Cold Blood

by Lynda La Plante

  The old boy turned to the band. ‘You guys lost your wind?’

  The band started up and the bar buzzed as the old boy gave the barman orders to serve drinks on the house. He then turned his lined face to Nick, and when he smiled he displayed four gold teeth, two top, two bottom.

  ‘This is my place, my bar, who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Nick, Nick Bartello.’

  The gnarled hand gripped Nick’s. ‘Name’s Fryer Jones. That was a real nice move you just peeeformed, you a cop?’

  ‘Was, long time ago.’

  ‘Ah,’ Fryer said as he slurped his beer.

  ‘What was that about?’

  The old man fingered his trombone. ‘Nothin’ much. Happens most nights, they get high. I got to pay a pot of protection and you can see the place ain’t a gold mine. We call the cops an’ they ask for even more dough. Sometimes we just let ’em shoot up the place a bit, don’t bother me, why should it, I had my day.’

  Nick drank his beer and another bottle was placed down in readiness.

  ‘So you deal on the side, huh?’

  The old guy chuckled. ‘For somebody that ain’t no cop y’all sure ask a lot of questions. What the fuck you do in’ in this area anyway?’

  ‘I’ve been hired to trace Anna Louise Caley.’

  Fryer kissed his teeth. ‘Ah, little Caley gal, been a lot ’bout her in print.’

  ‘So you know who I’m talking about.’ Nick hadn’t really anticipated such a direct reply.

  ‘Know her mama, everyone knows Eeelizabeth Caley, man. And if you want some advice—’

  ‘Take any you’ve got,’ Nick said, liking the old man.

  ‘Git your ass outta here or you’ll get burned real bad, man.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just like I said, lotta people been here before you.’

  ‘What, to this bar?’

  Fryer chuckled, shaking his head. ‘Nah, man, the city is jumpin’ right now, afloat with millions of bucks, and just a handful gettin’ the pickin’s . . . it creates a deep murky pond. Dig up some of the slime and like I said, you’ll git yo’self in bad trouble, might have even got yourself into some tonight. Those two kids . . .’ Fryer fingered his trombone. ‘They got heavy connections.’

  ‘Didn’t look too heavy to me.’ Nick drained his beer.

  ‘Nothin’ is how it looks, man, some got connections to gangsters, some got deep roots, and I’m just givin’ you some friendly advice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got my second set comin’ up, I like to keep my wheels oiled.’

  Nick got off his stool as Fryer unwound from his neck what looked like small animal bones bound with a leather strip. ‘Here, brother, wear this, and go easy now. Help ward off evil, they’re the real thing. Go easy now.’

  Fryer watched Nick walk out, then turned to his barman with a half-raised eyebrow. ‘Crazy fucker.’ He signalled to a young guy drinking solo at the far end of the dark bar and he took off after Nick.

  The barman stashed Nick’s empty beer bottles in a crate beneath the bar. Right by the side of the crate was a double-barrelled shotgun: if Nick Bartello hadn’t stepped in to help Fryer, the kids were within inches of getting their heads blown off. But he was not to know, Fryer Jones was old and he hadn’t survived this long without taking good precautions. There were a number of dudes quietly drinking that were ready to step in, but Fryer usually took care of things his own way and unless they got a nod from him they left him to it.

  ‘Lookin’ for that little Caley girl,’ Fryer said as he sucked at his trombone piece, wiping it down on his dirty shirt front. The barman washed out some glasses, gave a dead-eyed stare around as the place was filling up. Nothing really kicked off until after midnight when a lot of the regulars would come in from their work at other clubs and restaurants. Some of the musicians, having trotted golden oldies all night, needed to jam, and played at Fryer Jones’s bar. These sessions were almost a nightly ritual, and a lot of hookers would drift in at dawn to have a few beers and a dance before crashing out to sleep the day away.

  Fryer made his way to the small raised platform with the old beat-up plastic chairs, a microphone and soundbox circa 1956. He patted a few shoulders, then stopped by a young black girl with her hair plaited and decorated with metal beads. She was fanning herself with a folded-up newspaper, eyes closed, her cheap synthetic version of a satin slip dress clinging to her young pubescent body, showing off rather than hiding her small tits with their large brown nipples.

  ‘Hi, Sugar May, your mama know you’re out this late?’

  ‘Yeah, she knows. I wanna be a singer, Fryer, she knows I hang out here, she don’t care either way.’

  ‘Mmm, you said you were gonna stay with your aunty in LA, said you needed two hundred bucks, so how come you’re not singing at one of them Hollywood clubs?’

  Sugar May shrugged her pretty little shoulders. ‘Mah brother took mah money, Fryer, Raoul’d take mah cherry if I didn’t keep my legs crossed. He’s been gone a few weeks now. So you gonna let me sing?’

  Fryer looked around, then bent really close to Sugar May, gripping her braids so he drew her head back. ‘You tell that mama of yours if she send any mo’ your relatives squeezin’ me for protection I’ll shove my trombone right up her ass. That was dumb, hear me, girl?’

  ‘I didn’t know my brothers was comin’, Fryer, they’re just stoned.’

  ‘They shoot their mouths off, threaten me with an old pistol in front of my cli-hon-telle, Sugar May, an’ one of ’em was an outsider.’

  ‘I’ll tell her, Fryer, I will truly, and I wasn’t lyin’ about going to stay with Aunt Juda, honest I wasn’t.’

  Fryer released his hold on her braids. ‘You also tell her the guy was looking into Anna Louise Caley and this one don’t look like he’ll be bought off. He was here, right? So maybe he knows somethin’. And now get your tight little ass home.’

  Sugar May eased away from him, scared, her big brown eyes wide as the old man creaked up on to the platform. She didn’t dare push for singing tonight but she’d push those two dumb bastards that made a show of themselves. She’d most certainly tell on them.

  *

  Nick Bartello crashed out on one of the many beds in his hotel room, without even undressing or removing Fryer’s leather thong with the animal bones from around his neck. He liked it, it reminded him of his hippie days. He hadn’t noticed he’d had a tail on him from the moment he left Fryer’s bar.

  Edith Corbello, Juda Salina’s sister and weighing two hundred pounds, was asleep in front of the TV set. The house was one of a run-down, one-storey row, with a sagging felt roof and maybe ten feet of battered frontage facing the street. There was a veranda all right, tiny, the front railing missing half its posts, but even on fine evenings Edith rarely sat out – there wasn’t much enjoyment in looking across a vacant lot full of weeds at the raised section of the IlO’s concrete underparts, or the trash stuck on the barbed wire round a disused warehouse, or the slack utility cables slung right in front of the house: she just stayed put and dreamed. Edith woke with a start when Sugar May nudged her.

  ‘Fryer is blazin’, Mama. Willy and Jesse went into the bar tonight threatenin’ him and waving a gun around. He also said there was some guy asking questions about Anna Louise Caley an’ he said this one didn’t look like he’d go away easy.’

  Edith Corbello eased herself on to her big flat feet, her swollen ankles spilling over on to her heels. She was wearing dirty old slippers, about the only thing her bloated feet could get into.

  ‘I swear, I’m gonna teach them both a lesson. I’m gonna scare the fuck out of them both.’

  ‘They were stoned, Mama,’ Sugar May added, almost gleefully, and received a swipe to her head from Edith.

  ‘An’ you should be in bed, go on, git out. Out?

  Edith shuffled to the door and into the dark hallway. She passed the closed door to her ‘company’ parlour, making her way down to the back of the stifling hot kitchen. She looked in. Th
e place was filthy, grease on the walls and floors, littered with old takeaway cartons and empty beer bottles and stinking of decaying food and cigarettes. She pulled the cord of a rickety ceiling fan and pushed open the screen door to the yard. Willy and Jesse were flat out, one on a hammock and the other on the back seat of an old wrecked car. For her size she moved fast, picking up a broom, and with one swing she brought it down first on Jesse’s head and then side-swiped Willy so that he fell out of the hammock with a scream.

  ‘I’m gonna fix you both good, I warned you. What’s this about you going down Fryer’s place, shooting more’n your yapping mouths off?’

  The broom swished again, catching Jesse in the eye. He howled as Willy tried to dodge it, but she clipped him hard on the top of his head, and he sank to his knees, holding on to his head with the flat of his hands. Her breath heaved in her chest, her eyes bulged and the sweat streamed off her body.

  ‘Pair o’ you git in that kitchen and make it presentable, then you come see me in the front parlour. You’re gonna have to make good with Fryer or so help me God I’ll put a snake in your guts, an’ you know I don’t make empty threats. Move?

  She sank on to the old car seat, tossing the broom aside. Since Raoul had left she’d had her hands full with those two and sometimes she just got so angry with Juda. All that money she was making and she still living in a pile of ramshackle rooms with four kids. She wished she had never set eyes on that rich bitch Elizabeth Caley.

  CHAPTER 11

  LORRAINE WAS woken by a shaft of sunlight, diffused and softened by the gathered muslin curtains, coming through the doorway to the bathroom and the balcony beyond. For a moment she was unsure where she was until she saw Robert Caley already showered and shaved.

  ‘What time is it?’ she murmured.

  ‘Seven.’ He walked to the closets, just a small towel round his waist, and selected a shirt, suit and tie, tossing them on to an elegant spoonback chair. Lorraine sat up and blinked. He turned and smiled.

  ‘When you sleep you look like a ten-year-old, but for that scar. How in God’s name did you get it?’

  Lorraine drew the sheet around herself. ‘Oh, some bar someplace. I’d better get back to my room.’

  ‘No hurry. You want me to order some breakfast?’

  Lorraine squinted up at him. ‘You think that’s wise?’

  He laughed, dropping the towel to pull on his briefs; he was completely relaxed about his nudity.

  ‘Maybe not, but you can call from your room then we can eat together.’ She sat up, watching him pull on his trousers. ‘I have a meeting, eight o’clock.’

  Lorraine swung her legs from the bed and he came towards her, bending down to kiss the top of her head. He leaned over and traced the scars on her back, then on her arms. ‘How did they all happen?’

  Lorraine drew away from him. ‘Well, at some point I didn’t care too much about living. They’re the self-inflicted ones, the others . . .’

  He cupped her face in his hands. ‘Wherever you’ve been, my darlin’, is past. You’re with me now.’

  She looked up into his face, trying to fathom him out. ‘I was there though, Robert, like it or not I was a drunkard.’

  He kissed her, holding her tightly. ‘But you’re not now. You’re my lovely Lorraine, and last night is one I will remember for a long time.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said softly, wishing he would get back in the wide boat bed again, wanting to hold him naked, wanting him to make love to her again. For a moment she felt that he wanted it too but his phone rang and he eased away from her to answer it.

  ‘Hi, Phyllis. No, no, I’m already dressed. How is she?’

  Lorraine picked up her robe from the floor and slipped it round her shoulders. He had his back to her.

  ‘She is? That’s good. Well, tell her I’ll call later.’ He turned to face Lorraine as he pressed line 2 to pick up a waiting call. ‘It’s Phyllis, says Elizabeth is fine, maybe another week.’

  He returned to his call, his manner changed. ‘When? It was set for eight this morning . . . what? Shit, okay, no, I can make it. Call him back and tell him I’ll be there, and thanks, Mark.’

  He replaced the receiver and sighed. ‘Lloyd Dulay wants me to meet him at his place so I’m going to have to move fast. Will you leave me the number of your hotel so I can call you?’

  She nodded. He finished dressing and put on his shades.

  ‘Talk to you later.’ He kissed her cheek and closed the door behind him.

  Back in her own suite, Lorraine sat on the balcony. What the hell did she think she was doing? She must have been out of her mind; no matter what the night had been, or meant, she couldn’t help but feel depressed and listless. She called down for a pot of hot, strong black coffee, and drained three cups and smoked two cigarettes before getting ready to leave.

  Lorraine walked back into Robert Caley’s suite. To her surprise it had already been cleaned and the bed made up. There was no indication of their night together: it was as if it had never happened. She crossed to the escritoire to leave her hotel and phone number, pulled the lid down to write, and then saw a stack of documents left neatly in order and a file with ‘CASINO DEVELOPMENT’ printed on it. She wondered if Caley had forgotten it in his hurry to make the meeting; she opened the cover and saw the site for the proposed casino underlined three times: the Rivergate Convention Centre.

  Lorraine picked up the file and returned to her own suite. She began jotting down notes. Some of the information blew her mind. Two hundred thousand square feet of gaming area, two hundred tables, six thousand slot machines, and a projected five and a half million annual customers. Lorraine was filling up the pages, salaries estimated at a hundred and seven million. The sources of funding listed were as mind-blowing: a hundred and seventy million equity, almost five hundred million in bonds, a further hundred and forty million bank credit, and on it went to mount up, the grand total well in excess of eight hundred million. The document listed the hard costs, including the parking structures, gaming equipment, state taxes, city taxes, interest, cash load pre-opening, finishing fees and expenses. She noted that the expenditures totalled as much, if not more, than the sources. Finally listed was the projection of revenue, ending up with a profit margin target of around a hundred and twenty million.

  Detailed on the following pages were the proposals of what seemed to be the rival consortium, Doubloons, consisting of nine Louisiana residents, nine wealthy men clearly eager to make themselves even wealthier: no wonder Caley was so strung out about whether he or they would be awarded the concession. Lorraine noticed that the costs in excess of forty million dollars had been incurred in securing leases on the site where the casino was to be completed, and wondered if Caley had borne all of these himself. If he had, then not only must he be very wealthy but, as he himself had implied, was stretching himself to the very limit too.

  Lorraine returned the file to his room and could not resist opening up every drawer in the desk. She found his real estate licence, his New Orleans office address, details of new hotel developments, mostly in the riverfront area, and one of the hotels which was part-owned by both Robert and Elizabeth Caley. Contrary to what he had said about his wife having nothing to do with his business, her name appeared on numerous deeds. But most shocking to Lorraine was a folded document in the name of Anna Louise Caley. It was secured with a seal and a red ribbon, and contained details of Anna Louise’s trust fund. Using the paper knife, warming it over her lighter, Lorraine worked on easing the seal up without breaking it until it came away from the paper. The thick, yellow-papered deed was deeply creased and brittle and she opened it with care. She gasped: there had never been a mention at any time, verbally or in any statement she had seen, of a trust fund for Anna Louise Caley, and the amount was a staggering hundred million. The trust fund was to be managed by her mother until Anna Louise became twenty-one, and should she fail to live to that age, then the fund would automatically revert to Elizabeth Caley.

&nb
sp; Rooney had put on a suit he hadn’t worn in a while, and had been surprised that it fitted him, but those few pounds he had lost had made him look and feel better.

  ‘My, you look snazzy,’ Rosie remarked as he walked into the restaurant across the street from the St Marie, and he flushed.

  ‘Remember our deal? No diets while we’re here.’

  ‘Sure, and I’m game – while we’re here, we can eat anything we like.’

  Rooney clapped his hands and grinned. ‘Rght, let’s go, they got pancakes here that are delicious, and Nick and Lorraine will be down in a second.’

  Hungover, dressed in the clothes he slept in, dark shades on, Nick listened as Lorraine recounted her findings. Watching Rosie and Rooney eating pancakes with syrup, Lorraine realized she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything since dinner on Caley’s private plane. She ordered scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, which made Nick feel even more ill.

  ‘How did you get your hands on all this?’ Rooney asked with his mouth full.

  ‘I stayed at the same hotel, in the same room Anna Louise disappeared from. When I went in to thank Mr Caley, he had already left.’

  ‘Went in?’ Nick enquired.

  ‘Yeah, there was a connecting door, I had the key. Caley had a breakfast meeting with Lloyd Dulay.’

  Nick poured himself more coffee. ‘So you stayed in the room next to Caley’s?’

  Lorraine nodded. ‘Yep. I questioned the staff, which was the reason I accepted his offer, so quit with the snide remarks, Bartello. What is that shit you got round your neck?’

  ‘It’s a gris-gris.’ He leaned close to Lorraine. ‘What’s that on your neck, sweetheart? Get bitten in that fancy hotel, did you?’

  Before Lorraine could answer, Nick took off, and she inched up her collar. ‘Mosquito bite. I must have given one little bastard a real night out.’

  ‘I’ll give you something for it,’ Rosie said at once. She had brought a first aid kit with every conceivable thing they could require.