The Contract

by JM Gulvin

  ‘It’s OK. I took care of it. What about Texas, do you want me to make any calls?’

  ‘No. Franklin’s supposed to be phoning me. I’ll talk to him and we’ll go from there.’

  When he put the phone down the old man’s gaze pitched from the yard outside to his snake’s head walking cane. He reached for it. Almost tenderly he held it, cupping the silver handle where the serpent’s tongue protruded slightly. Switching his grip from the handle to the shaft he buried the tongue in the coffee table.

  *

  Early evening and Franklin picked up the cab he’d left at Moisant Field, a ’65 Impala Sedan with a neon sign on the roof. Behind the wheel he tossed his jacket over the back seat and drove into New Orleans. Twenty minutes later he stopped outside a three-story red-brick apartment building on Washington Avenue.

  Minimalist and modern; an oak floor and white painted walls dominated by a single pen and ink painting. Hanging his jacket on a chrome stand he crossed to a similarly styled bureau. He pumped the air from his cheeks as he grabbed a whiskey tumbler and scooped ice. Glass in hand, he perched on a Toledo chair, one of four that furnished the room. He considered the phone where it hung on the wall.

  Tobie was in the office on Baronne Street when the call came through from the desk. The girl had already left for the day and he let the phone ring a couple of times before he picked up.

  When he spoke his voice had an edge to it. ‘Franklin, I’ve been waiting for you to call. I know about the debacle at the gun store and I know about the failed attempt to get what we wanted in Wichita Falls.’

  ‘He recovered the photograph,’ Franklin said. ‘He got an address here in New Orleans.’

  ‘Yes, he did, and we know whose address it was. If he knew about that then maybe it wasn’t just the photo he had, perhaps there was something else.’

  ‘Like what exactly?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  ‘Look,’ Franklin said. ‘You told me we couldn’t beat him up and I chose Wiley because he’s a Veteran. I figured the army would’ve taught him how to get information without leaving any sign and he was in Texas for the gun store anyway.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what you told me and like a fool I listened. But he had no such interrogation skills and now we’re left with a problem.’ Tobie stared at the wall, listening to the weight of Franklin’s breathing. ‘I know there’s something else,’ he said. ‘You didn’t call me from Texas as instructed. Why was that? What is it you’re afraid to tell me?’

  Franklin sighed. ‘The 28th, I think we’re going to have to speak to the client.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think we should postpone.’

  ‘Are you mad? This organization hasn’t postponed an engagement in a hundred years. We’re not about to start now. What exactly is it you’re struggling to tell me?’

  ‘Wiley’s dead,’ Franklin said. ‘After he screwed up at the gun store he was killed by a Texas Ranger.’

  *

  Earl was at his desk in the office on Tulane Avenue, staring at the clock on the wall. After seven already, he had a stack of paper files in front of him and perspiration coated his palms.

  ‘Are you still here?’ The voice came from the open doorway and he looked round to see Pershing Gervais, the chief investigator, in tuxedo and black bow tie.

  ‘I was catching up on some reading.’

  ‘Anything I need to know?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Who was that just now on the phone?’

  ‘Just some girl chasing a bunch of paperwork.’

  Gervais regarded him with his head to one side. ‘Well, I’m out of here,’ he said. ‘I have a fundraiser to go to. You should get going too. Isn’t it time you were home with your family?’

  When he was gone Earl slipped on his jacket and walked the corridor past the empty offices and out to the landing. Plucking a paper cup from the dispenser on the side of the cooler he downed a long draught of ice cold water.

  He took the back stairs making his way to the basement then across the underground parking garage before climbing another set of stairs to the coroner’s office. He nodded to the security guard who was settling down at his post, then headed for the back of the building. He stopped when he came to a room at the end of an empty corridor. Inside he found a Telecopier on top of a file cabinet and a telephone on the desk. Throwing a quick glance back the way he had come he closed the door then lifted the copier down. He checked to make sure the phone was working then unravelled the cable, located an outlet and hooked the copier up. There was no paper on the reel and he searched the drawers of the file cabinet. Palms moist, he set the paper in place then attached the phone to the copier.

  Behind him the door swung open and a young woman stood there. With short-cut hair and eye glasses, she wore a pencil skirt and cotton blouse. ‘Kind of late for you to be back here, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I didn’t think we were using that machine anymore.’

  Earl was a little red in the face. ‘I’m from across the way,’ he stuttered. ‘Our copier is down right now and I figured nobody would mind.’

  ‘Nobody does. But if you’re looking for a reply I don’t know as anyone will be back this way to get it for you.’

  ‘No problem.’ He tried to smile. ‘There’s no need to bother anybody. I’ll swing by and fetch it myself.’

  *

  After he put down the phone to Franklin, the old man left the office with his overcoat draped around his shoulders and went down to the ground floor. The concierge opened the doors, and outside his chauffeur was waiting as he crossed to the Lincoln.

  ‘City Hall, Mr Tobie?’ He opened the forward-facing rear door.

  With a brief nod Tobie glanced at him.

  ‘I imagine events like this might sometimes be seen as a bit of a chore,’ the chauffeur suggested, ‘but the fact is you do a lot of good.’ He nodded to the canopied doors. ‘A lot of folks rely on what you do with that foundation and I know how grateful they are.’

  They drove across town to New City Hall, pulling up to the steps where half a dozen camera crews were gathered and the car was surrounded by reporters from local newspapers. Another concierge was there to open the door and Tobie leaned on his cane. He allowed a couple of pictures to be taken and answered questions as to why he was alone, telling the reporters his wife had a fever and had to remain at home. After that he went inside and checked his coat then made his way to the banqueting hall.

  On the far side of the room, Pershing Gervais rested with his back to the rosewood bar. Alongside him Lieutenant Colback from the NOPD’s organized crime squad stood with a glass in his hand.

  ‘Rosslyn F Tobie.’ Gervais looked on as the old man was escorted to the top table. ‘He finally got here then and only a half hour late.’

  ‘Call it fashionable, don’t they.’ Colback watched Governor McKeithen shake Tobie’s hand.

  ‘I suppose they do and it’s a hell of a welcome right there.’ Gervais picked up his own glass. ‘They’re all here, the governor, Supreme Court Justice Hawthorne, Chief Justice Fournet, not to mention the attorney general. He and Tobie went to law school together.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that. It’s a story he likes to tell.’ Colback worked a palm across his scalp.

  Gervais indicated another table. ‘I see Mary Parker’s running for state treasurer.’

  ‘Democrat or GOP?’

  ‘Democrat, she’s up against Allison Kolb and she’s sitting right over there.’ Gervais clicked his tongue. ‘I swear there’s more money in this room right now than the whole of the rest of New Orleans.’

  ‘So how is it you were invited?’

  Gervais smiled. ‘For every rule they say there’s an exception. I’m here because the DA couldn’t make it. And talking of which, I see Shaw’s here tonight. That guy with him is Ferenc Nagy.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Colback followed where he indicated.

  ‘Before the Russians rolled into B
udapest he was the Prime Minister of Hungary. These days he’s not really anybody but he’s a man with contacts and he’s happily settled in Dallas.’ He turned his attention to another table. ‘There’s old HL Hunt holding court. You know him of course, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Billionaire oilman. I heard how he was running a cotton plantation back in the day but it got flooded. Word is he brought his last hundred dollars down here to New Orleans.’

  ‘I heard the story.’ Gervais set his glass down on the bar. ‘Hit the card clubs pretty good and it wasn’t long before that hundred became a hundred thousand.’

  ‘The great and the good,’ Colback said. ‘More limos outside than you could shake a stick at and every man-Jack of them here to support that old man and his foundation.’

  It was eleven o’clock when Tobie left the fundraiser and walked outside to where Franklin was waiting behind the wheel of his taxi. He didn’t get out, he just watched in the rear view mirror as Tobie settled in the back. ‘Where’d you want to go, Rosslyn?’ he said.

  For a moment Tobie did not reply. He peered out the window as the governor was escorted to his limousine.

  ‘How come you summoned me?’ Franklin looked round. ‘What’s wrong with the Lincoln?’

  ‘I gave Johnson the rest of the night off.’ Tobie spoke without looking at him. ‘Take me to Orleans Street. There’s someone I need to talk to.’

  Franklin pulled away from the curb and headed for the French Quarter. The traffic still heavy he drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on the armrest.

  ‘So Wiley is dead.’ Tobie seemed to air his thoughts from behind him.

  ‘It’s why I said what I did. I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.’

  ‘I know why you suggested it but we don’t postpone, it’s something we just don’t do.’

  ‘What are we going to do then?’ Pulling across the lanes Franklin glanced over his shoulder. ‘There’s no time to find a replacement. I don’t see we have any choice.’

  ‘He’s dead because of you,’ Tobie stated. ‘Don’t forget that, boy. It’s down to you we had this problem in the first place.’

  Franklin curled his lip. ‘It was one photo, and according to Moore, it wasn’t me he recognized at all.’

  ‘You or him, it was a slip up and we don’t do that.’ The old man’s eyes were tight where he sought Franklin’s gaze in the mirror.

  ‘So, who is it you’re visiting on Orleans Street?’ Franklin asked as he turned onto North Rampart.

  ‘Just someone I haven’t seen in a while.’

  ‘Do you want me to wait?’

  ‘No. I want you to start thinking about the 28th and what we’re going to do without our man. The client was very specific. They want maximum resonance and it’s resonance we’re going to give them.’

  Franklin turned back towards the river and the old man indicated where he should pull up. ‘If I want you later I’ll call,’ he stated. ‘And Franklin, mention the word “postpone” to me ever again I’ll peel the flesh from your bones.’

  The rain had stopped and he stood on the sidewalk as the cab pulled away with a squeal from the tires. Gazing above a set of solid steel gates he considered the balcony of an old carriage house that had long since been converted into apartments. He could pick out the glow of a lamp from the living room as he searched his pockets for a key. To the side of the gates was a smaller one and he stepped into a courtyard laid with Italian floor tiles. A flight of steps at the back led to a narrow open landing. As he crossed he heard the door open. Light flooded the landing and he saw the willowy figure of an elderly black woman with close-cut, snow-colored hair.

  ‘Nana,’ he said. ‘This will always be my apartment. You can put that pistol away.’

  He made his way up the stairs to where she stood with a snub-nose thirty-eight in her hand. ‘I know you too well,’ he said. ‘I always did.’ Stepping past her he went into the apartment and hung up his coat.

  ‘What’re you doing here, Rosslyn?’ the old woman said.

  He did not reply. He watched her put the gun away in a drawer then fetch a pitcher of mint julep from the kitchen and place it on the coffee table in the living room. The balcony doors were open and a breeze seemed to pluck at the drapes. A little way down towards the river lights in the walls illuminated the triple spires of the St Louis Cathedral.

  ‘I see you still carry that cane.’ Nana’s voice had an edge to it.

  The old man closed his fingers around the snake’s head handle. ‘One never knows when one might have use for it.’ He looked at her then with his head to one side and Nana avoided his eye.

  ‘You’ve still got it,’ he told her. ‘Whatever it was that brought you to me all those years ago, it might not quite have the luster it did, but it’s there all right. You haven’t lost it.’

  Still she avoided his eye.

  Reaching for his drink Tobie worked the tall glass against his palm. ‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said. ‘I never did much care for mint julep. It was never a drink of choice, not unless it was you doing the pouring.’ Taking a sip he smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  ‘You’re all dressed up,’ Nana said. ‘Where you been tonight, Rosslyn? What brings you all the way over here?’

  Getting to his feet Tobie placed the glass on the table and took a moment to consider his surroundings. ‘I like what you’ve done with the place,’ he said. ‘The Queen Anne stuff, it’s well appointed.’

  ‘Rosslyn, it’s got to be twenty years. What brings you over here now?’

  He paced the hallway and flicked on the light in one of the bedrooms. ‘It’s nothing like it used to be, though you’ve still got the bed I see.’ He indicated the cast iron spheres on each corner embossed with a coiled snake that echoed his cane. He stood still for a moment as if he was rapt by memory. ‘We had us some fine old times in this apartment. When was it I bought the place, ’26 or ’27? I can never remember exactly.’

  ‘It was 1927. You didn’t come around again till ’35 and you haven’t been back hardly since.’ Nana considered the tip of the serpent’s tongue where it formed a sharpened point. ‘Rosslyn, it’s late. What is it you want with me?’

  He looked at her then, a light in her eyes that seemed to mirror his. ‘You’re not afraid of me are you?’

  Still the old woman peered at him. ‘I used to be. Looking at you now after all these years, are you telling me I should be?’

  Five

  From the sheriff’s office Quarrie headed home by way of the farm supplies store. A couple of weeks back he’d promised his son he would show him how to read footprints made by men in the same way he was learning about the tracks of different animals. With that in mind he picked up a wooden sandbox so James could practice making his own.

  Three miles into the hills the ranch looked like some old-world hacienda. Flat-roofed and cut in whitewashed adobe, the big house was set on a low bluff with steps leading up from the horse barns and corrals, the bunkhouse and three small cottages. As Quarrie pulled up outside his place the screen door flapped and his son appeared wearing a pair of blue jeans and a plaid shirt. Lean-looking like his father, James was tanned in the face and that accentuated the gray of his eyes and corn-colored hair he’d inherited from his mother.

  ‘Hey, kiddo,’ Quarrie said, ‘what’re you doing?’

  ‘Waiting on you, Dad, did you get the sandbox?’

  ‘Sure did. Just give me a minute here and we’ll get to her.’

  Inside the house Quarrie hung up his hat and gunbelt. James had some homework to finish and he did that while his father fetched the sandbox from the trunk of the car and shovelled dirt as he’d promised. After that he took a shower and then it was time to go over to the bunkhouse for supper. Before they crossed the yard, however, he sat his son down on the stoop out front, the sun long gone and the air thick with singing cicadas.

  ‘James,’ he said. ‘There’s something I have to tell you; someth
ing you need to hear from me before you hear it from anybody else.’

  The boy looked up with a solemn expression on his face.

  ‘I killed a man today,’ Quarrie told him. ‘Shot him dead after he tried to kill me with a shotgun. Fact is he robbed a store and shot up a state trooper’s vehicle. It’s going to be in the newspaper and on the radio and your buddies will hear all about it. It ain’t anything to be proud of and it sure ain’t something anyone would want to brag on. Sometimes it goes with the job is all, and better it’s me who tells you rather than somebody else.’

  Slowly James nodded.

  ‘That’s all I got to tell you except the man’s name was Wiley. He fought in Vietnam and I guess he got back from over there not quite the same as when he left out.’ Pausing for a moment he added, ‘Do you understand what I’m telling you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dad.’ James’s brow was deeply furrowed. ‘I’m not sure I do. I’ll have to think on it some I reckon.’

  ‘You do that.’ Quarrie helped him to his feet. ‘You think on it as long as you want and if you need to ask me anything then go ahead. It ain’t the kind of thing anybody likes to be doing, but we got our fair share of screwed up folks in Texas and if you’re any kind of cop it’s a fact you’re going to run across them.’

  Together they walked to the bunkhouse where the hands were gathered around the long table and Mama Sox, Pious’s mother, was serving prime rib. Quarrie had known her since he was a boy and he still didn’t know her given name. She had always been Mama Sox because no matter what else she might be wearing she always wore a pair of cotton socks. Pious was sitting at the end of the table, his job to fix the trucks and pilot the ranch plane. Quarrie hunched on the bench with his son alongside and James picked at his food as if contemplating all that his father had said. He brightened when the meal was over though, and Nolo asked him to help lunge a colt that wasn’t yet ready for the saddle.

  Quarrie went back to his cottage and sat on the stoop smoking a Camel regular. After a while Pious wandered over with a couple of ice cold bottles of Falstaff. ‘So what’s eating you?’ he said. ‘You were kind of quiet over dinner. That firefight bugging you, is it?’