by Mike Dennis
As Felina tried to speak, only short, hoarse grunts came out of her throat. Linda leaned harder and her taut face reddened around a tightening jaw, fury pouring from her eyes.
“Linda! Linda,” shouted Eddie. “Let her go.”
He reached around his sister from behind, pulling her off, and Felina slid down the wall to the floor, sucking wind. He dropped down to her side, holding her close, while she leaned her head into the sanctuary of his chest. “For Chrissake,” he bleated. “You could’ve killed her.”
“Goddammit. Lowell’s lying dead down there and she’s pulling some wallet switch. Now I wanna know what the hell’s going on!”
Still on the floor, Felina regained her breath in spurts. Finally, she managed to say, “I changed the wallets to save your brother’s life.” Between coughs, she added, “And maybe yours and mine, too.”
Eddie added it up. He looked at Felina.
“So then if they think that’s me down there, then they —”
“Then Salazar and Val and everybody else might buy it.”
A few seconds later she was breathing steadily. Then the corners of her mouth turned downward in sadness. Her eyes clouded over to match. She reached up, twining her arms around his neck, pulling her soft cheek up next to his.
“Oh Eddie, I just did it for you. For us. Please don’t be angry with me. I just don’t want them to ever find us.”
“Shh, it’s okay, baby.” He stroked her hair, her beautiful black hair.
“Don’t want who to find you?” Linda bellowed, still steaming. “Saved your life? Eddie, somebody better tell me something, and fast!”
Eddie remained on the floor embracing Felina.
“Okay Linda, okay,” he said. “There’s some people in Houston who’re after me, big time. So, if the cops think that’s me laying dead down there in the street, then maybe the word’ll get back to Houston, and they’ll call off their dogs. I’m sorry about the thing with the wallets, but I see why Felina did it. It’s the only chance I got.”
“Bullshit!” cried Linda. “You show up here out of nowhere with this fucking wetback and a nice guy from Brenham who’s face down in his own blood right now out in front of my apartment. Then you tell me there’s people after you. Like that could’ve been you down there. You better start filling in the blanks, Eddie, or I call the cops.”
He leapt to his feet. “No, Linda! No! You can’t. Listen, I don’t know what happened down there, why Garner was killed. I swear to you I don’t know. But you gotta believe me, there’s guys just like that after me. And if you call the cops about Garner, then we’ll be involved in it. Felina and I won’t be able to leave town. It’ll make the papers, and you might just as well send out engraved goddam invitations to the guys who’re after me.” His desperate eyes told it all.
“If they come after Eddie and me,” said Felina as she struggled to her feet, coughing, “they’ll find you, too.”
“Who’s gonna find me?” She turned to Eddie, eyes like knives aimed at his face. “Gimme the straight shit, Eddie. Right now.”
“Linda,” he pleaded, “you just gotta trust me. I can’t—”
“Give it to me!”
She stood there, feet planted, hands on hips, looking like she was ready to uncork a solid right to his jaw if he didn’t spill. Once again, the familiar authority in his life had taken hold, the source of everything. The power.
“We gotta tell her,” he said to Felina.
Felina inhaled audibly through clenched teeth. “No-o-o, Eddie. We can’t!”
“Yes we can. We gotta. Baby, she’s in this now. It’s like you said … if they find us, she goes down, too.”
“I’m waiting,” said Linda.
As wailing sirens outside the drawn drapes signaled the arrival of the cruisers, Eddie crossed the room and opened the leather suitcase.
16
“I swear to you, Linda, that’s all of it. From A to Z.” Eddie wriggled on the rattan sofa. Felina sat next to him knees up to her chest, head down, and stiff-lipped, with her arms folded, riled that he’d spilled the whole story. Linda leaned forward in the matching chair, her elbows on her knees.
“I-I just don’t know how we got in so deep,” he said, “and now this thing with Garner … I don’t know what to do!”
Linda’s eyes left Eddie. They slid over to the stacks of money packets in the open suitcase.
“You say this Val guy, he knows about me?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “Well, he knows I have a sister living in New Orleans, but the main thing is, he don’t know we’re here. I never told him you play music. And he don’t know you’re going by Lavelle. He’d probably assume your last name is still Ryan.”
“Lowell’s death has nothing to do with all this?” Her eyes were still glued to the cash.
“Nothing. I got no idea at all why he went down. Shit, I’m just as shocked as you are. Although he did seem like he was in a hurry to get to New Orleans.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. On the way over here, he was talking about how somebody screwed him out of his business, his nightclubs. Maybe it had something to do with that, I don’t know.”
“He never mentioned that name? What was it —Kilgore?”
Eddie shook his head.
“This drug dealer — Salazar — does he know you? Ever seen you before?”
“No. But me and Val knew who he was. He grew up in the East End, just like us.”
“How about Chiquita Banana here?” She gestured toward Felina. “Does he know her?”
“Hey, fuck you!” Felina lifted her head up from between her knees. “No, he doesn’t know me. And I don’t know him.”
“Knock it off,” said Eddie. “We’re all in the same boat here. We can’t be at each other’s throats all the time. We gotta figure out what we’re gonna do.”
Linda clasped her hands, making a steeple with her index fingers. She touched the steeple to her lips, her mind in fourth gear. Finally, she got up and closed the suitcase.
“The first thing is to put this away.” She went to the kitchen, returning with a large black trash bag. Without saying a word, she began transferring the money into it.
“Hey! What’re you doing?” Eddie was uneasy at this casual handling of his worldly estate.
“Keep your shirt on.” Linda shoveled the last of the dough into the trash bag. “This’ll be the last place anybody’s gonna look for something valuable. And that includes any of your everyday garden-variety burglars that might just pop in while we’re gone.” She applied a twist-tie to the bag, then lugged it into the kitchen, where she plopped it on the floor next to her tall swing-top trashcan.
Eddie had to laugh. There it sat. The score of a lifetime, big-league drug swag. Men in Houston were strapping on shoulder holsters and getting in cars right now because of this. They were ready to dedicate years of their lives to searching for it. And there it was, lying on the kitchen floor looking like last week’s garbage. Linda should’ve thrown in a few rotten eggs for the authentic touch.
Back in the living room, she said, “Next thing, Eddie, if you’re gonna take Lowell’s identity, you’re gonna need a mustache like his.”
“Well, sure, I can grow one. It probably wouldn’t take —”
“No,” said Linda. “No time. There’s a shop here in the Quarter that sells theatrical stuff — makeup, costumes, and whatnot. We’ll go there tomorrow and get you a fake mustache. A thick one, just like his.”
“What about the money?” Felina asked.
Linda caught just a little snottiness creeping into her voice. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Don’t trust me, hmm?”
Felina was about to backsass her when Eddie said, “What she means, Linda, is what’re we gonna do with it. I mean, we just gonna leave it there on the floor in the kitchen?”
“For now.” She got up and went to the window. Peeking through a crack in the drape at the activity down on the street, she saw the ambulance, the flashing cop car
s, the gathering crowd, the yellow tape — all the usual crime scene stuff. She turned back toward the living room.
“It’ll probably take a few days for this thing with Lowell to cool down. The cops won’t find anything and pretty soon they’ll write it off as another street crime.” She returned to the chair. After shifting around in it a little, she said, “Meanwhile, you take the money and your honey and get the hell out of Dodge. As far away as possible. Y’understand?”
Eddie nodded. “But what about the money? I mean, we can’t just put it in a bank. What can we do with it?”
“Hey, that’s your problem, little brother. I didn’t pop that Mess’can, I didn’t steal my best friend’s girl, it wasn’t me that screwed over some loan shark.”
She saw the old hangdog expression sliding down Eddie’s face. She knew he was at sea without a sail, with violent storms moving in fast. Slipping onto the sofa, she took his hand.
“Listen, Eddie, I didn’t mean it like that. We’ll figure out something, but we got to cover all the angles. You’re in deep shit here. Now, by making it look like you’re the one down there in the street, you’ve built a good scam, a good cover for yourself. For now. But the longer you’re here, the bigger the chance of it falling apart. Think about it. You can’t be hanging around the very block where you were supposed to be killed. There’s no telling who all’s gonna be nosing around here and for how long.”
Her voice slipped way, way down as she turned his head so his eyes connected with hers. She said, “I don’t want anything to happen to my little baby brother. Ever.”
He almost broke a smile. It was all right now. The churning waves inside him were dying down. Linda had spoken, issuing her ruling on this whole situation.
Instinctively, he started to put his head on her shoulder, then retreated. But she pulled his head down anyway, so the unwinding was complete. He was finally at rest on her familiar bosom, with her arm securely around him. From his other side, Felina reached for him. She held him tight around his waist, then she laid her head on his rib cage, as he slid his arm around her.
≈≈≈
Soon, he was sound asleep right there on the couch. The women eased up from him.
“The guest bedroom’s in there,” Linda whispered to Felina, clicking off the light, pointing over her shoulder, as she walked into her own room.
Stepping softly, Felina crossed into the guest room, where she quickly fell asleep herself. As she drifted off, she shook loose the events of this horrid day, and soon she was dancing in peaceful, vivid dreams of México lindo.
17
Morning broke over Houston, the harsh rays of dawn attacking the waiting room of Ben Taub Hospital. The young doctor emerged from the intensive care unit, his haggard face telling the story. He had endured a particularly demanding graveyard shift. His muscles ached, especially the ones between his shoulder blades just below the back of his neck. They were always the first to go.
Fortunately, he had only one more thing to take care of, then he could go home and give himself over to sweet sleep. He approached two well-dressed men standing over by the sofa. Concern covered their dark-complected faces.
“You can go in and see him now, Mr. Vega,” he said to the shorter of the two, “but only for a couple of minutes. Don’t do anything to get him excited. No raising your voice, no sudden moves. Mr. Salazar’s had a very rough day. He’s lucky to be breathing at all.”
Vega spoke. “How ‘bout it, doc? Is he gonna be all right? Is he gonna make it?”
“The bullet tore open his stomach. He lost a lot of blood. It’s a good thing they got him here quickly, or he’d have been DOA. We’ve kept him alive so far, but he’s young and pretty strong, so he might make it. But there’s another problem.”
“Whatsat?”
“There was an exit wound also. As the bullet left his body, it shattered his spinal cord. If he survives, he’ll be paralyzed from the waist down. I’m afraid he’ll never walk again.”
The two men stood there open-mouthed. They hadn’t expected this. Chico’s graceful presence, his lithe gait, even when he just walked into a room, had always signaled his charisma, his power. And now...
“You sure?” asked Vega, as if he hadn’t heard right. “He’s never gonna walk again?”
“Yes. But he’s not to know that until we’re sure he’s going to live, all right?”
Glassy-eyed, Vega nodded. They started toward the room, and the doctor cautioned them once more about keeping calm.
“Only a couple of minutes,” he called to their backs.
He slumped into the sofa, trying to relax his tired body. He would wait for them to come out. Then he could finally go home.
≈≈≈
The men gasped as they entered the dim, quiet room. Chico Salazar looked terrible. His complexion was whiter than the sheet that covered him. Life-giving liquids poured into him continuously from hovering IV bottles. Breathing tubes were taped to his nostrils. His arms and legs were bound up in plaster casts, suspended from aluminum contraptions to prevent movement against his broken spine. And all around the bed, space-age machinery whirred, monitoring his every bodily function.
Vega leaned in. “Chico. Chico … it’s me,” he whispered in Spanish. “Rafael. Can you hear me? Chico?”
The grim presence of near-death in that room held the two men motionless for what seemed like hours.
The doc was right, thought Vega. Chico might not make it. He might. …
He quivered. Chico. You can’t, man. You can’t die on me.
A few seconds later, however, Chico Salazar summoned what little strength he had left, as he lifted his heavy eyelids to half-staff. Vega breathed an inward sigh of relief at this tiny sign of recognition.
“Chico, it’s me, man. Tomás is here, too. Man, we’re with you all the way.”
Vega reached down, taking Chico’s hand in his, then giving it a slight squeeze. Chico squeezed back as best he could, while he took a stab at a smile. He didn’t quite make it. Vega caught the attempt, however, and exhaled as he smiled himself.
“That’s it, man. It’s us! Man, you got the best doctors, the best equipment, the best everything. You’re in Ben Taub. You know that’s the best hospital for this kinda thing. The doc says you’re gonna make it.”
Chico gave a little nod, as he tried hard for another smile. Not yet.
A low-wattage bulb flickered a dim yellow from a small lamp on a dresser along the far wall. The new day’s sunlight barely trickled in around the edges of tightly-drawn curtains. Intimidating tubes and medical apparatus cast ribboned shadows across the faces of the three men.
A minute or so passed in silence before Vega said, “Who did it, Chico?”
The opening of the door startled Vega as the doctor entered. “Time’s up. He needs rest.”
“Just another minute, doc.” Urgency clouded Vega’s voice.
“I’m afraid not. He’s —”
Vega stood up, fully five inches shorter than the doctor. But when he faced the taller man toe-to-toe, the fire in his black eyes more than compensated.
“I said we’ll be through in a minute,” he snarled.
“All right. But only a minute. He has to rest. His life depends on it.”
The doctor left the room, as Vega turned back to hold Chico’s hand.
“Who did this, Carnal?” he repeated.
With great effort, Chico moved his lips. Vega hunched over the bed ever closer. Finally, he heard something.
“What? What? I can’t hear you, man. Say it again.”
He put his ear close to Chico’s barely-moving mouth.
“T-t-two guys.” Vega could scarcely make it out. Chico repeated his weak whisper. “Two ... two guys. Dr … dressed … like cops. Tony …”
“What?” demanded Vega. “What about Tony?”
“H-he knew one of them. V-V-V...”
”What! Say it!”
”V-Val. Val.”
“Val? Val who? Tell me, man! T
ell me.”
But it was no use. Chico had lost consciousness.
“What did he say, Ese?” asked Tomás, who was out of earshot. “Did he tell you anything?”
Vega straightened up and smoothed out his expensive suit. “He said enough. Let’s get to work.”
18
Rafael Vega spent most of that morning on the telephone, assembling valuable scraps of information. Eventually, he spoke with someone who would lead him to a ship channel poolroom where Tony Chávez used to hang out.
≈≈≈
At the very moment Vega hung up from this call, Eddie Ryan was walking out the door of Linda’s apartment in New Orleans’ French Quarter.
Eddie had slept fitfully and he looked like it. Although his body ached from stress and his head pounded from last night’s bourbon, his senses sharpened. He made his way around the corner, then down Burgundy Street, glimpsing here and there for unusual movement.
The street looked normal. All traces of last night’s cold-blooded killing had been wiped away. No cops around. The Ford had been impounded. A sunrise rain had erased the chalk outline of Garner’s body as well as what was left of his life’s blood. A cold front had raced through just after dawn, producing a stiff, unfriendly wind. It was the kind of gray hostile morning where there was no doubt the temperature would just keep dropping. Eddie shivered as he walked.
He hurried the three blocks to the Post Office, where he waited impatiently in the short line. Fear staked a claim on his insides. He felt conspicuous, as though Salazar himself were about to leap out of the shadows, two guns blazing. By the time he arrived at an open window, he was positive he had been made. Shit, his picture was probably already up on the wall, and people were probably whipping out their cell phones.
He ordered up a thick mailing envelope, a sturdy nine-by-twelve, then addressed it to Raymond Cannetta. He slipped another envelope containing forty thousand dollars into it, along with an apologetic note dated the previous day. He sealed it, stamped it, and off it went.