All the Fine Tombstones

by Gary Clifton

Table of Contents

Table of Contents
parts 1, 2, 3, 4

conclusion

I parked a block down from Smith Floral, gambling that if Willie was shooting straight about having to ride the bus home, he wouldn’t have a car stashed out back. Walk it was. At 5:01 p.m., Willie locked the front door and walked west, right past the bus stop. Four blocks and two turns later, he mounted the steps of an old house that had been converted into apartments, entering the front door via a key. Like a rookie, I read the name Green Paradise Apartments. The name was familiar.

I parked around the corner and slipped the front door lock with a credit card. Four mailboxes bore names of tenants for Units A, B, and D. None bore Willie’s name. I found Unit “C” upstairs and tapped lightly on the door. No answer. I used the card again. Inside, the toilet door was slightly ajar. Willie sat naked, his face disgustingly trancelike, masturbating. I shoved the bathroom door in and kicked him off his throne.

“Get some pants on, dickhead. Ya gotta know it wasn’t smart to lie to me. Ride a bus out north, huh?”

He found his pants and struggled them on. “Don’t hurt me, mister.”

“You didn’t get a call showing where Angela Boyer’s remains had been tossed. Let’s have the story or I swear I’ll toss your fat ass out a window.” I chest-bumped him and he went sprawling again.

He stood back up. “Yeah, man, I damned sure did get a call. I met them two guys in the porn store up on Lyons. The place has some special stuff in the back room. But I didn’t—”

I smacked him, but he held his feet. “Window, jerkoff.” I gestured.

Willie burst into tears. I’d caught a creep with information on the abductions, and I needed details quickly. He delivered the full load. The apartment address had rung a bell, but I hadn’t made the connection.

“Angie lived in Unit C next door. Her bathroom was next to mine. I’d drilled a hole to watch her. Body you can’t imagine. I cut them two in. Damned if I know why. We all crowded in my side and watched her make it in the bathtub with some hippie-lookin’ kid.”

“Tol’ them two she worked at County General. God help me, mister, but I let them talk me into helping grab her on the hospital parking lot the next night.” He lost it again. “They had this old van with hooks and crap on the walls to hold her prisoner. We parked in the Grant cemetery. Good God, man, they began... I can still hear the shrieks. I busted out and ran. They later called me and said Rose was waiting for me in the tombstones. I walked down and... oh, God.” More tears.

“Who the hell were they? Electricians, maybe?” Whoever said we’re all created equal never met Willie.

“Dunno. Tampa and Elmer was the names they used. Name on the van read somethin’ like ‘Zippo Electrical,’ but I think that was just crap.”

“Willie, you’ve been runnin’ your mouth about bein’ mob connected. Spill that or it’s my foot in your ass.”

“Uh... met a guy in the parole office, I’d known him in the Clemmons Unit. He said he was fixed up with a job with Hugo whatsie, the mob guy who gets his name on the news. Didn’t work for the mob, man, jes’ tryin’ to build hisself up some.”

“His name?”

“Don’t remember, man. That’s the lord’s truth.” He slumped on a battered sofa, sobbing. I didn’t see exactly how he did so, but he came up with a revolver that must have been in the cushions. I ducked for cover of the bathroom, grabbing at the .38 in my rear waist. But he made no move toward me. In a sort of slow motion, he stuffed the pistol into his mouth, which muffled the sound as he blew brain matter up the wall behind him.

I supposed the horror of what he’d done could easily drive him to suicide, but, just then, it was time for Kratzert to beat it. I get caught in an unfamiliar apartment with a dead witness’s brains splattered on the wall, Rose’s Captain Asshole would try to find some phantom statute to charge me with. Guess I could have told him Willie had some history of predisposition to suicide.

I walked as casually as possible down to sidewalk level and to my GMC. I should have dialed 911, but for several good reasons, I opted to feloniously flee the scene. Willie had participated in Angela Boyer’s abduction and then taken his own life, those were facts Homicide needed, notwithstanding me ending up in the joint for not reporting Willie’s end. I’d figure a way to notify 911 that Willie’s useless carcass was available for disposal. That didn’t find Hugo Fat’s wife or the two guys responsible.

To no surprise, googling my cell didn’t find any firm similar to Zippo Electrical. I spent the next couple of hours circling several areas along Westheimer, foolishly hoping to spot two vampires in a light-colored van. Vans with two male passengers were numerous, and the trip was a waste. For two sadistic beasts to hide in plain sight in Houston, Texas, it seemed easy enough: drive a van.

* * *

Around half past nine, Sally Dead rolled onto the 7-11 lot in a Lexus with Worms riding shotgun. I motioned them around the corner where streetlights were less accommodating. Sal handed over a briefcase. I checked to see if these two deadbeats might have emptied the cash. I told them to leave me a number and wait a couple blocks away until I heard from the toads.

“I’ll give y’all the location they give me. They’re sadistic pricks and, just to satisfy that itch, they might try to send me on some damned wild goose chase, which I’m not gonna do. But eventually they intend to get the cash. When and if they do show, I’ll use my cell to communicate with them. When they call, I’ll relay the info to y’all. Nuts as they are, no tellin’ what they might say.”

Worms nodded.

“Do not, repeat, do not approach until you hear me say ‘This has been a hell of a day’. That means I either have both down or need help. Until you hear me say that, stay at least a half block away and out of sight. Screw this up and Hugo will have y’all’s ’nads in a jar, understand?”

Each mope nodded like a dog shaking a snake. I drove away. I figured both would violate my instructions. If any stupid move on their part queered the deal, they could answer to Hugo Fat.

Thirty minutes passed like thirty hours on a red-hot stove. Like a rookie, I jumped when the cell buzzed. It was the murdering twins.

“Good evening, Dave,” he said as casually as if he’d bumped into me at a news stand. A real loony. “Got my money?”

“Yup.” I hate to admit my pulse rate was pumping like the Little Red Train. I wanted to hear from both mopes to lessen the chance one would lay in the gap for me at the meet, hiding in the bushes so speak.

“I’m right here, Dave,” said the deep voice, definitely not Tampa.

“Look, boys, I got the cash and wanna get this crap over with. It’s Miller Time. Not goin’ on any wild goose chase. And, gents, no proof of life for Traci and no Ben Franklins for you.”

Tampa said, “Dave, drive west on Westheimer and south on Calverton. Turn into the parking lot of that beautiful little cemetery two blocks down. The lot is open. It would be a shame to lock up such a lovely place. There in fifteen minutes or she’s dead.”

“Lemme hear her voice or I’m not comin’.”

A feminine voice which I hoped wasn’t Tampa faking it, weakly said, “Help.”

I spun into traffic. Sally Dead and Worms were waiting where I’d left them. I dialed Worm’s number and promised to keep the line open. “Look, if for any reason my call gets disconnected, do not panic. I’ll have to answer, but I’ll call you back.” I cautioned them not to drive directly to the cemetery, then I beat it the mile west and two blocks south to Gilded Angels Cemetery.

When I swung onto the parking lot, the lights of a white van, parked well back, flicked briefly, allowing me to find them. I still couldn’t believe they’d shown up. I still expected a hideout guy posted close, but they were parked so far into open space that only a high-powered rifle could reach me. This was still way too easy. The possibility that the murder club might be three creeps tickled at a corner of my imagination. Too late to change strategy.

A sneaking rodent like Sally Dead would have enough sense to cut his lights before he entered the lot. Heavy shrubbery at the entrance would allow Worms and him to park unobserved. I pulled my little .38 from my rear waist and, for lack of a plan, jammed it into my left armpit and clamped down.

I parked, facing the van at about thirty feet, grabbed the satchel, and stepped around into the glare of my headlights. The van lights snapped on and the driver stepped into the brightly lit space between the vehicles.

“Show the girl, Tampa,” I said quietly. No need to shout. The metal of the .38 was beginning to irritate the tender area under my arm. The sweltering humidity added to discomfort.

“Not Tampa, Dave, it’s me, Elmer, Tampa’s partner. This is such a pretty place.” So there really was a number two named Elmer in the nutball circus; another six-pack without the little plastic thingy on top. I just hoped there was no number three hiding in the bushes.

Elmer stepped further into the light, a long-barreled revolver in one hand and a nude female, a raincoat loosely wrapped around her, supporting her at her waist with his other. As she rolled her head, I saw she was alive. The movement caused the raincoat to separate further. I was surprised to see no blood.

I advanced several paces and set the money on the ground. Closer, I could see the revolver trembling. Elmer was terrified. I hoped he didn’t pull the trigger by accident and shoot the babe.

The hidden gunman thing was still a problem. Who else was lurking nearby intending to blow my head off? I asked, “Where’s your pal Tampa?”

The familiar voice from behind the open passenger door said, “Right here, Dave.”

Although Tampa was standing behind the lights with a gun pointed at me, I had no choice but to try for the exchange. “Send her to me,” I ordered.

When Elmer released his grip, Traci slumped to the asphalt. She looked up and crawled a few feet toward me.

I pulled the ripcord. “It’s been a hell of a day, boys.”

I heard Sally’s Lexus spin from behind the shrubs. Elmer raised the big pistol and fired at me from twenty feet. But tension bumped him off target. The bullet burned past my head like a large, red-hot bird flying past.

I snatched the .38 from beneath my left arm and fired two rounds. Elmer’s head exploded in a mushy spew. Mindful of at least one other gunman out there in the darkness, I squeezed outside the peripheral reach of duelling headlights, leaving me in pitch black.

Sally’s headlights picked up Tampa running away into the darkness. I wasn’t above shooting dirtbags like him in the back, but as Sally’s headlights illuminated the fleeing figure, the Lexus blocked him from my view. Sally pulled abreast of the lunatic. Worms bailed and chased Tampa in among the tombstones he seemed so drawn to. The staccato of four shots from Worms’ nine-millimeter broke the night air. In the headlights of the Lexus, I could see Worms stand over the downed man and fire two more, then two more.

“That ought do it, Worms,” I said softly. Worms had just overkilled, but Tampa had left this world among the fine tombstones. He wouldn’t be missed. I still didn’t know who he was. I knelt over Traci. She not only wasn’t injured, she stood shakily, her magnificent anatomy mostly in full view, and thanked me repeatedly for saving her. Her soliloquy concluded by her awarding me a small, perfunctory hug.

Sally, with Worms in tow, circled back to where I still stood at the edge of duelling headlights. I had already boosted the semi-nude kidnap victim into my GMC passenger seat. Elmer’s shattered body lay in the glare of the van’s lights. He’d actually bled out on the parking lot of one of the cemeteries he and his crazy partner spoke so fondly of, but not in the part he seemed to love.

I noticed on the asphalt, a small automatic pistol where Tampa had stood behind the passenger door of the van. Tampa had dropped his piece when Elmer started shooting. Worms had shot an unarmed man when Hugo Fat would have paid a bonus to take him alive. As anxious as Worms was to kiss up to Hugo, shooting Tampa several times didn’t fit. Something was wrong as hell.

“Gentlemen, any talkin’ we’re gonna do needs to be elsewhere.” Cops would start arriving in lots of five shortly. Time to haul ass again. I headed back east on Westheimer. Sally Dead followed. I found a quiet, dark, church parking lot, which seemed not to fit the label of “being in the vicinity” to the cops.

Tracy had slid across the seat and leaned her head on my shoulder. In three minutes, Hugo Fat’s limo whizzed. up, one gunsel driving, a second at shotgun.

Hugo and Traci exchanged embraces and wet kisses. Despite the threats of mutilation, she was unharmed. Something else was wrong as hell.

Hugo slithered over to me and held out another wad of Ben Franklins. I took a handful and handed over the suitcase filled with a life fortune for most folks.

Worms shambled up. Traci, her unashamed nudity revealing an enticing view of the fine figure beneath the limited cover the raincoat, gave him a huge hug — too huge. Hugo didn’t seem to notice.

Then, Worms said like a schoolboy who’d just won the playground dash, “I got that Tampa sumbitch for you, Mr. Cohen.” Worms caught me staring at him in the limited light.

As Sally Dead and several other Hugo jackals clustered around us, I said, “Folks, time for Kratzert to hit the road.”

Worms, puffed up from letting the air out of one of two pieces of human waste who needed killing, said, “It was good to see you again, Dave.”

I nodded. “Hey, Worms, how’d you know which one was Tampa?”

Bingo! Worms gasped, then blurted “Uh... heard his voice, heard you call him by name, man. Jes’ did what needed doin’, Dave.”

No way could he have identified the two recently departed toads in the dark. Tampa and Worms were not strangers! He knew them.

“Nice job, dude.” I slid onto the GMC seat and in one minute was out of sight of the glut of misfits occupying the parking lot. No way Hugo had snapped onto the truth, not yet. Worms’ relationship with Hugo’s bride was more than a passing hug. Worms and Traci were engaged in a deadly game.

Worms had filled Tampa with lead without hesitation. Sarah Guthrie’s parole files were the clue. Some way, the parolee files Tampa and Elmer had pilfered from Sarah Guthrie’s briefcase had found their way to Worms. Connected by being one of Sarah’s clients? I’d never know, but Hugo stood an excellent chance of pinning the tail on the donkey sooner or later and in plain lingo, that would be Worm’s ass.

* * *

I bought a burner phone at a 24/7 convenience store and dialed 911 to report Willie’s location and circumstances. I covered the receiver with a McDonald’s napkin and tried to growl like Attila the Hun. I’d find a way to ditch my .38; ballistics you understand. I could swing through downtown and toss the burner into Buffalo Bayou on the way to Rose’s place. Then I’d watch the news to see if any info came down identifying Tampa and Elmer.

I had two fistfuls of those marvelous Ben Franklins, and Hugo was not particularly pissed over Carmine being stuck in the joint. Hugo had inherited Carmine’s woman. Not a bad trade until the day in the near future when the loving bride slipped Hugo a dose of rat poison or, maybe, when the street told me about Worms’ ’nads in a glass jar.

However, before I could comfortably say to hell with the whole show, I needed a pipeline to what info the cops stumbled across. I had the best snitch possible with a link to the murder cops. It was not yet midnight, and I wagered she was still up and in need of excellent company like me.

Rose answered on the first ring. “You know the address,” she said invitingly.

But, what the hell. My pockets were stuffed with Ben Franklins. I picked up a twelve-pack and a bottle of that sweet wine Rose craved and headed over. I drove in the late-night traffic, wondering if I’d ever get close to understanding what possible form of lunacy had held together the two mopes we’d just exterminated and how in the name of hell I had let them come so close so easily.