Mr. Paradise A Novel (23 page)

She said, “Do you know it’s Saturday? I have to be at the DIA at two for rehearsal, hair, makeup. We have dinner at five in a cozy room and the show, I think, is at seven. Five changes in twenty-five minutes and it’s over. Are you coming?”

She was not like any cop’s wife he had ever known.

“I’ll be there,” Delsa said.

“You have a tux?”

“They’ll let me in.”

“I’ll have to drive,” Kelly said.

“I could maybe drop you off at two.”

“But what if something comes up and you can’t make the show?”

He said, “Yeah, you’d better drive.”

They were both at the table with the paper and their breakfast. He said, “You know I’m ten years older than you are?”

She was biting into a piece of toast, looking at the front page of the paper. She said, “Good for you,” still looking at the paper.

He said, “We’re on different schedules, aren’t we?”

She put the paper down.

“I lived with a call girl for two years,” Kelly said, “on quite different schedules. If we want to see each other, Frank, we’ll work it out.” She said, “Won’t we?”

T
HERE WERE EVIDENCE TECHS
on the scene, Jackie Michaels talking to the help, and the death investigator from the Medical Examiner’s office, Val Trabucci, taking pictures. Delsa approached him and Val took a break. He said, “Frank, this guy got out of bed this morning—if somebody told him he’d be dead before noon, he’d say they’re full of shit.”

“You think about things like that?”

“All the help here liked him, a nice young guy, married. But what’s his wife doing right now while he’s dead and she doesn’t know it? That’s what I think about.”

There was a silence before Delsa said, “I’ve got a question for you. You ever hear of a couple of guys named Fontana and Krupa?”

“Gene Krupa?”

“This one’s Art.”

Val said to the girl standing there watching, “Sweetheart, give me a big scoop of those fries, will you, please?” He said to Delsa, “Art Krupa. He shot a guy in a bar on Martin Luther King Day and copped to first-degree manslaughter.”

“I read both their sheets,” Delsa said. “I’m looking for something else.”

Val was watching the girl lift the basket of french fries out of the hot oil. He had to swallow before he said, “Fontana shot a guy with a deer rifle, hunting out of season, and copped to Man One about the same time as Krupa. I remember I kept calling him Gene.”

“It looks like they’re doing hits now.”

“Paradiso and who else?”

“Five dealers and one attempted.”

“Carl and Art? Where they get the guys they hit?”

“That’s what I’m looking at. I told Eleanor to find out who represented them, but she’s in court this morning.”

Val said, “That Eleanor’s got a body on her, you know it?” He said, “You should’ve asked me. It was Avern Cohn got ’em both reduced to manslaughter. It was using guns got ’em the time.”

“They could’ve met at Jackson.”

“Or they came out and Avern put ’em together.”

“You ever hear of a hit man service?”

“Not any that made it.”

“A guy runs it and gets them the jobs?”

Val said, “Uh-unh, but that could be Avern. He’d know anybody who wanted it done. But I’ll tell you,
you aren’t gonna make a living in this town as a contract hitter, there too many amateurs who like to shoot people. The guy that shot this man came in knowing he was gonna kill somebody in here. He was nervous about it, but dying to see what it was like. The knuckleheads that robbed this place, what was their take, a couple hundred?”

“What they got was one register.”

“Offer them a grand to hit somebody you’d have a deal. All these assholes and their guns, man, their nines . . . No, you want to be a hit man in Detroit you’d have to have a sideline, like home invasions. Bust in and develop a personal relationship with the family. Beat the shit out of the guy and fuck his wife.” Val turned to the girl waiting to give him his fries. He said, “Excuse my language, we’re talking business here.”

The girl said that would be a dollar sixty-one for the fries.

Val said, “That’s all right, forget it. Your manager was alive he’d tell you it was okay.” He turned to Delsa with the fries, offering them.

Delsa shook his head, but then caught the aroma and took a few.

So did Val Trabucci saying, “But how did this Montez get hold of the two guys? They’re from different walks of life, you might say. Unless—”

Delsa said, “Avern Cohn. He had Montez, lost him to Anthony Paradiso and got him back again. Wendell said, ‘Avern Cohn? I thought he’d been disbarred by now.’ “

Val said, “Well, shit, there you are, Avern’s their manager. What else you need while I’m here?”

“Avern’s name keeps coming up,” Delsa said. “I’m thinking I ought to talk to him.”

“I would.”

“See if I can make him nervous.”

“Scare the shit out of him,” Val said, “and see what he does.”

“Let me ask you something else. I got a C.I. working his ass off for the twenty grand on Orlando.”

“Who put it up?”

“Harris says the sister of one of the dead Mexicans. I gave the reward sheet to my C.I. and he got excited. But now he’s got a couple of guys with him who say they’re cops, but didn’t know about the reward, they’re just back from their vacations.”

“They’re not cops.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“They let this kid tag along?”

“He says they’re working together on it.”

Val shook his head. “They’re not cops.”

Delsa said, “Here’s the thing. Manny Reyes talked to a guy named Chino who runs the posse the three guys were in. The one dismembered Harris said you put back together?”

“Yeah, see if the parts matched.”

“Manny warns Chino not to go after Orlando. Chino tells Manny it’s being taken care of, sounding to Manny like he took out a contract on Orlando. Then Jerome tells me about these two guys looking for Orlando for the twenty grand.”

Val said, “And you’re on to two guys who shoot drug dealers.”

“White guys. Jerome tells me about the guys he’s with and I picture white guys.”

“Yeah . . . ?”

“But he never said they were white.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

Delsa was nodding. “The next time he calls.”

If he calls.

TWENTY-FIVE

LLOYD LOOKED THROUGH A ROSE
-colored pane in the door, the broken one below it finally replaced, and saw two figures on the stoop, one behind the other, but no red truck in the driveway. The mutts back. But then got a surprise when he opened the door. Was only one of the mutts, Art, and a black kid taller than Art. Lloyd said, “Montez ain’t here.”

Didn’t matter, they were coming in.

Art, not looking at Lloyd or saying a word, came in past him. The kid slouching into the foyer, his clothes hanging on him, a red-patterned do-rag that wasn’t bad, the kid looking up at the high ceiling and the bannister along the second floor. Art was in the dining room now, about to shove through the swing door to the pantry. Like it was his house. The kid started after Art and Lloyd said, “Wait, I want to ask you something.”

The kid looked around at him.

“What’s your name?”

“Three-J.”

“What’s your real name?”

He hesitated before saying, “Jerome Jackson.”

“That’s only two
J
s.”

“Jerome Juwan Jackson.”

Lloyd said, “Jerome, what are you doing with this ofay motherfucker? Tell me what’s going on here.”

Lloyd was cool, the way he said it, and Jerome was cool behind his shades, but showed some surprise the way he hesitated and stared at Lloyd.

Jerome said, “Ask them, Uncle. They don’t tell me shit.”

“I’m not your uncle, I’m Lloyd. They tell you who they are?”

“They say they cops, but they ain’t. They looking for Orlando same as me, for the reward.”

“But why they here?”

“They need to hide out a while.”

“From the police and they come
here
?”

Lloyd smiled, shaking his head, Jerome staring at him.

“Why you think that’s funny?”

“You don’t know who these mangy cats are, do you?”

“They contract hit men,” Jerome said. “They mean and they cuckoo, they kill nine people and a dog. I was you I wouldn’t fuck with them.”

Lloyd said, “They killed a dog, huh?”

“Art did, I saw him. Man says, ‘Don’t shoot my dog,’ and Art shoots it, a pit bull.”

“That what you want to do, shoot dogs?”

“You think I like being with them? I want the reward’s all. Man, twenty grand.”

“What’d this Orlando do?”

“Kill three Mexicans and cut one up. Was a drug thing, a disagreement.”

“Yeah, I read about it,” Lloyd said. “Who’s putting up the money?”

Jerome looked surprised.

“The cops.”

“You think they gonna pay twenty-K for a tip?”

Jerome brought the reward notice from a pocket in his pants and handed it to Lloyd. Lloyd unfolded the sheet and read it.

“Must be some Mexican putting it up, some relative of one of the deceased.” Lloyd handed the sheet back to Jerome and said, “Where’s Carl? Hiding the truck?”

“Seeing can he put it in the garage.”

“These guys strapped?”

“Each have a nine stuck in their pants.”

“How about you?”

“I’m fixed.”

“Where you keep it?”

“Here.” Jerome patted his butt.

“Must be a weapon with size, it’s pulling your pants off. You ever shoot anybody?”

“Not yet I haven’t.”

“You do any time?”

“Thirty months federal.”

“Possession, huh? Boy, I did a hundred and eight months straight up, no time off for being good. Was for armed robbery, no pussy narcotics. It means I’m in charge here. Understand? You don’t do nothing but what I tell you. Otherwise keep your mouth shut. Does that suit you?”

Jerome shrugged.

“Take off your glasses and look at me.”

Jerome pulled off his shades and they stared at each other, Lloyd saying, “I asked does that suit you. I’m in charge in this house. That make sense to you?”

“Yeah, but you don’t know who you fuckin with here.”

“I know them better than you,” Lloyd said. “I never saw ’em shoot a dog, but the other night I heard ’em shoot Mr. Paradise and his girlfriend. Right there in the living room, they watching TV.”

Jerome said, “Wait now. And they come here to
hide
?”

“It’s what I’m saying.” Lloyd motioned to him. “Let’s go see what they up to.”

C
ARL PUT THE
T
AHOE
in the garage and came in with the carton of liquor from the open house. He said to Lloyd, “Art’s checking Montez’ place, see if he’s hiding under the bed. That your Toyota in the garage?”

Lloyd said it was and asked, “How long you gonna be here?”

“That’s up to Montez. You know where he’s at?”

“He don’t tell me and I don’t ask.”

Carl said, “This boy here’s Jerome. He’s helping us out.” And said, “Listen, we’ll use your car we go anywhere. That okay with you, Chief?”

Lloyd said, “Use it all you want.”

Sounding helpful, and Jerome looked at him.

Art came in the back door.

He said to Lloyd, “Is Montez a faggot? He’s got that place dolled up like a woman did it. No colors like you see on sports teams. You know what I mean? They’re queer colors. Carl, like Connie—all those colors going on in your house.” Looking at Lloyd again, “Where’s Montez at, Chief?”

Lloyd said, “How’d you know I was called that?”

“All colored guys are, aren’t they? Being polite?”

“You mean politically correct,” Carl said.

“Yeah, being like equals.”

“He don’t know when he’s coming back or where he is,” Carl said. “You ready for a drink?” He turned to Lloyd. “Chief, why don’t you have one with us?”

Jerome began sorting through all he’d just heard.

A
VERN SAT LOOKING ACROSS
his clean desk at Montez in black leather today, the coat open enough to show his gold chains against his black T-shirt. He wore gold studs on his earlobes, something Anthony Paradiso never allowed, Anthony puzzled why any man would want to look like a girl.

“I’ve got some not so good news,” Avern said, “that could turn into some news you’re gonna like.”

Montez said, “So you have to give me the not so good news first?”

“That’s right,” Avern said, his hands folded on his clean desk. “Carl Fontana called last night. Both of their houses,
his and Krupa’s, are under police surveillance, Detroit and Hamtramck.”

Montez sat in his black leather and sunglasses staring at him, waiting, showing he was cool. Good.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Avern said, “the cops are aware of them. But I’m sure it’s not for Paradiso, and I’ll tell you why. Every gun they used on a contract went in the river, and I witnessed it. I took a risk going with them, but it was that important to me. But, they stay busy. They’ve pulled a few home invasions between contracts, and they could’ve left prints, especially Art. I told Carl he and his buddy ought to split up, get out of the state for a while, go to Florida and take it easy.”

Montez said, “What’s the good news?”

“They go down for home invasion, you won’t have to pay them. Of course you’d still owe me.”

“Wait now,” Montez said. “If they go down . . .” and looked at the etching on the wall behind Avern, the white guys in robes and half-ass wigs that was supposed to be funny—Montez seeing the situation and Avern as one of the wiggy characters before looking at him again.

“They get picked up for busting into homes—”

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“But they get brought up on the Paradiso gig—”

“How? If there no witnesses?”

Montez said, “Kelly saw them.”

Now he tells me, Avern thought, maintaining his pose, hands folded in front of him. He said, “From where?”