The Perfect Crime (14 page)

“Where are we going?”

“A little coffee shop I know.”

On the way, he looked at her and said, “You’re one of the good guys, aren’t you.” She didn’t reply, only put her hand on his and squeezed.

At the coffee shop, she took charge, ordering both of them steaming mugs of cafe au lait. Then she mde him talk. About his brother.

He told her everything. When he was done, a different crew was coming on and the sun was coming up.

CHAPTER 19

C.J. KEPT THE GROWING feeling of euphoria until he entered the door of his house and walked into the living room and saw Sarah sitting in his favorite possession, his leather chair. That was something he was going to miss. He wondered what the furniture stores would be like in Belize. Maybe he’d have to order from the States to get what he wanted. He saw there was someone else in the room with her. A policeman. In full uniform, sitting in a chair in the corner, hat on his knee.

“Hello, Sarah,” he began. “What’s...listen, I’m sorry I’m late. I got tied up in a--”

Her voice was permafrost.

“I don’t care where you were, Clifford. Fucking your little tramp I would imagine.”

“I--” He started to speak, but she waved an imperious hand.

“It doesn’t matter. You can see her all you want. In fact, I’d suggest you go to her right away. You see, you don’t have a bed in this house any longer. I want you to leave immediately. You can have ten minutes to pick up your pathetic little personal belongings and I want you out of here. For good. If you don’t do as I say, this gentleman will arrest you.”

His face drained. What was going on? He tried to collect his thoughts, figure out what to say. God! What else could go wrong? This was a disaster!

“You’re no longer needed at the bank. As of five o’clock this afternoon you’ve been relieved of your duties. Mr. Arnoldt is in charge now. Your desk has been cleaned out and all your possessions will be sent to you as soon as we’ve determined what is yours and what belongs to the bank.”

The whole time she talked she kept her eyes locked with his.

“I’d tell you to turn in your keys, but that won’t be necessary. All the locks have been changed. Keep them as a souvenir. You’ll be served with the proper papers tomorrow. Give me an address to send them to. Or would your little hideaway on Burthe be satisfactory? Didn’t think I knew about that, did you? There’s a lot I know, Clifford. That’s it, no discussion, no arguing, no pleading, no nothing. I want you out. Immediately. To save you some breath, there’s nothing in your name. Not the house, not your bank accounts, not your car. Amend that. I’m going to let you have your car. Temporarily. You might think about making arrangements to apply for credit for a new one. Only don’t apply at my bank. What I’m doing, Clifford, is leaving you the same way I found you. Although,” her voice dripped with sarcasm, “I don’t doubt that with your charm you’ll find another meal ticket. I wouldn’t look for her in Louisiana, however. The word is being put out about you. I shouldn’t imagine you’ll find much future in New Orleans.”

Sarah stood up, turned her back and began walking toward the dining room. She spoke, not turning around, “Oh, and tell your little whore she’s fired as well. She can pick up her check on Friday.” Sarah left the room.

He saw her fists were clenched. “Sarah,” he said, in a little voice. He started after her disappearing figure but the policeman stood up, walked over to block his path.

What was this!

“Sorry, sir. I can’t let you go in there. If you want something from the master bedroom and she approves, I’ll escort you to get it. Otherwise, you’ll have to leave.”

“What the hell is this! I’ll call the chief! I’ll have your--”

“Sir, I’m here on personal orders
from
the chief. Will you leave quietly?”

***

Upstairs in the master bedroom, he went over to the walk-in closet and peered in, considering briefly about packing at least his suits. Fuck it, he thought; I’ll get all new clothes. Clothes that won’t have the stench of
her
money on them. He did go over to his dresser and open the bottom drawer. Far in the back he felt beneath a pile of sweaters until his fingers touched the full plastic bag he was after. He hefted the five full grams of cocaine in his hand lovingly and thrust it into his trouser pocket. That was all he took. He wanted to smash everything in sight and glanced once at the dresser she bought in France and shipped over ten years ago. He picked up a paperweight and stared at the dresser mirror, but one look at the beefy cop who had escorted him upstairs and was standing in the hallway, changed his mind.

At the last minute, he changed his mind, grabbed a suitcase and packed a couple changes of clothes. Just until I get new ones, he thought.

As he walked to his car, all he could think about was what he was going to do about Friday. The fucking cunt! Her grandfather was behind this, he realized. Problem, C.J. Big fucking problem. Solve it, big boy. You can do it. Don’t panic; think! In his Lincoln he took out the packet from his pocket, rolled a dollar bill up into a tight roll and snuffled back a big hit, not much caring whether the policeman inside the house saw him or not. He thought about his next move.

CHAPTER 20

“WE GOT A PROBLEM.”

Eddie knew this was not what Reader wanted to hear. He winced as Reader’s cursing came over the receiver.

“What the fuck! What happened?”

“Well, something’s happened with St. Ives. I didn’t go over there this morning.”

“Why the fuck not? Didn’t I tell you...”

“I didn’t have to. He ain’t there no more.”

“Meet me at Sally’s, Eddie. That place you hang out in Metry. Don’t say any more on this phone. Be there in twenty minutes.”

***

Sally was gone; he was downtown picking up condiments for the kitchen, but Veronica was at the bar when first Eddie and then Reader came in and took a seat at a table in the back. She walked over to their table.

“Stinger, Eddie?” she asked, smiling. “You?” She turned in Reader’s direction.

“Jack and water. Make it a good color.”

Back at the bar, she found her husband’s little black book and thumbed through until she found Grady’s name and motel number. She made both drinks stiffer than she usually did and brought them to the table.

She dialed the number on the phone kept beneath the bar. She could hear it ring and ring, but no one answered. She kept trying.

***

“Tell me,” Reader began. His eyes, cold and hard and piercing, never left Eddie’s.

“What’s going on, Eddie.”

“Cool down, Reader,” he said, drinking half his stinger down and striking up a match for his cigarette. His hands were shaking.

“I went there last night like you said. He got home late. Then he left. Reader, theras a cop there! I think your guy’s in some shit with his old lady. That’s what it looked like. When I saw the cop car, I got out and walked down to see what I could see. Like I was out for a little stroll, you know?”

That was a genius move, thought Reader. Like you looked like you belonged in that neighborhood. He let him continue.

“He came out in about a half hour and got in his car. He didn’t look too good. Looked worried and pissed off at the same time, you know? He was carrying a suitcase.”

Eddie downed the rest of his drink and said loudly, “Hey, babe, hit me.”

When Veronica brought the drink, she put it down a bit hard so that some of the drink sloshed over onto the napkin.

“I’m not a ‘babe,’ sonny. I’m the bartender. And the owner.” She turned and walked back.

“That’s a big mama!” Eddie said, chortling. “How’d you like
to--”

“Shut up,” said Reader, ice on the words. “Just tell me.”

“Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on. You’ll be proud of me, Reader. I did the smart thing.”

Yeah, thought Reader. Yeah. You did, only you don’t know it. This was turning out just like he figured.

“I followed him. He went to the Fairmont Hotel. I went in and sat where he didn’t notice me. Fucker got shit-faced, puttin’ ‘em down like nobody’s business. You could see he was fucked up. I think his old lady kicked him out.”

“Then what?”

“Well, he goes out to the pay phones, out in the lobby, y’know, and he makes a call to someone. I went out when he did, not knowing where he was going, thinking maybe he was leaving. I couldn’t stand around so I went to the john, then came out. That’s when he left.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Drove clear out to Riverbend. Fucker’s got an apartment on Burthe! Right there, you know, by the Camellia Grill. I figure he takes ladies there. Probably fucking all the little girl tellers at his bank.”

“What’d he do at this apartment?”

“Nothing. I mean, I couldn’t see in or nothing, but he was going around from room to room, by the lights, and a half hour after he gets there he turns everything off. I waited a good two hours, but he don’t come out so it’s obvious that’s where he’s staying.”

“You didn’t stay all night? You didn’t go back in the morning?”

“Naw. What for? Isn’t it obvious that’s where he’s gonna be? Reader, look, I ain’t dumb. The guy’s wife’s kicked him out. He’s shacked up with somebody, at least got him a little crib for playtime and that’s where he’s gonna be when we need him.”

“You’re an idiot, Eddie.”

“Now, wait a minute...”

“No.” Reader stood up. “
You
wait a minute. This whole deal may be fucked up. It’s his wife owns the bank. Her and her granddaddy. If she kicked him out, it may be he isn’t going to be in any position to launder Castro’s money anymore. We have us a situation, looks like. I need to figure things out. First thing we do, we go over to this apartment and see if he’s there.”

“Now? But--”

“Now. This minute. Come on.”

They were halfway to the door when Veronica came around the end of the bar and said, “You gents can’t leave. I fixed you another drink. On the house.” She smiled and held up two glasses.

“Drink ‘em yourself,
babe,” Reader said, and the two men walked out. Veronica went to the door behind them, alert enough to grab a pad and pencil. She was able to get both license plates. As soon as she’d written them down, she picked up the phone and dialed Grady’s motel again. After letting it ring, she hung up and dialed another number.

“Hey, Harvey...this Harvey? Yeah, great. Listen, Harvey, do me a favor will you? I got some numbers I want you to run for me...”

Turning out onto the highway, Reader allowed himself the slightest smile. Things were going just about the way he figured. He had a pretty good idea who C.J. had called. He would’ve liked to have listened in on that conversation.

I hope you were creative, St. Ives,
he thought to himself, punching the gas and moving out into the traffic.

***

The cops let Reader out the day of his parents’ funerals. Only he wasn’t Reader, not then. He was Charles. The two policemen who took him in the car both called him Chuck, which he hated. “My name’s Charles,” he said, and both cops laughed, and they talked with each other during the ride there. It was one of those typical hot and sultry New Orleans summer days and the car’s air conditioner was turned up to the max, so Charles couldn’t’ve heard them if he’d tried. Mostly he didn’t. Mostly he was bored.

The services for his father and mother were scheduled for the same time, but at different cemeteries. There wasn’t a choice to make. He went to his mother’s.

It was funny. He thought he killed his daddy for what he’d done to his mother, but when he got there and sat in the front row between the two uniformed cops, he couldn’t feel a thing. He couldn’t remember what his mother looked like, only vaguely, though it had been a mere three days since the killings took place. In fact, all he felt was a relief that once he got released--which seemed likely was going to happen by the way the cops talked--he wouldn’t have to go back and live with his mother. He was glad. If she’d been alive, she would’ve picked up another lush like his daddy and it would start all over again. That’s what he told himself.

Before they lowered the coffin, he said to one of the policemen, “C’mon, let’s go. I want to get out of here. Take me back.” On the way back to the detention center, he overheard one cop say to the other, “This is shit, Frank. They shouldn’ta made the kid go if he didn’t want to. Poor fucking kid.”

He began to giggle in the back seat and both cops turned around to stare at him, the one saying, knowingly, before they turned back around, “Shock. He’s in shock. Think we ought to take him by the hospital?”

That got Charles to laughing more. He didn’t know why he was crying at the same time. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t feel sad.

He hated the way his father’s face wouldn’t go away. He hated it worse that his mother’s did. From that day on, she completely vanished from his memory and the only way he could recall her features was to pull out her picture. As soon as he put it away, it was as though he’d never seen it. It was the oddest thing. It bothered him, but he never told anyone.

CHAPTER 21

IN AN HOUR C.J had put down three drinks. In another twenty minutes a scheme was forming itself in his mind.

The bar at the Fairmont was full of people, many of whom he knew. They kept coming up to him, saying hi, C.J., how’s business, trying to tell him banker jokes, business gossip. For once he didn’t smile, didn’t crack jokes, just sat staring at them until they got nervous and walked away.

By his fourth drink he was halfway there and one more put him over the edge. He was feeling good again. He’d figured a way out of this mess.

He ordered another Dewar’s and water and took the drink out into the lobby to a pay phone. He could have used the phone at the bar except he didn’t want anybody to hear this particular conversation.

He failed to notice the man behind him. A man who came out of the bar behind him and stood there a moment as if in indecision and sauntered slowly over to the restrooms.

“I got a problem,” he said as soon as he heard the voice on the other end.

“What problem?”

Now that C.J. was talking to Castro, he got scared. A minute ago it seemed crystal clear what he would say and how the drug dealer would react. A minute ago though he was sitting in the bar slugging down glass after glass of courage. All of a sudden he was sober and wondering if he could make the man believe him. If he couldn’t he’d be dead. One thing men like Castro didn’t tolerate and that was somebody fucking them over.

He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. There was no choice.

“It’s not a big one, Fidel. Nothing to worry about. Probably my imagination, but I wanted to let you know.”

There was a silence.

“Well?”

“Listen, I don’t know for sure, but I think maybe somebody’s been watching us.”

“Like who?”

“How do I know who! Just somebody...probably nothing. Maybe it’s my overactive imagination. No, that’s not it--I know who it is. At least I think I know who it is.”

“Then
who
, goddammit!” The receiver felt as if it had exploded. Fidel never talked to him like that. Must have his nose in the coke.

“Hey, there’s no need for...”

“No need for what, St. Ives? You call me up --you’re not supposed to call me up at this number--and you tell me somebody’s watching you--us--whatever--and you fuck around and don’t tell me who you think it is. What am I supposed to do--use fucking ESP? Tell me what the deal is.
Dio
!”

“I think it’s my wife.”

“Your wife! What the fuck?”

“Yeah. It’s my wife. I’m sure of it. She’s suspicious, thinks I have a girlfriend. I think she’s checking up on me.”

“You
do
have a girlfriend. You
always
have a girlfriend. I’ve never known you when you
didn’t
have a girlfriend. She never worried about it before, did she?”

“Yeah, well, I know. I think that’s it. I think she’s got some detective on me, trying to dig up something. Maybe for a divorce. You know?”

“What’s that got to do with us? With our deal?”

“Well, nothing really. Except if he--this detective--whoever--is snooping around and sees something, tumbles to what’s going on,
that
could be trouble. Hey, that
would
be trouble. Trouble we don’t need, eh?”

“So what do you suggest we do, senor?” He slipped into his Cuban accent heavier and the tone was sarcastic.

“Well...to be on the safe side...probably nothing. Like I said, I thought this week at least...maybe it’s not a good idea for you to bring the money to my office. I thought I’d come out there and get it. I’ll make sure nobody’s following me. This guy--if there
is
a guy--hell, I’m not sure there is, well, another week, things’ll be back to normal. This isn’t the first time Sarah’s gotten bitchy. Probably make me drop Amanda, tell her I’m sorry. You know. So I lose a teller. Glorified teller. So what. I know how to handle Sarah. It’s just that if there’s a guy snooping around trying to take keyhole photos it could mean trouble. Easy to avoid it. Do it different this one week.” Then, like he’d just thought of this, “Hey, maybe I could pick it up out there?”

There was a lengthy silence.

“Fidel?”

“Si, si. I’m thinking. Yeah. You know that might not be a bad idea. Come at nine. I’ll have a couple of the boys watch. If you’re being followed we’ll get him. Yeah. That’s good. Do that. Nine. What’s his car look like? What’s this guy look like?”

Look like?

“Well...he’s easy to spot. Drives a brown car. A Camaro, maybe. Has a big hook nose. Guy’s got short, black, stringy hair. Tries to hide the fact he’s going bald, starts his part above his ear. Greasy black hair.” He blamed the booze for his snicker and tried to assume a sober face.

“Like us Mexicans, eh, senor?”

“No, Fidel, that isn’t what I meant.”

“Good. Because I am Cubano. Between you and me I don’t like Mexicans either. Tell me more. How tall is he? How much does he weigh?”

C.J. gave him a complete description. Of Fred Touschoupe, one of the bank clerks.

“I don’t like this, Senòr St. Ives. If this is a setup, something funny, you’re going down. You know that, eh, senòr?”

C.J. was sweating when he put down the phone and it wasn’t the drinks. For a minute he thought he was going to get sick right in the lobby of the Fairmont, but the feeling passed and he drained the rest of the drink he’d brought with him.

You’re a slick son-of-a-bitch he told himself. This is going to work out perfectly. Absolutely.

He thought about the place where he was going to have to spend the night and wondered if he could do it.

As he left the hotel he passed right by the man who’d followed him out of the bar and once again didn’t notice him.

Out in Chalmette, a Cuban-American picked up his ringing phone and listened to a friend of his. A very powerful friend.

“Si, Senor,” he said, his head nodding vigorously. “I just got a call from him. I told him to come out here.” He listened some more, nodding occasionally, but not speaking. After the other party was done, Castro said, “Si. I understand. That’s what I was thinking also.”