by JM Gulvin
‘Rien, Nana, everything’s fine.’ Gigi was stumbling for the stairs and Pious caught her before she fell then carried her up with Quarrie keeping one eye on the street behind them.
‘Ms Matisse,’ he said to the elderly woman, ‘I talked to you on the phone. I’m a Texas Ranger, mam. Gigi’s hurt and needs a place to hole up in.’
The apartment was spacious and cool with tall ceilings and full height, rectangular windows. The furniture was so delicate and individual it looked as if it had been there since the days of the Spanish. Under Nana’s direction Pious carried Gigi through to a room where a bed was made up, a sphere in each corner of the iron bedstead embossed with a coiled serpent. Gently Pious laid Gigi down and she looked past him to where Quarrie stood in the doorway.
‘Mr Matthews,’ she sobbed. ‘The pharmacist, I saw him back there, they had him tied up in a room and there was blood on his shirt, his glasses were smashed. He . . .’
‘All right,’ Quarrie said. ‘It’s all right now. Take it easy.’
Nana followed them in from the hall and Quarrie could see she was trembling. ‘What happened?’ She looked at Quarrie. ‘What went on here? What happened to my baby?’
Taking off his hat Quarrie held it at his side. For a second or two he regarded Gigi’s battered features then he glanced through the open door beyond the hall, to where Pious was watching the street from the balcony.
‘What happened to her?’ Nana repeated.
‘I don’t know exactly, some men took her to a club on Governor Nicholls.’
‘Soulja Bleu.’ The old woman’s eyes were wide and he saw the way a shiver worked her shoulders. Lifting a hand to her breast she blessed herself then kissed the tips of her fingers.
‘We got her out of there pretty quick,’ Quarrie said, ‘but I can’t tell you what happened because she hasn’t had time to tell us.’ He glanced once more across the hallway. ‘She can’t stay here for long because sooner or later they’re going to find this apartment. When she’s rested I’m going to have Pious fly her back to the ranch where we live at in Texas.’
He and Pious remained in the living room while the old woman filled a basin with warm water and took a bag of cotton balls to the bedroom so she could bathe Gigi’s cuts and bruises. Pious sat in a high-backed chair with his fingers entwined across the flat of his stomach. ‘What do you reckon they done to her?’
Quarrie didn’t answer. He picked up the phone, dialled 911 and asked for the 3rd Precinct. When dispatch put him through, he told them to get hold of De La Martin and let him know where the pharmacist was. Hanging up once more, he dialled again and asked the operator to connect him to the Department of Public Safety in Amarillo. ‘This is Sergeant Quarrie,’ he said when the call was answered.
‘John Q,’ the dispatcher came back. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m out of state right now. Are there any messages for me?’
‘Yes, sir, Captain Van Hanigan wants you to call him.’
Nana came out of the bedroom and quietly closed the door. She looked puffy about the eyes but she seemed composed enough as Quarrie and Pious got up from their seats in the living room.
‘I imagine you boys could do with a drink,’ she said, waving them down. ‘I know I sure could.’ Her voice was a little shaky. ‘I keep julep mixed if y’all want one.’ She went to fetch the drinks and Quarrie called his captain at home. ‘It’s Quarrie,’ he said when Van Hanigan answered. ‘I just talked to Amarillo and they said you wanted to speak to me.’
‘That’s right, I did. I thought you’d want to know that we had those fingerprints confirmed by the NCIC.’
Quarrie sat more upright. ‘Got us a match then, do we?’
‘Yes, we do, but it didn’t come from the felon register. Strangest thing,’ Van Hanigan said. ‘The NCIC told me that right after your request went in they had something from the coroner’s office down there in New Orleans. It was very specific, wanting them to check police records rather than the felon register. I asked them who it was sent the request but they couldn’t give me a name. Said it was just a scrawl on the paperwork. Anyway, it turns out the dead guy’s real name was Trace Anderson and I can’t tell you why he checked into The Roosevelt under an alias, but I can tell you he used to be a cop. NOPD, John Q. I made a call and they told me he quit about six months back. There’s an address on Esplanade Avenue.’
Seventeen
Earl kept one eye on the windows of his office from the diner on Tulane Avenue. He had a cup of coffee before him and his hand shook every time he took a sip. He saw the lights go out and not long after that a car came up the ramp from the underground parking garage. A few minutes later he pried a dollar from his clip, placed it on the table and left. Outside on the sidewalk he stood bathed in neon that echoed from the signs of competing bail bond companies.
On the other side of the road he made his way down the ramp to the parking garage and entered the coroner’s office through the same door he had before. Walking quickly he took the stairs to the back corridor and glass panelled office where the Telecopier was still plugged into the outlet. A role of flimsy-looking paper seemed to peel from the drum. As he tore it off a hint of perspiration moved on his brow.
In the parking garage he got behind the wheel of his car and unrolled the sheet of paper. He read it through then read it again and then he started the engine. Reversing out of the space he swung up the ramp before the gates were closed for the night. The heel of a palm on the wheel he drove across town, keeping his eyes on his mirrors. When he got to North Rampart Street he drove downtown as far as Esplanade Avenue then turned for the river and made his way to where the railroad tracks hit the wharf. With the window rolled down and the smell of diesel in the air, he spun all the way around and faced the way he had come. He passed the apartment complex on his right and turned at the next corner then drove another half a block before he stopped. For a few moments he sat at the wheel with his hands in his lap staring at his reflection in the rear view mirror.
When he got out of the car the rain was coming down and he grabbed his trilby from the passenger seat. He looked up and down the block then across the road to where the various houses and apartments seemed to radiate with light. Fixing the hat he buttoned his coat to the rain then walked as far as the corner. There he stopped and cast a glance towards North Rampart then again in the direction of the river. With no one around, he plucked a two-piece set of lock picks from his coat pocket and studied them in the fall of the streetlight.
*
When Quarrie opened the bedroom door Gigi was lying in the half-light that broke through the window. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand and she gripped his fingers tightly.
‘How’re you doing?’ he asked her.
‘He was there as soon as you left.’ Gigi’s eyes were alive with fear. ‘Soulja Blue. How did he know where I was?’
‘I don’t know yet, Gigi. I aim to find out.’
She closed her eyes then broke down crying and it was a couple of minutes before she was able to compose herself. Quarrie was holding her hand as Nana appeared from the hallway. Gigi looked up at her then back at Quarrie and her voice was shaking. ‘A man came to the room where you found me. I never saw his face, I just heard his voice. They blindfolded me when they took me into the club. That man said I didn’t listen. He said I’d been told to stay away from you but I went ahead and talked to you anyway. He told me that behavior like that had consequences. He said my cousin’s debt had been paid. The money he owed, they had the note and I had to pay but . . .’ She broke down again as the sobbing swept her.
Quarrie left Nana to comfort her and went back to the living room where Pious was keeping vigil at the window.
‘Anything going on out there?’ Quarrie said.
‘No, sir, all’s quiet.’
Quarrie picked up his shoulder holsters from the arm of a chair. ‘I’m going to take the car and check that address Van Hanigan gave me. If anybody shows up while I’m gone,
make sure they know you got a shotgun.’
He drove the short distance up to North Rampart Street then swung north once more, watching for anybody watching him. At Esplanade he made a right and headed for the river and Decatur Street, which ran parallel with the railroad. A mist seeped from the Mississippi to shroud the rain-washed asphalt and he slowed as the glare from his headlights reflected against the windshield. Hardly tickling the gas, he passed Bourbon Street and Royal, after that Chartres Street where they had held him at the 3rd Precinct Station House. Pulling into a bay just ahead of the Decatur Street junction he switched off the engine and gazed towards the brick-built apartment complex on the other side of the road. Locking the car door he checked for signs of surveillance then crossed the road and vaulted the gate. Now he stood looking up at the metal gantry where flickering gas lamps cast shadows at each apartment.
*
Earl saw the car pull up and Quarrie get out and square his hat. He saw him cross the road, hop the gate and walk the courtyard to the gantry steps. Easing an automatic from inside his jacket he held a paper file in his other hand and stepped around the end of the block. There was no way out back there, it was just an alcove where the garbage cans were stacked. With Quarrie on the steps already he had no choice but to crouch in the shadows.
*
The apartment was the last in line, and, as Quarrie approached, he could see a handful of letters lying in front of the door. He stopped, stood still for a moment then took another couple of paces and saw that the door was ajar. Easing back a fraction he pressed his body in close to the brickwork and peered beyond the pool of light that bled from the gas lamps.
*
Just yards away, Earl crouched with perspiration rolling down his cheeks. His palm was damp where he gripped the automatic. He did not move. He did not breathe. He just rocked on his haunches hidden by the shadows thrown out from the trash cans.
*
Keeping his back to the wall still Quarrie eased up to the door. The front window was on the other side and no light drifted from inside. He could feel the breath in his throat and a pulse at the skin of his temple. He scoured the darkness, listening intently, but there was no sound save a horn carrying from a boat somewhere on the river far off. He studied the door where it was cut from wooden panels and sectioned by foot-square panes of glass. Reaching out with his left hand he pushed at a square and the door swung in.
*
Earl listened with the automatic cocked. His gaze seemed to stretch as the door opened with the hint of a creak and then there was silence. Nothing, no movement, then he heard the scrape of a boot on the gantry.
*
Quarrie stepped into the apartment with his pistol levelled at the shadows. He swung left and right but there was no one there. Standing on unopened mail he took in a kitchen and living room, a TV set against the wall. At the back was a desk and chair and metal steps that climbed to a mezzanine upper floor.
*
Outside, Earl rose to his full height and stuffed the automatic into his pocket. Quietly he took off his shoes. He could hear movement from inside the apartment, the sound of footfall on metal stairs. Pinning the file under his arm he picked up his shoes and drew the gun from his pocket.
*
On the balls of his feet Quarrie climbed to an open-plan bedroom at the top of the stairs. Halfway up he stopped, conscious of what looked like the crack of a bathroom door. No light, just a duller shade to the darkness; he stood in the middle of the staircase for a second or so then started up again. He was almost at the top when the slightest of noises made him pause. He looked down to where the shaft of light fell from the lamp outside and he thought he saw a shadow that hadn’t been there before. For a long moment he concentrated on that patch of darkness but nothing stirred.
*
Earl could see him through the open door and as soon as Quarrie got to the bedroom he emerged from the shadows and made his way along the gantry in his socks. Making no sound he got to the stairs and paused to look back, but there was no sign of pursuit and he padded all the way down. At ground level he stepped under the gantry where he could not be seen and slipped his shoes back on. Listening for any sound from above he crept to the outer wall.
*
There was nobody upstairs. Quarrie checked the bedroom and bathroom but there was nobody there and he made his way back down. At the door he gazed the length of the gantry then walked around the corner but all he could see were garbage cans. As he turned again he glimpsed a man in a coat and hat making his way up Esplanade. He stood there watching till the figure was swallowed by mist then turned back to the apartment once more.
Holstering his gun he studied the desk at the back of the room where he could pick out the silhouette of an anglepoise lamp. He switched it on and took in the parameters of the room. A studio really, it was compact but modern with tiled floors and copies of Warhol paintings hanging from naked brick walls. Picking up the fallen mail Quarrie found mostly bills, the gas company, power company; there was a phone bill but nothing hand-written at all. He closed the door and carried the pile of mail over to the desk.
The living area was made up of a couch and La-Z-Boy armchair. A TV set occupied one corner together with a record player with a seven-inch copy of ‘Eleanor Rigby’ on the turntable. With half a smile, Quarrie recalled being asked to shadow The Beatles for a night last year when they stayed at The Cabana in Dallas.
Sitting down at the desk he could see that the top drawer had been forced. Searching through it he found nothing save a pad of yellow legal paper, an expensive-looking fountain pen and a box of business cards detailing Trace Anderson as a freelance feature writer. He considered what Van Hanigan had said about the coroner’s office and figured that whoever had been down here was the person who sent the teletype. Given the way the door was open it had probably been earlier that evening. That meant anything that could’ve told him what was going on would almost certainly have been taken. Even so he checked the rest of the drawers and found a diary where April 28 was underscored heavily in red. That was just a few days from now and he stared at the empty page. Nothing written down, no hint as to why it had been marked. He laid the diary aside.
Rummaging further he located an empty 8 × 10 inch envelope addressed to Anderson with the postage mark stamped in Dallas. The envelope had been sliced at the top and something was scribbled on the back. Holding it up to the light he read the words Adapt or Die and remembered the screwed up sheet of hotel notepaper he had found in the trash at The Roosevelt. Liberty, one word printed there and three more on the back of an envelope that had been mailed in Dallas. He thought about the slip of paper he had taken from Wiley’s wallet and how San Jacinto was a street in Old East Dallas. Returning his attention to the drawers once more he found another pad of paper and placed it with the first one. Buried right at the back was another of Anderson’s business cards, only this had a New Orleans phone number hand-written on the flip-side.
Quarrie stared at the number then he laid the card on the desk and crossed to the kitchen. He went through every cupboard and every drawer but found only cutlery and crockery so he turned to the shelves and coffee table. Finding nothing there, he went back to the desk. He tore open the phone bill and ran his eye down the list of numbers. One stuck out, the area code was Dallas but he didn’t recognize the number. Folding the page he slipped it into his pocket then picked up one of the pads of paper. Like a flip book he worked his thumb over the heel of the pages but found nothing. Taking the other one he got right to the back before he stopped. The final page was fractionally thicker than the others and pressed between it and the cardboard backing was a black and white photograph.
He bent the stem of the lamp a little further over so he could study the image properly. A couple of uniformed police officers, they were escorting two civilians past a set of steel mesh gates as a third civilian approached from the other direction. The second cop was a good distance behind the second civilian and both he and the
cop out front carried shotguns they were holding easy. Quarrie frowned. From a law enforcement point of view the picture didn’t add up. If those two uniforms were escorting the other two men then why were the weapons easy? Why was a third man passing the other two heading the opposite way? That would never happen, not if those men were under guard, anyone trying to pass would be directed well away. Something was wrong here but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Holding the picture up to the light he stared at the second civilian. A young man wearing a pea coat and sunglasses, he had his head tilted so his gaze was fixed on the floor. There was something familiar about him. Quarrie knew he had seen him before. He looked again and as he did he felt the hairs stand up on his forearms.
Eighteen
In the back seat of the Lincoln Tobie stared through the glass divider that kept their conversation from the ears of the chauffeur. ‘So what you’re telling me,’ he said, ‘he got her out of there before you went back?’
Franklin nodded.
‘I told you not to fail me.’
‘And I told you to let me deal with him. But you wouldn’t let me do that and you won’t tell me why. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘That doesn’t alter the fact that twice now you’ve let that woman slip through your fingers. I told you what he was capable of. What happened in that club was proof if you think we needed any.’
They were quiet for a moment then Franklin turned to him. ‘To hell with this, Rosslyn, I can take him out. I’ve done it before.’
