by Lou Berney
She nodded, though. “I could see that, yes.”
“Cindy read something in the papers,” he said. “Or she saw something at the movies. Nobody drowned. She sat next to a cocktail waitress from the Stardust on the bus one day. That’s how her mind works. Nobody drowned, not on Ed’s boat.”
“Who is he, Frank?” she said.
“Ed?”
“Who is he really?”
Put your fucking heart into this, Guidry warned himself, and do it now. Do it now or everything ends now.
“Look,” Guidry said. “I admit it, Ed’s no choirboy. That’s why I didn’t want you to meet him. Nothing illegal, but he does business with some characters. He has to, now and then. It’s Las Vegas, after all.”
“I have children, Frank,” she said. “I have two daughters. Do you understand?”
“I’d never do anything to put the girls in any kind of danger. Never. I swear on my life. And we’re done with Ed now. We’re done with Cindy. All right?”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She nodded again. She believed him. Guidry felt sick to his stomach with shame. If he really loved her, he’d turn around and walk out the door. If she really knew him, she’d walk out the door and run.
The thought of losing her, though, losing the girls—he truly couldn’t bear it.
“I love you,” he said.
She sighed. “Frank.”
“It’s crazy. You don’t have to explain that to me. We’ve known each other hardly a week. But …”
Guidry had taught himself to drive when he was ten years old. Sunday mornings, while his father slept off the Saturday-night bender. The truck was a rattletrap Ford, with a push-button starter and the gearshift down on the floor. Guidry bouncing along the parish back roads, palms sweating on the steering wheel and eyes watering because he was afraid to blink. Don’t forget to check the mirror. Don’t forget to check the other mirror. Aware of every thought and movement. Every movement requiring, first, a thought.
He remembered that feeling now. Don’t forget to breathe.
“I’m not a kid anymore,” he said. “I can tell what’s fake and what’s real. I think I can. You can tell it, too, can’t you?”
She said nothing but let him take her hand and press it against his cheek.
“I didn’t rub a lamp and wish for this,” he said. “But now what can I do? I want to be with you and the girls, for the long haul. I just can’t imagine it, my life, any other way.”
“Frank …”
“Ed offered me a job overseas,” Guidry said. “In Asia, in Vietnam. I have to go see him about it in a minute. It’s a legitimate opportunity, no funny business. I want you to come with me. You and the girls.”
“Come with you?” she said, startled. “To Asia?”
“Come with me. Vietnam is a beautiful country. Think of the pictures you’ll take. Shadows you won’t find anywhere else. I can’t turn down the job. But just for a year or two, and then we’ll go wherever we want.”
She stared at him, trying to decide if he was serious.
Guidry needed that first yes again. He needed the chance that she’d given him back in Santa Maria, when he first offered the ride to Los Angeles.
“Just think it over before you decide,” he said. “Will you do that? That’s all I’m asking. Think it over before you decide. The girls can learn a new language. We’ll all learn a new language. You said you wanted to see the world. Let’s see it together.”
“Frank,” she said. “I’m not even divorced yet.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It does. I left Oklahoma so that I could make a new life for myself, for the girls. I have to do that on my own. I want to do that on my own.”
“You can. You will. We don’t have to get married. That doesn’t matter either. All that matters is I’m with you and you’re with me. I love you. I love the girls.”
“You’re not listening to me, Frank.”
“I am,” he said. “Please. I don’t know what the hell’s happened to me. My life made sense to me before I met you. Now … it’s like I bumped into you and the girls and something inside of me tumbled off a shelf. No. It’s like all of me fell off the shelf and broke to pieces on the floor. I don’t …”
Words were failing him. When in Guidry’s life had that ever happened?
She turned back to the window, away from him again. He couldn’t tell if she was looking out at the lights of the go-kart track or at her own reflection in the glass.
“I’m so thankful that I met you, Frank,” she said. “You’ve no idea. I think I must have rubbed a lamp and wished for you, wished for this week we’ve had together. I just didn’t realize it.”
“Do you love me?” he said.
“I can’t come with you, Frank.”
“We’ll make a life together. Any kind of life you want.”
He gripped her slender arm so tightly that he could feel her pulse beating. He’d made a point of it, his entire life, of never wanting anything he didn’t already hold in the palm of his hand. Of never wanting anything he wouldn’t mind letting go.
Not now. Not now.
“Please,” he said. “I’ll be back in an hour, and we can talk about it. Just think about it. Give me a chance.”
“Oh, Frank.”
“We love each other. Nothing else matters.”
He pressed his lips against hers. After a moment she kissed him back.
“Just think about it,” he said. “Yes?”
She nodded again. “Yes,” she said.
29
Searchlight was an hour south, on the way to Bullhead City. Barone had been through it on his way up to Las Vegas. He’d passed right by the El Condor.
Moe Dalitz’s meat had names. Joey, the driver, the talker, the younger of the two, the dumber of the two, thick neck striped with razor burn. He was the one who’d put his arm around Barone back at the Hacienda. Shelley, in the passenger seat, not a talker, snapping his gum and cracking the knuckles on his right hand, one by one. A former boxer, by the look of his chewed-up ears. He didn’t seem too bright himself.
I could use a guy like you around here. What Dalitz had said to Barone, but it wasn’t true. Dalitz and Sam Giancana had a couple of guys almost as good as Barone. But instead Dalitz had sent Joey Won’t Shut Up and Shelley the Broken-Down Palooka to pick up Barone and babysit him.
Did that mean something? Was Dalitz sending Barone a message? Was he telling Barone one thing and wanting him to do another? Barone didn’t know. Not his line of work. Moe Dalitz, Carlos, Seraphine. They disguised every move. They told the truth with a lie and a lie with the truth. They arranged the dominoes and let some chump knock them over.
Barone could feel the fever building, brewing. Like it had back in New Mexico. His head would be steady for a long stretch, and then without any warning he’d be out to sea, bobbing around. Jumping through time, back in the Quarter as the old colored man played “’Round Midnight.”
The ditch where he’d left the kid was on the other side of Bullhead City. Theodore, don’t call me Ted, don’t call me Teddy. Maybe the cops had found his body by now. Just some colored kid, who cares? The cops wouldn’t go to any trouble for him.
Maybe after he took care of Guidry, Barone would forget about New Orleans. He didn’t know where he would go, what he would do. His mind traveled to a place covered with snow, the air cold and sweet. Alaska, maybe.
“Your hear me?”
Barone came back from Alaska. “What?”
“I said here we are,” Joey Won’t Shut Up said.
Barone walked into the El Condor. His head was steady again for the time being, the clouds gone and the sky bright. Joey came inside with him. Shelley stayed in the car to watch the parking lot. In case Barone tried to sneak out of the hotel and give them the slip.
Joey talked to the manager and came back with Barone’s key. The ratty little room had a bed, a chair, a dresser. Barone didn’t see anything that he co
uld use against Joey. The TV antenna ears, maybe. The glass ashtray. On a good day, he’d take Joey nine times out of ten, even Joey with a piece and Barone without one. But it wasn’t a good day for Barone, and nine times out of ten wasn’t good enough odds anyway.
If it’s a fair fight, Barone learned early on, you’ve screwed up somewhere.
He took a seat on the edge of the bed. Joey took a seat in the chair. Barone stood back up. So did Joey.
“I’m getting a drink,” Barone said.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Barone,” Joey said.
The bar was dim and almost empty. They sat on the rail. Barone picked a spot by the jiggers and shakers, the spoons and the strainer, a bin full of ice. He ordered a double rye and Coca-Cola on the rocks for himself, one for Joey, too.
“Thank you,” Joey said. “Now, that’s the brotherly spirit.”
“You have to sit on my lap?” Barone said.
Joey smirked. He scraped his stool an inch closer. “I’m just doing my job, Mr. Barone.”
“Call me Paul.”
“I got a brother named Paul,” Joey said. “He lives back east, Providence, works construction. You think I’m a load, you should see Paulie. I’m the runt of the family.”
“Who tipped your boss?” Barone said. “You have any idea? You weren’t tailing me last night. I would have made you.”
Joey smirked. Barone didn’t make him nervous. Why would he? Joey was one of Moe Dalitz’s guys. You hit one of Moe Dalitz’s guys, you’re hitting Moe himself, and then watch out. Nobody would be so foolish. That’s what Joey believed. Barone understood that it was more complicated than that. He understood better than anyone.
“Paulie played right tackle at Notre Dame,” Joey said. “You should have seen him play. When he hit the defensive line, it’d blow up like you threw a hand grenade at it. Boom. Could have played in the pros. Everybody said so.”
It was driving Barone up the wall. Nobody knew that he’d tracked Guidry to the Hacienda. Just Stan Contini. Just Seraphine if Stan had talked to her. So how then … ?
Seraphine.
But she wouldn’t want to gum up the works. She wanted Barone to finish Guidry. She needed him to finish Guidry. Seraphine was on the hook for all this, the same as Barone.
Somebody had tipped Moe Dalitz, though. Somebody … Fuck, Barone saw it now, he started to pick apart the knot. Go all the way back to Houston. How did Guidry get past Remy, that first night at the hotel bar? Because someone had tipped him. Guidry had known that Remy was waiting for him.
Seraphine. She’d tipped Guidry in Houston. She was gumming it up for Barone in Vegas. Or it was whoever owned that green Rolls.
Joey pointed his swizzle stick at Barone’s wrapped-up right hand, his bad hand. “What happened to your mitt there?”
“It was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Barone said.
“Hurt much?”
“Only when my heart beats.”
“I got another brother, Gary, he works for Ray up in Boston,” Joey said. “You ever heard of him? Gary Ganza. He’s the brains of the family. He’s on his way up. Gary Ganza. Watch the marquee. His name’ll be up in lights one of these days.”
Barone waited until Joey leaned and reached for a handful of peanuts. He gave the barstool a nudge with his knee. Joey was almost as big as the mark back in Houston—bigger, even—but give me a lever and I can move the world.
Joey caught himself just in time, before he toppled over. Slapping the bar top, though, spilling peanuts, cussing. The bartender had seen it before. He shot Joey a dirty look and moved away to smoke in peace.
“You’re wet already, Joey?” Barone said. “After only one drink?”
Joey wasn’t grinning now. He bent over and glared down. “Something’s wrong with the goddamn stool.”
“Better write a letter to your congressman.”
“Screw you,” Joey said.
“I’ve heard of a Gary who works for Patriarca,” Barone said. The lacquered cherrywood handle of the ice pick was curved, shaped like an hourglass. The wood cold in Barone’s left fist, because the bartender had left the pick lying right next to the bin. “What’s the last name again?”
Joey finished giving the leg of his stool what for. “Ganza. What did you hear about Gary?”
“I don’t want to tell tales out of school,” Barone said.
“C’mon. Spill.”
Barone put his right arm around Joey’s shoulders, and Joey leaned in to listen, and Barone brought up his left hand and jammed the five-inch needle through Joey’s earhole. So quick and clean, in and out, that Joey didn’t realize for a second that he was dead. His lashes fluttering, his lips puckering. And then he slumped. Barone, ready, caught him before he could slide off the stool. Not a drop of blood. The angle had to be just right, but that was the beauty of an ice pick through the brain.
Now the tough part. Barone ducked under Joey’s arm and lifted him to his feet. The runt of the family, hard to believe. Barone staggered, dug in, held up. The dead weighed more than the living. It was a fact.
“C’mon, buddy,” Barone said. “You’ve had enough to drink. Let’s put you to bed.”
Barone left a five on the bar. When the bartender glanced over, Barone gave him the Moe Dalitz shrug, shoulder up around his ear. Hey, what can you do?
He lugged his blacked-out pal from the bar. Slow work. Heave. Ho. Barone started to sweat, his legs shaking. Past the blackjack tables. Nobody paid any attention to him and Joey. Down the hallway. Good thing the El Condor was such a runt itself, the entire joint not much bigger than the lobby of the Dunes or the Stardust. If Barone had to lug Joey through the Dunes or the Stardust, he’d never make it.
The room, finally. Barone unlocked the door and dumped Joey on the bed. He tried Joey in a couple of different positions, arms and legs here and there, with the pillow and without, before he decided on an arrangement that looked right, looked natural, like a guy flopping off a bender.
He took Joey’s piece, the .45. A dribble of blood now, curling out of Joey’s ear and down his cheek, along his jaw. Barone found Joey’s handkerchief in the breast pocket of his sport coat. He dabbed the blood clean and then folded the handkerchief back up, tucked it away.
In Belgium when a shell burst close by, the concussion sucked you out of your body and then shoved you back inside, wrong side up. Barone’s fever was more gentle than that, more like the universe breathing you in and out, in and out, but the same general sickening sensation. Barone needed to puke. He went into the bathroom and bent over the bowl. Nothing came up. The sweat poured off him. But he just needed to wait a minute. It would pass.
Seraphine. Was she the one who’d tipped Guidry in Houston? Who’d gummed up Barone in Vegas?
He would find out. You could count on it. After Barone took care of Guidry, he was going to hop the first flight back to New Orleans, kick in the door of Seraphine’s house on Audubon Park, and do to her for pleasure all the things that over the years she’d had him do for business.
Shelley the Broken-Down Palooka had the car window open, his arm resting on the frame. He saw Barone and tried to figure it. Barone alone, but not running away. Barone alone, walking toward him with a calm, friendly expression. Barone saying, “Better come inside, Joey is puking up his breakfast. Must be some kind of bug.”
By the time Shelley started fumbling for the piece in his holster, Barone was already there, and it was too late.
30
When Charlotte said that she’d consider going with him to Vietnam, that she’d give him a chance to convince her, the relief Guidry felt was such sweet thunder—the sky breaking open and the rain raking across parched fields. But he enjoyed the moment for exactly that long: a moment. By the time the elevator dropped him to the lobby and the doors rattled open, his stomach was clenched, his mouth dry.
First the hard part, now the harder part. Here we go.
He walked across the parking lot. Cold tonight, the wind slashing. What would
Ed say when Guidry asked if he could bring Charlotte and the girls along to Saigon? Ed might say yes. He might shrug and say, Why the hell not? Because Ed was, let’s be honest, certifiably cuckoo. He might think it was a gas—Guidry in Saigon with June Cleaver and the two little Beaverettes. As long as Guidry did the job that Ed wanted him to do, as long as Guidry did it well. Sure, boychick, why the hell not? Ed would want to hear all the amusing details. He’d tune in every week.
Driving, Guidry prepared his case. Ed, I’ll do the job you want me to do. I’ll do it well.
Charlotte and the girls would be an advantage in Vietnam, not a vulnerability. Consider the angles. Guidry needed to make friends in high places. A lot of the Americans in Saigon—the lieutenant colonels and brigadier generals, the embassy officers and economic advisers, the procurers and suppliers—a lot of those men would bring along their own wives and kids. They’d trust a fellow family man. Cookouts and dinner-dances and sunbathing by the hotel swimming pool. Say, Jim, have you and Susie found a reliable babysitter yet?
Don’t you see, Ed?
Ed might see, if he let Guidry get that far. If Ed didn’t just laugh and shoot Guidry before he even got started.
But why worry? The time for that had passed. Guidry’s history was already written. He thought about what Leo had said: With every decision we create a new future. We destroy all other futures. Guidry had made his decision. He’d destroyed all futures but this one.
He turned off the highway and followed the winding drive to Ed’s house. The night couldn’t make up its mind. Black or bright? For a hundred yards, Guidry couldn’t see an inch past the reach of his headlights, but then the moon would punch free of the clouds. The saguaro rearing up, the red rock walls about to topple down on him.
He kept his window open. Freezing his ass off, but he didn’t want to start sweating.
Ed’s glass house was dark. In one far window, Guidry caught what might have been the tip of a cigarette glowing.
The front door had a heavy brass knocker that Guidry hadn’t noticed the first time. It was the mournful face of a gargoyle, eyes closed. When Guidry lifted the face to knock, he found a second face underneath. The same gargoyle, but grinning now, eyes open, staring back at him.