Fat Tuesday (14 page)

And therein, Burke realized, lay the mechanism that made him tick.

Drug trafficking wasn't just a means of making money, it was DuvalUs primo head trip. He did it because he could get away with it. To him it was a game, and he was winning. His illegal activities allowed him to demonstrate his superiority, if only to himself.

Pinkie Duvall figured frequently in front-page stories. Aside from that, his name routinely appeared in the society columns. But mention and pictures of his wife were noticeably scarce. When she did appear in a rare candid photo, she was usually standing in her husband's shadow.

Literally.

Was she camera shy? Or was it impossible to upstage a mediasavvy egomaniac like Pinkie Duvall, no matter how gorgeous you were?

What Burke also thought odd was that very little copy had been written about her. She had never been the focus of a write-up. Nor was she ever quoted. So either she didn't have an opinion about anything, or her opinion was so vapid it wasn't newsworthy, or her opinion was never solicited because her verbose husband was always on hand with something printable to tell reporters or columnists.

Mr. and Mrs. Pinkie Duvall were listed on the rosters of several charities, but Remy Duvall didn't hold an office in any of the social or civic women's clubs, nor did she serve on any board or committee or chair any fund-raisers.

Remy Lambeth Duvall was her husband's antithesis. She was a nonentity.

He stayed until the library closed. They literally locked the doors behind him when he left. He realized he was hungry: All he'd consumed today were a stale Twinkie and as much of the banana smoothie as he could stomach. To help curb the roach population, he kept nothing edible in his apartment. He eschewed a restaurant in favor of a convenience store, where he bought two microwave hot dogs and a Big Gulp.

He drove away from the store with no particular destination in mind.

But he knew were he was going. When he got there, the house was dark except for security lights and a second-story window.

The wieners in the hot dogs were rubbery and the buns stale, but he chewed and swallowed mechanically, without tasting, wondering what Mr. and Mrs. Pinkie Duvall were doing on the other side of that shuttered window.

Talking? From what Burke had seen and read, she was no chatterbox.

Was she capable of scintillating conversation only with her husband?

Were her opinions and insights reserved for his ears alone? Did she entertain him in the evenings with her witty observations?

Yeah, right, Burke thought sardonically as he wadded up the hotdog wrappers and threw them to the floorboard. She'd keep ol' Pinkie stimulated, all right, but about a yard south of his brain.

He belched up the taste of bad hot dogs and washed it down with a swig of his overcarbonated cola.

Poor Pinkie. He was obviously pussy-whipped by this chick and blissfully unaware of the thing she had going with Wayne Bardo. Or maybe not. Maybe Pinkie shared her with his clients. Maybe she was one of the perks he provided for a client when he got away with murder.

The light went out.

Burke continued to stare at the dark window. The graphic images that flickered through his mind bothered him so greatly that he squeezed his eyes shut to try to block them out. His gut felt like lead. He blamed it on the hot dogs.

A half hour passed before he started his car and drove away.

It was clear to him that Duvall was besotted with his wife. She was treated like goddamn royalty. Ruby Bouchereaux had told him that Pinkie kept her under lock and key. He'd seen for himself how well she was guarded and protected.

"What does that tell you, Basile?"

As he let himself into his bleak apartment, he was smiling.

Remy lay perfectly still, listening to Pinkie's soft snores. She sent up a small prayer of thanksgiving that her ruse had worked. He had denied Flarra's request, never guessing that was exactly what Remy wanted him to do.

This wasn't the first time she had used reverse psychology to manipulate her husband. Most often it failed. But this time she had the advantage of knowing that he wouldn't welcome anyone intruding on them and making demands on her time. Especially Flarra. Pinkie knew how much she loved her sister, and he was jealous of their bond.

Thank you, God, for his jealousy. Keep him jealous.

Be careful what you pray for.

As on many other sleepless nights, Sister Beatrice's advice came back to haunt her. She understood now the lesson the nun had been trying to teach her. As a child, hadn't she begged God for another life, one free of poverty and responsibility?

Well, that's exactly what she had been granted. Little had she known what a tremendous price she would pay for this answer to her naive prayers.

Pinkie slumbered contentedly, his arm around her. The weight of it seemed crushing.

The men's rest room comprised one side of a square, concrete block structure. Inside were two rusty sinks, three stained urinals, and a single enclosed stall, the door of which hung by only one hinge.

There was no roof, but despite its open-air interior, the public toilet smelled badly in need of cleaning. Burke held his breath as he went in.

It was dark inside because the light fixture had been broken. The vandalism had probably gone unreported to City Park maintenance.

There weren't too many men crazy enough to be in here after sundown, and those who were preferred darkness.

When Burke went in, only one other man was in the room. He was standing at a urinal, his back to the entrance. He must have heard Burke come in, but he didn't even glance over his shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Burke moved to the urinal next to the one being used. The man beside him finished but didn't immediately zip up. He turned his head slightly in Burke's direction and somewhat shyly remarked, "Sort of spooky in here."

Burke zipped his fly and turned toward the other man."Sure as hell is.

Never know who you might bump into."

Gregory James slumped against the wall and grappled with his zipper, groaning, "Basile."

"Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Shit."

"Guess not." Burke took the slender young man's arm and pushed him toward the exit.

Gregory balked."I haven't done anything. You can't arrest me."

"I ought to take you in just for being stupid. How'd you know I wasn't a Jeffrey Dahmer? Or a redneck out to roll myself a queer. One of these days they'll be spooning your parts into a body bag. You're gonna make a move on the wrong guy and wind up minced meat."

"Don't bust me, Basile," he pleaded."Swear to God, I've learned my lesson."

"Sure you have. That's why you're lurking around in City Park rest rooms in the middle of the night."

"I was just taking a leak."

"Save it, Gregory. You're lying through your teeth. I've been following you, so I know you've been seeing action, friend. Lots of it."

"That's not true! I've cleaned up my act."

"Like hell. The guy you hustled last night looked like a minor to me.

If I hadn't been on other business, I would have hauled you in, and they could've thrown a book of felonies at you."

"Oh, Jesus," the young man sobbed dryly."If you bust me " "They'll lock you up and throw away the key this time. You're a menace to society."

Desperate now, the younger man began to beg."Please, Basile. Cut me some slack. I've done you favors in the past, haven't I? Remember all the times I helped you?"

"To save your ass from arrest."

"Please, Basile, give me a break." Burke pretended to mull it over, then said brusquely, "Let's go, pretty boy."

Gregory wailed.

"Shut up," Burke ordered, giving him a shake."I'm not going to bust you, but I'm taking you home and seeing you inside, so at least I'll know your neighborhood is safe for the rest of the night."

Gregory thanked Burke repeatedly as they made their way toward Burke's car. Gregory lived alone a few blocks from the park, in a two-story townhouse that had been fashionably refurbished. The house and courtyard garden were kept in excellent condition despite the owner's frequent absences when he was serving time for sex offenses.

Burke escorted Gregory past the beveled glass front door and into the foyer."You don't have to come in with me," Gregory told him."I'm not going out again. Swear."

"Your parents taught you better manners, Gregory. Offer me a cup of coffee or something."

Tense and jittery and obviously mistrustful of Burke's intentions, he agreed quickly."Right. Good idea. I should have thought of it myself.

Don't know what I was thinking."

"You were thinking of getting rid of me, so you could go out and try to score again tonight."

"You have a suspicious nature, Basile," said Gregory with mild reproof as he led Burke into the kitchen.

"Because I've dealt with too many lying criminals like you."

"I'm not a criminal."

"Oh, yeah?" Burke straddled one of the bar stools backward and watched his host assemble the coffeemaker."Let's see if memory serves. I recall a child-molestation case."

"He was sixteen, and it was consensual. The charges were dropped."

"Because your daddy paid off the kid's parents. Then I remember a string of public-exposure arrests."

"Nothing serious. I got probation."

"You wienie waggers are a pathetic lot, you know that, Gregory?"

"If you're going to be verbally abusive, I'll file charges of police harassment against you."

"Be my guest. I'll call your daddy, tell him you're up to your old tricks, and he'll stop paying for this swell place he's set you up in."

Gregory gnawed the inside of his cheek."Okay, you win. But you're a bastard, Basile."

"So I've been told."

Burke didn't enjoy badgering him, but Gregory James had made himself an easy target of derision. His was the classic story of a young man who hadn't lived up to his wealthy family's standards and expectations.

His eldest brother, after successfully playing major-league baseball for a few seasons, had assumed control of the family's industrial empire and added millions to its coffers. The second brother was a neurosurgeon of world renown.

Gregory had broken this chain of overachievement. He probably wouldn't have graduated from the university if his father hadn't bought him a degree by making a sizable grant to the school. Gregory then entered the seminary, the consensus being that a cleric was needed to round out the family. They were counting on a cardinal at least. Gregory endured the seminary for a year and a half before deserting that ambition, having discovered that his penchant for sexual misconduct was incompatible with a life of religious devotion. To distance themselves from his disgrace, the James clan banished him to New York, where he attended drama school.

It was there that Gregory had finally found a niche. He actually had a talent for acting and had performed in several off-Broadway productions before being arrested for performing an indecent act with another man in a public phone booth in Penn Station. Once again his wealthy father interceded, and the charges were dropped. Gregory returned home, shrouded in scandal.

This was the final straw for the Jameses, who washed their hands of son number three, although they continued to pay the bills on this townhouse. Burke figured they'd rather be out the expense than have Gregory living with them and have to confront their singular failure on a daily basis.

Gregory served the coffee."Would you care for anything in that?

Cream, sugar, a liqueur?"

"No thanks, this is fine." Gregory sat down across the bar from Burke, who could tell that the younger man was nervous."How come you're so jumpy, Gregory?"

"I can't figure out why you're here." "Consider it a social call. As you said, we go way back."

Gregory James was one of the drug division's best snitches. He was an active participant in the French Quarter's nightlife and circled in the same orbit with drug dealers, although he wasn't a user himself. He had often swapped information in exchange for leniency toward his vice of choice.

"You'd have been a real asset to the department if we could have kept you out of jail," Burke remarked as he sipped his coffee.

"Earlier you called me a criminal. I take umbrage at that, Basile," he said peevishly."I'm not a criminal."

"Then what are you?"

"A patient. I have a ... a problem."

"That's a given."

"I'm suffering an acute emotional disorder that has roots in my childhood My family's values are skewed. I was forced to be competitive with my brothers when it's not in my nature to be. They were beastly to me."

"Gee, Gregory, you're breaking my heart." "It's true! The prison psychiatrist said my problem was psychological."

"So was Ted Bundy's."

"It's not my fault!" the younger man exclaimed."It's an urge I can't control. I can't help it that I ... do ... what I sometimes ... do."

"Uh-huh. That's become a popular defense these days. Because Mommy made me wear white socks and Daddy liked Diet Dr. Pepper I whacked em both." Burke sneered in disgust."(,uys like you make me sick. You whine around, blaming everybody else for your actions. You're a grown-up now, Gregory. You are accountable for what you do."

Suddenly he came to his feet and grabbed a handful of Gregory's shirt collar."I've changed my mind. I'm taking you in." "No! No, Basile!

Please. You promised!"

"I did?"

"Yes."

"I don't remember promising."

"You did."

Burke released him slowly and returned to his stool. He fixed a hard stare on Gregory and held it for so long that Gregory began to fidget in his seat. Finally, he looked helplessly at Burke.

"What?"

"I was just thinking." He continued to stare at the younger man as he took another sip of coffee. Lowering his cup, he said, "Maybe I could conveniently forget that I saw you with that minor last night.

Maybe I could overlook that you made a move on me in a park rest room tonight. I might be willing to let it go this time."

"If ..."

"If you do me a small favor." Gregory's expression turned wary."What kind of favor?"