He leaned over and hugged her. “Me, too.”
They were too early, so Tony told Joey to stop at Rickabono’s Café on Panola Street. Tony took his time. He ate a big breakfast, two jumbo waffles, a glass of juice, and three cups of coffee. At first Joey tried to ask questions, but Tony told him to shut up and eat.
The muscle head wasn’t happy about the menu—too much fat, too many carbohydrates, and not enough protein. Still, he managed to stuff down a pile of pancakes after drowning them in a pool of maple syrup deep enough to float a small boat in; then he stuffed down enough scrambled eggs to choke a horse.
After breakfast they headed downtown. Joey parked the car where Tony told him. The big man looked surprised as he looked at the building. “This is where the boss has his office?”
Tony nodded.
“You want me to come in with you?” Joey asked, sounding hopeful.
“Stay in the fucking car,” Tony said. “Don’t go anywhere, don’t talk to anybody.”
The muscle head nodded.
“Where’s your cell phone?” Tony asked.
“Huh?”
“Your cell phone, let me see it,” Tony demanded. He didn’t need Joey reporting in to Vinnie as soon as he was out of the car.
Joey pulled his phone out of his pocket.
Tony snatched it from his hand.
“Hey . . .”
Tony glared at him. “Hey, what?”
With a shrug, Joey said, “Nothing. You can borrow it if you need it.”
“Thanks,” Tony said, lacing the word with sarcasm.
Inside the faded blue building, Tony tried to breeze past Connie . . . Karen, whatever the fuck her name was, and go straight in to see the Old Man. But she stopped him. He didn’t have an appointment. The boss didn’t like surprise visitors. That’s why he had a secretary.
Tony sat in a small chair across the reception room from Connie or Karen, imaging her naked, bent over her desk. He got hard thinking about it. He had to wait fifteen minutes. Then she let him in to see the boss.
In the Old Man’s office, Tony dropped into the same chair he had sat in before. Carlos Messina looked impatient. “I’m surprised to see you here again.” Translation: this better be important.
“You mentioned you wanted me to keep an eye on things and let you know what was happening,” Tony said. More nervous than he thought he would be.
“That’s why I got a phone.”
Tony took a deep breath, hoping this wasn’t a gigantic mistake. “There’s something I thought I should tell you in person.”
Carlos Messina motioned with his fingers for Tony to hurry up.
“Ray Shane was the inside man. He set up the whole thing.”
The Old Man’s face didn’t change. It was his eyes. Suddenly they were different, radiating a coldness that made Tony shiver. “You sure about that?”
Tony licked his lips. His throat was dry. “I got it from a cop.”
“A cop told you Ray killed my nephew?”
Tony repeated what LaGrange had told him.
After Tony finished, Old Man Carlos was quiet for a while. Finally, he said, “This cop who gave you this, is he reliable? Do we know him?”
Tony nodded. Here in the man’s office it was time. Time for the big play. Either Tony was going to move up, or talk himself into a shallow grave. Maybe a dump job in the river, or worse, the swamp, become alligator food. “But Shane’s not smart enough to have done it on his own.”
Carlos Messina leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. Tony wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard the man sigh. After a minute, the Old Man said, “What are you saying?”
“Shane had help.”
Mr. Messina leaned across his desk, propping himself up on his elbows and looking straight at Tony. His face looked like it had been carved from stone. “Say it,” he snapped.
Tony wished he had brought his gun. It would have made him feel better, but he had left it in the car. It was against the rules to bring a gun to meet the boss. That’s how bosses got assassinated. Tony swallowed hard, then said, “I think your brother helped him.”
The Old Man’s eyes blazed. “What did you say?”
Tony’s stomach flopped. “I think . . . I think Vinnie and Shane were in on it together.”
Mr. Messina peeled his elbows off the desk and leaned back in his chair. “You trying to tell me my brother killed his own son?”
Tony shook his head. “I think that part was an accident.” “My brother loved Pete. He doted on him. No way he would hurt him.”
“Someone got carried away.”
Messina dragged his hands down his face. When he spoke, his voice sounded almost sad. “Me and my brother, we haven’t ever been what you’d call close. I let him run the House, and I stay away.”
Carlos revealing some of the family secrets made Tony feel bold. The Old Man might let go of something Tony could use. “Why?” Tony asked.
“’Cause I really don’t like Vinnie. I loved that fucking goofball Pete, though. I loved him like he was my own son, but my brother, he’s always been a dumb fuck.”
Tony kept his face somber, but inside he was grinning. “There’s something else I probably should tell you.”
“What?” Carlos’s voice was like a pistol shot.
“Vinnie,” Tony said, feeling comfortable enough to use the out-of-favor brother’s first name, “told me to find Shane and get rid of him.”
Carlos pounded his fist on the desk, making Tony jump. “Everybody knows, including my dumb-fuck brother, nobody gets clipped unless I say so.”
Tony felt more confident as the gap between the brothers widened. “That’s why I felt I had to come see you.”
But Carlos wasn’t listening. “That stupid motherfucker . . .”
Tony had to get the boss’s focus back. “Mr. Messina, what do you want me to do?”
Messina snapped out of his reverie and looked at Tony. “Huh?” Then he nodded. “Yeah, you can do something for me. Help me straighten out this mess.”
Tony saw himself taking another step up the ladder. “Name it, it’s done.”
“You know where Shane is?”
The boss was delving into a tricky area. No way could Tony admit that he had his hands on Shane but had let him escape. Neither could he flat-out lie to the man. Not that lying bothered Tony. He just didn’t want to get caught doing it. Lying to the boss was a capital offense. “I can find him,” Tony said.
Carlos nodded. “When you find him, bring him to me. No, no, no.” He waved his hand. “Better yet, when you find him, stash him somewhere. Somewhere quiet. Then you call me and I’ll come to you.” He held up a cautionary finger in the air. “Don’t kill him. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want to talk to him.”
That was the last thing Tony wanted, but he nodded anyway. “What about Vinnie?”
“What about him?”
“If I don’t hit Shane like he told me, he’s going to think something is strange.”
Carlos stared across the desk, his eyes ice-cold. “Don’t worry about my fucking brother. I’ll handle him.”
Jenny Porter woke up at 3:00 PM, lying on the sofa in Ray’s arms, her back spooned against his chest. She could tell he was still asleep by his rhythmic breath on the back of her neck.
They had sat on the sofa until nine o’clock, talking mostly about how they were going to change their lives. Not talking about doing anything together, just about changing their lives individually. They had also talked a little bit about the past, both their individual pasts, and about the past they shared. They had really only touched on that shared past. Jenny wanted to start over, not rehash all the mistakes they had made.
Talked out and way beyond tired, she wanted to sleep but didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to break the connection between them. They had both eased down onto the sofa and laid their heads on the pillow. Jenny wasn’t sure who started it, but they ended up maki
ng love.
Scared at first, she was tentative, afraid that any second Ray would remember how she made a living and push her away. But as his passion grew, so had hers. Finally, she lost her fear and they had exhausted themselves. When it was over, and with their bodies still tangled up on the sofa, they had fallen asleep.
She had slept like a rock, but now that she was awake she had to pee. One of Ray’s arms was draped over her, so she lifted it as easily as she could, slipped off the sofa, and tiptoed into the bathroom. When she came out, she wore a robe with nothing underneath.
Ray was awake. “How long you been up?” he asked.
His tone and inflection were perfectly neutral, making it impossible for Jenny to tell what he was thinking. She didn’t know if he was happy about what had happened between them or pissed off. She said, “Just a few minutes, my bladder woke me up. How’d you sleep?”
He rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Great.”
“You still tired?” she asked. “You can use the bed.”
Naked, he stood up and stretched. “No, I’m fine. I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do.”
“Hungry?”
He nodded, a grin on his face. “Starved.”
Feeling relief flooding into her, she said, “Me, too.”
“You should leave right now,” Jenny told Ray. Both of them had dressed and were sitting at the dinner table, eating cold-cut sandwiches and drinking chocolate milk.
Ray looked at her funny. “You want me to leave?”
Realizing the way it sounded, she said, “No, not my . . . not leave the apartment. You can stay here as long as you like. I’m talking about New Orleans. You have to leave. You’ve got too many ghosts here.”
He took the last bite of his sandwich, then said, “Where would I go?”
“I don’t know. When I lived in California, I loved it. You could go there.” She wanted to suggest that they go together, but wanted it to be his idea.
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“If you want to change your life, you’ve got to get out of this town.”
“I was out of town for almost five years.”
“And look what happened when you came back.” Her voice rose. “You started right back where you left off. It’s this town.” She slapped her palm hard against the table. “The Messina family, they suck you in and won’t let you out.” She realized that she was talking about herself. With or without Ray, she had to get away.
“I needed a job and they gave me one,” Ray said. “It’s not like I had any other offers.”
They were drifting into the past again. “You could have gotten a regular job, something that didn’t involve them.”
“I’m not involved with them, at least not the way I used to be. I throw guys out who had too much to drink or get too rough with the . . .”
“Whores,” Jenny said.
“Too rough with the girls.”
“You’ve got to leave, Ray, and not look back.”
He shook his head. “I can’t leave until I sort this out.”
“Why?”
“The Messinas have friends,” he said. “If they think I had something to do with what happened, especially with Pete getting killed, they’ll find me. It doesn’t matter where I go.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
He sat quietly for a minute, then said, “I need your help, Jen.”
She was afraid neither of them would ever get out of this town alive. “What do you need?”
“To stay here for a couple of days.”
She nodded.
“And I need to borrow your car.”
“All right.”
“Were you serious about what you said?” Ray asked.
“I said a lot. We both did, but I meant every word of it.”
“I’m talking about you not going back to the House.”
Jenny nodded. “I’m through with that.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m getting out of New Orleans.”
“Where to?”
“Maybe back to California. The weather is perfect, and you should see the beaches.” She had only lived there for a year, but she loved it, working at a health club teaching aerobics classes to middle-aged women and swimming classes to kids. Jenny desperately wanted Ray to say, Yeah, California sounds nice. Maybe we should go together. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he said he needed to call Charlie Liuzza.
“Are you crazy?” Jenny said.
“He said to call him if I needed anything,” Ray said. “Well, I need something.”
“He’s a killer,” Jenny said. “If Tony or Vinnie or even Carlos himself really wants you dead, Charlie is the guy who’s going to get the order.”
Ray shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Jenny didn’t believe Ray was thinking at all. “He’s with them, you’re not.”
“I talked to him a couple days ago. He’s all right.”
She got up and walked into the kitchen, carrying her plate and glass. She left his sitting on the table. “You’re not calling him from my phone.”
Ray stood up. He looked at his drowned cell phone sitting on the small bar that separated the kitchen from the dining nook. “I’ll use a pay phone.” Leaving his dishes behind, he walked toward the door.
Jenny looked at him. “Ray, don’t call him. Let’s just go, let’s leave right now.” She set her dishes down on the countertop. “I’ve got a credit card. Let’s get in the car and go.”
With his hand on the doorknob, Ray turned and looked at her. “Are you going to be here when I get back?”
She was scared, scared of the Messinas, scared for Ray, and scared of what Tony would do to her if he found out she had lied to him. From personal experience she knew how brutal he could be. But more than anything else, now that she had found Ray again, Jenny was scared of losing him.
He stared at her, waiting for her answer.
She nodded. “I’ll be here.”
Ray stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him.
Jenny started to cry.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“You look like shit,” Charlie “The Rabbit” Liuzza said.
Ray said, “I feel like shit.”
They sat at a back table inside Hobnobber’s, a businessman’s happy-hour bar across Canal Street from the French Quarter. A place Ray hoped mob guys didn’t go.
The Rabbit said that after Ray called him, he had made a few phone calls to guys he trusted, guys who worked for Old Man Carlos directly. “You got yourself in quite a jam.”
Ray knew he was in a jam. He just didn’t know why. “What’s it about?”
“According to what Tony’s saying, Vinnie put a hit out on you.”
“What?”
“He thinks you set up the robbery and got his son killed.”
“That’s bullshit!”
Charlie held up his hand. “Keep your voice down.”
Ray nodded. Speaking more calmly, he said, “I didn’t have anything to do with it. Guy with a tattoo on his hand sticks a gun in my face. That’s the first I knew about it.”
“I believe you. I know you’re a stand-up guy, but what I found out, you got even worse problems than that.”
Confused, Ray said, “Worse than Vinnie and Tony trying to kill me?”
Charlie nodded. “Yep.”
The guy knew how to build suspense, Ray thought. “How much worse can it get?”
“The Old Man is involved.”
Ray felt his stomach doing flip-flops. Jenny had been right. If the Old Man wanted him dead, who better to send than the Rabbit?
His thoughts must have been plastered all over his face because Charlie said, “Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m not here to whack you.”
Ray’s throat was so tight he could barely speak. “Why not?”
“I took my wife shopping at one of those outlet malls in Mississippi. We stopped at a casino on the coast. She likes the slots. I played
a little blackjack and walked away with fourteen hundred of the casino’s money. I been gone for two days. Haven’t heard from anybody. Last I knew, you were doing Vinnie a solid, trying to find the crew who robbed us.”
“I appreciate that.”
“But if he tells me something different”—Charlie jerked his finger back and forth between them—“next time we see each other, it’ll be different.”
Ray nodded as Eric Clapton’s version of “I Shot the Sheriff” started playing on the jukebox. The song reminded him of prison. “That song was big on my wing,” Ray said. “Guys with boom boxes used to play it all the time.”
Charlie, shaking his head, said, “Fucking boom boxes in prison, next thing you know they’re gonna open up whorehouses in the yard.”
Ray was listening to the familiar lyrics of the song, wondering the same thing he always wondered when he heard it. He took a sip of Jameson, then said, “You ever wonder who shot the deputy?”
“Huh?”
Ray pointed up toward the ceiling, like he was pointing to the notes as they drifted across the bar. “That song is Clapton’s version of the old Bob Marley tune ‘I Shot the Sheriff.’ What I want to know is, who shot the deputy?”
Charlie cocked his head, listening to the words. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy in the song, he says, ‘I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy.’ If that’s true, then who shot the fucking deputy?”
The jukebox played, I shot the sheriff, but I swear it was in self-defense. Freedom came my way one day, and I started out of town . . .
Charlie nodded. “Nobody shot the deputy. I think the guy’s saying he shot the sheriff, and he could have shot the deputy, too, but he didn’t.”
“No,” Ray said, thinking about the arguments he had gotten into at Terre Haute over the same thing. “If you listen to the words, the deputy is definitely dead. The guy says, ‘They want to bring me in guilty, for the killing of a deputy.’ So somebody killed the deputy. It just wasn’t him.”
“Him who?”
“The guy in the song.”
“Eric Clapton?”
House of the Rising Sun Page 18
