by JM Gulvin
‘Family, Lieutenant?’ Quarrie said.
Colback nodded. ‘My wife’s folks, no one’s related to me.’
On their left was a study where the door stood open to reveal a highly polished desk. Beyond the staircase an archway led to a living room set with leather couches and a brand new color TV.
‘Just got her,’ Colback told him as they went in. ‘Admiral, twenty-three inch and that cabinet you see right there. They were asking five twenty-five but I shook them down to four-fifty including the sales tax.’
He poured a couple of drinks then crossed the hall to his study and came back with the pair of pistols and snub-nosed thirty-eight. Quarrie took a moment to inspect each weapon in turn then slipped the Blackhawks into his shoulder holsters and the snub-nose in his boot. Sitting back, he took in the contours of a room that had an old world, almost historical feel. There was something of the southern gentleman about it he would not have associated with a man like Colback.
‘This is a serious place you got going on,’ he said. ‘I guess you ain’t doing badly for a jarhead turned New Orleans cop.’
‘The house, you mean? It’s been in the family for years.’ Colback made an open-handed gesture. ‘All these grand-looking homes you see from the street car are still owned by the people that originally built them. None of them ever get sold, just passed to the next generation. Fact is I earn a cop’s salary and that caddy outside in the driveway is a present to my wife from her dad.’
He nodded to Quarrie’s Blackhawks. ‘You know, you’re the only cop I ever saw wearing a twin-rig outfit like that.’
‘Habit I got into,’ Quarrie said. ‘The way we work we’re on our own most always and sometimes the locations can be pretty remote.’ Pausing for a moment he added, ‘Still shoot a rifle, do you?’
Colback laughed. ‘I can point one I suppose, but shoot, no sir, at least nothing like I did.’ Again he disappeared inside his study and when he came out he was holding a sniper’s rifle. ‘Souvenir from Korea, though all she does right now is hang on the wall.’ He pitched the weapon to Quarrie. ‘She’s not loaded but I keep her oiled and everything. Smooth as silk. Go ahead and give her a try.’
An M1C similar to the one Quarrie had found in Wiley’s bag only this had a four-power scope. The stock was covered with a hand-stitched piece of leather to stop chafing and the barrel tipped with a trumpet-shaped piece of metal designed to hide the muzzle flash.
‘Just as she was the last time I used her and that might well’ve been that hill you were talking about on the phone.’ Colback looked on as Quarrie worked the action and inspected the empty chamber. ‘Not fired her since and I doubt I could hit a barn door right now even if I was sat on the latch.’
Pressing the stock to his shoulder Quarrie let the hammer down then rested the rifle against the edge of his chair. ‘So tell me about the cabbie.’
‘What cabbie?’
‘The young guy who’s been driving me around, told me he was in college.’
Colback looked puzzled.
‘Come on, Lieutenant. Level with me. He was at the Lakefront to meet me and he’s been outside my hotel every time I came out since.’
‘And you think he’s something to do with me?’ Colback pressed a thumb to his chest.
‘You’re the only person who knew I was coming. I figure you asked him to keep tabs on me.’
Colback laughed. ‘You don’t think I got anything better to do?’
‘I don’t know, Lieutenant. Do you?’
Sitting back in the chair Colback crossed his legs at the knee. He studied Quarrie with his chin high. ‘You’re unbelievable, you know that? Right now I’m the only friend you got in this city. The pharmacist you hassled is missing. De La Martin was down here just now asking all kinds of questions. On top of that you bust in at McAlister’s where the chief investigator with the DA’s office is having lunch with one of its more colorful attorneys.’
Quarrie flared his nostrils. ‘All right, Lieutenant. I’ll level with you then maybe you’ll level with me. Those meds I told you about were prescribed for a singer called Gigi Matisse.’ He told Colback about the woman he had met just now. ‘The way she was looking at me, the expression on her face when I showed her the empty bottle, she ain’t who she says she is.’
‘You’re thinking that was her, huh, only she wasn’t about to admit it to you?’
Quarrie nodded.
‘And you’re wondering how a bottle of meds with her name on it wound up with the guy you shot dead in Texas?’
Again Quarrie nodded.
‘Maybe she gave them to him?’
‘Yes, sir, it occurred to me.’
‘Think you can find her again? Don’t go holding your breath.’ Colback sat forward in the chair. ‘Half the people working the Quarter use an alias. You swing by her house she isn’t going to be there.’ He gestured with an open palm. ‘Listen, what happened in Texas is probably just some lowlife deal gotten out of hand. If it originated in New Orleans and it’s organized that’s my bag now, not yours. You need to go home, Quarrie. You need to get yourself on a plane. You already shot the guy who killed your man in the hotel room. Go back to Rangering and leave whatever’s going on down here to me.’ Reaching for his whiskey glass he sipped. ‘I’ll give you the heads up on anything you need to know but I get the feeling if you stick around much longer thing’s are only going to get messy. You want me to level with you I will. You don’t know this city like I do and Louisiana is not Texas. We both know the pharmacist is dead and if somebody’s giving a dick like De La Martin the workout he’ll jump any bone they toss.’
*
Across town on Chartres Street De La Martin peeled his sodden jacket from sweating shoulders and hung it on the back of the chair. With nobody else in the office he went through to the room where they housed the Telecopier and selected a pad of paper from the secretary’s desk. He started to pen the message he wanted to send, got half a sentence down before he seemed to change his mind and laid the pen aside. He remained where he was for a moment then walked the hallway and screwed the piece of paper into a ball.
In the corridor he plucked a cone from the water cooler and sought a bottle of Old Crow from a drawer in his desk. Holding the cone against the top he poured and drank as he stared the length of the hall.
*
The Lincoln was parked in the driveway when Franklin drove through the mansion gates. There was no sign of the chauffeur but lights burned in the apartment above the garage. He didn’t bother with the front door; he made his way around the back of the house to where Tobie’s study doors were open and the fly screen pulled across. He could see the old man in a leather armchair sipping on a glass of malt. Franklin remained in the shadows, his gaze shifting from the chair to a gilt-framed photograph of a young boy on the desk.
‘Franklin,’ Tobie said. ‘I’ve told you before. To covet a position is not to possess.’
Franklin pushed open the screen door and considered the ceiling fan where it whirled above the old man’s head. A little languid in the armchair, Tobie looked up. ‘So what’ve you got to report?’
‘We were in the 7th Ward. I just dropped him back at his hotel.’ Taking a chair on the other side of the fireplace Franklin cast another glance at the photograph.
‘Just nine years old when he died,’ Tobie said. ‘Rosa was eleven and she managed to avoid the epidemic but not young Ross. Polio initially, when he was in the hospital he contracted meningitis. There wasn’t anything the doctors could do.’
‘When was that?’ Franklin asked.
‘1925.’ The old man sipped from his glass. ‘So what happened in the 7th Ward?’
Franklin told him about the bar and Quarrie’s demeanor when he came out. ‘I went back after I dropped him off. She was in there all right and she talked to him but I don’t think she told him who she was. He wasn’t fooled though, I could see that. First thing tomorrow he’s going to be back at the house.’
Tobie sat in s
ilence, the glass in his hand and his hand on the arm of the chair. Franklin looked at him then he looked at the walking cane and finally the photo of the boy once more. ‘You should let me kill him,’ he said. ‘I’ve been driving him around and he’s not as tough as you think.’
‘That’s your considered opinion, is it?’ Tobie sipped his whisky. ‘It’s not about that, I told you. It’s about covering all the bases and not creating any more problems than we’ve already got. We don’t kill him; we work him, at least for the time being anyhow.’
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘The plan is to keep doing what you’re doing.’
‘He suspects me.’ Franklin gestured. ‘He thinks Colback had me show up at the airport so he could keep an eye on him.’
Tobie looked beyond him then. ‘I can see how he’d come to that conclusion. He’s not stupid. Let him think what he wants.’
‘What about the pharmacist? He’s still alive. Shall I tell Soulja Blue to get rid of him?’
‘No,’ Tobie said. ‘Hold off on that for now. I have a use for his body. When the time comes it needs to be fresh.’
Franklin nodded. ‘So you’ve got a plan to deal with Quarrie. Are you going to tell me what it is?’
‘Not right now. I’ll tell you when you need to know.’
‘What about Texas, Wichita Falls? We still don’t know who Williams really was or what other information he might’ve had.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that and it was probably only the photograph,’ Tobie said. ‘Don’t worry; we’re not taking any chances. So long as Quarrie doesn’t know anything we don’t, then we’re up with the play.’
‘I don’t understand why we don’t just ask the supplier.’
Tobie’s expression darkened. ‘I told you. I don’t want to do that. Our relationship with him is not only delicate, it’s specific. Without him no case is closed and a closed case is how we built our reputation.’
Getting up from the chair Franklin poured himself a drink. ‘So what about Gigi?’ he said.
Tobie pursed his lips. ‘What can she tell him exactly?’
Franklin shrugged. ‘That her meds were stolen. Apart from that I don’t know. I don’t know for sure what she’s been told. Moore said it was only his Christian name.’
‘Perhaps she’ll heed the warning.’
‘She’s already spoken to him once.’
Finishing his whisky Tobie handed him the empty glass.
‘You’ve been visiting with her nana,’ Franklin said. ‘That address on Orleans Street.’
‘How do you know about her?’
Franklin snorted. ‘How do you think I know? You had me take you there after the fundraiser so I looked up the address.’ He poured another whisky and Tobie sat with the glass clutched to his chest.
‘So what do you want me to do about Gigi?’
‘Kill her,’ the old man said.
Eleven
Gigi left the bar an hour after Quarrie and walked to her beaten-looking sky-blue Nomad. Behind the wheel she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and her eyes looked a little haunted. Parked cars lined both sides of the road and she studied them carefully before starting the engine.
She drove home keeping to the speed limit and making sure she didn’t run any stop signs. There were no prowl cars around though, and she pulled up outside her camelback house and stared at the darkened windows. Almost as if she didn’t want to venture inside, she remained where she was for a minute before finally opening the door. Locking the car she paused on the sidewalk gazing along the road to where wood burned in the oil barrel and the rag pickers hunched by the flames.
Inside the house she pulled the living room drapes then took a bottle from the cupboard in the kitchen and pressed crushed ice into a glass. Lacing it with a sprig of mint she poured a measure of bourbon and was about to screw the cap back on the bottle when she poured a little more. Opening her purse she found cigarettes and a book of matches. On a whim she picked up the phone and dialled Earl’s number but all she got was the tone.
*
When Franklin left the mansion he topped up the cab with gas. Half an hour later he turned onto North Rocheblave Street for the second time that evening and as he approached the camelback house, he could see the oil barrel still burning. He watched as the flames seemed to leap from the darkness then drove past Gigi’s house where her station wagon was parked with one wheel up on the curb. No lights showed upstairs or down. He pulled into a space and considered the school and the church and that burning oil barrel.
*
Gigi lay in bed with her eyes wide open. She was staring at the ceiling where patterns of light broke up the shadows that grew up from the corners of the room. She heard a car make the turn outside and trundle the length of the road. She heard it slow when it came to her house. She sat straight, back stiff, then she got out of bed and crossed to the window. She saw the car drive past and pull over a little way down the street. Craning her neck she thought she could make out the unlit sign of a cab. She could hear the engine ticking over and then it was switched off. No door opened. Nobody got in or out. For a moment longer she stood where she was then she reached for her dress.
*
As he climbed from the cab Franklin stuffed the Beretta into the waistband of his pants. He felt inside his jacket, brought out a switchblade and flipped it open. Carefully he worked the blade against his palm, closed it and flipped it a second time. He stared at the house, his gaze shifting to the proximity of its neighbors, then he walked to the steps. He stood there taking in the confines of the glass-panelled front door before climbing to the stoop. From the pocket of his jacket he took a pencil light and panned it over the lock.
*
Gigi saw him get out. She saw him approach her steps and stuffed her feet into the mules she’d been wearing when she went out. Grabbing her purse she rushed to the window at the back and lifted the sash. She heard footfall on the sidewalk, the creak of wood as he came up the steps. She was trembling. She bit her lip as she reached for the rope ties that held the fire-escape ladder in place.
*
Franklin had the flashlight between his teeth as he worked the knife against the door where the edge met the jamb. It was old and warped and he fed the blade a little way into the gap. Taking care to make sure it did not snap he slid the blade down to where the tumbler secured the lock. Slowly he worked it up and down and at the same time he twisted the handle. Nothing gave, but he kept working the handle and pried the blade in behind the lock.
*
Gigi had the ladder unfurled and it tumbled all the way to the ground. She could hear scraping sounds coming from downstairs and poked one leg out the window and tried to swivel around. Her dress caught on the sill and she couldn’t get it clear then a piece of material tore off. Now she pivoted so her back was to the world outside and her hands on the window frame. Her other leg clear, she lost her shoe and it fell to the yard. Quickly she climbed down the ladder and dropped to the ground. She bent for the fallen shoe, her weight resting on the heel of the other; she could feel it sinking into the grass. As she stood up again she peered through the kitchen window. The doors in line, she could see all the way to the front of the house where the door was wide open.
*
Franklin stood very still. Ears pricked, lips parted, he sought any movement from the shadows within. His gaze seemed to fix on the open doorway that led to the kitchen. No sound. No movement back there. To his left were the stairs. A shotgun home, there was no hallway and he started climbing the wooden steps. When he got to the landing he stopped. The bathroom was on his right and a short expanse of walkway led to a window that overlooked the street. The rest of the upstairs was a single bedroom. The boards groaned a little as he moved his feet. One hand on the wall he paused for a second to listen then opened the bedroom door.
The breeze hit him. The window at the back wide open, the bedroom was empty though the bed had clearly been slept in. He stood
there with his features taut and his eyes blank. He closed the blade and slipped the knife in his pocket. Then he crossed to the window and looked out over a tiny yard. He could see a half-height chain link fence that led to another yard and another after that. Still he stared then his attention switched to the window ledge and the rope ladder.
*
Quarrie woke early and went outside to find the taxi parked as it always was on the other side of Canal Street. Franklin was in the driver’s seat with his eyes closed and his head against the window. He jerked upright as Quarrie opened the passenger door.
‘Mr Football Scholarship,’ Quarrie said. ‘It’s time you and me had a talk.’
Franklin swivelled round in the seat with his back to the window as Quarrie got in. He had his jacket open and the heels of his pistols visible. ‘I’m not exactly known for my patience,’ he said, ‘so you might want to keep that in mind.’
‘Look, Mister, I’m just a cab driver. I . . .’
‘No you’re not. You told me you were in college on a football scholarship. Which college? What faculty? Where’s the campus?’
Franklin lifted his palms. ‘All right, all right, I’m at LSU. But you’re right; the lieutenant did ask me to keep an eye on you.’
‘Colback?’ Quarrie said.
