“He gave her thirty, the guy must’ve had a lot more.”
“That’s right, and the guy didn’t run that big of a book. But I take the money home and hide it in a good place, ’cause now I have this tremendous idea. Put the money to work, as the occasion arises, in my continuing fight against crime. Like using a confiscated car on surveillance? Use some of the scratch to pay off informants. Get these assholes tripping over each other to tell me stuff.”
“Don’t they lie to you?”
“Sure they do, it’s their nature. You got to jam a snitch, get him against the wall. Fella’s dealing against a third fall, he tells you where this other fella’s gonna be with a load of smack on him, only he ain’t there. So you tell the guy, ‘He ain’t there the next time, asshole, you gonna get triple-billed and go on up to ‘Gola.’ Now, the word’s on the street I’m paying off, shit, I got ’em lined up like I’m hearing confession. Listen, I’d get phone calls in the middle of the night, which Rosemary would answer on account of her sour fucking disposition kept her awake. And if it was a broad on the phone that was cool, ’cause then Rosemary wouldn’t even look at me for about a week. I got mostly shuck, but not all.”
“You have kids, Roy?”
“My babies are grown up and gone, two fine girls, but they come to see me.” Meaning, to Angola.
“Go on with the story.”
“Talking about snitches… there was a case I was working on, a Wells Fargo stickup in Jackson, Mississippi, where some of the money was showing up in New Orleans. The feds already had a lead on four local guys they’re watching. But the feds don’t have any police experience, they use computers, and a computer isn’t worth shit on the street, to get information. You have to get down there in the sewer with the assholes and talk to ’em man to man. One of my ace informants tells me to see a guy at Charity in there with a gunshot wound he says was from a hunting accident. The feds ask him if he hunts with ninety-grain .38s from a Smith and Wesson service revolver. See, they know one of the guys in the Wells Fargo heist was shot on the way out. This guy in the hospital, his wound is through and through, but he doesn’t know that. See, they don’t have a slug, they’re just trying to bullshit him. The day I go see the guy, first thing in the morning, I’m too late. During the night some guy walked in his room, put a pillow over his face, and shot him five times through the pillow. Leaves the gun and walks out. The guy in the next bed saw the whole thing. The nurse tells me they have to change his sheets every time somebody walks in the room now he doesn’t know. I think, hey, this nurse is a cool broad. I begin to wonder about her and a couple days later I meet her for a drink, place there on Gravier, when she gets off her shift. I’m employing now what’s called the swag approach to police work, a Scientific Wild-Ass Guess. We sit down, order Manhattans, the drinks arrive, and I say, ‘Say, how’s your friend Dickie Duschene?’ She just about chokes on her cherry, can’t fucking believe it. The cool nurse is no longer cool. We make a deal and by the time she’s on her fourth Manhattan I’ve been apprised of the fact the guy that got whacked in the hospital expected it, saw it coming while, in the meantime, he was falling in love with the nurse and telling her where he stashed a hundred and fifty big ones, in a locker at the airport. She didn’t know what to do with it, so she gave it to her boyfriend, Dickie, for safekeeping. You see what’s coming? Honest to Christ. Dickie gives Nola thirty grand to keep peace in the family. She gives it to me and I’m using part of the take from the same fucking heist I’m investigating.”
“That’s an amazing story.”
“I’m not done yet. I see where I am, I’m right in the middle of all this shit and I gotta get out, fast. But the cool nurse who’s no longer cool goes immediately to the feds, who’ve been talking to her anyway, and now the fucking daisy chain comes around again. Dickie talks. Nola screams she didn’t do nothing, she gave it to the police, me. The feds and cops both come to the house. They ask, where’s the money? I’m in deep shit if I admit anything. Nobody’s gonna believe I used some of it only to pay snitches. Those administrative assholes don’t understand the value of snitches. They want to get me anyway ’cause I never told ’em dick what I was doing and that infringed on their management position. So I say, ‘What money?’ ”
“Play dumb.”
“Sure, but you know what they did? They take Rosemary aside and question her. I haven’t told her nothing about the money, so I figure I’m home. But then, Jesus, they tell her about my relationship with Nola, dirty bastards, that it was Nola gave me the money. Rosemary says, ‘Oh, is that right?’ They tell her it was thirty grand. It could’ve been thirty cents, it wouldn’t a made any difference. Rosemary opens up her sewing box and takes out a handful of money straps I had taken off the dough each time I got some to pay a snitch and threw the paper straps in the wastebasket. And each time I did, Rosemary dipped in and got it out. Then waited for the right time to stick it in my nose. Finding out about Nola was the time. They trace the bank straps to the Wells Fargo heist, I’m brought up on accessory charges, possession of stolen currency, shit, I’m convicted and draw ten to twenty-five. Rosemary, at the sentencing, she has tears in her eyes. A woman from the TV news asks her how she feels. Rosemary wipes her eyes and says, ‘Thirteen years married to that son of a bitch he barely spoke a word to me. Let’s see how he likes it when nobody speaks to him.’ Meaning in here,” Roy told Jack Delaney at Angola. “A cop trying to make it in the joint.”
Roy appeared, coming past the illuminated fountain. He sat down across from Jack, took a drink of his scotch, then hunched over, his arms laid on the table.
“You have a fire key for this place?”
Jack shook his head, comfortable in the patio chair. “This wasn’t a hotel when I was working. I don’t recall what it was; I think they made it into one. It’s nice, huh? Cozy.”
“You don’t have a key, how you plan to get in the man’s room?”
“Maybe we won’t have to.”
“Then what do we need a burglar for?” Roy said. “What’s your part in this deal?”
“You afraid you’re gonna do all the work?”
“I have so far.”
Was he being serious? Jack wasn’t sure. He got out a cigarette and scratched a hotel match to light it. Roy’s tone was always the same unless he was talking to traffic or a lavatory door, so it was hard to tell. But was he serious at this moment or not?
“I’m gonna follow the guy,” Jack said, “and learn all about him. Where he banks, where he eats his supper… If I have to go in his room I’ll find a way, so don’t worry about it. Okay?”
Roy said, “I’m not worried. I already found you a way.” He sipped his drink, not taking his eyes from Jack, then put on a grin as he said, “You starting to feel some strain?”
It told Jack, yes, Roy had been serious a moment ago and now he was letting up, turning it around. Roy was a friend, but Roy had to be handled with a pair of Leo’s rubber gloves, carefully.