The Take (21 page)

“Man,
you sure?”

“I’m
sure. That’s
el bruto gordo
, Ese. He
wants the money.” Vega held up a hand and rubbed the tips of his fingers
together. “It’s Chico’s money and that slob’s not gonna get his fat hands on
it.”

“So
what do you want to do, Ese?”

“We
gonna wait here till he comes out. If he has the money, we take it from him. If
not, we follow him till he takes us to Ryan and the money.”

“We
gotta be careful, Rafael. This Dunlap, he don’t fuck around.”

“We’ll
be careful. But he don’t know we’re here. That’s our advantage.” Vega grinned,
adding, “Then, when we grab the money from him, we give him a full fucking load
right in his fat fucking belly. I been wanting to do this a long time, Ese. A
long time. And Chico’s gonna love us for it, man. We give him back his money
and waste
el bruto
at the same time.
He’s gonna be plenty surprised.”

Tomás
nodded and looked away, knowing there was more than one surprise in store.

D
unlap flashed his
gold tin at the front desk.

“Police
officers. We’re here to see Linda Lavelle.”

“All
right
,” said the clerk. Her smile was
bright. Too bright. “Let’s see if I can
find
her for you.”

She
picked up the phone and dialed the lounge. After a brief conversation, she hung
up and said in her sunny tone, “Linda usually starts at
nine
, but they said she has the night
off
tonight. She’ll be back
tomorrow
night, though.”

Her
smile was still blinding, overflowing with industrial-strength perkiness.

Dunlap
leaned his elbow on the desk. He glared at Miss Perky.

“This’s
important. Official police business. Where can we find her?”

That
swept the smile off her face. The happiness that exuded from all those white
teeth ran back down inside her, until it was safe to come out again. The
corners of her mouth turned downward into unfamiliar territory.

“J-just
a moment, please. I’ll get the owner for you.”

≈≈≈

Within moments, AJ Frechette appeared in the lobby. Even though they
showed ID, there was no need. He knew these guys were cops. They had the look.

“Good
evening, gentlemen. I’m AJ Frechette. Let’s go back in my office. If you’d
please follow me.”

He led
them back
behind the front
desk, through some doors and hallways, but mainly out of the lobby area, away
from public view. John Law standing around your lobby isn’t exactly the kind of
image you want for your classy hotel.

His
office was sumptuously detailed, teeming with mahogany and glove leather.
Abstract copper sculptures stood in the corners behind his desk, while right
behind him on the wall hung a very large aerial photograph of New Orleans. The
focus was sharp, with the French Quarter in the foreground. It was enclosed in
an ornate frame, covering over half the wall. AJ’s own Ermenegildo Zegna suit,
an elegant pale gray, looked like it was chosen specifically to blend in with
the finery of his office.

It was
also warm in there. Dunlap exhaled loudly, as he removed his cheap overcoat,
finally warm for the first time that day. AJ estimated that about four people
his own size could fit inside that huge garment, though he couldn’t imagine who
would want to.

When
everyone had settled around the desk, AJ said, “Now, what’s on your mind,
Lieutenant?”

“I
understand you have a piano player workin’ here named Linda Lavelle. We’d like
to talk to her.”

“Sure.
She works here. Say, she in trouble or something?”

“No, we’d
just like to talk to her. Ask her a few questions.”

“Well
now, she’s off tonight, but she’ll
 
—”

Dunlap
scowled. “We need to see her. Now.”

AJ
clasped his hands together thoughtfully. He allowed just enough silence to show
he wasn’t intimidated by this
gumshoe
gorilla. He could tell that Dunlap, no doubt accustomed to rapid responses from
cowering suspects, caught the meaning.

“Well,
Lieutenant, I’ll have to know a little more about this before I go giving out
information on my employees.”

“We’re
police officers and we wanna talk to her. That’s all you need to know.”

AJ
leaned forward a little. His eyes zeroed in on Dunlap. He knew the type of cop
he was dealing with here: look at him wrong and he breaks your face. He’d seen
it all before, and he wasn’t rattled.

“You’re
from Houston,” he said. “That means you’re out of your jurisdiction. That’s all
I need to know. Now, unless you got any of our local boys backing you up, I don’t
have to tell you shit. On the other hand, maybe if I call my good friend, the
Chief of Detectives, downtown here, he’ll be happy to fill me in on what this’s
all about.”

He
picked up his telephone, then began punching up numbers.

“Awright,
hold it, hold it.” Dunlap damn sure didn’t need any New Orleans brass getting
mixed up in all this. After all, he was here without a warrant.

Slowly
returning the receiver to its cradle, AJ said, “Now, what’s the story?”

“This
past Friday night she was seen in your lounge gettin’ friendly with a guy who
got carved up like a Christmas turkey right after he left here.”

“She
didn’t do it, I can tell you that. Besides, that’s a local matter anyway. What’s
your interest in it?”

“We’re
interested. Now where can we find her?”

“Not
till I know what’s going on.”

This resistance
was a wholly new experience for Dunlap. He wanted to reach right across the
desk and smack this skinny fuck upside the head. Of course, if he did, it might
take the head right off his shoulders.

Clean off,
as Dirty Harry used to say.

God, he
loved Dirty Harry. Now there was a fucking cop for you. Why couldn’t all cops
be like him? Take no shit from anybody and get away with it. Not always havin’
to worry about bullshit procedure and shit.

“They
tell me hookers work your lounge.” He shifted his weight in the chair. “That it’s
pretty well-known for that kinda thing.”

“You
didn’t come all the way from Houston to tell me that.”

“How
often is it the johns turn up dead? Prob’ly wouldn’t be too good for business
if word got out that a fella was knifed ten minutes after kissy-facin’ one of
your girls.”

“Linda
plays piano,” AJ said impatiently. “She’s not one of the girls. And I told you,
she didn’t do it.”

“Sure,
sure. We know. But it prob’ly still wouldn’t be real good for business if that
got out. As I recall reading in the paper, he had dinner here at the restaurant
right before his date with a knife. Didn’t say nothing ‘bout him going into
your club for a little dessert. Izzat how you work it, Frechette? Lure ‘em in,
then whack ‘em out? All for the dough in their pockets?”

AJ
stood up. “Get the fuck out of here! Or I’m calling the — “

“I
know, you’re calling your friends the cops.” Dunlap waved the whole thing off. “Listen,
the guy who paid the price that night was wanted for murder in Houston. And
that’s why
we’re here.” AJ
was stopped in his tracks. Dunlap sensed a winning hand. He continued: “Now,
unless you spill this bitch’s address, we’re holding you as a material witness,
maybe chargin’ you with obstruction, withholding evidence in a homicide investigation,
and anything else we can think of. Now, I suppose you prob’ly got slick lawyers
and you might could beat the rap, but once it even looks like you got dirty
hands, I just bet your little friggin’ playpen here’ll be closed down in a New
York minute.”

The
room was quiet. Dunlap’s words hung over the place like locker room body odor.
AJ sat back down, straightening his suit jacket, then retrieved his composure.

“I don’t
know about any murder in Houston,” he said quietly. “But I do know Linda didn’t
have anything to do with it. Or with this guy getting it either.”

“Where’s
she live?” Dunlap asked with finality. The hand was over. Time to rake in the
pot.

AJ
consulted his Rolodex. “Get this. I don’t want any more bullshit from you after
this.”

He
wrote Linda’s address on a piece of scratch paper, carelessly shoving it across
the desk.

“St.
Louis Street!” Dunlap exclaimed. “That’s where our boy got his!”

“I
know,” AJ said, “but I’m telling you, she didn’t do it. So no strong-arm shit
with her.”

Dunlap
got up from the deep chair. The young detective did the same.

“T’tell
you the truth,” Dunlap said, “I don’t give a fuck if she did it or not. That’s
New Orleans’ problem. We need information about this Ryan guy and she can give
it to us.”

They
headed for the door. AJ remained behind his desk.

“Listen,”
he said. “I know you’re here on the QT. Otherwise, you’d be doing this by the
book. So whatever it is you’re after, you better play it on the straight and
narrow with Linda, y’understand? Don’t let me hear you roughed her up.” He eyed
the young detective. “That goes for you too, Cato. You keep this goon in line,
or else I’m holding you just as responsible. I know your names and I know where
to find you. I hear you lay one fucking paw on her, and someone from New Orleans
is gonna pay you cocksuckers a little visit where you live. Remember that as
you get the fuck out of my office!”

T
he money sure
seemed a hell of a lot heavier in the black trash bag than it did in the
suitcase. Eddie struggled with it every step of the way, especially down the
narrow steps from Linda’s apartment into the moonlit courtyard. Felina tried to
help as best she could, but she couldn’t really lift much of the bag. There was
nothing to get a grip on, so she only made it more awkward for Eddie. He had to
stop a couple of times to switch hands and to adjust the .38 in his waistband
so it wouldn’t dig into his abdomen.

Earlier
in the day, they had purchased a used mattress and some new bedding, meaning
their final task was stashing the money. Eddie paused at the front door of the
building.

“Take a
look,” he said to Felina.

She
went out into the chilly night for a look around. A block away, Rampart Street
traffic was thin. Back down St. Louis, a couple of blocks in the other
direction, was Bourbon Street. She could see lots of boisterous activity going
on for eight o’clock on a Monday night, none of it spilling down St Louis
toward them. A lone taxi slowly motored up Burgundy past the corner in search
of a fare. There were no pedestrians. She signaled Eddie to come ahead.

He
carry-dragged the bag out to the van, which was in a legal spot right in front.
A street lamp illuminated the area ahead of the van, but behind it there was
relative darkness.

Felina
opened the rear doors, while Eddie hefted the bundle inside.

“Damn!”
he gasped. “I’m glad I don’t have to lug that thing a long ways.” He caught a
breath. “Let’s move the mattress out.”

The
mattress lay flat across the carpeted interior of the vehicle’s rear. To one
side were the sheets and pillows, still in their packaging and department store
shopping bag. Eddie shoved the trash bag toward the front, right behind the
driver’s seat, then he and Felina each pulled on the mattress, sliding it out
the rear doors. They stood it upright on the curb, leaning against one corner
of the van.

“Hand
me the jack handle, baby,” he said, as Felina produced it. “Now we just pry a
little bit of this carpeting up right here … and right over here. Just like
this.”

Soon,
the carpet was peeled from its wood-frame base to a point about three or four
feet back from the rear doors. The exposed base was not quite an inch high, and
was screwed into the metal floor of the van. There would be room inside this
framework to stack the money packets two deep, maybe three.

“Eddie,
I don’t think we can get all of it in this one little area,” Felina said.

“We’ll
start putting it in here, and if we need more room, we’ll just pull more carpet
up.” He climbed into the van, then closed the doors. Climbing over the
pulled-back carpeting, he retrieved handfuls of money from the trash bag. “Let’s
see how many of these babies we can fit in here.”

He
carefully laid one packet amid the grid of the wood- frame base, then put
another on top of it. When a third was placed on top of those, Felina said, “Three’s
not gonna fit. The pile’s too high. It’s gonna push the carpeting up from the
wood. Maybe separate it, or cause lumps. We don’t want that.”

Damn
right he didn’t want that. But then, a lot of things happened lately that he
didn’t want. Things that shouldn’t have happened. Things that messed everything
up. Things that were making him crazy, tying his guts up into painful knots.