The Take (19 page)

She
sobbed a little more, this time for effect.

“Holy
shit. What happened to the other two that was with you?”

“They
were friends of his from Texas. They left right away. The other guy’s a
bookmaker, like my brother, plus he’s into other stuff, so he didn’t want to
get involved. He figured the cops’d never get the guy who did it, so there was
no point in their hanging around.”

“Why
didn’t you tell the cops any of this?”

“Oh AJ,
it was dark out there, and it happened so fast. It was a black kid did it, and
I know I’d never be able to pick him out of a lineup. But more’n that. I didn’t
want to get in trouble. I didn’t want there to be any connection to the hotel.”
She sniffled into the napkin, then added, “You always told us that you didn’t
want any trouble for the hotel, that if there was trouble, people would start
demanding that the city close down the lounge. I just
¾
I just didn’t want to cause you any
problems. I didn’t want to-to lose my job.”

Loyalty.
AJ demanded it from his people and he loved it when they gave it to him in such
large doses. He pulled her chair close to his, as he slid a thin arm around her
soft shoulder.

Caressing
her like the patriarch that he was, he said with a smile, “God damn, darlin’,
you really are something, you know that? Real heads-up thinking at such a
tragic time. Tell you what, starting immediately, you’re gonna be making an
extra hundred a week, okay? And for good measure, take tonight off. I’ll call
in a sub. You stay home and take it easy, okay?”

She
thanked him. They hugged again, as she put her coat back on. Her breathing came
a little easier now, as she exited onto Bourbon Street. All the rocking and
twisting in her stomach started to smooth out, if only just a little. The
clammy sweat that had collected
under her arms and down her spine was evaporating.

As for
the dryness in her throat, a belt of Dewar’s would take care of that as soon as
she got home.

≈≈≈

AJ turned his attention back to his meal, picking up the waiting
forkful of rice. Before he put it in his mouth, however, he touched it with the
back of his fingers. Cold, just like he thought.

“Kenny,”
he signaled to the waiter, who was there at once. “Heat up this jambalaya.”

“
¡A
lto!
Alto!
” Urgency spilled
from Vega’s voice.

Tomás
slammed on the brakes. Right across the old Beaumont highway sat a nondescript
used car lot. In its front line, out close to the road in cream puff territory,
was a bright orange Toyota.

Tomás
made a U-turn, then swerved the Cadillac into the lot. The crunch of tires and
flying gravel brought the salesman out of the heated mobile home that served as
the office. As soon as they got out of their car, he was on them.

“Howdy,
fellas. What can I do you for?”

”That
orange Toyota,” Vega said.

”Ah,
that’s a beauty, that one. Sure, it’s got a few years on
it, but it’s low mileage. And in great
shape, too. Why, it’s —”

“Who’d
you get it from?”

The
salesman eyed the two men carefully. They were both
wearing very dark sunglasses, with
well-tailored suits visible beneath open topcoats. These two damn sure weren’t
looking to buy any ten-year-old Toyota.

“Well,
that’s kind of confidential information, gentlemen.”

“Did a
guy named Ryan sell you that car?” Vega opened his topcoat and suit jacket a
little wider to reveal the handle of his holstered piece.

The
message hit home. “Well, now that you mention it, I believe that was his name.
Came through here Saturday. No,
I
believe it was Friday. Yeah, that’s it. Friday morning. I did that deal myself,
yes I did.” He wiped perspiring palms onto his checkered shirt.

“What
else?”

Vega
could see he was going to tell it all, without any hesitation.

“Well
now, I’ll tell you, he did act kind of strange. He was in a real big hurry,
that one. Yessir. He didn’t want to mess around with the price. You know, most
folks come through here, they always try to bargain a little. Try to get the
best deal, you know. But not this fella. He was in a real big hurry. Just
traded in that old Toyota for another car as quick as you please. Just like
that.” He snapped his fingers.

“What
kind of car?”

“Well
now, I believe it was that Ford we had out on the front line. Yessir, that was
it, the Ford. Big green car, beautiful shape it was. About eight years old. Low
mileage, though. He got a sweet deal on that one, even though he didn’t try to
bargain. Why, it was a —”

“How
did he pay for it?”

“Oh,
cash money. Yessir. Cold cash. All hundreds. You know, I thought there was
something fishy about that, the way he just peeled off all them big bills. He
just didn’t look the type to be carrying that kind of money. And that girl he
had with him, well, you know, she definitely didn’t look the type, if you know
what I mean.”

“Girl?”

“Oh
yeah. A little Mess’can-lookin’ thing. Pretty cute, but … you know, just not
the type to be walkin’ around with a lot of money.”

 
“Did he say where he was goin’?”

“Well
now, I don’t recall — well — hold on — hold on just a second.
I believe the girl mentioned something — yeah, she sure did, now that I
think about it.”

“What
was that?”

”She
wanted to know how far it was to New Orleans.”

T
he white Dodge
with the blackwall tires pulled into the parking lot of NOPD Headquarters. Not
surprisingly, many similar cars, both white and black, all with blackwall tires
and no trim, occupied that lot. The nasty wind that had whipped up over Lake
Pontchartrain slapped Joe Dunlap in the face, as he lifted himself out of the
car.

“Shee-eezus,
it’s cold,” he cried.

He and
the young detective hustled across the lot into the building. Thanks to their
car’s still-defective heater, they had frozen during the entire six-hour drive
from Houston. Now the wind was the final stinger to the whole miserable trip.

Unfortunately,
recent budget cuts in New Orleans had postponed long-overdue repairs to the
heating system in the Police Headquarters building. So instead of the instant
warmth he expected upon entering, Dunlap felt a chill. He looked around.
Everyone was wearing thick sweaters and jackets. They went up to the second
floor.

He
turned to the young detective, saying, “What kinda fucking hick town is this,
anyway? Not even any heat in their headquarters building.”

The
sign on the glass door said, “Investigative Bureau.” Dunlap and the young
detective entered, then approached the counter. Looking around the large room
at disorganized desks and ringing telephones, Dunlap noticed electric space
heaters
placed here and
there. They were those portable jobs, all going at full tilt. Wherever they
came from, they sure as hell weren’t heating up the counter area.

Without
unbuttoning his overcoat, he and the young detective showed their IDs to the
desk sergeant.

“We
need to see the Chief of Detectives.”

“Chief’s
not in,” said the sergeant. “What does this pertain to, Lieutenant?”

“A
Houston murder suspect we think is here in New Orleans.”

The
sergeant checked his log.

“I can
let you see Lieutenant Champagne.”

He
picked up his phone, then punched three numbers. Within moments, a tall black
man approached the desk.

The
sergeant said, “Lieutenant, these men are police officers from Houston here on
a homicide investigation.” He gestured toward the two men. “Lieutenant Dunlap
and his partner.”

“Elvin
Champagne,” said the black lieutenant. He shook hands with the two men.

His
build was rugged, but not weightlifter-bulky. He wore a sweater-vest over a
freshly- laundered shirt. The crease in his navy blue slacks was male-model
crisp. Unlike his colleagues, he looked like he’d just slipped into his
clothes. It pulled his whole look together in an attractive kind of way. He
didn’t appear too old, but Dunlap could tell he’d been around the track a time
or two.

“What
can I do for you?” Champagne asked.

“We’re
here in connection with a murder that took place in Houston Thursday night. We
believe the perp came over here,
and
we’d like to know if you got any information on him — an address,
anything.”

“Well,
let’s find out.” He took his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “What’s
his name?”

“Eddie
Ryan. White male, early thirties, dark hair, about —”

Champagne
stopped writing. “Did you say Ryan?”

”Yeah,
why?”

”Come
on with me.”

He
escorted them over to his desk. It
was easily the tidiest in the room. A photo of a pretty woman and a
beaming little girl sat prominently by his in-box. Dunlap and the young
detective pulled up a couple of wooden folding chairs, angling for the position
nearest the portable space heater on the floor, to the right of Champagne’s
desk. They still wore their overcoats.

On top
of the desk were several file folders, laid out perfectly so that only the tabs
showed, one above the other. Champagne lifted the first one and opened it.

“Guy
from Houston by that name — Edward Ryan — bought it Friday night
down in the French Quarters. Got a knife in the gut as he was getting out of
his car. We figure robbery — his empty wallet was lying next to him. Then
he probably struggled — or shit, who knows with these kids these days.
Maybe your friend Ryan just looked cross-eyed at the guy.”

Dunlap
was thrown. “He’s dead? You tellin’ me he’s
dead
?
Killed by some street punk? For his
wallet
?”

“Affirmative.
But we had him as a tourist. It’s still pretty big news here. You say he was a
murder suspect himself?”

Dunlap,
still stunned, nodded absently, while Champagne added with a chuckle, “Well, if
that ain’t a bitch! Howzat for
justice?”

He
spoke with a strange accent — sort of New York, but without the hard
edge. Dunlap had never heard any black man speak like this.

“Were
there any … personal effects?” he managed to ask.

“Not
much besides his car. We’ve got that impounded. Wasn’t anything in it. All he
had on him was his car keys and wallet — we found them laying in the street,
no money in it of course — a little change, and a matchbook from a local
hotel about four blocks from where he was killed.”

“Hotel?
Four blocks away? Was he stayin’ there?”

“No.
That’s the funny thing about it. We don’t know where he was staying. We checked
all the downtown hotels. None of them have any record of him. We figure he was
staying somewhere because there was no luggage in his car. We know he ate
dinner with another man and a woman in the restaurant of this hotel on the
matchbook. He parked his car there. Picked up the tab, too, according to the waiter.
Paid in cash and left a healthy tip. And let me tell you — this place ain’t
cheap.”

“What’s
it called?”

“The
Louis Philippe. Two hundred block of Bourbon. Oh, and after he ate there, he
and the others went into the lounge.”

“The
lounge?”

“Yeah,
it’s a place where they got high-ticket whores. Been around forever. Nice
place, pretty fancy setup. But he didn’t mess around with any of them. Seems he
got friendly with the girl who plays piano there.”

“Can
you gimme her name?”

“Sure,
it’s, uh —” He checked his file. “Linda Lavelle.”

Dunlap
head-signaled the young detective, who took out his own notebook and began to
write.

“Did
you check her out?”

“Nope.
We were about to do it yesterday morning, but we had a double murder on Rampart
Street about an hour and a half after the Ryan killing, and the paperwork just
backed us up.”

“What
about the other two with him? A man and a woman, you say?”

“Can’t
find `em. Maybe they freaked, I don’t know. But now that you say Ryan was
wanted for murder, they might’ve been accomplices of his, who probably split as
soon as he went down. Even if they weren’t his partners, it damn sure would’ve
gotten sticky for them if they’d hung around, having to answer for their
connection to him. No wonder they didn’t want to get involved.”