“I didn’t kill your son,” Ray said.
Vinnie didn’t respond, just stared across the room at Ray with a pair of sad eyes.
Ray went on. “But I’ve got to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Why was there so much money in the counting room that night?”
“I gave you a job when you got out. I paid you good money. I even trusted you.”
“Vinnie, I didn’t do it. If I did, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’d have taken the money and disappeared.”
Vinnie folded his hands across his paunch. “Tony warned me about—”
“Fuck Tony! He’s the reason I’m in this mess.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why was there so much money in the counting room?”
Ray watched Vinnie’s eyes. They moved up and to Vinnie’s left, the analytical side of the brain, searching for a memory; not toward the right side, the creative side, the side where lies came from. It was something Ray had learned in interview and interrogation class.
Vinnie said, “This year Halloween fell on a Friday. We figured we would get real busy. We were right.”
“Whose idea was that?”
Again, Vinnie’s eyes cut up to his left as he pulled down a memory. “Tony said we needed extra cash.”
Bingo.
“Tony’s the one who set this up. He’s the one who got your boy killed.”
“Bullshit,” Vinnie barked. His eyes cut to the nightstand drawer.
“Think about it, Vinnie. Who was it who was really doing the pushing to have me work this thing?” Ray was guessing, but he could tell by the way Vinnie’s face changed that he was guessing right. “When we thought Hector might know something, Tony shot him. When I started tracking down the four gunmen, they all turned up dead before I could get to them.” Except for Dylan Sylvester. He wasn’t dead before I got to him, but that’s another story. “What you said was right, you gave me a job and you pay me well. I got no complaints, and I got no reason to violate your trust.”
Vinnie stared straight ahead. His face soft. He was thinking about it. “The money is reason enough,” he mumbled, but it sounded more like a reflex. “Everybody needs money.”
Ray thought about something Tony had said, Vinnie couldn’t afford to buy a grilled cheese sandwich. Telling him about Vinnie’s financial problems. “Tony set it up so it looked like I did it, and then he led me around by the nose until he had me thinking it was you.”
“Me!”
“He told me Pete’s school was tapping you out. That and your wife’s shopping. You were basically broke.”
“Tony’s been telling me it was you who set it up and got my son killed.”
“He told me it was your decision to have so much money that night.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“And whose idea was it to skip a couple of pickups?” “Tony said picking up bags of cash with so many people in the club was too tempting, like asking for trouble. So we cut back some that night.”
“Which left a lot more in the counting room.”
Vinnie nodded.
Ray said, “He was planning to put it off on both of us.”
“Why would he do that?”
Ray wondered if Vinnie could really be so stupid that he didn’t see the ambitious fuck he had working for him. “He wants to run the House. At least that’s what he wants right now, no telling what he’s going to want later.”
“Tony is family.” Vinnie voiced the words, but the conviction in them was absent.
Ray glanced at the empty spot in the bed beside Vinnie.
“You said your wife was playing bridge?”
Vinnie nodded. “Twice a week.”
“That’s a lot of bridge.”
“What do you mean?” Vinnie’s voice was low and defensive.
Ray glanced at the telephone on the nightstand and thought about the carnage at the Old Man’s cabin. Any minute that phone could ring. He didn’t want to be here when Vinnie got the word his brother was dead. “I have to go, Vinnie.”
“Where the fuck you going?”
Ray was sure Vinnie was telling the truth. Tony had duped Vinnie just like he had duped Ray.
Now Ray had to get out of here. If he could lie low until the news broke about Carlos and Priscilla, and once the cops started hunting Tony down for murder, Ray could resurface. He could hand Tony’s bag full of money to Vinnie and say he found it at Dylan Sylvester’s apartment. Vinnie wasn’t going to look too closely at the logic of Tony leaving the money with a tweaked-out stickup man, not when Vinnie had all the money back in his hands, not when he was the last man standing and the new boss of New Orleans.
But first Ray had to get out of here and disappear, just for a few hours, until the storm out on Lake Catherine blew over. “I think I can get the money back,” Ray said.
Vinnie’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How?”
Ray looked at his watch. It was almost twelve thirty. “Give me until noon.”
“Why?”
“Just trust me.”
Vinnie glanced at the nightstand, but Ray couldn’t tell if he was looking at the phone or thinking about going for the gun in the drawer.
“Vinnie?”
Vinnie looked up. “You sure about this, Ray?”
“You’ll hear from me by noon. I give you my word.”
Vinnie shook his head. “I’m talking about Tony.”
Ray nodded. “I’m sure.”
“I treated him like my fucking blood, like my own . . . better than I did my own son.”
Behind Ray, Tony Zello said, “I have to admit I underestimated you, Shane.”
Ray spun around. Tony stepped into the bedroom, his five-shot .38 aimed at Ray’s face. He pressed the muzzle against Ray’s forehead and patted him down. He pulled the Smith & Wesson .40 from behind Ray’s back.
“Tony, what the fuck is going on here?” Vinnie said.
Tony hefted the big Smith & Wesson in his left hand. “What’s that term the government uses, regime change?” Casually, Tony extended the stainless-steel automatic and shot Vinnie in the face. Blood and brains splattered the far wall.
“Carlos is going to be devastated when he finds out you murdered his brother,” Tony said, screwing the muzzle of his .38 tighter against Ray’s forehead. “But then again they weren’t all that close anyway. And he’ll be glad to hear that I got here just a few seconds later and put a bullet in your head.”
Ray chopped Tony’s right wrist with the edge of his hand. The .38 popped loose. Ray locked both hands around Tony’s left wrist. Tony raised the Smith & Wesson, but Ray kept the muzzle away. Tony squeezed the trigger. The big gun exploded a foot from Ray’s head. Ray slammed his forehead into Tony’s face. The Smith & Wesson clattered to the floor.
Ray locked eyes with Tony. Then he drove his fist into Tony’s nose. Tony fell like a sack of wet cement. After he hit the ground he didn’t move. Ray reached for the Smith & Wesson. Then he stopped, his hand just a few inches from it. Tony’s fingerprints were on that gun. An idea popped into Ray’s head. He picked up the .38 and shoved it into his pocket. Then he turned to the bed.
Vinnie lay sprawled on his back. The bullet had hit him just below his left eye. Under his hair the back of his head was misshapen where the high-velocity .40-caliber bullet had blown out the back of his skull. Vinnie’s silk pajamas and the silk sheets under him were awash with blood.
Ray grabbed the nearest pillow. There were only a few spots of blood on it. He pulled off the silk case. Then he reached his hand through the case and held it over the Smith .40. Using the pillowcase as a glove he picked up the automatic. Then he reversed the case, pulling the gun back through the opening and leaving the big pistol at the bottom of the pillowcase as if it were at the bottom of a sack.
Tony groaned.
Ray kicked him in the head.
Tony went back to sleep.
Ray stepped into the hallway carrying the pillowc
ase with the Smith & Wesson. Joey and Rocco were bounding out of the stairwell. They saw Ray and started lumbering toward him. Ray jerked Tony’s .38 from his pocket and fired a wild shot at them. The two muscle heads dove for cover. Joey came up with a gun and fired back. Ray emptied the .38 at them and bolted for the fire exit a few feet away at the end of the hall.
He threw open the heavy door and stepped out onto the metal fire escape landing. A rusted metal ladder ran up the side of the building. That ladder was how Ray climbed to the roof every morning to catch the sunrise. But this time he needed to go down.
Ray dropped the .38 and stuffed the pillowcase containing the Smith .40 into his waistband. He swung onto the ladder and scampered down two floors to the second-floor landing. The ladder ended there. Rust marks against the brick wall showed where the fire escape had once gone all the way to the ground. Ray peered over the metal railing. It was a ten-foot drop to the alley below.
A nearby metal drain spout ran from the roof to the ground. Ray climbed over the railing and leaned toward the drain spout. The spout was secured to the brick by thin metal bands screwed into the wall every five or six feet. The drain spout and the bands and screws holding it to the wall were covered with rust.
Ray grabbed hold of the spout with both hands. He braced one foot against the wall and swung away from the landing. His fingers almost slipped away from the sides of the square metal spout, but he held on. Tentatively, he took one step down. Then another. He shuffled his feet down the wall and worked his hands one over the other toward the ground. Halfway down, his right foot slipped and his knee banged against the bricks. He lost his grip and fell.
Ray landed on a metal trash can. He bounced off, did a half roll, and flopped onto the filthy alley floor, his ribs screaming in pain.
He pulled himself to his feet. He looked up at the fire escape. The fourth-floor landing was empty. The door still closed. Joey and Rocco had by now probably discovered Tony on the floor and Vinnie lying dead in his PJs. The two steroid guzzlers weren’t very adaptable. They would have to wait for Tony to come around and ask him what to do.
In the meantime, Ray had to get the fuck out of here. He limped out of the alley and turned toward Canal Street.
There was a pay phone on the ground floor of the parking garage next to the elevator. Ray picked up the receiver and dropped in a quarter. He called directory assistance. Once he got the number he wanted, the computer connected him automatically.
After a couple of rings a recorded voice thanked him for calling American Airlines. Ray pressed zero until a live ticket agent came on the line. He booked a flight and told the agent he would pay at the counter when he checked in.
“If you would like to put the ticket on your credit card, we can hold the seat for you,” the female ticket agent said.
“I’m paying with cash.”
“Oh,” she said. Airlines didn’t like dealing with cash. In a post-9/11 world, people buying last-minute tickets for cash were suspicious. Something Ray was counting on.
After nearly a minute of computer keyboard tapping, the ticket agent said, “To confirm, sir, I have you booked one way, departing New Orleans tomorrow at 1:25 PM, arriving in Miami at 4:10 PM. Would you like the confirmation number?”
“I don’t have a pen with me,” Ray said.
“Then is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, that’s all.”
“Well, thank you for choosing American Airlines, and I hope you have a pleasant flight, Mr. Zello.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Ray rode the elevator up to his car.
It was just past one o’clock in the morning. Ray had to wait a few minutes for a group of drunks, out for a boys’ night at the casino, to climb into an SUV and drive away. Then he popped open the trunk of his Mustang and unzipped Tony’s leather carryall. He scanned the parking lot to make sure he was alone.
He took out most of the money and stashed it in the well beneath his spare tire. There was maybe $50,000 left in the bag, give or take. Ray dropped the blood-spotted pillowcase and the Smith & Wesson into the bag and zipped it shut. He pulled the bag out of the trunk and slammed the lid closed.
Ten minutes later, Ray strolled past Shorty’s parking lot on Decatur, the handles of Tony’s leather carryall clutched in one hand. Tony’s green Lincoln was parked at the back of the lot. Shorty worked days, and his twenty-year-old nephew, a kid named Milo, worked nights. Milo’s face glowed inside the booth from the light of a television screen.
Ray walked through the parking lot past Tony’s car. It was parked in spot number fifteen. When Ray circled back to the booth, Milo was still staring at the TV. Ray tapped on the glass. The kid jumped.
“Can I help you?” Milo stammered.
“I came to pick up my car, but I noticed my buddy’s Lexus over there.” Ray pointed to an ivory-colored sedan parked half a dozen spaces away from the booth. “Looks like somebody hit it.”
Milo stood up. He started shaking his head as he stepped through the door and ambled toward the car.
Ray hung back next to the booth. When Milo looked over his shoulder, Ray pointed toward the car. “Right there on the fender, just above the right rear tire.”
Milo looked at the Lexus from a dozen feet away. “I don’t see nothing.”
Ray said, “Guy’s kind of a hothead, and if somebody smacked into his car, no telling what he’ll do.” While he talked, Ray reached inside the booth and grabbed the keys that hung from peg number fifteen.
Shuffling closer to the car, Milo mumbled, “For sure nobody hit any cars while I was here.” The kid’s oversize jeans hung halfway down his ass, flashing his red and white boxers and making his shuffling gait look more like a duck’s waddle. When he reached the Lexus, Milo dropped to one knee and examined the back right fender. After several seconds he said, “I don’t see no damage at all.”
Ray had the keys palmed in one hand and Tony’s leather bag in the other as he walked back toward the Lincoln. “I’m sorry,” he said, nodding toward the pole-mounted halogen light standing over the parking lot, “must have been a trick of the light.”
Milo shook his head as he walked back toward the booth. “Man, you making me miss my show.”
Ray stopped beside a blue Mercury parked two spaces down from Tony’s car and sneaked a glance at Milo. The kid stood outside the booth watching him. Ray set the leather bag on the Mercury’s trunk and made a show of searching for something in his pockets.
Milo lost interest and crawled back inside his booth to watch TV.
Ray opened the Lincoln’s trunk and tossed Tony’s leather bag inside. Fifty grand in the trunk of a car sure made it look like someone was about to run. The pistol was linked to four homicides: Dylan Sylvester, Carlos and Vinnie Messina, and Tony’s wife. Plus, it had been fired during the robbery at the House. Fired at Ray, which cleared Ray of any connection to it.
Ray walked back to the booth. Milo’s face was buried in the glow of his television. He jumped when Ray knocked on the glass. “Man, what are you doing sneaking up on me like that again?”
Ray used his forearm to nudge Milo out of the way. Then he reached behind the kid’s back and hooked Tony’s keys back onto peg number fifteen. “I forgot something,” Ray said, “I’ll be back for my car in a little while.”
“Customers aren’t allowed to touch the key rack. In fact, no one is allowed inside the booth except me.”
Ray backed away. He held up both hands. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, I promise.”
Milo turned and looked at the Peg-Board. “What hook did you put your keys on? I want to make sure you did it right.”
Ray turned and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “My usual spot.”
“Yeah, but which one is that?” Milo yelled after him.
Directly across Decatur from the parking lot was a hole-inthe-wall skank strip bar called Rhapsody’s. Ray crossed the street and strolled down the dark sidewalk past the strip bar to the
next intersection. He turned the corner and circled the block. He didn’t want Milo to see where he went. The walk also gave him time to think.
By the time Ray made it back around, Milo’s face was once again glued to his tiny television screen. Ray ducked inside the strip joint.
Behind the bar was a narrow stage on which a skinny white girl danced. The floor beneath the bar was sticky. Ray ordered a Budweiser. When it came, he gave the barman five bucks, then moved to a table where he could see out the door.
Tony’s car was still in the parking lot.
A skank in too-high heels traipsed over to Ray’s table. She pulled an empty chair up real close to Ray and dropped into it. She rubbed her hand along his thigh and asked if he was interested in a private dance in the back. Ray told her no thanks.
It was 2:00 AM when Ray finished his beer. He found a pay phone by the men’s room. He dropped in some change and called the Eighth District station. The deskman rang him through to the detective office.
Like every detective squad, the one in the Eighth District handled the usual assortment of rapes, robberies, and murders, but the Eighth District squad, because of its location in that sea of vice known as the French Quarter, also worked a lot of organized-crime cases. And organized crime was Detective Carl Landry’s passion, because it was through organized crime that he got to dirty cops.
Landry was still working nights.
“What do you want, Shane?” Landry barked into the phone.
“Is anybody looking for Tony Zello?”
“Why?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Cops have hunches,” Landry said. “What you have is probably gas.”
“Forget it, Carl.”
“Wait!” Landry said. “What’s the hunch?”
“Fuck you.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Shane. You called me, remember?”
Ray waited, letting the silence build.
“Well?” Landry said.
“I think Tony is about to blow town,” Ray said.
“Why do you think that?” Landry sounded very interested. Ray guessed he had already heard a preliminary report about the bodies out at Lake Catherine.
House of the Rising Sun Page 26
