Hot Ticket (27 page)

“Who would want to kill him?”

“Tuna?”

“Try again. Tuna wants him alive so he can get his poison.”

Shit. “Louis is afraid of Fausto.”

“He called Fausto first, before dialing the FBI.”

“Maybe he’s afraid of Barnard. Must not know she’s dead.”

“That’s ridiculous. Who were the two men he went to jail with? Accomplices?”

“I’ll know in an hour.” I tried to keep the pout out of my voice. Difficult to do when Maxine belted me from endgame back
to square one.

“How’s Marvel?” she asked brightly after a pause.

“I haven’t taken a bath with him yet, if that’s what you mean.”

“How’s Duncan?”

“Oblivious of anything beyond Justine’s tush.”

“I hear Fausto’s a pretty good pianist.”

The Queen knew musicians were my downfall. I might as well give her something to worry about. “I’ve tapped his phone. He’s
been trying to reach Simon in Belize.”

“Why would Fausto be contacting a mercenary?”

No answer yet. “The good news is, no one knows Simon’s dead. The longer he rots in the jungle, the less chance there will
be anything left to find.” Bad news was, Fausto knew I had been to Koko’s. No need to rile the Queen with that.

“Speaking of rot,” Maxine said, “Jojo Bailey won’t last the week. I want you to wrap things up before Aurilla gets herself
sworn in. You’ve been in Washington too long.”

“I’ve had concerts.”

“One concert. It’s over.”

“Bobby likes me.”

“Are you so naive to think that the
president of the United States
would take the risks he has just to see
you?
”

“You weren’t in the back of a limo with this oaf’s head in your lap.”

“Know what, Smith? I think you’re having so much fun in the water that you don’t see the sharks coming at you from twenty
directions.”

I saw them all right. Trouble was, I’d have to wait for one of them to take a leg off before making my next move.

“What’s happening with Aurilla Perle?” Maxine continued.

“She hasn’t spoken to me since her party.”

“She invited you for a reason. It wasn’t a musical one. Ever find out who’s sending you flowers?”

Sure! I just went five rounds with him! “No.”

“What’s Chickering up to?”

“She’s threatening to sit on me if I go near her wife again.”

“She sat next to you at Ford’s Theatre.”

“So did Justine. The ticket came from Bobby. They’re all one happy family.”

“How’s Paula?”

“Nursing her arthritis.”

A short guffaw. I braced myself. Maxine always saved her best questions for last. “What’s with Fausto? Skip the part about
what a good pianist he is.”

But that was ninety percent of the puzzle. Where to begin, what to omit? I had to be extremely careful here: Maxine’s forte,
besides puncturing my theories, was connecting the dots and hanging me with the line. “Two nights ago, after the fundraiser,
he played a private recital for Marvel and Justine. Strange thing was, there was no Secret Service around.”

“Ain’t easy for a president to slip out of the White House.”

“He’s done it before. Nearly cost him his job. But he did it again.”

“Gee, that sounds a little cagey for the innocent sex maniac you’ve been seeing.”

“I didn’t say he was totally stupid.” Damn, where was I. “When Fausto left the room, Marvel took the opportunity to fuck Justine.”

“I thought he was besotted with you. And I thought Justine was servicing Duncan.”

“Maybe it’s just a habit.”

“Nothing you’re saying makes sense. But continue.”

“Who comes down the driveway but Tuna. He meets with Bobby for about ten minutes then splits.”

“Why would Marvel secretly meet an arms dealer? Was Fausto in on the meeting?”

“No, he was outside while they talked. I think he only set it up.”

Maxine sighed profanities. “Too bad you couldn’t tap more than Fausto’s phone. Would have been nice to hear what went on between
Marvel and Tuna.”

“Give me a break. Fausto’s with me every second I’m in his house. I was lucky to get away with a phone tap.” One Pandora’s
box at a time, for Christ’s sake! “Could you look up a Richard Poore and Lydia Varnas for me? He’s a tugboat captain. She’s
a piano teacher. Both in London. If they’re alive, they’re old.”

“What does this have to do with Louis?”

“It has to do with Fausto.”

Momentary quiet. “Just remember that your primary mission is to identify Barnard’s killer and get out of there. You’re spending
too much time with Fausto.”

I sighed in frustration. “Everything seems to revolve around him.”

“Absolutely not. Everything revolves around Bobby Marvel.”

“I’m telling you, he’s not that smart!”

“Exactly what Barnard said,” she replied. “Look who’s still walking. Watch your ass at the jail.”

Talking with Maxine was more exhausting than playing chess with Deep Blue. She had the advantage of distance and dispassion
while I was the grunt in the trenches. At least she hadn’t told me what to do. She never did: the Seven Sisters always got
to step on their own grenades. Nearly one in the morning but now I had a little errand to run. A futile one, perhaps, but
better than standing like Bambi in front of oncoming headlights. I took a cab about three miles east on Florida Avenue.

“Sure you got the right number, lady?” the driver asked. “I ain’t goin’ wait for you in that neighborhood. And you ain’t goin’
find a cab back neither.”

“Tell you what,” I said, dropping a hundred bucks into the front seat. “How about selling me that crowbar I know you’re sitting
on.”

He pocketed the bill. “It’s a bowie knife.”

“I’m not choosy.”

With each block, Florida Avenue lost glass and gained graffiti. Must have been a nice place to live during the Civil War.
Pretty coned dormers, high windows, inset doorways … now a cockroach would think twice about moving in. The liquor stores
were armed fortresses. We passed cars without tires, buildings without roofs, squares of neon hawking tarot, lotteries, tattoos
… this was a jungle within a jungle. Different animals but same Darwinian struggle, and without a gun I could not consider
myself among the fittest here. Only two slim points in my favor: the rain and my lethal curiosity.

No idiot, the cabbie didn’t directly unhand his bowie knife. Instead he opened his door, left the knife on the street, and
U-turned back to civilization. I tucked the bowie in my belt and looked around. Nothing moved but the stormclouds and a twitching
police flasher two blocks away. Donelle Boozer didn’t live far from the hospital where he had just spent a wonderful three
weeks shitting his brains out. I rang the doorbell of a brick tenement: no buzzing inside. As I waited, heavy raindrops spattered
the jalousies. Someone was trying to eke one last tomato out of the vine in the milk box. Lightning whitewashed the street
for several seconds before a loud, close
boom.

I took a few steps back, saw an open window above the porch. Climbed up to a small, hot room where a black man, naked, slept
alone. A dozen bottles of medicine cluttered the night table. He hadn’t yet removed the bandage over his IV drip. I took the
largest bottle to the window and read the label. Take two teaspoons every three hours to relieve diarrhea: Boozer all right.

He slept on his stomach. Nice ass. Didn’t look dangerous, but his eyes were shut. According to his rap sheet, Donelle was
a fifth-rate hustler who had never graduated beyond unarmed robbery and friendly pimping. Couldn’t be too dangerous if he
slept with the windows open. With a few of his polyester ties, I secured one wrist and two ankles to the bed frame. “Donelle.
Hey.” When he lifted his head, I straddled him, twisting his free arm back. “Don’t even try to get up. You’re tied to the
bed.”

A couple of tugs convinced him that this succubus was real. He didn’t seem to mind. “You’re wasting your time, woman,” he
said calmly. “I got no cash at all. I been in the hospital with a very nasty disease.”

“I know.” Outside, intense lightning. Thunder shook the house. “I have a few questions about that.”

“Look, if you’re here about that guy, I’m sorry. He was one motherfuckin’ tornado. I’ll give you a refund soon’s I get back
on my feet.” Donelle struggled to look at me. “You a cop?”

“Worse.” I shoved his face back into the pillow. “I’m the sanitation crew. Clean up everyone’s mess. And you messed up.” I
laid the bowie knife on the sheet a few inches from his nose. “Start from the top and stick to the facts.”

“Can I go to the bathroom first? You got my insides all riled up jumpin’ on me like that.”

“You can crap all you want after I leave. How’d you get this gig?”

“Someone phones me four o’clock in the friggin’ morning askin’ if I’m lookin’ for quick easy work. Two grand cash was waitin’
in my milk box downstairs. All I do is haul myself down to the FBI in half an hour. If a thin honky shows up, I shove him
into my car and drive to the cemetery down the block.”

“The Congressional Cemetery?”

“Whatever’s down by the jail. I said I couldn’t do it without help since I never saw this guy and what if he’s a strong sucker?
So I get my cousin Mohammed to come along.”

“How’d you get this job?”

“I got a little network, you know what I mean.”

“Sure. So you and Mo get to the FBI building and see this guy.”

“Yeah, a tall honky, thin as a coke straw. Little round glasses like those revolutionary dudes. Stank real bad. Me and Mohammed
mosey up nice and slow like, one on each side. But he’s expectin’ us and starts swingin’ and spittin’. We can’t get a good
grip on him. ’Fore you know it, he’s jumpin’ in the bushes and throwin’ dirt. Then a police car comes by. Shittin’ bad luck.”

Outside, a long flash followed by gigantic ripping sounds and cascades of rain. “So you all go to the police station. Then
what.”

“Me and Mo tell the cops we just walkin’ by mindin’ our own business and this guy starts hammerin’ us. That don’t cut no mustard
since the cops know me. So we get brung to jail. Me and Mohammed bein’ very good, very polite, ’cause we know we done nothin’.
Then all of a sudden I get these motha pains in my chest. I think I am goin’ die. I was chokin’ for air. Then Mohammed gets
it too. We rollin’ on the floor and goin’ out fast when the ambulance finally come. Me and my cousin spend three weeks in
a hospital with a stomachache and the runs to die. I still hurtin’ bad all ova.”

I dismounted but kept Donelle’s arm in a twist. “What was supposed to happen once you brought this guy to the cemetery?”

“Why you askin’ me? I jes’ do my job and clear out.”

No use asking if he knew who had hired him. “Any idea why you got sick?”

“Sure! This guy, he done it. He bite me here, on the hand. And he bite Mohammed on the arm.”

“Try again. He’s not a dog with rabies.”

“He somethin’ odd, you believe me. Hot like hell and he wears rubber gloves. And he smells so bad, like a dead skunk. Not
a people smell at all.”

“What happened to the rubber gloves?”

“Cops made him take them off when they fingerprint him. Throw them away.”

Adios, evidence. A little ecotoxin on latex, touch an open wound: bingo. Louis wasn’t going down without a fight. “Did he
talk?”

“Only two words, loud and clear.
Not guilty.
The lawmen laugh him out of the room. That’s one wanker there. Me and Mohammed be settlin’ when we see him in court.”

“When’s that?”

“Three days.”

“Did you tell your doctor what you told me?”

“He jus’ laughed. Stuck-up shithead from India.”

To my left, a tiny splat: the roof leaked. “One last question. Where’s the money?”

“You not askin’ for it back, I hope. This was supposa be a nice easy job. No one mentioned this guy bein’ a poisonous snake.
In fac, I should ask for another grand in medicine expense. My in-sides not feelin’ good.”

I could hear them gurgling all too ominously. “You don’t really deserve this,” I said, tucking a wad of bills in Donelle’s
butt. “But at least you tried. Count to ten real slow and keep your head in the pillow. You peek at me and you get a bowie
knife in place of those nice clean Ben Franklins. Understand?”

“I read you, sista.”

“I never made this visit.”

“You got it.”

“And you don’t repeat this snake man crap. Start counting. Slow and out loud.”

I was back on the street before Donelle hit double digits. Overhead raged a violent thunderstorm. I was glad to walk undisturbed
under tons of water and a zillion volts of electricity. Reminded me, soothingly, of the jungle, of Ek in his grass hut, waiting,
caretaking … He had chosen his master and stuck with him. Rare boy. A few miserable cabs surfaced after a mile or so, but
I had left all my spare cash in Donelle’s rear end. Popped back to the zoo. Maxine had located Poore and Varnas, alive, in
London. Breakfast time over there so I called and made appointments with both of them. Checked Fausto’s phone tap: inactive,
thank God. Got back to the hotel around four o’clock, as Sunday commuters were zipping along Pennsylvania Avenue toward their
places of worship. Message light blinking. The first was from Rhoby Hall.

“Leslie, I can’t thank you enough for playing with me. That was one of the greatest nights of my life. I’m crazy about you.
Let’s please get together again.”

The second was from Vicky Chickering. “Here’s some advice you should take very seriously. Stay away from Rhoby.”

Third was from Bendix. “I’d like to see you at your earliest convenience.”

Once again, a little overhot in this town. Louis could wait a day. I slept, then left.

T
HE CONCORDE
was halfway across the Atlantic when I realized that over the last few days Fausto had phoned just about everyone but his
doctor. Maybe he was waiting for another seizure to confirm that his old malady had returned; meanwhile he’d pretend his only
health problems were a nicotine craving and a slight midriff bulge. He hadn’t called me, either. That hurt, even if I had
left him stranded with Rhoby to take a spin with Marvel.