Tony eyed his boss carefully, studying his expression, seeing him warming to the idea that maybe Shane had something to do with it. Time to switch sides, let Vinnie come up with the rest of it by himself. “Then again, maybe Shane’s right, maybe it’s just a big coincidence.”
“A coincidence that Shane was on the door when it happened?”
Tony nodded.
Vinnie shook his head. “I don’t believe in coincidences.” The old guy was slow, but if you nudged him in the right direction, he usually caught on. Tony frowned like he didn’t understand. “What are you saying?”
Vinnie rubbed a hand across his face. “Keep an eye on Shane. If he takes one step you think is out of line, I want you to bring him in.”
Tony nodded. “You got it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
For five hours Ray Shane sat in his car watching the door to Dylan Sylvester’s apartment on Clouet Street, smoking cigarettes and drinking. Just coffee at first, then spiking it with a little Jameson as the hours wore on. The apartment was the last known address listed on Sylvester’s rap sheet.
During those five hours, the door to Dylan Sylvester’s apartment didn’t open once. At one o’clock in the afternoon, bored out of his skull and light-headed from the booze, Ray decided to try the direct approach.
He had it all worked out in his head. Sylvester would answer the door, and Ray, since he had no gun, would take him down hard and frisk him for weapons. Then he would secure Sylvester with something. Too bad he didn’t have a pair of handcuffs.
But what if there were other people in the apartment? No problem. He knew how to deal with that.
From inside the glove box he grabbed a sap, a flat, eight-inch-long strip of hardened leather, shaped like a spoon and filled with lead at the wide end. It was an old-time piece of police equipment, not even legal when Ray had been on the job. He hefted the twelve-ounce sap in his hand. Anyone inside the apartment who interfered would get smacked down hard.
Sylvester’s apartment was on the first floor. During his surveillance, Ray had seen people coming and going from different apartments all morning, mostly one at a time, with no heavy foot traffic in and out. It didn’t look like anyone was selling dope from the building. As he climbed out of his car, Ray slipped the sap into his back pocket and walked up to Sylvester’s door.
He wasn’t sure what to expect, but was pretty certain there was going to be trouble. Nervous sweat dripped from his armpits as he tapped on the door. A long time ago he had learned that if you want people to answer the door, especially criminals, you don’t pound on it like the police, you knock softly.
Seconds later, the door sprang opened. The quickness of the response from inside the apartment caught Ray a little off guard. He was reaching for his sap when he found himself looking at a five-foot-tall Vietnamese woman. Behind her, a pack of kids ran in circles and yapped. She didn’t speak much English, and Ray didn’t speak any Vietnamese. It took five minutes, but through a combination of pidgin English and hand signs Ray found out that no one named Dylan Sylvester—or anyone with a spiderweb tattoo—lived in the apartment. The woman and her kids had been there six months, and the address on Dylan’s rap sheet was dated almost a year ago.
Half a day wasted, Ray thought as he trudged down the ramp into the parking lot under police headquarters. After the fiasco at the apartment, he had gone home, left a phone message for Jimmy LaGrange, kicked back a couple stiff drinks, then stretched out on his bed.
When he woke up at four o’clock, LaGrange hadn’t called, so Ray decided to go see him in person. The basement parking lot was packed with cars, but Ray found the one he was looking for, a beat-up Dodge with a kid seat in the back. LaGrange’s personal car. It was like the ex-Vice cop had said, he was a detective in name only, stuck in the Crime Analysis Section, working nine to five, with no take-home car.
At twenty minutes past five, LaGrange was part of a slow trickle of day-watch employees stumbling out of the building through the double fire doors next to the property room. As LaGrange unlocked his car, Ray slipped up behind him. “You’re late.”
The detective spun around. “What the fuck—”
“I figured you were the type to leave early so I’ve been sitting here since a quarter to five.”
LaGrange put a hand to his chest. “Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack. What do you want?”
“I left you a message.”
The detective opened his car door and flung his attaché across to the passenger seat. He looked over his shoulder at Ray as he slid behind the steering wheel. “That’s because we got nothing to talk about.”
Ray pointed to the baby seat. “What did you say you had, a boy or a girl?”
LaGrange pushed the key into the ignition and cranked the motor. “A little girl.”
Ray stood just inside the driver’s door, one hand on the roof, the other on top of the door frame. “I need a better address on Sylvester.”
LaGrange tried to pull the door closed but couldn’t, not with Ray standing in the way and refusing to budge. “I can’t help you anymore. I told you I’m through.”
“How old is she?”
LaGrange looked confused. “What?”
With a nod toward the empty kid seat in the back of the Dodge, Ray said, “Your daughter, how old is she?”
“Three.” Suspicion clouded LaGrange’s face. “Why?”
Ray stood silent for several seconds, just staring at his old partner. Then he said, “I’d hate for her to grow up without her daddy.”
LaGrange’s face turned hard and his eyes narrowed. He let go of the steering wheel with his right hand and edged it toward the service pistol holstered on his hip. “What are you talking about?”
All you had to do was talk about a man’s kid, mention the little brat in just the right context, the guy got upset. “I need one more favor,” Ray said. “Then I’ll leave you alone.”
“I asked you a question,” LaGrange said, his right hand hidden by his side.
“Don’t blow a gasket,” Ray said, pointing in the direction of LaGrange’s concealed right hand. “I doubt you could get that piece out in time anyway. And even if you did, what are you going to do, shoot me?”
“If I have to,” LaGrange said.
“Why? I’m unarmed. I’m your ex-partner. All we’re doing is talking about old times.”
“You threatened my family.”
Ray shook his head. “No I didn’t. I was just talking about the good old days. You remember the good old days, don’t you? Back when we ran the French Quarter, back when we did all that crazy shit, all that illegal shit. But the federal government says I’ve paid for my sins. How about you, Jimmy, you paid for your sins yet?”
LaGrange eased his hand away from his gun. “The statute of limitations has run on everything we did. Nobody can touch me.”
Ray leaned closer. “Not on everything.”
LaGrange swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “What do you mean?”
“There’s no statute on murder.”
LaGrange was quiet. Then he wiped his hand across his mouth. “I never murdered anybody.”
They stared at each other in silence. Finally, LaGrange looked away.
“The Rose Motel,” Ray said. “Room fifteen.”
Right in front of Ray’s eyes, Jimmy LaGrange deflated like an old tire that had sprung a leak. “That was an accident.”
“You accidentally strangled her?”
“I was drunk,” LaGrange said as beads of sweat popped out on his lily-white forehead. “I don’t even remember what happened.”
“I remember what happened, and I remember where her body is buried.”
LaGrange’s breathing sounded labored. He was having trouble catching his breath. “You helped me put her there.”
“How old was she, fifteen?”
“She was a junkie whore.” LaGrange got his breathing under control. “There’s no evidence. It’s just your word against mine, and you’re a con
victed felon.”
Ray shook his head. “You’re wrong, Jimmy. There’s plenty of evidence. They’ll start with the body. It’s just bones now, but bones can tell a story. Then there’s the motel register. I’m sure they keep the old registers in storage somewhere.”
The detective’s face went slack.
“You didn’t use your real name, did you?” Ray said, his tone mocking. He was enjoying watching his old partner squirm. “Even if you didn’t, the handwriting will give you away. Amazing what those lab guys can do, isn’t it?” Ray snapped his fingers, as if he had just thought of something important. “Hey, you think they keep phone records from that far back? Because I was wondering if she ever called you at home?” Ray watched a drop of sweat roll down the side of LaGrange’s face. “There sure are a lot of little loose ends, aren’t there?”
“You’ve got just as much to lose as me.”
“You’re wrong again, Jimmy.” Ray pointed to the kid seat again. “You’ve got a lot to lose. I got nothing.”
LaGrange reached for his attaché case and stepped out of his battered Dodge. “Give me an hour.”
It took an hour and a half, but LaGrange slid a plain white envelope across the table to Ray. They were in the same yuppie coffee shop on Canal Boulevard. Inside the envelope Ray found two sheets of paper stapled together. It was an incident report about a car burglary. He asked LaGrange what this had to do with anything. LaGrange held up his hands. “We’re finished.” Then he got up and walked out of the coffee shop.
Ray lit a cigarette and read the report. This time the waitress didn’t bother telling him to put it out. When he finished reading, he was smiling.
Tony stood next to the pay phone at the corner of Saint Peter and Bourbon, drumming his fingers against the side of the aluminum booth.
He looked at his watch. It was eight p.m.
Patience wasn’t Tony’s style. He hated to be kept waiting. This was even worse. He felt like he had a target on his back. This whole setup stank. The waiting was just making him more paranoid. He kept looking around, waiting to catch someone spying on him.
An hour ago he was walking out of the House when a ten-year-old street urchin ran up to him and handed him a note. The kid was one of those tap dancers from Bourbon Street who danced with an upside-down hat on the sidewalk, tapping for tips. Tony took the note, gave the kid a buck, and told him to get lost. The kid said, “The man who gave me this said you would give me ten bucks.”
Fucking ten-year-old trying to hustle him. Tony crumpled up a five and tossed it in the gutter, told the kid if he didn’t get lost right now he would drag him up to the roof and throw him off. Did he think he could tap his feet fast enough to fly?
Tony unfolded the note and read the message scrawled in pen across a torn piece of notebook paper. Go to the phone booth down from Pat O’s. I’ll call you there.
When? Stupid bastard didn’t even say when he was going to call. Then there was the question of why. Why should Tony go to the phone booth? What kind of jerk-off sends an anonymous note? Who uses pay phones anymore? If the guy wanted to talk, why not call the House or Tony’s cell phone?
Unless my phones are tapped.
Tony and Rocco strolled through the Quarter toward the phone booth on the corner of Bourbon and Saint Peter, a half block from the door to Pat O’Brien’s. While they walked, Tony kept glancing around. He knew the guy had to be watching him.
The French Quarter was bustling with people. The tourists—some sober, most already bombed—and a handful of locals flowed through the streets looking for a good time. The air was alive with the sounds of jazz, blues, R&B, Cajun, and rap that poured from the bars, restaurants, and souvenir shops along Bourbon Street. The sounds of the French Quarter were unique. So were the smells: red pepper, Crystal hot sauce, shrimp, oysters, Tabasco, po’boys, Lucky Dogs, beer, urine, and vomit.
Tony felt like cracking somebody’s head, or having Rocco do it for him. Then the pay phone rang. Tony snatched the handset off the hook and barked into the mouthpiece, “Who the fuck is this?”
A man’s voice said, “How you been doing, Tony?”
The voice didn’t mean anything to Tony. Maybe he had heard it before, maybe not, but the guy talked like they knew each other. “Who is this?”
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” the voice said. “We’re going to do this my way.”
Tony’s fist tightened around the handset. “I got news for you, pal. I’m not a man who likes to be jerked around, and when I find out who you are, I’m gonna cut off—”
“I got a proposition for you.”
Tony took a deep breath to calm down. “People come into my office all day long with propositions for me. I don’t do business over a fucking pay phone.”
The man didn’t say anything. Finally, sick of listening to the hum of the phone line, Tony said, “What kind of proposition?”
“I’ve got some information for you.”
“And you want something for it, right?”
“Of course.”
“What kind of information?”
“Meet me at Fat Harry’s in an hour.”
Tony snorted. “Fuck you.”
The voice remained calm. “Believe me, you want this information.”
“I’m not meeting you anywhere. I don’t even know who the fuck you are.”
“An hour, Tony.”
The balls on this fucking guy, telling him, ordering him around like he was some sort of lackey. What kind of information could this clown possibly have that would interest him? “How am I supposed to recognize you?”
“Don’t worry,” the voice said. “I’ll recognize you.”
“How?” Tony asked, a tingle of anxiety beginning to creep up his spine. “Do we know each other?”
“Hey, Tony,” the voice said.
“Yeah?”
“Leave your lapdog at home.”
The line went dead.
An hour and a half later, Tony Z. sat at a rough wooden table in a back corner of Fat Harry’s Saloon on Saint Charles Avenue. He had left Rocco at the House. The big man hadn’t liked it at all. “What’s the matter with you?” Rocco had whined. “This guy, who the fuck knows who he is, is setting you up for something. Someone’s looking to hit you, Tony.”
But whatever it was, it wasn’t a hit, at least not a hit from inside the family. This wasn’t how they operated. They didn’t pass notes, didn’t call you on a pay phone with a lot of vague bullshit. When they wanted you hit—Tony knew, he had done it twice before—they got your best friend to call you up for a meeting, maybe invite you for a beer. Then when you least expected it, something brushed the back of your head, and in that moment you knew, you knew you had breathed your last breath. Then came the POP! as the .22 went off and the little bullet, smaller than an aspirin, blasted into your brain and the lights went out. Forever.
Both times Tony had wondered what it felt like, in that split second, microsecond really, as the bullet left the barrel and blew through your hair, your scalp, your skull. Did you feel it? Or was it all too quick to register?
Tony sat with his back to the wall, sipping his second scotch, when a guy walked in wearing jeans and a dark blue sport coat over a gray golf shirt. Tony recognized him. Not sure whom he had been expecting, but knowing he hadn’t been expecting this guy.
“Buy me a drink,” the guy said as he sat down on the wooden bench across the table from Tony.
Tony knew he was a cop. He was a dirty cop, but what other kind was there? He just couldn’t recall his name. Not right off. The name was there, creeping along the fringe of his memory. The guy was Vice, or used to be, which made him double dirty.
“Who the fuck are you?” Tony asked.
The guy laughed. “That’s just like you, Tony, such a big shot you don’t remember the little people who put you so close to the top.”
If the guy wasn’t a cop, Tony would have smacked him right then. Instead, he drained his glass and started to stand. “I don�
��t know what kind of game you’re running, but I don’t have time for it.”
The guy held up his hand, gesturing for Tony to stay. “My name is Jimmy LaGrange. I used to be in Vice. Ray Shane was my partner.”
Now, Tony remembered him. He was the one who didn’t end up in prison.
The cop signaled for the waitress. When she came over, he ordered a drink on Tony’s tab and told her to bring Tony a refill.
The balls on this guy. When the girl left, Tony said, “You got sixty seconds.”
The cop opened his mouth to speak, but Tony cut him off. “First, why all the cloak-and-dagger bullshit?”
“Figure it out for yourself,” the cop said. “You’re a mobster, I’m a detective. I know the feds are watching the Rising Sun, so I’m pretty sure they’re listening to your phones. I don’t want to end up on any government tapes.”
Tony drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t give a shit about the FB—fucking—I. They got to do something to justify their budget, so they’re always hanging around, taking pictures, watching people, and yeah, probably listening to my phones, but the bottom line is, they can’t make a case to save their fucking lives. Believe me, the FBI is the last thing on my mind.”
The waitress came and set their drinks down.
Tony looked at his watch. “Your minute’s almost up.”
The cop wrapped his hand around his glass and took a sip. Then he said, “I know Shane is working for you, and I know who he’s trying to find.”
Tony got uncomfortable. He didn’t know anything about this asshole, yet this asshole seemed to know a lot about him. Tony eyed the guy’s sport coat. “What is this, some kind of amateur-hour shakedown? You wearing a wire, Detective?”
The cop laughed. “You want to go into the can and feel my balls? ’Cause that’s where we put wires, you know? Right under our balls so homophobes like you won’t find them.”
Tony jumped to his feet.
“Sit down, douche bag.” The cop looked around like he was embarrassed for Tony. He sure sounded like a cop. Had that cocky cop confidence.
House of the Rising Sun Page 12
