Cold Blood

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘Hey! Come on, just take it easy, huh . . .?’ Nick saw the alley right across the road and dived between them both, but not before Jesse took another swing with the baseball bat. This time it hit Nick just on the left side of the head above his ear, making him reel. He could see the neon sign of a liquor store and was trying to make it there, hoping there would be someone around to help. His breath rasped in his chest, the shooting pains in his leg were crippling him and his head thudded, but he made it right up to the doorway. The door was locked. He jammed his finger on a security buzzer and hurled his body against the door.

  ‘Open the door, open the fucking door.’

  The two boys were grinning, one swinging the bat, the other opening the flick-knife. They had him cornered; the alley was a dead-end and there was nowhere to run to. Nick was trapped.

  Raoul still sat by his aunt’s bed, his whole body twitching now, and he was desperate to get back to his pipe.

  ‘You still need me to stay with you?’

  She didn’t answer. He stood up and leaned closer, sure she was sleeping, when she scared the hell out of him. She sat bolt upright, her hands clutching at her throat, and started retching. He backed away, not that he hadn’t seen this before, his mama often went into spasms and he hated it, just like he hated the way all his life people had come to their run-down house and started screaming and shouting in that dark front room, the kids banished to the back yard.

  She twisted and turned on the bed, making it creak and groan from her weight. At one point part of the bed actually lifted as she rolled to one side. He saw it then, the old wooden box, and became even more agitated, frightened by her grunting and moaning. Saliva trickled down her fat chin, frothed at the corners of her mouth, but all he could think about was the box, because he knew what was inside it.

  Nick Bartello couldn’t run anywhere. He’d tried to reach his hidden .22 but the baseball bat had swung down on his arm and he’d felt the bone crack. He was defenceless but he remembered their faces, so young, the two arrogant black kids he’d given a whipping at Fryer’s bar. When they hemmed him in he still put up a good fight, but he knew it was the end, and with the pain in his leg he didn’t have a chance to defend himself. He curled up as they kicked at him, putting his hands up to protect himself. Then one of the boys leaned over him and he saw the blade close up, saw his whole life as it ran before him. Lorraine’s face was the last image he saw as they cut his throat, giving him one last kick to turn his body over.

  Fryer Jones was in his usual seat at the bar. Willy and Jesse Corbello walked in and drew up stools next to him. Fryer held on to his trombone as Willy threw the gris-gris necklace on to the bar.

  ‘This yours, Fryer?’

  He picked it up, felt the blood still sticky on the white bones, and he sighed. ‘Boys, you just done somethin’ bad, these were mine, given in good faith.’

  ‘You not given us what you promised, you old bastard, and besides, you gonna do the same for us as we done for you, right? We been here all night, man, never left your bar,’ Jesse said, and leaned over to get himself a beer.

  Willy opened Nick Bartello’s wallet. ‘Who gives a fuck? Nobody saw us anyway, we was cool. Hey! Drinks on the house, we just scored a few bucks.’

  Fryer eyed the boys and kissed his teeth. They were running out of control, getting into bad trouble, just like their crazy brother Raoul. He looked at the gris-gris he had given to that poor bastard. He picked it up, tipped his beer over it, washing the blood away with his gnarled thumb, then hung it round his neck.

  ‘Think I’ll play a set,’ he said to no one. He eased off the bar stool and wended his way back to the mirrored stage. As he passed two thickset black men playing bid whist, he murmured, ‘Thrash ’em hard, they gotta be taught a lesson from somebody, and they’re getting outta hand, way out.’

  The two young boys were sitting on the bar stools, laughing and joking, guzzling their free beer, confident they were running the show, confident no one would touch them. They were the Salina sisters’ boys.

  ‘Where’s Nick?’ Lorraine asked as she joined Rosie and Rooney at the breakfast table for waffles and cream.

  ‘I dunno, but we all had an early night,’ said Rooney, squinting over the menu. ‘I called his room, no answer.’

  Lorraine sat down and brought out all the small white envelopes with her messages.

  ‘How did it go last night?’ Rosie asked as she signalled for the waitress.

  Lorraine began slitting the envelopes open. ‘They haven’t got the exact time Tilda Brown hanged herself but they think about two or three hours after I left.’ There were fifteen messages from Robert Caley, one saying his wife was arriving in New Orleans. Dulay had called four times, and Nick twice. She noted the time of the last call. ‘I would say Nick is sleeping one off, seems he didn’t take such an early night.’ She tossed the message over to Rooney.

  Rosie had been studying the menu and turned to Rooney.

  ‘Maybe we should cut down on all this sugar. I know we had a deal, but I don’t know about you, I felt a lot better before we made pigs of ourselves here.’

  He nodded. ‘You order for me, then.’

  ‘Okay, maybe just some fresh fruit.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, and then flushed as he caught Lorraine looking at him and smiling.

  ‘What you looking at me like that for?’ he said defensively.

  ‘Because it’s nice to see you two getting along so well.’

  ‘I noticed you and Nick were real friendly too,’ Rosie put in, afraid that Lorraine disapproved of her friendship with Rooney, or thought it unprofessional.

  ‘Hell, don’t be so defensive, Rosie, and you’re right, I’m getting on really well with Nick, he’s okay, but that doesn’t mean we’re up for a double wedding or—’

  Rooney gasped. ‘Who’s talking about weddings? Me and Rosie are just on the same diet.’

  Rosie brought her menu up quickly to cover her face, not wanting Rooney to see that his remark had upset her.

  ‘So,’ she said expressionlessly, ‘it’s fruit all round, is it?’

  Juda Salina eased her bulk into the shower, calling out for Raoul to put the coffee on and bring round the car to take them to the airport. It had been a bad night but it was over, the dark cloud had lifted. It came down like a blanket fifteen minutes later when she kicked open the kitchen door and there was no coffee on the stove, just Raoul’s sleeping bag left in the middle of the floor. And it got darker when she went back into her bedroom, because just sticking out from under her bed was her precious box. Fat as she was, she got down on her knees fast and dragged it out. It was never this close to the edge, she was no fool. In fact, she slept feeling it through the mattress and the bed springs on purpose so nobody would ever steal it from under her at night.

  She screamed out loud when she realized all her savings were gone, every single dollar, more than 150 thousand dollars. Money to put towards Ruby’s float, her Mardi Gras gowns, money for her sister, her kids. Her savings, all gone.

  At first Edith Corbello thought it was one of her clients screeching down the phone; it was a while before she realized it was her own sister.

  ‘Hush now, Juda, hush now, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.’

  Juda eventually gasped out that Raoul had stolen everything she possessed, all her life’s savings; everything she’d worked so hard for in order to come back to New Orleans and live in style was gone.

  ‘No, no, honey, you got to be mistaken.’

  ‘I am not mistaken, he’s even taken my car, my car, Edith, that little shit’s got my fucking car.’ Juda gripped tightly on to the bed, gasping for breath, her massive bosoms heaving. ‘I never done evil work, Edith, you know that, but so help me God, I will on Raoul. I’ll fill that boy full of stuff to eat his guts alive, he’s gonna wish he never saw the light of day!’

  Juda slammed the phone back on the hook. She slumped into a chair, put her head in her hands and wept. How many times
had she been told by Mrs Caley to put her money in the bank and she had always refused? Through her tears she ranted and raged against Raoul. She didn’t even have enough money to go home for Carnival, wouldn’t see Ruby crowned.

  Eventually the tears and rage subsided into a deep depression and she sat as if wedged into the chair. ‘How could he do that to me?’ she said to herself over and over, and then looked at the ceiling. ‘How come the spirits talk with me and I don’t know when my own blood is stealing from me?’

  She wiped her face with a tissue and sniffed, and picked up the phone again. Maybe she’d help her out, like she’d helped her for all these years.

  Phyllis answered, stunned to hear the plaintive voice at the other end. ‘Juda? Mrs Salina, is this you?’

  ‘Yes, Phyllis. Something terrible has happened and I need to speak to Mrs Caley.’

  Phyllis pursed her lips; she was going to enjoy this. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Salina, but Mrs Caley is not at home.’

  ‘Can you get her to contact me?’

  ‘Well, if she calls home I will tell her you rang.’

  Phyllis was sure the horrible creature was crying, and when she thought of all the years she had been treated like a piece of worn carpet by the big fat woman, she enjoyed her moment of power.

  ‘You know, Phyllis, I’ve been a good friend to Mrs Caley, we go back a long time, so please, I’m asking you, if she calls home, tell her to contact me. This time it’s me that needs her and I need her bad.’

  ‘As I said, Mrs Salina, I will relay the message to Mrs Caley. Goodbye.’

  She replaced the phone as Peters walked into the hallway.

  ‘Who was that?’

  Phyllis followed him into the breakfast lounge. ‘That wretched fat woman, Juda, wanted to speak to Mrs Caley. I said I would relay the message, but somehow I think it might just slip my mind. I’ve always hated her, she’s a blood-sucking leech and Mr Caley loathes her as well.’

  Phyllis sat opposite Peters as they ate breakfast together, and Peters stared from the window.

  ‘Nice to have the place to ourselves, isn’t it?’

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Caley?’ Edward asked, and Elizabeth dropped the magazine.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at the controls?’

  He smiled. ‘It’s on automatic pilot, Mrs Caley.’

  She turned away. ‘You are paid to fly this plane, Mr Hardy, not the automatic pilot. Please stay in the cockpit, you know how nervous I am about flying.’

  Mario looked up from his book, seated at the far end of the plane. Edward flicked him a glance and returned to the cockpit.

  ‘Can I get you anything at all, Mrs Caley?’ Mario asked.

  ‘No, nothing, thank you.’

  She picked up the magazine again, the glossy pages blurring before her eyes. The models in their glamorous poses and gowns only reminded her of the last trip with Anna Louise, and she could hear her voice: ‘I like this one, Mama, what do you think?’

  She had replied that she simply adored it, not even really looking at it. Just watching her daughter had pained her; she was so young, so very pretty, with her whole life ahead of her. She was envious of Anna Louise’s youth, her athletic talent. She took after her father so much it sometimes unnerved Elizabeth just to look at that fair hair and bright blue eyes.

  Elizabeth sighed. The secret of Anna Louise’s parentage didn’t matter in this day and age, nobody would care, but when she had been Anna Louise’s age, and coming from where she did, it had mattered a great deal. She closed her eyes and thought back over her life, knowing without doubt that if she had it to live over again she would not have become involved with the movies – or that movie. It had destroyed her, made her dependent on Juda Salina and her kind, and somewhere deep inside she yearned to be free of it all. Perhaps that was why she took so many drugs, dicing with her own life. She longed for freedom, for air, for sunshine, the sun she was afraid to let touch her milky-white skin – not because it burned, but because it turned a rich, dark shade of brown.

  Elizabeth’s beautiful slanting eyes brimmed and tears spilled as if in slow motion down her cheeks. She’d used the ability to cry on cue often in her film career and had been proud of it, but now there was no ‘action’, no cameras. The tears were for her own empty, silly, frightened life.

  All the diners had left the breakfast room, leaving Rooney, Rosie and Lorraine the only people still sitting round their table.

  ‘Okay, let’s get the day started,’ Rooney said, pushing his chair back.

  Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Try Nick’s room again, Rosie. If he’s not back, shove a message under his door, tell him where we’ll all be so he can make contact.’

  ‘Will do, and you take care.’

  Lorraine smiled. ‘Yes, ma’am . . .’

  ‘Listen, about this video—’

  Lorraine walked towards the exit, her arm loosely round Rosie’s shoulders.

  ‘What about asking Lloyd Dulay? He’s known Elizabeth all these years, and as you’re going to see him, I just thought . . .’

  ‘Good idea, I’ll ask him, Rosie.’

  Rooney was standing by the lobby desk. He turned as the women approached. ‘That bastard’s not in his room, he’s been out all night.’

  ‘Well, he’s probably with some hooker someplace,’ Lorraine said, slightly irritated, as she headed for the elevator. Her reaction surprised her: she was jealous, but concealed it immediately. She smiled and told Rooney to let Nick sleep it off, but not for long. They had only one week left.

  Edith Corbello found Jesse out back on the old car seat. He had been severely beaten, his nose and right arm broken. He was bruised and crying in agony, but when she asked who had done this to him, he just whimpered that he had fallen down the stairs.

  She had just started to clean her son up when she heard the front door closing and footsteps shuffling down the corridor.

  ‘That you, Willy? Willy get your ass in here?

  She believed that Willy had beaten up his brother and when he came into the kitchen she was sure of it. Both his eyes were black, his nose was bleeding and he had a lump on his forehead the size of a mango. She would have slapped him hard but he could only just about walk.

  ‘I had enough of you boys fightin’ each other, I’m gonna get Fryer here to sort out the pair of you. I can’t handle you no more, and it’s time he took some responsibility.’

  ‘It was Fryer that done it,’ Willy said, and Jesse kicked him so hard that he howled in agony. He had so many bruises to his body it was hard to miss one.

  ‘You tellin’ me that bastard did this to you both? Yes?

  Jesse shook his head. ‘No, Mama, we done it to each other, honest, we just started foolin’ around and . . .’

  Edith glowered. ‘You git your brother to a hospital right now, you both lookin’ all beat and your sister about to be crowned. I’m wiping my hands of you both. I am ashamed, you hear me? Ashamed’?

  Edith banged out. She wanted to weep; what with Raoul gone and Juda screaming at her it had been a bad day and it wasn’t even nine o’clock. But she knew it would get worse, a whole lot worse, when she had to tell Ruby that there was no money for her gown, already half stitched up and near finished.

  Ruby was lying on her bed, in the best bedroom of the tiny rundown house, with a treatment pack on her face. She was being photographed tomorrow for one of the hair trade papers, just a promo for the salon where she worked, but it was a start. When she heard what her mama had to say, she got off the bed in a rage. ‘You tellin’ me Raoul stole all Aunty Juda’s money, he stole it?’

  ‘That’s what she said, and she don’t even have the money for the plane ride for the parade.’

  Ruby screamed with rage; she was damned if her crazy, crackhead brother was going to stand in her way out of this house and away from everyone in it. She sobbed and clawed at the walls with her nails, her tears making trickles on her white mask until at last she hunched up in a corner like a little girl, th
e fight gone out of her.

  ‘Ah, Mama, what are we gonna do, what are we gonna do?’

  Below, Sugar May listened up and grinned from ear to ear. Served that mean stuck-up bitch right. Ruby Corbello always got everything she wanted, never had to wear anyone’s cast-off clothes like she did. She skipped out of the house in delight as an old yellow cab drew up to take Jesse and Willy to the hospital.

  Edith sat on her daughter’s bed, near to tears herself. She felt worn out by it all.

  ‘Maybe ask Father Leroy, Ruby?’

  Ruby shook her head. ‘With a wife and two kids he needs his money, Mama. There ain’t no fortunes to be made in the kind of investigation work that’s on his level. You know who the only one with money is, you know.’

  Edith shook her head. ‘I’m not asking Fryer, I wouldn’t ask him to spit in a jam jar.’

  ‘I didn’t mean Fryer,’ snapped Ruby. ‘Why don’t we ask her lady friend, one who’s been paying out all that money for years? We ask her direct, she’s rich, isn’t she?’

  Edith shook her head. ‘No, we don’t cross Juda’s territory, Ruby. That Mrs Caley is her wages and it’s her money been keeping us all. I wouldn’t go behind Juda’s back.’

  Ruby stood in front of her mother. ‘I know you done things for money, things you’ve always been against, I know that, Mama.’

  ‘You shut up now,’ Edith said with a warning slap.

  Ruby dodged aside. ‘I saw you making it, Mama, I saw Juda coming here for her so-called tea. I know.’