Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 01 - Galveston Read Free Page B

a tall, corpulent Italian in a white, three-piece suit with which his large, black eyes contrasted sharply. I saw instantly the source of his sobriquet, ‘Mustache’. It was not a compliment. The mustache was thin, almost miniscule, out of place on the broad expanse of shiny flesh between his nose and upper lip.
    Given his height and girth, a full-bodied, barbershop handlebar would have been much more appropriate.
    No, the nickname was definitely not a compliment.
    I wondered if he was smart enough to figure it out. Even if he weren’t, I knew no one dared use the moniker in front of him.
    But, to be honest, ‘Mustache Pete’ Abbandando was a convivial host.
    He crossed the expansive room and extended his hand. “Ah, Mister Boudreaux. Thank you for coming.” He gestured to a bar at the end of the room. “I have coffee, cappuccino, or your choice of drinks.”
    I eyed the generous assortment of alcohol on the shelves behind the bar wistfully. Before I could give myself time to reconsider, I replied. “Coffee’s fine.”
    He led me to a table in front of a wide expanse of windows. The table was expensively appointed with a linen cloth, China glassware, and silver urns.
    “Good view,” I replied, sliding into the chair he indicated.
    He waved a single finger and a thin waiter with the sharp features and cold eyes of a hatchet man magically appeared.
    “Word is, Tony—-Can I call you Tony?” He asked as he slid into the chair across the table from me.
    “Sure.”
    “Good.” He smiled broadly. “Call me Pete. Now, the word is, Tony, that last night after the last cement truck dumped his load, you shot and killed Frank Cheshire.”
    I studied him warily, hoping he wasn’t measuring me for a cement jacket. “Was he important to you?” I sipped the coffee. Hot and rich, but without that extra wallop of Louisiana coffee.
    He grew thoughtful, lowering his gaze to the coffee, which he was slowly stirring with a silver spoon. His heavy jowls sagged toward the cup, and his fat lips glistened in the reflection of the sun through the windows. His mustache reminded me of a single pencil mark on a sheet of typing paper. 
    Keeping his eyes fixed on the coffee, he shook his head. “You have nothing to fear from me, Tony. The truth is, I’m looking for one of my own men. My cousin, Albert Vaster. He is the son of my mother’s third brother. He is a good boy, but he is missing. I think he might have been, for reasons that are unimportant to you, following Frank Cheshire. Since you were the last to see Cheshire alive, I thought perhaps you might have seen Albert. My men have searched the island for little Albert. He is nowhere to be found.” He handed me a snapshot. “That was taken two months ago at his mother’s birthday. He dances there with his mother.”
    I studied the picture. Little Albert Vaster was a handsome young man, around six feet or so and a thirty-something. I shook my head. “Sorry, Pete. I’m new in town. All I can tell you is about the restaurant last night and the docks later. If this man was there, I didn’t see him.”
    Pete sipped his coffee, his eyebrows drooping like an injured pup. “Tell me about the shooting if you don’t mind.”
    “Sure. Not much to tell. Cheshire shot my friend four times, then tried me. I got him instead.” I shrugged. “And that’s all it was.”
    “Why would he do this?”
    “Beats me.” I shook my head. “We were just walking along and then, there he was.”
    “You didn’t see the one running away?”
    “Nope.”
    ‘Mustache Pete’ stared out the window. He pursed his lips. He drew a deep breath and looked around at me. Finally, he said. “Frank Cheshire was dirty, Tony. Dirty as a cop can get. I think … no, I truly believe he killed my Albert. Maybe last night.” He turned his eyes back on the window.
    I leaned back in my chair, wondering why Pete had revealed his suspicions to me, a stranger.
    He continued. “The truth is Albert had the idea