Six Crime Stories by David Grace

Author:David Grace [Grace, David]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: David Grace
Published: 2016-03-04T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

“That was the last I saw of him,” I told Bubba. “What happened?”

“We found your name and address on a slip of paper on the front seat of his car,” Palo told me. “Somebody shot the shit out of him.”

“Where? Was it down on Kansas, near Euclid?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“That’s where the Nun’s Shrine is. I told him he couldn’t go there.”

“That’s Vaqueros’ territory, isn’t it?” Palo asked, but he knew that it was. “Bad enough he was driving a red car, but wearing a red shirt too - those are Diablo colors,” Bubba muttered, shaking his head. “Some Vaquero’s going to be bragging tonight about capping him. Probably’s already notched his gun, for all the good it’ll do us. Okay, thanks, Albert,” Bubba said, closing his notebook and turning back to his car. “I guess that’s all we need.”

I watched Bubba and Palo head for their black-and-white, looked up at the three slugs buried in the Plexiglas wall behind me, and then followed them back to their car.

“Wait up a minute,” I called just as Palo was closing the passenger door. “Did you find a tape recorder in his car?”

“Whatever was in that car’s evidence. Then it goes to the next of kin, Albert. You know that.” Bubba started to pull the lever down into gear.

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want the recorder, just the tape.” Bubba and Palo sat there and stared at me. “Look, he was a writer. That was his last story. Somebody ought to write it. I just want the tape, whatever he dictated before they killed him.”

“You’re a writer now? I thought you were a painter.”

“He shouldn’t have died for nothing. It’s a damn fifty cent tape! Who cares about it except me?” Bubba and Palo looked at each other. “You’re never gonna do anything to the guys who murdered him. The least you can do for Hawkins is to let me find someone to tell his story!”

Bubba didn’t say anything, just sat there, then exhaled a long frustrated sigh and nodded to his partner. Palo tilted his head, gave a little nod back and opened the trunk. He fumbled inside for a few seconds then looked at me across the car’s roof and tossed me a micro cassette.

“We can’t help you out, Albert,” Palo said, giving me a hard look. “We don’t know anything about a tape. The recorder we found in his car was empty when we got there.”

“Yeah, I understand. If there was a tape, somebody must have taken it before you got there,” I agreed. Palo got back inside the car.

“You take care of yourself, Albert,” Bubba called to me as he drove out of the LCG.

The next day I called the Jet Stream Magazine office and after about five minutes of getting switched around I found Tim Hastings’ friend. I don’t know if Hastings was a good writer or not, whether or not he would have ever gotten the story published if he hadn’t been killed for wearing a red shirt in a neighborhood where the approved color was blue.

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