“Answer the question.”
“No, I haven’t seen him.”
Tony peered past her shoulder. “You sure?”
Jenny tapped the heel of her palm against her forehead. “You’re right, Tony. I forgot. Ray’s in the bedroom. We’ve been screwing since I got home.”
“Don’t get smart with me. I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”
She pressed a hand against the door frame next to the chain. “That’s a nice thought, Tony, but I think I’ll pass.”
He slipped a finger through the door and traced the tip along the back of her hand. “I never heard you complain before.”
“Fuck you, Tony,” Jenny said, her voice toneless and tired.
“Open the door.” Tony’s voice was soft. “I still need to talk to you.”
She shook her head.
Tony glanced over his shoulder at Joey, then back at Jenny. The edge came back into his voice. “Open it, or I’ll break it down.”
“You mean you’ll have your boyfriend break it down. You’re too much of a pussy to do it yourself.”
She jumped back as Tony shoved his arm through the crack and tried to grab her.
“I’ll wring your fucking neck, you cunt.”
Standing back, just out of his reach, Jenny held the cordless phone up in front of him. “You don’t leave right now, I’m calling the cops.”
“You better open this fucking door.”
She pressed the TALK button and a dial tone buzzed from the speaker. Jenny pressed the 9, then the 1. With her finger still poised over the 1, she said, “You going to leave me alone, or do you want me to press it?”
Tony glared at her, but he pulled his hand back.
She said, “On a nine-one-one call, even if I hang up, they dispatch a car.”
In frustration, Tony smacked his fist against the door, then once more pressed his face through the crack. He jabbed a finger at her. “I’ll deal with you later.” Then he was gone, stalking down the hall with Joey trotting along after him.
Jenny closed the door. As she turned the thumb latch on the dead bolt, Ray stepped into the den. “That was good thinking, that thing with the phone.”
She walked toward him and stood close. “Is your car outside?” she asked, worried Tony had seen it.
“I took the bus.”
The thought of Ray Shane, tough-guy, ex-Vice detective, riding a city bus made her laugh. Picturing him getting on, fishing through his pocket for the exact fare—they didn’t give change—then stuffing himself into a tiny seat, waiting for his stop. She laughed harder, laughed until her belly hurt and tears came to her eyes.
He watched her for a while. Then said, “What’s so funny?” Still laughing, holding her stomach, she said, “You on the bus.”
He grinned. “I’ve lived here all my life, and it was the first time I’ve ever been on one.”
“Where is your car?”
“At my place,” he said. “I had to leave in a hurry.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
He shook his head. “And tell them what, the mob is trying to kill me?”
Jenny nodded. “Why not?”
“I’m just another ex-con. The cops aren’t going to do anything to help me.”
“So what did you do?”
“Caught the bus and rode around.”
“Soaking wet?”
“To the driver, I was just another nut with nowhere to go.” Ray wrung his shirttail. Water dripped on the floor.
Jenny hadn’t noticed before but Ray’s clothes were wet.
“When the bus stopped on Canal Street, I got off and walked here.”
“And brought Tony with you.”
He shrugged.
After a long look at him she made a decision. “Get your clothes off and get in the shower.”
He didn’t say anything, but his eyes told her he was grateful.
“Believe it or not,” she said, “I’ve still got some of your clothes.”
“Did you believe her?” Joey asked.
Tony looked over at him. “She knows better than to lie to me. I’ve kicked her ass before, and the little bitch knows I’ll do it again.”
Joey had both hands on the wheel as he steered the big Lincoln down Canal Street. “Where we going?”
“Fuck if I know,” Tony said, more to himself than to Joey.
And that was the problem. He didn’t have any idea. He knew he had to find Shane. But how? Where was he? Tony didn’t know where else to look.
Joey said, “How about his family or maybe his friends? That’s probably where he’d go if he got in a jam.”
Tony shook his head. “I thought of that. Our line of work, people don’t fill out applications and leave the phone numbers of people to reach in case of an emergency.”
Joey didn’t say anything else, so Tony went back to thinking about his problem. Thinking how he had Shane in his grasp and let him slip away. A wave of rage washed over him, and he pounded his fist against the dashboard. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Joey jump. Joey was another problem. Technically, he worked for Tony, but everyone at the club ultimately worked for Vinnie.
Tony wondered if he could count on Joey. Or would Joey feel obligated to report to Vinnie that they had lost Shane? So far, Joey had not been out of Tony’s sight, so there was no way Vinnie could know what had happened, at least not yet. But what about later?
Tony glanced at his watch. It was 6:00 AM. There was still time to straighten this out. All he had to do was keep an eye on Joey—don’t let him use the phone—and find that prick Shane. Tony hadn’t made it this far just to let a crooked ex-cop fuck everything up. And he had come a long way.
Growing up in the Irish Channel with seven brothers and sisters, the Zellos were the only Italians in the neighborhood. His dad worked thirty years as a pipe fitter, but never put in any overtime because he liked the booze too much. Without enough money for Catholic school, the Zello kids went to public school.
At McDonogh No. 35, they were the only white faces in the hallways. Tony had to fight every day—fight to get to his locker, fight to get to class, fight to get home. By tenth grade, he’d had enough. He cut out of school early and told his mom and dad he was quitting.
“The hell you are,” his father said, his booze breath washing over Tony. “You’re gonna graduate and get a good job.”
“I got a good job.”
Mr. Zello’s eyebrows shot up in an exaggerated look of surprise. “You do, huh?”
“I work for Mr. Nicky.”
Tony’s father might have been a poor white-trash boozer, but he was an honest poor white-trash boozer. He knew Nick, knew Nick was connected, knew Nick ran numbers and shylocked on the side. Nick even ran a little protection racket on the businesses along Saint Claude Avenue. “You’re staying away from Nick, and you’re staying in school,” his father said.
They were in the kitchen and his dad had already turned around to pour himself another drink when Tony said, “I’m not going back. Fuck those niggers, fuck that school, and fuck . . . you.”
The speed of the move caught Tony by surprise. His father spun around, highball glass in his right hand, and smashed it against the side of Tony’s head. Sprawled on the kitchen floor, Tony pulled his hand away from his head and saw it was covered with blood. The next day he went to a doctor and had the three-inch slice above his left ear sewn up. That was twenty-five years ago, and he had not seen his father since.
Riding in his Lincoln, Joey driving, Tony was on the verge of seeing everything he had worked for disappear because of one man—Ray Shane. With no idea where Shane was, no leads on where to start looking, and time running out before Vinnie found out what had happened, Tony decided to make a career move. He was going to—
“Hey, Tony, you listening?”
“Huh?” Tony looked at Joey. Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard the big goon. “What did you say?”
“I said, where to?”
; They were at the foot of Canal Street, at the river. “Head uptown on Tchoupitoulas.”
“Where we going?”
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After Ray got out of the shower, Jenny handed him the clothes she had dug out of the bedroom closet. She sat on the end of the bed while he slipped on an old pair of khakis. After buttoning them, Ray ran his hand down inside the waistband, showing her a couple inches of extra room. “Prison food is pretty lousy.” After he pulled on a blue golf shirt, he said, “I can’t believe you kept this stuff.”
For weeks after Ray was arrested, Jenny Porter cried herself to sleep every night, her face buried in one of his shirts. After a while the shirts stopped smelling like him, so she had washed them and hung them up in the closet, eventually forgetting about them. She supposed that somewhere in the back of her mind she had always hoped he would come back. However, that was something Ray didn’t need to know. She gave him a smile. “Goodwill wouldn’t take them.”
He pointed to the closet. “Any chance you got a pair of my old shoes in there?”
She shook her head. “I’ll light a fire and we can dry your shoes in front of the fireplace.”
She was glad when they left the bedroom. Too many memories, both good and bad. In the den she crouched in front of the small fireplace and struck a long match. She turned the gas valve until she heard the hiss. Then she held the flame near the jets until the gas ignited. Ray padded over on bare feet and set his shoes and socks down in front of the brick hearth.
The clock on the mantle read 6:30.
Jenny said, “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Eggs all right?”
He nodded. “That’d be great.”
Just like that, she flashed back as a montage of images from a better time played in her mind.
Late afternoon, both of them about to leave for work, Ray with the Vice Squad, she as a bartender. She stood in the kitchen in bare feet, whipping up something for him to eat before he left. Kissing him on his way out the door, telling him to be careful.
Jenny cracked four eggs for the both of them, then threw in an extra one, remembering how skinny Ray had gotten in prison, and scrambled them in a skillet. She toasted bread and poured orange juice. After they ate, Ray helped her pick up. That part was new. He used to stuff his food down and rush out, leaving everything on the table for her to clean up before she left for work.
By the time they finished cleaning up the kitchen, it was 7:00 AM, and Jenny was dead tired.
As if he had read her mind, Ray stifled a yawn and said, “You mind if I crash on the sofa? I’m about to pass out.”
No, she didn’t mind. She almost, almost but not quite, told him he could take half the bed. It was the same bed they used to sleep in together every night. Both of them needed sleep, what was the harm? She didn’t tell him that, though, because he might say no. He might say no because she was a whore, or because he was afraid of catching something, or both. Jenny didn’t think she could bear hearing him say no, so she didn’t say anything.
Instead she pulled a spare pillow and blanket down from the shelf in the hall closet and tossed them to him. Ray leaned the pillow against the armrest and was unfolding the blanket when Jenny asked, “You ever think of where we’d be if we hadn’t messed our lives up so bad?”
Ray didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on the blanket as he spread it out on the sofa.
Embarrassed by his silence, she forced out a laugh and said, “Probably doesn’t matter. People like us always screw things up.”
He stood up and looked at her with a penetrating stare. She tried to meet it, but after a couple of seconds she had to look away. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper, “I think about it every day.”
Her belly tightened as a lump formed in her throat, forcing her to swallow a couple of times before she said, “Me, too.”
“What you said earlier, about how people can change, do you really believe that?”
Afraid her voice would crack, she just nodded.
“How?” he asked.
She stood across the sofa from him, looking straight in his eyes. “First, I think you’ve got to admit that whatever happened is your fault, and then you’ve got to make up your mind that you’re going to change.” She saw him shaking his head, so before he had a chance to interrupt, she added, “Then you’ve just got to do it. You’ve got to change. Just quit doing the things you used to do.”
Ray’s gaze faltered and he looked away. “I wish it was that easy.” He sat down on the end of the sofa, his back to her.
She walked around and sat down near him, not next to him, not crowding him, leaving a foot or so of cushion between them. “I didn’t say it was easy.”
With his elbows resting on his knees, Ray leaned forward. “One night when I first got on the job, maybe two or three months out of the academy, me and my partner, my field training officer, got a call. Shots fired. It was a little neighborhood off North Galvez in the Third District. We roll up on the scene and I see this guy lying in the street, really half in the street and half on the grass. He’s shot to shit, maybe six, seven holes in his chest and one in his face. Blew the back of his head out.
“There’s a lady standing ten feet away screaming and crying. Turns out the victim is her husband. Later we find out he was a shithead, owed somebody money over a dope deal, but at the time we didn’t know that. She’s pointing across the street screaming that the guy who shot her husband ran between two houses.
“My FTO, a big fat dude who had been on the job twenty years and couldn’t run ten feet, he tells me to go after the guy while he calls it in and secures the crime scene. So off I go, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. I’m creeping down this pitch-black alley, and I hear a big dog barking like crazy, hear his claws tearing at a chain-link fence.
“Next thing I know I hear a shot. I duck and aim my light and my gun toward the back of the alley. I see the guy trying to go over the fence into the backyard. There’s a dog back there on the ground just on the other side of the fence. The guy has shot the dog and is trying to climb over the fence. I take a shot at him but my hand’s shaking so bad I miss. Doesn’t matter, though, the guy hears the shot, he throws down his gun, puts his hands up, and surrenders.
“I hear my partner screaming from the street, but he doesn’t come down the alley because he’s scared. I cuff the perp, pick up his gun, and walk back to the car.”
Ray was quiet for a few seconds, staring down at the floor. “I never felt so good in my life.”
She reached across the space between them and laid a hand on his leg, not a sexual gesture, just one of reassurance. “Why did you tell me that story, Ray?”
He took a deep breath. “Everything was simple then. I was the good guy. The man in that alley, he was the bad guy. A week later my FTO and I respond to a house burglary. The owner was out jogging and somebody broke in. Owner stays outside while we go in to check the residence, make sure whoever did it is gone. Upstairs in the bedroom my partner finds the owner’s wallet. It’s obvious the burglar didn’t get upstairs, nothing’s moved around, no sign the place has been tossed. My partner slips the guy’s wallet into his pocket. End of the shift he hands me sixty bucks, says it’s my cut.”
“What did you do?”
He looked at her. “Put it in my pocket.”
A frown crossed her face. “You kept it?”
Ray shrugged. “He was my FTO. He wrote my evaluations. On my way home that night I felt bad about it. I was stopped at the light at Tulane and Jeff Davis and I see this bum sitting on the neutral ground. He had one of those signs, handwritten on cardboard with a piece of string looped around his neck. Sign said ‘help a Vietnam vet,’ or ‘will work for food,’ something like that. I rolled down my window, wadded up the money, and threw it at him.”
Jenny reached behind him and rubbed his back. “You serious about changing?”
“It’s too late,” he said.
She asked him again, “Are you serious about changing?”
Silence. Then he nodded. “I want to.”
“Wanting to is not enough. You’ve got to do it.” But talk was cheap. She was stuck in the same trap as Ray. She wanted to change, wanted to change so badly it hurt, but she didn’t have the strength. Until now. She had never verbalized it like she was doing right now. Hearing her own words as they bounced off Ray and came back. She could do it, and she could help him do it.
Ray snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”
Jenny pulled her hand away and shook her head, feeling a new strength. “What did I tell you that you had to do first?”
Ray didn’t answer.
“You have to admit it’s your fault.”
“What’s my fault?”
“Everything.”
“Everything’s my fault?” he said, sounding defensive.
She wasn’t going to back down, wasn’t going to let him off the hook. This was going to be painful, but necessary. “Being a crooked cop and a thief was your fault, Ray, no one else’s.”
He started to stand, but she grabbed his arm and held him down. “Just like it’s my fault I’m a whore.”
Ray turned to her. “At least you had a reason.”
Jenny shook her head. “My mom getting sick isn’t a reason. I could have done something different, but I chose not to. I chose to become a whore and fuck for money.” She felt the tears spill over and run down her cheeks. “I let any man who can afford it stick his dick in me, stick it anywhere he wants.”
“Shut up.” Ray had his eyes closed like he was in pain.
She went on. “Don’t sugarcoat it. You might be a crook and a thief, but at least you paid for what you did. Me, I’m still doing it, and I’m nothing but a—”
He spun toward her, grabbed her shoulders with both hands, and shook her. “Stop it!”
But she didn’t stop. “What you did was your fault. Just like what I did was my fault. But neither one of us ever has to make the same mistake again.” She took a deep breath. “I’m finished at the House. I’ll give up whatever I have to, this apartment, my car, everything, but I’m finished.”
House of the Rising Sun Page 17
