Lorraine walked in as Rosie snapped her last case shut on her pink, frilled, nylon bedspread.
‘Rght, that’s me packed. You know they want us out as soon as possible as they’re booked out?’
‘How long did you book the room for?’
‘Well, I did tell you we got a special rate so long as we leave before the hotel fills up. Mardi Gras is their busiest time.’
‘I know that,’ Lorraine snapped.
Rosie crossed to the writing table. ‘I did a provisional booking at a place way out of town in case we needed to stay on, but we don’t, do we?’
Rooney barged in and dumped down his bags.
‘So, how did it go?’
‘Cheque’s in my wallet, one million!’
Rosie whooped, and Rooney hit the flimsy wall with his fist. ‘Yes, yes. One fucking million.’
Lorraine folded her arms. ‘So you’re both leaving?’
Rooney frowned. ‘Well, we all are, aren’t we? I mean, did you want to stay on for Mardi Gras?’
‘Nope, I’m not crazy about the idea of being elbowed around the streets, but . . .’
‘But what?’ Rosie said as she opened Lorraine’s wallet and took out the cheque.
‘But, well, you think we’re all done here?’
Rosie passed the cheque to Rooney.
‘You mean we should see if it’s good? I doubt if she’d bounce it on us,’ he said, squinting at the cheque.
Lorraine had that edgy feel, sort of shifting her weight from one foot to the next.
‘Nick’s room rented, is it?’
‘What?’
‘I said, is Nick’s room rented out?’
Yeah, well, we stopped paying for it,’ Rosie said, becoming suspicious.
‘His body collected by his sister?’
Yes,’ Rooney said, frowning.
You know it was, we told you it was, he’ll be buried by now.’
‘And forgotten, just like that? Forgotten like that pitiful skeleton in the morgue? Well, for your information I have not forgotten Nick Bartello, I have not forgotten him in anyway.’
‘Shit, Lorraine, nor have we. If this is leading to us giving his relatives something from the one million, I don’t mind,’ Rooney said.
‘We don’t need to give anybody else a cut of the one million,’ Lorraine said, slumping into a chair and leaning forward, her head in her hands.
‘So what’s up?’
She shook her head and then leaned back, closing her eyes. ‘What’s up is some piece of shit killed Nick, and that shit, whoever he is, is just walking, and nobody is doing anything about it, that’s what’s up.’
Rooney sighed, he could feel the carpet being tugged from under his big flat feet. ‘Lorraine, the cops have nothing, we got nothing. What do you want us all to do now, stay on here and start up another investigation?’
‘I want us to finish off what we started, I said I wanted you to visit Fryer Jones’s bar, I said I wanted his place searched with that cop you palmed five hundred bucks to, because some fucker got his necklace. Some bastard killed Nick Bartello and I just want us to check out a few things before we all piss off back to Los Angeles and buy our own condominiums, okay?’
Rooney sighed, lifting his hands up to calm her. ‘Okay, just stay cool, I’ll contact him right now, we can do it straight away. But, Lorraine, if we come up with nothin’ then I don’t care what you say, I’m out of here. What about you, Rosie?’
Rosie nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll leave with Bill.’
Lorraine stood up. ‘Fine, but I might hang around until I am satisfied we gave Nick a run for his cut of the cash. So, we’ll keep one room for us all, make it mine as I haven’t started to pack.’
Lorraine slammed the bathroom door shut hard, and Rosie sighed.
‘When she gets into these moods, I could punch her, I really could. I mean, how can we come up with something if the police got nothin’, huh? You tell me that? She just gets obsessive.’
Rooney rubbed his chin. ‘If she wasn’t so obsessive, Rosie, we’d never have found Anna Louise Caley or be looking at a cheque for one million. So we get off our backsides and do like she says because we got to keep her sweet. I don’t want her suddenly saying she’s got a right to a bigger cut.’
‘She can’t do that!’
Rooney dangled the cheque. ‘This is made out to her, Rosie. She’s gonna have to put it in her account, then pay us our share, so I’d say we do whatever she wants us to do.’
Lorraine showered and changed but didn’t feel very fresh or energized, just angry, and she knew it was connected to seeing Robert Caley. She glared at her reflection in the mirror.
‘Hey, chill out of this one. Remember, he’s not worth one more second of your time, so stop this!’
Rooney tapped and she opened up. ‘You got someone in here?’
‘No, I was talking to myself.’
‘Oh well, this cop’s downstairs, you want to talk to him?’
‘Yep.’
Rooney held open the door. All their bags were littered around the room. ‘Lemme warn you, he’s no Burt Lancaster, he’s kind of a bit freaky-lookin’.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah, his neck is as wide as his ass!’
Harper sat with Rosie, well beamed herself; they made a good couple. He had a beer in his fat pudgy hand, and lifted half a cheek of his ass as Lorraine joined them. They were sitting beneath an umbrella on the blue and white plastic furniture of a cheap sidewalk café, its neon signs glowing weakly in the daylight. The pavement in front of them was thronging with people.
‘This is Lorraine Page.’
‘Hi, how you doing?’
‘Fine, thanks for coming over.’ She looked across at him over her dark shades. Rooney was right, the guy was obese.
‘No problem, you want a beer or . . .’
‘Coffee,’ she said, and lit a cigarette.
‘Place is hotting up. Pity you aren’t sticking around for Carnival.’
Lorraine stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Okay, can we get down to why we wanted to see you?’
‘Sure, fire away.’
Lorraine spoke quickly, detailing the events that led up to Nick Bartello’s death and mentioning the fact that he had been in Fryer Jones’s bar the previous night, and might possibly have returned.
‘Look, I know he was your pal, right? But he was crazy to go to Ward 9 late at night and to get involved with anyone there. Now, I know we investigated this, we asked around, because he was found close to the bar, you know, about a block away down an alley, but nobody there saw him. Nobody saw him down the alley either.’
Lorraine leaned forward. ‘Okay, so you’re sayin’ with Mardi Gras comin’ some poor fucker is gonna walk off the main drag by accident, go into Fryer Jones’s bar, have a few beers, walk out and get his throat cut? And all the cops are gonna say is that he shouldn’t have been in that district? You got notices up there saying, “Beware, you could end up fucking dead”?’
Harper wrinkled his pig-nose, annoyed at being spoken to by a woman in that tone.
Lorraine ticked off on her fingers. ‘We know he went there, we know he pissed off some kids because they were shooting a pistol and shoving it up Fryer Jones’s nose. We know he made them look dumb, we know all of that. We know that Fryer Jones gave Nick a necklace, a gris-gris, which wasn’t on his body when he was found, nor were his wallet or his driving licence. He used to keep them in separate back pockets.’
‘Uh huh.’ The fat face wobbled.
‘Fryer Jones admitted to me that he had met Nick, and I want to know who was in the bar that night. I want to know who was in the bar the following night – in other words I want to know if Nick Bartello went back to Fryer Jones’s bar and somebody there cut his throat. So if it means getting a search warrant, if it means—’
Harper shook his head. ‘You are an impatient lady, that’s for sure.’
‘Well, we only got the room booked for one more night,’ she said
with a tight-lipped smile.
‘Okey dokey. This area that your friend went into is well known as the wrong neighbourhood for whites to go drinking in the early hours, unless they are known or trying to score dope. Your friend use dope, did he?’
‘No, he didn’t,’ snapped Rooney.
‘Okay, so he was acting dumb. But we don’t like going into bars like Fryer Jones’s without real good evidence. We don’t like doing that, because Fryer is an informant.’
Lorraine leaned back. ‘Is he? That’s why you arrested him on the night Anna Louise Caley was missing?’
‘Yes, ma’am, we did arrest him and we hadda knock him around a bit. We needed to ask old Fryer if he had heard anythin’, you know, if he knew where she might have disappeared to, because there is nothing down in that section of town that Fryer Jones don’t know about. But we have to always make it look real good, because if it was known, then it’d be old Fryer with his throat cut like your friend.’ Harper rested back in his chair and burped, he thumped his chest with a curled fist. ‘Better out than in.’
Lorraine lit another cigarette and looked up and down the street, inhaling the smoke. Okay, let’s try this another way. You’re telling me you couldn’t get a warrant to search that bar, maybe haul a couple of guys into the station? That is what you are saying, isn’t it?’
‘I guess so. We don’t like to rock the boat.’
‘Right, so what would it cost to rock it?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Come on, you heard me. I am asking you what it would cost to get maybe four or five of you to back me up, get yourselves armed with more than your wooden bars. They can be cops, or they can be cops not acting as cops, if you follow me?’
Rosie could feel the non-alcoholic beer churning in her stomach. Rooney turned to stare down the street but the sweat was trickling off his face.
‘How much?’ Harper asked.
‘You tell me,’ she said softly.
Rooney flicked a glance at Rosie. Her face glistened with perspiration, and she was twisting a bit of the tablecloth round and round one of her fingers.
Harper caught a drop of water running down the neck of his cold beer bottle. He licked his finger. ‘Are you gonna be around until this afternoon?’
‘Back at the hotel, sure, we can wait for you to contact us.’
Harper pushed back his chair. ‘Be in touch. Been nice talkin’ to you, Mrs Page, Bill, and nice to meet you, Rosie.’
He waddled off, seeming to make a wave through the people in the street, his girth not something to push around but to bounce off, his thick neck giving him a thuggish quality accentuated by the thin black moustache on his baby’s lip.
‘How much do you think he’d want?’ Rosie asked.
Lorraine stood up. ‘Why, you worried about parting with your hard-earned money, Rosie?’
‘No, just being cautious. And you should put that cheque in the bank before you lose it.’
Lorraine laughed, and swung her purse round her shoulder. ‘Sure, and I guess you both want a cheque for your cut, but you mind if I wait until it’s actually in my account?’
She walked off, and Rosie reached over for Rooney’s hand. ‘I didn’t like him and I’m getting to not like her.’
They both looked towards Lorraine. She was standing on the pavement, slowly turning to face them as on the opposite side of the road she saw a red convertible Mustang cruise past. It was driven by Raoul Corbello, one hand trailing down over the door, the other lazily holding the white steering-wheel. Rap music blared out, and his eyes, hidden behind the mirrored shades, were checking out a young black chick selling postcards. He drove on, he could do a lot better for himself than a street vendor, and he needed to get to his uncle’s bar, Fryer Jones’s place. Raoul was hyped up on crack and needed to get easy, chill out for a while so he could face his family and see his precious Ruby crowned. That’s what he’d come home for: Mardi Gras.
CHAPTER 19
RAOUL CORBELLO snuck into his uncle’s bar, and stayed near the doors, just where the old wooden counter ended. He leaned back against the windowless wall as the barman sauntered down towards him.
‘Mexican, and a shot of bourbon on the rocks,’ he said, collar turned up, his shades still on.
‘Sure, Raoul, but let’s see your money.’
‘Fuck you, Zachery Blubber.’ But he slapped twenty bucks down.
Zak opened a beer, banged it on to the counter and sauntered back for the bourbon. ‘So how’s LA, man? You get all that fancy gear there?’
Raoul shrugged. His nose was running and he sniffed as Zak leaned against the bar, sliding the bourbon glass forwards.
‘Cool, it’s cool.’
‘You look like you need to chill out.’
Raoul knocked back the bourbon and reached for the beer.
‘Your brothers are workin’ out back.’
‘Uncle Fryer around?’
‘Sleepin’, like always at this time. Place was jumpin’ last night, he played so much he got his big old lips swollen up, but he sure as hell can play that beat-up bugle o’ his.’
Raoul sniffed again, wiping his nose with his shirt cuff. He took out a thick roll of notes and peeled off another twenty. ‘Same again, have one yourself.’
Zak eyed the wad, and slowly moved back along the bar. ‘Don’t mind if I do, brother, don’t mind if I do.’
Raoul had to wait a while as a couple of customers needed refills. He was beginning to get the shakes and wondered why the hell he’d come back. He’d get more than the shakes when he showed his face back home. What had seemed like a good idea was now beginning to pale.
Zak passed another beer and bourbon along, holding up a glass to indicate he’d taken his drink and started to chinwag with two old boys huddled at the far end of the bar.
‘Zak, eh, Zak man, come on down here a second, will ya?’ Raoul said loudly, gulping down his beer.
‘What you want?’ said Zak, handing out beers and tossing the empties into a crate beneath the bar. He kind of knew, so he opened a drawer under the till and took out a packet. ‘This what you want, bro?’
Raoul put his hand over the plastic bag. Zak leaned forward, whispering that it was good home-grown gear, he could vouch for it.
‘You got any skins?’ Raoul asked, peeling off fifty dollars.
‘Shit, man, what you want me to do, smoke it for you?’ He reached into the back pocket of his pants and tossed down a squashed pack of rolling papers.
The two Corbello boys were filthy from stacking all the crates, ready to load up the truck, when Raoul appeared in the back doorway of the bar. They yelled and flung their arms around him, and then sat in the outside John as he rolled up three big joints, one for each of them.
‘How come you workin’ out back here?’ Raoul asked. They were hesitant to begin with but after a few drags they told him that Fryer was getting heavy. They giggled as they said that when their Aunt Juda got hold of Raoul he’d get some heavy-handed activity. Raoul laughed, saying he was cool, and started telling them about his Mustang, his dealin’ and his thievin’ of their aunt’s hoard of cash from under her bed. She could try beating it out of him, but he wouldn’t tell her where he’d stashed what he hadn’t spent. They were both in awe of their older brother, and the more stoned they became the more they got to bragging about carvin’ up a whitey. Raoul listened, his eyes drooping, not really believing their stories, not really caring. They rolled up some more joints, and started messing around as Raoul took a leak, having to prop himself up against the shack wall to piss straight.
‘Eh! How’s Ruby?’
‘Oh man, she’s gettin’ so in with Mama and Juda she don’t have time for us.’
‘She getting into all that voodoo shit, huh?’
The two boys, now hurling empty bottles against a wall, didn’t really pay any attention. Fryer Jones looked down from his dirty window, pulling the sacking curtain aside. He could see his three nephews that might even be his own sons
, but he sure as hell didn’t like what he was seeing. They were whooping and hollering and smashing up bottles. He drew on his dirty old jeans and had a good scratch before he made his way down the stairs. He was well hungover. It had been a good night, too good, and he was still buzzing.
‘Eh, Zak, gimme a pick-up, will ya?’ he shouted down, and Zak was waiting for him with his usual glass of snake’s eye.
‘That Raoul’s turned up,’ he said.
Fryer knocked back his pick-me-up in one, and kissed his swollen lips. ‘Yeah, I see him, and I had enough o’ my fucking relatives to last me a lifetime. Give us another, I need something to waken me up before I get my belt off to those little no-good shits.’
Lorraine was washing her hair: she’d had a good few hours’ sleep and was feeling, if not a hundred per cent, at least a lot better. She had stopped drinking, and hadn’t had a drop since she’d been at Caley’s hotel, but she wasn’t congratulating herself, just hoping she’d be able to keep it up. All around her in the room was Rooney and Rosie’s baggage, but where they were she had no idea. A second later, though, Rosie banged on the door.
‘It’s us, Lorraine,’ she shouted.
‘It’s open,’ replied Lorraine, still rubbing her hair dry.
Her partners came in and Rooney sat heavily on the bed – unlike Lorraine, he hadn’t caught up on sleep from the night before, and he yawned, resting back on the pillows.
‘I banked the cheque, the teller said it would take a couple of days to clear. Where have you two been?’ Lorraine combed her hair and began to dry it with the hair-dryer.
‘With Harper,’ Rosie answered.
‘He’s got five guys, plus him makes six, and you and me. He doesn’t want you to go in, Lorraine.’
‘I want to be there. Did he get a search warrant?’
Rooney shook his head. ‘He didn’t say, but I doubt it. They’re all ex-cops, two grand each.’
‘What?’ Rosie said, astonished.
‘For twelve thousand dollars, it’s worth it,’ Rooney said.
Lorraine switched off the hair-dryer. ‘And Nick Bartello’s dead. If he was alive, Bill, he’d get a hell of a lot more from his share of the one million bonus, so quit beefin’. And you, Rosie.’
Cold Blood Page 49
