82 Desire (22 page)

Hmmph. Hell you are.
She almost said that—but this was a kid-gloves situation.

“I hit another snag. Maybe another couple of snags.”

“What the hell do you mean you’ve hit a snag?”

She had to hold the phone away from her ear. “You’re yelling.”

“Goddammit, what’s the problem? I paid you good money to do what a child should be able to do. I thought you were a professional.”

“Hey, I’m doing what I can.”

“Well, it’s not good enough, Talba. You must be the most overpaid little computer nerd in Louisiana, and day after day you keep coming up with nothing.”

“Wait a minute…”

“No, you wait a minute. Tell me one goddamn thing you’ve done to earn your damn money.”

“That’s it. I quit. Find yourself another nerd, Mr. Asshole.” She broke the connection.

The asshole called right back, of course. She picked up and said, “Not interested.”

“What about my seven-fifty?” He sounded slightly chastened, which gave Talba an idea.

“Look, I’ll make a deal with you. I took a peek at that file when I got it for Allred …”

“You did? Well, what the hell was in it?”

“A bunch of names and numbers that didn’t mean a damn thing to me. So naturally I forgot ’em. But yesterday, I remembered a name.”

The client didn’t speak for a moment. She heard him draw in his breath. He said, “You remembered a name,” all quiet and reasonable, as if the fact alone might be important.

She went for it. “Here’s my proposition. I give you the name, I get to keep the seven-fifty, we call off the rest of the deal, and we’re square.”

He didn’t speak for a while, just breathed heavily into the phone.

* * *

One name? Was it worth seven-fifty?

It could be. It might be all he needed. On the other hand, it might be worthless.

Ray closed his eyes. “All right.”

“What? Why are you whispering?”

“Give it to me.”

“Okay, you got a pencil? It’s Marion Newman. That’s… M-a-r…”

“I know, I know.”

“Are we done now? I’m okay, you’re okay?”

“I’ll be in touch.” He hung up.

Marion Newman. He might have just hit the jackpot. “Cille! Cille, I’ve got a name.”

Cille came flying in, grabbed him around the neck, pressing his head into her abdomen. “Wheeeeeeee!” It felt good there.

“We’re going to get the rest of those bastards.”

“Yes, Lord!” She threw up her hands and wiggled them.

“Thank you, Jesus!” He did the same. It was a ritual they had, more profane than sacred, as neither of them was particularly religious.

Usually they both did it, didn’t even notice it, but everything seemed so fragile these days, Ray had begun seeing the details of his life in high relief.
Where had that thing come from?
he wondered.
A movie? Something they’d actually seen?
He literally couldn’t remember the first time they’d done it. It was one of the tiny tiles that fit together in their marriage mosaic, that made it a rare and satisfying artwork; the most precious thing in his life. It made them laugh.

“Git ’em,” she said. “Git ’em. Go git ’em, big boy.” That was another of their private… well, not jokes, more like little habits that made them feel part of each other. He felt like they shared a skin sometimes.

He pulled up his Rolodex on the computer and dialed Marion Newman. The number had been disconnected.

That could be a good sign
, he thought.
I don’t have my old number, either.

Let’s see now. He had a son. Bad actor, though. Always in trouble. Ah, yes. Son-in-law in the air-conditioning business. But what was his name?

A little conference with the Yellow Pages, and he had it: “Neville. Like the brothers.” He could hear the guy saying it now. It was too late for business hours, but there was an emergency number. Ray dialed it and waited for a callback, which came within the half hour—maybe the longest half hour of his life. Larry Neville himself called, and seemed all too happy to put his father-in-law on the line. (“Are you kidding? No trouble at all. It’s got the hell beat out of going out to fix an air conditioner.”)

Ray could hear Marion Newman in the background. “Who? Do I know a Ray Boudreaux? Who the hell’s that? Don’t want to talk to anybody.” He sounded like a crotchety old fart—the Newman Ray remembered was a perfectly turned out, perfectly polished gentleman.

His hello was even nastier than Talba’s.

Ray said, “You remember me, Mr. Newman. Hyacinth Oil.”

“Why, Mr. Boudreaux.” The old fart was suddenly reformed. “It’s a pleasure to hear from you.”

“How’re you doing, Mr. Newman?”

“What can I do for you, sir?” Definitely didn’t want to get into the story of his life.

“I think we might have something in common, Mr. Newman. If you can just give me a few minutes of your time, I think we might be able to help each other.”

“Very well, sir. You have my full and complete attention.”

“I’m wondering if you know a man named Russell Fortier.”

“Russell Fortier, you say? Why no, but that name’s been comin’ up lately. Why do you ask?”

“I’m going to put it in a nutshell, Mr. Newman. I don’t want to waste your time or mine. I’ve lost my company, thanks to some very dirty tricks played on me by United Oil. I have … information that something similar might have happened to you.”

“You do, do you? I guess you can’t trust anybody these days.”

“Meaning large and powerful corporations? I’d say it’s a risky business at best.”

“Meaning the police. I thought they were supposed to be like priests.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Two in one day is just a little coincidental for subtlety.”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, sir.”

“No sooner do I get through pouring out the whole sordid story to that diesel dyke of a cop than the phone rings, and it’s you.”

“Diesel dyke?”
What on earth could the man be talking about?
“Oh. Do you mean Skip Langdon?”

“You know damn well I do, and what kind of name is that for a girl?”

“Mr. Newman, I assure you I’m not in touch with Detective Langdon or any other police officer. I got your name from another source entirely.”

“Is that right?” Newman sounded utterly unconvinced.

“Look, I’m calling because I hoped we might work together.” He was about to elaborate, but Newman interrupted.

“Tell me something, Mr. Boudreaux. Did you always pay your royalties on time?”

“We tried; we certainly tried. But you know how it is. I can’t say that we did, no.”

“Is that how they got you?”

“What? On delinquent royalties? Oh, no, they were much trickier than that.”

“But you were guilty of it and so is everybody else in the industry. Am I right about that?”

“Well, sir, I wouldn’t argue that.”

“Well, I’m the one they dragged down with it. They not only got my company, they made sure I turned up tarnished in front of God and everybody. Including my late wife, rest her soul.”

The last thing on Ray’s agenda was stopping the conversation to make his manners. But there was no help for it. He offered his condolences in as abbreviated form as he dared, and as soon as he decently could, he said again, “Listen, Mr. Newman, I’m calling because I’m hoping we can work together on this.”

“That would depend, sir, on what we’d be working on.”

“I’m hoping for a class action suit. But first I’m trying to find out if there’s a class. We both just found there are at least two of us, and I think that’s exciting.” Exciting was hardly the word for it. Ray’s heart was about to pound out of his chest.

“What do you want from me?”

Those words
, Ray thought,
for openers. Yes, Lord! Thank you, Jesus
. “I just thought we might put our heads together and trade information.”

Newman went irascible again, having evidently had a moment to let his brain catch up with his mouth. “Two in one day! That’s just a little much, don’t you think?”

“This Russell Fortier thing’s about to bust open, Mr. Newman. That’s what the whole thing’s spinning around right now. The cops are trying to find him before we do.” His heart in his mouth, he asked, “You don’t have any ideas, do you?”

“Ideas? I’d barely heard of the man before I read about him in the paper—I didn’t even know he was married to Bebe Fortier.”

“Wait a minute—United must have made you an offer.”

“Oh, yes, certainly they did. But Russell Fortier was never involved.”

“Oh. Well, then, who did the offer come from?” Ray tried to keep his voice as level as possible.

“Man named Beau Cavignac.” For the first time, Newman chuckled. “Sounds like somethin’ out of
Gone With the Wind
, doesn’t it? He wasn’t nearly as dashing as he sounds. Little roly-poly fellow. You’d swear he was just barely competent.” He paused and chuckled again. “Some kind of Peter Falk-Columbo act. The man’s a great actor, I’ll tell you that.”

Ray chuckled along with him, thinking that at last he might be getting somewhere. “Mr. Newman, could we get together and talk about this?”

“I don’t know what there is to talk about. I don’t know anything else.”

“Okay. Let’s leave it like it is for now. I know it’s a lot to assimilate—the fact that they did this as policy. But I believe they did and I believe we can prove they did. And I believe we have recourse. Let me just give you time to think it over, and then I’ll call you back.”

“Fair enough, Mr. Boudreaux. Fair enough.” His voice told Ray he’d already started processing it.

Ray disconnected, feeling triumphant, almost ready to holler out at Cille that things were finally starting to break, when he heard the little stutter tone of his voice mail. He decided to check it before hollering, to see if anything else good had happened. It was Ronnie, his son.

“Dad, I need a little help. I’m in … uh … Central Lockup … uh … there’s been a little trouble. If you could do anything to get me out of here, I’d really appreciate it.”

Central Lockup? How was Ray supposed to take that in?

But he grasped in a millisecond the fear and misery in his son’s voice. It was heartbreaking to hear the boy trying so hard to be cool, yet unable to hide his desperation.

Ray hung up the phone and walked very quietly out of the house, trying not to attract Cille’s attention. Now if he could just get away…

He backed his car out of the driveway at about sixty, swung around, and laid rubber like some high school gangster. But at the end of the block he slowed to a normal pace—Cille wasn’t going to run down the street chasing him.

He drove over to South Broad Street—the thing was somewhere near police headquarters, he knew that much—trying to picture his baby son, towheaded Ronnie, in Central Lockup. Thank God Cille hadn’t picked up the phone—maybe he could solve this thing, whatever it was, without her even having to know about it.

Central Lockup (officially the Intake and Processing Center), which sounds like something out of prerevolutionary Russia, in fact looks more like an airport waiting room than a jail. Ray exhaled as he walked in, realizing that he’d pictured an environment where everything was metal, a good deal of it rusty, all of it clanking. On the drive over, he could almost feel a coldness that permeated first the air and then the brain of anyone who breathed it, detaching it from the skull, spinning it around like some mad, squishy top.

When he saw the reality, his spinning brain had only one thought:
This isn’t so bad.

Yet reason told him it could hardly be worse.

He let himself be led docilely through the steps in getting his son out of jail—he had to find a lawyer who could get a bond set, then find some cash, a near impossibility, and then a bail bondsman. Then he had to post bond, and then he had to get his son in the car and take him somewhere other than home—he couldn’t really be around him right now—and listen to how he had been stupid enough to get busted for a joint or something.

It turned out it was theft—or that’s what the cops called it.

He had yet to hear Ronnie’s version.

He already knew a lawyer from his troubles over his lease, and the lawyer was home and so, in time, was a judge. Ray used his ATM card to get the cash.

His normally red-cheeked son was as pasty as cinder blocks. The boy’s hazel eyes—neither brown nor really green—were huge with remorse and pleading.
I’ll do anything. I’ll go back to first grade and start over. I’ll be a Cub Scout again, I’ll clean my room every day, I’ll scrub the toilets, for Christ’s sake. Just take me out of here now!

And after Ray had, when Ronnie was safely in the car, he said, “What if your mother had had to see that?”

“Dad, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I could kill myself. I swear to God I could.” And at nineteen years of age, he burst into tears.

Ray drove round and round till the tears dried up and Ronnie could tell his story. “It was just a big misunderstanding,” he said. “You know? I picked up two shirts instead of one. I was at The Gap, shopping, and I bought this blue polo shirt, but then when I walked out, this guy stopped me—this guard or something. He searched my bag, and sure enough, there were two in there. I don’t know how the other one got there—I swear I don’t.”

“Son, don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

He was, though. Ray felt as if a Toyota had been lowered onto his chest.

Much as Ray wanted him out of his life right now, Ronnie lived at home and it would probably be best for him to be there until things cooled a little. So, against his own wishes, Ray took the boy home.

He had called Cille from the processing center, to say Ronnie’d had a little trouble and they’d be home soon. She was waiting up, and when she saw her son, she asked no questions, simply enfolded him in her arms. And when she had hugged him enough, she said simply, “Go to bed now.”

Ronnie certainly didn’t wait to be told a second time. He disappeared around a corner, not even detouring by the kitchen—and he had to be starving.

When they heard the door to his room close, Cille came close and hugged her husband this time. “What’d they do to him?” She was wearing only a T-shirt and a robe, which was now gapped open to reveal a pair of black bikini panties. To him, she looked like a high school girl.