The Right Wrong Number: An Ed Earl Burch Novel Page 2

  Louis eased the pistol barrel into a sagging mouth, eyeing the angle one more time. He pulled the trigger, blinking at the pistol’s flash and sharp report. He dropped the gun to the floor.

  The bullet had blown off the back of the man’s skull, obliterating the pulpy mark of the baseball bat and spraying a dark stain of brains, blood and bone shards across the light-colored leather seats. The impact canted the body across the console and gearshift, head and shoulder jammed between the seats.

  “Jesus, Louis.”

  “What?”

  “Christamighty, it’s one thing to whack a guy up close like that, another to do all that shit with the battery cables and the acid. But to have to fish out his dentures first? They’d have to pay me double to do that.”

  “They are, guy. They are.”

  “Whadja have to do it for?”

  “They were making his gums sore. He needed a new pair.”

  “Like he’ll need ’em where he’s going.”

  “You never know. Blow the car, Jack. We gotta get us back on home, guy. Get us on the outside of some gumbo down to Tujague’s.”

  “I’m for that. A shame though. This is a nice car.”

  “That it is, guy. Blow her just the same. Make it burn pretty.”

  “Lotta noise. Lotta flash. Cops’ll be here like flies on a dead fish.”

  “Do it quick then, guy. So we can be long gone.”

  TWO

  The candlelight flickered across her sweat-slickened skin, highlighting the flush that spread above her heavy breasts and darkened the sharp lines of her face. She pursed her lips and blew a strong puff of breath up toward the plastered strands of unruly black hair that stuck to her forehead, arcing her eyes upward to see if the curls would come unglued.

  They wouldn’t. With a frown of annoyance, she swiped a hand across her eyebrows then flicked her head like a horse fighting bit and rein, sending thick curls flying forward and back — a quick curtain for her face, freeing wet strands from her cheeks, shoulders and neck, then a wild cascade down the middle of her deeply tanned back.

  She reached for the bottle of dry Spanish white, plucking it from debris scattered across the top of a small side table — a string of gold-foil condom packets, a Zippo lighter, a pack of Lucky Strikes, a pack of Virginia Slim Menthol Lights, cartons of Chinese food, a Seiko wristwatch with a band of brushed stainless steel, packets of soy sauce, plum sauce and hot mustard.

  Two fat candles, red and burning, oozed hot wax across the white plastic lid of a pretzel bucket.

  Wine spilled into a ridged juice glass with a green tint, part of a set an old girlfriend bought for him in a Fort Worth thrift store. Some spilled on the floor because she had to stretch across him to reach the bottle and pour; the wine pooled around two spent condoms and a plate of cold pancakes and moo shoo pork.

  Chinese burritos, he called them. Sex food, she said. To go along with the sex candles and the sex sofa — the convertible of sex, she said. Funny girl. And very carnal.

  Red lipstick marked the rim of her glass. She downed a big slug of wine and shook her head back and forth again.

  His left hand cupped the right cheek of her ass, a curve of white between solid bands of brown. He trailed his fingers through the curls of her sex and parted the lips, stroking slowly, watching as she clenched her eyes tight and hissed with pleasure when he hit the right spot.

  She pitched her head back and smiled, eyes still closed, then spun away from him suddenly, pushing his hand and arm away.

  “Uhn-uhn.”

  “Yes-huh.”

  He edged toward her, banging his hip across the bar that arched against the underside of his sofa bed’s thin, sagging mattress. More fingers. Another hiss. Another push.

  “Uhn-uhn, I said. Don’t get me hot again. I have to go home.”

  “What for?”

  “My dog is out.”

  “He does fine in that back yard of yours. Hell, Secretariat would do fine back there.”

  “He’s afraid of the dark. He starts barking. The neighbors call and bitch at me. Really, I have to go home.”

  He forced his chin between her thighs, flicking his tongue out to taste her.

  “We’ll see what you say in a few minutes.”

  A shallow breath of protest punctuated by a hiss. Hands that gripped his hands — long, red nails gouging his palms. Hands that grabbed his wrists. Fingers that tapped a fluttering, spastic beat on his forearms.

  Deep, ragged breaths. Hips moving. Stomach muscles flexing in and out below the hard wings of her rib cage. A sharp cry. A strong push against his head and shoulder. Legs scissored shut. Eyes clenched. Brow furrowed. Teeth over lower lip. Hands lightly slapping the sheets.

  He was on his belly. She sat up, pulling him toward her for a kiss — all teeth and tongue. He felt his neck bones crack. She rolled him onto his back, pushing his shoulders down into the mattress. The springs screeched.

  She rolled a condom onto his cock and straddled him.

  “You made a little animal out of me.”

  Didn’t have to go far, he thought, timing his thrusts to match her downward plunge. Her shadow bucked across the wall. The slap of flesh marked the pace. He heard her name in a long, low growl that crawled from the back of his throat. He lost himself in that hard, fast run up the mountain.

  There was no name in her cries.

  “I’m getting where I’m fond of you, Burch.”

  He was still lost, circuits blown, eyeteeth missing, spiraling down from that fine, white place that pulsed and sparked with a fierce energy burning everything down. Good and bad. For a second. She was resting on her side, a rolled pancake of cold moo shoo pork in her hand. She took a bite, a thin stream of juice spilling onto her chin, caught with two fingers.

  She licked the fingers clean then saw him watching. Eyes locking onto his, she sucked one finger, then the other, then both. She popped them out of her mouth and traced a wet line down the middle of his forehead.

  “Yes — fond, I think. That’s the word. Fond.”

  He grabbed a handful of her curls and pulled her face close to his.

  “You’ll wake me up and tell me when it’s a full-fledged like, won’t you?”

  She pulled away and smiled at him, curls plastered to her forehead. The time for a quick reply passed. She took another bite of Chinese burrito. She shifted gears.

  “You’re a nice guy . . .”

  “Not hardly.”

  “No, I mean it. A niiice guy.”

  Her fingers traced a line from the middle of his chest to his cock.

  “I’ve been divorced too many times to be nice.”

  “No, you’re niiice.”

  “You don’t know me very well, then.”

  She nodded her horse head nod, hair flying back and forth, teeth white and smiling against brown skin.

  “Yesssss. I do. Ree-ally, reeeeally niiiiice.”

  Her fingers circled his hardening cock. He pulled her closer. She turned her face, expecting a kiss. He twisted her hair in his fingers until her eyes snapped open.

  “You know somethin’, Slick? Guys like me hate it when gals like you say we’re ree-ah-lee, ree-ah-lee nah-eye-ce. It usually means you’re taking us for granted or sizing us up for a sucker suit.”

  Her eyes cut him a look of annoyance. She shook herself free and hopped up, walking across him to the foot of the sofa bed and her pile of clothes. He watched her dress, her back turned to him as she slid panties over slim hips, snapping the elastic band straight, then hooking her bra together.

  Jeans, pullover, sandals and purse. Cigarette pack from the table. One to her lip. The flare of a match. A jet of smoke toward the ceiling. Hair falling across his face. A quick kiss. No tongue. Just the taste of tobacco.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Call me when you get home?”

  “For what, a bedtime story?”

  “So I know you’re safe.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

 
; “You won’t let me walk you to your car.”

  “Because it’s silly.”

  “Not in this town.”

  “Please. Not another lecture about the real Dallas, the real city.”

  She cupped a hand to her ear and launched into a mock radio voice.

  “It’s the dark side of a city that only a cop can know. Or a private dick. A place where young damsels can only be protected by bear-like men full of lethal weaponry and Southern hospitality. Or is it Southern macho pride?”

  “Try common sense. You’ll know real quick when you need some macho.”

  “Look, I’ve been living here for fifteen years. Nothing has ever happened . . .”

  Her voice trailed off. He was standing, holding her close, looking down at the top of her curls. He cupped her chin.

  “It only takes once. Call.”

  “C’mon. This is Dallas.”

  He kissed her.

  “Yeah, this is the D, a town where even the preachers have been known to ice their wives. So call, tough guy.”

  “So okay. You’ll call me tomorrow? Let me know if you have to go out of town?”

  Her voice went up a little-girl’s octave on the questions. Cute was also part of her repertoire.

  “You bet.”

  He lit a Lucky and closed the dented Zippo with a sharp and practiced snap. Saloon reflexes. His bartender would be proud. His thumb rubbed the single word one of his ex-wives had etched on the side — Nationwide. As in the old ZZ Top song, not the insurance company. As in their love being nationwide and too badass to die. As in a bold notion that missed the mark on their love and her own life.

  She was dead, killed by a black hit man with a bad toupee and a choirboy’s voice outside the entrance of the world’s sixth-largest bat cave. She was dead because of something he got sucked into. He killed the bastard with a .45 slug to the brainpan. A Flying Ashtray to the forehead, dead center. The Third Eye, big and bloody. He straightened the man’s toupee and left him lying in bat guano. It didn’t even things out. But he was only bothered by bad memories every third or fourth week of his life.

  He blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling and watched as it rippled over the heat waves rising from the candles. He popped the bridge out of his mouth and dropped it in a half-empty glass of wine, his tongue tracing the hole where four teeth were pistol-whipped out of their sockets by a border narco scumbag, now dead. Blown to one of hell’s lower chambers by slugs from the .45 of an ice-cold Tennessee blonde with a taste for muscle cars, crystal meth and the high-wire double-cross.

  Saved his sorry ass from getting his heart carved out of his chest by the scumbag while trussed up like a hog on the butcher’s block. Settled an old score — the scumbag had killed his partner, Wynn Moore, the man who taught him how to be a big-city homicide detective, adding layers of savvy and toughness that backed a shield he could never wear again.

  But it didn’t make up for his ex getting killed. He still carried that weight. Always would.

  Burch leaned back and jetted more smoke across the candles, his back pressed against the curve of the sofa’s rear cushion, its rough nap scratching his bare shoulders and outstretched arm.

  His legs splayed out across the damp sheets. Surgery scars ran up the sides of both knees like a pair of poorly aligned zippers, dull and white against his sunburned legs and the black, wiry hair that covered them.

  Football knees — permanent parting gifts from his playing days in high school and the Army, back when he was a clean-shaven offensive tackle with a full head of hair and twenty-five fewer pounds around his gut. They ached when the weather changed, when he climbed into his truck or up a flight of stairs, when he went jogging. They popped, growled and sent him sharp, warning jabs whenever he did anything particularly strenuous — like try to keep bedroom pace with a woman fifteen years younger.

  On the other hand, the pain made him last longer in the saddle. And it never stopped his cock from standing up and asking for another ride.

  “You fuck like a nineteen-year-old.”

  “Too fast and too soon?”

  “Don’t be stupid. You know what I mean. We just get finished and you’re knocking on my door again.”

  “Part of my clever plan. I never show John Henry my driver’s license and he never asks to borrow my truck.”

  “Where the hell do you come up with these lines? A better question — why the hell am I dating a guy who talks like this? You drive a pickup. You drink that foul bourbon. You listen to country music. And Jesus, you’ve got two first names. The guys I usually date are named Carlos or Giancarlo or Fernando. Sweeping names. Latin names. Names of candles and romance.”

  “Names of sissy Chicano guys with pomaded hair.”

  She slapped at him.

  “No, stupid. Names of grandeur. You need a name like that. Something that conveys your size and style.”

  “How ’bout El Gordo?”

  She slapped him again.

  “You just want to give me a new name to make it easier to remember who I am when all those other guys call.”

  “How could I ever forget you, baby doll? You don’t put grease in your hair.”

  “Damned little hair left to put grease in.”

  She was unreliable, emotionally unavailable and probably unfaithful. In ways little and big, she made him feel like one in a string. It only annoyed him on mornings when he was feeling his age, when he stood before the mirror and checked out his bald pate and the new gray hairs in his beard, when the ruins of failed marriages and broken relationships loomed over his shoulder. Which made it most mornings before he had his coffee.

  On the other hand, she was relentless in the rack and her exotic patter made him feel like he was living in the middle of a Raymond Chandler novel. A conversation with her had him thumbing Luckies onto his lip and talking out of the side of his mouth like a cheap gunsel.

  He hated to think he just kept her around for the sex and the dialogue, but that seemed to be about it. He knew he was too burned out for love. He also knew his annoyance about the other guys wasn’t so much jealousy as it was the nagging knowledge that he used to have a code about such things but no longer did.

  Walkin’ the line used to be important to him. He left one wife who couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Now it didn’t seem to matter. He was hanging around a younger woman who left his mattress for another man’s as often as not. And he was bothered by it not seeming to matter anymore.

  He was obsessing again. He took another sweet drag of Lucky, reaching for the ashtray perched on the sofa’s armrest and grinding out the butt. A muffled ring. He rolled across the mattress, grunting as he leaned over the side and searched for the phone, buried underneath his clothes and a scattering of newspapers and magazines.

  “What took you so long — a quickie at boyfriend’s or did you walk the dog?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He froze. It wasn’t her voice. It was a woman’s voice but not her voice. He felt his face flush.

  “I’m sorry. I thought it was someone else. Can I help you?”

  “This is the AT&T operator. I’ve got a collect call for an Ed Earl Burch. Am I reaching the Burch residence?”

  “I don’t know if this is fancy enough a place to call a residence, but a fella named Burch lives here. Who’s calling?”

  “I have a collect call for an Ed Earl Burch from a Mrs. James Crowell. Will you accept the charges?”

  “I don’t know a Mrs. Crowell.”

  A voice broke in.

  “It’s Crowe, operator. Not Crowell. Crowe. Eddie? Eddie, is that you? Of course it is — I’d know that growl anywhere. I’m glad I caught you at home. Take the call, Big Boy, will you please?”

  His flush of embarrassment was now a chill. She was the only one he ever let call him Eddie. She also called him Big Boy, usually when they were in the rack and the sheets were stained with sweat and sex. She was on his line again and wanted something from him. And that could only mean another dose of
something bad for him.

  The operator broke in.

  “Will you accept the charges, Mr. Burch?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I will. Thank you, operator.”

  A click. Silence.

  “Thanks Eddie. I’m in a phone booth. I know it’s late but I needed to call you.”

  “What is it this time, Savannah?”

  “Oh, my. Such a cynical edge on that question. What makes you think I want anything from you? Maybe I want to do something for you, like toss some business your way. Or maybe this is just an overdue phone call between two old friends.”

  Old friends, he thought. Trouble and pain.

  THREE

  She was married now. Living in Houston. The wife of an attorney and investment advisor who specialized in setting up those cozy oil and gas partnerships that guaranteed a paper loss and a fine tax write-off for attorneys, doctors and other businessmen in the market for some shelter from the IRS. Five years gone from his life and his city.

  The night he met her in Louie’s, his favorite Dallas saloon, she was single, working for an insurance underwriter and muttering drunkenly about credit card debt, scuba diving and a feckless guy named Klaus.

  She was standing next to Burch him at the bar, tall and unsteady, with wild, rusty-blonde curls falling across a broad, Slavic face, chewing on an olive from a vodka martini. She was a big girl, almost six feet tall. Not big-boned, not fat, but not classically proportioned enough to be called statuesque. Rangy and just a few pounds and years beyond coltish. It was as if God had started out making a power forward and decided to throw in some killer curves to keep a man cross-eyed and guessing.

  “That goddam Klaus. You go on down to Cozumel. I mean, you drop ever’ damn thing just to go on down to Cozumel. I mean, can you do that? Nobody can do that just ever’ week in the year, right? Damn right. It’s what I said to him. `Klaus, I just can’t go down there to dive the reefs right now. Too much shit going on at work. Too many damn bills. MasterCarded right up to my damn tits in debt.’ `What is debt when there is love, Leibchen?’ Passes for charm in Munich. Not with me. Then this goddam storm trooper bullshit about me being his woman and doing what he says or he will leave me on the side of the road and find a little schatzie who wants to go to Mexico with him.”