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.