Free Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats by Kent Conwell

on the balcony, I peered in the direction of the coming weather, seeing no lightning yet. I glanced over my shoulder in the direction of the cats.
    From experience, I knew what cats would do. These were no different. With the first roll of thunder, each one would zip into a snug little niche and curl up inside until it was all over. Who says cats aren’t smart?
    The phone rang. It was Henry from the kitchen. “We’re going to have a heavy rain,” he announced. “Be here about midnight.”
    “I know. What about the cats?”
    “Nothing to be concerned about. They’ve been through many. I just wanted you to know if you’re still up and the lights go out, don’t worry. The house has a generator that comes on within a few seconds after power goes out.”
    After hanging up, I pulled out Eddie’s report and booted up my laptop. I had three phone calls to make. If I couldn’t find out what I wanted to know from one of them, then the information just wasn’t there.
    One of the first places I turned for the skinny about the underbelly of Austin was Sixth Street, Austin’s answer to the New Orleans French Quarter, although even the most passionate Austinite would have to admit the street lacks the charm of the quarter. While it lacks the charisma, it can well match the rowdiness and bizarre behavior of the City That Care Forgot.
    The first call I made was to Neon Larry’s, a bar on Sixth Street close to Congress Avenue. It and Wichie’s Last Chance down the street were the only two stable businesses. The others changed owners faster than a politician can switch sides.
    They still sold the same goods—booze, food, and ear-jarring music—but if you wanted to find the lowdown on any locals, Larry, or Chopper at Wichie’s Last Chance, were the most likely to dig it up. My third call, and the one I was really counting on, would be to Danny O’Banion.
    Rumor was that Danny was Austin’s
caporegime
.
    I knew the truth, but I never said a word about it. Danny and I go back to high school, where in the eleventh grade we managed to get into a few scrapes together.
    He dropped out of school, and I ended up an English teacher, then an insurance salesman, and finally a private investigator.
    Later, Danny and I ran into each other at an Oklahoma-UT football game in Dallas. We laughed some, lied a lot, and emptied his silver flask of excellent Scotch.
    From time to time over the years, Danny gave me a few hints on cases I had. I paid him back when I managed to save his bosses a few million and later, his cousin, Bobby Packard, from the needle up in Huntsville.
    Now was one of those days I needed his help.
    I dialed Neon Larry’s first. From experience, I knew every night was chaotic at the bar, so I didn’t start getting restless until the phone rang for the thirtieth time. Just as I started to hang up, Larry answered. He had to shout over the noise in the background. “Yeah.”
    I shouted back. “Larry. It’s me, Tony.”
    “Yeah, yeah.”
    “I need some help.”
    “Yeah, yeah.”
    “Al Guzman, Corky Radison, Willy Morena, and Chippy Alberto. You know them?”
    “Yeah.”
    “You know where they are?”
    “No.”
    “Can you find out?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Call me on my cell. You got the number.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Thanks.”
    “Yeah.”
    I punched off. Old Larry sure knew how to carry a conversation.
    I called Chopper at Wichie’s. Our conversation was just about the same, except he’d seen Al Guzman earlier in the week down near I-35.
    “He still dealing?”
    “What do you think?”
    Then I called Danny. He was out, but I left the information on his voice mail. In addition, I asked him to tell me what he could about William Collins. I gave him Collins’s place of employment, adding that he’d been released from the joint five years ago.
    Hanging up, I glanced at Eddie’s report. On impulse, I decided to run down Collins’s brother and sister.
    The brother, Carl Samuel Collins, lived in Tioga, Texas, a tiny town