Cold Blood (45 page)

“We? You did all the talking, Bill Rooney, and it didn’t work, did it?”

Rosie said as they looked up and down the street for the taxi driver. He had gone, and she shrugged.

“He must have seen us coming, Bill. That was a nice tip you gave him, ten bucks more than the cab ride,”

she said, and linked her arm through his.

“Never mind, we can walk,”

he said, feeling dumb and inadequate; he had blown it and wondered if he had lost his touch. That really got to him.

“We should’ve waited for Lorraine,”

he said.

“We did, and she didn’t show,”

snapped Rosie. She was getting sick and tired of having to wait for Lorraine, but nevertheless they made their

way back to the hotel like two naughty schoolkids who knew they were going to get bawled out.

Edith was at the upstairs window, watching the two squat bodies walking down the street, furious at Fryer for sending people like that to her. She opened her dressing-table drawer and took out the telephone. She always hid it because she hated it, loathed the intrusion of its jangling ring, especially when she was working.

The telephone rang at the side of the dingy bar by the door leading up to Fryer’s room. The barman was just coming on duty and picked it up.

“Fryer’s.”

“You get that bastard on the line,”

said Edith in a fury.

“What bastard are you referring to?”

he asked, grinning.

“Zak, you son of a bitch, this is Edith and you know it, so you get him to the phone. You tell him he never sends me over scum like I just had to deal with. They had cops written all over their big fat faces, and I knew he didn’t have no wife, she’s already buried six feet deep. He could get me in a whole lot of trouble.”

Zak placed the handset on the bar, saying he’d just go check if Fryer was around.

“I know he’s there, that son of a bitch don’t ever move his ass outta there!”

Edith shouted down the phone. Br

Zak moved up the narrow staircase, srruffling his feet on the bare boards.

“Eh! Man, Fryer, it’s Edith on the telephone, she’s all steamed up about you sending some cops to her place.”

“What?”

“Just repeatin’ what she’s yelling on the telephone. She’s mad as hell.”

The door at the top of the stairs inched open.

“Tell that fat bitch I never sent nobody over there. She’s raising bad spirits like she’s raising bad fucking kids.”

Zak shrugged as the door closed and returned to the bar.

“Hi, Edith,”

he said into the phone.

“You get that lazy son of a bitch to talk to me,”

she yelled.

Zak took a deep breath.

“Fryer said to tell you that he would never waste your precious time sending nobody to you he didn’t know or trust like a brother. He’s not feelin’ so good right now, but said he’d call you later. If you need him to come over he’ll drop whatever pressing things he’s got on, because you are a very important woman in his life.” “May God forgive the lies that spew out of your lips, Zachary. That nogood son of a bitch probably never even lifted his hungover head.”

She slammed the phone back down.

Zak laughed, and then turned as the door opened at the far end of the bar by the main street entrance. Lorraine Page squinted to adjust to the darkness and then slowly began to walk the full length of the room. Zak never took his eyes off her as she hitched her skirt up and sat on a high barstool.

“Diet Coke when you’re through checking the price of my suit,”

she said softly, and flipped open her pack of cigarettes.

“You got a light?”

Edith stashed the phone back in the drawer. She hadn’t paid a bill for years. The boys had done something with the wiring on the telephone cables outside their house and connected their line to someone else’s. Nobody called in except maybe Juda. Nobody ever made appointments over the telephone because Edith wasn’t listed in the book, and she never paid any taxes on her earnings, meager as they were. A bit of thieving never bothered her. What did was strangers coming to her parlor, especially strangers that smelled like cops and asked for bad work. She’d have it out with Fryer. All the years she’d known him, he’d never understood, never believed in her. That was his problem, he wasn’t a believer in public but in private she’d scared him a few times, even if he refused to acknowledge it.

Juda traveled luxuriously in the Caleys’ private plane, and their car was waiting at the airport to drive her straight to their mansion. She wondered what Elizabeth needed her so badly for and felt tired just at the prospect of having to deal with her. But she would have to, she always had to pay for the

“luxuries,”

and this was heavyfirst-class all the way.

Missy opened the imposing front door, looking scared.

“Oh, Mrs. Salina, I sure am glad you’re here, she’s acting up bad. She’s crying and shouting up there, she’s thrown her tray at me and she’s in such a rage. Mr. Caley packed all his things and walked out, saying he’s never coming back home.”

“All right, Missy, don’t you get all excited now, make us a nice pot of tea, the kind Mrs. Caley likes, and bring it straight on up.”

Juda began to walk slowly up the gently curved staircase. Her legs pained her, her feet were swollen from the flight, and she clung to the banister rail as she heaved her body up stair by stair.

“She got some medication in her bedroom, Missy?” Missy looked up fearfully.

“I don’t know what she got up there, Mrs. Salina, but she’s acting crazy, saying there’s people there with her and there’s things in’side of her. Got me to shut up the shutters, then open them again. She makes me shiver, she does.”

Juda could now hear the furniture being hurled around, and Elizabeth’s hoarse voice talking loudly to herself.

“Get away from me, stay away from me, don’t touch me"

Juda took a deep breath before she opened the bedroom door. Elizabeth Caley was disheveled, her long hair loose as she staggered from bed to window to bureau, the beauty and dignity of the room making her behavior seem even more grotesque. She appeared to be half dancing, half trying to control the body spasms that made her look as if she was working up to some kind of fit. Spittle formed at the side of her mouth, but as soon as she saw Juda she sighed with relief, stretching out her arms.

“Thank God, Juda, help me. Please help me, they’ve come for me. They’re here again, the snakes are inside me again.”

Robert Caley unpacked his clothes, almost high on his own adrenaline. He’d done it, he’d finally done what he should have done years ago.

He called Lorraine at her hotel but was told she was not in her room, and then checked with the desk downstairs to make ssre the adjoining suite was still retained for her. He called Lloyd Dulay and asked to see him. He wasn’t going to grovel, not ever again. Doubloons had not been awarded the gaming license; it had gone to a Bfge gaming conglomerate from another state that no one had even mown was in the running. Clearly the Governor had made some new friends, but he hadn’t forgotten his old ones eitherthe land, of course, was still Caley’s, and the Governor had announced that Caley, Doubloons and the new group should get around a table and hammer out a partnership agreement. Caley’s financial future was safe.

Just hearing the tone of Caley’s voice, Dulay didn’t argue, agreeing to see him that evening. Caley then called his other partner, arranging to meet with him the next day. He felt confident, knowing he now had enough on Lloyd Dulay to ensure that he wouldn’t make any trouble. It felt good. But the one person he wanted to share his newfound freedom with was still not at her hotel. He left a message at the St. Marie, saying he wished to see her urgently, and left his cell phone number on which he could be contacted at any time that evening.

Lorraine was beginning to feel uneasy as a few more people entered Fryer’s bar and sat as far away from her as possible.

She had asked to speak to Fryer, but the barman had said he was resting. She smoked four cigarettes, getting more and more edgy and impatient as she waited for him: she eyed the rows of liquor bottles, needing another drink, but disciplined herself not to ask for one, telling herself again and again that she didn’t need it. The telephone rang and the barman asked the caller to hold, and disappeared through the doorway at the end of the bar. She heard him call up to Fryer and a gruff voice yelled down.

“Shit, man, what you wake me for? Tell him to come by tonight.”

Lorraine moved off her stool and walked the length of the bar.

“He’s awake now, okay? So I am going up to see him whether you like it or not.”

Zak reached for the phone to speak to the caller, at the same time looking at Lorraine.

“Don’t you go up there, miss.”

“You try and stop me,”

she snapped back, and disappeared.

Fryer Jones had one hell of a hangover, more than his usual, and he sat up, angry at the yelling from below. He leaned over his bed, picked up a bottle of bourbon, and took a long swig before he flopped back on his dirty stained pillows. The door opened, and Lorraine looked in.

“Mr. Jones, my name is Lorraine Page.”

“What?”

he grunted, and then eased up on his elbow. She stepped into the room but could hardly see him in the darkness. He could see her and he liked what he saw.

“Well, come into my parlor, said the spider to the pretty pushy broad with a briefcase in her hand and all.”

There was an overpowering smell of urine, tobacco, stale booze and body odor. A ragged curtain hung over the small window behind Fryer’s single bed; a broken armchair with stuffing coming out of it was stacked with sheets of music, brown with age. The walls were covered with posters, old photographs and masks. Shelves hung lopsided with books and magazines.

“You wanna sit?”

Fryer asked, scratching his crotch. He was barefoot and his denim shirt was open to the waist, the thick leather belt of his dirty jeans unbuckled and the fly half open, but he behaved as if he were seated in some luxurious boudoir, and added an elegance to his gestures that lifted him above the squalor.

“Sit down, miss. What you say your name was?”

“Lorraine Page, Mrs.”

She passed him a card and looked hesitantly at the only chair that was not under a mound of rubbish. The rocking chair was covered by a knitted shawl, and as she sat down it creaked ominously, moving backward so that her feet left the ground before she rocked forward uneasily and put her briefcase down beside her.

“Mrs. Lorraine Page,”

he said softly, and then flicked the card away.

“Uh-huh, a private investigator.”

“Yes, Mr. Fryer, I have been hired by Elizabeth and Robert Caley to trace their daughter Anna Louise.”

The rocking chair creaked again and she held on to the arms, trying to keep still. She couldn’t help noticing that one of the posters, peeling off the damp wall, was from the movie The Swamp. It was a garish picture of Elizabeth Seal with a snake entwined around her body, arms reaching up to the sky.

Lorraine opened her briefcase and took out her notebook.

“You mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“For a lady that walks into a gentleman’s bedroom with a whole lot of purpose in her stride, I’d say I don’t have much option. Why don’t you set that nice tight little butt you got next to me?”

“I’m fine where I am, Mr. Fryer.”

He smiled, and then let out a rumble of a laugh.

“I guess you are, Mrs. Page, but I don’t see as how I can help you in your investigation.”

He saw her glance at the old movie poster.

“I was in that movie, The Swamp, the one your eyes keep straying to, with your employer, Mrs. Caley.”

“Yes, I know. And you were arrested on February sixteenth last year and questioned regarding the disappearance of Anna Louise, Mrs. Caley’s daughter.”

“I was, but I was released with no charge^t also had a full bar of customers who all stated that I never set foot outsKe my establishment the entire evening.”

“Yes, I know, but most of them were your own relatives.”

He eased his legs over the edge of the bed to sit upright, staring down at his toes.

“Is that so? Well, maybe you should talk to the police about that, because they got a list as long as your lovely legs that says not only my relatives was drinking and making music in my bar that night, but a lotta mah friends.”

“Did you see Anna Louise Caley that night, Mr. Fryer?”

He reached for some papers and a tobacco pouch.

“No, but some motherfucker says he saw me talkin’ to that poor child, and in this town, Mrs. Page, there are a lot of them. Motherfuckers. But when the police of this mighty fine city take you in, you do not argue, you got no option. They beat you up on the way to the cells, they beat you up in the cells, and they beat you up some more just for somethin’ to do when they release you. It’s a kind of custom we got in New Orleans.” He sprinkled tobacco, or what she presumed was tobacco, onto the paper and licked it. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark, dingy room, and to him; there was a kind of magnetism to Fryer Jones. He seemed not to care she was there, he was so laid-back and casual, his deep, throaty, smoky voice quite attractive.

“But you were held until the following morning,”

she said.

“That I was, but they had to check out that what I was saying was true, and it was the truth, Mrs. Page. I never saw Miss Caley that evening. In fact, I ain’t seen her for a long, long time. Maybe four or five years.”

“But you knew her?”

“Sure, I did, and I knew her mama.”

“Mrs. Caley says she does not know you, Mr. Fryer.”

“Well, she don’t, I know of her, maybe she knows of me. Don’t make us friendly now, does it?”

He lit up and inhaled deeply. He took three more deep drags, letting the smoke swirl into his lungs, sucking it in with a loud breath before he sighed, releasing it. And then to her astonishment he held it out to her.

“You want a hit?”

“No, thank you.”

“How about a drink?”

He brought out his bottle of bourbon.

“No, thank you, I don’t drink.”