Chapter 12 #3
Blaisdell wielded the orange coal of her cigarette like a pointer, stabbing it in the air toward Johnson. “Hey,” she said. “I heard Watts got a job with an armored car company. Was he … ?”
Johnson shot a glance at Cutter, who nodded.
“He was,” Cutter said.
“Now that’s a damned shame. …”
Cutter took over the questioning. He didn’t want to spend any more time in here than he had to.
“Did you ever see Watts talking with your friend Millner?”
“What do you mean, my friend, Millner? I barely know the guy.”
“Come on, Ms. Blaisdell,” Cutter said. “You visited Vincent Millner at least a dozen times while he was in prison. Lovelady is what, two hundred miles from Fort Worth. That’s a heck of a drive for someone you barely know.”
Blaisdell eyed Cutter while she took a long drag of her cigarette, then leaned back against the bar and blew a jet of smoke toward the ceiling. “Okay,” she said. “I knew Vince. So what? Was he involved in the armored car deal?”
“He was,” Cutter said.
“I mean, aren’t you supposed to say allegedly involved?”
“We’re positive,” Cutter said.
“Damn,” Blaisdell said. She took a long drag from her cigarette.
“The thing about Millner is that he’s always on the verge of hitting it big.
Doesn’t happen very often, but when that guy has money, it’s real money.
Know what I mean? We never really broke up, officially, I just moved on while he was in the joint.
He came by here after that, but we were never an item when he got out.
I do know one thing, though. He won’t go back to prison. He made that very clear.”
“Who else?” Cutter asked.
“Who else?”
“Who else did Millner or Watts associate with when they were here?”
“Hang on now, hon,” Blaisdell said. “Let me ask you something. Is there any money in this? I mean, I’m not a fool.
” She swirled her glowing gin and tonic, tinkling the ice.
“The Star-Telegram says the robbers made off with stolen diamonds. That’s some sexy loot for Parker County crimefighters right there. ”
Johnson’s face fell. “We’re trying to catch some killers here, ma’am,” he said.
She wagged her head, mocking him. “And I’m trying to make a living here, kid.”
Cutter had learned a long time ago not to expect much from people. That way they didn’t let him down.
Johnson barely concealed a sneer. “Did the newspaper mention the robbers blew the heads off the armored car personnel, including your friend Curtis Watts?”
“To tell you the truth, I skimmed the article,” Gloria said. If she was bothered by the young deputy’s disapproval, she didn’t show it. “Surely y’all are offering some kind of reward if I tell you where to look for Millner.”
“We know exactly where to find Vincent Millner,” Johnson said. “He’s not the problem.”
“Gotcha.” She looked at Cutter, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. “But you do want information. How about it?”
“The armored car company’s offering a reward for information that leads to the location of the diamonds.”
“Well, okay, then,” she said. “Just make sure I’m named in your report.”
“You can count on that,” Cutter said.
“Vince came here a lot after he got out of prison,” Blaisdell said. “The last few months he was always with the Man Cub.” She gave a wolf whistle and raised her eyebrows up and down. “The kid has a body like Clint Walker and a face like Wally Cleaver.”
“What’s his name?” Cutter asked. “This Man Cub?”
“He never said.” Blaisdell stubbed out her cigarette in a glass ashtray and tossed back the last of her gin and tonic.
She flicked her bright red nails at the bartender, gesturing toward the empty glass.
Jorge the bartender, a peevish man who spent as much time pushing his eyeglasses back up his nose as he did pouring drinks, scribbled a note in a ledger beside his till and then made her another gin and tonic. No free booze for the help.
“We only ever called him Man Cub,” she continued. “To tell you the truth, he mostly kept to himself—no matter how much the girls and I tried to chat him up. He was different from the others. Fresh.” She gave a leering nod at Johnson. “Like this one. You know what I mean?”
“Think you could describe him to a sketch artist?”
“The Man Cub?” Gloria said. “Absolutely. You’re thinking he helped Vince rob that armored car?”
“Too early to know,” Cutter said. “Mind if I borrow your phone?” He half expected the squinty bartender to charge him, or, at the very least, make a mark in his ledger for the call.
Of course this Man Cub was involved. He was hanging out with Watts and Millner at the same strip club.
Cutter didn’t believe in coincidence. For all he knew, Gloria Blaisdell was part of the conspiracy. He’d work that part out later.
Sheriff’s Deputy Brian Wright was a passable sketch artist, but he was out of state visiting his wife’s family. Cutter called Weatherford PD Dispatch instead. Two minutes later, he hung up and turned to Johnson.
“Horton Granger with the city is on his way to do a sketch. Should be here within the hour.”
Four clean-shaven young men came through the door before Johnson could respond.
They wore civilian clothing, Western and brand-new, like they’d just arrived in Fort Worth and wanted to fit in.
None of them looked a day over twenty-five.
Regulation mustaches that didn’t extend beyond the corners of their mouths immediately identified them as being from nearby Carswell Air Force Base.
Cutter’s house was in the flight path of the B-52 Stratofortress bombers that flew every day out of Carswell as part of Strategic Air Command.
Gloria Blaisdell threw back her drink and then smacked the glass on the bar with a loud clunk, drawing a side-eye from Jorge the bartender.
“I’m on,” she said, nodding at the newcomers.
“These young bloods always come in with a pocket full of bills they are just itchin’ to be rid of.
” She looked at Cutter. “Don’t worry, sweetie.
Even if one of ’em buys a dance, we’ll be done by the time your cop artist gets here. ”
Blaisdell dropped her robe on the barstool, revealing she had on nothing underneath but a metallic red G-string. “Are you sure you don’t want Jorge to fix you up some cheese fries while you wait?”
“We’re fine,” Cutter said.
Blaisdell reached up and thumbed a curl of dark hair out of Deputy Johnson’s forehead, letting her bright red nails trail down his cheek as he stood, hat in hand, stupefied.
Jorge stooped low behind the bar and changed the cassette in the tape player to Dusty Springfield’s breathy rendition of “Son of a Preacher Man.” The airmen and other patrons clapped and catcalled as Gloria Blaisdell—obviously a fan favorite—front rolled onto the stage and did a handstand in front of the metal pole.
Cutter glanced away. Lucy really liked “Son of a Preacher Man.” He didn’t want the image of Gloria Blaisdell’s dimpled ass in his head the next time he heard it.
He leaned over to Johnson and spoke over the music. “Listen to me,” he said. “I told you to keep Blaisdell cooperative, but don’t you ever let anyone get that close to you when you’re on duty.”
Johnson gave a wry chuckle. “Pretty sure she’s not carrying any weapons.”
Cutter turned to look the young deputy dead in the eye. “If you learn nothing else today, learn this: That woman is armed with more shit that’ll get you hurt than any felon you’ll ever slap the cuffs on—naked or not.”
Mouth agape and lost in Gloria Blaisdell’s gyrating dance, Johnson nodded. “I … I can’t argue with you there.”
Weatherford PD Officer Horton Granger arrived at the Show Pony with his pencil case and yellow sketch pad less than half an hour later.
He’d been on duty and came straight there when he got the call.
Though Cutter and Johnson wore badges and firearms, they were in plain clothes.
A uniformed officer darkening the door caused more stir than the earlier brawl between Mitzi and Troy.
Two of the girls slipped out the back, returning moments later after they’d dumped whatever they’d been holding in the pockets of their robes.
The Carswell airmen left a pile of cash on their table and scooted out the front.
In his early thirties, Horton Granger was the kind of cop who smiled benignly when he wrote a speeding ticket, which he seldom did.
He played the guitar at parties and volunteered to sit in the dunk tank in full uniform to raise money for the Pythian Home orphanage during the Parker County fair.
Cutter couldn’t help but wonder how that would work out for the man in the long run.
Gentle souls had a way of getting beaten down in this line of work.
That said, nude dancers and the overwhelming atmosphere of despair in the Show Pony didn’t seem to faze Granger one bit. Maybe he’d be just fine.
“Thank you for coming out so quickly.” Cutter nodded toward the door. “You park your marked unit out front?”
“Didn’t have a choice,” Granger said. “I was all the way out Fort Worth Highway by Punkin Center. Dispatch said you needed me in a hurry. Now I can see why. Think we can get your new guy to stand watch over my car and make sure no one screws with it?”
Johnson glanced up at the PD officer from his perch on the barstool, clearly annoyed at the prospect of having to leave. He’d developed a keen interest in the chubby redhead about his age who was in the process of taking Gloria Blaisdell’s place on stage.
Cutter held up a hand. “Stay put, kid,” he said. “There’s a pay phone outside. I’ll give TexSafe offices a call. We’re already this close to Fort Worth. May as well go talk to Gerald Moffit while we’re here.”
“You sure?” Johnson said, not meaning it.
“I’m sure,” Cutter said. “There’s not enough air in here for all of us.”