“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“We’re cool?”
A glance at both of them. The petite sex kitten and her shy brother. My friends, my bandmate, my new girlfriend. We’d been having a good time so far.
I said, “Cool. Not fine or anything. Just, for now, cool.”
*
It took time. Weeks. I was afraid of what I could say, what I couldn’t. I had some trouble with Ali because I didn’t trust her and didn’t like this powerful secret binding us.
Yeah, Doug was still my friend. The first time in our lives friendship had meant more than having a good time. But when the weight of that friendship doubled a few years later, I crawled out from under it and let them think I was dead.
When being dead is a better option than keeping a secret, you know your life turned out way off course from where you had planned on arriving.
14
New Orleans, 2004
Justin called a guy named Cole who gave him the number of a guy named Forrest. Forrest told him to text his brother’s wife (since the brother was in jail). She texted back a number under the name Duncan. A call to Duncan, a couple of dropped names, and we were invited to meet him at home in Metairie.
I said, “Pretty good for a queer bartender.”
“If I were straight, I’d probably have Duncan’s number on speed dial.”
“What’s the difference?”
He grinned. “We’re busier trying to score than we are with knowing the gang scene.”
Speaking of scoring, I wanted to ask him if he knew where to get some off-market Vicodin or Percodan, but decided to wait until after the meeting. My codeine would stretch a few more hours. “You said gangs, though. This a black guy?”
“I don’t think so. Gangs, mob, you know. This one knows the Russians, I think.”
I almost called it off then. The government could look for me all they wanted and come up empty, but the mob—Russian or Asian or Guido—would find my ass. But all I wanted was a car, right?
We exited I-10 and entered suburban hell. Metairie was Everyplace USA, except that on the outskirts of New Orleans, it seemed pale by comparison. Dirty, too, but without nice architecture to distract.
Several turns took us deep into a classic sidewalk-and-front-lawn neighborhood. Rows and rows of plain ranch homes. That’s why the guy lived there—anonymity. Didn’t draw suspicion, worked his car racket without much noise.
I trusted that Justin knew what he was doing or he wouldn’t have brought me to this house. All the stuff I didn’t know about him could fill volumes. We only showed each other the side we wanted seen—subconsciously, sometimes from fear, comfort, whatever.
“How’s this going to work?” I said.
“We go in, tell him we’re friends of Mr. Pomaransky, and tell him about this car you’re looking for.”
“Who’s Pomaransky?”
“Hell if I know. I was told to say that, okay? It’s just connections, favors, levels of access. After that it’ll probably be pretty dull, not like a Bruckheimer movie showdown or anything.”
I nodded. “Why was it that no one ever gave a good shit that a fucking space station blew up in Armageddon? I mean, they had the asteroid too, but wouldn’t you think—”
“We’ve done this one before. And we’ve also done the ‘same music in Con Air as was in Gone in Sixty Seconds’ one, too. Anyway, we’re here.”
Justin pulled to the curb, switched the car off. The house seemed low and wide, but I guess that’s because all of them in this neighborhood did. The yard was excellent—landscaped, stone paths crisscrossing, prospering garden. Two vehicles in the driveway, one a black Lexus SUV and the other a convertible Honda sports coupe, silver.
I said, “You think he’d call the cops if someone boosted his car?”
“The only people who would try aren’t good enough.”
We climbed out and made our way up the walkway.
*
Inside, the house was cozy and decorated well, a lot of leather furniture in the den. It was weathered but new, maybe from a mall. The feel of antiques without the age, all at trumped-up prices. I sat in a huge armchair, very comfy. Duncan had good taste if not proper taste. I wondered how getting rich in a heavy metal band made me a snob. Couldn’t trace the pattern—one day I woke up and that’s what I was.
The woman who showed us in was maybe in her late twenties, dirty blonde, real boobs, wedding band. There was no mob movie or rap video glam here. She smiled and asked if we wanted some coffee. Neither of us did, so she told us to call her if we changed out minds, then she left the room.
I was halfway through my inventory—flat screen plasma TV, custom sound system splicing German and Jap components, more of the new money furniture and hardwood floor, too many remotes on the coffee table—when Duncan stepped into the room. I thought, Expectations? See you later.
He looked through-and-through Puerto Rican. A bit shorter than me, in decent shape. He wore jeans and a yellow dress shirt, tail out. An easy smile, pretty standard greeting, getting our names right and shaking our hands, more a banker than gangster.
“Friends of?” he said.
“Pompom, Palmer, um…” I snapped my fingers. “Something Pummer.”
“Pomaransky,” Justin said.
Duncan nodded, then sat at the edge of the couch, knees wide and fingers laced. “So, what’s up? Lucky you caught me, we just got in from dinner. We brought leftover stuffed shrimp home. Want some?”
I did, but I said no. I wasn’t able to connect this guy to car thieves. Too average. The accent wasn’t local, but it wasn’t Puerto Rican either. His house was nice, lived in, and both he and his wife had innocence in their manners. They treated strangers like real guests, no paranoia lurking in the dark.
I knew damn well that the mask needed to be airtight, though.
Justin started. I guess my thoughts got in the way of my speaking.
“Merle’s friend committed suicide this morning—”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“—thanks, and someone took his car from the hotel early this morning. Big coincidence. A rental car.”
Duncan shook his head. “Got to be dumb to take a rental. Shit.”
“The guy, the friend, left some of his personal stuff in the car, and Merle would like it back. That’s all. Nothing else. We figure you might be able to find who took it, maybe help us negotiate.”
Duncan’s lips curled into a grin or pain, all the wrinkles. His age showed—forty but Botoxed. “The cops could find it. Give it back for free.”
Justin glanced at me, started to speak, but I jumped in. “I don’t want the cops to find it. They’ll hold the stuff if they do. It’s not quite been ruled suicide yet.”
Our car thief wasn’t a stupid man. He caught on immediately, face going blank and checking my eyes for what I wasn’t telling him.
He said, “The other option, then, is that these guys could sell those personal items. Worth more money than the car?”
I fought the urge to drum my fingers. Connection made. Whip-smart. “That seems a stretch.”
“Nothing revives a career like death. Murder, suicide, drunk driving.”
I looked at my watch, let out a breath. “We’re losing time here. Just want to get to the chewy center.”
“I’m a middle manager. No, a broker. Let’s say that I help buyers and sellers find each other. If you need to find a seller, I can help. I’ll take my cut, and that’s that.”
I scooted towards the edge of the big leather chair and worked my cash out of my pocket. I laid out five hundreds on the coffee table. He’d either go two ways on that number—see it as generous and give us what we needed before we realized the info was worth much less, or see it as generous but imagine if we were that willing, there was probably another five where the first came from.
He had to be an asshole. “You’re kidding, right? Listen, thanks for dropping by, but maybe you should go spend your pocket change on Bourbon
Street. I’ve got real work to do.”
He sat still, though. Waiting for us to up the ante. So I did—I leaned forward and took one of the hundreds off the table.
Duncan looked confused, first at the table, then at me, then Justin, who had reclined into the soft couch and stretched his arms wide across the back.
The “broker” said, “Put it back.”
I shook my head, pocketed the bill. “No, I don’t think so. My offer depreciates. In this case, I’m the car dealer, slowly coming down on the price.”
“You’re out of time and you need that dead singer’s shit. That’s worth a lot more than four hundred.”
“At least we’re talking straight now. You know why I’m looking, right?”
“Something ties you into this deeper than the news said? Maybe it’s not a suicide?”
My fingers hovered over the remaining bills, waving back and forth like a magician and his cards. “That’s a gimme. Here’s a better one. You act like the big man, like you’re all cozy with the gangs. We needed that special name to get you to talk to us. I figured out, however, that you’re not all that high and mighty. You’re scared, and the money that bought this house, those rides outside, and probably that wife, was hard scraped. You have to kiss gangsta ass for every dime.”
He burned. Face red. Burn, baby. I kept going.
“I’ll give you the part about being a broker. You up the prices to get a good cut, and you find buyers willing to pay, but if you’re going to blow hard for five hundred dollars, something tells me you won’t let it vanish into thin air.
Double red-faced. I’d punked him. Time to let him get his dignity back.
I said, “Four hundred. Going once…”
“Five,” he said.
“What was that?”
“You think you’ve got my number, fine. Whatever makes you feel like a player, go ahead. But I could use some golfing money. Five hundred or nothing. Otherwise, I can’t wait to see what this singer had on you.”
I stood, swept my cash off the table, and said, “Five hundred. Soon as I know you can actually help us out. None of this, ‘I tried, so too bad’ bullshit.”
Duncan also stood. “They didn’t send you to me on a maybe. They sent you because they know I’m the guy.”
“You’d better be,” I said. Blame it on the pills, but I was all out of good comebacks.
*
We ate Chex Mix in the kitchen and talked to Duncan’s wife about life in Metairie while our car broker made a couple of calls. He paced the living room, occasionally visible through the doorway, and I picked up a few snatches of conversation—“Avalon. Last night.” and “…rental, I know. But just tell me…” and “Within an hour. Lakeshore.”
His wife, Jessica, told us, “We get the benefits of New Orleans without the danger. You can’t live in the French Quarter twenty-four seven, right?”
“Well, you can, I guess,” Justin said. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Not if you want a family,” Jessica said.
I said, “You want that, best to get way out of town altogether. Better yet, leave the state.”
She laughed. “It can’t be that bad. We think maybe one kid, then play it by ear. Can we go through it again? Will she want a brother or sister?”
“You’re pregnant now, aren’t you?” Justin said.
Her hand rubbed her stomach. “Ten weeks. I don’t know it’s a girl, but I have a feeling.”
“Congrats and best wishes.”
Duncan walked in talking, trampling over Jessica’s smile and whispered thanks. “Okay, we’ve got what looks to be it. We saved it from a chop shop, probably. But we need to go now.”
“Sounds fine,” I said. Justin nodded and tried to send me telepathic warnings. His eyebrows could’ve been doing Morse code. I didn’t remember any of that stuff.
Jessica said, “You’ll need me along?”
Duncan glanced at the ceiling, thinking about it or pretending to. Then he looked at her and said, “Sure. Same as always.”
Never expected that. Maybe I was wrong about his cash buying this woman. She headed for the refrigerator, tip-toed for something on top behind the tourist mugs from Nashville and Disney World, and came down with an automatic pistol, black and chrome. She chambered a round and joined us on our way to the door.
Duncan was amused with me lusting after his heat-packing wife. He said, “She scares the shit out of the bangers like you wouldn’t believe.”
15
We took Duncan’s SUV, Justin and I sitting in the back. Jessica hummed along to Paul Simon, pistol in her lap, occasionally getting a smile from her husband.
I tried flexing the fingers on my bad hand. Justin had done a good wrap job, and I could barely move them. Justin took my hand gently, smoothed his palm against mine until the wrinkled gauze was flat again. I looked out the window at the lights of the city trying hard to fight off the dark. The dark was winning.
We took the Interstate east towards Lake Pontchartrain. The Lakeshore seemed a bit upscale of a place to host meetings about boosted cars, but what did I know? New Orleans wasn’t supposed to make sense. I stayed quiet, didn’t ask, didn’t care. I wanted the recording and the laptop and a ride to the Quarter so I could walk home and start dismantling everything.
Duncan glanced in his rearview, eyed me for a long moment, then paid attention to the road as he shook his head.
“Why’d you look at me like that?” I said.
“I was trying to see if I recognized you.”
“Why would you recognize me?”
“You knew Todd Delacroix, so I’m thinking maybe you were famous too.” He turned to his wife. “What about you? He look like anybody?”
Jessica shifted in her seat, took in my face like she was studying a painting. I grinned at her.
“Don’t do that. Go flat,” she said.
I did. She was the one with the gun in her lap. I could see why tough guys would be scared of her. She didn’t need to act tough and they knew it. One iota of threat and she pulled the trigger, no flinching.
Justin tried to hold in laughter as the woman inspected me, even lifting my chin with her fingers, but he failed and coughed it out. She cut him a glance.
“What’s so funny? You know something?”
“No, not a thing. This guy isn’t famous. He doesn’t even have a phone. He likes antiques and deep sea fishing.”
“Really?”
“Swordfish.”
Jessica righted herself, her fingers trailing away with ticklish sensation on my face, and I was dying to nip at them. Fucking pills, fucking hunger, amped up my wanting.
Out the window, I saw we were exiting the Interstate and back in the flow of traffic, thicker than I expected. I let shapeless night slide by without noticing, lost in a haze. Justin could shake me to my senses when we got there, but for the moment I wanted to float.
*
The shake scared me back to earth, Justin’s hand around my bicep.
“Sleeping, buddy?”
I said, “Daydreaming. Except it’s night. But I wasn’t asleep.”
“We’re here,” he said, the door already open. Duncan and Jessica were standing outside. She wore a loose sweater, plunging V-neck, and the gun was out of sight. I guessed the cleavage was to distract if she needed to grab the pistol from her waistband.
This was a curb in front of a big slender house on a narrow street a few blocks off the Lakeshore. Ahead of us, a Lincoln Navigator was parked, blacked-out windows. The thumping bass hit me like a sucker punch.
I took in a big drag of air to get me moving. My arm was asleep. The pavement was a wreck of broken concrete and decades of patchwork. Several groups of teenagers congregated along the curb. The group sitting on Todd’s car across the street were all young tough black bangers except for an older gentleman, dark as the night sky, who reminded me of Wesley Snipes if a dog had clawed his face. He leaned against the car, slacks pressed, his designer sweater loose, wi
th arms crossed until Duncan started his way. We met in the middle of the street, a friendly handshake, a nod at Jessica, and a careful look at Justin and me.
“I knew it had to be you involved soon as they told me about the call. You were on top of this one,” the man said to Duncan.
“It’s a rental boosted from a top hotel. I figured one of yours, no offense.”
“I know. Same here.”
A kid who looked maybe all of fifteen sat in the driver’s seat of the Avalon, hands on the wheel, listening and watching as if he were a camera.
The man said, “So, these your buyers for this one?”
“Sort of. Not exactly.” Duncan turned to us. “Gentlemen, this is Strap, someone I’ve done a lot of business with. Strap, we’ve got Justin and Merle here.”
I stepped forward and offered my hand. Strap took it, but his expression told me I’d broken one of their rules or something. Justin stayed behind.
“You bring me out here and tell me they ain’t exactly wanting this car? They window shopping?” Strap said.
“Have you figured out who the car belonged to?”
“It belongs to me—”
“Strap.” Duncan sighed, drooped his head.
“The man’s dead, done himself in. Burning in hell. I say his car’s fair game.”
I said, “It’s a rental. It’s hotter than hot. You know you can’t sell it anyway.”
Strap cracked his knuckles. “Jesus, man, I’m giving you ten seconds. You’d better have it nice and condensed, because when I hit zero, I’m leaving and you can say bye-bye to my business concerns, et cetera, let’s see, starting now.”
He flicked his wrist and held his gold watch close to his face.
Duncan said, “Merle wants to buy something the guy left in the trunk.”
I almost said, I didn’t say I’d buy it. Justin saw my lips start to flap and he stopped me with a hiss. We had company, anyway. Strap’s crowd had closed in. Chilly air, static, everything a little brighter and louder than before.
Strap finally said to the kid in the driver’s seat, “Pop the trunk.”
The kid reached for the glove box. I tensed up—he could bring out a gun. Duncan took a step back and Jessica’s hands swung behind her back, clasped together but ready. At least I wasn’t alone in my paranoia. Even Justin seemed itchy for his .38.
The Drummer Page 8