Read Online Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston by Kent Conwell - Free Book Online Page A

older man quickly cut his eyes furtively at Jerry Cook. “Are you sure? Two nights ago?”
    “Positive.”
    I glanced at the book. “You know without looking?”
    “Yep. Foggy that night. We don’t deliver in the fog. Causes problems when the concrete sets. Isn’t that right, Pitt?”
    The older man jumped, then nodded. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, that’s right, Mister Cook. Don’t set up good.”
    Cook was lying. I felt it in my bones, but I kept grinning like the proverbial possum. “Well, thanks anyway, Mister Cook. Appreciate the help.”
    “Anytime.”
    I stopped at the door and turned back. “By the way, you know a cop by the name of Frank Cheshire?”
    The frozen smile on his face cracked, but he quickly covered it. “Nope. Never heard the name. That surprises me though if he’s from around Texas City. I know most of the force by their first name.”
    “He isn’t from around here. Just thought you might have heard of him, but thanks again.”
     
    Outside, his shoulder turned into the cold wind, Virgil muttered. “He’s lying.”
    “Yeah. That’s what I guessed.”  I slammed the truck door. “And the only reason someone lies is because they’re covering up something.”
    Virgil grunted. “Yeah.”
    I started the pickup. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the night before.
    Virgil chuckled. “Somebody’s hungry.”
    “Yeah. How about it?” I pulled into the traffic.
    “You like chicken fried steak and fried potatoes?”
    “With gravy?” I stopped at a signal light and glanced at him.
    “And homemade rolls.”
    The light changed, and I moved with the traffic. “Just point us at it.”
     
    Mae’s Home Cooking was on a side street a few blocks from the Strand. The small, unimposing frame building was packed, but the service was fast, and within thirty minutes, we’d put away a plate-sized chicken fried steak smothered with cream gravy, a heaping pile of crispy French fries, and half-a-dozen butter-soaked homemade rolls wafting of yeast.
     
    “Nap time now.” Virgil grunted when we climbed back in the truck. “Let it settle.”
    I laughed. “I won’t argue that.” But a nap was the last thing I had on my mind. I had a lot of work to do, and no idea how much time I had to do it.
    Just as I closed the motel door behind me, the phone rang. “Yeah?” I wondered if it were my informant from the station.
    “Boudreaux?”
    The voice was different. “Yeah?”
    “This is Jim Wilson, Sergeant Jim Wilson.”
    Instantly, I grew wary. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
    “I’m down in your parking lot. Off duty. I’d like to talk, private.”
    My initial impulse was to refuse. If the D.A. were trying to set me up, what kind of bum-beef would the sergeant try? On the other hand, he might be my pigeon at the station. I crossed to the window. “Where are you?”
    “Red Pontiac. Facing you across the parking lot.”
    I spotted a face peering up through the windshield of a red Pontiac. “All right. Be right down.”
    Before I left, I informed Virgil. “Just watch in case he tries something.”
    “Don’t do it, Tony. I don’t trust any of the bluebirds.”
    “Just watch.”
    “Don’t worry.”
     
    Wilson was nursing a beer despite the open container law the state had recently passed. He studied me as I slid into the shotgun seat.
    “Sergeant.”
    He nodded. “Thanks for coming down. Ben’s still in a coma.”
    “I know. I called earlier.”
    A tense silence followed in which he seemed to be struggling with himself. I glanced around the parking lot, halfway expecting an army of uniforms to converge on me.
    He chuckled. “Don’t worry. It’s just the two of us.”
    The tension lessened. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it. Now, what did you want with me?”
    He studied me another few moments, then cleared his throat. “I been a cop twenty-four years. This is a good department here, honest boys—most of them. You always have one or two rotten apples.