House of Blues

by Julie Smith

  No one answered the door.

  She'd gotten his motorcycle license number from her records check, and she saw no sign of the machine. She didn't see the point of hanging around.

  She went to the work address she'd gotten from Manny's probation officer, without much hope of finding her quarry.

  Manny was apparently a mechanic. He worked at a place called Rayson's Garage in Jefferson Parish, which appeared to be doing a hefty business. She asked for Rayson and was directed to a grimy, thickset man wearing round, heavy glasses, a baseball cap, and clean T-shirt. How he managed to keep the T-shirt clean and the rest of him dirty she could only speculate.

  "You need an appointment? We're booked solid till a week from Friday." He had the air of one too harassed for humans; his business was with machines.

  "No, thanks." She identified herself. "I'm looking for one of your employees. Manny Lanoux."

  "Manny." He looked utterly mystified. "We ain't got no Manny here."

  "No? You never did?"

  "Well, now, I didn't say that." He rested an arm on a handy shelf, starting to relax; he'd caught her out and he was enjoying it.

  "Did you hear me say that?"

  She had no patience with whatever petty game he was playing.

  "Are you saying he used to work here but he doesn't now?"

  "No. Not saying that at all."

  He was determined to drag it out. Skip stopped trying to cut to the chase. With or without patience, she was going to have to play this stupid game.

  "May I ask what you are saying?"

  "I'm saying I don't know."

  She would truly have loved to kill him.

  "Is there anybody here who would know?"

  "Don't know."

  Thats it.

  "Rayson. You're a horse's ass."

  His face turned from smug to nasty. He took his arm off the shelf and moved toward her.

  "Don't even think about it." She paused, feeling her feet dig into the earth beneath her; sure of her ground and loving it. "Or I'll have your fat ass thrown in jail so fast you won't remember the ride."

  He stopped, hatred rampant on his heavy features.

  Petty tyrant. He probably beats his kids and voted for David Duke.

  "Now you stop playing your junior high games and start giving me straight answers."

  "You gotta ask me a question first."

  "I'm not asking you any more questions. I'm making a demand. You either tell me everything you know about Manny Lanoux in the next five seconds"—a stubborn look crept over his face; he opened his mouth to speak, but Skip headed him off—"or find me somebody who can."

  "Orrin!" He roared so loud she nearly jumped. "Get your butt over here and talk to this cop."

  He walked off, picking up a clipboard and roaring someone else's name. "Larry! What the fuck are you doing?"

  Orrin appeared, a confused expression on his gentle features. He seemed a different breed of cat from Rayson.

  Skip gave him her best smile, feeling guilty about bullying Rayson, wanting to leave that part of herself behind. If you were a cop, you didn't have to take any crap from anybody; that was the good news. The bad news was, if you pulled rank, if you did what she'd just done, it made you hate yourself. At least it did Skip. O'Rourke probably loves it; he's Rayson in uniform, anyhow. She also had a superstition about it. It was like marijuana leading to heroin. You started popping off at the Raysons of the world and you couldn't stop. Next thing you knew, you were beating up innocent people with your nightstick; then you started shooting them.

  She believed this because she had seen it. She had seen perfectly good policemen start out slowly, mouthing off at jerks like Rayson, and end up suspended, even fired.

  Then there was the toughness issue. She did not believe that nastiness was a charming quality in either sex, and she did not think it signified its owner was tough. Toughness, to her, was more like Hillary Clinton's quiet self-possession, her ability simply to stand firm. She had been mystified the first time she heard the joke about the meanest woman in the world—Tonya Rodham Bobbitt.

  "What is that about?" she'd fumed at Jimmy Dee. "What does Hillary have in common with leg-breakers and dick-slicers?"

  "Haven't you heard? Men are threatened by assertive women. Should make your job easier."

  In fact it didn't. Instead, whatever personal power she had just made people like Rayson hostile. Which meant she eventually pulled out the stops, which in turn meant the whole thing was a self-fulfilling prophesy: You wont to sec a bitch? Watch this.

  Why, she thought, can't people just be nice to each other?

  "Orrin," she said, "I'm looking for a guy named Manny Lanoux."

  Orrin was probably six-feet-four, and skinny, with a prominent Adam's apple. He would have been a dead ringer for Ichabod Crane if not for a pair of exceptionally broad shoulders. Skip was willing to bet he had a terrific chest and good biceps as well.

  "Oh, Manny. Yeah, he used to work here. Left about six months ago." He had sun-bleached hair that looked fine as corn silk.

  ''What happened?"

  "He got a better job. But I don't think it was working on cars—said he'd never have to get his hands dirty again."

  "Do you know where he went?"

  "Well, it wasn't a company, I don't think. Some kind of', like, assistant's job or something."

  "Assistant to whom? Did he say?"

  "He told me, but it was a while ago." He looked troubled. "Hey!"

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "Hey!" Orrin stared into space. "He gave me an address. See, I'm the one does the hirin' and firin'. I was s'posed to send his last check to the new place. He had some kind of problem with things getting stolen out of his mailbox." He started walking toward a cluttered office. "Come on. Let's see if I still got it."

  Rayson was in the office, but thought of pressing matters elsewhere when he saw Skip bearing down. Orrin rummaged in a wooden box full of three-by-five cards.

  "Here it is." He pulled one out in triumph. "Damn. It's only a P.O. box. Got a name, though. Think that'd help?"

  "Might. What is it?"

  "Larry Carlini."

  "Did you say 'Carlini'?"

  "Umm-hmm. Don't know him. Do you?"

  "I don't think so."

  But she did. Larry Carlini was a small-time creep with alleged mob connections, nobody important, but nobody you wanted to meet in a dark alley either.

  He wasn't in the phone book, but she knew that was no problem, any more than locating Manny had been. He had a record the approximate length of a fishing pole—mostly minor offenses, but lots of them. A little research and she found he lived near the lake, in a new-money neighborhood that prided itself on its ostentation. His house was of white-painted brick, originally a sort of two-story rectangle with a narrow balcony on its otherwise plain facade. It was a couple of decades old and therefore hadn't been built to take up every inch of its lot. Later owners, perhaps the Carlinis, had added a couple of wings that remedied that situation. The thing looked like three oversized building blocks piled together by some demented baby.

  To Skip's delight, there was a motorcycle parked in front. Carlini must work out of his house.

  A black maid answered the door, in uniform and looking cross about it. Skip didn't think being a cop was going to get her anywhere.

  "I work for the mayor," she said, which was borderline true if you considered that he appointed the superintendent of police, for whom Skip could arguably be said to work.

  "There's something we need to speak to Mr. Carlini about."

  The maid looked alarmed. "I'll get him," she said, and disappeared. She came back alone. "He says show you into the living room."

  Was it safe? She thought so. He wasn't going to try anything in front of this woman.

  She was shown into a living room that looked exactly like a Henredon ad in Architectural Digest. In fact, it was eerie, the sense of déja vu it gave. Gold and burgundy print sofa, dark wood coffee
table, even a phalaenopsis in a brass pot on a desk at the side, exactly as if a decorator had said, "Okay, let's do design 122. I'm going to the beach; wake me when the check's signed."

  Or maybe there had been no decorator. Maybe Mrs. Carlini had simply torn the ad from the magazine and systematically set out to re-create it.

  In a moment, a tall man who did nothing to dispel gangster stereotypes joined her. He had dark hair to which some sort of grease had been applied, a too-studied tan, white slacks, and white polo shirt. His arms looked as if he might work out now and then, but his waistline looked as if he ate out even more. He had probably been a looker ten years ago, but now he had pouches under his eyes, and a couple of chins; it wasn't so much a look of dissipation as of giving up, of saying good-bye to a piece of himself. If Skip had seen him in a lineup, she would have said he was depressed, but it seemed an odd description to apply to a gangster. Behind Carlini—if that was who it was—was Manny Lanoux, as ornery as his picture, and twice as ornery as the last time Skip saw him. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt. He was too heavy, with a neck so thick mice could nest in its folds, but he looked powerful. Perhaps he was Carlini's bodyguard. He probably had an IQ about like Angel's, but in case he remembered her, Skip didn't want to say her name.

  "Hello, Mr. Carlini," she said instead, and stuck out her hand. As Carlini gripped it and began pumping, Manny's face, over Carlini's shoulder, registered horror. He mouthed something: "Shit," Skip was pretty sure; and headed for the door.

  Skip couldn't move. "What his problem?" she said to Carlini, hoping he'd turn around and let her hand go, but he did only the former.

  Manners were no longer appropriate. She broke away and raced after Manny, who by this time was flinging a leg over his motorcycle.

  "Manny! Stop!" she hollered, knowing he'd as soon send her a taped confession whenever he mugged an old lady.

  She grabbed his arm, but he shook her off. However, she'd slowed him down enough that she was able to fling a leg over the hog herself. She attached herself to his back, arms around his neck, just as the chopper took off. She reached for footholds and tightened her grip on his neck, having no choice. He tried to shake her off, tried to get his speed up enough to unbalance her, and it worked.

  The problem was, he unbalanced himself and the machine as well. Skip was thrown off, onto a grassy area. Manny wiped out on the street. Naturally, he hadn't stopped to put on a helmet.

  Carlini rushed out. "What the fuck is going on?"

  "Police. You better call an ambulance."

  Skip was shaky, but in one piece. Manny was out cold, and she couldn't find a pulse.

  * * *

  It was a couple of hours before he was conscious and recovered enough to be interviewed. He had scrapes on his face and an IV in his arm, but otherwise he looked mean as ever.

  "Manny, how's it going?"

  "You're the bitch got me for that thing with Pam Kansco."

  "Language, Manny. You're looking kind of helpless today."

  "Bitch," he said again.

  "Sticks and stones, big boy. Pam looked kind of bad when you got through with her."

  "Fuck!" he yelled, "I don't have to take this shit."

  Skip heard a scurrying outside, hospital personnel coming to quiet them. She reassured them and closed the door.

  "Now we're alone and, like I said, you're kind of helpless. You gonna be good?"

  Skip, you sadistic bully.

  Yeah, I guess so. Second time today.

  But she had no intention of stopping.

  "I don't have to talk to you," he yelled again.

  She smiled sweetly. It was delicious having a captive audience.

  "Oh, yeah? You got something better to do? Due at the White House or something?"

  "What do you want?"

  "I'm so glad you asked. Here are my non-negotiable demands. First, I'd like you to speak in a normal tone of voice. Second, apologize for calling me a bitch. Third—"

  "You're full of shit."

  "Now that's better." He had spoken in almost a normal tone. "I just want to ask you some questions, Manny boy. About another of your ex- girlfriends."

  "They're all cunts."

  "Now, now. That's not a nice word at all."

  He was silent, eyes smoldering.

  "Evie Hebert."

  "Evie. Shit. Evie."

  "Meaningful relationship, I gather?"

  "Know what? That bitch is poison. You wouldn't have a cigarette, would you?" His tone was definitely conversational now. She had his attention.

  "You can't smoke in hospitals."

  "Evie fuckin' Hebert. Evie!"

  "Piece of work, huh?" Skip was actually enjoying herself.

  "God, I hope I never hear her name again."

  "This is your lucky day, Manny boy. You can pour out your whole sentimental heart to Auntie Skip."

  "You tryin' to be funny?"

  "Uh-uh, it just comes natural."

  "You're different from that other time."

  "When I arrested you, you mean?"

  "Yeah. You ain't half as mean. What's the matter, you in love or something?"'

  She had arrested him six months after graduating from the academy. She winced to think how nervous she'd been, how frightened that she'd do something wrong, blow the only thing she'd ever really wanted. She probably was different now.

  "In love with you, Manny boy, if you tell me what I want to know. You cooperate and you're walking out of here."

  "What the fuck! Why wouldn't I walk out of here? I haven't done anything."

  "No? Then why'd you take off like that?"

  He actually chuckled. "Force of habit, I guess."

  But there was something. There had to be, and she could find it if she had to. Manny knew that.

  "What you want to know about Evie?"

  "Where she is."

  "I don't know."

  "Have you seen her lately?"

  "Not for six months." He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "There is a god."

  "Okay, then, start from the beginning."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Give me the whole Evie story. How you met her, how she dumped you, and everything in between."

  His pig eyes turned ugly. "What makes you think she dumped me?"

  "Manny boy, you're really going to have to quit shouting. This is a hospital."

  "Okay, okay, she dumped me."

  Skip waited.

  "You sure you don't have a cigarette?"

  "It's a great day to quit. You'll feel a hundred percent better."

  He gave her a look of pure hatred. "I met her in a bar." He shrugged. "How does anybody meet anybody?"

  "What bar?"

  "Now how in the hell would I remember something like that?"

  "It shouldn't be that hard. You probably have different bars you frequent. It must be one of those."

  "Wait a minute. Yeah. Yeah, I was washing my clothes. It must have been Igor's."

  "Igor's! You've got to be kidding." Somehow, she hadn't thought of Igor's as a preening place for the sexually available. It was a bar, all right, but it was also a Laundromat. In fact, there were two of them—the concept must have caught on.

  Manny stroked his upper lip, maybe compensating for not smoking. "No. No, it was definitely Igor's. I remember I got up from the bar to go put some money in the dryer, and there was this babe, this incredible blond babe, sorting out her whites and her darks."

  "Which Igor's was it?"

  "The one on St. Charles. That's where I always go."

  If I ever need to pick you up again, I'll know where to look.

  "The babe was Evie?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, that was her. She belonged to some crazy religious group and she wasn't supposed to drink. But she was in Igor's, you know? I mean, if you're just going to do your laundry, what do you need a bar for?"

  ''What happened next?"

  He shrugged. "We had a drink. I think that's what she had in mind."

  "And y
ou got to know each other."

  He laughed. "You could say that, lady. You want the details?"

  "If they're relevant."

  "Relevant to what? What the hell's going on here anyway?"

  "You're shouting again."

  "I don't give a shit."

  "Doesn't it make your head hurt? You've got a concussion, I you know."

  "It's none of your damn business what I have!"

  "Let's get back to your favorite subject." .

  "Evie's not my favorite subject. Oh, no. You can think again on that one."

  "Sure she is. The girlfriend you love to hate."

  He stroked his upper lip again, staring at the wall. For once, he made his voice low, almost too low to hear. "You know what that bitch did to me?"

  "Dumped you. You already told me that."

  "Jesus, shit, what a slut."

  "Ah. I'm getting interested."

  "I got this job with Larry, see. You know who I mean—Larry Carlini; the guy whose house I met you at."

  "Actually, Manny, we met over that little matter of Pam Kansco. I wouldn't forget that if I were you."

  "Okay, okay, what's the difference?"

  But she noticed with pleasure that she'd made him uncomfortable.

  "Anyway, I got this job with Larry—kind of, you know, taking care of things, you know what I mean?"

  "Taking care of things."

  "Like, you know—doin' stuff that needs to be done."

  "Like what stuff?"

  "Well, like deliverin' stuff. You know."

  "Picking stuff up."

  "Yeah."

  "Sure. Running errands."

  He turned his Genghis-Khan-Nazi-Blood-and-Crip-hate-look on her. "A lot you know about it."

  "Listen, Manny, I'm glad you like your work. Congratulations on getting such a good job—that you didn't report to your probation officer."

  "I was gonna tell him."

  "Oh, sure. You're not supposed to consort with felons, right? Carlini's got at least one conviction I know of."

  "Are we gettin' off the point here, or what?"

  "So you got this good job."

  "Yeah. I'd been goin' with Evie about three months at the time. Head over heels, I swear it. Swear to God; she really had me goin'. You know I'm really a sentimental guy?"

  "So you'd known Evie about three months and then you got this great job."