by Les Edgerton
Eddie didn’t argue. Reader didn’t think he would. He knew Eddie would figure that as long as he could trail the guy who’s getting the money, he couldn’t be double-crossed. He might even conceivably think that there might arise an opportunity where he could take the money from C.J. himself.
Naw, Reader said aloud, the word pregnant with sarcasm. Not Eddie!
Asshole thinks I don’t know about the gun in his boot, Reader thought. That bulge is either a gun or the biggest, longest hard-on I’ve ever seen. Havet a surprise for him.
When Eddie closed the door behind him, Reader gave a last look around, checking to see if he’d forgotten anything There was no sign of Eddie’s car when he got to the shopping center.
Time to see if his hand was playing out the way he’d planned.
***
Back--way back when he was seventeen--living in one of the foster homes they’d schlepped him around to, after they released him from detention, Reader saw the cop who’d taken the whiskey from his house the day his father and mother were killed. The cop was coming out of a bar about two in the morning, down on Camp Street, one of those cheap joints his father used to frequent.
Something happened inside. He followed him to his car, out back in the alley. As the cop leaned over to unlock the car door and to steady himself, Reader walked up and pulled out his knife from where he kept it in a sheath on his belt, behind his back.
He let him turn around rather than stick him in the back so he could see who was stabbing him. Why?--he could see the man’s lips form although no sound came out, and he said out loud, “Because you stole from us. From my family. I saw you steal my daddy’s whiskey.” They stood like that for another minute, eye to eye, in silence, and the cop’s eyes began to glaze and lose focus. Reader let him slide to the ground. He stood looking down at the dead man and bent down and wiped his knife on the dead man’s shirt. That done, he lifted out the man’s wallet and both his guns, the one he kept in a holster up under his sport coat and the other one, the throwaway, was strapped to his calf down near the ankle.
He went into the bar the cop had come out of and threw the cop’s wallet up on the bar, in plain sight, shield showing and all, and ordered a boilermaker, Pittsburgh-style, although he had to explain to the nitwit of a bartender how to do it. He paid for it with the cop’s own money.
It wasn’t until later back at the foster home that he discovered the cop’s name was John Mahoney. Funny, he thought. All that time, he never did know what the cop’s name was. He must have heard it and forgotten, he figured.
***
Reader Kincaid could hear a tugboat’s whistle a good three blocks before he reached the river. A toot answered from another tug. Sounds like a lot of activity on the Mississippi today, he thought. Good.
CHAPTER 28
THIS TIME GRADY PARKED on Burthe, up the street away from Carrollton and on the opposite side from the duplex. He was able to park there because one of the errands he’d run earlier was to stop by and get a neighborhood parking sticker from Sally. Where he was told an unbelievable story.
“What!” He was dumbfounded as he listened to the tale Sally had to tell.
“Found out they were a couple of Fidel Castro’s men,” Sally continued. “How the hell you think Castro knows about you? And what would he want you dead for?”
Grady thought hard. Then, he remembered. The midnight blue Caprice that had come up behind him at Eddie’s. Maybe the guy’d made him after all. It was the only explanation he could come up with.
“Sally, can you run something for me? Find out if Kincaid has a Caprice registered to him?”
Five minutes later, they had the answer. He did, indeed. The address the cop on the phone gave him on the registration was the old Vallette Street address, bt it was a Caprice.
“That’s it,” Grady said. He ran down what he thought was going on, outlined everything he’d learned and what his idea of what Kincaid was up to was.
“Motherfuck!” was all Sally could say at first. He poured a beer and drank half of it, studying over what Grady had laid on him.
“What you gonna do?” he said, after digesting Grady’s theory.
After Grady sketched out what his plan was, all Sally could do was shake his head. “If you’re wrong, you’re fucked.”
“I know,” he agreed. “If I overestimated him, he gets away, scot-free.”
“You don’t think I oughta just have the locals pick him up?” Sally asked. “We got enough on him now, maybe. What about RICO?”
No, Grady said. “How many creeps you seen walk in your time, Sally? With more than this on them?”
“Yeah,” Sally said, knocking back the rest of the beer. “Yeah. Do it your way, pal. Whatever you need, just ask.”
“You’ve already done more than enough,” Grady said. “Tell Veronica...say, where is Veronica?”
She went to a movie, the bar owner said. “We had us a busy day.” There was a twinkle in his eye. “This was like old times.”
Grady thanked the man.
“I’m sorry you got into this,” he said. “You coulda been killed. I would never have forgiven myself.”
“Forget it,” Sally said, waving his hand as if to dismiss it. “This is the most fun we’ve had in years.”
It was half an hour since he’d left his friend at his bar. He remembered he had something else to thank Sally for. Getting them into the Times-Picayune morgue. If it hadn’t been for that and what he and Whitney had found, well...he’d be running down the same road as the rest of the players in this drama seemed to be. You’re a slick dog, Reader, he thought. You’ve got ‘em all running in circles. So you’re onto me, eh? Well, bring it on. Let’s see what you got.
It was a hell of a gamble he was taking, pursuing a theory that might be totally cockeyed. If he figured wrong, it was all over. He would’ve been outsmarted thoroughly. He was betting the farm on this and he wasn’t at all convinced he was right. If the guy wasn’t as smart as he thought he was, Grady was the one who was going to have egg on his face. Worse, the killer of his brother was likely to get away clean. He didn’t think he could live with that.
When he saw a man come from the downstairs apartment and get into the Lincoln parked in front, he knew it had to be the banker St. Ives. The man didn’t leave right away, though; just sat in his car and leaned his head up against the steering wheel. Then, Eddie walked out. He watched him trot up the street to Carrollton. St. Ives just sat there, not seeming to notice and then he raised his head and started up the Lincoln and wheeled out onto the street.
Grady waited until he was at the corner before pulling out himself and as he went by the duplex saw Reader come out of the apartment. He swore the man looked right at him and he thought he saw a look of astonishment pass over his features.
Not dead like you figured, eh, fucker? Grady thought and then turned the corner behind the banker. Good. I like that. Now I got you off-balance, just maybe. I like the fact you’re not so sure about everything.
They were two blocks down on St. Charles when Grady saw Eddie’s car coming up fast behind him. He slowed and watched the Cavalier whiz by him, coming up almost on St. Ives’ bumper.
What an asshole, Grady thought. It’s a good thing St. Ives has other things on his mind.
It’s going down, he thought. This is it, folks. For a minute, he had the sinking thought that he was following the wrong person. Until Eddie showed up. That would fit his theory. When in doubt, follow the money. If he’d guessed right, that was the only way he was going to win.
He knew generally where they were all headed, the little caravan St. Ives was unknowingly leading, so if he got separated he figured he could find the warehouse, especially since he knew what both St. Ives’ and Eddie’s cars looked like. If he’d opted to follow Reader and lost him he’d be screwed. He thought there was a chance Reader was heading to the boat he’d talked about, but that boat could be anywhere. If he was right, it didn’t matter anyway. He didn’t think
Reader was going anywhere near any boat.
No, follow St. Ives. His idea was a long shot, but his gut feeling was that it was the right bet.
Grady had a good idea of where they were going from listening the day before. He’d looked up Chalmette on a map and the route they would most likely take to get there.
Following St. Ives and Eddie was a breeze. He could see
St. Ives’ white Lincoln from time to time ahead of Eddie’s car. Good thing neither of these clowns know they’ve got a rearview mirror!
Soon, they were on Parks Road and Grady closed the distance a bit. Dusk slowly overcame the city during the ride.
It was only by pure luck that Grady dropped a bit behind for a moment it took him to light a cigarette. He slowed for a second to search for a packet of matches dropped on the floor. He came up just in time to watch the Lincoln turn in to a drive leading to a huge warehouse. Eddie’s Cavalier braked immediately, pulling over to the side of the road about a hundred yards farther back. If Grady’s car had been closer, he might have struck the two men that ran out of the darkness up to Eddie’s car and jumped in, one in the front seat and the other in the back. He continued on past, hoping like hell that he looked like any other citizen with an eye patch on his way home from work. As he passed Eddie’s car, he thought he caught a glimpse of a gun in one of the men’s hands. It was held up to Eddie’s head. He kept on going, trying to keep the car on the road while keeping an eye on the rearview mirror.
What the fuck was this?
***
The boat was where Bobby’d said it would be. A quick check and he was out of there. He didn’t plan to be within miles of there when St. Ives arrived. Reader got the keys from where he’d said they’d be under the mat and went down below. He opened the locker with the key and smiled when he saw the scuba gear. He lifted it out, laid it on one of the bunks and dumped out the contents of the gym bag he’d brought with him from the car, beside the scuba gear. In one way it was a waste of money, since he’d arranged all this only for Eddie’s benefit. The dumb fuck sure thought he was one slick mother. If he only knew how slick. He had a feeling he’d never learn just how smart Reader really was. He picked up the cellular phone and tested it, dialing the weather number.
Good. No fucking rain, he said to himself, punching off the recording. He reached in his pocket, withdrew a folded sheet of paper with phone numbers and put the phone on top of the paper. He went to the small refrigerator, retrieved a can of beer and popped it open.
Topside, he sat in one of the deck chairs, drank the beer slowly and watched as the stars began to come out one by one. From time to time he glanced at his watch. When the hands showed nine-thir, he went below, got another beer, picked up the phone and dialed one of the numbers on the sheet.
He could hear music in the background and a voice that said, “Yeah? This is Frenchie.”
“Three hours, Frenchie. You all set? You’re not drinking, are you?”
“Beer. Don’t worry, I’m not fucked up. I’ll be there, like you said.”
“Go home. Right now. I know you can handle your shit, but I don’t want to take the chance you get in a fight in that joint--something stupid happens. I haven’t got time to be bailing you out of jail. Understand?”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll get something to go. And don’t worry, I won’t get wasted. I’m drinking beer, my friend. I never get drunk on beer.”
“Just be there by eleven. You know what to do.”
“See you at midnight, Reader. Where we said. Your boat comes, like you said, I’ll be there, I’ll get it. I’ll be there early. Say, ten-thirty. That okay?”
“That’s perfect, Frenchie. It should be coming your way right about eleven. Gives you an hour to get it and get it where I want it. I’ll see you around midnight and we’ll take care of business. Remember, keep your hands off it.”
The perfect plan. It was almost over. Now the best part to come.
He was covered both ways. If something went wrong, he knew St. Ives would do what he told him. At the very worst, Frenchie would pick up the money, if there actually was any, and he would get it later. But if all went according to Hoyle, the money was heading someplace else.
He had the biggest smile on his face, wondering what would be going through St. Ives’ mind as the hours passed. Assuming that he went back to his apartment and waited for Reader to call as he’d promised.
Wonder how long he’ll wait before he tries to take it off, Reader thought. I give him a full day. He was curious about a couple of other things that he’d never know. Like if Castro would send any of his men to follow St. Ives. He bet he would. Like it mattered! He laughed aloud so hard he began to cough.
It was just too bad he wouldn’t be around to see all that.
CHAPTER 29
GRADY CREPT AS QUIETLY as he could around to the back of the warehouse. From the ventilation windows at the top of the building, he could see a faint glow of light coming from the north end. He decided to look for a way in on the opposite end where hopefully it’d be dark enough so he could get in without being noticed. There was no way of knowing how many were in there, but even if there were only a couple, he figured they’d be heavily armed. He only wanted information, not confrontation. See what was going on.
Still, to be on the safe side, he checked his sidearm, the only gun he’d brought with him. Not the .38 Special he’d carried while a cop, but the old .45 automatic he’d kept from the Navy. He patted his pocket to make sure his extra clips were still there.
He went swiftly across the open space to the shelter of the building and its shadows.
Yes. There was a door on this end. It was locked, but looked easy enough to pick. He worked quickly, cursing softly beneath his breath when he dropped his tools once. At first, he couldn’t find them in the dark. Feeling with both hands he felt the picks after a minute, picked them up and began trying the lock again. He didn’t know whether it was the heat or tension that was making the sweat run down into his good eye makin it burn. The fucking heat he decided. Why doesn’t it cool off when it gets dark! If he lived here, he’d never go outside. He’d stay in air conditioning all the time.
He kept working the lock.
***
“Mr. St. Ives. Buenos noches, senor. You look very warm tonight.”
The warehouse office they entered was small and cramped, what with St. Ives, Castro, and one of his men inside, but the air was on and St. Ives was the only one of the trio who was sweating. C.J. could see the suitcases Castro always transported the money in, sitting beside the desk. Over in the corner were piled kilo upon kilo--dozens it appeared--of what he knew to be product. Coke. Looked like they’d gotten a major shipment.
“Yes. I am. Think I caught something, a bug maybe.” He tried to laugh, but only managed a weak smile. “The money ready? I’ll get it and go. Got to get it to the bank before it gets too late and somebody sees me and gets suspicious.” He looked at the Cuban, then looked away nervously.
Castro smiled. St. Ives felt a chill. He saw no mirth in the man’s eyes.
“Oh yes, the bank. Would that be the bank where you said I shouldn’t be seen? The bank you’re the president of? Is that the bank you speak of, senor?”
C.J. St. Ives didn’t like this at all. Now, the sweat began to roll in earnest and he could feel the pressure of the cables and the package on his back.
“Yes. The bank.”
“You know, Senor St. Ives, I been meaning to talk to you about the bank. Your bank. It is your bank, is it not?”
“Well, sure. Our family’s bank. What are you talking about?”
He tried to go on the offensive, but couldn’t quite make it. God, this was not going right. Something was up. Castro suspected something. He was going to die. If not by the bomb strapped to his body, then by this fucking animal. Let me have the money, Fidel. Let me get out of here!
“You know, Senor St. Ives,” Castro sat down, on a corner of the small desk up against the wall. “You kno
w, my cousin Fidel? The one I was named after?”
C.J. nodded, feeling a tremendous urge to urinate. He tried to meet Castro’s eyes and experienced the sinking feeling the man could see right through to his brain, see everything that was recorded there.
“Of course.”
“You want a drink of water? You look overheated, senor. Maybe you should sit down for a minute. You don’t look well. This bug--she make a fever, eh?” He laughed.
“I know all about fevers, amigo. Well. Perhaps the fever will abate in a little while. I was saying, about my cousin, the very famous Fidel after who I am named.” He paused. “Do you know he is a very suspicious person?” He shrugged, the way Latins do, in a way that is different from norteamericanos, the way that is a phrase and not merely a gesture. “It is perhaps very sad that a man should be so suspicious, is it not? A man should feel at ease in his world. It is too bad one becomes suspicious--cynical. Is it not?”
C.J. said nothing, wondering where this was leading and dreading the direction.
“He is suspicious because he is an important man and there are many people who are jealous of his importance. That is the price you pay, I think, for being an important man. I, too, have felt this suspicion much of my life. I, too, am perhaps too cynical. Too much distrust. That is sad. I think maybe this is inherited. All the Castros have this feeling.”
He stood up and C.J. watched the Cuban, the s smile vanish, replaced by a look that froze the moisture on C.J.’s forehead.
“I am sorry I did not believe your story about this detective. I am sorry that men such as ourselves cannot have trust between us. This is a sad state of affairs, senor, very sad indeed. But perhaps essential to one’s safety. Yes, I think it is absolutely essential. Do you know what I have done?”
C.J. managed to shake his head. God, he wanted to pee!
“I received a phone call. From someone you and I both know. Maybe you didn’t know I knew him. Your father-in-law. Senòr Derbigny. We’ve been friends for a very long time. Even longer than you and I have been. Interesting, no? Have you spoken with him lately? He had a very interesting story to tell me. It was a little bit different than the story you told me. Do you remember the story you told me?”