Leann Sweeney - Shoot from the Lip

“I am not your slave,” DeShay said in an angry stage whisper. “You treat me with respect, because for now, I’m the only partner you’ve got.”

“Didn’t mean to rub you the wrong way. I’ll be more sensitive to your needs in our partnership. Sounds to me like you’d rather be partners with your little detective friend.”

A tense silence followed. Then I heard DeShay say, “We’ve got a job to finish.” He came back, reclaimed his chair and picked up the laptop. “Sorry about that.”

White resumed his questions, and the answers hadn’t changed from the last time he’d interviewed Emma and me. They left fifteen minutes later, and DeShay said they’d be in touch with any developments.

“I don’t understand, Abby,” Emma said. “How could my mother not really be my mother?”

“You were her oldest child. Maybe someone left you with her.”

“Who? My father?”

“Listen, I know you’ve had several big surprises today. Let’s wait on the DNA. Then we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“Guess you’re right. I’ll know the truth soon enough,” she said quietly.

I could tell this had hit her like a heavyweight’s punch. What else could happen? We talked a few minutes longer; then I took off and returned home to research Emma’s neighborhood, hoping to use the ideas Jeff had suggested to find anyone who might have known Christine O’Meara back in the nineties.

Diva was happy to have me at the computer, and once we were both comfortable, I tried the Houston City-search Web site, used all sorts of query combinations using Dogpile.com, one of my favorite search engines, and combed the online yellow pages for bars and liquor stores in Emma’s neighborhood. There were plenty of stores and bars, but after a dozen calls I learned that most places had turned over ownership time and time again. No one would remember a woman from ten years ago. I did come away with the names of two places that had kept the same ownership for longer than ten years, one bar and one liquor store. But a short list was better than no list at all. Time to hit the streets.

The liquor store was on Cavalcade, a good distance away from Emma’s house. I decided to try Pedro’s Beer Garden first. Interesting name. Maybe I’ll find Wolfgang’s Cantina around the corner, I thought, as I pulled into the empty lot next door to the bar. There was no parking lot.

Tejano music blared from speakers at the back of the building, where I could see a few rusty wrought-iron tables on a patio. The bar was a run-down shack made of metal sheeting. I noted only a few cars besides my own, or should I say pickup trucks, not cars. Three of them.

Since I was alone in an unfamiliar part of town, I considered sticking my gun in my bag-but bringing a firearm into an establishment that sells liquor is a big no-no, and I do want to keep my PI license. I put on a confident smile and walked through the screen door.

The sunlight was so intense that when I entered the dark interior, I had to pause while my eyes adjusted. The music was even louder inside, but the wonderful smell of cilantro, hot peppers and retried beans more than compensated. It was past one o’clock and I’d skipped lunch. My stomach knew it.

The place had a few mismatched tables and chairs as well as a bar with five stools. I could make out the silhouettes of two men seated there wearing cowboy hats. Both of them were eating, and as I got closer I saw they were also drinking longneck bottles of Dos Equis.

The bartender looked about forty, with dark hair slicked back in a ponytail. He wore a grungy once-white canvas apron. “You lost, señorita?” he said.

I practically had to shout over the music. “No. I’m hoping you can help me.”

The two men who’d been eating lunch switched their attention to me and offered raised eyebrows and smarmy smiles to the bartender. To his credit, he ignored them and offered a welcoming expression.

I had a business card ready and handed it to him. “My name is Abby Rose. I’m investigating the death of a woman who lived in this area in the mid-nineties. She disappeared in 1997 and I’ve learned she was murdered.”

The bartender stepped back. “I don’t know nothing about no murder. I’m a Christian man and run a good place. And I keep it good. No fights. No gangs. No killings.”

I swallowed, a little scared at his sudden switch in temperament. “I’m only trying to find anyone who knew this woman, saw her-anything.” I mustered as much sweetness as I could, still feeling the stares of the two customers. “Can I please show you her picture? Her name was Christine O’Meara.”

The man stared at my card and then back at me. “You’re not no cop? They come in here with the wrong idea every time a new one gets this beat. Who knows? Maybe they’re sending women now.”

“Do I look like a cop?” I set my purse on an empty bar stool, held out my arms and twirled. I was wearing tight jeans and a T-shirt. “I’m not carrying, as you can see.”

That brought a laugh from all three, and the customer with a tattoo of a Bible verse on his bicep said, “Oh, you’re carrying. Just not no weapons.”

I held out my bag. “You want to look inside? You can check my ID. I promise the most dangerous thing in my purse is a Snickers bar.”

More laughter, and the bartender yelled over the music, “Show me this picture.”

While the bartender examined the photo, I decided I might need an eardrum transplant if I stayed in here much longer.

He placed the picture on the bar in front of the customers, shaking his head. “I been here fifteen years and I can count on my fingers how many white women come in here, and that’s with counting you. This lady in the picture, I don’t know her. I never seen her.”

The two customers shook their heads no, too, and returned to their nearly finished lunches of tamales, beans and rice.

“If you’ve been here fifteen years, then you know the area.” I sat at the bar. “Is there anywhere else a woman who, well, enjoyed her liquor might go to spend time around here?”

“Ah. She was una borracha, yes? A drunk?”

I nodded.

“I don’t let that kind stay around my place. But a couple streets over, there used to be an icehouse. People could hang around all day if they wanted. Guess the woman who owned it didn’t care, you know? She was something. Drove a motorcycle to work.”

Thank goodness the current song was a simple Spanish guitar solo and I could hear better. “You said there used to be an icehouse. It’s not there anymore?”

“Closed about five years ago, I’m thinking. Some of those customers-mostly gringos-they tried to come over here. Me and my brother, we had to keep throwing them out. They wanted to stay all day, take up my tables, sneak their own bottle in to fill their glasses after only buying one drink.”

“Do you remember the name of this place?”

“Oh, si. Rhoda’s. It’s not there no more, but maybe somebody on that street knows something.” He wrote directions on the back of my business card and gave it to me.

“Thanks so much-is it Pedro?”

He nodded.

“One more thing,” I said.

“¿Si?”

“Can I get a few tamales to go?”

But Pedro convinced me to stay for lunch. Seemed his mother had just dropped off homemade flour tortillas. They were still hot. Besides enjoying delicious beans and tamales, I spread two tortillas with butter and rolled them up to enjoy with my meal. There is nothing in the world better than a homemade tortilla dripping with butter. Since the key ingredient in a good tortilla is lard, I was glad I’d exercised that morning.

Then I drove several blocks to where the icehouse used to be. The only structure anywhere near where Pedro had told me to look was a strip mall housing a pizza outlet, a dry cleaners, a manicure shop and a place that offered eight-dollar haircuts.