A Diamond Before You Die

by Chris Wiltz

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Yastovich. It’s nothing personal, you understand, but what I have to say is for Callahan’s ears only.” I couldn’t very well tell him I was there to get information, not give it.

  His mouth struggled to smile. “I’m sorry, then.” His shoulders lifted and one hand came toward me, palm up—a gesture of apology. Or maybe it was supplication, because he started to say something else.

  I cut him off. “Don’t be. Callahan can figure out how to let me know if he wants to talk to me.” I left Leonard Yastovich with his mouth puckered and his palm still out, a tough playing the part of an uptight collegiate panhandler who’d failed to get the money from the last passerby.

  I pulled up behind the brown Olds at the side of Lee’s apartment just before eight o’clock. I noticed on the way to the front door that the bags of groceries were gone. So was the Mustang; she wasn’t home yet.

  I got back in my car, and rolled the window down halfway so I could smoke. It was a nice night, with the weather warming up, a trend the weathermen said would continue through Mardi Gras. Thoughts and images twirled lazily in my head like the smoke from my cigarette twirling lazily out the car window. Nothing was disturbing, not even Marty Solarno. What was past would stay put; what was coming would come. I was calmer than I’d been all day, and content, waiting for Lee. I gazed drowsily at the clock on the dashboard. But as the minute hand went round and round and nothing happened, the drowsiness began to go, and the wires inside wound tighter and tighter. Then I was wide awake with the kinds of thoughts I’d been thinking for so long that they’d become as much a part of the way I functioned as eating or going to the bathroom.

  It was a way of freely associating everything in my life with everything else, making connections where connections should never have been made so that each part could be fitted into the whole. It was one part superstition and an equal part of absurd belief that there was no such thing as coincidence. Finding Myra’s star provided me with an answer I’d been after for a long time, which should have helped put the whole thing behind me, but instead Myra’s death was still with me, in a different way, as something that had come between Lee and me.

  This was crazy—Lee knew nothing about Myra. I decided that if I couldn’t forget about it, I should tell Lee about it—Angelesi, Myra, Solarno—so that at least she would understand the cause of my preoccupation with the past. Maybe I was more afraid of my own anger than of her reaction. I accepted the truth: She was much calmer and more rational than I was. I resolved to tell her as soon as she got home.

  But she didn’t get home; by nine-fifteen, I decided I’d been stood up.

  As soon as I got to the Euclid, I called Richard Cotton’s house. There had been no answer earlier, but this time Paula Cotton answered. She informed me coldly that Richard was at a Sewerage and Water Board meeting, and that she didn’t know when he’d be home because after these meetings he usually went with his clients to the Bucktown Tavern. When I asked her who his clients were, she responded as if she were talking to the town idiot, but she told me something I hadn’t known before. Richard Cotton was representing the Bucktown residents in the city’s suit to move them out of Bucktown and dredge what was their backyard, the Seventeenth Street Canal. The Bucktown residents are an unpopular minority since several hundred houses in uptown New Orleans flood if five inches of rain fall within an hour or two, and there are less than ten structures, not counting the boat sheds, on the canal at Bucktown.

  The Bucktown Tavern is a restaurant that isn’t really in Bucktown at all. It’s across the canal from Bucktown where a pedestrian bridge makes accessible a semicircle of restaurants and lounges on Lake Pontchartrain without going all the way around several acres of condominiums, suburbs and high rises. I hadn’t been to any of those establishments for many years, but when I got off the phone I was nagged by the memory that the Bucktown Tavern had come up recently, and I couldn’t remember where or in what context.

  I spent the next half hour calling Lee’s number and Mr. D.’s Laundry so many times that the sequence of tones replayed in my mind the rest of the night like an unwanted melody. I could feel myself getting wired with the aggravation of waiting, so I decided to go to the Bucktown Tavern and talk to Richard.

  It was after ten o’clock when I got out to the lakefront. This time of night, in the middle of the week, it wasn’t too crowded. I parked across the street from the tavern, alongside West End Park, which runs the length of a long finger into the lake and is surrounded by boathouses that look like corrugated garages, one butted up against the other. Around the end of the park, to the left, is the Southern Yacht Club and marina. In the breeze coming off the lake I could hear the musical ding-clang of rigging against the masts of the sailboats.

  Inside the tavern was the clink-clank of silverware as tables were being cleared and set up for the next day. There were still several tables of diners left in the barnlike restaurant. I didn’t see Richard at any of them. All around the dining room were mounted trophies of seafood catches (a blue crab with an eighteen-inch spread from claw to claw, a five-foot swordfish) and signs advertising beer. It was a casual, homey place that had a reputation for excellent fresh seafood.

  I stayed in the front part where there was a huge dark mahogany bar. No one sat at it, but a waitress stood at one end and hollered at the bartender to fill a couple (pitchers of beer). The hostess came through a swinging door from the kitchen, yelled something else to the bartender, and told me as she pounded the hardwood floor across the room that she was sorry, they stopped taking food orders at ten. All this noise and everybody hollering at everybody else is part of the atmosphere at a New Orleans seafood restaurant. I told her I wasn’t there to eat, but asked her if Richard Cotton was. She said he was in the back (she meant a private room) and that he and his party had just been served dinner. I asked her to let him know I was here, but not to hurry, I would wait outside.

  It’s rare that I’ll choose Mother Nature over a drink, but there was a rare quality to the night. I went back through the double entrance doors, down the long walkway that goes over rocks and water, and jumped off when it cleared the rocks edging the lake. I walked out a bit, away from the tavern, so I could see how far the building sat out in the lake on its pilings. It was built so that it angled into the semicircle of neighboring structures, the first or the last, depending on which side of the crescent you started. I could see stretched along the back side of the restaurant a dock that boats could tie up to while the owners went in for a snack.

  The lake was black and shiny under the star-shot sky, moving placidly with the breeze. I took a deep breath and filled up with brackish air. I went down closer to the rocks, the lake’s moisture clinging to my face. A car passed and lit up the jagged edges of the rocks for a few moments. After the sound of it died away, I could hear only the singing masts, and the leaves of the trees in the park brushing one another, and the water lapping at the rocks like a large, soft tongue. I stood in the grip of these sounds, facing the endless expanse of water, not really thinking, just absorbing, not quite content, feeling that Mother Nature wasn’t either. It was an eerie spell she cast on a clear, early-spring night. Fresh and new and volatile.

  The throbbing engine of a Lafitte skiff moving in slowly from the east broke the spell. They’re called Lafitte skiffs because the first design came from across the river in Lafitte. Down that way they would be flat-bottomed for easier maneuvering in the shallow bayous. This was a small one, about thirty feet, but round-bottomed for stability in deeper water, its unique broad-in-the-middle, skifflike shape outfitted for trawling. A davit for the net curved out over the fantail that juts off the stern of all Lafitte skiffs. But it was too early in the year for shrimping, which is what the skiffs are chiefly used for, and I didn’t see any nets, or lines, or trawl boards. I could see two men silhouetted on the deck, though, as the boat slid over the black-glass water of the lake to the dock of the tavern.

  One of the men jumped onto the
dock and secured the skiff. His white rubber boots immediately identified him as a fisherman. The other man began handing him large baskets, the kind the fishermen put crabs in as they empty their traps. These men and many others like them were probably putting in extra time and running extra traps out in the lake in preparation for the long Mardi Gras weekend ahead when locals and out-of-towners alike would flock out here to eat the spicy boiled seafood that can’t be found anywhere else but New Orleans.

  The two men moved with calm, unhurried efficiency. While the one on the dock moved the baskets inside the restaurant, the other got a hose and began washing down the skiff. I watched them, wondering what it was about the Bucktown Tavern I couldn’t remember.

  Behind me, I heard Richard call my name, and turned to see him jump down from the walkway. He came toward me, hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the chill in the breeze. I told him I hoped I hadn’t interrupted anything.

  “Just a little beer drinking,” he said. I took out a pack of smokes and offered him one. He cupped his hands around my lighter, inhaled and seemed to warm up, relaxing his shoulders. “They’ll be at it half the night—my Bucktown clients. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

  “Bunch of Yahoos,” I said. “Plenty of those where I come from.”

  His thin lips curved into a smile. “Yahooism is a state of mind. I enjoy the hell out of those guys. Every time I drink beer with them, my repertoire of dirty jokes doubles.”

  “Yeah, but who do you get to practice on?”

  “Anyone I know in the oil industry, a few lushes I know uptown, and, of course, my law partners, who have no, choice but to grin and bear it. The clerks are required to laugh. It’s on the application form.”

  We were both looking out at the water, at the skiff, indulging in a kind of banter we used with each other mostly when we were on the phone, when we weren’t talking about serious things like my following his wife or his political ambitions. I took a sidelong glance at him now to see if his face was as deadpan as his delivery, but he was still wearing that slim smile.

  The man hosing the skiff threw the hose back on the dock, revved up the engine, and took off as soon as his partner hit the deck. We watched until they were out of sight, going around a thin slice of land bordering the marina, the end of which is called The Point and is a famous make-out place for teenagers.

  Getting back to dirty jokes, I had one for Richard, but this one wasn’t too funny. So I filled him in on Solarno’s murder, without getting too graphic, and mentioned that it appeared that nothing other than a film had been taken from the apartment.

  He jumped right on that, turning into the wind to look at me, his longish blond hair blowing across his forehead. “He said he had something to show me. Do you think it was a film? God, that would be almost too much to hope for.”

  “I thought of that,” I told him, “but it wasn’t the film that was in his projector because the piece of it that was left had a couple of frames of skin on it.”

  He frowned and smoothed his hair back, out of his eyes. “But someone bothered to take that film and whatever other films may have been there.”

  “I thought of that, too. Who else would Solarno tell if he had something?”

  “How would I know?” he asked impatiently, tossing his head, seeming irritated with the breeze, which kept blowing his hair around.

  “Well, he had to tell someone else besides you, assuming taking the film was no coincidence.”

  “But he didn’t tell me that what he had was a film.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and found an angle more compatible with the wind.

  “Doesn’t mean he didn’t tell someone else. There’s not too much else to go on.”

  “I realize that.” More conciliatory now. “I take it that means you’re not ready to quit.”

  “No, I’m following a couple of things"—I didn’t mention Mr. D.—"long shots.” He nodded, but like he wasn’t so sure. “I went to Callahan’s office today,” I went on. “I didn’t get past the prep-school alligators in his moat.”

  “What did you do that for?” This was not mere impatience. He was irritated. With me.

  “Because there’s not much else to do. Because talking to Callahan might stir up the pot. Because I’ll do almost anything for some action these days.”

  I didn’t get the desired reaction, which was a laugh. Instead he turned to the lake again and did some of the kind of thinking he’s good at doing while you hang on the phone.

  “Okay,” he said finally, “then put on a black tie and come to a pre-ball cocktail party at my house tomorrow night. Callahan’s supposed to make an appearance.”

  I expressed surprise at the two opponents’ socializing, and doubt that Callahan would show.

  “It’s a crossing-of-the-swords gesture,” Richard said. “He’ll show.”

  Never during the course of our conversation did he ask if I’d found out anything about Myra. And since he didn’t ask, I didn’t tell him.

  When I got home I played the unchained melody on the phone a few more times before I gave up on Lee for the night. I was standing in the bedroom stripped down to the skivvies when there was a hard, curt rap on the front door. This particular knock was distinct; I’d gotten to know it well late last summer.

  I didn’t figure anyone would expect me to be dressed at this time of night. I looked for my robe on the back of the bathroom door, but only Lee’s blue-flowered kimono with an occasional dragon head popping out of the foliage was there. I slipped it on, my arm going through the opening at the armpit, a design feature I truly appreciated when the kimono was on Lee. I wrestled my way out of the armpit opening and into the sleeve, which was big enough for two of my arms, making progress toward the door, but not fast enough for his impatient knuckles. I secured the sash at the waist and flung open the door, almost getting the set of knockers in my face.

  “Come in, Lieutenant,” I said, backing away. “Sergeant.” They both walked past me without a greeting. Uncle Roddy did some heavy breathing as he let himself down into a chair at the dinette table. Fonte waited until his superior was comfortable, then sat. I stood over the two of them. “Gee, what fun. We haven’t done this for a long time.” I sort of sashayed into the kitchen, the kimono, which was ankle length on Lee, flapping at my calves. I brought back the bottle of Scotch and three glasses. Uncle Roddy didn’t seem to notice my colorful garb, but Fonte was giving me a peculiar look, and he had stopped chewing his gum.

  I poured Scotch for all. Uncle Roddy drained his three fingers’ worth and held his glass out for more. He didn’t look so good.

  “Wanna put the leg up, Lieutenant?” I started moving the extra chair into position for him.

  “No, no,” he said, annoyed. “Just tell me what I wanna know so I can get outta here.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I would have expected a jab from Fonte by now, but he had managed to tear his eyes away from me to seek out the possibilities of the bedroom. The bedroom door, however, was only half open.

  “I get the feeling you’re interested in Marty Solarno for reasons other than personal,” Uncle Roddy said.

  “Any interest I have in Solarno ends up being personal.”

  “Don’t try to get clever wit’ me, Neal.” His mood was foul.

  “That’s not being clever; that’s the truth,” I said.

  “Is it still the truth, even after today? Aren’t you satisfied about Myra Ledet now?”

  He was being a lot nastier than I thought the occasion called for. Not only that, but I didn’t like the idea of talking about Myra in front of Fonte. Fonte, however, did not seem to be interested in the lieutenant and me, but in setting a new world’s record for silence, and craning his neck to get a better view of the bedroom. He jerked his head at it. “Bathroom back there?” he demanded.

  The kimono sleeve dusted the table as I made a gesture for Fonte to have at it. I regarded Uncle Roddy with a cocked head and a slightly curled lip while
I waited for Fonte to find his way to relieve himself or satisfy himself, or whatever.

  I told Uncle Roddy, “I don’t ever expect to be satisfied about Myra, but whether you like the way I’m going about it or not, I am trying to put it all behind me.”

  “Okay, Neal. You don’t have to be so touchy. I just wanna know who’s got you messin’ around in the Solarno murder.”

  I let my mouth gape wide at him. “Uncle Roddy, I told you why I wanted to go into Solarno’s apartment. What makes you think there was any other reason? Wasn’t that reason enough?”

  His eyes drooped lazily, and he flapped one of his big mitts at me. “Sure, sure. First you wanna know if they took anything outta Solarno’s apartment. Then you show a lotta interest in the movie projector. Nex’ thing, you’re askin’ me about Solarno’s vice activities when you know Solarno always had some operation goin’ on. I don’t figure you’d be all that interested in what Solarno was into if all you’re worried about is Myra Ledet. Then you cap it off wit’ a remark about Chance Callahan’s office and vice busts. I ain’t stupid, Neal.”

  I rested the fingertips of both hands against my chest, copying one of his favorite gestures. “I can’t be interested in the man who murdered Myra?” My voice nearly cracked with disbelief. I cleared my throat. “Once a cop, always a cop, Uncle Roddy.”

  There was this small, nasty smile on his lips. He reached over and fingered the kimono. “I also know you’re practically livin’ wit’ the Diamond woman. I figure that must go a long way toward easin’ your burden.”

  I sat back, out of his reach, and matched his smile. “So it does.” Fonte came back from the bathroom. “I hope you found everything to your satisfaction, Sergeant.”

  He reached for the bottle with a grunt of disgust, probably annoyed that Lee wasn’t stretched out nude on the bed.

  “So what does Richard Cotton think Solarno had on him?” Uncle Roddy shot at me.

  “I have no idea,” I answered truthfully.