“Landry’s straight. He doesn’t have anything to do with Tony.”
Ray nodded. “Landry junior is a straight arrow, but he blames me for his old man going to prison, and he wouldn’t pass up a chance to send me back. He’ll deal with Tony if he has to.”
“That’s a lot of trouble to go through just to catch a convicted felon with a gun.”
Ray stared across the table at her. “Sylvester is dead, and that’s the gun that killed him.”
“What?”
Ray told her what had happened in the apartment.
When he finished, she was too shocked to speak.
“I’ve got to get that gun,” Ray said.
“How are you going to get it if it’s in Tony’s garage?”
“I’ve got to get into his house while he’s at work.”
“You’re trying to stay out of jail by breaking into someone’s house, Tony Zello’s house? Where you almost just got killed?”
“Jen, I’ve got no choice. I’ve got to get that gun. If Tony finds out he has that kind of leverage on me, he won’t hesitate to use it.”
Jenny shook her head. She looked disgusted. “What about his wife?”
“Charlie Rabbit said she goes out almost every night.”
“I thought you were changing,” she whispered. There were tears in her eyes.
Ray picked up his pack of Lucky Strikes from the table and shook one out. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, he raised his lighter and flicked it. Nothing happened, so he flicked it again, still nothing. He spun the wheel four more times but couldn’t get the damn thing to light.
“They got any matches in here?” he asked.
“What if Tony comes home while you’re there?”
Ray was getting jumpy. He held up his hand. “Hold on a second.” He stood up and scanned the room. On the nightstand, inside the hotel ashtray, he found a book of matches. He slid back into the chair and lit his cigarette, then breathed the smoke into his lungs. Another drag and the jumpy feeling started to fade.
He tossed the matches on the table. Jenny was staring at him, still waiting for her answer. Ray looked at her through the haze of smoke hanging between them. “Sorry, what did you say?”
“What if Tony comes home?”
“That’s where you come in.”
Jenny arched her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
Jenny got to the bar at a quarter to nine. Early enough so she could have a drink by herself. It would be easier with a drink or two in her. The Carousel Lounge at the Monteleone Hotel was crowded. There were a lot of expensive suits, beautiful dresses, and sparkling jewelry. The Monteleone was the oldest and classiest hotel in the French Quarter.
She had argued with Ray all morning, at one point telling him she was leaving him and going to California. He could straighten out his own damn life without her. But she hadn’t left, and by early afternoon she had agreed to his plan.
Ray said, “Meet him in a bar. Have some drinks and keep him talking. One hour is all I need.”
“What do we talk about?” she asked. Ray didn’t have any advice about that. Typical. But she had her own idea. “I’ll tell him I’ve been thinking about him.”
Ray hadn’t been so sure that was a line of conversation he liked. Jenny said tough shit. She would handle it her own way or not at all.
At nine o’clock on the dot, Tony strolled into the Carousel. He ran his fingertips along her back as he took the stool next to her at the Carousel’s unique revolving bar. Her dress was low in the back, and his fingers on her skin gave her the creeps. She had bought the dress at Lakeside Mall in Metairie on her way into the city.
Tony was dressed in a silk suit, looking like he just stepped off the cover of GQ magazine, except for the bandage on his ear. He signaled to the bartender and ordered a drink. Then he said to Jenny, “You surprised me.”
She pointed to the bandage. “What happened?”
He waved a hand in the air. “It’s nothing.”
“How did I surprise you?” she asked.
“Calling me. I thought you didn’t like me anymore.”
Jenny shrugged. “I go back and forth.”
Tony grinned at her like a cat that had just swallowed a canary. When the bartender brought Tony his scotch and soda, Jenny noticed he didn’t ask for money. Jenny ordered a refill—Jameson on the rocks—and glanced at the clock behind the bar. Ray said he needed one hour. Fifty-four minutes to go.
Tony turned to face her, his right arm propped on the bar. “So what’s this about?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”
“You haven’t been at work.”
She shook her head. “I quit.”
“Really.” He seemed surprised. “What are you gonna do?”
The bartender set Jenny’s drink in front of her, and again didn’t ask for any money. She took a big sip to steady her nerves. “I don’t have any plans yet,” she said.
With his left hand, Tony traced a circle on her bare shoulder. “Maybe I can help.”
“I’m thinking about leaving town,” she said.
He pulled his hand back. “Where you going?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know that either.”
“You don’t know much, do you?”
Jenny swallowed her first response, then said, “I know I’m going to need money.”
Tony swirled a finger in his glass, then took a sip. “Why are you telling me?”
“You still looking for Ray?”
“You mean your old boyfriend?”
She shook her head and took another gulp of whiskey.
“You know where he is?” Tony asked.
“I’ve got a friend, and she knows where he is.”
From the inside pocket of his suit coat, Tony pulled out a cell phone. He held it out to Jenny. “Call her.”
She made a show of looking at her watch. “She’s not home.”
“How do you know she’s not home?”
“She’s a nurse. She works two to ten in the emergency room at Touro Hospital.”
Tony put the phone back in his pocket, then knocked back the rest of his drink. As he stood up, he took a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote a phone number on a napkin. He handed the napkin to Jenny. “Call me when you get in touch with her.”
Tony probably wasn’t going home, but Jenny couldn’t be sure. Ray hadn’t had his hour. They’d planned everything to start at nine. She swallowed hard and put a hand on Tony’s arm. It felt like touching a snake. “How much do I get?”
“We’ll see.”
He started to turn away from the bar, but she held his arm. “Do you have to leave? My friend will be home in an hour.”
Tony even smiled like a snake. “What are we going to do for an hour?”
Jenny’s stomach turned, but she forced an inviting smile on her face. “Can you get us a room?”
Ray drove Jenny’s Firebird around the cul-de-sac. Tony’s Lincoln was gone, and so was Priscilla’s Jag. The clock in the dash showed 9:05. If Charlie had been right, Mrs. Zello didn’t spend many nights at home. Ray needed to get the Smith & Wesson, then somehow get to Carlos Messina and plead his case directly to the Old Man.
He parked a couple blocks away and walked toward Tony’s house. Just a neighborhood guy out for a stroll. A sign in front of the Zello house warned that it was monitored by an alarm system. A lot of people used the signs as bluffs. Tony’s house might be wired, it might not, but even if it was, the garage probably wasn’t. Ray would still have to check, though. More time wasted. He crouched in the darkness on the side of the garage and studied the window for electrical contacts. When he was pretty sure the window wasn’t wired, he knocked out a pane of glass and sat down to wait.
He gave it fifteen minutes. If the garage was rigged, or if a neighbor had heard the glass break, the cops would show up within that time. When no police arrived, Ray reached through the broken window and unlocked it. He pushed it open and climbed through. Using a mini
-LED flashlight he crossed the dark garage.
There were six drawers built into the lacquered wooden workbench, two rows of three, one on top of the other. All the drawers were filled with junk. Ray found playing cards, pieces of wire, loose tools, a long roll of coaxial cable . . .
Tony must be stealing cable from his neighbor just like me.
But no gun.
Ray swept the rest of the garage with his flashlight. The gun wasn’t lying on the coffee table or on the cabinet beside the TV. He checked the sofa, digging under the cushions. He searched everywhere a pistol could fit.
Nothing.
Ray glanced at the glowing numbers on his watch.
9:30 PM.
Mounted on the wall next to the door that led from the garage to the laundry room was the control panel for the alarm system. The digital display said READY, and the red light under the word ARMED was off. Alarms can’t protect your house if you don’t set them. Ray had to get that gun. To do that he had to get inside Tony’s house.
The metal door was hollow and carried a builder-grade lock. Sixty seconds’ work with a heavy screwdriver scavenged from the workbench and Ray was inside. The alarm stayed silent. No beeps, no warning sirens. So far so good.
A couple of lights were on inside the house, but the master bedroom was dark. Using his flashlight, Ray started with the dresser. He searched all the drawers but didn’t find what he was looking for. Next, he checked the bed. He ran his hands under the pillows, looked beneath the frame, then felt between the mattress and box spring. Nothing.
The closet was a walk-in with clothes hanging on each side and wooden shelves on the back wall. One side was crammed with men’s suits hanging from a high rod. From a lower rod hung pants and sport coats. On the floor were a half dozen pairs of shoes, mostly high-glossed leather loafers, arranged in a neat row.
On the other side of the closet was a single rod packed with dresses, under which had been tossed at least fifteen pairs of women’s shoes, all different types—high heels, pumps, flats, mule backs, even a pair of red stiletto heels with straps.
A system, Ray knew from experience, was the key to a good search. He would work from the bottom up. On his knees, he reached into the space behind Tony’s neatly arranged shoes. Close to the back corner his fingers pushed against something soft. Reaching farther, he felt a strap. He got his fingers around it and pulled.
It was a worn leather bag, two feet long with a zipper running its length. There were two rounded handles, and a shoulder strap hooked to a couple of D-rings on either end. The bag was a bit fancy for the gym, more like an overnight bag. A laminated luggage tag hanging from one of the D-rings identified the owner as Tony Zello and listed his home address and telephone number. In the event of loss, the tag promised an unspecified reward if it was returned to its owner.
Whatever was inside the bag was very heavy. Ray tugged open the zipper. Inside was money, lots of money. All loose cash. No banded stacks, no rubber bands. Nothing but a bag of assorted bills, everything from hundreds to singles. Loose bills like that would take all night to count, but Ray figured he already knew how much it was. Somewhere in the neighborhood of $300,000.
The Rising Sun’s $300,000.
As stunned as Ray was about the money, it wasn’t what he was looking for. So he kept searching. He found the gun on the high shelf over Tony’s suits. Ray tossed it in the bag on top of the cash and pulled the zipper closed.
Leaving the bedroom, Ray’s flashlight swept across the dresser and something shined back. It was Tony Zello’s “Z” lighter, the gold Zippo his wife had given him. The lighter that would have made Elvis proud.
Seeing it lying there reminded Ray how much he needed a cigarette. He patted the pockets of his pants and realized he had left his matches in Jenny’s hotel room. He slipped Tony’s lighter into his pocket.
Jenny Porter felt like shit. As she lay in the bed, alone in a room at the Monteleone, the tears started to come. For almost two full days she had been feeling pretty good about herself. Helping Ray made her feel good, quitting the House made her feel great, but sleeping with Tony Zello knocked her back to the way she usually felt—like shit.
At ten o’clock, after Tony finished fucking her, he told her to call her friend the nurse. Jenny picked up the hotel phone and dialed the number of her own apartment. She didn’t have a machine, so she let it ring. She told Tony her friend wasn’t answering.
Tony hung around for another fifteen minutes, making Jenny call three more times, but he finally got tired of it. “You have my number,” he said, pointing to the cocktail napkin lying on the dresser next to Jenny’s purse. “Call me as soon as you get in touch with her.”
Jenny said she would.
Tony opened the door and stepped out. He paused in the doorway and looked back. “You need to be out of the room in a half hour,” he said. Then he blew her a kiss. “I had a good time. Guess I’ll see you around.”
As soon as Tony closed the door, Jenny ran into the bathroom and threw up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jenny’s words hit Ray like a punch in the gut.
He had to take a deep breath before he could speak. When he did, he heard his voice shaking. “You did what?”
Not that he wanted her to repeat the story. He had heard it quite clearly the first time. She had fucked Tony Zello—again.
In their hotel room, Jenny stood at the sink and looked at Ray through the mirror, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t repeat the story. Saying it out loud just once was bad enough. But she did try to justify her actions. “He was leaving,” she said. “It was only nine fifteen and you said you needed an hour.”
Ray stood across the room by the door. “So you decided to hop in the sack with him.”
She pounded her small fists on the edge of the sink as she leaned closer to the mirror, like she was leaning closer to him, coming nose to nose with his reflected image. “I had to do something,” she screamed. “He was walking away!”
Ray was over the shock, but the hurt was starting to set in. He needed to focus on something positive, like anger. What he wanted to do was hurt her back, not physically—he would never do that—but emotionally, like she had done to him. He locked eyes with her in the mirror. “Once a whore, always a whore, is that it?”
She looked away, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.
Just like last time, Ray thought. As soon as he left her alone she was screwing somebody else. Last time he left for five years, but this time, two fucking hours, and she does the same thing. With the same guy!
Ray bent over and picked up Tony’s leather bag from the floor. When he stood up, he felt dizzy. He must be hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Forget about Jenny Porter, he told himself. There were plenty of other things to worry about besides her.
The bag felt like it weighed a ton.
Ray pulled Jenny’s keys out of his pocket and tossed them on the bed. He did the same thing with the room key. They stared at each other’s reflections in the bathroom mirror for a few seconds longer. Finally, Ray broke it off. He opened the door and walked out, slamming it shut behind him.
The cab dropped Ray off at a seafood restaurant a quarter mile from his apartment.
It was midnight.
At the far side of West End Boulevard, on the edge of Lake Pontchartrain, sat a parking lot ringed by boarded-up bars and out-of-business restaurants. Once a hot spot on the lakefront, it was now nothing but a ghost town. Only one restaurant was still in business, but it closed every night at ten, so even the cleanup crew was gone. Ray stuffed Tony’s bag beneath the Dumpster behind the restaurant. If Tony or some of his goons were waiting for him inside his apartment, he would need something to bargain with. Maybe he could trade the money for his life.
Hiding in the shadows thrown by the streetlights, Ray eased across West End Park and took a seat at a picnic table across from his apartment. His Mustang was still parked at the curb. He needed that car. So he waite
d and he watched. After half an hour he was pretty sure no one else was watching his apartment or his car.
He went in the way he had last gone out, through the back window. His landlord had taped a sheet of plastic over the window and picked up most of the broken glass. Ray peeled back one corner of the plastic and slipped through.
Inside the apartment he didn’t waste any time. It was possible someone really good was watching, someone he hadn’t spotted. A couple of hard-asses could be creeping up the steps right now. Ray needed to leave. His car keys were on the floor, just where he had dropped them. Ray stuffed them into his pocket and climbed back out the window.
In the old days, back when Ray was with Vice, he knew he wouldn’t have given it a thought. If he had somehow managed to get his hands on three hundred grand, there would not have been any question what he would have done. He would have packed his shit and left, left his job, left town, left the state. Florida maybe. Get a job on the beach renting out Jet Skis, or open a bar.
Now he was too scared to run. Having the money was more dangerous than not having it, because whoever had it would be the one to catch the blame for ripping off the House and killing Pete Messina. And now Ray had the money.
Tony, that motherfucker. It was all starting to come together, like looking at one of those pictures you had to stare at for ten minutes before you could see the image. Ray had been staring at this picture for a long time, and he was finally seeing it. Hector asking him to cover the front door, something the kid had never done before. Using guys Ray had arrested as part of the robbery crew. Tony blowing a couple of holes in Hector. Dylan Sylvester’s story about the inside man. The rest of the crew—Scooby, Wop, Eddie—all dead. None of it was a coincidence. Now he understood. It was all part of the plan for him to take the fall.
After fleeing his apartment for a second time, Ray had checked into a dump on Chef Menteur Highway. At two o’clock in the morning, he lay in bed in the dark, smoking a cigarette and staring at Tony Zello’s “Z” lighter glinting in his hand.
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