A Diamond Before You Die

by Chris Wiltz

  “Don’t open your eye or I’ll cut it,” someone said in a harsh, low, gravelly voice that was almost a whisper.

  He spoke from above me, from on top of my chest. His breath was warm on my face; it smelled like refried beans.

  “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you,” he said, and the rocks in his voice gurgled against one another.

  You shouldn’t kill me because I don’t want to die, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud because before I could he increased the pressure on the knife, cutting my eye, then slowly dragging the knife down, down to the bone, down toward my ear. I heard the sound an animal makes when it knows it’s going to die, and I knew it came from me because there was no one else there who could have made that sound.

  They say that before you die your whole life flashes before you in a few seconds. I have never believed that, and indeed it isn’t true. What flashed in front of me were the details of Marty Solarno’s death. I saw him tied down, the two men with him, one hovering just above his face, and Solarno making the sound I’d just made over and over again, and I heard Uncle Roddy talking to the pathologist about what I’d had for dinner. Then one of the men with Solarno, the only one whose face I could see, went over to the corner of the room and puked. I knew that face, the face wearing the glasses.

  “No, no!” he hissed behind me. “Warn him!” It was urgent; maybe he was going to throw up again.

  The rocks in the voice gurgled, laughter, and the slice was finished. I was as out of breath as I would have been after running a mile, but I couldn’t catch my breath because he was sitting on me. I tried to pay no attention to the blood filling my ear.

  If I was going to die, I was going to say the name of the one I knew. I wanted him to hear me say it forever. And I was going to open my eyes. The pain in the left eye was bad enough to keep either eye from snapping open. As I tried to open them, I heard a third voice. It was pitched high, shrill. It wasn’t in the alleyway.

  “Police! Freeze!”

  The man nearly crushed my chest getting off it. My eyes opened in time to see his shoe coming for my face. I flinched, and he caught me on the corner of my chin. Behind me, cardboard boxes fell, and there was a lot of scuffling as people fled down the alleyway. The next sound I heard was a “whumpf,” not loud, and by the time I was able to get up and look in the direction I’d heard everyone going, there was nothing. No one.

  I took a couple of steps to the mouth of the alley, and looked up and down the street. No police unit waited for the officer who had given chase to my assailants. I turned in the other direction, to go through the alley, my shoulder rising to my jawline periodically to keep some of the blood from running down my neck.

  My hands were bound together with one of those plastic tie wraps that are used to hold large clumps of wires together by electricians and phone company workers, and also by the police when there are more people who need to be arrested than there are handcuffs. I used my two hands together as a club to move boxes aside, and that’s when I saw him, and when I knew what the soft “whumpf” I’d heard was. He was lying just beyond the boxes, face down, with a knife sticking out of his back. I put my hands under his cheek and lifted his head to see his face better in the dark. His glasses had been knocked askew when he fell; one of the lenses was cracked. I let his cheek rest again on the cold concrete, and felt for the pulse in his neck just to make sure.

  “Damn,” I said.

  I couldn’t question a dead man, and Leonard Yastovich was very dead.

  23

  * * *

  Not Even a Body

  In the dark with one eye shut it was difficult to find anything to cut through the plastic tie wrap. I had already tried to snap it by pushing the heels of my hands together and exerting pressure on it, but it was too strong. I looked for the sharp object I’d fallen on, but I couldn’t find it, unless it was the corner of a heavy corrugated box. I ended by standing at the right angle that joined the front and side of one of the buildings and sawing through the tie wrap with the edge of a rough brick. By that time it felt like most of the blood had drained out of my body through my eye and face, and the outside edges of my hands and wrists were bloody from scraping on the bricks.

  I put the tie wrap in my pants pocket, and took off my jacket, turning the lining out to press it up against my cheekbone. All around the slash and in my eye it felt as though tiny jackhammers were chipping away at flesh and bone and eyeball. I went for the car keys, and remembered I’d had them out when I’d been attacked. I bent down to search for them and the jackhammers grew larger, the side of my face heavy with the pounding of them.

  A few decades went by before I found the keys in the gutter, almost under the rear wheel of the car. I stood up to fumble at the lock, my head woozy, my legs almost as weak as they’d been when I got sapped.

  It was when I started driving and tried to open my eye that I began to be afraid I’d lost it. The eye didn’t want to open, or maybe it was sealed shut. I decided it was better not to know if I could see anything out of it, so I left it alone, but every movement of the good eye caused a lot of pain in the closed one. The aggravation was so great that by the time I drove the few blocks to the Père Marquette, I was more angry that I might lose the sight in it than afraid.

  I parked in a freight zone in front of the building and stumbled into the lobby. Before anything could come out of the open mouth of the security guard, I shot a number at him and told him to get Lieutenant Rankin on the phone. One of the walls held me up while he did it.

  Uncle Roddy had enough details to get him over to the warehouse district in a hurry, and I went up to the office. The first thing I did was throw my jacket in the trash can and take a long snort from the bottle that was still sitting on my desk. Then I went over to the sink that was hanging on the wall behind a folding screen in the corner of the room and stood in front of the mirror above it. Very gently, I pried my eyelid open. The eye gushed like a geyser, but at least I was getting a blurred image through the water. I let it close again, and washed up. The cut was still oozing. It went in an arc from the eyelid almost to the tip of my ear, like the marking on a tabby. The cutter was apparently into symmetry, so I suppose I should feel lucky not to have a matching stripe on the other side. But what I felt was another surge of rage which pumped enough adrenaline into me to get a wad of bandaging taped to the slice and me into my car.

  Lights from three police cars careened and bounced off the fronts of the warehouses off Canal. One of the cars was horizontal in the street so its headlights could shine into the alley. An empty stretcher was on the sidewalk next to a crash truck.

  I pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the street. Uncle Roddy limped slowly toward me. He looked tired and irritated. I got out of the car and stood beside the open door, leaning against it. Uncle Roddy’s eyes left my bandaged face and took in my shirt, one side of which was bloodsoaked to the waistline. His irritation seeped away, but his first question threw me.

  “This the right alley?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s no body in it.”

  I made a move to cross the street. One of his thick arms came up and blocked me.

  “It’s not there,” he repeated.

  Fonte came out of the hubbub in the alley. He was halfway to us when Uncle Roddy caught him in his peripheral vision. He didn’t turn around, but waggled a hand in Fonte’s direction. Fonte retreated.

  “What went on here, Neal?”

  I gave him the answer to his question, offering no further information except to say, “Whoever it was did the design on Solarno’s face.”

  “Why you?” he wanted to know.

  “The word on the street is that Solarno was trying to force his way back on Callahan’s staff,” I told him, “and Callahan thinks I know whatever it is Solarno had on him. After Solarno was murdered, I tried to talk to Callahan. First he threatened me, then he told me he was doing me a favor to tell me to lay off the Solarno business. I didn’t know i
f Solarno really had anything, but I didn’t deny knowing he did, either. When I got to the office this morning, it was in pieces. They even looked under the carpet and in the light fixtures. So I have to assume that Callahan believes or Solarno told him there was something tangible. I called his office, but he wouldn’t talk to me. I talked to Leonard Yastovich instead, told him not to bother with my apartment, what he’s looking for isn’t there either.”

  Uncle Roddy put his hand over his eyes and forehead and rubbed hard. “Jesus!” he said. When the hand came down, the irritation was back, worse. “Don’t you learn, Neal?”

  “What? To lay off the politicos? Don’t you hear what you’re saying? If Callahan had Solarno murdered, why should he get away with it?”

  “So all of a sudden you give a fuck who murdered Marty Solarno?” He was furious now. He came close to my face. “The man who murdered Myra Ledet?”

  The side of my face felt like it was splitting open. Our noses were about three inches away from each other’s. “I give a fuck who’s trying to murder me!” I backed away and leaned on the car. “Let’s stop this,” I said. “I’m trying to say that if Callahan gets away with this, he’ll think he can get away with anything.”

  He was in no way calmed down. “You say exactly what you wanna say. What you don’t say is why you really wanted into Solarno’s apartment, or what your motives are for diggin’ around in Solarno’s death, or why you wanted to talk to Callahan, why you didn’t deny any knowledge of blackmail evidence, how you get your information about the word on the street, not even where you went tonight that you would park your car in a deserted part of town. And I know exactly what I would get if I asked any of those questions. Nothin’! I don’t even get a body!”

  “Look, Uncle Roddy, I didn’t know what Solarno was after when I went to see Callahan, but I know now. Solarno knew Callahan was connected with a drug operation running out of the Bucktown Tavern. He’d figured out that the tavern was where the drugs were coming in from South America. What I don’t know is if he managed to tie Callahan directly to the tavern or not. I was on my way to Yastovich when this happened.”

  “That doesn’t even answer half my questions.”

  “There’s a guy in a motel in the French Quarter who has some of the answers, Uncle Roddy.”

  “Let’s go get him.”

  “Let me bring him to you.”

  “Oh, Mr. Big,” he yelled, “runnin’ the goddamn police department!”

  I knew he could have raved on but I put a hand on his arm. “He’s scared, Uncle Roddy. Callahan has used him. Now he thinks Callahan is trying to kill him. If a bunch of police show up to get him, he may never talk again.”

  He was sweating even though the night air was cool enough that I was beginning to feel cold. “Go get your face sewn up,” he said in a more normal tone of voice. “Come see me when everybody’s ready to talk.” He turned and shuffled away, his big back rounded with the effort of dragging his leg. He got to the middle of the street and stopped. He showed his profile and said, “Make it soon, Neal. Your guardian angel might not always know where to find you.”

  24

  * * *

  Because of Myra

  The closest emergency room was at Charity Hospital, downtown on Tulane Avenue. The doctor who worked on me said my eyelid had been penetrated and the cornea badly scratched, but the eye itself was all right. I told him I was surprised that a scratched cornea could hurt that bad. He smiled but made no comment and asked no questions. Most of the victims of street violence end up at Charity, and he’d probably lost his curiosity after the first few days on the job. He put my eyelid back together and worked his way down my face. I lost count of the sutures somewhere in the twenties.

  It was just before midnight when I got back to the Euclid. I was going to clean up, then go to the motel to get Mr. D.

  The side of my face was numb, but the scratched cornea made up for that. I knew, though, that when the local anesthetic wore off I was in for some pain. I put a lot of ice in a dish towel and left it in the freezer, ready for when I needed it. The only liquor left in the house after Mardi Gras was bourbon. I took the bottle into the bedroom with me.

  I had completely forgotten about all the water, but the biggest shock was that it had been taken care of. There was a hole in the ceiling where it had been drained, and the carpet had been removed. Along with a few pieces of plaster on the bedspread, there was a note from the manager that the ceiling would be replastered and a new carpet put in the next day. It was the quickest action I’d ever gotten at the Euclid.

  My bloodstained shirt got pitched. I was heading to the shower when the temptation to lie down overcame the desire to get clean. I pulled back the bedding so I could lie down and close my good eye to keep it from irritating the other one. They’d put a patch on it and told me to keep it covered until I saw an eye specialist. I lay down with the bottle of bourbon cradled in my arm and thought about checking with the answering service to see if Richard Cotton had called . . . and thought that the workers being in the apartment had probably kept it from being rifled . . . wondering who had saved me . . . wondering if Lee was home . . .

  I bolted into an upright position, nearly upsetting the bourbon, my heartbeat in my jawline. Whoever had waited for me at my car could have followed me to Lee’s at another time, and if he’d tried me and Mr. D., he could decide to try Lee, and if he had slashed my face . . .

  I scrambled off the bed, grabbed the phone, and called Lee’s apartment. I let it ring and ring while I dragged it over to the drawer where I kept my gun. It kept ringing while I spun the chamber and loaded it. I slammed the receiver down and pulled out a shirt. While I was fumbling with buttons, there was a knock at the door. I knew it wasn’t Uncle Roddy because it wasn’t a bossy knock, and I have to admit I wouldn’t have minded seeing him or even Phil Fonte just then. I made sure there was a bullet under the hammer, pulled the hammer back, and went to the door. There was another knock as I approached.

  I put my hand on the doorknob, turned it and flung the door open. I pointed the gun right at Lee’s heart.

  The movement was so fast that I felt it almost before I saw it as she karate-chopped the gun from my hand. It hit the doorframe and bounced into the outside hallway without going off.

  “Good God!” I exclaimed, wondering if I should take the cure.

  “Sorry,” Lee said. “Reflex.” She picked up the gun, released the hammer and handed it to me.

  I pulled her to me, and held her, waiting for my heart to quiet down some.

  She moved back to look at my face. “Is your eye going to be okay?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good.” She hid her face in my neck for a minute. I smiled at the empty doorway—she was worried.

  She closed the door and went into the living room.

  I followed her. “Did anything happen at the Cottons’?”

  “No.”

  “Is Cotton at home?”

  “He wasn’t when I left, but she’s expecting him.” She held up a hand. “I have to call the answering service.”

  She told them to phone her immediately at my number if she got any calls. As she talked she turned to look at me. Still somewhat stunned, I looked back, at her eyes first, then her mouth, which smiled at me, her upper lip coming up over her crooked teeth, curving down to meet her lower lip. My heart squeezed in an extra pump, and my one eye traveled, taking in her efficient and deceptively strong body. She had on those tight black jeans she’d been wearing the first time I saw her. Into them was tucked a black turtleneck, its sleeves pushed almost to her elbows. She wasn’t wearing a belt. On her feet were gold Nike running shoes with tan suede trim. She was slim, girlish, healthy and sexy. You wouldn’t think she pumped iron or could neatly karate-chop a gun out of some unsuspecting sap’s hand. I wondered what else she could do with such ease and nonchalance without getting overheated or breathing hard or getting in the least bit ruffled. I suddenly felt tired and
old, out of shape and too damned vulnerable. I was going to have to stop and take stock of myself. Tomorrow.

  I went into the bedroom, put the gun on the bedside table and located the bottle of bourbon. The shock had unfrozen the side of my face and it was beginning to ache. I sat on the foot of the bed.

  Lee came in and sat down beside me. She looked at the floor, shuffling her foot on the exposed concrete. I pointed at the ceiling and told her about the bathtub overflowing upstairs.

  “The thing about today,” I said wearily, “is that even if I’d known I should, I couldn’t have stayed in bed all day.” I was staring morosely at the bottle in my hands.

  “Well, at least your sense of humor is still intact.” She nudged me.

  She was sitting on my left side, so I had to turn my body to give her an evil eye. She reached up and fingered my blood-matted hair.

  She took the bourbon away from me and put it on the dresser. “Come on,” she said, tugging at my arm.

  “What. I’m in pain.”

  “I’m going to clean you up—you’ll feel better. Get undressed.” She went into the bathroom and started drawing a bath.

  I stood up and was fumbling with shirt buttons again. She pushed my hands away and sort of snapped me out of my clothes.

  “Don’t you even want to know what happened to me?” I was acting put out, but I wasn’t.