Winky sighed. “I’ll tell you.”
Ray waited.
“They had me wrong for that shooting,” Winky said. “I didn’t have nothing to do—”
“Where’s the gun?” Ray asked.
“I sold it to a white boy—kind of a white boy—named Scooby.”
Ray pressed down hard. “I bet he’s got a friend named Shaggy?”
“I swear to God I’m telling you the truth. Dude scores from me.”
“Heroin?”
Winky tried to nod. Ray could feel it under his knee.
“You got his phone number?”
“He ain’t got no phone.”
“Then how do you get in touch with him?”
“He usually comes by here.”
“How can I get in touch with him?” Ray put so much weight down on his knee he thought for sure the kid’s neck was really going to snap.
“Hold up, hold up.”
“Where is he?”
“I been to his apartment once.”
Ray let up almost all the way. Dead men can’t talk.
That name was familiar. He ran into a guy once who went by the nickname Scooby, but he couldn’t put a face to the name.
“What’s he look like?” Ray asked.
Winky shifted around a little, trying to get more comfortable. “He’s a Cuban.”
“Is he really a Cuban, or does he just look Spanish?”
Winky nodded. “He’s kind of dark, but he ain’t black.”
Ray thought back for a second, remembering an arrest, a guy in the Quarter on a dope charge. “What does his hair look like?”
“Poufy,” Winky said. He tried to move his hand to his head to demonstrate but couldn’t reach far enough. “I mean big, all curly.”
“What color is it?”
“Red.”
Same guy. Ray couldn’t remember his real name but it had to be the same guy. He wasn’t Cuban. He was South American or maybe Puerto Rican, and then only half. The other half was white.
“I found that gun right after that shooting,” Winky said. “I figured it was hot, so I sold it to Scooby. He said he needed it for protection.”
“You remember how to get to his apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re coming with me,” Ray said.
“Why? I told you I ain’t had nothing to do with that shit that went down in the Quarter.”
“You’re going to show me where Scooby lives.”
Winky shook his head. “I only been there that one time. I might not be exactly sure about—”
Ray leaned into Winky’s neck again just to shut him up. “You show me where he lives. Then you’re out of it.”
After a few seconds, Winky nodded. “I just got to show you his apartment?”
“That’s all I want.”
Ray shoved Winky into the front passenger seat of his Mustang. The heroin dealer had promised not to try anything stupid. The same went for his girlfriend, who swore she would stay home with their baby until Winky got back. For his part, Ray promised them both that Winky could come home as soon as he pointed out Scooby’s apartment. Then neither of them would ever see Ray again. As insurance, Ray took the girlfriend’s cell phone. The small house didn’t have a landline.
Ray drove south on Elysian Fields Avenue, toward the river. Winky said to turn left on Saint Claude Avenue. They made another left at Poland Avenue. The old two-story apartment building was three blocks down on the left. There were eight apartments, four on each floor. All eight doors faced the street.
Winky jabbed a finger at the ramshackle building. “That’s his apartment right there.”
Ray pulled into a parking lot across the street. “Which one?”
“Top floor,” Winky said, still pointing. “Second door on the right.”
The doors had numbers on them, but from across the street, Ray couldn’t make them out. “Second floor, second door from the right,” Ray repeated. “You sure?”
Winky reached for the door handle. “Positive.”
Ray grabbed his shoulder. “Hold on.”
“I showed you the apartment,” Winky pleaded. “You said that’s all I had to do.”
“What kind of car does he drive?” The small parking lot in front of the building had three cars in it.
“I never seen him drive. When he came to my place, he either got a ride or caught the bus.”
“When were you here?”
“At least a month ago, maybe about six weeks.”
“Was he alone?”
Winky nodded. “Yeah.”
Ray looked into the dope dealer’s eyes, then studied his face, trying to detect any hint of deception, but he could find none. “If you’re lying to me, I’ll come back and kill you, your old lady, and your baby.” Pure bluff, but Ray hoped the kid bought it.
Winky shook his head. “I ain’t gonna lie to you. I know who your people are.” He pulled the handle and cracked the door. “I got nothing to do with whatever that stupid motherfucker Scooby did.”
“You sold him the gun.”
“And that’s all I did. He went and shot somebody with it, that’s on him.” Winky pushed the door open all the way and started to ease out of the car.
Ray jerked him back into his seat.
Winky spun toward him. “You said I could go after I showed you the apartment.”
Ray handed Winky his girlfriend’s cell phone. Then he held out a twenty-dollar bill.
Winky stared at the twenty. “What’s that?”
“Bus fare.”
“Bus is only two dollars.”
“Take a cab.”
Winky looked at Ray for a second. Then he snatched the twenty. “Thanks,” he said as he sprang out of the car.
Ray pulled his Mustang across the street and parked in front of the apartment building. Up close the place looked even more neglected than it had from a distance. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the trash-littered parking lot. Paint was peeling off the doors. The metal stairway that ran up the right side of the building was covered with rust. Mounted to the front wall, near the foot of the stairs, was a row of dented black metal mailboxes, also spotted with rust.
Ray climbed the stairs.
The second door from the right had a metal 7 screwed into the wood just above the peephole. Ray knocked.
What do I do if Scooby opens the door?
I have no fucking idea.
No one opened the door. Ray knocked again.
Still nothing. He tried the knob. It was locked.
The door to apartment six, third from the right, opened and a pretty black girl stuck her head out. She was about twenty. She held a baby against her shoulder. “Who are you?”
“Friend of Scooby’s.”
She looked him up and down. “You’re police.”
Ray knew the cop look never left you. The way you knocked on doors, the way you stood, the way you talked to people—it all spelled POLICE. If he denied it, she wouldn’t believe him.
“I used to be, but not anymore,” he said. “You know if Scooby’s home?” He didn’t give her a chance to deny he lived there.
The baby squirmed as the woman shifted it onto her other shoulder. “Scooby’s dead.”
The words hit Ray like a punch in the gut. “How?”
She pointed with her free hand toward the street. “Night before last, right out there.”
Ray turned but saw only the street and a few cars passing. “What happened?”
“He was waiting for a ride. Somebody shot him. Happens all the time in this neighborhood. That’s why me and my baby sleep on the floor at night, bullets sometimes come into people’s houses.”
“Anyone stay here with him?”
She shook her head. “He ain’t had no girlfriend if that’s what you asking. Me and him used to talk, but that was a while back.”
“You know his real name?”
“Scooby’s all I know.” Her eyes narrowed. “You said you were his friend. Shouldn
’t you know his name?”
Ray didn’t answer, just turned and walked away. The mailboxes at the bottom of the stairs weren’t numbered and not one of them had a name on it, but the seventh one from the left was stuffed with mail. Ray scooped out the envelopes, then climbed into his car.
Just down the street he pulled into a gas station parking lot and flipped through the stack of mail. Almost all the envelopes were addressed to Michael Salazaar. A couple of them were for Dorothy Williams, but Ray figured she was probably a former tenant. Michael Salazaar was the name he had been trying to remember. Now that he had seen it, he was sure.
He remembered a doper he and a couple of other Vice Squad detectives had arrested in the French Quarter. He remembered how he had to grab hold of Salazaar’s big poufy hairdo and wrestle him to the ground.
Michael Salazaar, also known as Scooby.
CHAPTER TEN
The Overnite Motel on Chef Menteur Highway in New Orleans East was a dump. Constructed of painted cinder blocks, the building was a long, two-story rectangle, housing thirty small rooms, all facing the highway. On the left end of the rectangle sat the lobby and a tiny bar.
Rocco was about to turn the Lincoln into the parking lot. “Not here,” Tony said. “Park”—he looked around, then pointed to the Texaco gas station next door—“over there. Pull up there.”
Rocco steered into the gas station. As he stepped out of the car, he asked Tony, “Why here, why not the motel?”
Tony looked over the Town Car’s roof. “Rock, you know, sometimes you’re really stupid.”
Rocco sulked all the way to the motel. Finally, he said, “Why’d you have to say that, about me being stupid?”
“’Cause it’s fucking true. You don’t think this guy might be a little spooked? Maybe he’s looking out the window. He sees my car pull up, you think he’s going to sit there and wait for us to come in?”
Rocco shrugged.
A minute later, standing outside room twelve, on the ground floor, Tony had his ear pressed to the door. Rocco tapped his arm. “How’d you find out Hector was staying here?”
Tony wished the big goof would shut up. “Because I know how people think, especially when they’re trying not to be found.”
“Why doesn’t he want to be found?”
Tony knocked on the door. Inside, someone started moving. Through the door, a voice said, “Who is it?”
Leaning close to the door, Tony said, “Hector, it’s Tony Zello. Open up.”
Silence.
Tony hammered the door with the bottom of his fist. “Open the fuck up, Hector. I need to talk to you.”
Then he heard the rattle of a night chain, and the door opened a crack. An eyeball peered out, looking first at Tony, then Rocco. Hector’s voice said, “How’d you know I was here?”
Tony drove his shoulder against the door. It flew back and smacked Hector on the head, knocking him to the floor. Tony and Rocco rushed in, but Hector got to his feet before they could grab him. He scrambled past the bed and dashed toward the back of the room.
Glancing beyond Hector, Tony saw a sliding glass door. He lunged at Hector, but the little bastard reached out and knocked the lamp off the dresser, dropping it into Tony’s path and slowing him down for a second.
Hector reached the glass door. He flipped open the latch. Tony knew he couldn’t catch Hector before the little spic son of a bitch got out. Tony snatched his snub-nosed .38 from his waistband and shot Hector twice in the back.
Rocco stopped dead in his tracks. “What did you do that for?”
Tony kicked the front door closed and tucked the revolver back into his pants. “He was going to get away.”
Hector was crumpled into a pile beside the back door, the two dark bullet holes in stark silhouette against his white T-shirt. As Tony rolled him onto his back, a breath of air rattled from Hector’s open mouth. Tony knelt beside him and pressed two fingers against the side of his neck. There was no pulse. Hector the doorman was dead. His sightless eyes stared at the ceiling.
Rocco started pulling the covers off the bed.
“What are you doing?” Tony asked.
“We’ve got to get him out of here, and it’s broad daylight. I’m going to use the bedspread to wrap him up.”
“We’re not moving him.”
Rocco stopped and stared at Tony. “What do you mean?” “Just what I said.” Tony stepped over Hector and opened the back door. A place with back doors was something he’d have to remember in case he needed a room with a quick escape route. “We’re leaving him here.”
Behind the motel ran a narrow concrete walkway, on the other side of which, not more than four feet away, stood a six-foot, wooden privacy fence that separated the motel from the back of another business on the next street over. Tony stepped through the door and turned left. He strolled toward the Texaco station. Rocco, shuffling along behind him, said, “I still don’t understand why you had to shoot Hector.”
Tony spoke over his shoulder. “That’s why I do all the thinking, Rock, not you.”
They didn’t speak again until they were inside the Lincoln. Rocco sat behind the wheel. He looked puzzled. “I thought we were just going to talk to him.”
“You can’t talk to a man who’s running from you,” Tony said.
As Rocco pulled out of the Texaco parking lot, he looked at Tony. “But now that he’s dead, we’ll never get to talk to him.”
Tony took a deep breath. “Just drive the goddamn car, Rocco. Just drive the goddamn car.”
Ray asked Jimmy LaGrange, “Do you remember Michael Salazaar?”
LaGrange shook his head.
“He was a dope fiend we arrested in the French Quarter,” Ray said. He held his hand a foot above his head. “Guy with the hair.”
LaGrange shrugged.
They were in a little bar off Banks Street. When Ray had called to set up a meeting, LaGrange insisted on picking the spot. He made it clear he didn’t want to be seen with Ray.
“We were coming out of Felix’s Oyster House,” Ray said. “Guy walked right up to us and asked if we wanted some dope. I was loaded down with a dozen fried oysters and half a loaf of French bread in my gut and could barely move, so I told him to beat it. But he kept on asking, just begging to go to jail.”
LaGrange nodded like he was starting to remember, then said, “That’s the guy we had the fight with. Ended up, he didn’t even have any dope on him.”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“I remember now. What about him?”
“His nickname was Scooby.”
“So?”
“So he’s dead,” Ray said. “Got nailed in a drive-by shooting a couple nights ago, right in front of his apartment building.”
“Who cares?”
“I need some information on him.”
LaGrange leaned back in his chair. “Why?”
“He’s the one Winky sold that Smith forty to.”
“You think he’s one of the guys who hit you?”
Ray took a sip of whiskey, then lit a fresh cigarette. “That’s why I want to see his rap sheet. He didn’t have a spiderweb tattoo on his hand when we arrested him, but that was what . . .” Ray tried to remember how long it had been, relative to the big event in his life, going to prison. “. . . at least six or seven years ago. I want to find out if he’s been arrested since then and if his sheet lists any tattoos.”
“You don’t understand what you’re asking—”
“Yes I do, Jimmy.” Ray stared at him until LaGrange looked away. “I’m asking you to help me.”
The waitress came by with fresh drinks. Ray dropped a twenty on her tray. After she left, Ray said, “Something else I need . . .”
LaGrange rubbed a hand across his forehead and grabbed his drink with the other. “What’s that?”
“Rap associates on Scooby. I’ve got to look at everybody he’s been arrested with.”
“What are you looking for?”
“The guys who hit
us were smooth.”
“So?”
“That means they knew each other and knew what to expect from each other.”
LaGrange took a sip of his drink. “What do you think about Salazaar getting blown away like that, right after the job?”
Ray dragged on his cigarette and took a slurp of Jameson. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
“You think it’s a coincidence?”
Ray shook his head. “There’s no such thing.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ray dashed under the awning that overhung the front door of the House. It was 7:00 PM and pouring rain. Ray was soaking wet. He had just run from the parking lot two blocks away. Once out of the rain, he doubled over and braced his hands on his knees. He felt like throwing up.
The new doorman gave him a concerned look. “You all right?”
“Just trying to catch my breath,” Ray wheezed. He recognized the doorman from behind the downstairs bar, one of the backs. He didn’t look Italian enough to stay up front for long. Tony was big into the Guido thing. If you didn’t look the part of a Hollywood wiseguy, you couldn’t front for the House.
To Tony Z., image was everything. Which was why he put Hector, who didn’t have an ounce of Italian blood in him and who didn’t know calamari from catfish, as the front man, because he looked the part. Except now Tony needed a new front man because Hector wasn’t coming back, ever.
As soon as he was able to breathe, Ray stood straight and fished a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He stuck a butt in his mouth and flicked his Zippo but couldn’t get it to light. Finally, he waved the lighter at the guy standing by the door. “You got a light?”
The doorman shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”
Ray pulled open the door.
As he stepped inside, Ray almost bumped into a tall brunette wearing a dark fur wrap. She had a pile of hair stacked on top of her head, held tight by a diamond-studded clip, or what looked like diamonds. The clip resembled a crown and would have given her a kind of fairy-tale princess look if it hadn’t been for the painted-on leather pants, spiked heels, and push-up blouse under the wrap.
She smacked her gum a few times, then held out a set of keys to Ray. “It’s the maroon Jag.”
House of the Rising Sun Page 9
