The Best Lousy Choice: An Ed Earl Burch Novel by Jim Nesbitt

Author:Jim Nesbitt [Nesbitt, Jim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Hard-Boiled, Private Investigators, Noir, Thrillers, Crime, Action & Adventure
ISBN: 9780998329437
Google: 9RjIDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B07TY91NKL
Publisher: Spotted Mule Press
Published: 2019-07-14T12:00:00+00:00

“Eduardo Lopez — he one of your boys?”

“Yes and no. He does some work for me when I need an extra hand, but he’s kind of a free agent. Does some work for one of Garza’s crews. Does some honest work for Bart and the other ranchers.”

“Know where he’s at?”

“He’s out at Bart’s place workin’ some calves.”

“Find him. Hold him there. Need to talk at the boy.”

“What for?”

“I’ll tell you when I get to Bart’s, Gyp. Just find the boy and keep him under wraps.”

“You bet.”

Burch hung up the pay phone centered in a rectangular metal box bolted to the cinder-block front wall of a tienda on the Mex stretch of Main Street. The wall to the small grocery store was painted an electric lime green that hurt his eyes in spite of the Ray-Bans.

He ducked inside and bought a cold Big Red, a narrow concession to Anglo customers outflanked by bottles of Jarritos, Chaparritos, Penafiel and Sidral Mundet, then walked across Main, dodging traffic, to drop off his dirty clothes at the lavanderia.

He sauntered into the café and bought four breakfast tacos to go, then walked across Main to fire up Ol’ Blue and cut a meandering trail of false starts, random side-street detours and U-turns to check his backtrail before heading out to the Bar Double H.

No tails spotted in the rearview. No suddenly familiar cars or trucks dogging his every move. No nose-dives from a car with a panicky driver surprised by one of his sudden turns. No telltales of parallels and an artful double or triple-team of tails.

He whipped down a side street, rounded a curve and slammed Ol’ Blue into the empty driveway of a house that looked like its owner was at work. He waited for twenty minutes, munching on a breakfast taco and washing it down with slugs of Big Red. Nada y nada. That didn’t ease his mind. Or stop the feeling that unfriendly eyes were on him all the way.

Gut instinct made up his mind. One stop on the outskirts of Faver. One more hip fake. The Cactus Blossom Motel. He parked behind the faded coral and yellow building and asked the clerk for Room 35, the love nest of Bart Hulett’s daughter and the guitar picking husband of Nita Rodriguez Wyatt, checking in as Wynn Moore and paying in cash.

You don’t mind me using your name, do you, partner?

Go right ahead, sport model. I ain’t workin’ it none. Hell, I cain’t — I’m dead.

The metal door to the room was still out of plumb and squealed as it dragged across the concrete walkway, chasing away the voice of Wynn Moore’s ghost. Burch stepped into the room, unsure if he was making an ironic gesture or an act of contrition.

Probably both.

The go-bag was still in the truck. So was the Model 12. He still felt watched by unseen eyes.

Didn’t matter. Burch didn’t plan on sleeping here, either. He fired up Ol’ Blue and pulled out of the motel’s gravel lot, heading

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