by Les Edgerton
They followed Eddie until he pulled off into a strip center parking lot and went into a liquor store. Grady drove by and pulled off on the edge of the highway a few feet beyond the parking lot. A few minutes later, they watched as Eddie reappeared with a case of beer and a sack on top of it. He stowed that in the car and went back only to emerge with another case.
“Now it sure looks like a party,” Grady said. When Eddie’s car pulled to the edge of the lot and prepared to pull out into the traffic, Grady said, “I hope he doesn’t take a U-turn and head back the other way!” He laughed. “Like all these crazy drivers I see doing that all the time!” He’d been to New York City and California both and he knew now both of those places held an undeserved reputation for wacko drivers. New Orleans merited that title by far. New Orleans drivers were outright lunatics behind the wheel. Pulled right out in front of you on a four-lane and whipped across all four lanes, fuck you if you were in their way. Brakes and a good horn seemed to be the most important things you needed when you went out for a drive. They oughta send the Indy 500 drivers down to the Big Easy to work out for a month and get their high-speed passing skills tuned up, he thought, sarcastica.
“They are nuts down here,” Whitney agreed. “I’m still afraid to drive half the time.”
Eddie’s car passed him, going the same direction, and Grady eased out on his tail. He knew by now that Eddie wasn’t sharp enough to be on the lookout for someone following him, but he wasn’t taking any chances. It seemed as though they went miles and miles, past bars and bakeries and po’ boy restaurants. And after a time, they were driving through the streets of New Orleans. Whitney kept giving him the names of the places they passed, but Grady didn’t get much of any of that until they went past the Super Dome. A few minutes later he was following Eddie’s car over the GNO bridge.
“I hope you’ve got a gun,” Whitney said.
He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
“Algiers,” she said, sardonically, as if that was explanation enough. Remembering his earlier visit, he understood and nodded agreement.
Sure enough, they were going to Algiers. He recognized the bridge and the turnoff when they came off it. Grady was glad his gun was nestled in the small of his back. Coming off the bridge, the place looked like a war zone. He’d been to Stony Island in Chicago once and the Cabrini-Green projects had nothing on this dump.
Grady was so busy watching for derelicts, he missed Eddie’s turn down a side street but Whitney was keeping her eye on him and yelled, “Turn! Turn!” and he barely made the corner, hoping Eddie hadn’t heard the scream of his tires. The Cavalier had disappeared, but Whitney’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of it just as Grady drove past the first intersecting street. He was already about halfway down the side street. Grady backed up and turned, noting the street name as they flashed by. Thurman. Eddie was a block and a half ahead by that time, pulling the Cavalier over to the curb. He was getting out by the time Grady could pull his own car over, only half a block between them. Grady killed the engine and waited to see what the man would do.
“What now?” Whitney whispered breathlessly, as if Eddie could overhear her.
“Wait,” Grady told her, stoically.
What Eddie did was go up to a house and let himself in. They could see him take the key from his pocket and not from the ring in his other hand.
“It’s not his house,” Whitney said.
Grady looked at her with admiration. “You’d make a good detective,” he said. “I think you’re right.”
Who the hell’s place is it? he wondered. Wait. Kincaid’s. That’s it. It must be Kincaid’s. Maybe they were having a meeting. The guy he wanted could be inside right that minute. Briefly, he thought about busting in, shooting the both of them, and then disappearing back up north. He let go of the idea, knowing it was unrealistic. It was nice to imagine, though. Putting a bullet through this guy’s brain would be something that would be hard to top, pleasure-wise. One day.
“I think this is where my guy lives,” he said to Whitney. His voice was grim. “Reader Kincaid.”
While they waited, Grady felt it necessary to apologize for the boredom he was sure she was suffering through. Most civilians didn’t realize that most police work was just that--long periods of just watching people do nothing.
“Boring?” she said, seemingly amazed he’d said such a thing. “I think this is the most exciting thing I’ve done this year. There’s only one thing missing.” Grady looked at her, noted the mischief in her eyes.
“What’s that?”
“When do I get to see some police brutaity?” she said, and both laughed.
“I don’t do that anymore,” he said. “I gave it up for Lent.”
“Oh, you!” she giggled. “Can’t you sin just a little? For this jerk?”
That reminded her of a joke she’d heard and she told it to him. “This guy says, ‘If you ever see me being beat by the cops, please put down your video camera and come help me.’“
Grady chuckled at that one and impulsively, he reached over and kissed her. Just a quick peck, but something even he felt surprised doing and by her eyes, so did she. She slid her hand over and he put his on top and she turned her palm up and they interlocked fingers. They sat like that, not saying anything, for long minutes, just watching the house.
When Eddie reappeared, he went to his car and popped the trunk. Grady watched as he loaded up a couple of big boxes and a garment bag. After he closed the lid, he stood a minute staring at the house and scratching his head as if trying to remember something. He stood there like that for a minute or so then got back in his vehicle.
“He’s not in there,” Grady said aloud, more to himself. “Kincaid,” he said to the question on Whitney’s face.
As soon as Eddie pulled out, Grady drove up to the house and stopped.
“Aren’t you going to follow him? You said Kincaid wasn’t there.” Whitney said. Eddie was disappearing around the corner.
“I’ll catch him,” was his response. “He’s headed back the way he came. Here.” He reached under the seat and grabbed the pad and pencil he kept there and handed them to Whitney. He squinted at the house and then pulled out, in the same direction Eddie had gone.
“Twenty-two, twenty-three,” he dictated. “Thurman.” She scribbled down the address.
They came around the corner just in time to see Eddie take a left a block up and they were back up behind him in less than a minute. Luckily, there wasn’t much traffic.
They followed him back across the bridge and in a few minutes they were on St. Charles Avenue and kept close behind until the street curved right and became Carrollton.
“This is Riverbend,” Whitney said. “Nice neighborhood.”
Eddie was pulling into a strip center a block up on the left.
Grady pulled over to the side of the street and watched. At first, he figured he’d forgotten something for the party since there was a grocery store there, but no, he got out with one of the cases of beer--long-necks by the size of the cases, the old-fashioned big brown ones--and started walking up the street.
Grady pulled into the same shopping center, only at the opposite end of it, and waited until Eddie crossed the street. As soon as he was across, Grady told Whitney to stay put while he got out and followed him. He strolled up to the corner and watched Eddie cross Carrollton and head for the opposite side of the street. He walked up to a house, the second from the corner, going around to the side and letting himself in at a gate.
Wait a minute, Grady told himself. That’s his destination and he’s got a shitload of stuff in the car. Don’t get too hasty. Wait awhile.
He ran back to the car.
“I think he’s going to be here a while, Whitney. You stay in the car. Something weird about this. This might be somebody else’s place that’s in with him and Reader. I’m going to walk up and keep an eye on the house.”
She nodded and he walked off, back to the corner where he could see the h
ouse. Good soldier, he thought, thinking of way Whitney had just nodded. There were lots of women who would have pitched a bitch, wanted to come along, in a situation like that. It was a rare woman--or man, for that matter--who would have done just what he said. This woman had qualities very few people in his experience had possessed, he thought, and then got his mind on business.
There was a little bookstore on Carrollton directly across from where Eddie had gone. Little Professor, it said. That was funny. There was a Little Professor bookstore in Dayton, but the Dayton one was huge. This looked like a boutique. He wondered if it was the same chain. Before he went into the store he took note of the street the house was on. He was at the intersection of Burthe and Carrollton.
The bookstore gave him a good vantage point. He could see the house through the front window. Pretty soon, sure enough, along came Eddie and another man, a husky man with longish black hair who looked to be maybe fifty years old, but there was no gray in his hair.
It was Kincaid.
Grady could feel his heart beat faster as soon as he recognized the man from his photo. Settle down, he told himself. Take care of business.
Right away he could see Kincaid was the guy in charge by the way he walked and the way Eddie skipped along slightly behind him. Kincaid looked like he was chewing Eddie out, probably for parking so far away, and Eddie was jawing back, but Grady could see it was a losing battle. Kincaid was pretty much ignoring him. He came out of the bookstore in time to see both men jump into Eddie’s car.
Shit, he thought. Here I am, way the fuck down here and there they go. He debated whether to sprint for his own car, but decided against it. He’d have to pass right in front of them and he didn’t want either of the men to get a look at him. He could wave at Whitney and hope she knew what he wanted but doing so would draw attention to himself and he didn’t think he should risk that.
As it turned out, it was one of those moves it was fortunate he didn’t take. They were only driving the car over to the house. He shot back inside the bookstore, ignoring the clerk who glanced at him briefly and went back to stocking shelves. Grady picked up and thumbed through one of the books in the front window, watching the house.
Eddie didn’t appear to be any too bright. It looked as though if it were up to him, he’d make six trips to unload all his stuff, a block and a half each way. Kincaid was definitely the brains of this pair, he realized.
And this is it. Grady instinctively knew that whatever was going to go down was drawing near. He couldn’t figure out where this house fit in, unless this was where Kincaid was staying. If that was the situation, what was the other house, the one in Algiers? Whose house was this? Somebody else in on the job with them? Whatever the fuck the job was.
He made up his mind to go back to Algiers, see whose house that was.
He watched the two men unload Eddie’s car, and then Eddie came out alone and started up the car and pulled out on the street heading west. Grady left the bookstore, uncertain what to do, run for his car and tail Eddie or stay put, keep his eye on the house. He was in luck once more. He saw Eddie was going to park the car back in the shopping center parking lot.
Why the hell is he doing that, he wondered. There were plenty of parking spaces on the street by the house. He went back inside the bookstore for the third time and this time he was going to have to do something or the clerk was going to call the police.
“Police,” he said, flipping open his wallet and flashing his shield at the young man. He didn’t bother to explain that he was a retired cop from Ohio without any official authority in this town. “Surveillance. We got a tip there might be a drug transaction taking place up the street. Doesn’t look like it though.” The clerk nodded in a bored way, like so what? what’s different? and went back to reading the paperback he held out in front of him at a distance that suggested nearsightedness.
Grady was taking a risk he might be spotted, but he decided to chance it. It wasn’t that either man knew of his existence, but if he kept showing up in their life... He left the bookstore after nodding to the clerk, crossed the street and walked down Burthe. When he went past the house where Eddie and the other man were, he noted the street address. He continued past until he reached the corner, turned west and went around the block, coming out across from the shopping center by a high school. He walked quickly across, startling Whitney as he came up on her side without her seeing him. She was looking in the direction he’d originally gone.
“Grady! Damn! You just about gave me a heart attack.”
Quickly, he ran down what had gone down.
“C’mon,” he said, opening her door and helping her out. “Let’s go have a drink.”
They walked across the street and into the bar on the opposite corner. Madigan’s was the name on the outside, nice looking joint, wide open doors and with the cheery look some neighborhood bars can have. Grady picked a table in the front. A huge plate-glass window afforded a full view of the house down on Burthe. He ordered a beer for him and the vodka gimlet Whitney said was all she ever drank and got change for the phone. The bartender showed him where it was in the back, by some pinball machines. Whitney was more than eager to help out by keeping an eye on the house while he made a call.
“Sally,” he said, and the voice at the other end said, “You got ‘im.”
“Can you find out who owns a house if I give you an address? Maybe check out a Polk directory, you got one?”
Whitney was still on her first drink and he was on his second beer when the phone rang and the bartender asked if there was anybody named Fogarty there. It was Sally.
“Fogarty, that was easy. The owner is a Melvin Davis. It’s listed as a duplex. Is that right?”
“That’s what it looks like. Upstairs and down. Separate entrances, way it looks.” He waved at Whitney up at the front and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. He couldn’t believe the way he thrilled when she smiled and gave him a little wave back.
“Yeah, well, I got the info from a friend down at the station who looked it up for me, said it’s one of those investment properties, the owner doesn’t live there. He’s got a bunch of these things, rents ‘em out. Has a company called Breakwater Management.”
“You got a number for them? Never mind, they’re probably in the phone book.”
“I’m ahead of you, Fogarty. Already called them. The top unit’s vacant. The bottom one’s rented out. Interesting who it’s rented to.”
“Who?”
“Clifford St. Ives.”
“Should that mean something to me? The name doesn’t ring any bells or anything. One of Reader’s criminal friends?”
“I guess the name wouldn’t mean anything to you. Caught my attention, though. Mr. St. Ives, or C.J. as he’s known around town, is quite the big shot. Married, too, got a big place Uptown off Magazine near Flagon’s. Within walking distance of Commander’s Palace. Place is worth a cool million, at least. In his wife’s name. Actually, her grandfather’he real big shot. One of the biggest names in the state. He’s all hooked up with the governor and all the other big deals.”
“Big shot in what way, Sally?”
“He’s a banker, Grady. He’s the president of Derbigny State Bank. Kinda funny, isn’t it? I mean the president of a bank and all, married, and he’s got this little place over on Riverbend. That’s mostly students in that part of town. Tulane undergrads. Professors, long-time locals. It’s a nice neighborhood. What would a guy like
St. Ives be doing with a little crib like that, you suppose?” He laughed.
“A girlfriend.”
“Yep. You’re pretty sharp for a Yankee.” He laughed again. “Ol’ C.J.’s quite the guy, you know. Lot of talk about him around town. There was talk of him running for governor a few years back, but something about his background kept him from doing it. I think his grandfather-in-law put the kibosh to that. There’s lots of rumors, but nothing concrete. Something about he’s not who he pretends to be. I’ve heard talk ol�
�� C.J. comes from cracker stock, but nothing for sure. I know one thing. His wife is the hammer in that family. Her granddaddy is one powerful pistol, one of the old coonass Mafia, that’s all cleaned up these days, respectable. He’s one of a handful of people can decide who the governor’s gonna be. It’s his bank, one of them anyway. He gave it to her when she came out. Now that guy’s a guy to watch out for. Titus Derbigny. He’s the real thing. Not like this pissant who married his granddaughter.”
Grady paused from writing down the names Sally was giving him.
“Came out? I don’t understand...”
“Debutante. Guess they don’t have debutantes where you’re from. It’s a big deal with some folks. Not me. I came out in the back seat of a Plymouth. Anyway, it looks like this is C.J.’s love nest. Any of this help?”
Grady thought a minute. “Yeah. I think so. It’s interesting, him being a banker. Things are starting to make some sense. I’ll keep you posted. Thanks.”
“Hey!” Grady put the phone back to his ear. He’d almost hung up.
“Why’d you mention Reader?”
“Cause Reader’s in this house. The one you say belongs to this C.J.”
“Wow.” That was all Sally said.
“Yeah,” Grady said, after a silence. “Two and two are starting to make four.”
“I read you.”
He hung up and took his beer to the front. He couldn’t see all of the house itself from there, but he could see the street directly in front and part of the building. If any of them came out this way, he’d be able to see them.
He told Whitney what he’d learned.
“It’s a bank job!” she said. Grady looked at her in admiration. This was a pretty sharp gal. Looks and brains. He didn’t say that aloud. Hell, he was still learning what was considered chauvinistic and what wasn’t. He had a feeling if he gave her a compliment like that, she might take offense.
Whitney was dead on. It sure looked as though it was going to be an inside bank job. Probably this C.J. was in on it. But what did they need electronic gear for?