Cutting Loose, page 12
When he slept, he dreamed of Rita and of holding her. He kept squeezing―stars exploded in his head―and he came awake bathed in sweat.
“US Embassy. How may I help?”
“Texas Ranger Emmett Capps speaking. Uh―”
“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”
“Maybe I could speak with someone on a police matter.”
“I understand, sir. If you give me a brief notion of what you want, I’ll pass you to the relevant person.”
“Appreciate it. Okay, there’s a particular guy who had plastic surgery down there―”
“Right.”
“We’re looking at him for a certain offence . . . .”
“Has this person actually been convicted of any crime?”
“No, but he’s under suspicion of murder.”
“Sir, give me a moment.”
Some thirty seconds later, a voice said, “Al Ducaine speaking, Security. I hear you have yourself a problem.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Al, please. I read about that thing with Gus Bohlin, Emmett. How can I help?”
“Al, yeah, I’m hoping maybe you can give me a leg up with this case I’m investigating. We have a girl in a 55 gallon drum and we’re looking at a guy called Simeon Appelbaum.”
“My colleague tells me he came down here for plastic surgery.”
“Right. Lot of people go down there, I guess, who just aren’t happy with how they look. Then there’s others―”
“There surely are.”
“Yeah, who have other motives.”
“Um huh.”
“Appelbaum fits into the second category.”
“Other motives.”
“Right. So. The name Simeon Appelbaum is fake. He could have traveled there under his real name, but I’m thinking it’s more likely he used the new identity if he needed to be under cover.”
“Makes sense.”
“If I go the diplomatic route, likely I’m screwed.”
“For sure. Corruption is real bad down here. In any case, that’s not a fruitful way to go.”
“So, uh, I’m thinking other ways of . . . proceeding.”
“We try to keep an eye on who comes here. Flights inbound from the US. Unofficial police contacts. Hotel staff. Scuttlebutt. But if he doesn’t have a sheet . . .”
“Right. He’s completely clean.“
“That makes it harder.”
“The girl in the drum―his prints were found on a document inside.”
“So the connection is solid.”
“It’s solid.”
“Question, then, of finding a way to his true identity. A name, or a photo pre-op.”
“The surgeon in question is Mateo Almanzar.”
“Almanzar, that right? I’ve met him. He works in Belize City but he has an office here, too. It’s a small community in Belmopan at a certain level―professional people and the like. He’s a smooth, affable guy, easy company. In fact, he’s on the embassy hospitality list.”
“It’s a question of getting to him.”
“I can’t see that working. He wouldn’t give anything up.”
“Sure.”
“We don’t have a big operation here in the security way.”
“I get it.”
“But I’ll do what I can. Give me some dates.”
Emmett had been scanning the bank statements from Citizens National in Waco as Duquesne spoke. The account had been closed after three months and among the final listings was a payment by check to the Alhambra Motel. After Ducaine hung up, Emmett looked up the number and called.
It took a while to get a response, then a young, male voice said, “You want Mr. Maurice?”
“Is he the owner?”
“Yeah. The place is closed, as of last week. So, if you want a room―”
“No, give me Maurice.”
“Okay.”
He thought the line had gone dead, but eventually he heard footsteps.
“Yeah? You wanna buy?” The voice was infused with whiskey.
“No, sir.”
“You didn’t see the ad?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, what?”
“Did you have the place nine years ago, sir?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Sir, this is Texas Ranger Emmett Capps.”
“That right? So. . .”
“Do you keep records?”
“You mean like, tax and shit?”
“Sir, I mean guest sign-in books.”
“In the basement.”
“They’re down there?”
“Sure.”
“All of them?”
“I guess. They’re going in a dumpster pretty soon.”
“Sir―do me a big favor. Don’t toss ‘em.”
“Hey, you want them, they’re yours. No use to me.”
“Sir, a colleague of mine will be along to look through them.”
“Make it soon.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Okay.”
“Right now, would you be a nice guy and dig out the one for April ’74?”
“Right now? I’m up to here with packing.”
“I understand, but It’s important, sir.”
“Jesus. Gimme a few minutes.”
“I’ll stay on the line.”
Emmett ate a sandwich at his desk while waiting and washed it down with cold coffee. It was a while before he heard footsteps again.
“Man, the dust down there. Please God, let someone buy this place. Okay . . .”
“Am I gonna be happy?”
“I got the book that covers your time-frame.”
“Great. So, the name I’m looking for is Simeon Appelbaum.”
“Appelbaum.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This will take a while.”
Emmett tossed his plastic coffee cup in the bin and waited.
“Okay,” said Maurice eventually. “April 13, ’74, one night, room 17, Simeon Appelbaum.”
“What’s the address?”
“183 Sepulveda Boulevard, Carson City, Cal.”
“That’s it?”
“Sure.”
“He was alone?”
“Uh huh. Alone.”
That address would produce nothing. There was silence on the line.
“What?”
“Huh? Yeah, I’m looking. It was a quiet time. There were only two guests. And, uh―this is unusual―they were in adjacent rooms.”
“Why is that unusual?”
“I wouldn’t put folks in adjacent rooms if I had a choice. You get people bitching about noise. So, if I can, I spread ’em out.”
“What are you saying?”
“They must have asked for adjacent rooms. Only reason.”
“This is good, sir. Who was in that other room?”
“Uh. . . M. Pruett.”
“What, spelled P,r,u,e,t,t?”
“Right. Address . . . 375 Lafayette Street, Buffalo, New York.”
“That’s it?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, that’s the only book you need to keep. Like I say, we’ll pick it up. Good luck with your sale.”
Emmett checked phone books to see if those addresses were genuine; they were not, which in the case of Pruett was significant. Though the motel was in Waco, there was no guarantee his Pruett came from Texas―he may have been from Alaska for all Emmett knew―but he had to start somewhere. A check of the Texas penal system produced no fewer than seventeen Pruetts in the last fifteen years, a period he felt was long enough. Eight had died and four had not appeared in records for several years. Of those twelve, only one had the initial M, and he had moved to Canada ten years earlier. They would all need to be checked, but it was the remaining five, those still active in crime, who caught Emmett’s attention, and he listed their names.
Joseph Mason Pruett
Martin Carey Pruett
Robert E. Lee Pruett
Jackson Dupree Pruett
Nathan NMI Pruett
It had taken little brainwork to put the two M. Pruetts at the top of the list―Joseph Mason and Martin Carey. Joseph Mason robbed casino one-arm bandits with a lever he inserted through a slit under the fascia and worked, ostensibly, as an air-conditioning fitter; his last-known address was in Pontoloc, northwest of Llano. There were no current arrest warrants for him and he was not actively sought.
Martin Carey Pruett, however, was more available. He was in Eastham Unit, a prison in Lovelady, Houston County, Texas. The warden at Eastham Unit was one Finlay R. Lomas, and Emmett rang his number. A secretary said he would return the call when he was back in the office, and twenty minutes later, he did so.
“So, Ranger Capps, Lois tells me you’re looking at Mack Pruett.”
“Mack?”
“That’s what he goes by.”
“Okay. Says here he’s in for robbing a jewelry store.”
“Yes. He’s pretty versatile. He’s had a crack at a lot else as well.”
“Career scumbag.”
“Exactly.”
“I’d like to talk with him.”
“Anything I need to know about?”
“I’m trying to tie him to a murder suspect.”
“Got it. Come visit whenever you like. He isn’t going anywhere.”
“Friday?”
“Sure.”
Another phone call told Emmett that Joseph Mason, the Pruett with the lever, no longer worked for the central-heating company where he was last gainfully employed, and two hours of research failed to produce an address or phone number. For the present, he was flying under the radar. That would not last: it never does.
FOUR
The Ham was a fearsome place. Emmett, driving through the flatlands around the prison, saw white prisoners working in cotton fields. Guards on horseback, armed with shotguns, unmoving, watched their bent backs. Clyde Barrow had served his first sentence there from 1930 to 1932. In 1979 the Supreme Court had ruled, in Ruiz v Estelle, that conditions at Eastham Unit involved cruel and unusual punishment. Emmett wondered how much had changed.
He braked at the outer gate and showed his ID. The guard in the booth, saying nothing, pressed a switch to let him through, and Emmett saw the central, redbrick building ahead. At the inner gate, he showed his ID again and said to the guard, “I called a few days back. I’m here to talk with Martin ‘Mack’ Pruett.”
“Okay, Ranger, sure, you’re right here on my list. Drive straight ahead and pull into the parking bay for Block D on the right. I’ll call through for someone to meet you.”
When he angle-parked, a guard already standing there courteously raised a hand, and Emmett lowered his window.
“Good afternoon, sir, and welcome. Warden Lomas isn’t present today but he asked me to escort you.”
“Call me Emmett.”
“You bet. I’m Stan. Whyn’t you step out, Emmett, and I’ll take you to Pruett’s section.”
“Okay.”
They walked across a forecourt to a metal door and Stan pressed a buzzer.
“Get you coffee, first?”
“I’m okay.”
“Emmett, it’s a crazy layout here. We got wings with no egress off of the long, central block. Not the best way to plan a prison, but that’s the way it is. Makes it tough to patrol. Pruett . . . Yeah, he’s here in D.”
“What sort of a guy is he, Stan?”
“He’s kinda from the mold. Thinks the world is wrong and he’s right. About everything. Combine that with a mean streak and some basic cunning―that’s Mack, in a nutshell.”
“Does he give you guys grief?”
“He sprayed liquid shit at a guard called Phil.”
“Oh, man.”
“He took a few knocks for that in the Hole.”
“I believe it.”
“You’ll never get into their heads. But if they want trouble, I guess we can accommodate them.”
Emmett left his Smith and Wesson .357 magnum in the sally port and followed Stan down a long, concrete passage echoing with distant voices. Decades of pain seemed to hang in the dead, baking air.
“I’ve put him in a holding cell where we can be close, but he’ll be in floor chains.”
“Is he violent?”
“Yeah, he is. It’s in his nature. Plus, it’s the way to survive in here. Any sign of weakness and you’re turned, you’re a punk. He’s got another four years, if memory serves. Today he’s kinda relaxed because of you. He’s off work-detail.”
“Gets hot in here.”
“Emmett, it’s a damn sauna sometimes. When I get home, I have to take a cold shower.”
Stan stopped and pointed at a cell door.
“I don’t need to say it but I will. Don’t take any shit, any backchat. Just say the word and I’ll be in to apply some persuasion.”
Emmett nodded. “Okay.”
“He’s all yours.”
Mack Pruett, in prison blues, chained, was motionless as Emmett entered. Only his eyes moved and they were as dead as a shark’s. His hair was close-cropped and prison tattoos decorated skin that was tanned by work in the fields.
Emmett showed his badge and said, “My name is Emmett Capps. I’m with the Rangers.”
Pruett gave a slight nod. “So you’re Capps. I read ’bout you.”
“Uh huh. Those stories showed my gentle side.”
“That right?”
Emmett sat on the wood chair and looked straight at him, then leaned back.
“You’re doing hard time, Mack.”
“Believe I’m aware of it.”
“Field work. Man.”
“One thing, I got strength you never get in a gym.”
“Tell me, Mack. That accent. You’re a local boy but there’s a hint of something else. You spent time down by Corpus Christi?”
A shoulder moved. “Mebbe.”
“I’ve caught a sailfish or two off of Padre Island.”
“Yeah?”
“You smoke?”
“Does the Pope shit in the woods?”
Emmett took out a pack of Marlboroughs and knocked one upward so Pruett could reach it with his shackled hands, then flicked a lighter.
“Phil gave you grief?”
“Phil is an asshole. Yeah, I gave him the cocktail. He stunk for weeks. It’s like skunk spray. Takes a lot of washing out.”
“Some guards, they don’t have a lot in their lives but they figure, at least they’re better than a con.”
“That’s right. “
Emmett eased his collar.
“You get used to it. The heat,” said Pruett.
“I guess.”
Pruett sucked in the smoke. “I see how you’re setting yourself up here, Emmett. You’re a cop but you see both sides of the story.”
“Is that a good approach?”
“I’ve seen a lot worse, and that’s God’s own truth.”
Emmett pushed the pack across the table between them, and Pruett dropped it down his shirt.
“Did ole Stanley offer to put some dents in my skull?”
“Yes, he did. But I’m guessing it won’t come to that.”
“The dings I’ve taken, one more won’t mean nothing. Phil? The asshole? There was a guy in here, Joey, he lost a leg. Cotton baler bust, sharp metal edge caught him. Then he got gangrene in the stump. They wouldn’t get him a doctor. Phil let him die in the night. We heard it happen. The sounds he made. Till they stopped.”
Pruett was making the cigarette last. “So Phil got off light, way I see it.”
“I’m gonna mention some names . . .”
“Relax, Emmett. Don’t be in such a hurry. Kick back.”
“Okay.”
“You know the shit that happens in a place like this, I’m guessing.”
“There’s nothing you can tell me I don’t know already.”
“Uh huh.”
Pruett let out a fine film of smoke.
“Yeah. Gets like life is a shitpile and no one’s better than anyone else.”
“Sure.”
“Everyone gets twisted out of shape. You watch the Orioles beat the Phillies, Emmett?”
“Sure.”
“Man!”
“You an Orioles fan?”
“Not so much. But that little guy, Lenn Sakata . . .”
“He hit a good one.”
“I was in the Hole. Just heard ’bout it. I’ve followed him through the season. I was pissed not to see it.”
“Walk-off home run in the bottom of the tenth.”
“That’s right.”
“Whatever you did to get in the Hole, it should have waited till after the game.”
“You’re right, Emmett. But when you need to do it, you do it. Else they think you’re wearing panties.”
“Right.”
“Yeah, I’ve caught sailfish down there, east from Padre Island. And marlin. Man, they can move. Like, 50 mph. I got one, not the heaviest one I’ve ever had on a hook, but he fought me for two hours.”
“Fighting spirit.”
“For sure.”
“They got a hook in you, now, Mack.”
“Yeah, they do. But they ain’t landed me.”
Pruett’s cigarette was down to a stub. Emmett always took a couple of packs with him into a jail, and now he opened the other one. He knew Pruett wanted to save the pack he had. Pruett pinched the end of the stub, put it in a pocket, and took the second cigarette.
“Okay, Emmett. Now we can get to the meat and potatoes.”
“Tell me about Simeon Appelbaum.”
Pruett’s dead eyes flicked at Emmett.
“Appelbaum.”
“Right.”
“What am I supposed to know about him?”
“The two of you were close.”
“Uh huh.”
“When did you meet?”
“Let me think . . . .”
He waited.
Emmett said, “We’re not looking at you, Mack. It’s him. Appelbaum. Point of fact, if you’ve got something, it could help you. But listen, don’t blow smoke up my ass.”
“I wouldn’t do a thing like that, Emmett. So, yeah, Jew guy, Appelbaum. Bells getting rung. What are you looking for?”
“Forget what you think I want, Mack. Give me something so I know I’m not spinning my wheels.”
