CHAPTER 23

ST. IVES TURNED OUT to be a simple-minded chump, at least as far as guarding the security of his apartment. Getting in was simple. Reader told him, through the door, he was there to collect for the Sunday paper, for his kid who was quitting the route. When the banker made the mistake of opening the door a tiny crack, to protest that he didn’t take the paper, that he must have the wrong apartment, all Reader did was shove the door back hard into thbanker and he was in, Eddie following behind.

“You broke my nose,” C.J. said, in a whiney, petulant voice, lying on the floor and looking up, his eyes shining with fear, blood trickling down his lip onto his chin.

“Check it out, see if the girl’s in one of the bedrooms,” Reader ordered Eddie who was standing like a pet dog behind him. “See if he’s got a gun anywhere around.”

“Your nose isn’t broken,” he said to C.J. “It’s not bleeding that much. You oughta be more hospitable when guests come around. Invite the paper boy in for milk and cookies.” He liked his joke.

He jerked him up and patted him down.

“Christ! You an Eskimo?” The apartment was freezing. He went over and flipped the air conditioner off. “Sit down, Mr. St. Ives.” He motioned toward the couch.

“Where’s your warrant?” C.J. said. He retrieved a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and held it to his nose, taking it away from time to time to see how much blood was on it. The bleeding had about stopped.

“Warrant?” Reader crossed over, pulled the easy chair directly in front of the couch and sat down facing the banker.

“Oh, you think we’re cops. That’s rich.”

Eddie walked in from the other room.

“She’s not here, huh? Probably out shopping. You give her her own charge card, St. Ives? Payday for your fucking?” Reader grinned.

“She’s here all right, Reader,” Eddie said, coming out of the bedroom. “In there. She was in the closet. I was you, I’d turn the air-conditioning back up.”

Reader stood up. “Well, get her in here. You crazy? Let her alone in there? What if she’s got a gun hidden someplace and comes out and wants to play O.K. Corral?”

“She don’t have no gun, Reader. Wouldn’t matter if she did.” He looked over at St. Ives and showed his teeth. “You want to tell him? Y’all have a lovers quarrel, St. Ives?”

C.J. put his head in his hands and moaned.

Eddie said again, with a knowing leer, “You might want to turn the air back up, Reader.”

***

The way it turned out, C.J. St. Ives was a pushover for a head slap or two. His nose seemed especially tender and was obviously connected directly to his vocal cords. Reader thought about that again and told himself to remember the joke, tell it sometime. He tried it out on Eddie.

“Here’s a biology lesson for you, Eddie. Notice how the tongue of the banker species is connected directly to the nose. You want to know something, tap the nose a little.” He demonstrated, enjoying the way the cartilage cracked.

C.J. moaned. He began rocking back and forth, his hands cupped protectively around his face.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said in a whining voice, after a minute. “I’ve told you everything.”

That was not quite true. One thing Reader was sure of was that either St. Ives was neglecting to fill in the whole picture or was misleading him on several important parts. He went through the papers that were lying on the dresser.

“So this is the deal, eh? Your old lady kicked you out, you and your girlfriend there had a little argument and you iced her. Little accident, is that it?”

“Yes.” C.J. put his hands down tentatively and peered at Reader. “That’s precisely what it was.”

“Okay,” said Reader. “I believe you, Mr. St. Ives. The problem is, Eddie’s a skeptic. And since he’s my partner I got to humor him. Eddie, look in that box you brought in and get me those pliers. The needle-nosed ones. And see if there’s a pair of scissors in there. Don’t worry, Eddie. I know Mr. St. Ives is the truthful sort. He wouldn’t mislead us intentionally, but to set your mind at ease, I’ll ask him again.”

Eddie was one big grin. He didn’t know what was on Reader’s mind, but whatever it was, it was going to be fun; he was sure of it.

C.J.’s eyes got about as wide as possible as Reader went over and foraged around in the box himself, coming out with two pairs of handcuffs and a roll of two-inch gray tape.

“What are you doing?”

Reader didn’t say anything, only cuffed St. Ives’ ankles together and then his wrists.

“Mr. St. Ives is the noisy type, I think,” he said to Eddie, who was watching over his shoulder as he tore a piece of tape from the roll and pressed it over C.J.’s mouth.

“Come here, Eddie,” he said. “I think you better hold Mr. St. Ives’ arms. He’s liable to get a little twitchy.”

“Nice manicure,” he said, holding up the banker’s hands.

The whole time he worked, C.J. screamed, only it sounded more like a turbine warming up, what with the tape over his mouth. When Reader was done, he held up the fingernail from C.J.’s right forefinger in front of the sweat-drenched man’s face. A single drop of blood hung suspended from it. There was a lot more on the finger itself.

“I’m sorry, Mr. St. Ives,” he said. “I do believe I’ve chipped a nail. It’s these pliers. I probably don’t have the right kind for a delicate job like this. I think I’ve got the hang of it, though. The next one’ll be perfect. You’ll see. You know, Eddie, I suspect you may be right. Mr. St. Ives might be holding out on us. I believe if he is, we’ll find out though. I mean, looky here. We’ve got nine more nails to get at the whole story. Oh. I almost forgot. There’s ten toenails, too. Unless he’s one of those odd ones and has more. How many did your mother count the day you were born, Mr. St. Ives?”

That’s when C.J. fainted, the first time.

***

Grady didn’t voice this to Whitney, but secretly he wondered if he was making the right move. Maybe he should have gone across the river instead and checked out the neighborhood at Kincaid’s last address some more to see if he still lived in the area.

No, Eddie was the one. Wait on him on Arnoldt by his apartment. He’ll show. He’d be easier to follow. Kincaid was the brains of this operation, whatever it was. He’d get farther faster sticking to Eddie. See where he went, what he did.

If he showed up, that is. Grady got one of those hunches old cops get from an instinct born of years of dealing with punks and perverts, that the timetable for whatever the two were scheming was drawing close.

“That bastard!” Whitney was talking about Eddie. “Anyone who would hurt a dog deserves to be executed!”

From time to time he turned on the engine and ran the air conditioner. This place is too godawful hot for humans to live in, he thought. I’d have to stay inside all day and all night if I lived down in this place.

“Wait a minute,” he snapped. “I think it’s a shame, sure, to hurt some dumb animal, but this is a lot more serious than that. These guys kill people.”

Whitney looked at him, her eyes registering her blunder.

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally.

Grady immediately felt bad for jumping down her throat. Her head was lowered and she was staring at her lap.

“I am, too,” he said. “All I want to do is catch this creep. For all his crimes. Against people and animals.”

The traffic to and from Eddie’s apartment complex was amazing. Nobody stayed long, ten, fifteen minutes at the most. Fat City was drug central, Veronica’d told him, and she was right about that. There seemed to be a lot of hookers around, as well. He could see into the complex, which was centered around a pool, and every once in a while a guy would pull in and go up to one of the four or five girls around the pool and they’d disappear into an apartment. Watching all the action made him want a shower. A cesspool is the way he’d describe where Eddie lived. He must feel right at home, Grady thought.

“Is what’s going on what I think?” Whitney asked, at one point.

“Yeah,” he said. “Busy little place, isn’t it?”

He went over the little bit that he knew about the situation. Whatever they were planning looked like it was going to be done with a pipe bomb. Why did they blow up a dog? If they did, but it was pretty clear at least that this Eddie’d been the one to blow up the German shepherd across the lake. It didn’t make any sense. The dog wasn’t worth anything. Hell, they bought the damn thing so it wasn’t some dognapping from some rich animal lover, gone hinky. So what was it? He came to the conclusion it must have been a trial run.

What did he know about this Reader? What was it Veronica said? A genius. She said he was a genius. He liked killing and he liked supermarkets, banks, places with big numbers. What did all that have to do with bombs and dogs?

Grady felt a headache coming on. The whole thing was screwy. Go through it again, he told himself. It connects. You’ve got to put the details together in the right way. Try to make some sense of it. He recalled an old movie with James Garner where they used these dogs to hold up a bank. Dobermans trained to rob banks. Maybe this Kincaid has figured out a new twist where he hooked them up with pipe bombs.

Possible, but he didn’t think so, the more he thought about it. He saw the picture of Reader in his mind. There was a huge ego involved. Genius type. Geniuses, especially pathological criminals like this guy, wouldn’t use someone else’s plan no matter how clever it might be. No, this would have to be an original thing, something nobody else would have ever thought of. The money probably wasn’t that important to a guy like this. The money would be a way of illustrating his importance, show how smart he was. A control freak, Grady was sure. Probably didn’t drink, at least to excess and despised those who did, figured them for weaklings, no self-control. Probably smoked on purpose to get the habit and once he was good and hooked, quit, cold turkey, merely to demonstrate to himself his iron self-control. He kept turning what little he knew about the guy over in his head, trying to get a handle on him.

The criminal mind, particularly the superior criminal mind--fascinated him even as it repelled him. The ultimate challenge, especially for a plodder like himself. He had to admit that, as much as he abhorred what Reader had done to his brother, in a way, he was enjoying the chase. He’d been up against some pretty slick cookies in his time, but he had a feeling this Reader made them all look like morons.

He wondered how much money was at stake.

I wish Jack was alive, he thought. I wish he was alive and sitting right here with me. He’d have this figured out in no time. How would you approach this, Jack? Think like a genius criminal? That’d be ea if I happened to be a genius criminal; however, I am just a dumb schmuck cop. Ex-cop, in fact, retired. I think my brain is retired, also.

He shook out his fifth Marlboro medium in the last hour and lighted it. He sensed displeasure at the act from the woman sitting next to him but dammit, she’d asked to come with him and if he was going to sit out here for hours he needed his smokes. I need some of that self-discipline, he thought ruefully, feeling the ache in his lungs as he inhaled deeply. I guess I ain’t the genius type. Not this millionaire, genius cop.

He turned the key in the ignition again and winced at the warm air that blasted out at first before cooling off and feeling like air-conditioning. How can anybody think in all this heat, he wondered. It was a miracle anything ever got solved! He glanced at the gas gauge to see if he needed any. There was a chance they might be in for a long wait.

***

Reader was talking about Indians again. The three men, him, Eddie, and C.J. St. Ives were all sitting in the living room. St. Ives had come to, but he didn’t look too good. His color was mostly gray.

Reader said, “See, Eddie, this guy’s an Indian, too. He’s a little more advanced Indian than you are, but he’s for sure an Indian.”

Eddie stopped his reading, put down the TV Guide, and said, “Why you goin’ off about the goddamned fucking Indians again? I told you, I’m French-Canadian, not no goddamned Indian. You know what, Reader? I’m your fucking partner. Why don’t you treat me like a partner? I might not be as smart as you, but I’m not a complete idiot, either. I’ve done a few things. Why’d you pick me if you think I’m so dumb? This is bullshit, your always raggin’ on me.”

Reader decided to ignore what he said.

“See? He’s got part of the package, thinks he’s got it all, thinks he’s in the twentieth century with both feet. Only he doesn’t realize this is almost the twenty-first century. See these passports, birth certificates?”

They’d made a search of the apartment after C.J. came to and told them what they wanted to know. Eddie found the papers, taped up under a dresser drawer.

“He’s got a pretty good plan, shows intelligence. Only notice I said a ‘pretty good plan’? Shows no matter how much he thinks he’s on top of the game, he’s still thinking like an Indian. He’s been thinking about all the good things that were going to happen with his scheme and not enough about things that could go wrong. That’s the way the Indians would do it. Sit around the bonfire, whooping and hollering and counting in advance all the scalps they were gonna collect, all the white men they were gonna erase. Never thought too much about what if there were more white men than Indians or if their guns were bigger. Or if maybe the white man was sitting around their campfire planning to do something to the Indians.

“The smart guys,” he said, “spend more time figuring out what to do when things go bad than they do in thinking about how they’re going to celebrate when they win. I’ll bet that’s what you do, isn’t it, Eddie? I’ll bet you thought a whole lot about how many shoes you’re going to buy when this deal’s done, how many different women you’re going to screw. I bet you haven’t thought once about what might go wrong and how to fix it if it does. Am I right?”

Eddie didn’t answer.

“Water. Can I have some water?” St. Ives croaked from the couch.

“Sure,” Reader said. “Give him a drink, Eddie. See if there’s any popcorn, too. Got to have popcorn at the movies.”

He reached over and turned on the TV.

“This thing work all right?” A picture, fuzzy at first that began to clear, came on. “Sally Jesse,” he said, smirking. “You watch this crap? This is nice,” he said, not expecting an answer. “I’m glad to see you’ve got a VCR. Saves us the cost of buying one. I’ve got a little tape you’re gonna get a kick out of. In a couple of hours we’re gonna watch it together. I hope Eddie finds some popcorn. Popcorn’s always nice to munch on during the main feature.”

He turned the volume down and watched the picture for a moment. Sally Jesse was talking to two young black men on both sides of an older black woman. She walked over to the black woman and hugged her. The camera showed a close-up of Sally and the tear rolling down her cheek.

Eddie came back in and handed a glass of water to St. Ives who sat up and took it in both hands. “There ain’t no popcorn, Reader,” he said.

Reader said, “Eddie, I guess I been hard on you, haven’t I? Hey, partner, sorry about that.” He could see his partner was approaching the point where his attitude could fuck up the job. “I was kidding about that Indian stuff. Take a joke, Eddie. Cool down. I don’t think you’re so dumb. Would I have taken you on if I thought you were a fuck?”

Eddie visibly relaxed. He gave a tentative smile. “Well, shit, Reader, you been treatin’ me like a broke-dick dog, whaddya expect? How you think I’m gonna feel? We’re supposed t’be partners, this thing.”

Reader walked over and slapped him on the back. “Hey, take it easy. I’ve got job nerves. Couple things been going different than I wanted was all. Like this dead bitch in the closet. Ol’ C.J. here surprised me. It’s under control. We’re fine, Eddie. We’re about to become rich. One more day. Say, why don’t you go out, get some more food. Get yourself a six-pack. Hell, pick up a case, bring it back. We’ll all hoist a few. I bet Mr. St. Ives could use a beer. Couldn’t you, Mr. St. Ives?”

“Here.” He handed Eddie a fifty-dollar bill. “Get some chow, maybe some mudbugs, some cold boiled shrimp, hot sauce. Sounds good, huh? Get back in two hours, Eddie. Tell you what--you got time--go home and pack your shit, get what you need for when we blow this burg. Also,” he reached into his pocket and took out a single key and handed it to Eddie, “this is my apartment key. I want you to stop by and get some stuff we’re going to need. I got two boxes up on the closet shelf. All the shit we need’s there. There’s a garment bag, too. Get that. I need fresh clothes.”

As soon as Eddie left, Reader went over and grabbed St. Ives by the arms and pulled him up to a sitting position on the couch. He sat down beside him and pulled the man’s hands to him.

“I think you maybe forgot a few little details, Mr. St. Ives. We’re going to have us a little chat. I need to know about these passports. Although I got a pretty good idea what they’re for. I just need you to tell me. There’s something else.”

He took the man’s hand and forced the middle finger out and grabbed the nail with the pliers and tore off another nail, ripping it across the quick and ignoring the screams in his ear. He didn’t bother this time to cut down the sides with the scissors. Reader waited until St. Ives came to, his face drenched with sweat and moisture showing all the way through his suit coat. He’d broken the finger, too. That was pretty obvious the way it was twisted and began swelling up right away. He felt the sweat on his own face from the exertion. He looked at the bloody little object and flipped it across the room and set the pliers down on the coffee table. He didn’t have to pick them up this time, the banker tellin him things in a high, reedy voice that told Reader he was telling the truth.

“Now,” he said, pleased at his work. “What kind of story did you run on Castro?”

St. Ives started to open his mouth and say something, when Reader interrupted.

“You got to know I’m way ahead of you, my friend. You can’t even see my smoke I’m so far ahead. You want to be very careful here and tell me the truth. I’ll know when you’re lying.”

There wasn’t a drop of blood in St. Ives’ face. His voice was low and husky when he began talking.

When he finished, Reader said, “That’s a little more like it, Mr. St. Ives. Let’s you and me hop into the bedroom, let me make you all snug. I’ve got a few phone calls to make. You can go keep your girlfriend company. Here.” He stuck the dishcloth he’d been using to mop up the blood in St. Ives’ handcuffed hands. “Keep this tight around those fingers. They feel better already, don’t they?”

On their way to the bedroom, Reader said, “Say, Mr. St. Ives, you’d make a good con. You got lockstep down pat. Most guys fall down the first time they try it. You want to be careful when we get to that rug.”

***

One of the calls turned up some interesting information. Lionel had traced the license plate he’d given him to a rental agency, which went along with what Bobby’d told him. For a fifty-dollar bill, Lionel said he got a copy of the rental agreement from the bozo salesman, which not only gave the guy’s name but where he was staying. As soon as Reader heard the name, he made the connection.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said, replacing the phone.

He sat there for a long time, thinking.

After a while, he picked up the phone again.

“Octavio?” he said. “I want you to tell your boss something. I want you to tell him you got a tip there’s a DEA agent nosing around his business. Tell him you got it from a cop you know. Let him know you tracked the guy down and he’s staying out at the Day’s Inn in Kenner.”

There, he thought, satisfied with what he’d done. The guy’s no longer a problem. Castro would take care of him.

He leaned back and clasped his hands together behind his head.

I needed a challenge, he thought. This was getting boring, it was going so good.