Heaven's Prisoners by James Lee Burke

Rampart. The cracked brick and mortar had been painted purple; the red tiles in the roof were broken; the scrolled iron grillwork on the balconies had burst loose from its fastenings and was tilted at odd angles. The banana and palm trees in the courtyard looked as though they had never been pruned, and the dead leaves and fronds clicked loudly in the rain and wind. Dark-skinned children rode tricycles up and down the second-floor balcony, and all the apartment doors were open and even in the rain you could hear an incredible mixed din of daytime television, Latin music, and people shouting at each other.
    I walked up to Robin’s apartment, but as I approached her door a middle-aged, overweight man in a rain spotted gray business suit with an American-flag pin in his lapel came toward me, squinting at a small piece of damp paper in his hand. I wanted to think he was a bill collector, a social worker, a process server, but his eyes were too furtive, his face too nervous, his need too obvious. He realised that the apartment number he was looking for was the one I was standing in front of. His face went blank, the way a man’s does when he suddenly knows that he’s made a commitment for which he has no preparation. I didn’t want to be unkind to him.
    “She’s out of the business, partner,” I said.
    “Sir?”
    “Robin’s not available anymore.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His face had grown rounder and more frightened.
    “That’s her apartment number on that piece of paper, isn’t it? You’re not a regular, so I suspect somebody sent you here. Who was it?”
    He started to walk past me. I put my hand gently on his arm.
    “I’m not a policeman. I’m not her husband. I’m just a friend. Who was it, partner?” I said.
    “A bartender.”
    “At Smiling Jack’s, on Bourbon?”
    “Yes, I think that was it.”
    “Did you give him money?”
    “Yes.”
    “Don’t go back there for it. He won’t give it back to you, anyway. Do you understand that?”
    “Yes.”
    I took my hand away from his arm, and he walked quickly down the stairs and out into the rain-swept courtyard.
    I looked through the screen door into the gloom of Robin’s apartment. A toilet flushed in back, and she walked into the living room in a pair of white shorts and a green Tulane T-shirt and saw me framed against the wet light. The index finger of her left hand was wrapped in a splint. She smiled sleepily at me, and I stepped inside. The thick, drowsy odor of marijuana struck at my face. Smoke curled from a roach clip in an ashtray on the coffee table.
    “What’s happening, Streak?” she said lazily.
    “I just ran off a client, I’m afraid.”
    “What d’you mean?”
    “Jerry sent a John over. I told him you were out of the business. Permanently, Robin. We’re moving you to Key West, kiddo.”
    “This is all too weird. Look, Dave, I’m down to seeds and stems, if you know what I mean. I’m going out to buy some beer. Mommy has to get a little mellow before she bounces her stuff for the cantaloupe lovers. You want to come along?”
    “No beer, no more hooking, no Smiling Jack’s tonight. I’ve got you a ticket on a nine o’clock flight to Key West.”
    “Stop talking crazy, will you? What am I going to do in Key West? It’s full of faggots.”
    “You’re going to work in a restaurant owned by a friend of mine. It’s a nice place, out on the pier at the end of Duval Street. Famous people eat in there. Tennessee Williams used to come there.”
    “You mean that country singer? Wow, what a gig.”
    “I’m going to square what those guys did to you and me,” I said. “When I do, you won’t be able to stay in New Orleans.”
    “That’s what’s wrong with your mouth?”
    “They told me what they did to your finger. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
    “Forget it. It comes with my stage career.” She sat down on the stuffed couch and picked up the roach clip, which now held only smoldering ash. She