House of the Rising Sun (10 page)

“Any arrests?”

The detective nodded. “Two weeks later, Homicide picked up a guy named Cleo Harris, goes by the nickname Winky.”

“They obviously didn't find the gun he used, not if the shithead with the skull mask tried to kill me with it.”

LaGrange nodded. “They got the shooter but not the gun.” “Even if I could get into lockup to talk to the guy, what's his name, Harris, there's no way he's going to tell me what he did with that gun.”

“He's not in lockup.”

“He bonded out on a murder charge?”

The detective shook his head. “The D.A. dropped the case.”

“Why?”

“The only witness developed amnesia.”

“No witness, no case,” Ray said.

LaGrange nodded.

“Is Harris white or black?” Ray asked.

LaGrange slid his index finger down the face sheet of the report. “Cleo Harris. Black male, twenty-three years old. Five eight, one hundred and sixty pounds.”

“All four stickup men who came in the House were white.”

“Maybe he sold it.” LaGrange glanced again at the report. “It was a forty-caliber Smith & Wesson, by the way.”

“How do you know it was a Smith?”

The detective flipped to a page at the back of the report. After reading for a few seconds, he said, “They got some scientific mumbo jumbo in here about indications of bullet twist per inch and spacing between the lands and grooves, but the bottom line is that the lab determined it was a Smith & Wesson. It even gives some likely model numbers, all of which are stainless steel.”

Ray reached across the table. “I need that report.”

LaGrange pulled the sheaf of papers back. “No way.”

“Why not?”

The detective tapped a finger on the top margin. “I'm the one who pulled it up, and my name is printed on every page.”

“So cut off the header.”

LaGrange shook his head. “I can't do that.”

“I need that information, Jimmy.”

“I gave you the information,” LaGrange said flatly. “I can't give you the report.”

There was only so far Ray could push. The bottom line was that Jimmy LaGrange was still a cop, and Ray was a convicted felon just out of prison. “Jimmy, I'm in a real jam here. This is all I've got to go on.”

“Why are you helping those assholes?”

Ray took a last drag of his cigarette, then dropped the butt into his nearly empty coffee cup. The waitress must have decided
not to tell the manager, or maybe she had and the manager had called the police. Ray looked across the table at his old Vice partner. “I don't have a choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“At least write down Harris's information so I can find him.”

Jimmy LaGrange stared back at Ray for a few seconds. Then he looked away as he pulled a pen from his shirt pocket.

“Pull up right here and let me out,” Tony said as Rocco eased the Lincoln Town Car against the curb in front of the Messina Seafood Company on North Rampart Street. The rain was coming down hard.

The building was just east of the French Quarter, in a commercial district that was home to a host of small businesses, most of them barely dodging bankruptcy. The tin buildings lining the four-lane avenue sported peeling paint and faded signs. The sidewalks were strewn with waterlogged trash, plastered to the cement by the steady rain.

Under the nearby eaves and awnings, drug addicts, pushers, and prostitutes waited for a break in the weather so they could get back to work. This was the edge of the Ninth Ward, and Tony knew it well. He grew up here.

Just like its neighbors, the Messina Seafood Company was housed in an old metal building with peeling paint and a faded sign. The sides and back had once been dark blue, but the years and the sun had faded them to a light, almost baby blue. The brick facade was set back from the street just far enough to leave room for the sidewalk. The front third of the building was a two-story office suite. The rest was a high-ceilinged, single-story refrigerated warehouse for storing the oysters, shrimp, and fish that came in fresh from the Gulf of Mexico every day.

“You want me to come with you?” Rocco asked.

With the car door already open, Tony was getting pelted by the rain. He didn't even glance back. “No, I don't want you to
come with me. Just park the car and wait. When you see me come out, pick me up so I don't get soaking fucking wet.”

Tony dashed from the car to the front door, dodging puddles. He stood for a moment under the protection of the overhang above the front entrance and stared at his reflection in the glass double doors. Using an embroidered silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, he dabbed raindrops from his suit, then tugged at the slim knot in his tie. Next, he dragged a comb across his hair, knocking off the water that had beaded on top of his styling gel and making sure each strand was in place.

The image that stared back at him from the glass was that of a man on his way up, a man about to overcome the few obstacles in his path. Tony pulled open the door and stepped inside.

The pretty, dark-haired receptionist with the fake boobs waved as Tony passed her desk, making him think again how much he'd like to fuck her. Still, he couldn't remember her name. Connie, Karen . . . something like that. The only problem with her was the way she talked. She had the same Chalmette accent as his wife.

If he ever screwed Connie, or Karen, whatever her name was, he wasn't going to let her talk. He'd make sure her mouth stayed busy doing something else. He probably wouldn't get to fuck her, though, because the boss had a rule: no screwing the girls in his office. The rule didn't apply to the Old Man, of course. Rumor was he had some hot piece of tail on the side, and the smart money was on Connie, Karen, what-ever-the-fuck.

If he wasn't in such a hurry, Tony would have stopped by her desk and laid on a little charm, just in case the boss wasn't filling all her needs. Tony thought that maybe he could forget that aggravating accent, at least for a little while. The Old Man couldn't handle a woman like that, even with the blue pills he was taking. What she needed was a real man, a man in his prime. Not a fossil.

Tony found Carlos Messina behind his desk, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, the telephone stuck to his ear. Carlos waved Tony to a chair in front of his desk. While Carlos talked on the phone, Tony watched him. Like a boxer scrutinizing tape of an upcoming opponent, every chance he got, Tony studied the man.

Everyone called Carlos the Old Man—never to his face—although it wasn't a slam on his age so much as a sign of respect for the man. But for Tony it was respect for the position only, not the man. In Tony's judgment, Carlos Messina was getting weak. His years in power had dulled his edge. A toothless lion, he could still roar but could no longer bite. Meanwhile the young lions circled, watching and waiting for their chance.

In his late sixties, Carlos was a fat man with a shock of gray hair. His face was round, with thick jowls that hung past his chin, and a bulbous nose pitted with acne scars that stuck out like a doorknob. From somewhere in his roly-poly face, probably from his dark, almost black eyes, Carlos still occasionally managed a look of authority that made Tony nervous, but it wasn't often, and for the most part, Tony thought the Old Man just looked like a has-been. It was time for a new generation.

There was one thing Carlos Messina hadn't lost—his style. Although from the outside the Messina Seafood Company looked like shit, inside, the Old Man's second-floor office was nice. Positioned at the back of the two-story suite, Carlos's office had two huge windows: one in the back wall that looked out over the open warehouse, the other looking down on the service drive running alongside the building. The office was also big, with lots of open space, built-in bookshelves, a massive marble-top desk, a sixty-inch flat screen, and plenty of cushioned places to sit.

The kind of office Tony hoped to have one day.

Carlos hung up the phone and looked at Tony. “What do you want?” The message was clear: don't waste my time. The
Old Man was gruff, still trying to roar so no one noticed he had no teeth. Knowing that, though, didn't mean Tony could act stupid. The boss's position was a strong one, even if the man in it was weak. Tony would have to tread carefully.

Officially, Tony Zello was just a button man, a soldier. While a
caporegime
—a captain—might talk to Carlos every day, Tony had only spoken directly to the man a dozen times in the five years since he had been made. Because Tony worked directly for Carlos's brother, he didn't even have his own crew. Not a real one, just a few steroid cowboys who were more like flunkies. They sure as shit didn't bring in any money.

The problem, at least the immediate problem, was Vinnie. He just wasn't an important member of the family. Because they were brothers, Carlos had put Vinnie in charge of the House. But that was it. And Vinnie was happy with that. He knew enough about his own limitations to stay out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind.

Tony draped an ankle over his knee, trying to strike a casual pose. “I came to update you on what's been going on at the House since the robbery.”

“My brother sent you?”

Tony shook his head.

Carlos looked surprised. “Does he know you're here?”

A tiny flutter started in Tony's stomach. “I came on my own.”

Carlos fixed Tony with a look—almost like he could see inside him—as he leaned forward across the marble desktop and propped his bulk up on his elbows. “You got balls coming to see me like this.”

Tony didn't say anything, just looked into Carlos Messina's cold, dark eyes and felt his confidence start to slip. Maybe the old lion still had a few teeth left after all, maybe he could do more than just roar. A slight quiver started in Tony's legs. It reminded him of when he was a kid, just before he'd get into a
fight, usually trying to keep the black kids from taking over his block, his little patch of the Ninth Ward.

Carlos said, “You got something to say, say it.”

Fuck you, old man. You're nothing but a dinosaur, a throwback to the old days. Carrying around all that Sicilian bullshit
. But Tony didn't say that. Instead, he said, “I don't think it was a good idea for Vinnie—”

Old Man Messina jabbed a finger at Tony. “That's your first mistake.” Then he tapped his finger against his chest. “I do all the thinking around here.”

Feeling like he had been caught in the open with no cover, Tony pressed on. “This guy Shane, he's just a security guard. Now your brother's got him trying to find these four fucking assholes.”

Carlos Messina leaned back in his chair. “He's an ex-cop, a detective. I thought it was a good idea.”

“But this guy's a fuckup. He's the reason that crew got inside in the first place.”

The Old Man looked across the table for a few seconds. “What is it you have against this guy Shane?”

It was tougher than Tony thought, playing both ends against the middle. “I don't have anything against him. I just don't trust his judgment, and I don't trust his loyalty.”

“My brother trusts him.”

“Shane said himself he can't do it, said he thinks these assholes are long gone.”

“I don't give a shit if they ran to Canada, Russia, or all the way to the fucking moon. We're gonna find these bastards and take care of business.”

“I know Ray Shane,” Tony said, trying to get the conversation focused back on Shane. “I knew him before, when he was a cop. He was an idiot then, and I think the joint made him even stupider. Only good thing about him is he's being honest when he says he can't do it.”

The Old Man shook his head. “He did some hard time for us, and he never opened his mouth. Not many people can do that anymore.”

Tony bristled, hearing yet again how tough Shane was, deciding here and now that he was going to puke if he had to hear one more time about Ray Shane's stretch in prison. “Just because a guy screws up and does a little jail time doesn't prove his loyalty.”

Carlos gave him that same hard look. “You ever done any time?”

Time to change the subject. “This crew had inside help.”

Carlos snorted. “You think I haven't figured that out on my own?”

“I'm just saying . . .”

“And you think it was Shane?”

Tony shrugged. “I'm not sure who it was. But they went straight for the counting room, they used Shane to get inside, and they hit us on Halloween night when we had extra cash on hand.”

“And whose bright fucking idea was that?”

Tread lightly, don't push too hard. “Vinnie thought—”

Tony jumped as Carlos shot forward and pounded his fat fist on the desk. “I do the thinking. Do you understand me?”

As Tony swallowed, he felt his heart racing. “Yes, sir.”

“Now what are you saying?” the Old Man asked. “Are you telling me it was my half-wit brother who cost us three hundred grand?”

Not sure what to say, and despite his earlier confidence, Tony was too scared to say anything, so he didn't.

Carlos Messina leaned back in his chair. “That other stuff you mentioned, those guys going for the counting room and using Shane, anyone who's ever been in the House knows where the goddamn counting room is. It's not like we keep it a secret.”

“But how many people know the door between the cage and
the counting room isn't usually locked, or that there isn't a guy with a shotgun on the other side of the door?”

“Why wasn't it locked, and why wasn't there a guy with a shotgun behind the door? We got three hundred grand in cash on hand, you're supposed to protect it.”

Somehow this conversation had gotten off track. “I had a man in the cage, a pretty good man, but these guys came in with masks on Halloween night and Shane walked them—”