House of the Rising Sun (13 page)

Behind the motel ran a narrow concrete walkway, on the other side of which, not more than four feet away, stood a six-foot, wooden privacy fence that separated the motel from the back of another business on the next street over. Tony stepped through the door and turned left. He strolled toward the Texaco station. Rocco, shuffling along behind him, said, “I still don't understand why you had to shoot Hector.”

Tony spoke over his shoulder. “That's why I do all the thinking, Rock, not you.”

They didn't speak again until they were inside the Lincoln. Rocco sat behind the wheel. He looked puzzled. “I thought we were just going to talk to him.”

“You can't talk to a man who's running from you,” Tony said.

As Rocco pulled out of the Texaco parking lot, he looked at Tony. “But now that he's dead, we'll never get to talk to him.”

Tony took a deep breath. “Just drive the goddamn car, Rocco. Just drive the goddamn car.”

Ray asked Jimmy LaGrange, “Do you remember Michael Salazaar?”

LaGrange shook his head.

“He was a dope fiend we arrested in the French Quarter,” Ray said. He held his hand a foot above his head. “Guy with the hair.”

LaGrange shrugged.

They were in a little bar off Banks Street. When Ray had called to set up a meeting, LaGrange insisted on picking the spot. He made it clear he didn't want to be seen with Ray.

“We were coming out of Felix's Oyster House,” Ray said. “Guy walked right up to us and asked if we wanted some dope. I was loaded down with a dozen fried oysters and half a loaf of French bread in my gut and could barely move, so I told him to beat it. But he kept on asking, just begging to go to jail.”

LaGrange nodded like he was starting to remember, then said, “That's the guy we had the fight with. Ended up, he didn't even have any dope on him.”

“Yeah, that's him.”

“I remember now. What about him?”

“His nickname was Scooby.”

“So?”

“So he's dead,” Ray said. “Got nailed in a drive-by shooting a couple nights ago, right in front of his apartment building.”

“Who cares?”

“I need some information on him.”

LaGrange leaned back in his chair. “Why?”

“He's the one Winky sold that Smith forty to.”

“You think he's one of the guys who hit you?”

Ray took a sip of whiskey, then lit a fresh cigarette. “That's why I want to see his rap sheet. He didn't have a spiderweb tattoo on his hand when we arrested him, but that was what . . .” Ray tried to remember how long it had been, relative to the big event in his life, going to prison. “. . . at least six or seven years ago. I want to find out if he's been arrested since then and if his sheet lists any tattoos.”

“You don't understand what you're asking—”

“Yes I do, Jimmy.” Ray stared at him until LaGrange looked away. “I'm asking you to help me.”

The waitress came by with fresh drinks. Ray dropped a twenty on her tray. After she left, Ray said, “Something else I need . . .”

LaGrange rubbed a hand across his forehead and grabbed his drink with the other. “What's that?”

“Rap associates on Scooby. I've got to look at everybody he's been arrested with.”

“What are you looking for?”

“The guys who hit us were smooth.”

“So?”

“That means they knew each other and knew what to expect from each other.”

LaGrange took a sip of his drink. “What do you think about Salazaar getting blown away like that, right after the job?”

Ray dragged on his cigarette and took a slurp of Jameson. “I've been thinking about that.”

“You think it's a coincidence?”

Ray shook his head. “There's no such thing.”

Ray dashed under the awning that overhung the front door of the House. It was 7:00
PM
and pouring rain. Ray was soaking wet. He had just run from the parking lot two blocks away. Once out of the rain, he doubled over and braced his hands on his knees. He felt like throwing up.

The new doorman gave him a concerned look. “You all right?”

“Just trying to catch my breath,” Ray wheezed. He recognized the doorman from behind the downstairs bar, one of the backs. He didn't look Italian enough to stay up front for long. Tony was big into the Guido thing. If you didn't look the part of a Hollywood wiseguy, you couldn't front for the House.

To Tony Z., image was everything. Which was why he put Hector, who didn't have an ounce of Italian blood in him and who didn't know calamari from catfish, as the front man, because he looked the part. Except now Tony needed a new front man because Hector wasn't coming back, ever.

As soon as he was able to breathe, Ray stood straight and fished a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He stuck a butt in his mouth and flicked his Zippo but couldn't get it to light. Finally, he waved the lighter at the guy standing by the door. “You got a light?”

The doorman shook his head. “I don't smoke.”

Ray pulled open the door.

As he stepped inside, Ray almost bumped into a tall brunette wearing a dark fur wrap. She had a pile of hair stacked on top of her head, held tight by a diamond-studded clip, or what looked
like diamonds. The clip resembled a crown and would have given her a kind of fairy-tale princess look if it hadn't been for the painted-on leather pants, spiked heels, and push-up blouse under the wrap.

She smacked her gum a few times, then held out a set of keys to Ray. “It's the maroon Jag.”

He looked around, thinking she must be talking to someone else. She jingled the keys at him.

“Are you talking to me?” he asked.

“You do work here, don't you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then I need you to pull my car around.” She flicked at the fur wrap. “I can't get this wet.”

He pointed to the keys in her hand. “If you're in Shorty's lot, you're supposed to leave your keys with him.”

“I've been shopping. My car is loaded with bags, and I'm not leaving my keys with a nigger.”

“Who the hell are you?”

She shook her head and gave Ray an exasperated sigh, letting him know she thought he was an idiot. “I'm Priscilla Zello. If you work here, then you work for my husband.”

Ray jammed the unlit cigarette behind his ear. He had heard that Tony Zello's wife used to be a swimsuit model. Looking at her, he could believe it, but it just proved that no matter how good the outside looked, the inside could still be rotten.

“You're married to Tony?” he asked.

She smacked her gum and nodded.

Ray laughed in her face. “That explains a lot.”

Then he stepped past her into the House. Behind him, he heard her jaws flapping, something about getting him fired.

On the second floor there was only a light crowd at the gambling tables. Most of the club's regulars were night owls. Ray found Tony leaning against the bar. Tony eyed Ray's wet clothes and hair. “Somebody piss on you again?”

“Fuck you, Tony.” Ray stood next to him and peeled the damp cigarette from behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth. “Give me a light.”

Tony pulled a lighter out of his pants pocket and handed it to Ray. A gold-plated Zippo with a big “Z” on the front, the “Z” set with diamond chips. Ray turned it around in his hand and read the inscription on the back,
“Happy 40th, Tony.—Pris.”
It was gaudy enough to be something Elvis might have kept in the jungle room.

Ray lit his cigarette, then handed the lighter back.

Tony tossed the gold Zippo up and then snatched it out of the air. He held it out so Ray could admire it. “Nice, huh?”

Before Ray could answer, Tony said, “Still, she bitches about my smoking. Says it ruins all her clothes.”

“Did she give you a black velvet portrait of herself, maybe something in leopard skin?”

Tony stood straight. “Hey, asshole, that's my wife you're talking about.”

“I know,” Ray said, taking a drag on his cigarette. “I ran into her downstairs. I had to explain to her why I wasn't going to run out in the rain and pull her car around for her.”

Tony nodded. “She likes to be waited on. What she doesn't know is that fur is a fake. If she gets it wet, it'll turn white.”

“Apparently, she has a problem with black people.” Ray stared at Tony. “I wonder where she picked that up?”

Tony jammed the gold lighter back in his pocket. “You said you wanted to talk. So talk. I got things to do.”

“I just got back from Hector's apartment. I saw his girlfriend again and his sister. They say he's dead. He was found shot in some dump on Chef Highway.”

“I know,” Tony said. “I'm the one who shot him.”

“You what?”

“You heard me.”

“What the hell for?”

“I didn't do it on purpose.”

“You shot Hector by accident?”

“No, I didn't shoot him by accident. I shot him on purpose. Killing him, that was an accident.”

“What did you mean to do?” Ray asked.

“I just wanted to talk to him.”

“So you shot him?”

“He was trying to get away.”

“You shot him in a motel?”

Tony nodded.

“What the hell was Hector doing out there?” Ray said.

“Looks to me like he was hiding, probably laying low until the heat—”

“Wait a minute,” Ray said. “How did you know he was there?”

Tony glared at Ray. “Don't interrupt me.”

Ray didn't say anything.

“You mind if I finish?” Tony said, sounding like the asshole he was.

“Go ahead,” Ray said, biting his tongue on what he really wanted to say, which was
Go fuck yourself
.

“I told you before, Shane, the street never lies. Everything you need to know is out there. You just got to know where to look. I heard that little fuck Hector was holed up out in the east, so I went looking for him. And guess what? I found him.”

“Too bad you didn't question him before you killed him.”

“I told you, I didn't kill him on purpose. I went there to talk to him. But as soon as me and Rocco stepped inside that rat hole he was in, the little piece of shit bolted for the back door. I popped one at him, just trying to wing him, but I guess I missed.”

“Missed?”

“I don't mean I missed him, missed him. I mean I missed
winging him. Must have hit an artery or something, maybe his heart.”

“You went there to talk to him and you accidentally shot him in the heart?”

Tony shrugged. “Yeah.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He didn't have time.”

Ray shook his head. “We're supposed to be working toward the same goal here, Tony. I've been looking for Hector for two days. But you found him first, and you killed him before he could say anything. Someone with a suspicious mind might think that was a bit too convenient.”

Tony stepped toward Ray and jabbed a finger in his face. “Watch your mouth, Shane, or I'll close it for you. Just like I did to your little friend Hector.”

“He was the only lead we had.” Ray decided not to tell Tony about Winky or Scooby.

Tony stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with his “Z” lighter. He took a long drag and blew the smoke in Ray's face. “You must have been a real hotshot detective.”

“We tried not to kill our witnesses.”

“Carlos called me,” Tony said. “He wants to know what you've been doing. Looks like I'll have to tell him you haven't been doing shit.”

“How did you find Hector?”

“What's it matter? You couldn't find him, so I did. Maybe I should have been the detective.”

“You're a regular Sherlock-fucking-Holmes.”

“You know what your problem is, Shane?”

“No, tell me.”

“The reason all you can do is sit on your ass at the end of the bar for that little chump change we throw at you is because you ain't go no respect for anybody, and that includes yourself. You're pathetic.”

“Coming from you, that doesn't mean a whole lot.”

Tony ignored the gibe. “You remember that song that fat black chick used to sing. R-E-S . . . P . . .” Tony waved his hand, dismissing his failed attempt at spelling. “That song that spells out
respect
.”

“You mean Aretha Franklin, R-E-S-P-E-C-T?”

Tony nodded. “Yeah, whatever. Point is—”

“Otis Redding wrote that song.”

“I don't give a fuck what jiggaboo wrote it.” Tony's face started to turn red. “Point I'm making is you don't know nothing about respect.”

Ray flicked his cigarette butt into an ashtray. “At least I know how to spell it.”

Tony's eyes narrowed. “Vinnie feels like he owes you, but I don't. When I'm running this place, you're going to get what's coming to you. You can count on that.”