House of Blues

by Julie Smith

  "But in any case, I would like to see them all die horrible deaths. Therefore I'm prepared to sing like the proverbial canary not only about my own case, but about everything I know about the Mafia in New Orleans. And all our dear 'friends,' of course."

  She stopped, hands in lap, smiling like one of the nice church ladies Skip had recently met. "I do this more in hopes of revenge than leniency."

  "Okay, Anna," said Roth. "Let's stop there." She turned to the others. "She'll be happy to tell her story tonight. When we start dealing, we'll talk about the other stuff. The canary songs."

  Shellmire looked like he'd died and gone to heaven. Skip thought: The D.A.'s going to be pinching himself as well. I hope I'm maintaining my usual poker face.

  Shellmire said, "Mind if we tape this?"

  Roth shook her head. "Not at all."

  Once again he reminded Anna of her rights. "Okay, Ms. Garibaldi, why don't you tell us what happened?"

  Anna looked pretty good for someone who'd been through what she had. Some criminals probably did want to be caught—especially those fleeing their country and a burning house for an unknown life in an unknown land. To Anna, a prison might be preferable.

  That and revenge.

  She said, "Where shall I start?" She seemed a different person from the frightened, shaky wraith who had rifled Skip's purse. Sobered up probably. And not only in a physical sense.

  "Wherever you like."

  "I guess in a way I've always been involved because of the fish business, although I didn't know it. Gus set my husband up in the business when we were very young, and of course they didn't tell me any of the details because I was a woman. Women have no role in the mob except to produce children. Then when Phil died, he left the business to me, and I found out it was a money laundry. Well, I knew what my brother did for a living, and our father before him; that didn't surprise me. But I'd never heard anyone talk about it before. I wasn't really one of them, do you understand that? Because I'm a woman.

  "I think Gus probably had to fight pretty hard to get them to let me keep running the business, but he wanted that, because he didn't have time to do it himself. He could trust me, you see—he knew I was the one person who wouldn't cheat him. Not only that, I'd been running it since Phil got sick, and I had an aptitude.

  "I was happy doing it.

  "We've always been close, Gustavo and I. His wife left him a few years ago. I don't blame her—who wants a husband who's never home and never talks about anything important? I had one like that. But it's different with brother and sister—Gustavo and I could talk; he respects me as much as he can respect a woman.

  "So when he got the idea of buying the house—the one where Detective Langdon was my guest—he asked me if I'd like to be his hostess. The idea was a meeting place, a place where we could impress people we needed, do you know what I mean?"

  Tarantino said, "Not exactly."

  "I mean politicians. People on the casino board. People who control things that affected us.

  "People like Arthur Hebert—he's been to parties there. He's worked with us for years. A restaurant owner's ideal for passing messages—he goes around, shakes hands with the customers, he talks to everybody. Nobody sees anything, you understand? Of course he got the casino restaurant concession—why wouldn't he?"

  Skip realized that Sugar's mysterious "Ann" had probably been the Dragon herself. She said, "Was Reed in on it?"

  '"God, no. But she had to go before the casino board as a formality. Poor thing; I hear she worked her little butt off trying to get what was already in the bag."

  Shellmire said, "Could we get back to the house, please? What did you use it for?"

  Anna settled back, looking as if she were used to an audience. "We'd invite these people to parties there, and let them throw their own parties." She shrugged. "We'd even get them bimbos if they wanted them. Of course I didn't have to do that. Gustavo always tried to protect me .... " She blinked and paused for a moment. "It worked two ways. If they were already in, it was just a clubhouse for them. We've got a pool and a gym, billiard room—all that kind of stuff'. Your Sergeant Gresham, for instance—he liked to bring his women there.

  "If they weren't in, they'd come and meet people who seemed respectable, and they wouldn't know what they were into till it was too late, and then we could blackmail them.

  "Anyway, what I did—I ran the house. I guess you could say I was literally a housekeeper. I hired the staff, gave the parties, took care of the caterers, all that kind of stuff; I did all the scheduling, took care of the laundry—everything except procuring the bimbos. Also, I kept running the fish company. If you looked in Maurice Gresham's records, you'd see that he did a whole lot of 'private security work' for us."

  "Which he didn't really do."

  "Are you kidding? Why would a fish company need security? He just did us the kind of favors a guy with the run of the cop shop can do."

  Cappello caught Skip's eye. Skip raised an eyebrow, acknowledging their previous conversation.

  "So that was the setup," she said. "What happened last Monday?"

  "Monday?"

  "Were you having a meeting at the clubhouse?"

  "Oh, the night Mo's bimbo showed up pursued by the mother of the baby she'd kidnapped. What a piece of work, huh? Can you believe anybody could be so stupid? And can you believe she's Arthur Hebert's daughter? God, I have some bad luck.

  "Reed comes running up to the gate, trying to get in, and yelling everyone's name. We had three casino board members there—did the neighbors need to know that? They'd just left the meeting, but it was still in progress and I had to do something with this crazy woman. I didn't have any choice about it."

  She was momentarily fiery, no doubt the Anna that Reed had seen when she named her the Dragon, the one who was probably good in business and who ran the mob clubhouse like a four-star hotel.

  There are women like that. They're great in business, do their jobs well, they make a terrific impression, but they're completely submissive to men. Twofers.

  "Why not just tell her to go home?"

  "She saw those casino board peop1e—don't you understand? Do you know what that means? Then it turns out she's Reed Hebert. Not only does she know them, but they know her. She's seen them at the mob clubhouse. That tries and convicts them in their own minds—and who knows where it might have led? I certainly didn't, and I didn't know what to do. Except contain the damage. That much I knew.

  "So I had Eddie and Mike bring her in, along with the bimbo, who was out of her mind drunk—or something—and couldn't be reasoned with. And the little girl. Sally." In the midst of it all, Anna smiled. As soon as she said the name, her face was transformed. She looked at Skip, possibly because she'd known her the longest by a couple of hours. "Is Sally all right?" Her voice was different too, high and too light; worried.

  "She's fine."

  "I took good care of her. I'd never have hurt her. You know that, don't you? The gun was empty."

  That was true: there were no bullets in the gun she had held to Sally's head.

  Shellmire said, "So you took the three of them prisoner."

  "I had no idea what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened before—first of all, decisions to make; second, Gustavo out of action. He had gone to New York for a day or two. I faxed him immediately, thinking to hear back in an hour or two, like always. Thinking he'd be back in the morning. He'd left no one in charge, you see. No one.

  "So that meant me. I knew that if I didn't hear from him, I was supposed to pretend I had, I wasn't to let anyone know he couldn't be reached."

  "You had that agreement with him?"

  Anna looked at him coldly. "When you've spent your whole life in the mob, you're expected to have a minimum of street smarts. You don't need agreements."

  "I see."

  "I kept thinking I'd hear from him any second, but I also knew that if I didn't, something was badly wrong. I was crazy with worry, and I couldn't help it, I started d
rinking and couldn't stop. I don't usually do that." She sounded surprised.

  "I mean, I've never done that in my life." She looked at each of them in turn. "But I've never—I've never had a problem like this. Could I have some coffee, please?"

  "Of course. Let's take a ten-minute break."

  Shellmire was probably happy to get her some coffee. He wanted her to stay alert, stay focused. Keep talking.

  When they had reconvened, Anna seemed to have gotten a second wind. "I don't think any of you can understand how panicked I was and how the panic increased minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. I'm not trying to excuse what I did—I am deeply sorry and I know I'll be punished. I just want you to know that you can't know how crazy I was."

  She stopped and didn't speak for a few minutes, apparently making up her mind about something. She stared at a spot on the wall, perhaps projecting on it her own private movie.

  She said, "I lied when I said I've never done that. When my son died, the same thing happened." Tears flowed freely down her aristocratic cheeks. "I started drinking and I couldn't stop. It was like that for two weeks. And then—I did.

  "I'm not an alcoholic. I don't do this periodically. I guess—"

  She stopped and stared again for a while, working it out. "I guess I must do it when I just can't face something. I thought Gustavo was dead. I thought I was alone in the world. I mean, I see now that was what I was trying not to think. And you see, it happened at the same time Sally came. I had all those same feelings—of loss, of the most excruciating despair—that I had when I lost my son, and yet, here was something filling me up again. Here was this wonderful little girl I kept falling in love with a little bit more every day.

  "I would never have hurt her. You have to believe me. I thought it was the only way I could get to spend time with her—to pretend like that. I just wanted to be with her."

  Skip thought of the way she had held Sally too tight, the terrified look on the child's face, the way Sally had screamed for her mother.

  We do such odd things in the name of love.

  Shellmire said, "Your son was Frankie Garibaldi."

  Anna looked surprised. "Francis, yes. They killed him."

  "But it didn't happen here—it happened in New York."

  "They set him up."

  "Why?"

  "They sent him there. They could have sent Johnny. Or Carlos or Martin. Any of them were more experienced. They didn't have to send Francis."

  Shellmire spread his hands. "It sounds more like they gave him a chance and he blew it."

  "The bastards set him up."

  28

  Skip had drunk coffee along with Anna, enough to get her through a long night. She still had to talk to Reed, but that could wait. Cappello had told her Abasolo was waiting for her call. She got some peanut butter cookies from a machine in the basement and ate them mechanically, not tasting, not wanting to, just needing fuel.

  She got Abasolo's machine. "Oh, well, out at a bar, I expect."

  It wasn't likely—Abasolo was a staunch member of AA—so staunch that was his sometime nickname.

  He picked up. "Officer Langdon, I presume."

  "Thanks for waiting for me, Adam. I really appreciate it."

  "I couldn't resist—it was so much fun the last time we partnered up."

  "Some backup you were then." He had watched her fight off a suspect who was also an unwelcome suitor.

  "I thought you wanted to handle it yourself" She had, as a matter of fact. "Anyway, it gave me new respect for tall, dangerous female officers. You have Delavon's address?"

  "Does the pope wear dresses?"

  "Okay. Get some uniforms to meet us there. And pick me up in twenty. "

  * * *

  Abasolo lived in a small, neat house in mid-city, newly painted, but spoiled by a cluttered porch.

  "What do you think?" he said. "I just moved in. Still moving—guess you can tell."

  "Nice."

  He got in the car. "Gonna be nicer. I'm going to dig up those awful azaleas and put in some roses, for one thing. Then I'm gonna get some nice annuals, just for now, while I'm trying to figure out what I really want."

  "I never figured you for a gardener, AA. You're a man of hidden depths."

  "All of them murky."

  He was wearing the requisite dark clothes—jeans and a black T-shirt. He seemed about as tightly wound as a guy on his way to a Saints game.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Beautiful New Orleans East. Did Cappello tell you the story? Here's the deal—Delavon's the gangster who sent me out to the Iberville, where Jim got shot."

  "You think he set you up?"

  "Not really. He couldn't have known when I'd be going there, and I don't think his guys would have made Jim—I think he probably just got in the way. But Delavon made sure I knew about this heroin dealer working out of the project. He must have got tired of waiting for us to pop him and decided to take him out himself. Anyway, I saw someone there that night, and the same dude beat up O'Rourke while I was talking to Delavon a few days later."

  "He works for Delavon."

  "And he made a deal with us. Hence, tonight's adventure."

  "So what do you think the setup is?"

  Skip shook her head, vaguely aware that she was biting her lip as well. "I've got a real bad feeling about this dude."

  "Like a premonition?"

  "I wish to hell I did get those. I've spent a little time with him now." She shook her head again. "I don't know. I just don't know."

  "Hey, you're fadin'; talk to me."

  "It's some black, dark feeling, like the worst has already happened. I get it when I'm around him. I even get it when I think about him."

  "Ah. Depression."

  "Not depression. More like pure evil."

  Abasolo gave her a squinty-eyed look and didn't speak for a while.

  Finally he said, "Maybe we should go back to gardening."

  She felt slightly betrayed. "You asked."

  They were getting near New Orleans East now. This was where she thought Delavon had met her the time he had her kidnapped. But they weren't on the way to the pleasure dome, or whatever it was. Augustine Melancon had specifically said it was a house, the house in which Delavon lived. Probably he had a stash house somewhere as well.

  Skip had asked questions about the house—who lived there, how big it was—but Melancon didn't know. He said when he picked up Delavon, he waited in the car. That was all he knew. The part of New Orleans East where they were going was a neighborhood in decline. It boasted blocks and blocks of scuzzy condos and lots of brick fourplexes with barred windows. Some of the condos were so poorly constructed they were literally falling apart. In some cases, trim that had fallen off lay on the ground; in others, gutters hung down.

  The condos were disheartening, but downright heartbreaking were the tiny, neat little houses that were also falling apart—and also barred. It was hard to picture Delavon in one of these. Skip imagined the occupants as honest, hardworking people—postal employees perhaps, laborers, hospital workers—beset by neighborhood conditions they could do nothing about.

  Drug dealers in the Superstore parking lot, and in the doorways of the condos.

  The flash of gunfire at night.

  Terror that the kids would end up in gangs, or on drugs. Dead.

  But the fact that Delavon lived in one put a different light on it. Maybe they were all the tidy, prim lairs of vicious criminals who emanated the evil that had so spooked her in Delavon's presence. In that case, who watered the lawns and took care of the flowers?

  She pulled up in front of a red brick one, so tiny it looked like the prototype for the one in the three pigs story, snug and impervious to lupine huffing and puffing.

  It had a well—kept lawn and beds in which zinnias and marigolds flaunted themselves like drag queens. In the back there were very likely sweet peas and vegetables. Probably the lady of the house sent one of the kids out every Sunday to get a coupl
e of ripe tomatoes, maybe some cucumbers as well, to slice up for lunch, to go with the chicken and the rice and the fresh peas and the fresh corn, and all the other vegetables she'd prepared.

  What lady? What am I thinking?

  It was as if she'd fallen into a trance, forgotten what she'd come for.

  Abasolo said, "How do you want to play it?"

  "It's your call."

  He shook his head. "You're the one who knows him."

  "Okay. We should use that. I'll knock. You stay a little behind me. If he comes to the door, we take him. If he doesn't, we play it by ear."

  "By ear's fine. Love by ear to death." She glanced at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but she saw only a long-legged, languid, utterly relaxed, precision-tuned cop. The sight made her feel better. She removed her gun from her purse and put it in her pocket.

  The uniforms were waiting for them. Abasolo sent one to the back, told the other to stay in front.

  It was nearly ten o'clock. The house was well—lit and she could hear the drone of a television.

  She banged on the door.

  A little girl opened it, smiling. Her face fell when she saw Skip. She was about seven, wearing pink jeans, a Little Mermaid T-shirt, and rubber thongs. "I thought you were Uncle Eric," she said.

  "I'm here to see your daddy."

  "My daddy don't know you." Good smells wafted out the door—dinner smells, a couple of hours old.

  "Shavonne. Shavonne, who's that?" called a female voice, and then an older woman stepped into view.

  She was overweight and her hair had a white streak in it, but her skin was unlined, her face round and strong, her heavy breasts waiting pillows for anyone needing a hug. She held herself with dignity, and could have been the model for a statue of an African deity; Yemaya perhaps.

  Skip felt a tug in her chest. This woman looked as if she taught Sunday school. More women's voices fluttered softly on the air, probably from the kitchen.

  "We're here to see Delavon."

  "Delavon?" The woman's head swiveled. "He on the phone. Y'all come in, won't you?" She opened the door.