by Les Edgerton
His hunch was probably no good, but you never know. He’d solved cases on less.
“Sally in?” he asked. A huge woman was tending bar when he walked in who must have weighed three hundred pounds. Her arms looked like giant sausages. Only one customer at the bar. His head was down on the bar, apparently in the midst of a nap.
“Who’s asking?” she said, wiping a glass and giving him the eye.
“Tell him it’s Fogarty. We met last night.” Grady was surprised at the softness of her voice, considering her size.
“My wife,” Sally said when he came out. “Veronica, meet Grady Fogarty. Hey, wake Pete up and tell him it’s time to go home.” He nodded to the woman in the direction of the sleeping drunk and led Grady back to a table. Veronica came over with two beers, although neither he nor Sally asked for anything, and it was only one o’clock in the afternoon. She set them down and went to stand behind the bar. She stood there a minute, then reached out and pushed the sleeping man’s head. He fell back, seemingly in slow motion and landed sprawled in a heap on the floor. Veronica looked over the top of the bar, shrugged and went back to polishing glasses.
“She’s Italian,” Sally said, turning back to give Grady his attention, eyes twinkling. “Everybody wonders, I guess. She’s a great gal, the apple of my eye. So she gained a few pounds? I love her. What’s on your mind.”
Grady felt embarrassed. Did it show in my face, he wondered. Still, I’d like to know the story behind this relationship!
“Sally, I got a description of somebody that might be the friend of the guy I’m looking for.” He gave it to him. Hair color, eyes, height, that stuff.
“That could be about six hundred guys,” Sally said, taking a swig and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Look around, take your pick.” It was true. There were maybe four guys in the bar at the moment that loosely fit the description.
“There’s something else,” Grady said. “This guy said the man wore alligator shoes. That mean anything? I figure, down here where they grow ‘em, about a million people wear alligator shoes.”
“No,” Sally said. “Only one I know. You’re gonna like this. The only guy I know wears alligators is that guy I was telling you about. The guy that was in the other night. What’d I say his name was? Eddie? Yeah, that’s it, Eddie something. Hold on a minute.”
He signaled for his wife to come over.
“Veronica, tell Grady what you can about that Eddie character. I don’t know if I mentioned it, but Grady’s a cop too, retired, same as us. Oh, yeah,” he said when Grady’s eyebrows shoot up, “Veronica was a cop, too. Worked vice mostly. Used to pose as a prostie.”
Man, thought Grady. That was all. Man.
“Veronica, you know that guy comes in once in a while, drinks Stingers--remember you were talking about him acting like a tourist or something--guy with the alligator shoes and those other shoes he’s always wearing--snakeskins--shit like that.”
“That’s easy. You’re talking about Eddie Delahousie.” Grady leaned in closer to hear her. The longer Veronica talked the lower her voice became. “Wears those goddamned shoes pimps wear. Stacy-Adams, I think they are. There’s a store up on Canal all the pimps go to. Lives over in Fat City in one of those apartments down on Arnoldt. You know, drug central. Boozer. Punk. I’ll get his rap sheet for you tomorrow, if you want.”
She got up and left.
“Well? There you go, Fogarty. She was a good cop. She never used to miss much. Still doesn’t.”
When he left, the drunk was still laying on the floor.
Grady was exhilarated on the drive back to the Day’s Inn. A solid, bona fide lead! He was getting somewhere.
After he’d finished soaping down, he gradually decreased the hot water until it was totally cold and he stepped out and pulled on his pants after wiping off with a towel.
“Fuck it,” he said aloud to the room. “I wonder how long it takes to get used to this godawful heat!” He dreaded having to go back outside. Once dressed, he checked his piece and got two extra clips from the suitcase, slipping them into his pocket. He spread out a city map he’d gotten from the front desk and opened the phone book.
He was in luck.
There were only two Edward Delahousies listed and one with the initial E. Checking out the addresses on his map he found one with a Metairie address. Locking the door of his room behind him, he went out and got into his car, burning his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Christ,” he muttered, turning the key. “A shower six minutes ago and I’m wetter than I was before.” The frosty air of the air-conditioning felt wonderful. He kicked it all the way up and let the Freon go to work.
Finding the apartment was easy, but Eddie Delahousie wasn’t in. He considered picking the lock and looking around, but decided against it. It was enough for the moment that he knew where the man lived.
As he was leaving, a blue Caprice turned in behind him from the cross street. He just caught a glimpse of the man behind the wheel and something jarred in his mind, but he couldn’t figure out the source until he was a few blocks away. Reader. That had been Reader. For a minute, he considered going back, but then discarded the notion. Not now. He didn’t want the man to see him and get suspicious. He was reasonably certain this was a guy who noticed everything.
***
The man in the Caprice hadn’t noticed him, but, as it turned out, he didn’t need to. Reader received a phone call from his old friend Bobby that tipped him off.
“Reader?”
“Yeah. What’s the problem?”
“I thought you might like to know there’s a guy asking around town about you. He’s got your picture and everything. Funny thing. This guy’s a Yankee.”
“A Yankee?” Christ. He should have taken care of that waitress.
“Yeah. I got his license number. Looks like a rental. That help any?”
“That helps more than you know. I owe you, Bobby. I owe you big.”
After he got the guy’s description, he called another friend.
“Lionel,” he said. “I got something I want you to trace.”
***
After he returned and after his second shower of the afternoon, Grady lay down on the bed with only a towel around him and enjoyed the delicious frost of the air-conditioning on his moist body. The phone rang.
“Mr. Grady Fogarty, please.”
“Dr. Lyons?” He recognized the voice. “How’s my...” Grady paused as it hit him why the doctor was calling him. He sat up and his towel fell to the floor.
“He didn’t make it, did he?”
After he hung up, he just sat there staring at the floor for long moments, until he noticed he was naked. He dressed, putting on each article of clothing on slowly and methodically. His mind refused to function at first and then the magnitude of what the doctor had said overcame him and he lay face down on the bed and his body shook as he wept silently.
***
He wanted a drink in the worst way. What he did instead was to pick the phone back up and call Whitney.
“I don’t think I’ll be very good company tonight,” he said. He told her why.
“Oh, Grady! I’m so sorry! You poor darling. I’m coming over.”
He tried to talk her out of it but she wouldn’t take no. He hung up the phone and walked around with his head in a daze.
After what seemed like hours, there was a knock on his door. It was Whitney. Without saying a word, she stepped over the threshold and put her arms around him. Gently, she led him back to his bed and sat him down, sitting next to him, her arms around him, her head on his shoulder.
After a while, he turned to her and started to kiss her but buried his head in her neck. She sat there, patting his head, not saying a word. At last, he lay back on the bed and Whitney got up and went to the closet and got out a blanket and put it over him. They still hadn’t spoken a word, either of them. She went to sit in the only chair in the room and just watched him.
In a li
ttle bit, his eyes closed and he went to sleep. Whitney sat there for hours, never moving except to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. She just watched him, the only light a bit of moonlight peeping over the curtain in the lone window.
Along about three in the morning, Grady stirred, sat up and looked around and saw Whitney sitting in the corner.
“What time is it?”
She told him.
“I’m sorry,” was all he could think of to say.
“It’s all right. Come on.”
“Where?” he said. She was looking through his closet for something.
“Here.” She came out with a light brown sport coat. “This one looks right. Put it on.”
“Where are we going?”
“A little coffee shop I know.”
On the way, he looked at her and said, “You’re one of the good guys, aren’t you.” She didn’t reply, only put her hand on his and squeezed.
At the coffee shop, she took charge, ordering both of them steaming mugs of cafe au lait. Then she mde him talk. About his brother.
He told her everything. When he was done, a different crew was coming on and the sun was coming up.
CHAPTER 19
C.J. KEPT THE GROWING feeling of euphoria until he entered the door of his house and walked into the living room and saw Sarah sitting in his favorite possession, his leather chair. That was something he was going to miss. He wondered what the furniture stores would be like in Belize. Maybe he’d have to order from the States to get what he wanted. He saw there was someone else in the room with her. A policeman. In full uniform, sitting in a chair in the corner, hat on his knee.
“Hello, Sarah,” he began. “What’s...listen, I’m sorry I’m late. I got tied up in a--”
Her voice was permafrost.
“I don’t care where you were, Clifford. Fucking your little tramp I would imagine.”
“I--” He started to speak, but she waved an imperious hand.
“It doesn’t matter. You can see her all you want. In fact, I’d suggest you go to her right away. You see, you don’t have a bed in this house any longer. I want you to leave immediately. You can have ten minutes to pick up your pathetic little personal belongings and I want you out of here. For good. If you don’t do as I say, this gentleman will arrest you.”
His face drained. What was going on? He tried to collect his thoughts, figure out what to say. God! What else could go wrong? This was a disaster!
“You’re no longer needed at the bank. As of five o’clock this afternoon you’ve been relieved of your duties. Mr. Arnoldt is in charge now. Your desk has been cleaned out and all your possessions will be sent to you as soon as we’ve determined what is yours and what belongs to the bank.”
The whole time she talked she kept her eyes locked with his.
“I’d tell you to turn in your keys, but that won’t be necessary. All the locks have been changed. Keep them as a souvenir. You’ll be served with the proper papers tomorrow. Give me an address to send them to. Or would your little hideaway on Burthe be satisfactory? Didn’t think I knew about that, did you? There’s a lot I know, Clifford. That’s it, no discussion, no arguing, no pleading, no nothing. I want you out. Immediately. To save you some breath, there’s nothing in your name. Not the house, not your bank accounts, not your car. Amend that. I’m going to let you have your car. Temporarily. You might think about making arrangements to apply for credit for a new one. Only don’t apply at my bank. What I’m doing, Clifford, is leaving you the same way I found you. Although,” her voice dripped with sarcasm, “I don’t doubt that with your charm you’ll find another meal ticket. I wouldn’t look for her in Louisiana, however. The word is being put out about you. I shouldn’t imagine you’ll find much future in New Orleans.”
Sarah stood up, turned her back and began walking toward the dining room. She spoke, not turning around, “Oh, and tell your little whore she’s fired as well. She can pick up her check on Friday.” Sarah left the room.
He saw her fists were clenched. “Sarah,” he said, in a little voice. He started after her disappearing figure but the policeman stood up, walked over to block his path.
What was this!
“Sorry, sir. I can’t let you go in there. If you want something from the master bedroom and she approves, I’ll escort you to get it. Otherwise, you’ll have to leave.”
“What the hell is this! I’ll call the chief! I’ll have your--”
“Sir, I’m here on personal orders from the chief. Will you leave quietly?”
***
Upstairs in the master bedroom, he went over to the walk-in closet and peered in, considering briefly about packing at least his suits. Fuck it, he thought; I’ll get all new clothes. Clothes that won’t have the stench of her money on them. He did go over to his dresser and open the bottom drawer. Far in the back he felt beneath a pile of sweaters until his fingers touched the full plastic bag he was after. He hefted the five full grams of cocaine in his hand lovingly and thrust it into his trouser pocket. That was all he took. He wanted to smash everything in sight and glanced once at the dresser she bought in France and shipped over ten years ago. He picked up a paperweight and stared at the dresser mirror, but one look at the beefy cop who had escorted him upstairs and was standing in the hallway, changed his mind.
At the last minute, he changed his mind, grabbed a suitcase and packed a couple changes of clothes. Just until I get new ones, he thought.
As he walked to his car, all he could think about was what he was going to do about Friday. The fucking cunt! Her grandfather was behind this, he realized. Problem, C.J. Big fucking problem. Solve it, big boy. You can do it. Don’t panic; think! In his Lincoln he took out the packet from his pocket, rolled a dollar bill up into a tight roll and snuffled back a big hit, not much caring whether the policeman inside the house saw him or not. He thought about his next move.
CHAPTER 20
“WE GOT A PROBLEM.”
Eddie knew this was not what Reader wanted to hear. He winced as Reader’s cursing came over the receiver.
“What the fuck! What happened?”
“Well, something’s happened with St. Ives. I didn’t go over there this morning.”
“Why the fuck not? Didn’t I tell you...”
“I didn’t have to. He ain’t there no more.”
“Meet me at Sally’s, Eddie. That place you hang out in Metry. Don’t say any more on this phone. Be there in twenty minutes.”
***
Sally was gone; he was downtown picking up condiments for the kitchen, but Veronica was at the bar when first Eddie and then Reader came in and took a seat at a table in the back. She walked over to their table.
“Stinger, Eddie?” she asked, smiling. “You?” She turned in Reader’s direction.
“Jack and water. Make it a good color.”
Back at the bar, she found her husband’s little black book and thumbed through until she found Grady’s name and motel number. She made both drinks stiffer than she usually did and brought them to the table.
She dialed the number on the phone kept beneath the bar. She could hear it ring and ring, but no one answered. She kept trying.
***
“Tell me,” Reader began. His eyes, cold and hard and piercing, never left Eddie’s.
“What’s going on, Eddie.”
“Cool down, Reader,” he said, drinking half his stinger down and striking up a match for his cigarette. His hands were shaking.
“I went there last night like you said. He got home late. Then he left. Reader, theras a cop there! I think your guy’s in some shit with his old lady. That’s what it looked like. When I saw the cop car, I got out and walked down to see what I could see. Like I was out for a little stroll, you know?”
That was a genius move, thought Reader. Like you looked like you belonged in that neighborhood. He let him continue.
“He came out in about a half hour and got in his car. He didn’t look too good. Looked worried
and pissed off at the same time, you know? He was carrying a suitcase.”
Eddie downed the rest of his drink and said loudly, “Hey, babe, hit me.”
When Veronica brought the drink, she put it down a bit hard so that some of the drink sloshed over onto the napkin.
“I’m not a ‘babe,’ sonny. I’m the bartender. And the owner.” She turned and walked back.
“That’s a big mama!” Eddie said, chortling. “How’d you like
to--”
“Shut up,” said Reader, ice on the words. “Just tell me.”
“Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on. You’ll be proud of me, Reader. I did the smart thing.”
Yeah, thought Reader. Yeah. You did, only you don’t know it. This was turning out just like he figured.
“I followed him. He went to the Fairmont Hotel. I went in and sat where he didn’t notice me. Fucker got shit-faced, puttin’ ‘em down like nobody’s business. You could see he was fucked up. I think his old lady kicked him out.”
“Then what?”
“Well, he goes out to the pay phones, out in the lobby, y’know, and he makes a call to someone. I went out when he did, not knowing where he was going, thinking maybe he was leaving. I couldn’t stand around so I went to the john, then came out. That’s when he left.”
“Where’d he go?”
“Drove clear out to Riverbend. Fucker’s got an apartment on Burthe! Right there, you know, by the Camellia Grill. I figure he takes ladies there. Probably fucking all the little girl tellers at his bank.”
“What’d he do at this apartment?”
“Nothing. I mean, I couldn’t see in or nothing, but he was going around from room to room, by the lights, and a half hour after he gets there he turns everything off. I waited a good two hours, but he don’t come out so it’s obvious that’s where he’s staying.”
“You didn’t stay all night? You didn’t go back in the morning?”
“Naw. What for? Isn’t it obvious that’s where he’s gonna be? Reader, look, I ain’t dumb. The guy’s wife’s kicked him out. He’s shacked up with somebody, at least got him a little crib for playtime and that’s where he’s gonna be when we need him.”