by Nick Dorsey
Dominic came back out of the building with a big paper bag, the kind restaurants use for take-out orders. Hair Curtains took the bag, but Dominic wasn’t too happy about it. The group split, with Hair Curtains and Sal getting into the Caddy and the bartender leading Dominic inside. Before he went inside, Dominic glowered at the Cadillac.
Patton held his hands up. “Shit, what do we do? We stay?”
“No, we follow Sal.”
“What about the other guys? What are they doing?”
“What do you mean? They’re running a damn restaurant, that’s what they’re doing. You want a sandwich?” Tom waited for the Caddy to get down the block, then he pulled out after them.
“What’s in the bag?” That was Patton a few blocks later. They were following the Caddy from three cars behind, going away from the city.
“Good question.” Odds were good that it was a roast beef po’boy and whatever Hair Curtains wanted for lunch. Tom held out hope that it wasn’t, but he had to be practical about these things. They followed the Caddy down Broad Avenue and caught the red light at Tulane.
Patton said, “Are they going to the Public Defenders Office?” Sure enough, there it was, off to their right. The great, imposing courthouse was to their left. At the office, Patton had looked up Sal LaRocca’s address. He didn’t live down here. So where were they going?
Then the light changed and the Caddy gunned it. Tom said, “Wave hello to Jean.”
A few blocks later they saw the car turn off into a used car lot. A banner above the lot read Fine American Autos. Tom passed the lot and parked down the street. He and Patton both turned in their seats as the pair got out of the Caddy and walked into the little three-room office in the center of the lot. They took the Dell’Orso take-out bag with them.
Patton flipped through his notebook. “Fine American Auto. Should I check them out?”
Tom nodded. “I bet the owner’s a LaRocca somewhere on the family tree.”
They waited for ten minutes. Then both Sal and Hair Curtains came back out into the parking lot and got back in the Caddy.
Tom said, “No bag.”
“Lunch delivery?”
“How often does the owner of a restaurant do the delivery boy thing?”
Patton didn’t have an answer for that. He recognized the next stop the Caddy made, though. It was an old Bavarian-style house, a half-timbered building with exposed beams climbing up all three stories. The hedges out front were pruned with painful precision. Uptown amongst the mansions and plantation-style homes, it stood out like a sore thumb. Tom pulled past the house and parked under a pecan tree. They turned in their seats again.
This time, Hair Curtains opened Sal’s door but didn’t follow him inside. The older man ambled up the driveway and went inside. The Caddy pulled off. Tom put his car in gear.
“Wait. That’s Sal’s address.” Patton pointed back to the house. “And I thought we were watching Sal?”
Tom pulled a quick U-turn to follow the Caddy. “I thought so, too. But this other guy shows up, and he’s not interested in the restaurant. And Dominic doesn’t like him, the kid had a real pissy look when they left. This guy drives Sal around on an errand, drops him at home, then takes his car. It’s strange. The other guy is more interesting right now.”
Patton wrote in his notebook. “Alright. But I’m making a note.”
They drove away from the city, almost back towards the Pan Dell’Orso. Then the Caddy pulled into a strip mall that reminded Tom of his old office. A liquor store was situated in between two empty storefronts, and the parking lot looked empty except for a white SUV parked at the front of the lot and a black and white police cruiser in the back.
As Tom parked at the other end of the parking lot, Patton wrote down this new address. “Alright, a strip mall at, what is it?
“Jefferson and Eve.”
“You think he’s stepping in to get some beer? Wine? Still early for the hard stuff.”
But Hair Curtains didn’t go into the liquor store. Instead, he went left. He went through a door and into one of the empty storefronts. The glass door and panel windows were all tinted to the point of being opaque.
Patton said, “You think he’s opening up a place?”
Tom was looking at the black and white parked back in the lot. There was an officer in the car, he could see him. He also saw the officer look right at him. Tom said, “Alright, I need you to make a face at me and wave your hands like we’re arguing.” As he said it, he gestured to the street.
Patton frowned. “What? Why?”
“Like I’m going the wrong way and you’re pissed-off and giving me directions.”
Patton jutted a hand out to the street. “Like this? What the hell am I doing?”
“You’re acting, partner. We’re giving the cop over there a show.” Tom raised both hands and looked to the heavens, as though exasperated.
“Why we acting for this cop?” Patton shook his head. He slapped the dashboard.
Tom nodded intensely, put the car in reverse, and left the parking lot. “Okay, hold on. Hold on.” He pulled the Taurus into a gas station about half a block away and got out of the car. Patton followed him.
“What the hell was that?”
“The cruiser was watching the lot, I wanted to make it seem like we were lost.”
“I’m pretty damned lost right now.”
Tom leaned against the Taurus and crossed his arms over the roof of the car. The midday sun had warmed the roof and it felt good. A moment later the Caddy left the strip mall and disappeared into the flow of traffic. “There it goes.”
Patton opened his door. “Shit, we can catch him.”
“I think we’re alright. I bet Hair Curtains there just picked something up from the strip mall. And I bet he’s taking it to Fine American Autos.”
“You bet all that?”
“And double-or-nothing he comes back tonight.”
Patton shut his door and stared at Tom. “You going to tell me what the hell is going on?”
For a moment, they just listened to the traffic sounds on Broad. Tom smiled. “I think we made some collection rounds this morning. I think that the take-out bag from the restaurant was probably cash. I don’t know what the score is, but I think it’s cash. They dropped that at the car dealership. Then I think Hair Curtains came here to pick up another pay-out. He’ll drop it off, then come back here this evening to open up.”
“The liquor store?”
“No. That empty storefront isn’t empty. I think there’s gambling in there. The cruiser in the back of the parking lot? The patrolman in there wasn’t doing paperwork and he wasn’t sleeping. He’s on the clock. Only I don’t think it’s the city clock. He’s watching a poker room for Sal LaRocca. Why hire security when you can rent the NOPD?”
Patton turned and looked at the empty strip mall. “No shit? That’s a poker room? Even when we got the boat and the casino downtown, and everything legal?”
“Some people like a private game. Maybe they’re running coke and girls in there. Who knows? But I think this is a way in. I think Ernesto Adelfi was in some shit with Sal. And now Ernesto’s dead.” Tom slapped the roof of the car and smiled. It all sounded good. It all made sense to him. He got in the car.
Patton followed him. “How the hell are you getting all this?”
“Time on the force. People like Sal, they have above-board income, then they have the illegal stuff. Prostitution. Drugs. Nobody does heroin like the Port of New Orleans. Racketeering. I remember in the ’90s there were stories about mob-connected outfits working with pit bosses and dealers in the casinos and trying to fix games. Anyway, all that money has to be funneled somewhere. Cleaned. A used car dealership. A half-decent restaurant. Good places to funnel cash.” Tom nodded to himself. Yeah, it was. He cranked the Taurus to life and turned to Patton. “Do you have any money?”
Patton answered warily. “They don’t pay me a whole lot at Tulane Towers.”
“Just a
bit. To play with.”
“To play?”
“I’ll have some. But we should go in half. We’re supposed to be partners.”
Tom laughed at the look on Patton’s face. He couldn’t help himself. The kid said, “Yeah, but Ms. Perez also told me to watch you and make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
“Really?”
“No, but you believed me. Which means you think you do need somebody watching you, making sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
Tom grinned. Because the kid was right. He was thinking about doing something stupid.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jean ran past a few soft, grey-haired lawyers, her shoes squeaking on the polished floor. She was on her way to Section F, a courtroom just at the end of the great domed hallway on the main floor of Orleans Parish District court. She ran under the huge crystal chandeliers and had a passing thought: maybe one would crush her and put her out of her misery.
The old lawyers paused their conversation and watched her pass. She was thankful she was wearing flats. At least she could run.
Jean was coming from Kile Robinson’s sentencing, and it wasn’t something she wanted to linger on. The marijuana bought him two years and the cocaine another five. Kile took the news in stride, which was good. Then the judge announced the years the firearm bought him, another decade inside. His sisters began wailing even though Jean had warned them not to, and Kile cursed. The judge didn’t mind. Through it all his grandmother, Mrs. Priscilla, sat silent and stone-faced. After they lead Kile away Jean spent a few moments talking with Mrs. Priscilla and Kile’s sisters, consoling them and hugging Mrs. Priscilla goodbye. After the hug, Jean felt better, if only for a moment. She hoped she had the same effect on Mrs. Priscilla. That delay also made her late for another hearing, which wasn’t the way for a lawyer to endear herself to any particular judge.
Judge Finley proved himself to be both unforgiving and highly prejudicial. He was hearing the state’s case against Miguel de Varga, charged with both being a felon in possession of a firearm and illegally carrying a concealed weapon. Finley was shooting down every motion Jean put forward and every objection she could muster. The prosecutor was the same hipster youth from the DA’s office Jean had gone up against countless times before, thin and well-dressed, in horn-rim glasses and a bow tie.
A bow tie, for God’s sake.
Was his name Ken? Keith? Something Orillion. Jean couldn’t remember. The way Judge Finley was looking at him, Jean thought maybe Papa Orillion probably played a round or two of golf with Judge Finley at one time or another. Maybe on a biweekly basis.
Now ADA Orillion brought a woman named Desiree Madison to the stand. She was curvy with all those curves stuffed into a satiny pink and black leopard print jumpsuit. Not exactly what Jean would have chosen for her day in court. One of Jean’s motions had been an attempt to prevent Desiree from taking the stand. She was de Vargas’ ex-girlfriend. To say her testimony would be biased would be putting it lightly.
The ADA stood and took off his glasses in a thoughtful manner, playing to a jury that wasn’t there. The Judge seemed to appreciate it, though. Orillion said, “Miss Madison, what's your relation to the defendant?”
“I got none.”
“Of course. Miss Madison, have you ever had any previous relationship with the defendant, Miguel de Vargas?”
“I was with him for a little while.”
“Did you live together?”
“I stay by his place.”
“And did you ever see the defendant with a weapon?” Miss Madison grunted. The ADA glanced at the judge and then cleared his throat. “I’m sorry ma’am, you have to answer yes or no.”
“Yeah. He had a gun.”
“Was it common practice for the defendant to carry the weapon on his person? Say in a pocket? Or perhaps in an ankle holster?”
“Objection. He’s clearly leading the witness.”
The judge sighed and nodded. He waved Orillion on. “Sustained as to the form of the question. Please rephrase.”
The ADA made a show of really considering his next line of questioning. He began, “Did Mr. de Vargas carry a weapon?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Do you know if he concealed the weapon so it would not be seen?”
“Yeah, he did that too.”
“Would you say he concealed the weapon in the pocket?”
“Yeah, he did that.”
“So it was common practice for this to happen? Would he have done so on the evening of February 20th?”
Jean half-rose in her chair. “Objection, your honor. If ADA Orillion is going to both ask questions and answer them, then why do we need to be here?”
The judge frowned deeply and fixed Jean with a dark eye. “Overruled. Tread carefully, Ms. Perez.”
The rest of Jean’s time at court followed in a similar fashion.
Jean left the courthouse and hustled across the street to get a slushie from the corner store. She sucked down the heady mix of sugar, green dye number six, and toxic waste and didn't even mind the brain freeze that followed. It was better than dwelling on the shitshow that had been Judge Finley's court. A wind whipped litter and leaves through the convenience store parking lot. It was blowing in dark clouds that settled over the district court, giving it a suitably ominous appearance.
She was glaring at the courthouse when a short man in a dark purple sharkskin suit crossed the street from the courthouse. He was round and small, he sort of reminded Jean of a bowling ball, the way he was rushing at her in that shiny suit. He waved her down. “Good afternoon to you there, Ms. Perez.”
“Good afternoon.” Jean looked at the guy. A bit older, with longish hair going grey and a beard following suit. He had a deep tan that Jean guessed was procured by some artificial means. “Mr. DiAngelo, right?”
The guy grinned and shook her hand. “Tony DiAngelo. That’s right. Pleasure. I was going to buy you a coffee if you had a minute. But.” He gestured to her slushie.
“Guilty pleasure. I quit smoking when I was twenty-one, so this is my post-court indulgence.”
“Ah, yeah. Nothing like an afternoon at Tulane and Broad to bring out the drinker, or the smoker, in you.” He meant the courthouse. Everybody called it district court, but if you were being raked over the coals or had a particularly shitty day in court, you called the building by its two cross-streets. Tulane and Broad. DiAngelo shrugged. “Hey, I’ll join you. Wait a second for me, okay?”
Two minutes later he came out onto the street with his own slushie. He sipped it and wobbled his head, trying to decide if he liked it. “I’ll say this, it tastes green. Not a snowball, but it’s okay. I was going to get you a coffee. I like the coffee in that place on the first floor of Tulane Tower. They got dark roast and blonde roast, you had that blonde roast?”
Jean nodded. She had.
“It’s good. ‘Course they make you order a tall, or super, or major, or whatever. Can’t just be small, medium, large anymore. But I guess it’s the only place you can legally pay for a tall blonde, am I right?” DiAngelo hacked out a laugh at his joke.
Jean didn’t laugh. She just took a sip of her slushie and wondered where the hell this guy was going and why she was going there with him. “I should get back to Tulane Towers.”
DiAngelo looked down the street at Tulane Towers, where the Public Defenders were housed. He slurped his drink again and smacked his lips. “Hey. I saw you get beat up in there. That’s judges for you, taking everything personal. I remember the old days, you all didn’t rush around different courtrooms. Just had one defender for each court and there you stayed. That way you all knew the judge, the judge knew you, and boy, could they flex on those poor defenders back then. Court ran on time, you bet. Not the best way to defend a client, but like I said, court ran on time.”
“The whole department has changed. We had half a dozen attorneys when I started. We have 20 now and the support personnel to do some work.”
The short
man snorted. “They coasting on Katrina money from the feds, and that’ll be gone soon. I was saying, back in the day? Judges appointed the Public Defenders. And y'all didn’t have to stick with it. It was a part-time job. You could have your practice and make a little defense money while you were at it.”
Jean didn’t answer. She was starting to resent DiAngelo interrupting her private slushie time.
He said, “Hey, I did my time there! Cut my teeth there in eighty-five. Public sector, it’s a nice place to learn how to act in court but it’s not a career. You did your years, got nothing but respect for that. But the real money is elsewhere, right?” He handed her a card. DiAngelo, Pascal and Associates. “That’s me, and associates. And we always need more associates.”
Then Jean got it. She was being courted. Jean had to admit it was nice to be wanted, especially after her performance in court. But DiAngelo was still interested after that. Which, honestly, was a little weird.
She said, “It's not all about the money.”
DiAngelo shook his slushie at her. “You say that like you mean it. But if that's true, then that's another reason to get out of Tulane Tower and find another office as soon as you can. How many times can you defend the same guy for doing the same penny-ante bullshit? Possession with intent. Concealed firearm. Battery. You probably worked more of those than I have, and I’ve been at this almost thirty years.”
Thunder rumbled overhead. Jean squinted at the clouds and put her hand out to feel for rain. “I should get back to the office.”
“Sure.” DiAngelo stuck his hand out. “Let me buy you a real coffee sometime, okay?”
Jean shook the little man’s hand and walked back to the office. She felt the rain before she heard it, tiny drops on her hair and her hand. DiAngelo broke into his bowling-ball run, splashing back across the street to the courthouse.
She skidded into the lobby on wet shoes and shook herself out. The security guard raised an eyebrow but he was smiling. Jean looked at her slushie and saw it was half rainwater, so in the trash it went. She pouted and the security guard shrugged, helpless. Jean said, “That’ll teach me to forget my umbrella.”