whisper. “Two ...
two guys. Dr … dressed … like cops. Tony …”
“What?”
demanded Vega. “What about Tony?”
“H-he
knew one of them. V-V-V...”
”What!
Say it!”
”V-Val.
Val.”
“Val?
Val who? Tell me, man! Tell me.”
But it
was no use. Chico had lost consciousness.
“What
did he say, Ese?” asked Tomás, who was out of earshot. “Did he tell you
anything?”
Vega
straightened up and smoothed out his expensive suit. “He said enough. Let’s get
to work.”
18
R afael Vega
spent most of that morning on the telephone, assembling valuable scraps of
information. Eventually, he spoke with someone who would lead him to a ship
channel poolroom where Tony Chávez used to hang out.
≈≈≈
At the very moment Vega hung up from this call, Eddie Ryan was walking
out the door of Linda’s apartment in New Orleans’ French Quarter.
Eddie
had slept fitfully and he looked like it. Although his body ached from stress
and his head pounded from last night’s bourbon, his senses sharpened. He made
his way around the corner, then down Burgundy Street, glimpsing here and there
for unusual movement.
The
street looked normal. All traces of last night’s cold-blooded killing had been
wiped away. No cops around. The Ford had been impounded. A sunrise rain had
erased the chalk outline of Garner’s body as well as what was left of his life’s
blood. A cold front had raced through just after dawn, producing a stiff,
unfriendly wind. It was the kind of gray hostile morning where there was no
doubt the temperature would just keep dropping. Eddie shivered as he walked.
He
hurried the three blocks to the Post Office, where he waited impatiently in the
short line. Fear staked a claim on his insides. He felt conspicuous, as though
Salazar himself were about to leap out of the shadows, two guns blazing. By the time he arrived at an open window,
he was positive he had been made. Shit, his picture was probably already up on
the wall, and people were probably whipping out their cell phones.
He
ordered up a thick mailing envelope, a sturdy nine-by-twelve, then addressed it
to Raymond Cannetta. He slipped another envelope containing forty thousand
dollars into it, along with an apologetic note dated the previous day. He
sealed it, stamped it, and off it went.
This
was Linda’s idea. Eddie had already pissed Raymond off by missing yesterday’s
payment. There was no telling what revenge he was cooking up. One thing for
sure, no loan shark just sat around, passively allowing this kind of account go
by the boards.
Maybe
he’ll never find you, Linda said, but if you don’t send him the cash, he’ll
never quit looking. And because he’s mob, then they’ll never quit. Pay him off to make sure he’s off your back. He
won’t tell Salazar, because he’s got no reason to once he gets the dough. If he
hears about you being knifed to death, it’ll look like you sent him the money
late yesterday and got your ass killed last night. At any rate, forty grand’s a
small price to pay to make him go away.
Eddie
arrived back at the apartment, greeted by the aroma of frying bacon,
accompanied by the sound of the sizzling strips in a skillet. Linda hovered
over it, also guiding eggs and toast through their motions. After last night,
though, Eddie wasn’t yet ready for food.
“Got
any coffee?” he asked, slouching at her furniture-warehouse kitchen table. The
black trash bag still lay there on the floor looking like yesterday’s garbage.
“Coming
right up.” She poured him some of the fresh brew into a thick white cup.
“Where’s
Felina?” he asked.
She
motioned toward the bedroom. “Where else?”
”C’mon,
Sis, why dontcha cut her a little slack. She’s really okay.”
Linda
continued turning the bacon, flipping several pieces at once.
Without
looking up, she said, “You still don’t understand, little brother. I know you
better than anybody ever has. Better’n
two guys. Dr … dressed … like cops. Tony …”
“What?”
demanded Vega. “What about Tony?”
“H-he
knew one of them. V-V-V...”
”What!
Say it!”
”V-Val.
Val.”
“Val?
Val who? Tell me, man! Tell me.”
But it
was no use. Chico had lost consciousness.
“What
did he say, Ese?” asked Tomás, who was out of earshot. “Did he tell you
anything?”
Vega
straightened up and smoothed out his expensive suit. “He said enough. Let’s get
to work.”
18
R afael Vega
spent most of that morning on the telephone, assembling valuable scraps of
information. Eventually, he spoke with someone who would lead him to a ship
channel poolroom where Tony Chávez used to hang out.
≈≈≈
At the very moment Vega hung up from this call, Eddie Ryan was walking
out the door of Linda’s apartment in New Orleans’ French Quarter.
Eddie
had slept fitfully and he looked like it. Although his body ached from stress
and his head pounded from last night’s bourbon, his senses sharpened. He made
his way around the corner, then down Burgundy Street, glimpsing here and there
for unusual movement.
The
street looked normal. All traces of last night’s cold-blooded killing had been
wiped away. No cops around. The Ford had been impounded. A sunrise rain had
erased the chalk outline of Garner’s body as well as what was left of his life’s
blood. A cold front had raced through just after dawn, producing a stiff,
unfriendly wind. It was the kind of gray hostile morning where there was no
doubt the temperature would just keep dropping. Eddie shivered as he walked.
He
hurried the three blocks to the Post Office, where he waited impatiently in the
short line. Fear staked a claim on his insides. He felt conspicuous, as though
Salazar himself were about to leap out of the shadows, two guns blazing. By the time he arrived at an open window,
he was positive he had been made. Shit, his picture was probably already up on
the wall, and people were probably whipping out their cell phones.
He
ordered up a thick mailing envelope, a sturdy nine-by-twelve, then addressed it
to Raymond Cannetta. He slipped another envelope containing forty thousand
dollars into it, along with an apologetic note dated the previous day. He
sealed it, stamped it, and off it went.
This
was Linda’s idea. Eddie had already pissed Raymond off by missing yesterday’s
payment. There was no telling what revenge he was cooking up. One thing for
sure, no loan shark just sat around, passively allowing this kind of account go
by the boards.
Maybe
he’ll never find you, Linda said, but if you don’t send him the cash, he’ll
never quit looking. And because he’s mob, then they’ll never quit. Pay him off to make sure he’s off your back. He
won’t tell Salazar, because he’s got no reason to once he gets the dough. If he
hears about you being knifed to death, it’ll look like you sent him the money
late yesterday and got your ass killed last night. At any rate, forty grand’s a
small price to pay to make him go away.
Eddie
arrived back at the apartment, greeted by the aroma of frying bacon,
accompanied by the sound of the sizzling strips in a skillet. Linda hovered
over it, also guiding eggs and toast through their motions. After last night,
though, Eddie wasn’t yet ready for food.
“Got
any coffee?” he asked, slouching at her furniture-warehouse kitchen table. The
black trash bag still lay there on the floor looking like yesterday’s garbage.
“Coming
right up.” She poured him some of the fresh brew into a thick white cup.
“Where’s
Felina?” he asked.
She
motioned toward the bedroom. “Where else?”
”C’mon,
Sis, why dontcha cut her a little slack. She’s really okay.”
Linda
continued turning the bacon, flipping several pieces at once.
Without
looking up, she said, “You still don’t understand, little brother. I know you
better than anybody ever has. Better’n
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