Read Online Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston by Kent Conwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Kent Conwell
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up a few years earlier. Perched on a maze of steel beams in the middle of the yard, four giant cylindrical silos towered over fifty-foot high cone-shaped piles of gravel and various aggregates. Like pieces of a Rube Goldberg creation, half-a-dozen whirring conveyor belts with large buckets filled with sand and gravel ran in a dizzying mélange of angles from the ten-foot square hoppers on the ground to the top lips of the silos.
The whine and roar of straining diesel engines filled the air as front-end loaders with their three-yard scoops dumped various aggregate and sand into the hoppers in an unending procession.
Bright yellow cement trucks sat rumbling beneath the silos, waiting their turn for the next load of ready mix concrete.
A blast of cold air greeted us as we climbed from my truck. I tugged my jacket around me and hurried for the dispatch office.
Inside, a welcome flow of warm air rolled over us. A countertop divided the office. A grizzled clerk of about fifty and wearing a Houston Astros gimme cap nodded. “Howdy, boys. What can I do for you?”
In the glassed-in office behind him, a younger man with a round face glanced up and frowned.
I pulled out my wallet and flashed my identification, the Private Security card issued by the state. I explained. “There was a cement truck a couple nights back around ten o’clock on the docks near Maritime Shippers. Can you check your job register or log to see if it was one of yours?”
The old guy frowned. “Do what?”
“You keep a record of trips the trucks make?”
His frown deepened. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, so?”
“So, can you tell me if one of your cement trucks was on Berth 21 in Galveston two nights ago at around ten o’clock?”
He saw the light. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can tell you.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a thick book with a worn brown cover. He hesitated. “Now, who are you?”
Patiently, I pulled my wallet back out and opened it to my license.
At that moment, the younger man from the office came out, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. A roll of flesh hung over his belt. “Can I help you?” He gave the older man a glance that said I’ll take over.
“I hope so,” I replied with an amiable grin on my face. I offered him my hand and introduced Virgil and myself.
He nodded. “Jerry Cook, Mister Boudreaux. I own this company.”
I glanced out the window at his plant. “Nice operation you have here.”
“Yeah. We’re one of the first slurry mixers in this part of the state. You know anything about ready-mix?”
“Only that it gets hard.”
He hitched his belt up over his ample belly. “Well, our process is more complicated than the competition’s, but we turn out a better mix with a more thorough hydration and in less time than they do.” He pointed to a vertical cylinder the size of a boxcar, the top of which was a terminus for several conveyors of sand and aggregate. “By the time the mixture passes through those giant blades inside that mixer, every cubic inch has been mixed and remixed.”
A process of which I couldn’t care less. I nodded politely. “Impressive.”
He gave me a lopsided grin. “Like I said, complicated. But, you’re not here to learn the concrete business. Right?”
I kept smiling. “As I told this gentleman, Mister Cook, I’m trying to learn the identity of the cement truck that delivered a load of cement to Berth 21 in Galveston two nights ago.” I hastened to add. “There’s no problem, I just need to ask a couple questions, that’s all.”
The lopsided grin froze on his lips. He eyed me warily. “Are you the police?”
“No.” I opened my wallet again. “Private investigator. And like I said, there’s no problem for the company. All I need to find out is who contracted the job.”
Jerry Cook shook his head. His voice had cooled perceptibly. “Can’t help you, Mister Boudreaux. Sorry. It wasn’t us.”
From the corner of my eyes, I spotted the
The whine and roar of straining diesel engines filled the air as front-end loaders with their three-yard scoops dumped various aggregate and sand into the hoppers in an unending procession.
Bright yellow cement trucks sat rumbling beneath the silos, waiting their turn for the next load of ready mix concrete.
A blast of cold air greeted us as we climbed from my truck. I tugged my jacket around me and hurried for the dispatch office.
Inside, a welcome flow of warm air rolled over us. A countertop divided the office. A grizzled clerk of about fifty and wearing a Houston Astros gimme cap nodded. “Howdy, boys. What can I do for you?”
In the glassed-in office behind him, a younger man with a round face glanced up and frowned.
I pulled out my wallet and flashed my identification, the Private Security card issued by the state. I explained. “There was a cement truck a couple nights back around ten o’clock on the docks near Maritime Shippers. Can you check your job register or log to see if it was one of yours?”
The old guy frowned. “Do what?”
“You keep a record of trips the trucks make?”
His frown deepened. He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, so?”
“So, can you tell me if one of your cement trucks was on Berth 21 in Galveston two nights ago at around ten o’clock?”
He saw the light. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Yeah, I can tell you.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a thick book with a worn brown cover. He hesitated. “Now, who are you?”
Patiently, I pulled my wallet back out and opened it to my license.
At that moment, the younger man from the office came out, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. A roll of flesh hung over his belt. “Can I help you?” He gave the older man a glance that said I’ll take over.
“I hope so,” I replied with an amiable grin on my face. I offered him my hand and introduced Virgil and myself.
He nodded. “Jerry Cook, Mister Boudreaux. I own this company.”
I glanced out the window at his plant. “Nice operation you have here.”
“Yeah. We’re one of the first slurry mixers in this part of the state. You know anything about ready-mix?”
“Only that it gets hard.”
He hitched his belt up over his ample belly. “Well, our process is more complicated than the competition’s, but we turn out a better mix with a more thorough hydration and in less time than they do.” He pointed to a vertical cylinder the size of a boxcar, the top of which was a terminus for several conveyors of sand and aggregate. “By the time the mixture passes through those giant blades inside that mixer, every cubic inch has been mixed and remixed.”
A process of which I couldn’t care less. I nodded politely. “Impressive.”
He gave me a lopsided grin. “Like I said, complicated. But, you’re not here to learn the concrete business. Right?”
I kept smiling. “As I told this gentleman, Mister Cook, I’m trying to learn the identity of the cement truck that delivered a load of cement to Berth 21 in Galveston two nights ago.” I hastened to add. “There’s no problem, I just need to ask a couple questions, that’s all.”
The lopsided grin froze on his lips. He eyed me warily. “Are you the police?”
“No.” I opened my wallet again. “Private investigator. And like I said, there’s no problem for the company. All I need to find out is who contracted the job.”
Jerry Cook shook his head. His voice had cooled perceptibly. “Can’t help you, Mister Boudreaux. Sorry. It wasn’t us.”
From the corner of my eyes, I spotted the
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