by Robert Crais
I looked at Pike. “Can we pull this off, she asks.”
Pike was frowning, too. I guess he had his doubts.
I used Jo-el’s phone to make some calls, and when I was finished Lucy and Merhlie were gone. Jo-el stood in his office window, passing his palm across his hair and staring down along the street of his town. Maybe at the rows of buildings, maybe at the cars and the people walking on the sidewalks. He said, “I should’ve done this six months ago. When that bastard came to my house and started all this, I should’ve dropped the hammer on him then and goddamned there.”
“You were caught off guard, and you were scared. People get scared, they don’t think straight.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t look convinced. He glanced at the floor, and then he looked up at me. “I appreciate this. So will Edie.”
Pike said, “Buy us a beer if we live through it.”
That Joe. He’s a riot, isn’t he?
We went out to our car and drove to New Orleans.
32
The Haitian was waiting for us at a beignet shop on South Rampart Street along the northern edge of the French Quarter. He hung there just long enough to make eye contact, then started walking without waiting for us. We went west to Canal, then south, and after a couple of blocks, Pike said, “Across the street and half a block behind.”
I glanced back and saw the guy with the Ray-Bans. I nodded. “Security conscious.”
Pike said, “Creepy.”
Ramon del Reyo was waiting in the front passenger seat of a Yellow Cab a little bit down from Carondelet, where the old green streetcars make their turnaround from St. Charles and the Garden District. The cab’s Off Duty light was on. The Haitian opened the back door for us, then got in behind the wheel. He didn’t start the engine. Ramon smiled at Pike. “So. You are with us this time, señor.”
“With you last time, too.” Pike tilted his head. “Guy with the glasses across the street. Another guy to our left by the horse carriage. I haven’t made the rifle.”
Ramon made a little shrug. “But you know he’s there. The man with the rifle is always there, you see?”
Pike’s mouth twitched.
I said, “I can take Donaldo Prima and Frank Escobar off the board. How badly do you want it to happen?”
The Haitian twisted in his seat to look at me, but Ramon del Reyo did not move.
I said, “I know how and where Prima gets people into the country, and I’ve got a parish sheriff who is willing to make the case.”
Del Reyo wet his lips. “It is a Justice Department case.”
“My guy will make the bust and collect the evidence. Justice comes in after the fact, everything laid out and undeniable.” I leaned toward him. “It’s solid. My guy just wants to clean up his place of business.”
The Haitian looked at del Reyo. Del Reyo said, “There is more than that, my friend.”
I said, “Yes, but I’m not going to tell you.”
Del Reyo said nothing.
“All you need to know is that if we can set it up well, both Escobar and Prima are over.”
The Haitian said something in Spanish, but del Reyo did not respond. The Haitian said it again, and this time del Reyo snapped something angrily. He frowned at me. “What is it you want?”
“I need Escobar to make the case. That means I need to learn about the coyote business. I need to know how much it costs and how much people get paid and how Escobar works and how Prima works. I want to make Escobar think I’m in the business, and that I’m trying to cut a deal with him, so I have to know what I’m talking about. If I don’t have Escobar, I can’t make it happen.”
Ramon del Reyo laughed. “You’re a fool.”
“I think you’ve got someone inside with Escobar. I think that’s how you keep tabs on him. Help me inside, Ramon. Come on.”
The Haitian said something else, and this time Ramon nodded. He didn’t seem to be liking it a whole lot, but he was going along with it. He said, “Why would Frank Escobar want to see you?”
“Because he hates Prima, and I can give him Prima. And if he wants Prima dead, I can give him that, too.”
Ramon smiled at me.
“We haven’t identified the old man, Ramon. I want the picture.”
Ramon smiled some more and shook his head. He got out of the cab and walked south on Canal. He was gone for the larger part of an hour, and when he returned there was a middle-aged Asian guy with him. The Asian guy was slight and dark and looked Cambodian. The Cambodian leaned in to look at me and Pike, then he and del Reyo stepped away from the cab to talk. After maybe ten minutes the Cambodian walked away, and Ramon came back to the cab. He spent a little less than thirty minutes with us, first describing Escobar’s setup, and then Prima’s. He told us how much a guy like Escobar charged to sneak someone into the country and how much a guy like Prima paid to use Milt Rossier’s pumping station. Everything was related to some sort of by-the-head payment. Escobar charged so much per head to get people in. Prima paid so much per head to use Rossier’s waterway. Like we were talking about cattle. Something less than human.
Del Reyo gave me a slip of paper with a phone number. “We have a man on very good terms with Escobar. He is arranging the meeting. Should anyone need a reference, have them call this number.”
I put it away without looking at it.
“I will leave you now. Jesus will take you there.” I guess the Haitian was Jesus. “He will drop you off and leave, and you will be alone. If something happens, we will not be there to help. Do you understand this?”
“Sure.”
Ramon del Reyo walked away without another word and without looking back. No “I’ll be seeing you.” No “good luck.” No “win one for the gipper.” Maybe he knew something we didn’t.
We drove north across the city toward Lake Pontchartrain, and soon we were out of the business district and driving along narrow residential streets with high curbs and plenty of oak and magnolia and banana trees, and old people in rockers on front veranadas. We seemed to just sort of drive around, turning here and there, taking our time without any clear destination. Killing time. The air was warm and moist and oily like air that was vented from a low-class kitchen, and the cab smelled of sweat and body odor. Maybe the cab smelled like fear, too, but I was trying not to think of that part of it. Elvis Cole, Fearless Detective. I glanced over at Pike and he appeared to be sleeping. Passed out from fear, no doubt.
Pretty soon the neighborhoods became nicer, and we were driving along a beautiful emerald golf course and a sculpted canal, and then we were at the lake. The levee was lush and well maintained, and Jesus wound through streets now lined with mansions, some behind walls and gates but most not. We turned into a cul-de-sac fronting the levee and stopped at an enormous two-story brick home with oak trees in the front and along the sides. A couple of Japanese mountain bikes were lying on the lawn, and a Big Wheel was in the drive. You could look down the drive and see a four-car garage in the back, along with a pool house and a pool, but it seemed pretty quiet. Jesus stopped the car and said, “Just go to the door and knock. It’s set up.”
“Thanks, Jesus.”
Jesus said, “You got a gun this time?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded. “Good.”
Pike and I got out of the cab, and Jesus drove away. Amazing how alone you can feel in somebody’s front yard. I looked at the bikes and the Big Wheel. “Helluva house for a hood.”
Pike grunted.
The door opened before we reached it, and an attractive dark-haired woman smiled at us. She was wearing a tasteful one-piece swimming suit with a towel wrapped around her hips like a skirt. She was barefoot, and her hair was wet as if she’d just gotten out of the pool. She said, “Are you Mr. Cole?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Beaming, she offered her hand. “I’m Holly Escobar. Please come in. Frank’s in back.”
Pike offered his hand and introduced himself. Holly Escobar said that she was happy to mee
t us. A little boy maybe five years old raced out between us, hopped aboard the Big Wheel, and roared around the cul-de-sac, blurping his lips to make engine noises. He was as brown as a walnut, and wearing only baggy red swimming trunks. Holly Escobar closed the door. “He’s all right out there. We don’t have any traffic.”
She brought us through a house that looked like anyone else’s house, past family photographs and a very fine collection of riding trophies (which I took to be hers) and two older boys planted in front of a television and into a bright, homey island kitchen where a man in baggy plaid shorts was stacking sandwiches on a plastic tray. He was about my height, but younger, with heavy muscles and slicked hair and blunt fingers. He looked at us when we walked in and Holly Escobar said, “Ronnie, these are the men Frank’s expecting. Why don’t you take them out and I’ll finish here.” She smiled back at us. “Everybody’s in back.”
Ronnie led us out through a couple of French doors. Three men were sitting at a round table by the pool, drinking, and a woman was on a chaise longue, sunning herself. Like Holly Escobar, she wore a one-piece, and she looked like somebody’s wife. No bimbos at the house. Two of the men were wearing baggy shirts over their shorts, probably to cover weapons, but one of the men was shirtless. Ronnie said, “Frank?”
Frank Escobar was shirtless. He was short and wide and maybe in his early fifties, with a powerful, thick-bodied build. The hair on his head was streaked with gray, but his chest hair had already gone over, a thick gray thatch. He looked over at his name, and stood up when he saw us. “Oh, yeah, hey, let’s go in the pool house for this.” There was a slight accent, but he’d been trying to lose it. He held up a short glass. “We’re doing gin and tonics. You guys want one?” The gang lord as host.
“No. Thanks.”
He said, “C’mon. We’ll have some privacy in here.”
He staggered when he got up, and one of the shirted guys had to catch him. Middle of the day and he was zorched. The gang lord as lush.
We filed into the pool house. Pool table. Bar. Couple of slot machines and video games. A life-sized portrait of Frank Escobar from the old days, wearing an officer’s uniform in some Central American jungle, close-cropped hair and bandito mustache. The real Frank Escobar slumped into a tall chair and waved his hand at Ronnie. “Check these guys, huh? See what they got.”
I held my arms out. “It’s on my right hip.”
Ronnie took it, then gave me a quick pat. When he was done with me he moved to Pike, but Pike said, “No.”
Frank Escobar frowned and said, “What do you mean no?”
Pike held his hand palm out toward Ronnie. “You want me to wait outside, fine. But he’s not going to touch me, and I’m not going to give up my gun.”
Escobar rubbed at his eyes. “What the fuck.” He finished the rubbing. “You wanna keep your gun, tha’s fine. We’ll do it another way.” Frank Escobar reached under one of the shirts and came out with a little Beretta .380 and pointed it at my head. He said, “Keep your fuckin’ gun, you want. We’ll do it like this.” He waved at the shirt. “Leon, hold on this guy, okay, this other asshole wants to keep his gun.” Leon took the .380 and held on me, and Frank Escobar glared at Pike. “There. You happy now, you with your gun?”
Pike nodded. Some friend.
Escobar looked back at me. “Okay. What do you have for me?”
“Donaldo Prima.”
Escobar’s left eye narrowed, and he didn’t seem drunk anymore. Now, he seemed as dangerous as the man in the life-sized picture. “What do you know about Prima?”
“I know how he’s getting his people in, Frank. He’s working with a friend of mine. My friend provides the transportation and the secure location, but the money’s not there.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“A guy named Rossier. He’s got the land and the water. A very secure location for delivering goods. Prima approached him and set up the deal, but now we’re dissatisfied. You know what I mean?”
Escobar said, “How much he gettin’?”
“Grand a head.”
Escobar laughed. “That’s shit.” Exactly what del Reyo had said.
“We think so.”
“Why doesn’t your friend just go into business for himself?”
“Prima has the goods, Frank. Like you. Two grand a head and Prima’s out. We’ve got people coming in now, and we’d like to increase our take.”
“Just like that? It’s that easy?”
“Whatever you want.”
Frank Escobar wet his lips, thinking. He had some of the gin and tonic. A drop of it ran down from the corner of his mouth to his chin. He said, “Prima.”
“That’s it, Frank. You want to think about it and ask around, fine. We’ve been in business with Prima maybe six months. He brings up the money personally with every shipment. Like that.” Giving him Prima. Saying, here, take him.
Frank Escobar nodded at me.
I said, “Think about it, Frank. You want to get me, I’m staying at the Riverfront in Baton Rouge. You want to give me a number I can call you, that’s fine, too.” I spread my hands. “Whatever you want. What we want is two grand a pop.”
Holly Escobar stepped in out of the sun with the tray of sandwiches, smiling the pretty smile, saying, “Would you guys like a sandwich?” She froze in the door when she saw the guy in the baggy shirt pointing the gun at me, and the smile fell away. “Frank?” The guy lowered the .380.
Frank Escobar lost the grip on his drink, and it fell. His face went as purple as overcooked liver and he came off the chair. “Didn’t I tell you never walk in on me?”
She took a single step back, trying to rebuild the smile, but the smile was clouded with fear. “I’m sorry, Frank. I’ll wait outside.”
The guy with the shirt whispered, “Oh, shit.”
Frank Escobar rushed at his wife and yanked her back into the pool house. The big plastic plate and the sandwiches spun up and over and sandwiches rained down on the pool table and out onto the patio. Holly shrieked at the pain of his grip, saying, “That hurts!” and then he slapped her twice, first with the palm of his left hand and then the back of his right. She fell over sideways, through the door and out onto the patio. The man and the woman at the pool stood.
I felt Pike move beside me, but it was over. As quick as it had come, it was gone. Escobar pulled his crying wife to her feet, saying, “You gotta listen to me, Holly. You gotta mind what I say. All right? Don’t never walk in like that.” He brushed at her hair and wiped at her face, but all he did was smear the blood. He said, “Jesus, look at what you made me do. Go get your face, will you?”
Holly Escobar ran toward her house, and Frank wiped blood from his right hand onto his shorts. “Go with her, Ronnie. Make sure she’s okay.”
Ronnie set off after Mrs. Frank Escobar.
The guy with the shirt said, “You all right, Frank?” Like it was Frank doing the bleeding.
“I’m fine. Fine.” Escobar picked up his glass and seemed almost embarrassed. “Jesus. Fuckin’ stupid women.” Then he looked over at us and must’ve seen something in Pike’s face. Or maybe in mine. He said, “What?” Hard, again. A flush of the purple, again.
Pike’s mouth twitched.
Escobar stared at Joe Pike another few seconds, and then he waved his hand to dismiss us. He said, “I’ll think about it, okay? I know where to reach you.” He motioned toward the guy in the shirt. “Call these guys a car, huh? Jesus, I gotta get another drink.”
He walked out and went back to the little round table and picked up someone’s glass and drank. Nothing like a gin and tonic to take off the edge after tossing a fit, nosireebob. I stared at him.
The guy in the shirt said that he’d call a cab, and we could wait out front. He said the cabs never took long, Frank had a deal. He said we could take a sandwich, if we wanted. Joe Pike told him to fuck himself.
We walked out past the pool and down the drive and into the street. The little boy was riding the Big Whe
el round and round in circles, looping up into one driveway then along the sidewalk and then down the next drive and into the street again. He looked like a happy and energetic child.
Pike and I stood watching him, and Pike said, “Be a shame to drop the hammer on his old man.”
I didn’t answer.
“But it wouldn’t be so bad, either.”
33
We were stopped for speeding outside St. Gabriel, Louisiana, and again outside Livonia, but we passed under Milt Rossier’s sign at just after five that evening as the air was beginning to lose the worst of the day’s heat. The people who worked the ponds were trudging their way toward the processing sheds and the women who worked the sheds were walking out to their cars. Quitting time. Everybody moved with a sort of listless shuffle, as if their lot was to break their backs for Milt Rossier all day, then go home and break their backs some more. It wasn’t the way you walk when your body has failed you; it was the way you walk when you’ve run out of heart, when the day-to-day has worn away the hope and left you with nothing but another tomorrow that will be exactly like today. It would be the way Holly Escobar would walk in another few years.
We drove up past the processing sheds like we owned the place and headed toward the house. The women on their way home didn’t look, or, if they looked, didn’t care. It’s not like we had a big sign painted on the car, THE ENEMY. Pike said, “This is easy.”
“What’d you expect, pill boxes?”
We could see the main house from between the processing sheds, and the little figure of Milt Rossier, sitting out on his lawn furniture, still wearing the sun hat. René LaBorde was standing out between the ponds, staring at their flat surfaces, and didn’t seem to notice us, but LeRoy Bennett was coming out of the processing shed with one of the skinny foremen when we passed. He yelled something, then started running after us. He’d have a pretty long run. His Polara was parked at the house.
We drove the quarter mile or so up to the house and left our car on the drive by LeRoy’s Polara. The house looked pretty much deserted except for a heavyset black woman we saw in the living room and Milt Rossier back on the patio. We were going around the side of the house when Milt met us, coming to see who we were. He was in overalls and the wide hat, and he was carrying a glass of iced tea. I said, “Hi, Milt, remember me?”