House of Blues

by Julie Smith

  "Augustine Melancon. We meet again."

  "He's coming in for a lineup in an hour."

  Skip sighed. "I guess I'd better go." She was exhausted.

  She went home, took a shower, and thought about calling Jimmy Dee to tell him about her narrow escape. But that was a longer talk than she had time for.

  She grabbed a Diet Coke, found her spare .38, and returned to an interesting message on her desk—from a Turner Shellmire at the FBI. But no time to call him—she barely had time to get to the lineup.

  One man stuck out—all but hooked her with a finger and begged to be arrested. It was the same one O'Rourke had picked. Augustine Melancon.

  I wonder what I was thinking before?

  This time the pressure was off; days had passed; she was clearer-headed. Or so she told herself.

  Melancon, of course, didn't know why he'd been picked up. Skip, O'Rourke, and Cappello tackled him together, the better to scare the bejesus out of him.

  "Remember me?" said O'Rourke. "You have fun beating me up?"

  He didn't answer.

  His lawyer, public defender Alfonso Green, advised him to zip his lip and keep it that way.

  Skip said, "Look, Augustine, that's your right, but you have other rights that aren't covered by Miranda. You have the right to explain what happened if you Want to. Nobody's saying you have only one option."

  Melancon looked hopefully at Green, but got no help. Finally he said, "Asshole set me up. I think I want to tell her."

  Green shrugged. ''You can always waive."

  "Shit." Melancon turned to Skip. "I'm gon' talk to you. I want to keep my lawyer here, but I'm gon' waive that silence shit. Why the fuck should I go down alone?"

  "No reason," said Skip. "No reason at all. You work for Delavon, don't you?"

  Melancon said nothing.

  "I was out in Gentilly Thursday, seeing Delavon. The night before, I was in the Conti Breezeway, at Delavon's suggestion. You were there both times. Therefore, you work for Delavon."

  "I don't know no shit 'bout no Conti Breezeway."

  "Come on. Delavon set you up—you just said so. I saw you there, and you know it, 'cause you saw me. Sergeant O'Rourke saw you beating him up. That's one police officer you killed and one you assaulted. You really think we're gonna let you get away with any of that? You think Mr. Green can just make you a deal, get you out of this after two, three years—five-ten years maybe? You think it's that easy? You killed a cop, didn't you?

  "Didn't you, Augustine?"

  Melancon glowered, but Skip was pretty sure she saw fear below the beetling brows.

  "You killed my partner, didn't you?"

  "Shit, no."

  "Well, I think you did. You know what, though? I'm gonna cut you some slack. Because I don't think it'd be very easy working for Delavon. I bet he threatens you sometimes. I bet he threatens your wife and your—"

  "Ain't got no wife."

  "He kill her already? That Delavon, he's one dangerous dude."

  Melancon didn't answer.

  "Maybe you got a girlfriend. Maybe he threatened her. Maybe there's a reason you did what you did."

  Did she see hope on his face?

  "I didn't do nothin'!"

  "You killed my partner."

  "That shithead Delavon, he tol' me if I didn't go over there, watch Jermaine's back, he gon' kill me. See, I owe Delavon a bunch of money—"

  "How much?"

  "Bunch."

  "How much?"

  " 'Bout ten thousand dollars. Deal went wrong once; and then there's the interest. Mr. Green, I got to tell 'em. Cain't I tell 'em what I tol' you?"

  Slowly, Green nodded.

  "I didn't kill nobody. I swear I didn't. But I know who did."

  "Who did, Augustine?"

  Green pointed a finger. "You answer that one and I kill you, boy. " He turned to the three officers and smiled: "Deal time."

  In another twenty minutes they had it hammered out: Melancon would testify against one Jermaine St. jacques and one Desmond Lavon Bourgeois, in return for which he'd be permitted to plead guilty to battery.

  The best part was, he gave them Delavon's address.

  27

  It was Cappello's job, as Jim's sergeant, to investigate his death. Skip was beside herself, desperate to get to Delavon, yet dying to know what was happening with Anna.

  "Sylvia, one thing you should know. I've got to go with you when you pick him up."

  Cappello was preoccupied. She brushed at the hair in her eyes and glanced at her watch. "No way. You're too tired. Anyway, I don't even know if I'm going—Joe asked me to sit in when the feds question Anna, and my babysitter's got to go home sometime. I was going to see if Abasolo would do it."

  "Tell him he has to wait until I can get free." She held her breath. Cappello would be perfectly within her rights to say, "I give the orders."

  Instead she managed a tired half smile. "Are you saying a woman's got to do what a woman's got to do?"

  Skip knew she had won.

  She went back to her desk and called Agent Shellmire.

  "Ah," he said. "The lady of the hour. Hear you got Anna Garibaldi. "

  "I hear you've got her now."

  "Int'restin' lady."

  "Fine hostess, anyhow. I had a lovely rest in her stately home."

  He chuckled. "So we heard. Listen, I got a bigger case on her than this piddly airport shit, but I don't think I can make it now—and you folks still got to handle the arson and false imprisonment and all that—so I thought I might as well give you what I have. It's somethin' I think you'll be pretty interested in."

  There is a God.

  She said: "We'd be delighted. But as you know, it's not my case anymore."

  "Yeah, you bein' a victim—shame about that. But I knew your name, so I thought I'd call. Also I wanted to congratulate you—that was pretty impressive, what you did at the airport."

  "Thanks." Her cheeks burned.

  "Listen, I'm over at the parish prison—why don't you come on over with whoever's got the case and I'll play you a kind of int'restin' tape. Then maybe we can question the lady."

  She rounded up Cappello and Joe Tarantino.

  Shellmire was a tall man with a fruit-and-vegetable look—potato face, seaweed hair, pear-shaped body. When they had shaken hands, he said, "Let's wait a minute on that tape. I do b'lieve Ms. Garibaldi's lawyer just turned up. Y'all want to meet him?"

  "By all means."

  Anna's lawyer was waiting for Shellmire, huffing and puffing, dressed in a suit that had probably cost more than the combined furnishings of Skip's apartment. He was furious.

  "I thought you were ready to question Mrs. Garibaldi. I hope you don't think I have time just to sit around inhaling institutional odors." He curled his lip.

  "Hey, Mr. Delmonico. Haven't seen you in a while." Bobby Delmonico's presence confirmed things Skip already thought. He represented biggish drug dealers; people involved in video poker; random thugs up for assault and sometimes murder. A lot of them had Italian names.

  Whoever the Dragon was, she was connected.

  "Don't think I know you," Delmonico said.

  "Shellmire. Agent Turner Shellmire. This is Detective Langdon, Lieutenant Tarantino, and Sergeant Cappello, NOPD."

  He kept his face impassive. Though Shellmire held out a hand, he didn't shake.

  "Have you talked to your client yet?"

  "Yes. She's a little upset."

  "I don't blame her. She's in big-league trouble."

  "I think she might have a medical problem."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  He spread his hands, just a well-dressed dummy trying to comprehend a vast and confusing universe. "She seems to think she doesn't need a lawyer."

  "That's her prerogative." Skip thought, There has to be a catch: we couldn't be that lucky.

  "I've known her family all my life. Anna's always . . . well, always been unstable."

  "Mr. Delmonico, do you see a jury in
here? Don't you think it's a little early for this kind of thing?"

  "Look, she needs legal representation and she won't listen right now—how about letting her have a good night's sleep? We can do this tomorrow."

  "A good night's sleep? Sure. We'll break out the satin sheets."

  "I just thought . . . Apparently, he couldn't finish the sentence. Skip realized he was desperate, and she liked that.

  "Look," said Shellmire, "I'm going to question the prisoner. Are you coming?"

  He shrugged and followed them to the room where Anna had been taken. She was sitting, head in her left hand, back bent, looking forlorn and a little bit old. She raised her head, marshaled her fury, and aimed it at her lawyer.

  "I told you to get out of here."

  There was fire enough in her voice to fuel a whole herd of dragons.

  Delmonico looked beseechingly at Shellmire, who only stared at him, probably trying to figure out why he was still hanging around. Finally, the agent shrugged. "Sounds like you're fired."

  When he had gone, Anna said, "I called someone to get me another lawyer. But so far no one's turned up."

  Shellmire led the others away. "Got a real treat for y'all."

  The tape began with a male voice.

  "Hello?"

  Another answered.

  "Eddie, it's Gus. Lemme speak to Anna."

  There was a pause and Anna's voice said, "Gustavo?"

  "Anna, are you all right?"

  "Why wouldn't I be all right? Why haven't I heard from you?"

  Skip thought the words sounded fuzzy, as if Anna had just awakened from a deep sleep.

  "Anna, something bad happened. You know what these people are like."

  "These people, these people." She was slurring her words. "You were the one—"

  "Don't start, Anna. I haven't got much time."

  "Where are you, Gustavo?"

  "I'm in another country, do you understand? I can't come back to America."

  Anna gasped.

  "Anna, listen. They think I cheated them. If they find me, they kill me."

  Another gasp.

  "You need to join me."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I want you to come to New York, and stay with our friend. You know who I mean?"

  "Yes."

  "He'll have a ticket for you. You'll love it here; it's beautiful."

  "Gustavo, what do you mean? What are you talking about?"

  "I mean, Anna, that we both have to leave the country. They're trying to kill me, do you understand that?"

  "They won't kill me."

  "First of all, they'll take everything you own. Because you don't really own it, you remember that? When they've done that, they'll try to get to me through you."

  "Pfah. They'd have done it already."

  "No. I bought you some protection. Pray God only the FBI's listening, because you're dead and so's somebody else if they find out. I bought you some protection, Anna. Do you understand that? Do you know what I had to pay for it? You don't want to. Believe me you don't."

  Anna emitted some sort of sound—whether another gasp or a sob, Skip couldn't tell.

  "But its running out. Its only good for a few days. Its information that won't be passed, do you understand? And then when it is, everything's over."

  "I don't follow."

  "You don't need to follow. What you need to know is that you need to get out of there today. You need to get to New York and talk to our friend"

  "I can never come back, can I? Thats what you're saying."

  "I'm sorry, Anna."

  "I have to leave everything—" She was shouting so loud Shellmire had to turn the volume down.

  The caller interrupted, shouting louder: "Shut up, Anna! This isn't for Eddie and Mike to hear."

  "Omigod! Are they going to be all right?"

  "Don't worry about them. Worry about yourself." Shellmire turned up the volume. You've been drinking, haven't you?"

  "I've been out of my mind. You disappear for days, I don't hear from you, you leave everything for me, and I don't know how to do anything—"

  "Anna, shut up and listen, will you? I'm telling you what to do now. Are you listening? Can you hear me?"

  "Yes."

  "Pack a suitcase, and call the bank—have your money transferred to New York. You know where I mean?"

  "Yes."

  "The moneys all you'll need. That and a few clothes."

  "You're telling me to leave everything I have?"

  "For Christs sake, bring the family pictures. Nothing else is yours, can't you understand that? Its theirs. Its always been theirs. You had it on loan."

  "The fish company's mine."

  "They let you run it for 'em because you look respectable. And because you're my sister. You were their front, that's it. Face it. It's over now."

  The silence of loss filled the room, of a life slipping away.

  The caller said, "Send Mike and Eddie home. Then go into the safe in the closet, take out all the records and burn them. After that, go to the airport and if there isn't a plane to New York within the hour, take the next plane to anywhere and go from there to New York."

  "It has to be done that fast?"

  "Yes. It does."

  "I can't just leave like that."

  "You can and you will."

  "You don't understand, Gustavo. I've been holding things together for you. Everything fell apart when you left like that, and I had to do what I could. I've been waiting for you to call and tell me what to do. I've been out of my depth here."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I'm holding four prisoners, one of them a cop. And one's a baby."

  "You what?" This time Shellmire didn't bother to turn the thing down. He watched the others jump and seemed to enjoy it.

  "I had to, Gus, I—"

  "You crazy bitch. I can't fucking believe you could be so fucking incompetent. I swear to fucking God I can't—"

  "Everything fell apart, Gustavo. What was I supposed to do?" The question was a wail.

  "Okay, okay, keep quiet. Eddie and Mike, okay? Look. Let me talk to Eddie. I'll send 'em home now—tell 'em their checks are in the mail."

  Shellmire said, "I'm going to fast—forward to the place where Anna picks up again."

  He didn't judge it quite right, and Skip heard the end of what the caller said to Eddie, speaking in a perfectly reasonable, well-modulated voice. He asked for Anna again, and when she was on, he continued his tirade as if he hadn't been interrupted.

  "I don't care what the fuck happened. Who the fuck authorized you to lock people up, for God's sake? When the fuck have we ever done anything so crazy? And a cop. A cop! You are the craziest goddamn broad in the entire benighted state of Louisiana."

  "If you'll let me talk, I'll tell you what happened."

  "I don't care what happened. Why would I want to know what happened? I'm out of the fucking country and out of the fucking game. You want to live, Anna, you better get here too."

  "Gustavo, what am I supposed to do with these people?"

  "I don't care if you burn the whole fucking place down with all of them in it."

  "What did you say?" The words were spoken more in incredulity than inquiry.

  "I said fry 'em, I don't care. What the hell else are you going to do? Let 'em go? Then the cop arrests you. You can't let 'em go.

  "Leave 'em tied up? If one of 'em gets loose, it's your ass. You're dead, do you understand? You want to get out alive? Kill 'em. I swear to God it's your only chance."

  "But Gustavo, you can't just—"

  "I can't what? I been dodging bullets all week, and now this. You don't know what my stomach feels like. You just don't know."

  "I can't do what you say."

  "So die, Anna. That's your alternative. Just burn the records before you do, okay?"

  He hung up.

  Shellmire turned the machine off. "What do you think?"

  Cappello said, "Was that who I think it
was?"

  He nodded. "Gus Lozano. Who we'll now never touch. He's gone back to the fatherland or some place. But we might get some of his pals if we work together on this."

  Cappello and Tarantino murmured assent. Skip said, "I need to know something"

  "You mean, are we going to let you sit in when we interview her?"

  "How'd you guess?"

  The others laughed.

  * * *

  Anna's new lawyer was a young woman named Dina Roth. She had shiny shoulder-length hair and the clear eyes of a teetotaler, something you didn't see that much in New Orleans. She wore jeans and a blazer, and she was smiling.

  "My client," she said, "has something to tell you before you begin. I advise you to hear her out. It could save you a lot of time and trouble."

  "Sure," said Shellmire. "Just let me remind Ms. Garibaldi of her rights." Anna scowled as he spoke, and when he had finished, she nodded impatiently.

  "I want to tell you why I changed lawyers," she said. "I never called Bobby Delmonico. Someone called him for me. I was so arrogant, I didn't call a lawyer at all—just phoned a few of my influential 'friends' to get me out of this.

  "First I called Maurice Gresham, who, I think, works with the three of you. He's a very special friend of mine, or he was, until he refused to take my call.

  "After that, I called my friends on the casino board and my friends in the governors office; every single one of them couldn't wait to get me off the phone. I called ten in all, and l'll be glad to give you all their names and a list of the crimes I personally know they've committed because I've been a witness to them.

  "One of them, apparently, sent me that horse's ass, Delmonico, who advised me not to say a word, although so far as I could tell, this had little to do with helping my case and everything to do with protecting my 'friends.'

  "I am fed up, ladies and gentlemen. I am the sister of Gus Lozano, who as you know was the mob boss of New Orleans until a few days ago. Our longtime employers have now tried to kill my brother and caused him to seek exile in another country. I locked up four people and kept them prisoner trying to protect our employers and their ‘friends,' and then I thought I had no choice except to kill them to protect myself. I am informed by my brother that our friends in the dear brotherhood are gunning for me as well as him, though I doubt that, because they usually only kill if you've cheated them or they think you have.