With his left hand, Tony traced a circle on her bare shoulder. “Maybe I can help.”
“I’m thinking about leaving town,” she said.
He pulled his hand back. “Where you going?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know that either.”
“You don’t know much, do you?”
Jenny swallowed her first response, then said, “I know I’m going to need money.”
Tony swirled a finger in his glass, then took a sip. “Why are you telling me?”
“You still looking for Ray?”
“You mean your old boyfriend?”
She shook her head and took another gulp of whiskey.
“You know where he is?” Tony asked.
“I’ve got a friend, and she knows where he is.”
From the inside pocket of his suit coat, Tony pulled out a cell phone. He held it out to Jenny. “Call her.”
She made a show of looking at her watch. “She’s not home.”
“How do you know she’s not home?”
“She’s a nurse. She works two to ten in the emergency room at Touro Hospital.”
Tony put the phone back in his pocket, then knocked back the rest of his drink. As he stood up, he took a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote a phone number on a napkin. He handed the napkin to Jenny. “Call me when you get in touch with her.”
Tony probably wasn’t going home, but Jenny couldn’t be sure. Ray hadn’t had his hour. They’d planned everything to start at nine. She swallowed hard and put a hand on Tony’s arm. It felt like touching a snake. “How much do I get?”
“We’ll see.”
He started to turn away from the bar, but she held his arm. “Do you have to leave? My friend will be home in an hour.”
Tony even smiled like a snake. “What are we going to do for an hour?”
Jenny’s stomach turned, but she forced an inviting smile on her face. “Can you get us a room?”
Ray drove Jenny’s Firebird around the cul-de-sac. Tony’s Lincoln was gone, and so was Priscilla’s Jag. The clock in the dash showed 9:05. If Charlie had been right, Mrs. Zello didn’t spend many nights at home. Ray needed to get the Smith amp; Wesson, then somehow get to Carlos Messina and plead his case directly to the Old Man.
He parked a couple blocks away and walked toward Tony’s house. Just a neighborhood guy out for a stroll. A sign in front of the Zello house warned that it was monitored by an alarm system. A lot of people used the signs as bluffs. Tony’s house might be wired, it might not, but even if it was, the garage probably wasn’t. Ray would still have to check, though. More time wasted. He crouched in the darkness on the side of the garage and studied the window for electrical contacts. When he was pretty sure the window wasn’t wired, he knocked out a pane of glass and sat down to wait.
He gave it fifteen minutes. If the garage was rigged, or if a neighbor had heard the glass break, the cops would show up within that time. When no police arrived, Ray reached through the broken window and unlocked it. He pushed it open and climbed through. Using a mini-LED flashlight he crossed the dark garage.
There were six drawers built into the lacquered wooden workbench, two rows of three, one on top of the other. All the drawers were filled with junk. Ray found playing cards, pieces of wire, loose tools, a long roll of coaxial cable…
Tony must be stealing cable from his neighbor just like me.
But no gun.
Ray swept the rest of the garage with his flashlight. The gun wasn’t lying on the coffee table or on the cabinet beside the TV. He checked the sofa, digging under the cushions. He searched everywhere a pistol could fit.
Nothing.
Ray glanced at the glowing numbers on his watch.
9:30 PM.
Mounted on the wall next to the door that led from the garage to the laundry room was the control panel for the alarm system. The digital display said READY, and the red light under the word ARMED was off. Alarms can’t protect your house if you don’t set them. Ray had to get that gun. To do that he had to get inside Tony’s house.
The metal door was hollow and carried a builder-grade lock. Sixty seconds’ work with a heavy screwdriver scavenged from the workbench and Ray was inside. The alarm stayed silent. No beeps, no warning sirens. So far so good.
A couple of lights were on inside the house, but the master bedroom was dark. Using his flashlight, Ray started with the dresser. He searched all the drawers but didn’t find what he was looking for. Next, he checked the bed. He ran his hands under the pillows, looked beneath the frame, then felt between the mattress and box spring. Nothing.
The closet was a walk-in with clothes hanging on each side and wooden shelves on the back wall. One side was crammed with men’s suits hanging from a high rod. From a lower rod hung pants and sport coats. On the floor were a half dozen pairs of shoes, mostly high-glossed leather loafers, arranged in a neat row.
On the other side of the closet was a single rod packed with dresses, under which had been tossed at least fifteen pairs of women’s shoes, all different types-high heels, pumps, flats, mule backs, even a pair of red stiletto heels with straps.
A system, Ray knew from experience, was the key to a good search. He would work from the bottom up. On his knees, he reached into the space behind Tony’s neatly arranged shoes. Close to the back corner his fingers pushed against something soft. Reaching farther, he felt a strap. He got his fingers around it and pulled.
It was a worn leather bag, two feet long with a zipper running its length. There were two rounded handles, and a shoulder strap hooked to a couple of D-rings on either end. The bag was a bit fancy for the gym, more like an overnight bag. A laminated luggage tag hanging from one of the D-rings identified the owner as Tony Zello and listed his home address and telephone number. In the event of loss, the tag promised an unspecified reward if it was returned to its owner.
Whatever was inside the bag was very heavy. Ray tugged open the zipper. Inside was money, lots of money. All loose cash. No banded stacks, no rubber bands. Nothing but a bag of assorted bills, everything from hundreds to singles. Loose bills like that would take all night to count, but Ray figured he already knew how much it was. Somewhere in the neighborhood of $300,000.
The Rising Sun’s $300,000.
As stunned as Ray was about the money, it wasn’t what he was looking for. So he kept searching. He found the gun on the high shelf over Tony’s suits. Ray tossed it in the bag on top of the cash and pulled the zipper closed.
Leaving the bedroom, Ray’s flashlight swept across the dresser and something shined back. It was Tony Zello’s “Z” lighter, the gold Zippo his wife had given him. The lighter that would have made Elvis proud.
Seeing it lying there reminded Ray how much he needed a cigarette. He patted the pockets of his pants and realized he had left his matches in Jenny’s hotel room. He slipped Tony’s lighter into his pocket.
Jenny Porter felt like shit. As she lay in the bed, alone in a room at the Monteleone, the tears started to come. For almost two full days she had been feeling pretty good about herself. Helping Ray made her feel good, quitting the House made her feel great, but sleeping with Tony Zello knocked her back to the way she usually felt-like shit.
At ten o’clock, after Tony finished fucking her, he told her to call her friend the nurse. Jenny picked up the hotel phone and dialed the number of her own apartment. She didn’t have a machine, so she let it ring. She told Tony her friend wasn’t answering.
Tony hung around for another fifteen minutes, making Jenny call three more times, but he finally got tired of it. “You have my number,” he said, pointing to the cocktail napkin lying on the dresser next to Jenny’s purse. “Call me as soon as you get in touch with her.”
Jenny said she would.
Tony opened the door and stepped out. He paused in the doorway and looked back. “You need to be out of the room in a half hour,” he said. Then he blew her a kiss. “I had a good time. Guess I’ll see you around.”
> As soon as Tony closed the door, Jenny ran into the bathroom and threw up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jenny’s words hit Ray like a punch in the gut.
He had to take a deep breath before he could speak. When he did, he heard his voice shaking. “You did what?”
Not that he wanted her to repeat the story. He had heard it quite clearly the first time. She had fucked Tony Zello-again.
In their hotel room, Jenny stood at the sink and looked at Ray through the mirror, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t repeat the story. Saying it out loud just once was bad enough. But she did try to justify her actions. “He was leaving,” she said. “It was only nine fifteen and you said you needed an hour.”
Ray stood across the room by the door. “So you decided to hop in the sack with him.”
She pounded her small fists on the edge of the sink as she leaned closer to the mirror, like she was leaning closer to him, coming nose to nose with his reflected image. “I had to do something,” she screamed. “He was walking away!”
Ray was over the shock, but the hurt was starting to set in. He needed to focus on something positive, like anger. What he wanted to do was hurt her back, not physically-he would never do that-but emotionally, like she had done to him. He locked eyes with her in the mirror. “Once a whore, always a whore, is that it?”
She looked away, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.
Just like last time, Ray thought. As soon as he left her alone she was screwing somebody else. Last time he left for five years, but this time, two fucking hours, and she does the same thing. With the same guy!
Ray bent over and picked up Tony’s leather bag from the floor. When he stood up, he felt dizzy. He must be hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Forget about Jenny Porter, he told himself. There were plenty of other things to worry about besides her.
The bag felt like it weighed a ton.
Ray pulled Jenny’s keys out of his pocket and tossed them on the bed. He did the same thing with the room key. They stared at each other’s reflections in the bathroom mirror for a few seconds longer. Finally, Ray broke it off. He opened the door and walked out, slamming it shut behind him.
The cab dropped Ray off at a seafood restaurant a quarter mile from his apartment.
It was midnight.
At the far side of West End Boulevard, on the edge of Lake Pontchartrain, sat a parking lot ringed by boarded-up bars and out-of-business restaurants. Once a hot spot on the lakefront, it was now nothing but a ghost town. Only one restaurant was still in business, but it closed every night at ten, so even the cleanup crew was gone. Ray stuffed Tony’s bag beneath the Dumpster behind the restaurant. If Tony or some of his goons were waiting for him inside his apartment, he would need something to bargain with. Maybe he could trade the money for his life.
Hiding in the shadows thrown by the streetlights, Ray eased across West End Park and took a seat at a picnic table across from his apartment. His Mustang was still parked at the curb. He needed that car. So he waited and he watched. After half an hour he was pretty sure no one else was watching his apartment or his car.
He went in the way he had last gone out, through the back window. His landlord had taped a sheet of plastic over the window and picked up most of the broken glass. Ray peeled back one corner of the plastic and slipped through.
Inside the apartment he didn’t waste any time. It was possible someone really good was watching, someone he hadn’t spotted. A couple of hard-asses could be creeping up the steps right now. Ray needed to leave. His car keys were on the floor, just where he had dropped them. Ray stuffed them into his pocket and climbed back out the window.
In the old days, back when Ray was with Vice, he knew he wouldn’t have given it a thought. If he had somehow managed to get his hands on three hundred grand, there would not have been any question what he would have done. He would have packed his shit and left, left his job, left town, left the state. Florida maybe. Get a job on the beach renting out Jet Skis, or open a bar.
Now he was too scared to run. Having the money was more dangerous than not having it, because whoever had it would be the one to catch the blame for ripping off the House and killing Pete Messina. And now Ray had the money.
Tony, that motherfucker. It was all starting to come together, like looking at one of those pictures you had to stare at for ten minutes before you could see the image. Ray had been staring at this picture for a long time, and he was finally seeing it. Hector asking him to cover the front door, something the kid had never done before. Using guys Ray had arrested as part of the robbery crew. Tony blowing a couple of holes in Hector. Dylan Sylvester’s story about the inside man. The rest of the crew-Scooby, Wop, Eddie-all dead. None of it was a coincidence. Now he understood. It was all part of the plan for him to take the fall.
After fleeing his apartment for a second time, Ray had checked into a dump on Chef Menteur Highway. At two o’clock in the morning, he lay in bed in the dark, smoking a cigarette and staring at Tony Zello’s “Z” lighter glinting in his hand.
For a second he had considered the possibility that the money he had found in Tony’s closet was from something else-bookmaking, loan-sharking, his daughter selling Girl Scout cookies. Except Tony didn’t have a daughter, Girl Scout or otherwise. Ray knew exactly where the money had come from. Loose bills, every denomination from ones to hundreds, just like in the counting room at the House.
This was a shit sandwich, and Ray had just taken a big bite.
The question he had been going over in his mind since checking into the room was what to do with the cash. He could take the money and run, just like that old song said. Then he could spend the rest of his life running, always looking over his shoulder. The Messina family had a long reach. Or he could give it back.
Why not? He had done what they asked him to do. He had found the stickup crew, two members at least, even killed one of them. He had identified Tony Zello as the inside man. He had even recovered the money. If life were fair, he would get a pat on the back and a reward for a job well done. But life wasn’t fair and Ray knew it.
What the fuck was Tony thinking? Anyone else Ray could understand. Robbing the House was full of risk, but three hundred large was a lot of money. But Tony was a made man on his way up, and made men didn’t rob the family. And what about Vinnie insisting that Ray find the people who murdered his son? How did that fit with Tony setting up this whole job? Unless they were in it together. But what about Pete getting his face blown off? Whose idea was that?
Ray had a lot of questions but few answers. One thing he was pretty sure about was Hector. He was the bait, the goat tied to the stake, waiting for the tiger. Give Hector a few bucks, tell him to take a break at three o’clock and to make sure Ray covered the door for him. Hector didn’t need to know any more than that, certainly not that a robbery was about to go down.
Once the robbery happened, Hector must have gotten scared and hid out after realizing he had been used, that he was expendable. Turns out Hector had been a lot sharper than Ray. The pimply faced kid had seen it coming and had tried to get away.
All that money. Tony Zello was going to go nuts once he discovered it was missing. He probably already had. Ray hoped Jenny stayed at the hotel. If she went back home and Tony even suspected she had helped Ray, he would kill her for sure.
There was only one way out of this jam, and that was to turn over the money. The only person Ray was sure wasn’t involved was Old Man Carlos. But without going through Tony or Vinnie, something Ray obviously couldn’t do, he would never be allowed to see the Old Man. Then again, maybe he didn’t need to be allowed.
Charlie Rabbit’s words came back to him, Once a week he gets dressed up and drives himself out there. No driver, no guards. He doesn’t want anybody else around.
Two more days until Carlos’s date night.
They were probably the longest two days of Ray’s life. Even longer than his first two days in prison.
>
It rained the entire time, so he stayed in his room drinking Jameson, smoking Lucky Strikes, and watching TV. He couldn’t keep Jenny out of his thoughts. In prison there had been distractions. Just trying to stay alive had kept him busy. As he waited for the days to tick by, Ray found himself calling room service and asking questions about the menu just so he could hear another live voice. He got so bored he was actually glad he had to go see his parole officer.
He put his Mustang in a pay lot on Poydras, just down from the federal building. The bag with the money and the Smith amp; Wesson were in the trunk. Like always, the meeting with his parole officer was short, less than half an hour.
“You still working, Raymond?”
“I go by Ray.”
“Well, Ray, are you still working?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any contact with the police since our last meeting?”
“No, sir.”
“Been associating with any known felons?”
“No, sir.”
After the meeting, in the lobby downstairs, Ray nodded to the guard as he passed through the security checkpoint. There was a covered breezeway between the federal office complex and the federal courthouse. The break area set up in the middle of the breezeway had a couple of cement benches, some concrete planters, and a decorative cigarette butt can half-filled with sand.
Ray stepped out of the office building and was cutting through the breezeway when he came face-to-face with Detective Carl Landry. Aside from Tony Zello, Landry was probably the last person on earth Ray wanted to see.
“What are you doing here?” Landry asked.
“It’s a public building,” Ray said. “I’m sightseeing.”
The cop smiled. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He jerked his thumb toward the courthouse. “I just booked a fugitive, wanted for two counts of bank robbery. He’s a scumbag thief, maybe you know him?”
“I got nothing to say to you, Carl.” Ray tried to shoulder past the detective, but Landry’s elbow bumped him in the solar plexus. Not very hard, nothing anyone would notice, but Ray wasn’t ready for it, and it knocked the wind out of him.
House of the Rising Sun Page 23
