Hurricane Willie and the Swingers
by Gary Clifton
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
“Well, actually, Tiny Tits, it’s the tattooed gentleman here I need to speak with. That’s quite a tat, dude. Did you get it in Houston?”
“Kiss my ass.”
It was easy enough. A waist high kick sent the beach chair and Billy Bad Ass end over end, his smoking joint landing halfway in between.
“Say again, please,” I asked.
He struggled to his feet, like an old man on life support. One touch was plenty for a flabby fat boy. I pushed him in his face, and he went down hard on the concrete. That caused a pregnant pause in the discussion. I rolled him over with a toe and took a cellular shot of the tattoo. Then I got a shot of blondie as she struggled to tie on a halter top while easing away.
“Keep walking, babe, and I can give you some of the same. Looks to me like you might enjoy it, but I will kick your ass.”
She hesitated, the arrogant expression now showing fear. “Prick,” was barely a whisper.
“What the f...” The Mafia bad boy looked up, defeated, and so easily. “Look, pal. I got friends who’ll have your ass for breakfast.”
Slow learners are so disappointing. I made a move toward him again. He curled into a fetal bundle. “Don’t hurt me no more.” So much for the “Born to Kill” declaration.
Then the blonde stood up, surgically augmented assets standing proud, although it appeared likely her odometer would pass the 300,000-mile marker no later than the next week.
“My sources tell me you had a little sex party in cabin one next door at The Blue Mama, and I wasn’t invited. Now I need a play by play on the lurid details.”
“Lurid?” Pudge mafioso stammered.
“What happened, dickhead?”
Blondie spoke up. “We went over trying to score some blow, man. First thing we knew, ever’body was nekked in one of them cabins... uh, number one. We both got all we wanted of that perverted crap pretty damned quick and come on back over here. What’s the beef, Tarzan?”
“One of the couples was murdered in cabin one and tossed into that imitation cigarette boat you can see from here. Believe I’ll lock your asses to a light pole while the sheriff’s office and the Rangers can get down here and charge y’all with murder.”
Fat boy sat upright then clambered into his chair. Blondie sat back down, stunned. Her bikini top slid to the ground like a dead snake, except the snake would have covered more over-suntanned skin.
“Gimme some ID, both of you.”
“You ain’t no damned cop,” Pudgy wailed.
Good guess. I took a step toward him. He dug frantically into his fanny-pack and handed over Louisiana driver’s licenses for both himself and all-boobs. They shared the same last name — Provona, Angelina and Carmine — and an address in New Orleans. Man, just another ordinary happily married couple — not. I wondered if they were in the area as part of whatever Willie had been hauling in his super-boat.
I got Pudge up and pointed him toward the Blue Mama next door. Blondie followed like a trout on the hook, preceded a foot by her bare chest. She’d have shown better wearing a shirt.
Cedric Stencil, the Blue Mama owner, waited anxiously. “Kratzert, I can explain the situation in cabin four.”
“Not to me you don’t, Stencil.”
“After the murders yesterday, my wife split for her mother’s in Houston for a couple of days. A man has needs. That was the cleaning lady I was in bed with, Margaret, and—”
“Tell me no more, sir. My heart won’t stand it.” If the homely cow I’d just spotted in room four satisfied a need, I considered recommending eye surgery immediately.
He walked away, crestfallen, probably at being caught in a delicate situation with a woman with a face like a gangrenous toe who had probably been a finalist in the Miss Repulsive America contest.
* * *
Bell sat on the patio with the Mafia duo, Angelina and Carmine Provona. Houston lawyer Sherman Phillips and wife Ann, Willie and wife, Harriet. I sat in my F150 and dialed Rose in Houston Homicide again. When I explained that I needed some heavy-duty computer and telephone work, she grumbled. When I told her I was on the downhill side of a double murder, she perked right up.
I asked her to run several license tags and query national criminal records. While Bell babysat, I drove back out to the mom-and-pop convenience store and bought a bag of barbeque sandwiches. When I returned, the sandwiches disappeared down gullets all around.
I’d finished half a pastrami on rye when Rose called back with a load of nails for somebody’s coffin. She e-mailed several mug photos that I managed to print out on the Blue Mama system. She seemed mollified when I promised another weekend on the coast in the near future. I dialed the office number lawyer Sherman Phillips had given. When I hung up, the complex, dead-end scenario seemed suddenly clear.
As I left the office, Margaret, the cleaning lady, lurking in a janitor’s closet, hailed me with an ominous “psst.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I prepared for a frontal assault.
“Mister, that fat assed po-lice chief had somethin’ to do with them murders.”
“The hell you say?” Up close, her bulldog lower jaw was even equipped with one tooth.
“Mr. Stancil been lettin’ me stay in cabin four. Didn’t see no murder, but I saw who drug the bodies into that boat. Then that chief showed up drivin’ that old car with somethin’ about ‘serve’ on the side.”
When she finished her whispered tale, several additional well-deserved coffin nails were hammered a knock deeper.
“You’re a fine citizen, Margaret.”
She batted her eyes, her face oddly far more attractive after the knives she’d just shoved up some deserving fundaments waiting nearby. I motioned to her to follow.
Bell had moved our little group of losers in the small Blue Mama office. Willie and Harriet, the Phillips, and the Provonas, sat glumly bearing various expressions of discomfort on hardbacked chairs. Angelina was still nude from the waist up. Margaret squeezed into a corner chair. Bell leaned his lanky frame against a wall.
I pulled out my notes and computer printouts. “Welcome, folks,” I said. “We’ve gathered her solely to seek truth and justice.” Actually, I intended to hang somebody’s murdering ass.
“Crap,” spat Anne Phillips, now dressed in shorts and a low-cut blouse even smaller than the outfit she’d worn earlier.
I turned to the lawyer Phillips. “The Jenkins were swingers. No law against playing turnabout unless you get busted for public nudity or some such at a swingers’ party.”
“What the hell is this?!” Sherman Phillips leaped to his feet; his thin face twisted in a scowl.
“Sit,” I said softly. He slithered back onto his chair.
“Houston Police records show the murder victims Jenkins’ car was stolen from a swingers’ party several weeks ago. The house had been temporarily leased by Stanley Morgenthau, a con man and grifter with a long record, including hosting swingers’ parties.
“The night the Jenkins’ car was stolen up in Houston, Morgenthau and his little naked bride, Anne, got themselves arrested for disorderly conduct and assaulting a Houston cop. Houston PD records show her little tattoos match what I can see perfectly. One of the responding officers managed a nude photo of Miss Anne, here.” I held up the copy. “Pretty good likeness, tattoos included.”
“Doesn’t include me,” he spat.
“Morgenthau hired a Houston lawyer, Sherman Phillips. Phillips was found floating in the Ship Channel a month later, and the Morgenthaus are the only suspects. You’re not Sherman Phillips, and his old law firm says some sucker is going about impersonating him. I’m bettin’ that would be you, sir. You — and possibly your little wifey here — murdered lawyer Phillips and dumped his body in the ship channel. And I believe you did so because you like killin’ folks.”
I tossed the mugshots Rose had sent of both Stanley Morgenthau and his wife on the table beside the cellular shot of Anne in the buff. “That look like you?” The stricken looks of both Morgenthau and Anne were impressive. “Morgenthau, you fooled me with your librarian countenance. I mistook a lizard’s face for timidity.”
“You and the Jenkins were practiced acquaintances in a kinky game. Morgenthau, your ‘wife’ Anne is a topless dancer with a long record of arrests for prostitution, narcotics, and assaultive offenses.”
Anne’s snarky expression said I had pinned the correct tale on the donkey.
Morgenthau, formerly Phillips, started back to his feet. I gave him a baby push and he collapsed on the floor. Anne, her chest still trying to escape from the tight blouse, fumbled for her purse. I grabbed it and dumped the contents on a table. A .38 revolver bounced to the floor. I picked it up with a napkin, unloaded it, dropped it into a Walmart vinyl bag, and handed it to Bell.
“I bet ballistics will show this is the weapon used to blow off Jason Jenkins’ head and leave a bullet in the woodwork of cabin two. Whatcha bet both Mr. and Mrs. Morgenthau’s prints might show up there also?”
“Bastard,” Anne said.
I shuffled through the contents of the purse, scattered on the table. Both of the Jenkins’ driver’s licenses and several credit cards in their names were in the pile. I held up several. “Merry Christmas. Here’s the Jenkins’ credit card Anne used to pay your cabin rent to the Blue Mama. Pretty stupid, all considered.”
I continued. “I’ve seen plenty of crap, but nothing to beat this.” I held up the camera shot of the man’s back with the “Born To Kill” tattoo, which clearly showed the crossed snake ring on Michelle Jenkin’s finger. I stepped around the table and yanked the gold chain from Anne’s neck and held it up.
“Note, the alleged Mrs. Phillips and or Morgenthau, Anne if you would, is wearing the damned thing around her neck. That’s another vote for dumbass of the year.”
Anne spat venomously, “What do you know about needing a thrill, copper?”
Morgenthau spat, “That don’t make me a killer, tough guy. And I ain’t got no tattoo on me like that picture.”
“In due time. Even a fake lawyer has gotta know some of those bloody fingerprints on the hull of that boat full of murder victims has gotta be yours, Morgenthau. You were partying in cabin one until some damned way, the game changed to murder. When the evidence crew gets here, I believe they’ll find your prints and DNA will be all over that boat in all capitals... plus more in cabin one.”
Morgenthau, his expression less arrogant by a factor of five, slid both hands into his armpits. I reached over and yanked one free. It was disfigured by burns in a pattern similar to Jason Jenkins’ face.
I asked Harriet, “Do you leave lye under the sink of cabin one?”
Wedged in a corner, she appeared horrified. “Oh my, that’s where I left it.”
“Yup, and Morgenthau got his hands in it as he tried to pry Jason’s body from under the sink. Might be why he dropped Jason’s body en route to dumping it in Willie’s boat. Pain is a powerful persuader.”
“Screw you, Kratzert,” Anne Morgenthau spat.
“Cost you a hundred, babe.”
It was Margaret’s turn. I motioned her to stand.
Morgenthau blurted, “What the hell—?”
I said, “Okay, Margaret. Point out the people you saw moving Jason and Michelle Jenkin’s bodies to the boat.”
Her voice quivering, she pointed a trembling finger and repeated what she previously told me. “It was the man you just called Morgen something and his wife. Willie over here and his wife were helping.”
Harriet shrieked like a wounded banshee. Willie cowered on his chair. The Morgenthaus maintained tough-guy hate stares.
I knew the answer, but couldn’t resist asking, “Anne, I don’t follow the motive for butchery... and the brazen stupidity. And why the hell wear the murder vic’s ring around your neck? I first saw it this morning but didn’t recognize the significance until I saw the photo with it on Michelle’s finger. Murder a lawyer, then impersonate him. Why on earth pay your room rent with the credit card of a murder victim lying thirty feet away? And why didn’t y’all beat it to hell outa here? You coulda been to Dallas by now.”
The cold, blue eyes stared across the table. “For the same reason we decided to kill Jason and Michelle: the thrill of it, you impotent loser. Stuff you could never understand. Ever shot somebody you just made it with while they was still nekked?”
“Couldn’t say I have. You just proclaimed I was impotent, kiddo. And I believe that wasn’t your first rodeo. Thrill killing? Good God. You two screwballs could have more bodies on you than Freddy Krueger.”
Bell said, softly, “Stanley and Anne Morganthau; Willie and Harriet: that’s sufficient evidence to arrest you for murder.” He read Miranda rights from a small card.
Carmine Provona spat, “See, copper, we ain’t had nuthin’ to do—”
The sound of evidence-tech vehicles rolling into the parking lot was deliciously timely. I turned to Bell. “Think they found fat Chester?”
“Wasn’t hard, he’s been parked a half mile north for the past three hours. You didn’t see him when you went for sandwiches because the convenience store is to the south.”
Two uniformed Texas State Troopers crowded in the cramped space, pushing fat Chester Smith handcuffed in front of them.
Smith spat, “Kratzert, you son of—”
“Whoa, Chester, there’s ladies present. But here’s the deal. FBI records show ol’ Carmine here is actually Carmine Spinelli, an absconder from Witness Protection. He’s since been indicted on two counts of murder for hire in the Bronx. The feds in New York want to visit with you Carmine.”
Carmine wilted. Angelina wailed, “No!”
“And, Willie, you get a double. Whatever you smuggled to Jason Jenkins in that phony cigarette boat parked outback was Mafia property, according to the Drug Enforcement Administration. Some convoluted way, after you and Harriet got carried away at a little swingers’ shindig and help murder the Jenkins, Chester here arrested you for murder and stole your cargo.”
Chester snarled, “You ain’t gonna be able to prove that, Kratzert.”
“Well, Fats, whatever it was, I’ll bet a dollar it was sealed in a waterproof container. If DPS and the feds drag a half mile or so of those nasty green covered ditches out front here, wanna bet they find what you dumped in there last night? That’s why you’ve been sitting up the road. You dumped too close to the Blue Mama front drive and couldn’t approach because we were here.”
Chester sagged like a hung-over sperm whale.
“And in conclusion, friends, here’s how it plays out. Willie, Morgenthau and wives looking at murder charges. Maybe not a death penalty, but quite a hit in the ass, so to speak. Carmine, here, sent out by his mob buddies to monitor the transfer of whatever you smuggled in, dropped the ball and lost the swag.
“Unless the feds do a better job of hiding him than they did before, he won’t last a month in custody. The mob boys are an unforgiving bunch. And no matter the condition of the smuggled property, Willie and Chester are gonna have to answer to the mob, too. I’d wager Morgenthau here, by osmosis, also might have a visit by the boys in purple shirts while in custody. Jail makes all of you easier to find.”
“Damn your eyes, Kratzert,” Anne Morgenthau snarled.
“Yup, sounds about right. And All-Boobs Angelina, find a damned shirt.”
“Bingo.” Bell grinned. “Okay, group, everyone except Margaret and Stencil are under arrest. The line forms over there by the door.”
“Don, we never found Michelle Jenkins’ cellular. I’ll bet my pickup it’s either somewhere around here in the bushes or their car parked out front.” I gestured. “Or in the lake no farther than a wimp like Morgenthau could throw it.”
Margaret asked, “Mr. Kratzert, why didn’t nobody hear a gun going off?”
“That’s a universal question, Margaret. Maybe everyone was drunk... maybe the sound just didn’t carry... maybe Morgenthau covered the pistol with a pillow. Forensics may figure it out. I dunno, really.”
* * *
I made certain Bell and company had my info for court or whatever and hitched an evidence wagon ride back to my GMC. I cranked my old truck and retreated from the smell of beach and death back toward the stench of traffic, murder, and dysfunction of Houston.
While I stopped for gas, Rose called, but I didn’t answer. If I hurried, I could make Tina’s Topless out on Gessner, with two grand in my pocket several hours before closing time. Details for another beachfront get-together with Rose and her lovely roommate could wait until tomorrow. Maybe next time I oughta swing for a little classier place in Galveston. Problem there, damned hard to skinny-dip amidst all those unforgiving tourists.
As I meshed into the Houston late rush hour traffic, I couldn’t dump the horrifying realization that those two pervert mopes, the Morgenthaus, had murdered because they liked it, then hung around instead of running like hell, just for the high. And all that just when I’d begun to hope I was nearing the bottom of the list of what it takes to say you’ve seen it all. Why the hell Willie and Harriet joined the parade was beyond me.
Oh well, a few beers, a few bucks inserted in g-strings, a overnighter with a couple of sweet young things, and everything would be fine... until I ran outa cash.
Copyright © 2025 by Gary Clifton
