Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(36)

I’d have to go this one alone.

Was it worth searching for Dimebox?

I looked at the cat. “If he has any brains, he’l be far, far away.”

The cat’s expression told me I’d just answered my own question.

“You’re right,” I said. “He’l be in town.”

I told Robert Johnson to sort the rest of the files for me. Then I grabbed my car keys.

The normal axiom is Follow the money. In the case of Dimebox Ortiz, it’s Follow the poultry.

Dimebox might’ve been a bail jumper hiding from a crazed kil er, but he stil had to place his cockfighting bets. Sooner or later, I knew he would show up at the pits, or with a bookie. I asked around, said I had a couple of grand to spend on the right bird, and within an hour I had a list of places to try.

I found Dimebox back in Southtown at Rosario’s restaurant, about to enjoy a skil et of sizzling fajitas with a particularly oily cockfighting bookie named Travis the Spur. There were various rumors about how Travis had gotten the nickname, none of which involved the local basketbal team.

I came up behind Dimebox, pul ed his arm behind his back, and slammed his head onto his flour tortil a, making sure his face was close enough to the heated skil et so he would catch the pops from the grease.

I told Travis the Spur to cluck off. He was only too delighted to oblige.

Dimebox struggled.

I applied a little more pressure to his arm. “Nothing like a good fajita.”

“Navarre?” He was blinking from the grease, drooling on the tortil a. “Jesus, thank God it’s you.”

“Saved you again, have I?”

“Stirman’s looking for me. He got to Kiko and Lalu—I think . . . shit, he might’ve kil ed them, man. I was just leaving town—”

“You seem to have trouble finding the city limits.”

“Just gonna make a couple more grand for the road. You know. How the hel did you find me?”

“Talk to me about the night Stirman was arrested.”

“What?” He tried to shrug, which was not easy to do in his position. “What’s there to say?”

“Your face needs garnishing, Dimebox. How about some of these?”

I made a lightning grab for the jalape?o bowl, poured them on Dimebox’s face, then reapplied pressure to keep his head against the plate.

“Agghh!” he said. “Jesus!”

The juice started running into his eyes.

I let him struggle.

There wasn’t much of a crowd in the restaurant, this time of afternoon—a few guys drinking margaritas at the bar; a couple of businessmen having a late lunch. They’d been admiring the wraparound view of the corner of Alamo and Presa, but they al stopped watching that and started watching me.

A waiter came over nervously and asked if there was a problem. Did he have to cal the police?

“Everything’s fine!” Dimebox groaned, blinking pepper juice out of his face. “No police! Everything’s cool!”

“Cable company,” I informed the waiter. “He’s three months behind on premium service.”

“Oh.” I could see the waiter’s mind working, trying to remember if he’d paid his cable bil . He left quickly.

“You testified against Stirman at his trial,” I said to Dimebox.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Jesus, Navarre. Lemme up.”

“Gerry Far took over the operation. What was in it for you?”

“Stirman was a maniac. You guys would get along. You think I liked working for a maniac?”

“Not good enough. What does Stirman want from Erainya and Sam? What did they take from him?”

“I don’t know.”

I picked up some pico de gallo and splashed it in his face.

He struggled a little more, spit the tomato chunks out of his mouth. “Jesus, Navarre!”

“You’re looking pretty appetizing, Dimebox,” I said. “I think we’re about ready to pour on this sizzling meat here.”

“No! Look— His wife. Stirman’s wife.”

“What wife?”

“Soledad. She died in the gunfire. One of the PIs shot her. I don’t know which.”

“I heard the woman who died was a prostitute.”

“Yeah, wel —she was more to Stirman. She was . . . you know . . . pretty fine. They kil ed his woman.”

Something in his tone . . .

“That’s what you wanted,” I decided. “You wanted her.”

“No. Hel , no.”

“You figured with Stirman out of the way, you would get his woman. You set him up because you wanted to get laid.”

“No!”

Which meant yes. I cranked up on Dimebox’s arm. He yelped.

A businessman in one of the booths got out his phone. He dialed a short number—three digits. I was pretty sure he wasn’t cal ing directory assistance.

“What else?” I told Dimebox. “Quick.”

“Nothing. Honest.”

“They took something from Stirman. Something he wants back. What is it?”

“Money, maybe. I don’t know.”

“How much money?”

“Hel , I don’t know. The guy used cash for everything. He was leaving the country. I told them that. I said, ‘You get him arrested now, tonight, or he’l be gone.’ But look, I never thought they’d . . . wel , they went overboard. Okay?”