Free Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 09 - The Crystal Skull Murders by Kent Conwell

hollow-eyed carryover from the decade of Flower Children. His gray ponytail hung down to his waist.
    By noon, we had canvassed seven pawnshops throughout downtown Austin. Street denizens hocking whatever
they could find, hustle, or steal, frequented all of them.
Unfortunately, none had paid out the princely sum of
$50.00 to any street bum. “Yeah,” one owner drawled.
“It’s usually five, sometimes ten bucks for a watch or
whatever. But believe me, if I forked out fifty bucks to a
wino, I’d remember. I’d probably call the cops right off”
    We grabbed a fast lunch at La Casa on Congress Avenue overlooking the Colorado River. The broad, green river, some hundred feet below, is a spectacular sight,
steeped in history. Patches of live oaks dot the rugged
white limestone banks sloping down the water’s edge.
As I downed the last bite of chicken fajitas, my cell
rang. It was Chief Pachuca. “I’ll save you a trip to the
fire marshal, Boudreaux,” he said. “They found traces
of gasoline.”

    “Does that help us?” Doreen asked after I told her of
the conversation. “Buck had a container of gas in his
backroom. I checked”
    I grinned. “I figured you would. But don’t forget, he
also has a generator, which is probably powered by
gas” I pushed back from the table. “For all we know,
Getdown might have stored gasoline in his backroom”
    By 2:00, we had four pawnshops left, all on Congress Avenue south of the river. The first one at which
we stopped was Bernie’s Pawn, the corner business of a
strip mall perched on a bluff overlooking the Colorado
River. Bars covered the exterior windows. Inside, the
office window, also protected by iron bars, opened into
the room.
    From behind the window, an overweight woman with
sagging jowls, graying hair, and a cigarette dangling
from her lips eyed us suspiciously when we entered. I
led the way to the window. “Morning. Bernie around?”
    Her lips curled. A couple expletives rolled off her
lips, and then she added, “Bernie’s dead. Six years
now.”

    I shrugged. “You the owner?”
    “You a cop?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Then I’m the owner, Mrs. Bernie. Bernie was my
husband” She squinted through the cigarette smoke at
us, probably trying to guess what we were going to
pawn. “What in the h-” She hesitated, glanced at
Doreen, then apologized. “Sorry. Profanity is a bad
habit, but it comes in handy. Kinda like a universal language for some of them I get in here. Now, what can I
do for you?”
    I showed her my identification and explained, “We’re
working on a case up on Sixth Street. We were told that
a couple weeks back, a wino pawned some object for
fifty dollars”
    Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What was it?”
    My hopes soared. At each previous pawnshop, the
response to that remark had been a resounding “no,”
not “what was it?”
    I gave her my little-boy-lost smile. “That’s what
we’re trying to find out.”
    She arched an eyebrow, uttered a couple obscenities
and said, “He might have, but he’s got a month to redeem it.”
    Doreen glanced at me, an eyebrow raised at Mrs.
Bernie’s rough language.
    My pulse speeded up, but I tried to keep the excitement from my voice. “Can you tell me what it was?”

    Eyeing me narrowly, she replied. “I don’t see what
harm it can do. It was a glass skull.”
    Doreen and I exchanged puzzled looks. “A glass
skull?”
    Mrs. Bernie tapped her forehead. “Yeah. A skull. A
glass skull.”
    Doreen spoke up. “Do you think it would be possible
to see it? I’ve never seen a glass skull.”
    Mrs. Bernie paused and cocked her head to the side.
She spoke with her cigarette between her lips. “What is
it about that skull? It something special?”
    Doreen and I exchanged puzzled looks once again.
“What do you mean?”
    She eyed me shrewdly. “You’re the second guy today
who’s come in and asked it about it. I’d figured on doubling my money