The Take

by Mike Dennis

  However, he didn’t pursue just money itself. He wanted power. He knew that money was only the key to acquiring it, nothing more.

  Through the years, he’d seen too many men with fat bank accounts and little power. Men who’d earned high salaries, or had inherited big money, but lacked the strength, the charisma, to parlay that money into something more than just numbers on a bank statement. AJ had no regard for such people, believing instead that the cardinal purpose of money was to synchronize it with his personality, in order to make others beholden to him.

  He lived in a world of dichotomies: you were either a general or a foot soldier, at the top of the pyramid or scrounging to rise above its littered base, giving the orders or taking them.

  What separated people in this pecking order of society was power. And there was no greater symbol of power in the French Quarter than the Louis Philippe Hotel.

  It was first-rate, with most of its clientele of wealthy businessmen and visiting celebrities seeking the very expensive novelty of seclusion on Bourbon Street. It was all done up right, so as a result, the businessmen returned often, while the celebrities regularly mentioned the place on late- night talk shows. The Louis Philippe grew famous. As long as the right palms downtown remained greased, the local authorities tended to overlook its other activities.

  The lounge had been known for its prostitution long before AJ took over. It was the kind of place where fat cats from all over the world came whenever they hit town. Some men had first come in as teenagers, brought in by their fathers for their first lay, and then they, in turn, brought their sons in. This gave the place a sort of family-tradition feel.

  In fact, it was a goldmine, with truckloads of money flooding into the place on a continuous basis. This was reflected in AJ’s wardrobe. He seldom wore less than five thousand dollars worth of clothing at any given time, not counting his jewelry.

  “How’s my best gal?” he asked with a big smile as she sat with him. He always said that to each of his female employees, even the hookers.

  “Good, AJ. Real good. Had a good night off and looking forward to a real good week.”

  Linda slipped out of her coat without getting up, wondering why he had summoned her.

  He buried the tines of his fork in the pile of rice in front of him, then carefully set the handle against the rim of the plate. He was preparing to speak, but looked as though he wanted a heaping forkful ready for him when he resumed eating. Removing the napkin from the collar of his Charvet shirt, he dabbed at his lips, and lightly set his elbows on the table. He was now in speaking position.

  “You hear about this guy from Houston got killed over there in front of your apartment on Friday night?”

  “Yeah, I heard. There were cops all over the place. I saw from my window.”

  “They talk to you about it yet?”

  “No … no.” The second no was a more assertive one, like “why would they talk to me?” It didn’t quite score.

  “Well, they talked to me.” He was not pleased. “Seems the guy had a hotel matchbook on him, so the cops come nosing around, and they find out that he had dinner here that night with two other people and then they all went into the club afterwards.”

  “So?”

  “So I ask around and find out that one of the girls saw this guy in there with his two friends. She remembers doing the guy some time back. Seems you were talking with him and his two friends during your breaks.”

  “AJ, I talk with a lot of people every night. I don’t —”

  “It also seems they stayed till you quit, and then you left with the lot of them. Looked like you were getting pret-ty chummy with this fella.”

  She knew where this was going.

  “No AJ, you’re poking around in the wrong cupboard. It’s not the way it was.”

  “I think you ought to know that I didn’t tell the cops you left with him, or that he got it right in front of your apartment. That’d put your pretty little ass at the top of their suspect list. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Oh shit, AJ, I didn’t have nothing to do with ¾”

  ”Who was he, Linda?” She was trying to remain matter-of-fact.

  “AJ, I swear to you, I wasn’t —”

  ”Linda, what is rule number one for the piano player?” A chill covered his voice.

  ”D-don’t hustle any of the customers.”

  ”Do you know why that is rule number one?”

  She swallowed. This was not the type of chat you wanted to have with AJ Frechette.

  “Because that’s-that’s what the —”

  “— what the girls are there for.” He finished the sentence in unison with her.

  “Now, I repeat,” he said. “Who — was — he?”

  ”He-he was just a guy!”

  ”Just a guy who was ready to pay for a piece of ass in my hotel, and winds up leavin’ with you to get it for free.”

  “AJ, I swear to you, I wouldn’t try to cut you out of any action. He was just —”

  AJ reached across the table and seized her hand. Although his own hand was slight, it was powerful. He squeezed her fingers hard, until she winced in pain.

  He poured it on, then whispered, “Now listen to me. I’m running a business here. It’s a very good business. I don’t ever like to lose money. But when my piano player starts dishin’ out free pussy to my customers, then she is stealing my money.”

  “AJ, please. You’re hurting me. Please.”

  She was on the edge of a scream, the pain was so severe, but screaming was not something you did in the King’s Landing. Not even when AJ was about to break your piano-playing fingers.

  “Stealing my money,” he repeated in his furious whisper.

  Sugary violin music wafted down into the room from ceiling-mounted speakers. The final lunch guests were downing the last of their demitasse and asking for their check. No one else in the restaurant, except for the hawk-eyed maitre d’, had any idea that punishment was being administered at the corner table.

  AJ said, “Just who the fuck did you think you were fooling, pulling that shit? You make off with one of my girls’ regulars, he gets his ass popped, and next thing I know, there’s heat all over the goddamn place.” He squeezed even harder. “Now you tell me what the fuck’s going on here. Now.”

  Shit, don’t scream! No matter how much it hurts, don’t scream! The pain — hurts — so. I’ve got to — can’t help it — the scream —

  “He was my brother!” she blurted out.

  The scream pulled back from her throat, sliding back down inside her somewhere.

  AJ released her hand immediately, almost in surprise. She pulled it to her breast.

  “Your brother? Your brother?”

  The pain was still all over her. She was preoccupied with reviving her hand.

  “Y-yeah. My kid brother.”

  “You mean, that was your brother got knifed? I didn’t know — you never told me you had a brother.”

  Now the pain subsided enough to the point where she could merely cry. Through the tears, she said, “He came over here from Houston to see me. I hadn’t seen him in so long. He came with a couple of friends. H-he —”

  She sobbed quietly and reached for the artfully-folded linen napkin in front of her. AJ put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “That’s all right, darlin’. Go ahead and cry. Just let it all out.”

  She did just that, though she was crying from the pain that still raked her hand.

  After a few more sobs and sniffles, AJ said, “What happened? Did you see it happen?”

  Linda nodded. “Some guy came up to us as we were getting out of the car. He had a knife and said to give him all our money. Eddie — that’s my brother — gave him his first, then lunged for the knife. They struggled and — and … Oh, AJ, he just fell. Then he was dead.”

  She sobbed a little more, this time for effect.

  “Holy shit. What happened to the other two that was with you?”

 
; “They were friends of his from Texas. They left right away. The other guy’s a bookmaker, like my brother, plus he’s into other stuff, so he didn’t want to get involved. He figured the cops’d never get the guy who did it, so there was no point in their hanging around.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the cops any of this?”

  “Oh AJ, it was dark out there, and it happened so fast. It was a black kid did it, and I know I’d never be able to pick him out of a lineup. But more’n that. I didn’t want to get in trouble. I didn’t want there to be any connection to the hotel.” She sniffled into the napkin, then added, “You always told us that you didn’t want any trouble for the hotel, that if there was trouble, people would start demanding that the city close down the lounge. I just ¾ I just didn’t want to cause you any problems. I didn’t want to-to lose my job.”

  Loyalty. AJ demanded it from his people and he loved it when they gave it to him in such large doses. He pulled her chair close to his, as he slid a thin arm around her soft shoulder.

  Caressing her like the patriarch that he was, he said with a smile, “God damn, darlin’, you really are something, you know that? Real heads-up thinking at such a tragic time. Tell you what, starting immediately, you’re gonna be making an extra hundred a week, okay? And for good measure, take tonight off. I’ll call in a sub. You stay home and take it easy, okay?”

  She thanked him. They hugged again, as she put her coat back on. Her breathing came a little easier now, as she exited onto Bourbon Street. All the rocking and twisting in her stomach started to smooth out, if only just a little. The clammy sweat that had collected under her arms and down her spine was evaporating.

  As for the dryness in her throat, a belt of Dewar’s would take care of that as soon as she got home.

  ≈≈≈

  AJ turned his attention back to his meal, picking up the waiting forkful of rice. Before he put it in his mouth, however, he touched it with the back of his fingers. Cold, just like he thought.

  “Kenny,” he signaled to the waiter, who was there at once. “Heat up this jambalaya.”

  33

  “¡Alto! Alto!” Urgency spilled from Vega’s voice.

  Tomás slammed on the brakes. Right across the old Beaumont highway sat a nondescript used car lot. In its front line, out close to the road in cream puff territory, was a bright orange Toyota.

  Tomás made a U-turn, then swerved the Cadillac into the lot. The crunch of tires and flying gravel brought the salesman out of the heated mobile home that served as the office. As soon as they got out of their car, he was on them.

  “Howdy, fellas. What can I do you for?”

  ”That orange Toyota,” Vega said.

  ”Ah, that’s a beauty, that one. Sure, it’s got a few years on it, but it’s low mileage. And in great shape, too. Why, it’s —”

  “Who’d you get it from?”

  The salesman eyed the two men carefully. They were both wearing very dark sunglasses, with well-tailored suits visible beneath open topcoats. These two damn sure weren’t looking to buy any ten-year-old Toyota.

  “Well, that’s kind of confidential information, gentlemen.”

  “Did a guy named Ryan sell you that car?” Vega opened his topcoat and suit jacket a little wider to reveal the handle of his holstered piece.

  The message hit home. “Well, now that you mention it, I believe that was his name. Came through here Saturday. No, I believe it was Friday. Yeah, that’s it. Friday morning. I did that deal myself, yes I did.” He wiped perspiring palms onto his checkered shirt.

  “What else?”

  Vega could see he was going to tell it all, without any hesitation.

  “Well now, I’ll tell you, he did act kind of strange. He was in a real big hurry, that one. Yessir. He didn’t want to mess around with the price. You know, most folks come through here, they always try to bargain a little. Try to get the best deal, you know. But not this fella. He was in a real big hurry. Just traded in that old Toyota for another car as quick as you please. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “What kind of car?”

  “Well now, I believe it was that Ford we had out on the front line. Yessir, that was it, the Ford. Big green car, beautiful shape it was. About eight years old. Low mileage, though. He got a sweet deal on that one, even though he didn’t try to bargain. Why, it was a —”

  “How did he pay for it?”

  “Oh, cash money. Yessir. Cold cash. All hundreds. You know, I thought there was something fishy about that, the way he just peeled off all them big bills. He just didn’t look the type to be carrying that kind of money. And that girl he had with him, well, you know, she definitely didn’t look the type, if you know what I mean.”

  “Girl?”

  “Oh yeah. A little Mess’can-lookin’ thing. Pretty cute, but … you know, just not the type to be walkin’ around with a lot of money.”

  “Did he say where he was goin’?”

  “Well now, I don’t recall — well — hold on — hold on just a second. I believe the girl mentioned something — yeah, she sure did, now that I think about it.”

  “What was that?”

  ”She wanted to know how far it was to New Orleans.”

  34

  The white Dodge with the blackwall tires pulled into the parking lot of NOPD Headquarters. Not surprisingly, many similar cars, both white and black, all with blackwall tires and no trim, occupied that lot. The nasty wind that had whipped up over Lake Pontchartrain slapped Joe Dunlap in the face, as he lifted himself out of the car.

  “Shee-eezus, it’s cold,” he cried.

  He and the young detective hustled across the lot into the building. Thanks to their car’s still-defective heater, they had frozen during the entire six-hour drive from Houston. Now the wind was the final stinger to the whole miserable trip.

  Unfortunately, recent budget cuts in New Orleans had postponed long-overdue repairs to the heating system in the Police Headquarters building. So instead of the instant warmth he expected upon entering, Dunlap felt a chill. He looked around. Everyone was wearing thick sweaters and jackets. They went up to the second floor.

  He turned to the young detective, saying, “What kinda fucking hick town is this, anyway? Not even any heat in their headquarters building.”

  The sign on the glass door said, “Investigative Bureau.” Dunlap and the young detective entered, then approached the counter. Looking around the large room at disorganized desks and ringing telephones, Dunlap noticed electric space heaters placed here and there. They were those portable jobs, all going at full tilt. Wherever they came from, they sure as hell weren’t heating up the counter area.

  Without unbuttoning his overcoat, he and the young detective showed their IDs to the desk sergeant.

  “We need to see the Chief of Detectives.”

  “Chief’s not in,” said the sergeant. “What does this pertain to, Lieutenant?”

  “A Houston murder suspect we think is here in New Orleans.”

  The sergeant checked his log.

  “I can let you see Lieutenant Champagne.”

  He picked up his phone, then punched three numbers. Within moments, a tall black man approached the desk.

  The sergeant said, “Lieutenant, these men are police officers from Houston here on a homicide investigation.” He gestured toward the two men. “Lieutenant Dunlap and his partner.”

  “Elvin Champagne,” said the black lieutenant. He shook hands with the two men.

  His build was rugged, but not weightlifter-bulky. He wore a sweater-vest over a freshly- laundered shirt. The crease in his navy blue slacks was male-model crisp. Unlike his colleagues, he looked like he’d just slipped into his clothes. It pulled his whole look together in an attractive kind of way. He didn’t appear too old, but Dunlap could tell he’d been around the track a time or two.

  “What can I do for you?” Champagne asked.

  “We’re here in connection with a murder that took place in Houston Thursday
night. We believe the perp came over here, and we’d like to know if you got any information on him — an address, anything.”

  “Well, let’s find out.” He took his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “What’s his name?”

  “Eddie Ryan. White male, early thirties, dark hair, about —”

  Champagne stopped writing. “Did you say Ryan?”

  ”Yeah, why?”

  ”Come on with me.”

  He escorted them over to his desk. It was easily the tidiest in the room. A photo of a pretty woman and a beaming little girl sat prominently by his in-box. Dunlap and the young detective pulled up a couple of wooden folding chairs, angling for the position nearest the portable space heater on the floor, to the right of Champagne’s desk. They still wore their overcoats.

  On top of the desk were several file folders, laid out perfectly so that only the tabs showed, one above the other. Champagne lifted the first one and opened it.

  “Guy from Houston by that name — Edward Ryan — bought it Friday night down in the French Quarters. Got a knife in the gut as he was getting out of his car. We figure robbery — his empty wallet was lying next to him. Then he probably struggled — or shit, who knows with these kids these days. Maybe your friend Ryan just looked cross-eyed at the guy.”

  Dunlap was thrown. “He’s dead? You tellin’ me he’s dead? Killed by some street punk? For his wallet?”

  “Affirmative. But we had him as a tourist. It’s still pretty big news here. You say he was a murder suspect himself?”

  Dunlap, still stunned, nodded absently, while Champagne added with a chuckle, “Well, if that ain’t a bitch! Howzat for justice?”

  He spoke with a strange accent — sort of New York, but without the hard edge. Dunlap had never heard any black man speak like this.

  “Were there any … personal effects?” he managed to ask.

  “Not much besides his car. We’ve got that impounded. Wasn’t anything in it. All he had on him was his car keys and wallet — we found them laying in the street, no money in it of course — a little change, and a matchbook from a local hotel about four blocks from where he was killed.”