The Blood of Saints (Tom Connelly Book 2)

by Nick Dorsey

  The young cop hesitated. He dragged his eyes from Tom and looked at the big, bleeding bouncer. The big guy said, “Don’t look at me. Shit. I don’t want more cops here.”

  Tom laced his fingers behind his head. “Me and him just had a personal argument. All over now. How about this. I go to my car, you go back outside, and everything’s back to normal.”

  “My fucking nose isn’t back to normal.”

  Tom ignored him and looked at the cop. The young man was afraid. He was probably new to the NOPD. Probably took this gig from a veteran officer, just a little extra something to take home every week. The cop put his foot on the bouncer’s gun and slid it to the wall, then jerked his head at the door. “Alright, get the fuck out of here.”

  Tom got the fuck out of there.

  His heart beating out of his chest, Tom tried to drive the speed limit all the way to the used car lot. Nobody ever got used to having a gun pointed at them. If he was smart, he would take that interaction as a sign. He should go home. Take a shower. Watch television or something. Instead, he was driving to a car dealership almost certainly involved in some sort of money laundering. The lot, then back to Dominic’s apartment. All after having that gun pointed at him.

  Tom had to admit the night felt good to him. It felt like he was going to get some answers.

  He was stopped at a red light just a few blocks away from the car lot when his phone rang. Tom didn’t recognize the number, but they had called twice before. He pulled the Taurus to the side of the road and answered.

  The voice on the other end was a bit ragged. “Hey, Mr. Connelly, what you know good?” Tom recognized the old man’s accent.

  “Hey, Sal. Just enjoying a night on the town.”

  “You been busy this evening or what?” Sal LaRocca sounded tired. There was grunting and coughing on the end, the old guy getting situated after being woken up.

  Tom said, “Just making the rounds.”

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?” There was a nice note in Sal’s voice. He wasn’t begging, not quite. But Tom thought his little show at the restaurant and the poker room was getting to him.

  Sal said, “Monday the Pan will be closed, but I’ll come in special, just for you. Why don’t you stop by at, say, four? Okay?”

  “Why?” Tom didn’t think Sal would be dumb enough to try anything right there in his restaurant. Certainly not with somebody currently investigating a murder. Then again, they sent Dominic after Jean. Maybe Sal was that dumb. “I’d rather go talk to Dominic tonight.”

  “Shit, Tom. Why would a nice guy like you want to do a thing like that?”

  “You know why.”

  “I don’t, but why don’t you tell me about it. Okay? On Monday. If you still feel like, you can talk to Dominic after dinner. Come by around four o’clock. I’m gettin’ old. I eat early.” There was a click on the other end and Tom realized the old man had hung up.

  Tom dressed for his meeting with Sal. He wore his grey suit and a blue tie. It seemed like something to do, dress for this. Ray’s gun case was on his couch, sitting there like a question. To answer it, Tom took the case and slid it under his bed. If Sal was going to be friendly, he would return the favor. He wondered if Sal would keep up his friendly old guy routine or if he’d start pushing Tom around.

  On second thought, was it even a routine? Was his grandfather bit an act or what?

  It had been raining all day, a steady drizzle that kept going whether it was overcast or whether the sun was shining. It came down just hard enough for Tom to turn on his windshield wipers and leave greasy streaks across the window as he drove across town. He parked outside the Pan Dell’Orso and hustled inside.

  The big bartender was there leaning over the bar. He fixed Tom with a cold stare. “You gonna run around the kitchen again?”

  “Maybe.”

  The bartender shook his head. “He’s waiting.”

  Tom walked into the dining room, pausing at the door and looking back at the bartender. Just to make sure he was staying behind the bar. He was, but Tom was still nervous. And he didn’t have Ray’s gun.

  Sal was sitting in a booth with a glass of wine and some sort of soup. He waved Tom over. “You had fun the other night? Broke David’s nose.”

  “He started it,” Tom said.

  Sal half-stood as Tom sat down. The gesture was polite, a bit of old-world charm. Sal snorted laughter and gave Tom an amused look. “Look at you, ‘he started it.’ Like a kid.”

  Tom glanced over his shoulder again. Just to make sure the bartender was still back there. Sal saw the gesture and nodded. “I guess, if I wanted to, I could end this conversation quick. But I won’t.”

  “That’s generous of you.”

  All the amusement dropped from the older man’s face for a moment. His grey eyes took in Tom, his downturned mouth pulling deep lines with it. “My father told me that you could tell the nature of a man's character by the angle of his hat.” He made a small gesture at his forehead like he was tipping a hat brim. “You know what I'm saying? See, you walk down Canal Street in those days and you see all the men squared up. Got their business hats on. And maybe they were respectable, good citizens, but they didn't look like they're having any fun. My uncle and my father, now? They were always smiling. The way they cocked their hats? My God, they knew how to have a good time. Drinks. Some cards here and there. They didn’t want to punch no clock. That crooked hat? That was a little ‘fuck you’ to the world. Nobody was getting in their way. At least that's what they said.” He took a thoughtful sip of wine. “Anyway, nobody wears hats anymore so I guess it's kind of a, a what-do-you-call-it? A moot point. But I see you, and you got your hat on dead center. A good cop, even if you ain’t got a badge no more. Am I right?”

  “But like you said, nobody wears hats.” Tom jerked around as a door opened. He balled his fist, ready for Dominic or the bartender or somebody to come out and get to it. Instead, a kid rushed out with a tray. It wasn’t somebody Tom had seen before. The kid set a po’boy on the table and put a glass of water in front of Tom and disappeared.

  Tom turned back to Sal. That impish glimmer had come back. “Like I said. It’s just a conversation. Don’t get antsy. You wanna split a sandwich with me?” Sal pulled half the po’boy onto a plate for Tom and dusted his hands. “I was thinking, if I am the man you think I am, then why are you fucking with my business? If I am the man you think I am, doesn’t that seem like a pretty stupid thing to do?”

  “You sent that kid Dominic to lean on a lawyer. That's a stupid thing to do.”

  The old man’s grey eyes searched his like he was looking for the lie. His brow furrowed. He finally said, “I didn't do anything. And I don't know that Dominic did anything. But anything he did he would have done on his own. His dumbass way of trying to show initiative.”

  Tom leaped at that. “Initiative. Because he’d rather we stop looking into Ernesto’s murder.”

  “You, with that bullshit. I can’t keep telling you this. Ernie’s wife is right where she should be, behind bars. Ernesto and I were close. No friction there. My sister Amelia? She loved him.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Everything.” Sal took a bite. Mayonnaise and gravy oozed from the end of the po’boy and splattered onto his plate. “I’m a broken record over here. You already got the guy who killed Ernesto, and it’s a broad. You don’t have to play cop no more.”

  Tom pushed his plate aside and leaned over the table, eyeing Sal. “Then why did Erika come to see me? Why did Dominic go lean on Jean?”

  Sal mopped his face with three napkins. “I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know Erika. As for your friend? If she got, you know, uncomfortable, I’m sorry about that. But I’m not the bad guy here. I’ve been nothing but nice to you.”

  “You’ve been something.”

  “Alright. You don’t want to listen to me? Fine. I’m telling you something. For the first time in the history of
cops, the cops got the right guy. Or the right lady, I guess. But you don’t want to believe me. Fine. But if you keep running around and threatening my businesses?” Sal shook his head and pushed his plate away. “Damn it. This isn’t the way this was supposed to go. This was supposed to be an apology.” Sal wiped gravy from his hands with an expensive cloth napkin. He tossed it on the plate and frowned at Tom for a good long time. Then that smile came back and he clapped his hands like a magician starting a trick. “Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do. Why don’t you come to the Saint Joseph altar? We got mass at Mater Dolorosa and then dinner here. Amelia will be around. She wants you to be her guest. You bring your lawyer friend, too. You Catholic?”

  Tom shook his head. “My mom.”

  “So maybe you were baptized?”

  “I was.”

  “Great. They got you, then. Catholics, they get them early. So, come by Thursday. Alright?”

  Tom didn’t respond, but Sal had made up his mind for him.

  “Thursday. Great.” Sal raised a hand. “Hey, Louis? Get a to-go box for Mr. Connelly’s sandwich here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  So, he said to me, ‘Stay away from the lawyer, stay away from the black kid, and stay away from Tom Connelly.’ Just like that.” Dominic shrugged and finished his beer. “So as far he knows, I’m going to.”

  It was late Monday night and he was on the couch, winding down. He went into the restaurant when Sal called and listened to the old man talk for a half an hour straight. Tradition, business, family, that sort of shit. What it boiled down to was this: Don’t screw with the lady lawyer again.

  “As far as he knows?” Erika was laying with her head on his leg, looking up at him with all that blonde hair everywhere like somebody spilled gold in his lap. “But what he don’t know don’t hurt him?”

  “That guy came to your club. He’s got to know he can’t do that.”

  “Tom was there because you went to the lawyer’s house.”

  “It’s ‘Tom’ now?” He handed his empty beer can off and Erika set it on the floor.

  “It sounds like you’re escalating things.” But she was smiling. She said, “This is like that saying from the Bible or something, an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”

  He ran his hand through her hair, thinking it over. “Yeah? You think I should leave it be?”

  Erika moved his hand and sat up. She stretched her arms above her head slowly, showing off a little. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying, that’s probably what Sal thinks. But Sal doesn’t know what we know.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” Dominic shifted to watch her stretch.

  “I feel like going out for a while. You want to buy me a nice glass of wine somewhere?”

  “No.” Dominic put an arm around her stomach and pulled her into him and put his face into all that hair. “I feel like staying in.”

  Things had gotten all fucked up, honestly. That was what Dominic was thinking later on, in the dark, Erika breathing steadily beside him. Little blades of amber street light coming in through the blinds. In the beginning, once they made the decision, it was sort of a relief. Like a weight was lifted off his shoulders. He and Erika cooked up the plan over those dark, dead days between Christmas and New Year’s. And, honestly, it had all gone pretty good there for a minute.

  Initially, the first thing he said when they were dancing around the idea of taking out Ernesto was, “We can’t get caught.” Obviously. So they had to do the thing and also pin it on somebody. Lots to think about. For starters, who would they point the finger at? Not just somebody else, but some rival outfit? Maybe. Dominic knew they were around, but he didn’t know what sort of blowback that would cause.

  “We could aim the blame at some guys from New Orleans East.”

  Erika wasn’t so sure. “Isn’t that going to start a whole thing? Going to the mattresses? Like in the movies?”

  She was right. It might. And that wasn’t anything he wanted. Because the LaRocca family wasn’t exactly the cream of the crop when it came to muscle. So, not another outfit. Somebody else.

  The wife. He was looking at Erika when he thought it up. She was his own Sofia Adelfi, after all. And there should only be one, right? So maybe he could take out Sofia, too. Not dead, out. But just away from it all. Like, what if she shot Ernesto?

  It sounded okay to him. She was just arm candy. And a real ice queen. Nobody liked her, anyway. He told Erika about it.

  “It’s a crime of passion.” Her eyes lighting up when she said it. Really into the idea. But how do they lay it all on her? Erika said they needed to tell a little story. Simple. Something both Sal and the cops could understand. No problem, she told him. She could do that. They just needed more information.

  Just after the new year, Erika began her own little stakeout. Following Sofia around, seeing where she went and what she did. Not much. The store, church, the coffee shop. And yoga. Erika reported it all back to Dominic. They smoked a bale of weed and thought up how they were going to do it. In the end, he was pretty proud of the whole plan. Shame he could never tell anybody he thought it up.

  It went like this. Erika would go to the same yoga class as Sofia. Where she would have the same purple water bottle that Sofia Adelfi used. Expensive thing from Whole Foods, but it was worth it. Only Erika’s was full of water and powdered Flunitrazepam. That was Rohypnol. Roofies. A little something Erika got from a friend at the club. A few weeks before, Erika crushed up half a pill in water and she and Dominic both tried it out. It didn’t taste too weird. And they both slept well.

  They made sure to double the dose for Sofia.

  On the day of, Erika hung out at the yoga studio until she showed up. It was easy enough. Everybody put their gear in little cubbies in the foyer before going into the gym. Water bottle included. So she waits for Sofia Adelfi to drop her stuff off, switches the water bottle, and that was that.

  Then Dominic took over. Following her around. She was weaving around a little bit, which wasn’t good. He didn’t need the cops getting involved this soon. When she pulled off to get a coffee, he was worried. Maybe that would counteract the roofie. He didn’t know how all that worked. She went home. That was a tough few hours. Dominic driving around, waiting for the shit to kick in. That was when he thought hey, maybe this wasn’t a great idea. Maybe the drugs aren’t going to be enough. What kind of a world would he be living in if he broke into Ernesto Adelfi’s house and they’re both awake and chatting? Take out both of them? That screws the whole plan.

  But that’s not what happened. He stashed the car, then made his way through the park that ran behind Bluebird Street. He hops a fence and then he’s in the Adelfi back yard. One picked lock later, he’s in the kitchen. And there she was, passed out on the couch. TV playing. An empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. He stood over her. Poked her shoulder. Nothing.

  She was out cold. Beautiful.

  He remembered his heart beating out of his chest as he walked up the stairs. Really pounding, and part of him wanting to bolt. But no. He had to shut that voice up. This was the way it had to be. It was his choice. It was a tough choice. And he was going to make it.

  He thought he was going to catch Ernesto getting ready for the Pan, but no. The poor bastard was taking a nap up there. He wanted to pop him right then, but he made himself stop. Slow down. Do what he and Erika planned. Dominic walked through, keeping an eye on the man. Ready to take him out with his Glock if he needed to, but taking it slow. He checked the nightstand for a piece.

  Bingo. Was it the wife’s? Was it Ernesto’s? Who cares.

  He was walking around the bed to check the other nightside when Ernesto woke up. And that was that.

  Easy.

  The hardest part was dressing the scene after.

  A sea of green shirts and plastic leprechaun hats sloshed up and down the streets of the Irish Channel. The street was blocked off for the Saint Patrick’s Day parade, though it wouldn’t start for another hour or so.
People were waiting, packed on either side of the street with their children on ladders and hands full of beer. Dominic wasn't sure the neighborhood was still predominantly Irish but it was still the Irish Channel. It looked to him like there were more African Americans than Irish Americans living there now. Why did this part of the city keep its name? The French Quarter was called Little Palermo one point. Why didn't that name stick?

  Dominic walked down the middle of the street with Louis, sipping a beer and taking in the scene. He wore a black and yellow sweater, looking like a bumblebee floating in a green beer. That was his own personal slight against the Irish in general and the holiday in particular. He might be there waiting for the parade, but he wasn't that into it. Louis, on the other hand, was green from head to toe and six beers deep. Dominic really should be keeping an eye on him. The big guy had a shift later that night, and he would catch hell if he showed up drunk, or worse, hungover.

  “You want to come on a little adventure with me?”

  Louis slurred, “What kind of adventure are we talking about? The parade is going to start here pretty soon.”

  “Look at that, it’s already started.” Dominic pointed at three women in green bikinis and big plastic sunglasses shaped like four-leaf clovers. They were yelling and throwing beads into the crowd.

  Louis raised both arms and yelled out, “Hey, throw me something darlin’!” He was pelted with plastic beads and even managed to catch one. He slipped it over his head and gave Dominic a goofy grin. “They like me. You think I got a chance?”

  “They were high as Monkey Hill. They probably thought you were the Jolly Green Giant.”

  Louis wasn’t listening. He waved at the girls as they passed by. One blew him a kiss. “See?”

  “Lou, listen. I was going to go see that detective guy.”

  “A cop?”

  “No, no. The guy that works for the lawyer. Tom something.”