She slammed the door behind her. Smitty plopped into his desk chair and smoothed down his greasy comb-over. “Bitch knows I won’t fire her. Her ass is a crowd pleaser.”
Crawford took the chair the woman had vacated. “What I saw of it in those jeans, it looked pretty good.”
“She goes on at ten tonight. You can see all of it then. Drink?”
“No thanks.”
Smitty reached for a bottle of gin on his desk and poured some into a cloudy glass. He shot the drink, then snarled, “Well? What brings ya? I don’t recommend the wings.”
“I saw them.”
“So?”
“Chuck Otterman.”
Smitty froze in the act of pouring a second drink, then carefully returned the bottle to his desk.
Crawford said, “Ah. I see you know him.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
After leaving the courthouse, Crawford had contacted the DPS office and asked a trooper to get him the nuts-and-bolts on Chuck Otterman. The trooper had called him back less than five minutes later with the particulars—date of birth, Social Security and driver’s license numbers, and so forth. Otterman also had a concealed handgun license. His permanent address was in Houston, his temporary address a PO box in Prentiss.
“Email me all that.”
“Already have.”
“What’s he been doing the past thirty years or so?”
“Completed two years of junior college but left without a degree. Seems to have worked every day of his adult life in oil and gas,” the trooper reported. “Probably doesn’t have a carpeted office because he likes the on-site work. Moved around, never staying with one outfit for more than a coupla years.”
“Anything to indicate why?”
“Nothing on the surface.”
That was a curiosity Crawford would check out.
However, Otterman appeared blemish-free. He’d been married once in his twenties, divorced less than two years later, no fuss or muss, no children. He paid his alimony on time, he was current with the IRS. No major debts or liens against him. No arrests.
Crawford asked the trooper a few more questions. Although the answers didn’t raise suspicions, he still smelled a rat. Which is why he’d tracked down Smitty, who was a source of information, the kind that couldn’t be found using computers and search engines.
“Chuck Otterman. What do you know, Smitty?”
“I know that you should do yourself a favor. For once. I’ve seen the news. Yesterday, a hero. Today?” He made a face and waggled his hand. “Not so much. Except for the judge. Now she—”
“Otterman.”
“Crawford, how long have we been friends?”
“We’ve never been friends. Occasionally I pay you for information. I always take a long, hot shower after.”
The club owner slapped the area of his heart. “That hurts, that really does.”
Crawford propped one ankle on his opposite knee and rested his linked fingers on his midriff, settling in. “That young lady with the good ass didn’t seem all that surprised that you had a bootlegger calling on you in the middle of the afternoon. Five minutes, you’re shut down while me and some boys with badges do a thorough investigation of the revenue you bring in off alcohol. Nobody goes on at ten o’clock tonight.”
It was a valid threat. Del Ray Smith’s business wasn’t entirely legit, or even mostly legit. Crawford figured that he kept at least two sets of books, and knew for a fact that Smitty conducted a brisk trade with bootleggers, bookmakers, and pimps.
He had started out in his teens as a petty crook and had progressed to grand larceny before he dropped out of eleventh grade. After being released from his second stint in Huntsville, he’d decided he needed to improve his act.
He scraped up enough money for a down payment on a ratty beer joint on the Prentiss County line. From that he’d grown his business until it now encompassed five nightclubs with dancers that he proudly advertised as “Totally Nude.” Apparently the redundancy escaped him.
Crawford’s threat caused Smitty to pat down his comb-over again. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“True. Your corruption is transparent.”
All innocence, he said, “Corruption?”
“You’re a tax dodger, a facile liar, a moral cesspool. You know, and I know, that you’ll eventually sell out. So let’s cut to the chase, okay? Tell me what you know about Otterman.”
“Better idea. Why don’t you let me treat you to a lap dance, then you go home, go fishing, to the movies, go see your kid. Something. Anything. You don’t want to tangle with Otterman.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll throw in a happy ending to that lap dance. This girl—”
“I’m losing my patience. What do you know about Otterman?”
Smitty raised his hands to shoulder height, palms out. “Nothing.”
“Smitty.”
“Swear to God. His roughnecks are good for my business. Real good for my business. I don’t want you and your nosing around to scare them off.”
“Is Otterman himself a customer?”
“No.”
Crawford looked at him, said nothing.
“Okay, occasionally.”
Crawford didn’t blink.