Fat Tuesday (5 page)

While subconsciously flexing his right hand, Burke envisioned Duvall's house, lit up like Shangri-La, flowing with liquor, and filled with food and fancy women."He and Duvall are having a big party tonight in celebration of killing a good cop." He kicked off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed with his hands supporting his head.

Behind him, Barbara also sat up."How do you know what they're doing?"

"Because I was over there watching them."

Even though his back was to her, Burke imagined her frowning with consternation."Are you insane? Are you trying to get yourself fired?

If Doug Pat is forced to fire you, will that make everything all right?

Would losing your job make you happy?"

'"It would make you happy."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shot her a pointed look over his shoulder."Like you haven't been after me for years to leave the department."

"I don't want you to leave it in disgrace," she said angrily.

He snorted a caustic laugh."Oh, I see. No wonder you didn't come to the courthouse during the trial. You didn't want to be associated with the disgrace of the N.O.P.D, which, ironically, is an organization you've bad-mouthed for years."

During the course of their marriage, a recurring argument had been over his work. Barbara wanted him to give up police work in favor of something less demanding and more lucrative. Discussions on the subject started out in a fractious mode and usually deteriorated into shouting matches that resolved nothing, but left in their wake disaffection and resentment on both sides.

Barbara always fell back on the argument that if he loved her, he would take her feelings into account. Burke's argument was that if she loved him, she wouldn't ask that he stop doing what he loved to do. What if he were to insist that she give up teaching? Would that be fair? It was an ongoing debate that neither side could win.

Tonight, Burke was too tired to engage in such a futile argument.

He lay back down and stared at the ceiling.

After a long silence, she said contritely, "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. The disgrace part." There was genuine remorse in her voice, but she didn't touch him. He couldn't remember when they'd last touched each other in anything more than a perfunctory way. Not since the night Kev died. Maybe even before then. No, definitely long before then.

He turned his head toward her and said softly, "Forget it, Barbara. It doesn't matter."

Although years of chronic discontent had etched lines into her face, she remained a very attractive woman. Teaching physical education at a public middle school had kept her figure slender and supple. In fact his coworkers often dropped envious, if lewd, comments about her figure.

They all thought he was one lucky son of a bitch to have Barbara in his bed every night.

Sadly, Burke couldn't recall the last time they'd done anything in bed except sleep. During the months leading up to the trial, his fractured emotions and heavy workload hadn't left him with the energy even to think about sex. Responding to his moodiness, Barbara hadn't initiated it either.

But now Bardo's trial was over. The issue was history. Kev had died, but Burke hadn't. It was time he began living again. Sex would be rejuvenating. It might make him appreciate that he hadn't been entombed along with Kev.

A woman's softness had healing properties. Her body could provide a man not only physical relief, but surcease from spiritual conflict.

Suddenly, Burke yearned for that sense of peace. He was desperate for a few minutes of sweet oblivion. He craved intimacy with something besides suffocating guilt and bitter regret.

Curving his hand around the back of Barbara's neck, he drew her head down for a kiss. She didn't overtly resist, but he felt a tension there, and it wasn't the good kind. He rationalized her lack of enthusiasm. It had been a long time since they'd made love, and he cautioned himself to take his time and not to rush it. Each of them needed a slow and steady warm-up, an easy adjustment, a period of familiarization. Or maybe she was simply being coy. Maybe their lengthy abstinence had damaged her ego and she wanted to be wooed.

He deepened their kiss in the hope of sparking her desire and his.

He fondled her breast through her nightgown, but her nipple didn't respond to his stroking. He slid his knee against the seam of her thighs, but she didn't part them. Between kisses, he whispered her name.

After another few awkward moments, she disengaged herself."I've got to be at school early tomorrow morning. We begin a volleyball tournament during first period."

He released her."Yeah, okay."

"I'm sorry, Burke. I "

"It's cool. Don't apologize."

"I really do have to be up early, but "

"Barbara, it's no big deal," he said, more sharply than he intended.

"Okay? I'm sorry I woke you up at all. Go back to sleep."

"You're sure you're "I'll live, believe me. You don't die from not getting laid."

"Don't blame me, Burke," she lashed out."You've done this to yourself.

You've harbored this grief far too long. It's unnatural. Why is it still eating at you?"

He refused to answer. He couldn't answer.

"All right then," she said."Good night."

"G'night."

He closed his eyes, but he knew he wouldn't go to sleep, and he didn't.

Her rejection had pissed him off, but he wasn't as pissed off as he had a right to be, and that in itself bothered him.

When he was sure she'd fallen asleep, he got up, went into the kitchen, and fixed himself a sandwich. Then he sat down at the table and, holding his head between his hands, stared unseeingly at the sandwich he never ate.

I (7\ouble or nothing? She'll stop in front of us and give us an upw close and personal look. Do we have a bet?"

"No." Burke rubbed his temple where a headache had taken root an hour ago and which so far had continued to outpound the drums in the jazz band and defy two analgesic tablets. Maybe he should have taken Pat up on his offer of a paid week off, but he'd rather work than stick around the house where he had too much idle time to think."I don't want to play anymore, Mac. Give it a rest, okay?"

Mac McCuen flashed his irrepressible grin."I'm giving you a chance to win back some of the money you've lost to me."

"No thanks."

McCuen would bet on anything from the outcome of the World Series to which cockroach would win the race to the doughnut box.

Disappointed by Burke's lack of interest, McCuen turned his attention to the topless dancer who, by God, did stop directly in front of him.

Breasts shimmying, she winked at the narcotics cop, who was young and good looking and who dressed like a GQ model even when he wasn't pretending to be a gawking out-of-towner taking in the nightlife of Bourbon Street.

By comparison, Burke looked tired and disheveled and illtempered, which was exactly how he felt. He'd been up most of the previous night, alternately wallowing in self-pity and honing his anger over Barbara's rebuff to a razor's edge. They'd mumbled hostile good mornings and goodbyes to each other this morning, and his piss factor had been at a record high all day.

Scowling, Burke watched Mac as he watched the gyrating dancer.

What was Mac's real first name, he wondered. All he'd ever heard was Mac. McCuen had made repeated requests to be transferred into Narcotics and Vice before he was actually assigned to it a little more than a year ago. In Burke's opinion the guy was too flashy and effusive to be a good narc.

"I've got a five-dollar bill says her tits are plastic," McCuen said as the dancer strutted away."What do you say?"

"I say I'd be stupid to lay money on that. How do you propose we determine it? By asking her?"

McCuen couldn't be provoked. Engaging grin still in place, he lifted his glass of club soda and took a sip."I'm just jacking with you, Basile. Trying to get a smile out of you. Besides, if I went near a chick like that, my old lady would kill me. She's jealous as hell.

I've never given her reason to be. I look, sure, but I've never cheated, and we're going on three years together." His record of marital faithfulness seemed to surprise him."You ever screwed around, Basile?"

"No."

"Not ever?"

"No."

"Jeer, that's impressive. All the women you meet. And you've been married a long time, right? How long?"

"Long enough."

"Happily?"

"Are you a wanna-be marriage counselor, or what?" "Don't get pissed," Mac said, sounding wounded."I was only asking."

"Well, don't ask. We're here to work, not to ogle the dancers and not to discuss our private lives. A good way to get killed is to stop thinking about the job and " "Our guy just came in," Mac said, interrupting. He was still looking at Burke, still smiling. Maybe he was a better cop than Burke gave him credit for."He's moving this way. Ass-ugly yellow sport coat." Burke didn't turn around, but he felt the familiar adrenaline rush he experienced before every arrest. An undercover cop had been buying from this guy for months. His name was Roland Sachel. He was a nickel-bag dealer, but only quality stuff, and there appeared to be no shortage of his supply. It was believed his drug trade was more for the thrill than for the income it provided.

He owned a legitimate business, a handbag factory that produced designer knockoffs that sold to discount stores.

Sachel's turf wasn't the streets, but the trendy clubs. He liked to rub elbows with celebrities, professional jocks, and their groupies.

He enjoyed the good life and moved in a circle of acquaintances that availed themselves of it.

Narcotics was operating under the theory that if they could bring Sachel in, even on a petty charge, he might hand over Duvall. The undercover cop working the case had supplied them with information during a secret meeting that morning.

"Sachel is ambitious and greedy. He's all the time grumbling about the boss," and since he's the boss at his factory, I figure he's referring to the boss of his drug business. I think Sachel would hand the boss to us if we offered him a deal."

"Has he given you a name?" Burke had asked.

"Never. Just the boss."

" "But I'd wager my left nut it's Duvall," Mac said.

Pat asked, "You're sure Sachel would go for a deal?"

"He's got a kid who plays football," the undercover cop explained.

"Sachel's crazy about him, bragging always. He's going to LSU next year, and naturally Sachel wants to see him play. It would be hard for him to make the games if he's doing time, even for a chickenshit dealing rap."

Burke hated the whole concept of making deals with people who broke the law. It was a cop-out in the strictest meaning of the term. Sachel would come back to haunt them. As soon as he was free, he'd get right back into business.

But Burke wanted Duvall. He was willing to sacrifice a sleazoid like Sachel in exchange for Duvall.

They had concluded the meeting with the narc telling them that this club was one of Sachel's favorite haunts, which stood to reason since the dancing girls were gorgeous and the crowd upscale. And since one of Pinkie Duvall's dummy corporations owned it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Burke saw Sachel pause to light a cigarette while watching the featured dancer massage her crotch against a vertical brass pole. He seemed totally captivated by her act.

After the dancer's simulated orgasm, he applauded enthusiastically, then moved on, wending his way through the smoky room, gladhanding and calling out greetings, seemingly in search of someone, whom he ultimately found occupying a table in a dim corner.

His first customer of the evening was a well-dressed yuppie who was lean to the point of emaciation. His quick motions and darting eyes made him look long overdue for a snort of coke. Sachel signaled a cocktail waitress and ordered a round of drinks.

"Damn!" McCuen exclaimed, coming to his feet."She was something else, wasn't she? I've never seen anything like that. There's something about a shaved pussy that drives me crazy. I got to go to the can."

He left the table he'd been sharing with Burke and headed for the rest room at the rear of the club. Burke also came to his feet and pretended to review the tab the chesty cocktail waitress had handed him.

When McCuen reached the door that led to the rest room, he dropped a matchbook and bent down to pick it up.

Burke saw the yuppie pass Sachel what appeared to be a folded bill.

With a cardsharp's sleight of hand, Sachel slid his palm over the money, while reaching into the pocket of the yellow sport coat with the other.

Burke hurdled several tables and was across the room before the band's next drumbeat. Pistol drawn, he shouted for Sachel to freeze.

McCuen was already there, the barrel of his pistol resting on the patch of skin behind the yuppie's right ear.

Two other cops from the division posing as drunken Shriners had been waiting for a signal. They burst through the door leading to the rest room and assisted in the arrest. As he was read his rights, the anorexic yuppie was trembling and weeping and blubbering that he couldn't go to jail, man, he'd fucking freak out in jail. As Sachel was handcuffed and relieved of the small handgun he was carrying in an ankle holster, he viciously cursed the arresting officers and asked what the fuck they thought they were doing.

Obviously they didn't know who they were fucking with. Then he demanded to speak to his lawyer, Pinkie Duvall.

"Ten to one the bastard beats us uptown," McCuen said as he and Burke left the club.

"That's a safe bet, Mac."

'"Lieutenant Basile, it's good to see you again so soon."

"You wouldn't have the pleasure, Duvall, if you didn't have criminal friends coming out your ass," Burke shot back.

As Mac had guessed, the lawyer was already at the department by the time they arrived. A loyal employee of the club must have immediately notified him that Sachel had been caught red-handed in a drug transaction.

"Still carrying a chip on your shoulder over the outcome of Wayne Bardo's trial?"

Burke would have liked nothing better than to ram his fist into Duvall s handsome, smug face and rearrange his expensive smile. Although it was nearing midnight, when one would expect him to look a little rumpled and fresh from bed, the lawyer was wearing a three-piece suit and a stiff white shirt. He smelled of shaving cream. Not a single silver hair was out of place.