House of the Rising Sun

by Chuck Hustmyre

  “No, he’s just singing the song. I’m talking about the guy in the song, the one whose story it is.”

  “So he didn’t kill the deputy, so what?” Charlie asked, looking confused.

  “If he admitted to killing the sheriff, why not just admit to killing the deputy, too? I think it was the sheriff who killed him.”

  Skeptical, Charlie said, “The sheriff killed his own deputy?”

  Ray nodded.

  “Why?”

  Ray shrugged. “The guy mentions planting seeds. The song was written by Bob Marley. There’s a definite marijuana connection. Guy was probably paying off the sheriff, and the deputy caught them both. Something like that.”

  Charlie kicked back his drink, then said, “You’ve given this a lot of thought, huh?”

  “Not much else to do inside, except think.”

  “You know, this ain’t the first time you’ve been in a jam with us.”

  “You talking about when I got arrested?”

  “No, after that.”

  “What?”

  Charlie, master of suspense that he was, stopped talking and signaled the waitress for a fresh round of drinks. He waited until she delivered them before going on. “It was after you got transferred out of Orleans Parish, and they took you down to the Saint Bernard Parish jail. I was at a meeting where the boss was kicking around the idea of having you clipped on the inside.”

  Ray’s heart started racing. “When you say the boss, you’re talking about . . .”

  Charlie nodded. “The Big Boss.” He took a sip of scotch, then went on, “He was afraid of you cutting a deal with the feds, but we didn’t have anybody in Saint Bernard. Getting someone in there to do it, it was very complicated. I told him my advice was to hold off, see what you did.” Charlie shrugged. “Turns out you did the right thing.”

  There was something Ray had to know. “Why did you stand up for me? You didn’t even know me?”

  Charlie took a deep breath and gulped down some more scotch. “What are you, about forty?”

  “Forty-one.”

  “My son would be about your age now. Good-looking kid, but stubborn, head hard as a rock. His birth was so rough on Jean, my wife, doctor said she wouldn’t be able to have any more, and he was right.

  “Probably because of that we spoiled the boy some. I grew up in Gertown. Back then it was half Italian, half Irish, and for a kid coming up, you really only had two choices, be a cop or be a crook. Most of the Irish kids became cops, most of us became crooks. Where did you go to school?”

  “Holy Cross.”

  “You finish college?”

  Ray shook his head. “Only made it two years.”

  “Me and Jean, we wanted our boy to finish college, wanted to give him a better choice than to be either a cop or a crook. No offense.”

  Ray smiled. “None taken.”

  “He was a smart boy, lot smarter than his old man, so when the time came, I bought him a new car and sent him off to college.”

  Charlie stirred his drink with his finger, then took another sip. “Twenty years ago. His senior year at Notre Dame, driving home for Christmas, he hit a patch of black ice, and the car skidded down an embankment. A state trooper said there was only minor damage to the car, and if he had been belted in, he probably would have walked away. But my son didn’t walk away—he died.”

  Ray had asked why Charlie had stood up for him, and Charlie had told him about his son, about his lost dreams. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe not. Ray didn’t want to push it.

  “Any chance you could talk to the boss again for me, about this jam I’m in?” Ray asked.

  Charlie shook his head. “Tony’s got his ear on this. The guy I called said Tony has made some kind of move. Told the Old Man he thinks you and Vinnie worked this thing together.”

  “But that’s crazy,” Ray said.

  “Doesn’t matter if it’s crazy or not, that’s what he told the boss, and that’s what the boss believes.”

  “They’re brothers, for God’s sake.”

  “Half-brothers.”

  “Huh?”

  “Same father, different mothers.”

  Ray said, “I never heard that.”

  “Their old man was supposed to have been a real gash-hound back in the day. The boss is his legitimate son. Vinnie is from one of his flings.”

  “But they have the same last name.”

  “I guess their father liked to spread the name around, wanted to make sure his line continued. There was another son, a legitimate one, the oldest, but he died in his thirties. They say it was syphilis.”

  “I heard they don’t get along.” Ray said.

  “Not at all, but even half-blood is strong. The boss set his brother up to run the House, but from what I hear, Vinnie is up to his ass in debt. That’s one reason why the Old Man isn’t having any trouble believing what Tony told him. Only he knows his brother couldn’t pull it off by himself, and that’s where you come in.”

  “Tony has always had a beef with me.”

  “You’re an Irish cop,” Charlie Rabbit said. “Of course he’s got a beef with you.”

  “I was a cop.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Once a cop, always a cop is how he looks at it.”

  “How about you, it bother you I was a cop?”

  “No. I got nothing against cops. Straight ones or bent ones. They’re just trying to get by like everybody else.”

  “That’s Tony’s whole problem with me, I used to be a cop and I’m not Italian?”

  “It’s that, plus I think he’s mad because Vinnie made him look bad by putting you in charge of finding the robbery crew. You got to understand Tony, he’s not going to let anything get in his way.”

  “Get in the way of what?”

  “Power. Why do you think he spent the last two years fucking Vinnie’s wife?”

  “What!”

  Charlie’s face broke into a grin. “She tells Vinnie she’s playing bridge with the girls.”

  “I’ve seen Vinnie’s wife . . . She’s what, like fifteen years older than Tony? And I’ve seen Tony’s wife. She’s a piece of work, but she’s still a knockout.”

  “She’s a bitch,” Charlie said.

  “Yeah, that about sums her up.”

  “Tony’s not fucking Vinnie’s wife because of her looks. He’s fucking her because she’s Vinnie’s wife, and that gives him an edge over Vinnie in case he ever needs it.”

  Ray gulped down a mouthful of Jameson. This was too much.

  Charlie lowered his voice. “You know what’s funny?”

  Ray didn’t think any of it was funny. “What?”

  “Tony’s wife . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “Belongs to the same bridge club.”

  “Huh?”

  “The Old Man is fucking her.”

  Ray felt like his jaw had dropped all the way to the floor.

  Charlie said, “Show you how smart Tony is, his wife tells him she’s playing bridge, but what she’s really playing is hide the salami out at the Old Man’s fishing camp.”

  Ray knew the place. “Out in the Rigolets?”

  “You know where his camp is?” Charlie asked, surprised, like he thought it was a big secret.

  “I used to work in the Seventh District. Every cop out there knows where his camp is.”

  Charlie looked disappointed. “I didn’t know that.”

  “It takes almost an hour to get there from downtown. He drives all that way just to screw Tony’s wife?”

  “He’s an old man. She a beautiful woman, half his age. And you can bet she’s not a bitch when she’s with him. It’s a big deal for him. Once a week he gets dressed up and drives himself out there. No driver, no guards. He doesn’t want anybody else around. It’s a serious violation of the rules, fucking the wife of an underling.”

  “What’s she get out of it?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Who knows? When Tony’s not dipping his pole in some strange, he’s at the H
ouse till two or three in the morning. Maybe she just wants somebody to pay attention to her. Maybe that’s why she’s such a bitch. Maybe Tony ain’t taking care of his wife like he should.”

  Ray rubbed his eyes. “You guys talk about loyalty . . .”

  Charlie shot his hand across the table and grabbed Ray’s wrist. His grip was strong. He pulled Ray’s hand away and looked hard into his eyes. “Jean and me, we’re home every night sitting in front of the TV. Neither one of us plays bridge.”

  Ray nodded. “Sounds like you got a good one.”

  Charlie let go of Ray’s wrist.

  “Maybe you should be running things,” Ray said.

  Charlie smiled. “I’m retiring.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  Ray figured to be dead soon if he didn’t get out from under this. “I just want you to know, for whatever it’s worth, if Vinnie knocked over the House, he did it without my help or knowledge.”

  “I know that, kid,” Charlie said. “But Tony’s not the only one who’s been trash-talking you.”

  Ray’s stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

  “Somebody told the Old Man you knew two members of the crew.”

  Jimmy LaGrange. That no-good, rotten bastard. “I didn’t know those guys. I arrested them, and that was years ago.”

  “Thanks to Tony, the Old Man believes that not only did you know them, but that you used them to hit his place.”

  Ray could feel his forehead damp with sweat. He pressed his drink against it. “What the fuck am I going to do?”

  “Like I said, you’re in a jam.”

  “How do I get out of it?”

  “There’s only one thing you can do,” Charlie said.

  Ray was in enough suspense. He didn’t need any more. “What?”

  “Find out who really did it and get some proof.”

  “Then what?”

  “The boss is a reasonable man, but it’s like going to court. You’re going to have to plead your case.”

  “But how?” Ray asked, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

  “Call me when you find some proof,” Charlie said. “Maybe I can help. Just remember, Tony is looking for you.”

  “Are you going be looking for me, too?”

  Charlie Rabbit shook his head. “Not yet.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ray found Dylan Sylvester’s blue Buick four-door at a sprawling apartment complex off Bullard Avenue. A high iron fence surrounded the complex, and the front gate included a manned twenty-four-hour checkpoint. The security guard had not wanted to let Ray in.

  “Who you here to see?” the guard said.

  Ray was there early, just past six a.m., so he couldn’t say he was going to the leasing office to ask about an apartment.

  “I’m picking a guy up for work,” Ray had said.

  “Name and apartment number?” the guard asked.

  Ray said the first number that popped into his head. “1141.”

  “There is no 1141,” the guard said.

  Ray swallowed hard.

  “You mean 1101?” the guard offered.

  Ray nodded. “That must be it. I get my numbers mixed up sometimes.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “My name?” Ray was trying to figure out if it was worth it to try an alias. The guard would probably record his license plate number—Jenny’s plate number. Maybe even ask for his driver’s license. Talk about looking suspicious, Ray tells the guy his name is Joe Smith, and then the guy looks at Ray’s license.

  “No,” the guard said. “The person you’re going see.”

  “Joe.”

  “Last name?”

  “I don’t know,” Ray said. “It’s just a guy from work. He called and asked me for a ride.”

  The guard consulted a list on a clipboard. “There’s no one named Joe in 1101.”

  “He lives with his girlfriend.”

  “There’s a Yolanda Jackson in 1101.”

  Ray snapped his fingers. “That’s it. That’s his girlfriend’s name, Yolanda.”

  The security guard glanced at the telephone in the guard shack. Then at his watch. He pressed a button and opened the gate.

  Cruising the parking lot in Jenny’s decade-old Firebird, Ray almost drove past the Buick. It was tucked into a tight spot, a pickup on one side, a Hummer on the other. He checked the license plate number. It matched the one in the police report, the one registered to Belinda Sylvester. He had found Dylan, the asshole with the tattoo and the bad teeth. Now what was he supposed to do?

  Sylvester definitely had a gun. And he might not be alone. Maybe he had a girlfriend, maybe a couple of kids. Maybe he was holed up with another guy from the robbery crew. In that case they would have at least two guns.

  Once again, Ray found himself in a situation in which he really needed a gun.

  Back when he was on the job, if he went into an apartment after an armed robber, he would have put together a team of seven or eight cops. Everyone would have had a bulletproof vest. The team would have had a ram to smash the door, a ballistic shield to soak up any bullets that got thrown their way, and plenty of firepower.

  Now he had to go in alone and unarmed. Thinking about it made him want to turn around and go home. Except he didn’t have a home to go to. He couldn’t go back to his apartment, Tony had seen to that. He couldn’t even go back to Jenny’s place.

  Late yesterday afternoon, when Ray had come back from meeting with Charlie Rabbit, Jenny told him she didn’t feel safe in her apartment. She was afraid Tony might come back. When Ray asked where she wanted to go, she said she didn’t care. She just had to get out. A hotel in Metairie was what they decided on. Jenny charged it to her credit card.

  On the way out of the Quarter, with Ray driving Jenny’s Firebird, they had been held up in a line of traffic on Rampart Street. Ray stuck his head out the window to see what the holdup was. Up ahead, about ten cars in front of them, was an old nun in a blue and white habit. She stood blocking traffic, a handheld stop sign raised over her head as a long line of children crossed the street. Some of the kids loped along on crutches. One scooted across in a wheelchair. At the rate they were moving it was going to take all day.

  Ray leaned on the horn, giving the old lady and the kids a long blast.

  “What is it?” Jenny asked.

  “A nun and a bunch of kids crossing the street.”

  Jenny stepped out of the car for a minute and looked over the top of the backed-up traffic. When she got back in, she said, “That’s Sister Claire. She runs a home for kids with special needs.”

  Ray blew the horn again. “Well the sister needs to get the retards out of the way so we can get moving.”

  Jenny crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at him. “You’re such an asshole.”

  Ray was confused. “What did I say?”

  She didn’t answer, just faced forward, staring through the windshield.

  Sylvester’s blue Buick was parked in front of building fourteen. Ray pulled Jenny’s car up to the curb at the side of the building, out of sight of the front doors. Building fourteen was just like all the others: two-story, with eight apartments, all the doors facing the front, two wrought-iron stairwells leading to the second-floor balcony, one on each side of the building.

  Which one was Sylvester’s apartment? The parking spots weren’t numbered. The Buick was parked directly in front of the bottom unit on the far left, but also in front of a stairway. That could mean something, or it could mean nothing. People were basically lazy; they liked to park in front of their own door, if possible. Maybe Sylvester lived in the bottom-left apartment. Or maybe he lived on the second floor and parked as close as possible to the stairs.

  It could also mean Sylvester took the only spot available when he got home. About the only thing Ray was sure of was that Dylan Sylvester wasn’t going to stick his head out of the door and invite him in for coffee. Ray had to do something, so he decided
to do the same thing he did when he was a cop: knock on doors. He went to the bottom left first.

  A sleepy-looking black girl answered. Ray said, “I’m here to pick up Dylan for work.”

  She sighed and rubbed a hand across her face. “You got the wrong apartment.” She raised a finger and pointed upward. Ray went up the stairs to apartment 1405, second floor, all the way on the left. He put his thumb over the peephole and knocked. Not a gentle tap but not a police pounding either. A business knock.

  A voice on the other side said, “Who is it?”

  “Security,” Ray said.

  “What?” came the answer.

  “Security. I need to talk to you about your car.”

  The dead bolt turned. Ray glanced around. No one was in sight.

  I sure wish I had a gun.

  The door opened a crack. The chain was on. Ray slammed his shoulder into the door and tumbled through.

  In the den, a long-haired white guy staggered backward. The door had smacked him in the forehead. He held his head with one hand, a pistol with the other. The longhair raised the gun. Ray knocked the gun aside, stepped in real close, and smashed his elbow into the longhair’s jaw.

  The guy dropped hard and the gun clattered to the floor. Ray kicked the door shut, then scooped up the pistol. A .40 caliber, stainless-steel Smith & Wesson. The man lay on his back, shirtless, with a blood-soaked bandage covering a wound on the left side of his stomach. The bandage was held in place by a wide gauze wrap that encircled his torso. He wore a pair of black sweatpants. Across the back of his right hand stretched a spiderweb tattoo.

  Hello, Dylan Sylvester.

  Ray stomped his heel on the wound, bringing a sharp cry from Sylvester and fresh blood seeping from the edges of the bandage. “That’s for shooting at me the other night.” Ray stomped again, more cries, more blood. “And that’s for trying to shoot at me just now.” Ray knew he had been lucky. This could easily have gone the other way, with him lying on the floor bleeding. It reminded him of something Sergeant Landry used to say, It’s better to be lucky than good . . . But when your luck runs out, you better be good.

  Holding the Smith & Wesson in one hand, Ray grabbed Dylan Sylvester’s tangled mass of hair with his other hand and dragged him across the floor to the sofa. “Get up,” he said as he kicked the wounded man’s shins and forced him to his feet, then shoved him back onto the sofa.