NO Quarter (32 page)

What had Chanel said at Molly’s? Something to the effect that even if Dunk hadn’t killed Sunshine, he would still be worth hurting for the greater good. It was tough to find an argument against that.

I stayed on the other side of Dauphine and watched him reenter his apartment building. I’d been hoping for more. I had lurked in that adjacent park an hour and a half with thoughts of tracking Dunk someplace where I could approach him and squeeze him somehow for info, to fix for sure whether or not he was responsible for Sunshine’s killing. At the least I had hoped I might manage to put myself where I could eavesdrop on him, maybe pick up something revealing, incriminating, or even exonerating. Instead, he’d just gone out for a beer.

And that, of course, didn’t make sense in and of itself. Why go all the way up to a Decatur Street eatery for a single beer, particularly when Decatur has so many bars? If he wanted a beer, he could pick up a six-pack closer at Verti Mart, the corner deli on Royal.

My choices were to go back up Decatur to the restaurant to find out what Dunk had been doing there, or to resume my lookout in the park, hoping he would come out again tonight.

Investigation seemed better than surveillance, more expedient, certainly more active.

I went up Governor Nicholls, and it was odd to walk into the place, not there to punch the clock and tie on my apron. I’d been off—what? Two days, three? My third day, and I felt like a stranger here, like I wasn’t a waiter anymore. Christ, didn’t I wish.

Judith had feta cheese salad dressing sprayed across the front of her black blouse and looked like she could use a healthy dose of Thorazine, but she found time to glare malevolently at me anyway. I went to the bar, where only a few people were sitting, and took the same stool Dunk had occupied.

“Bone
...
” Randy came over immediately. “Well, here’s some synchronicity. What can I get you?”

“Coffee, please.”

I lit a smoke and pulled over an ashtray, realizing I was yet again running out of cigarettes. Much more of this, I thought grimly, and I would have to dip into the bank account for money I shouldn’t be spending.

When Randy came back with my cup, I asked, “What did you mean?”

“There was this guy—some punk kid—sitting right where you’re sitting as a matter of fact—he was just in here, like ten, fifteen minutes ago. He was asking about you.”

The coffee cup stopped on the way to my lips. “Asking how?”

“By name. Bone. ‘Does a dude named Bone work here?’ And he described you.”

I set the cup back on its saucer. “What did you tell him?” My voice sounded leaden to me.

Randy shrugged. “Asked him why he wanted to know. Y’know, I’m not going to go talking to anybody about people I know without finding out what’s what first. You know how we do things in the Quarter.”

“I do.”

“This punk started getting lippy.” Randy shook his red-haired head. “Uh-uh. Not on my watch. I gave him one more chance to be nice. He wanted to know if you worked here, where you lived. That was that. He was also being a pushy little prick about it, so that was
really
that. I almost wish he’d tried something after that. I would’ve enjoyed breaking his jaw.”

Yep, that was Dunk. A tireless ray of sunshine.

Sunshine
...

I squelched the thought.

“Well, I appreciate you giving him the blow-off.” I lifted my cup to Randy, finally took a swallow of coffee, my brain chugging overtime.

“No worries, Bone. Any ideas who the punk is?”

“None.” I gestured casually. “Hell, whatever. It’s not going to keep me awake.”

Randy smiled and nodded. He had large teeth and anachronistically long sideburns that nonetheless looked good on him.

“Hey, is it true you’re taking some time off work?”

“Yeah. In fact,” I glanced around, “I want to get out of here before Dallas spots me.”

“Don’t worry, he’s in the kitchen tonight.”

“Werewolf and Firecracker on?” I wanted to see the pair, wanted to seriously thank them for helping get me out of that drug dealers’ den on Dumaine alive. They had led me there, but it was my own fault that things had taken a nasty turn after that with that Lester character.

“No. Spike and whuzizname—Carl. They’re cooking, so naturally everything’s been fucked up all night. Why you taking time off? Everything okay?”

I took another swallow of coffee. It was a fresh pot, tasty. “Everything’s fine. I was just due for a breather.”

“Shit. Ain’t we all? Too bad I can’t afford one
...
”

I dropped two singles on the bartop and made to climb off my barstool.

Randy put his elbows on the counter, leaned toward me, face serious. “I do want you to know, though, Bone, that I don’t believe a fucking word they’re saying. About you.”

“Which fucking word would that be?” I was already busy trying to absorb the implications of Dunk’s coming here, to my place of work, and asking for me,
by name
. What was Randy talking about? Like I needed any more worries.

His voice lowered. “That shit some of the morons are mouthing
...
that you, y’know, had something to do with that girl getting stabbed last week or sometime. I know crap when I hear it, and whenever somebody starts up with it, I tell ‘em they’re talking out their ass.”

“I appreciate that too,” I said. I wanted to scream out:
She was my wife! My best friend! How could I ever hurt her?
But they didn’t know—as if knowing would change anything. And I did have something to do with her death. I brought her here, to New Orleans. And I didn’t stop her from self-destructing once she got here.

Behind me, suddenly, a plate hit the floor. The diners, like they do everywhere because they think it’s clever and funny, broke into a round of applause. I didn’t need to look to know it was Judith.

“That dumb bitch,” Randy muttered, confirming it.

I hit the street, reaching for the cell phone as if I had always carried one. I had to talk to Maestro. This was bad.

* * *

Excerpt from Bone’s Movie Diary:

The French Connection
—a Best Picture winner for 1971 that deserved it. In fact, the Oscars got it right a lot in the ’70s, a tremendous era of filmmaking that isn’t exaggerated in hindsight. A large percentage of the best movies ever made came out of that decade.
French Connection
is a near-perfect example of that peculiar grainy grittiness of a good ’70s flick. The grimness, the realism—these combine to seize the viewer, & in the better, darker films the experience can be harrowing. In
French Connection
we are subjected to the obsessive police hunt—by Gene Hackman (also Oscar winner) and Roy Scheider—of drug smugglers in a grimy, trashy, indifferent New York City. What’s amazing is that the picture sustains intense interest even during the workaday, lackluster business of stakeouts and tailing. Granted, there’s that spectacular car chase, but even that is intrinsically 1970ish. It’s spare, it’s believable, & it’s totally exhilarating. (If this movie were made today—probably as a so-called summer “blockbuster”—that car chase would no doubt provoke enough explosions & destruction of property to make 9-11 seem tame.) That one can watch Hackman stand in a cold doorway while the man he’s following eats in a restaurant &
still
be gripped, is testimony to the film’s power. Appraisals:
French Connection
* * * *; the 1970s as a filmmaking era
...
we’ll never see the like again.

For the first time, I wondered if I was getting too old to be doing this.

That was an ugly thought, particularly since I’d woken up with a touch of the “French Quarter flu.” I may drink on a regular basis, but I hardly ever drink so much I feel it the next day. Doing my usual afternoon roll-out today, though, I’d found myself a bit woozy, and the room wobbled some. My own fault. I
had
had that one too many last night. Or was it two
...
?

I didn’t let myself wallow. I took a cold wake-up shower, popped a handful of vitamins, and drank down half a carton of orange juice. I started to feel human. Even so, I still felt the lingering urge to kick myself over last night. That had been some true adrenaline-pumping action, effecting that rescue of Bone from that drug-dealer apartment on Dumaine. Maybe I’d needed those extra drinks. I shook my head, dismissing that as lame. Needing drinks was bad. If I couldn’t handle the world without alcohol, I was in trouble, and would do something about it—dry out, take a long sabbatical from the bars. If I couldn’t handle this hunt without alcohol, I was in
serious
trouble.

I had to keep sharp. It wasn’t just my life at risk. It was Bone’s, too. I had to be there to back him up, watch his back, and whatever else I could do to keep him safe.

But
...
was I too old for this?

Overindulging the booze was bad enough. Letting myself get stopped by the cops, though, that was almost disgraceful.

I’d left the Fatted Calf last night and had cut across Royal, toward my apartment. I could feel each of the drinks I’d had, and was now only looking forward to falling into my bed. As it turned out, I was doing a bit of a stumble-stagger. That’s bad for several reasons. One, it clues the predators you’re at least a little toasty. Muggers are opportunists, and one of the best mugging opportunities in the Quarter is the lone, wandering drunk.

It also provides an open invitation to the cops, if they’re looking to kill some time on their shift by processing a “drunk in public” back at the station house.

I must have been just bobbing along in my muzzy little world, not paying any real attention to my surroundings. That was pretty disturbing right
there. Being alert in general, and on the street in specific, is a practice I take very seriously.

I was completely unaware of the car cruising alongside me until the moment the side-spot lit up in my face. Let me tell you, something like that will sober you up fast! I went very still, turning just enough to see the police cruiser and the two cops inside. I consciously relaxed my posture. My hands were at my sides and I left them there, loose. I turned toward the blinding light and the grim-faced cop shining it in my face.

“What’re you up to tonight?” he asked.

“I’m going home.”

“Where d’you live?”

I told him. There was nothing in my stance, or the tone of my voice, or any muscle in my face that was in any way insolent, sassy, or belligerent. You don’t talk to law enforcement folk like that anywhere, definitely not in the Quarter. Alcohol makes idiots feel invincible, and when they mouth off to the NOPD they can very easily find themselves guests at OPP.

Naturally, I prefer not to talk to cops at all. This was the first time since I had relocated to the Quarter from Detroit that the police had stopped me on the street. This was the end of a ten-year winning streak.
Damn
.

I had very definitely
not
forgotten about my last encounter with Sneaky Pete, and how the cops, through him, might have been setting me up just to take me down. Exaggerated misgiving or not, it was on my mind now.

The other cop got out of the cruiser on the passenger side, and walked around to me. From the way he moved, he obviously wasn’t expecting trouble from me, but was also ready for anything.

“Let’s see the ID,” he said.

I produced it. Another first I wasn’t happy about. I showed my false ID to virtually no one. Though Padre wasn’t in the business anymore, he was still able to manufacture the fake Louisiana state identity cards whenever I needed a “renewal.” Since he’d already worked all that computer voodoo that had made him famous in his peculiar trade, my false but convincing records were still in all the official systems.

The cop returned to the cruiser to run my name. He certainly wasn’t going to find any outstanding warrants. The one behind the spotlight looked like he was thinking idly about frisking me. I wasn’t carrying any of my true “fighting knives” but still had enough bladed weaponry on me to do real mayhem. These two officers might not appreciate that.

I blinked in the spotlight’s glare and waited. Finally, the light went out, and he waved me over to the cruiser. His partner passed him the ID, and he held it out to me.

“Get home safe now, hear,” he said.

“I will. Thank you, officer.”

After that, I walked with absolute precision to my gate, with nary a stumble or a hitch. Once safe inside, I crawled into bed and pulled the sheet over my head.

Waking up, I really felt too old. If I hadn’t killed that nephew in that bar, and was still in the Outfit, would I be too old to be doing the work? I didn’t think so. Guys that work for my old “company” don’t usually retire. They’re made of tough, nasty stuff. I’d known knee-cappers and strongarm types that were still active into their sixties.

Just out of practice, that’s all
, I decided. I’d made one slip-up. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t the end of the world either. Spending the day tut-tutting at myself wouldn’t help.

That evening I went out to dinner. I put on duds even nattier than those I had worn to the Royal Sonesta’s bar. I needed to be a bit dressed up for the Court of Two Sisters. It’s a smart, swank place, but while being shown to a table for one, I recognized two people on the staff from the Quarter’s various pool teams.

I hadn’t wanted to come here, or at least it hadn’t been my first choice of actions. I had hoped to corral Jo-Jo over drinks somewhere, but I was already starting to feel that this job had gone on too long. Maybe Bone’s eagerness was affecting me. That would be funny.
I
was supposed to be the one influencing
him
.

It was Sunday but the restaurant had only a sparse crowd. They were society folk and the few high-class tourists we see in the summer months. I brought along a book to read, an Updike novel just so I would blend. I forewent a pre-dinner cocktail, opting for more orange juice. Slowly turning pages, I watched the room
...
until Jo-Jo appeared.

He looked smart in the green jacket, white shirt, and black slacks—that’s the same color-schemed getups that Pat O.’s waiters wear. His dark, curly hair was precisely styled, and he moved with that ballet-like grace that could so easily translate into fighting skills.

I ordered light. I put in my bookmark when my waiter brought out my meal. I’d recognized him on the way in but had waited till now to make my play.

“Excuse me
...
didn’t you used to shoot on the Silencers?”

He was in his late twenties, a little on the plump side, his bearing precise and formal. “Why yes I did. Sir
...
?”

“It’s me—Maestro,” I said, offering him a chummy smile. “From the Snake Plisskens. You clobbered us two sessions back in nine ball during the playoffs. You’re Vincent, right?”

His starched manner relaxed visibly. “Maestro! Oh yeah. I remember that. We got knocked out of the running right after you, though.”

“Them’s the breaks. I haven’t seen you on the tables in a while. How come?”

Vincent shrugged. “I got married. My wife—she doesn’t like me ‘wasting my time on kids’ games’ when I could be accomplishing something worthwhile. Damned if I know what
that
is, though.”

That sounded like a pretty much pre-doomed marriage, but I of course didn’t say so.

“Too bad,” I sympathized. “I’m scouting hard for next session. I’ve got three shooters dropping out. You know how that always happens in bunches. You sure I couldn’t interest you in a slot? You always had a good stick as I recall.” From what he had just said about his new bride, I wasn’t worried about him taking up my offer.

“Can’t, Maestro,” Vincent said, not looking happy about it.

“How about him?” I nodded across the plush dining room to where Jo-Jo was hovering over another table. This one was full of middle-aged women who were giggling like schoolgirls while Jo-Jo practically pranced and preened for them. You use what you’ve got to juice up your tips, I guess. “I’ve heard talk out of the Stage Door that he’s a wicked stick.”

Vincent turned and glanced. “I don’t know about that. He’s sure supposed to be a ‘wicked stick’ in other departments, though. ‘Least that’s what I’ve heard from a waitress or two around here.”

I chuckled. “Think I could talk to him? The team’s hurting.”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

I stood. “I’ll meet him back by the rest room. Don’t want your manager thinking he’s hustling one of your tables.”

I crossed the dining room and waited a moment by the sandbox door, lighting a cigarette. Jo-Jo appeared a minute later.

He blinked a little confusedly at me. “‘Maestro,’ is it?”

I smiled. “Yes. I’m sorry to bug you while you’re working. I’ll make it very fast. How would you like to shoot on a French Quarter league pool team? Namely mine.”

His handsome, olive-toned face looked even more confused.

I explained, “I heard at the Stage Door you know the business end of cue. A couple of people said you hang out there a lot.” I wasn’t surprised he didn’t remember seeing me there the other night. I’d done nothing to stand out, and he’d had his hands full with women problems.

“Well, I do,” he admitted, “but I haven’t been shooting lately. I’ve been
...
out of town awhile. I used to be a hell of a stick, though, even if I do say so.”

I nodded. Fact was, just about every shooter in the Quarter would describe him or herself that way.

“Well, our team has official practice every Sunday night, down at Fahey’s. It starts at midnight. First, can you make it on Sundays?” I took a drag on my cigarette, and held the smoke, waiting.

Jo-Jo shook his head. “Sundays I’m tending bar from midnight to eight at Flanagan’s.”

I blew out a plume. “Every Sunday?”

“For a month now. Look, I appreciate you thinking of me for your team—Maestro, was it? But I don’t really have time for pool.”

“No harm, no foul. Sorry to trouble you. Thanks for hearing me out.”

He nodded and went into the back. I ditched the cigarette, returned to the dining room, ate, paid, and headed out. Vincent said he’d throw any good shooters he knew my way.

Back at home, I opened the phone book. I knew the guy who managed Flanagan’s on St. Philip. He was there. I gave him a song and dance, saying how I thought I had seen Hector behind the bar when I was passing by in a cab last Sunday at around midnight. Boris, the manager, told me I’d seen Jo-Jo, who he had hired a month ago and was working out well. Hector, so far as Boris knew, was still up in Angola. I thanked him, promised to stop by sometime soon, and hung up.

That put a big fat black line through Jo-Jo’s name.

Sunshine’s murder had taken place last Sunday. She’d come by the Calf around ten-thirty or eleven. Her body had been discovered a little before two o’clock in the morning. She couldn’t have been lying there very long.

Damn. Jo-Jo had been prime suspect material. I sighed. Maybe I’d let my inclinations toward nailing the murder to him affect my judgment.

I changed clothes to more common Quarter apparel and went back out. Night had fallen. I went by the Stage Door, but the Juggernaut wasn’t there. The stray dog was, though. That figured. Now that I’d lost my best suspect, I couldn’t find the secondary one that usually clung to me like a leech. Rather than get into
a funk about it, though, I fed the stray some leftovers I’d brought from my dinner at Two Sisters for that purpose—I’m a pushover for homeless critters, they’re so much more grateful for handouts than people are—and focused my head. The Stage Door had a certain rough quality about it. Probably Jugger was drawn to that, since it more or less matched his own coarse character. There are all sorts of bars in the Quarter, of course, but only a few that cater specifically toward the type of clientele among which the Juggernaut might be included.