“Give me a name.”
“Okay. J. L. Grainger. I think you helped him on a business deal. He also mentioned a Mr. Schwartz who was also quite pleased with your work.”
Nance thought about this for a second as he studied Gronke. He was a burly man with a thick chest, late thirties, badly dressed but didn’t know it. Because of his clipped drawl, Nance immediately knew he was from New Orleans. “I get a two-thousand-dollar retainer up front, nonrefundable, all in cash, before I lift a finger.” Gronke pulled a roll of bills from his left front pocket and peeled off twenty big ones. Nance relaxed. It was his fastest retainer in ten years. “Sit down,” he said, taking the money and waving at a sofa. “I’m listening.”
Gronke took a folded newspaper clipping from his jacket and handed it to Nance. “Did you see this in today’s paper?”
Nance looked at it. “Yeah. I read it. How are you involved?”
“I’m from New Orleans. In fact, Mr. Muldanno is an old pal, and he’s very disturbed to see his name suddenly show up here in the Memphis paper. It says he has Mafia ties and all. Can’t believe a word in the newspapers. The press is going to ruin this country.”
“Was Clifford his lawyer?”
“Yeah. But now he has a new one. That’s not important, though. Lemme tell you what’s worrying him. He has a good source telling him these two boys know something.”
“Where are the boys?”
“One’s in the hospital, a coma or something. He freaked out when Clifford shot himself. His brother was actually in the car with Clifford prior to the shooting, and we’re afraid this kid might know something. He’s already hired a lawyer, and is refusing to talk to the FBI. Looks real suspicious.”
“Where do I fit in?”
“We need someone with Memphis connections. We need to see the kid. We need to know where he is at all times.”
“What’s his name?”
“Mark Sway. He’s at the hospital, we think, with his mother. Last night they stayed in the room with the younger brother, a kid named Ricky Sway. Ninth floor at St. Peter’s. Room 943. We want you to find the kid, determine his location as of now, and then watch him.”
“Easy enough.”
“Maybe not. There are cops and probably FBI agents watching too. The kid’s attracting a crowd.”
“I get a hundred bucks an hour, cash.”
“I know that.”
She called herself amber, which along with Alexis happened to be the two most popular acquired names among strippers and whores in the French Quarter. She answered the phone, then carried it a few feet to the tiny bathroom where Barry Muldanno was brushing his teeth. “It’s Gronke,” she said, handing it to him. He took it, turned off the water, and admired her naked body as she crawled under the sheets. He stepped into the doorway. “Yeah,” he said into the phone.
A minute later, he placed the phone on the table next to the bed, and quickly dried himself off. He dressed in a hurry. Amber was somewhere under the covers.
“What time are you going to work?” he asked, tying his tie.
“Ten. What time is it?” Her head appeared between the pillows.
“Almost nine. I gotta run an errand. I’ll be back.”
“Why? You got what you wanted.”
“I might want some more. I pay the rent here, sweetheart.”
“Some rent. Why don’t you move me outta this dump? Get me a nice place?”
He tugged his sleeves from under his jacket, and admired himself in the mirror. Perfect, just perfect. He smiled at Amber. “I like it here.”
“It’s a dump. If you treated me right, you’d get me a nice place.”
“Yeah, yeah. See you later, sweetheart.” He slammed the door. Strippers. Get them a job, then an apartment, buy some clothes, feed them nice dinners, and then they get culture and start making demands. They were an expensive habit, but one he could not break.
He bounced down the steps in his alligator loafers, and opened the door onto Dumaine. He looked right and left, certain that someone was watching, and took off around the corner onto Bourbon. He moved in shadows, crossing and recrossing the street, then turned corners and retraced some of his steps. He zigzagged for eight blocks, then disappeared into Randy’s Oysters on Decatur. If they stuck to him, they were supermen.
Randy’s was a sanctuary. It was an old-fashioned New Orleans eatery, long and narrow, dark and crowded, off-limits for tourists, owned and operated by the family. He ran up the cramped staircase to the second floor, where reserved seating was required and only a select few could get reservations. He nodded to a waiter, grinned at a beefy thug, and entered a private room with four tables. Three were empty, and at the fourth a solitary figure sat in virtual darkness reading by the light of a real candle. Barry approached, stopped, and waited to be invited. The man saw him and waved at a chair. Barry obediently took a seat.
Johnny Sulari was the brother of Barry’s mother, and the undisputed head of the family. He owned Randy’s, along with a hundred other assorted ventures. As usual, he was working tonight, reading financial statements by candlelight and waiting for dinner. This was Tuesday, just another night at the office. On Friday, Johnny would be here with an Amber or an Alexis or a Sabrina, and on Saturday he would be here with his wife.
He did not appreciate the interruption. “What is it?” he asked.
Barry leaned forward, well aware that he was not wanted here at this moment. “Just talked to Gronke in Memphis. Kid’s hired a lawyer, and is refusing to talk to the FBI.”
“I can’t believe you’re so stupid, Barry, you know that?”
“We’ve had this conversation, okay?”
“I know. And we’ll have it again. You’re a dumbass, and I just want you to know that I think you’re a real dumbass.”
“Okay. I’m a dumbass. But we need to make a move.”
“What?”
“We need to send Bono and someone else, maybe Pirini, maybe the Bull, I don’t care, but we need a couple of men in Memphis. And we need them now.”
“You want to hit the kid?”
“Maybe. We’ll see. We need to find out what he knows, okay? If he knows too much, then maybe we’ll take him out.”
“I’m embarrassed we’re related by blood, Barry. You’re a complete fool, you know that?”
“Okay. But we need to move fast.”
Johnny picked up a stack of papers and began reading. “Send Bono and Pirini, but no more stupid moves. Okay? You’re a idiot, Barry, an imbecile, and I don’t want anything done up there until I say so. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“Leave now.” Johnny waved his hand, and Barry jumped to his feet.
13
By Tuesday evening, George Ord and his staff had managed to confine the activities of Foltrigg, Boxx, and Fink to the expansive library in the center of the offices. Here they’d set up camp. They had two phones. Ord loaned them a secretary and an intern. All other assistant attorneys were ordered to stay out of the library. Foltrigg kept the doors closed and spread his papers and mess over the sixteen-foot conference table in the middle of the room. Trumann was allowed to come and go. The secretary fetched coffee and sandwiches whenever the reverend ordered.
Foltrigg had been a mediocre student of the law, and had managed to avoid the drudgery of legal research for the past fifteen years. He had learned to hate libraries in law school. Research was to be done by egghead scholars; that was his theory. Law could be practiced only by real lawyers who could stand before juries and preach.
But out of sheer boredom, here he was in George Ord’s library with Boxx and Fink, nothing to do but wait at the beck and call of one Reggie Love, and so he, the great Roy Foltrigg, lawyer extraordinaire, had his nose stuck in a thick law book with a dozen more stacked around him on the table. Fink, the egghead scholar, was on the floor between two shelves of books with his shoes off and research materials littered about. Boxx, also a lightweight legal intellect, went through the motions at the other end of Foltrigg’s table. Boxx had not opened a law book in years, but for the moment there was simply nothing else to do. He wore his only clean pair of boxer shorts and hoped like hell they left Memphis tomorrow.