Charlie Hustmyre - House of the Rising Sun

Ray rolled back across the console and tucked his knees up into his belly in case Rocco came in after him, but he didn’t. Instead, the big man bent down and picked up the water pistol. He aimed it at Ray and pumped the trigger three times, laughing as the stream of urine hit Ray in the face and head. On the fourth pump, just a dribble came out and Rocco threw the empty plastic gun on top of Ray, then slammed the Mustang’s door shut.

Tony pressed his face against the closed window and yelled, “Somebody’s got to pay, Raymond. It’s either going to be you or them.” Then he disappeared into the passenger door of the Lincoln and closed his umbrella. Like a faithful dog, Rocco trotted around the big car and squeezed in behind the wheel. The motor cranked. Then the Lincoln tore out of the parking lot, its tires spinning on the wet pavement.

Ray called three times and left three messages. Jimmy didn’t call him back. Ray decided to go in person.

The New Orleans Police Department headquarters building is an ugly, 1960s-era, five-story block of cement and smoked glass that stands between the jail and municipal court. As Ray crossed the open plaza in front of the dilapidated building, he passed the dry, weed-choked memorial fountain and tried not to look at the memorial wall.

Set in a corner of Sirgo Plaza, the fallen-officers memorial was the only modern edifice in the entire jail-court-police complex. The memorial wall was a seven-foot-tall pane of thick glass, surrounded by a rectangular concrete frame. Etched into the glass were the names of all of the New Orleans police officers who had been killed in the line of duty. When he was a rookie cop, Ray used to stop and stare at the glass wall. He would get choked up thinking about the fallen heroes whose names were inscribed there. This time he raced past it, too ashamed to look.

Just inside the main door to headquarters, angled off to the left, was a security desk, almost always manned by a cop who was on light duty, usually one recovering from an injury. Two rope lines and a red carpet guided people to the security desk, but Ray slipped to the right as soon as he got inside. The officer on duty was busy with a couple of visitors and didn’t notice as Ray passed the elevator and glided toward the back stairs.

On the third floor, Ray opened the door marked CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION BUREAU. A window made of bullet-resistant glass was set in the wall of the tiny waiting room. There was a small circular talking device mounted in the window. It looked like some sort of aluminum speaker. No one was behind the window, so Ray rang the old-fashioned metal bell that sat on the ledge in front of the glass.

Several seconds later, a fat female civilian support officer strolled up to the window. She stared at Ray for a second, giving him that bored civil-service look, then said, “Yeah?”

“Is Detective LaGrange here?” Ray asked.

She smacked a wad of gum a couple times while she looked him over. “Hold on,” she said as she turned and walked away.

While he waited, Ray looked at the artwork on the waiting room walls. Cheap frames around police public awareness pictures. One was a stark black-and-white photo of a chalk outline drawn on the street where a body had fallen. A superimposed image in the lower right-hand corner showed a close-up shot of a young hand holding two rocks of crack cocaine. At the bottom of the poster, in big block letters, was the legend CRACK KILLS.

Another framed picture showed kids on a playground. Printed at the bottom of the picture were the words CHILDREN SHOULD BE SEEN NOT HEARD , but a red line ran through the word heard, and printed over it in red letters, in what was supposed to look like handwritten graffiti, was the word shot. The detective office was a cheerful place to hang out.

An electric solenoid buzzed. Ray turned to the window and saw the fat civil servant pointing to the door. He pushed it open just before the buzzing stopped and stepped inside the Detective Bureau. Detective Jimmy LaGrange was walking toward him. In his early forties, LaGrange was thicker around the middle and thinner on top than the last time Ray had seen him. He wore a shirt and tie and was slipping into a sport coat.

“Hey, Jimmy,” Ray said, and stuck out his hand.

The detective brushed past him without taking it. “I figured it was you.” He pointed toward the door. “Outside.”

The door hadn’t even closed behind Ray before LaGrange was through it. Ray turned and followed him out into the hall. As he caught up to the cop at the elevator, Ray asked, “What’s wrong, Jimmy? You don’t have time for an old friend?”

The detective looked up and down the hall. They were alone. “What are you doing here?” he said in a loud whisper.

The elevator door opened. Inside stood a uniformed lieutenant and a sergeant. Ray followed LaGrange as he stepped into the elevator. Neither of them spoke. On the first floor Ray followed LaGrange out the front door. They turned left. They crossed the street that ran between headquarters and the sheriff’s building, finally stopping near a Dumpster.

Ray said, “Jimmy, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Me?” LaGrange looked shocked. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“You didn’t return my calls.”

The detective glanced at his watch. “I figured you’d get the point.”

“What point?”

“I can’t be seen talking to you.”

“I’m in a jam and I need some help.”

“You mean police help?”

Ray nodded.

“Then call a cop.” He turned back toward headquarters and started walking.

Ray shouted after him, “You owe me, Jimmy.” LaGrange kept walking. Ray shouted louder. “You remember Vice?”

LaGrange spun around and came back to Ray at a run. “Keep your voice down.”

“I ask you for help and you just walk away,” Ray said. “It’s like I told you, you owe me.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” LaGrange said. “I feel bad, but it’s not my fault. I don’t owe you anything.”

“Think again.” Ray leaned against the Dumpster. “They wanted every one of us.”

Jimmy LaGrange looked around. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Ray sprang away from the Dumpster. “I don’t give a damn what you want to talk about.” The detective took a step back. Ray stepped closer. “Internal Affairs, the FBI, the U.S. Attorney’s Office-all of them tried to make a deal with me. They practically offered me a walk. All I had to do was testify against everybody in Vice. They were looking for racketeering charges. They wanted headlines, the kind of headlines that come with cops getting life sentences.”

“Ray, I appreciate what you did-”

“You appreciate it?” Ray spit out the words. “You don’t even know what I did.”

LaGrange stared at him.

“Fitz, Conner, and Two-Gun made deals.” Ray could feel himself getting worked up. “Conner and Fitz got eighteen months. Two-Gun only got twelve months. But Sarge and I didn’t make any deals. I kept my mouth shut and did almost five years.”

“I’m sorry, Ray, but I told you, it’s not my-”

“Sarge got a hundred and twenty months. That’s ten goddamn years. I get out and what do I hear? That you’re still a detective. Like nothing ever happened.”

“I’m a detective in name only. They got me buried in the Crime Analysis Section, going over records, looking for crime patterns.”

“You know where they had me buried? Have you ever been to Terre Haute? You know how cold it gets in Indiana?”

LaGrange shook his head.

“Now I come back and say I need some help, and you treat me like some scumbag off the street.”

LaGrange sagged. “I’m sorry. You surprised me is all. I got a new wife and a little girl, a three-year-old.” He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it.