarah. He said love, but I said crap, just a crush. Lemme go, dammit!”
The kid melted and I released the finger-prisoner. I asked the kid, “What were you in for?”
“Did two years of a nickel down at Jester II. Possession for sale and delivery.”
What the hell was this? “Son, did you ever meet any other parolees under Sarah’s supervision?”
“Uhh, naw... Oh yeah, lotta cons wanna tell their troubles.”
“Any stand out, maybe a suspect?”
“Yeah, maybe one dude, one time.”
“Name, description, anything?”
“Naw, older guy, white. Went to Sarah’s office one day. Recognized the guy in the waiting room from the joint down at Jester II. His name was Amos. Dunno why I remember.”
“Amos? First or last name?”
“Last, first was like Freddie of Tommie, maybe.”
“What was he in for?”
“Rape. He liked reliving that crap, talkin’ ’bout it.”
That lead was too thin to be of immediate value, but not to be discarded. “Kid, why did the Houston cops think you were good for Sarah’s abduction and murder?”
Big Lou clambered off the low bar like a wounded water buffalo. I tensed for another round. “Look, Kranston, the dumb kid fell in love with Sarah. Wanted to marry her. She was three years older and had her own life.”
“It’s still Kratzert. The guys that grabbed her. Ever see them before?””
Both men mumbled negative replies. When they described the pair and their ride, I saw carbon copies of what I’d already heard. “Did you hear them say anything?”
Little Lou looked up sharply. “Yeah, when I run out, I heard one call the other ‘Tampa.’”
So there it was, little chance that two sets of animals were involved. I was looking for one pair. “Which office did Sarah work out of?”
“The one up on Eastex Freeway,” Little Lou answered.
I thanked them and handed the father a card. “Gents, this is heavy crap involving a distraught husband who’s likely to castrate anyone we figure lied to us. Get smart, think of the tiniest thing, call that number.” I pointed to the card and walked out.
* * *
Ed Harper, the head knocker at the Harris County Community Supervision Department was an old friend. His clerk ushered me directly into his office. “Damn, Dave, I heard the PD screwed you over after you took one in the leg. You workin’ as a PI now, I understand?” He was fortyish, tall and soft-spoken.
“Yeah, Ed, and I’m in a tight. I’m sure you’ve read about the two grisly abduction murders in recent months, both found butchered in local cemeteries. I got the third one, not yet in the news. Family hired me to look into it. Contact with the perps promises the worst. I’m fairly certain the girl is already past tense, but I gotta try.”
“Sure, Dave, one of the vics was Sarah Guthrie, her desk right out there,” He gestured. “Damn, boy, you’re threading a hot needle here. Failure to disclose abduction info to the cops. The FBI could have your ass in a sling.”
“Gonna tell them ASAP but, first, I gotta try to get close to the two scumbags who I’d bet are good for both abductions, plus this third one the family hasn’t reported yet. They’re probing for more money and sound like perverts more than criminals.”
“I’m here to help. You gotta be thinkin’ one of our finest mopes is involved?” He gestured to rows of file cabinets down the hall.
“Possible. When Sarah was grabbed, did she have parolee files with her?”
“Yeah, maybe two dozen in her briefcase. Never found files or the briefcase. Kinda stuff murderin’ pukes wouldn’t have much use for.”
“Any chance of taking a gander at those files?”
He turned to his computer. In seconds, a printer beneath his desk responded. He handed over a printout. “Dave, that’s a list of all the cases Sarah was supervising. The info is limited: name, ID numbers, last known address, original crime for which sentenced. No guarantee this list exactly matches cons she dealt with or any files she was carrying in her briefcase when they grabbed her.”
Actually, his info was a gold strike. I stood to leave. “God, Ed, I owe you. I get no results today, I’ll notify HPD and the Feds this evening.”
“Dave, as you know, parole officers may have contact with some clients after they’re released. You know, they maybe call their PO and ask for some kinda favor or the like. I’m sayin’ maybe Sarah received calls from some other contact she wouldn’t necessarily have in her briefcase when—”
“Understood, Ed.”
* * *
I found a Target Store parking lot and carefully read the printout. Little Lou Klebleski was listed, but no Tampa, not even a middle name, nobody with obvious connection to Tampa. That didn’t mean Tampa’s partner wasn’t on the list.
Then, there it was, big as the Astrodome. Willie Leroy Amos, paroled out of the Clemmons Unit after doing five of a dime sentence for rape in Harris County. I double-checked my notes. Willie, you’re up next.
My cellular buzzed. “Hello tough guy. Dave is it?” It was the same voice I’d heard through Hugo Fat’s phone early that morning.
“It’s me all right, Tampa, but I’m just a pussycat, damned anxious to see you get your money. Come meet me and you’ll see I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
The tone of his voice, the edge, noticeably changed. “Hurt, Dave? We love hurting things. Especially sweet young things with knockers like melons. You should try it, dumbass. You can’t imagine the high when I carve on Traci’s hot body. Made her say she loved it. Ever seen a broad’s eyes as she dies?”
As a matter of fact, I had, and it wasn’t worth a damn. I was a tough old hard-assed boy, but the comment nearly caused me to lose my stomach. Lord help this clown if Hugo and his stooge Sally Dead ever got hand on him. Or maybe I’d short-circuit the train if I had the chance. This guy and whoever he was close to, were amateur kidnappers. If this Tampa creep had any sense at all, he wouldn’t be talking with me.
“Hey, Dave,” he taunted, “we left them in very nice final resting places in the grass among the fine tombstones. It was so beautiful.”
This guy was crazy enough to scare the hell out of Adolf Hitler. Calling me was a very stupid idea. The tombstone reference was indelible. “Tampa, you need to know Traci is Hugo Cohen’s wife, Hugo Fat, the Mafia guy. He’s able to spend a fortune to find you. And he will, and you ain’t gonna like what happens when he does. Get smart. I can meet with the other half million, you give me the girl and, just like in the movies, we all walk away.”
“Uhh, we’ll think about it, Dave. Meanwhile it’s my turn with Traci. Ta.” He hung up.
That he even would consider a face-to-face spelled amateur.
* * *
I threaded my way out along Lyons Avenue through debris, dead vehicles, and homeless panhandlers, including one who, after I ignored him, took a healthy dump at curbside. Like I said, the Fifth Ward was not on the tourist guide.
Smith Floral occupied a small storefront directly across the main gate to Grant Gardens. By the time I rolled up, the afternoon was half-gone. I wondered what a clerk in a flower shop had been doing in the cemetery after work hours.
The syrupy wimp’s name tag announcing he was “Willie” was good indication he was Willie Amos, discoverer of the horrible remains of nurse Angela Boyer. That his visible forearms were totally obliterated with amateur, unmistakably prison inmate tattoos, added to the story.
“Mr. Amos, I’m David Kratzert, investigator for the lawyers representing Angie’s family. Just need to confirm a few things.”
“Hey, screw that. I already talked to the cops, man.” Small and greasy, he carried the bearing of a wet rat.
The clock was ticking, shrinking my tolerance for sleazy witnesses. I stepped around the corner. “Willie, I’m in no mood—”
He shrieked, “Hey, dude, whatcha wanna know?”
“Where’d you serve your time?” I pointed to his forearm art.
“What the hell? I did a year in the Clemmons Unit.”
“For what?” The parole file had indicated Willie Amos had done time in the Beto unit. The Beto Unit was a trustee jail at Tennessee Colony in East Texas. Willie had earlier done time somewhere else to qualify for the lenient treatment.
“Maybe a stretch in Clemmons, then Beto, Willie? For what?”
“Indecent exposure. Little bitch lied and got me sent to the joint.”
The file and Little Lou had both said, “Rape,” but this was not a time to split hairs. “Newspaper says you discovered Angie’s body in the cemetery across the street. What were you doing over there: sightseeing?”
“Uhh... phone call. Some jackass called here and said we could find the ‘fruits of their masterpiece.’ Them was the exact words. Guess I shoulda called the cops, but I went over there first. My God, she was in pieces.”
Somehow, his horrified expression didn’t square. “How’d you know where to look?”
“Uh, they gimme directions. God what a horror.”
“They?”
“Uh...” he stammered. “I jes’ figured.”
His counterfeit empathy made me want to puke. This creep got off on talking about the carnage. An anonymous call sounded lame as hell. “Any idea who called you?”
“Naw.”
My gut said he was lying. “You live close by, Willie?” I could see this weirdo prowling the tombstones at night, howling at the moon.
“Naw, man. Gotta ride the damned bus out north.”
As I walked out, I noted the sign on the front glass declaring the shop closed at 5 p.m. I’d be curious to get a glimpse at his activity at closing time.
* * *
Afternoon traffic had much in common with evolution, allowing plenty of time to answer when my cell buzzed.
“Mr. Kratzert, it’s Louis Klebleski... Ah, Little Lou, the son. You said call if anything comes to mind. The guy from Sarah’s office, you know, the parole office?”
“Yeah?”
“Said he worked for the mob. Said his boss might have a need for a big pollack lug like me.”
“Any names, Lou?”
“Naw. Sorry if I bothered you for nothin’.”
Any info beats none. Worked for the mob? Not something normally bandied about in a parole office. I thanked him and jotted down the info. But Hugo and his crew employed plenty of maggots. Little Lou’s encounter was meaningless in the absence of clarification.
It was 4:15 when I found a drive-thru hamburger joint, forted up like the White House, complete with an armed security guard who gave me the stink eye as I walked in. Somebody felt a need to go all out to sell burgers and the like in a location with more armed robbers than customers. I killed twenty minutes nursing a jumbo caffeinated and checking e-mails over a grease burger. My cell squawked just as I climbed back into my GMC.
“What say, tough guy?”
“Tampa, I’m just killin’ time waitin’ to bring you a suitcase fulla Ben Franklins, dude. And if you get any dicked-up ideas about runnin’ me around to a half dozen payphones, kiss the cash goodbye. Make a place to meet, show me the girl, and have a Caribbean vacation on her husband’s dime.”
“We give you a place and the cops will be waiting, Dave.”
“Look, genius, neither me, nor Hugo Fat, want no part of cops. Give me an approximate time, call this number and I’ll hook ’em straight over.”
“Gotta think on that one.” He hung up. But the largemouth bass had bit the hook. He’d call. But I still was skeptical that these freaks would ever be enticed to come close. But as nuts as they’d proved to be, who knew?
Ten minutes later, I’d just parked a block down from Smith Floral, when the cell sounded again.
“After ten, Dave. Hang out around Westheimer and Gessner. We’ll call. Got a enjoy a little more of Traci first.” He hung up.
I called Hugo. Dracula answered.
“Sal, I need to talk to Hugo.”
“I’m covering Mr. Cohen’s calls, Kratzert.”
“You gotta know this is no time to play macho. Get Hugo on the phone, now!” I decided when we inched this deal to a conclusion, I needed to kick Sal’s arrogant ass.
“Hey, Kratzert,” Hugo wheezed into my ear.
“Hugo, send two men to meet me before ten.” I gave him the address of a 7-11 on Westheimer. He haltingly copied the address, suggesting a guy who owned three car dealerships was probably semi-literate. “No more than two, Hugo.”
“What’s the deal, Kratzert? You found my baby?”
I was still skeptical that these two nutjobs would actually show up. “The kidnappers claim Traci is fine. They agreed to meet me out around far west Westheimer. Uh, Hugo, I told them I’d bring the half mill you forgot to pony up last night. Don’t need that much, but I gotta have some show money in a briefcase.”
“We’ll bring out all the cash you need.”
“Okay, and, Hugo, if any more than two goons show up, it’s on you if the deal goes sideways. Two only meet me. You can park a busload of mopes nearby, as soon as I learn where ‘nearby’ is exactly. But only two show up at the 7-11.”
“I’ll send Sal and Worms, Kratzert.” That meant Hugo would be nearby if the two perverts followed through, and Hugo would most likely show up with a pack of muscle.
Copyright © 2025 by Gary Clifton
