The Right Wrong Number: An Ed Earl Burch Novel Read online

  Praise for Jim Nesbitt’s latest hard-boiled tale,

  THE RIGHT WRONG NUMBER

  An Ed Earl Burch Novel

  “In The Right Wrong Number, Jim Nesbitt writes like an angel about devilish deals, bloody murder and nasty sex. His beat is Dallas — not the glitzy spires of J.R. Ewing, but the back alley bars and brothels of Jack Ruby and Candy Barr. His PI, Ed Earl Burch, is steeped in Coke-chased bourbon; cured in the smoke of Zippo-lit Luckies; and longing for hard-bitten girls who got away. Nesbitt channels the lyricism of James Crumley, the twisted kick of Jim Thompson and the cold, dark heart of Mickey Spillane.”

  – Jayne Loader, author of Between Pictures and Wild America, director of The Atomic Café

  “Jim Nesbitt serves up another raunchy slice of Texas-style revenge and redemption in his latest hard-boiled thriller, The Right Wrong Number, featuring his scarred and guilt-ridden Dallas PI, Ed Earl Burch. In Burch, Nesbitt has created a colorful, authentic and deeply-flawed character who is nobody’s idea of a hero but also turns out to be nobody’s fool.”

  – Robert Ward, author of Cattle Annie and Little Britches, Red Baker and The Best, Bad Dream; writer producer on Hill Street Blues and Miami Vice

  “Jim Nesbitt’s latest hard-boiled Texas thriller is another masterpiece. The Right Wrong Number has everything to keep the reader turning the page — vivid characters, stark Texas landscape, non-stop action and a classic American anti-hero in Ed Earl Burch, Nesbitt’s battered but dogged Dallas PI. Buckle up and brace yourself for another wild ride.”

  – Paul Finebaum, ESPN college football analyst, author, host of The Paul Finebaum Show

  “Nesbitt spins an intriguing and unique twist to his latest hard-boiled mystery, The Right Wrong Number. His style and mastery of the vivid descriptions are exceptional. His characters are truly unforgettable. His protagonist, Ed Earl Burch is a rude, witty, sarcastic chain-smoker — a bourbon-drinking man’s man who makes this fast-paced tale a pleasure to read. Hooked from the first paragraph to the unexpected ending, Nesbitt’s latest is destined to be a best-seller.”

  – Owen Parr, award-winning author of the John Powers political thriller series, Due Diligence, Operation Black Swan and The Dead Have Secrets

  Read what fellow authors say about Jim Nesbitt’s

  first award-winning noir thriller,

  THE LAST SECOND CHANCE

  An Ed Earl Burch Novel

  “If Chandler’s noir was a neon sign in the LA sunset, Nesbitt’s noir is the Shiner Bock sign buzzing outside the last honky-tonk you’ll hit before the long drive to the next one. On the way you’ll pass towns with names like Crumley and Portis. Roll down the window; it’s a hot night. It’s a fast ride.”

  – James Lileks, author of The Casablanca Tango, columnist for the National Review and Star Tribune of Minneapolis, creator of LILEKS.com

  “Make no mistake. The Last Second Chance may be a classic noir tale full of bullets and babes and booze. But at heart, it is a western. And our ex-cop hero, Ed Earl Burch, is a modern day cowboy, minus the spurs. . . . smart, tough, profane and reckless. . .”

  – Mike Ludden, author of Alfredo’s Luck

  “In ‘The Last Second Chance,’ Jim Nesbitt gives readers a splendid first opportunity to meet Ed Earl Burch, as flawed a Luckies-smoking, whiskey-drinking, serial-married hero as ever walked the scarred earth of Dirty Texas. . . . In Burch, Nesbitt has created a more angst-ridden and bad-ass version of Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch and a Tex-Mex landscape much meaner than the streets of L.A. Add hate-worthy lowlifes and a diminutive dame, Carla Sue Cantrell, who cracks wiser than the guys, and you’ve got a book with gumption.”

  – Bob Morris, Edgar finalist, author of Baja Florida and A Deadly Silver Sea

  “If you like to read, if you appreciate words and the people who run them brilliantly through their paces, give Jim Nesbitt’s The Last Second Chance a read. And his next one, and the one after that. You’ll be enthralled, like I was.”

  – Cheryl Pellerin, author of Trips: How Hallucinogens Work in Your Brain

  “Cowboy noir for the cartel era … The Last Second Chance is a gripping read with a cathartic ending, and it takes you places you’ve likely never been.”

  – Jeannette Cooperman, author of A Circumstance of Blood

  THE RIGHT

  WRONG NUMBER

  An Ed Earl Burch Novel

  Jim Nesbitt

  Spotted Mule Press

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE RIGHT WRONG NUMBER

  An Ed Earl Burch Novel

  Copyright © 2017 By Jim Nesbitt

  Published by SPOTTED MULE PRESS

  Paperback

  ISBN 10: 0-9983294-0-1

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9983294-0-6

  E-Book

  ISBN 10: 0-9983294-1-X

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9983294-1-3

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph by Andrew Palochko.

  Used with exclusive permission.

  Author photo by Bill Swindell

  Cover design by SelfPubBookCovers.com/Island

  Interior formatting by Polgarus Studio

  For Pam and The Panther

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  It wasn’t San Francisco or London, but the fog was thick and flowing — like tufts sucked from a bale of cotton, carrying the muddy tint of a used linen filter. It made him think of trench coats, lamp posts and the low warning moan of a ship’s horn sounding somewhere out on the water. Rolling across the flat fields, it made dark gray ghosts of the trees that huddled along the far fencelines and left cold beads of moisture on his skin and memories of old black-and-white movies in his mind.

  But there were no ships in the harbor, no waterside buckets of blood, no Rick or Ilsa. Just lightless farmhouses, barns, open-sided equipment sheds and squat corrugated feed bins for cattle, all cloaked by the fast-moving fog, glimpsed only if the wind parted the curtain of stained white wetness as you rolled by.

  And it wasn’t the Left Coast or Britain. It was Texas and the scrubby coastal country north of Houston, beyond the Intercontinental and its roaring planes. Take a left off the farm-to-market road with the four-digit number. Find the third dirt road on the left, take it for three miles. Splash through the potholes and set your teeth against tires juddering across the washboard track. Hit the T of another dirt road. Look for a faint gravel trail at your 10 o’clock. Rattle over the cattle guard. Close the gate behind you.

  Easy to remember. Hard to do with visibility down to zero. Even with the window rolled down and the Beemer’s fog lamps flipped on. Nice car. Leather seats the color of butterscotch taffy. Mahogany inserts flanking the instruments and fronting the gl
ove box. Killer sound system and a cellular phone. Shame to bang this baby along back roads, splashing mud and gravel against its polished flanks of forest green.

  Not his car. Not his problem. Fog and time were. He was already a half hour behind schedule when his contact finally drove up with the car, the briefcase of bills and directions to the meet. Fog was adding more minutes to his travel time. He had to double back when he missed one turnoff and that made him slow and leery of missing another.

  Not good. Not good. Patient people weren’t on the other end. They never were. But they would wait because he had the money, they had the product and both sides wanted this deal closed tonight. And if they were pissed and wanted to wrangle, he could deal with that; a matte-chrome Smith & Wesson Model 6906 with thirteen rounds of 9 mm hollow point nestled in a shoulder rig underneath his black leather jacket.

  Always the chance of a wrangle on a run like this. Rip-offs were a run-of-the-mill business risk, even between long-time associates. But on this deal the probability of gunplay was low. He was just nervous about running late. It wasn’t professional. He thought about using the cellular phone but shook the idea out of his head. Not something a pro would do.

  And not something his people would appreciate. They were security-conscious and worked the high-dollar end of the street. No cowboys. Pros only. Running a well-oiled machine. Not that he knew them well. He was strictly a cutout man, a well-paid delivery boy who made it his business to stay ignorant about those who hired him and their business partners.

  He wasn’t totally in the dark about his paymasters; no prudent pro ever was. But he kept his curiosity in check and his focus on the amount of money he was paid and the demands of the night’s job.

  It was a relaxing way to make a living. A phone rings. A voice on the line gives him the name of a bar or cafe. A man meets him with an envelope and instructions. And he goes where he is told — to deliver money, to pick up a truck or car loaded with product, to put a bullet through the skull of someone he doesn’t know.

  Command and control. Just like the Army and those over-the-border ops in Cambodia. Project Vesuvius. Studies and Observations Group. Words both grandiose and bland to cover what he and his comrades did. Slip over the fence, gather the intel, slit a few throats along the way. Set up the Big Death — from the air and on the ground. Operation Menu. Operation Patio. Operation Freedom Deal. Cambodian Incursion. More bland words for killing the enemy in his safest sanctuaries. Parrot’s Beak. The Fishhook. The Dog’s Face.

  A sputtering string of electronic beeps startled him. The car phone. He glanced down and saw a red pin light flash to the time of the beeps. He pulled the receiver out of its cradle.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “You don’t want me to say.”

  “You’re late and that’s making some people nervous.”

  “Your man was late and this phone call is making me nervous. It’s not very smart.”

  “We decide what’s smart. We pay you to get things done and be on time. How long till you get there?”

  “Ten.”

  “Get there.”

  He snapped the receiver back in place and shook his head. Not good. Not good. Lots of snoopers scanning these cellular circuits. A pro would know this and wouldn’t risk a call unless the other side was making a ruckus. Made him wonder if the players in this game were as big league as he thought they were.

  Those thoughts rode with him as he wheeled the Beemer down the dirt road, looking for the T intersection. There it was. He looked for the gravel trail, slowly turning the car to the left and letting the fog lamps cut a slow sweep across the far side of the road. There. At his ten o’clock. Just like he was told. He stayed alert, but his nagging nervousness and doubts started to fade.

  The trail led from the gate and crossed the field at a sharp angle. He crept along, easing the car through ruts and washouts. He saw the shrouded form of a tin shed and weaved the car so the lights would pan across its open door. The yellow beams caught the wet metal of an old tractor and two men in dark slacks and windbreakers — one tall, bald and lean, the other short, squat and slick-haired.

  He stopped the car, fog lamps still on. He pulled his pistol, letting his gun hand drop to his side and rear as he stepped out, keeping his body behind the car door.

  “Wanna cut the lights, guy?”

  A purring voice from the short guy, coming from a full, sleek face that made him think of a seal.

  “Not really. Let’s keep everything illuminated. Makes me feel safe.”

  “You’re among friends, guy. Nobody wants monkeyshines here. We just do the handoff and the call and we can all get the hell out of this fog. You’re late and we’re cold.”

  “No arguments from me, my man. But let’s do this by the numbers.”

  “Numbers it is, guy.”

  He stepped away from the car.

  “Money’s in the front seat. Have your buddy do the honors.”

  A nod from the talker. His companion walked to the passenger side of the Beemer and leaned in. He heard the latches of the briefcase pop open.

  “Looks good to me.”

  “Make the call. That okay with you, guy?”

  “By all means. Make that call. Tell Mabel to put a pot of coffee on.”

  A laugh from the talker. He could see the other guy reach for the cellular phone. Somewhere across town, a phone would ring. Assurances the money was in hand. Somewhere else another phone would ring. Product would change hands. Then the Beemer’s cellular would ring again and the night’s business would be done.

  He was alert but relaxed, ready to wait, the screw-ups behind him and the deal running smooth and professional now. He had a clear view of the talker and his companion. He had his gun in hand. He was thinking about a cup of coffee when the baseball bat cracked across the back of his skull.

  “Cut those damn lights. Secure the money.”

  A nod from the companion. The talker moved toward the third man, the man with the baseball bat, a hulk with the arms and shoulders of a lineman and the on-the-balls-of-the-feet stance of a third baseman. They stood over the slumped body.

  “Give me a hand with this sumbitch. He’s heavy. Get that gun, Jack.”

  “Got it. Who’d this guy piss off?”

  “Nobody you need to know about, guy. Or me. He’s just a poor soul somebody wants whacked.”

  “Awful lot of trouble just to whack a guy. What the fuck are we stagin’ this thing for, Louis? Why not just pop him and get it over with?”

  “Not your worry, guy. Just muscle him into the driver’s seat and let me dress him up pretty. Bill, did you wipe your prints?”

  “Does it matter?”

  A glare from Louis. The companion shrugged, pulled a bandana from his back pocket and leaned into the Beemer. When done, he hoisted the briefcase and walked back toward the shed.

  Louis kept his eyes locked on the bald man as he walked away, his head swiveling like a table-top fan, his eyes popped with anger. He broke the stare and fussed with the body, pulling the head back, reaching into the mouth, then his pocket, then back into the mouth. Jack watched and shook his head.

  “Bill!”

  “Yo!”

  “Get me that bundle, guy. The jacket and the trench coat. And bring that bag with the stuff in it.”

  “Yo.”

  Bill hustled to the car. Louis patted him on the shoulder, thanking him in that purring voice, his face soft and placid again. He turned back to the body, peeling off the leather jacket and unfastening the shoulder rig. He fished through the pockets, pulling wallet, keys and a checkbook, leaving loose change. He replaced these items with wallet, keys and a checkbook he pulled from a crumpled brown paper bag. He pulled a ring from the right hand and a fake Rolex from the left wrist, digging a wedding band, a class ring and a real Rolex — an Oyster Perpetual Datejust — from the bag.

  The jacket and trench coat came next — a nicely tailored Burberry, pity t
he waste. Louis started to sweat as he pulled and smoothed the clothes onto the body. He unbuttoned the shirt down to the navel, then reached into the bag and pulled out a squeeze bottle, the kind with the thin nozzle that could poke through the bars of a footballer’s facemask. He squeezed water onto the body’s chest then reached under the dash to pop the hood of the Beemer.

  “Jack — hook up those cables, guy.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know it’s unpleasant, but just do it for me, guy.”

  Louis fired up the Beemer’s engine then waited for Jack to hand him the twin clamps. Clamps to the body’s chest. The smell of burning flesh and electrified ozone.

  Again. Again the smell.

  And again. Clamps to Jack. Engine off.

  “Bill. The acid, guy.”

  A glass bottle of sulfuric acid. A small glass tray. Fingers and thumb from one hand in. Then the other hand. He handed the tray to Bill.

  “Careful with that, guy. Dump it.”

  “Yo.”

  Louis turned back to the body. He pursed his lips as he lined up the shoulders, the head and the arms to stage the proper angles of a kill shot.

  The head was the difficult part. Without a helping hand to hold it in place, it rolled about and wouldn’t stay upright. Louis pulled the hips forward then shoved the shoulders deep into the folds of the leather seat, pressing them into place. The head was now resting lightly against the butterscotch leather padding of the headrest.

  That’s how it would line up. He stood up and pulled a snub-nosed Colt Agent in .38 Special from the paper bag with a gloved hand. He eyed the angle for another second then nodded Jack away.