Charlie Hustmyre - House of the Rising Sun

Tony stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it with his “Z” lighter. He took a long drag and blew the smoke in Ray’s face. “You must have been a real hotshot detective.”

“We tried not to kill our witnesses.”

“Carlos called me,” Tony said. “He wants to know what you’ve been doing. Looks like I’ll have to tell him you haven’t been doing shit.”

“How did you find Hector?”

“What’s it matter? You couldn’t find him, so I did. Maybe I should have been the detective.”

“You’re a regular Sherlock-fucking-Holmes.”

“You know what your problem is, Shane?”

“No, tell me.”

“The reason all you can do is sit on your ass at the end of the bar for that little chump change we throw at you is because you ain’t go no respect for anybody, and that includes yourself. You’re pathetic.”

“Coming from you, that doesn’t mean a whole lot.”

Tony ignored the gibe. “You remember that song that fat black chick used to sing. R-E-S… P…” Tony waved his hand, dismissing his failed attempt at spelling. “That song that spells out respect.”

“You mean Aretha Franklin, R-E-S-P-E-C-T?”

Tony nodded. “Yeah, whatever. Point is-”

“Otis Redding wrote that song.”

“I don’t give a fuck what jiggaboo wrote it.” Tony’s face started to turn red. “Point I’m making is you don’t know nothing about respect.”

Ray flicked his cigarette butt into an ashtray. “At least I know how to spell it.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Vinnie feels like he owes you, but I don’t. When I’m running this place, you’re going to get what’s coming to you. You can count on that.”

Ray squinted at Tony in mock confusion. “Are you getting promoted?”

“Somebody fucked up. Somebody didn’t want to get his hands dirty running this place, used too much of a laid-back management style. Turns out Vinnie might have to pay back that three hundred large out of his own pocket.”

Ray shrugged. The news surprised him, but he really didn’t care if Old Man Carlos thought his brother had screwed up or not. So long as no one was demanding that he kick in to replace the stolen cash. “Vinnie can afford it.”

Tony snorted. “Vinnie couldn’t afford to buy a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“What are you talking about?” Ray nodded toward the casino floor. “This place is a cash cow. He lives in a penthouse apartment. His brother practically owns New Orleans, the underside of it anyway. Vinnie can afford it.”

“I’m telling you, Vinnie doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”

Ray’s cop instincts told him this was something that might be important. “Why not?”

Tony glanced around the room, making sure no one was close to them. He looked at Ray. When he spoke, his voice was hushed. “That school his boy went to was expensive, big-time expensive. Whatever was left over after that, his wife ran through it like Vinnie had his own printing press.”

Ray nodded toward the money cage and the closed door to the counting room. “Why was there so much cash?”

Tony shrugged, but his expression said he knew more.

“Did you skip a pickup?” Ray asked.

Tony held up a pair of fingers. “We skipped two of them that night.”

“Why?”

“That wasn’t my call.”

Ray stared at Tony. “Whose call was it?”

Tony aimed a finger at the ceiling, toward Vinnie’s penthouse.

“Why?” Ray asked.

Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. Ask him yourself.”

“I will.”

The clock above the stove showed 8:00 PM. Jenny Porter realized she was going to be late for work. She slipped on her slut suit, got it zipped in the back, and was starting to look for her keys when someone knocked on her apartment door.

Looking through the peephole, she saw the top half of a grossly obese man dressed in a suit. She didn’t recognize him, so she shouted through the door, “Who is it?”

Though his voice was muffled, she heard him say, “Ms. Porter, my name is Hiram Gordo.” He was holding a business card up near the peephole. “I represent a group of medical providers. I need to speak with you. It’s quite urgent.”

Now she understood. It was about the money. It was always about the money. “I can’t talk right now. I’m getting ready for work.”

“It’s very important, Ms. Porter,” the fat man said. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

As Jenny opened the door, Hiram Gordo waddled inside and handed her his card. She took it but didn’t look at it. Gordo gave her a long look, his eyes lingering on her legs. He extended a pudgy hand. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

His hand was cold and clammy, like grabbing hold of a fish. Instead of meeting her eyes, he stared down the front of her blouse. He wouldn’t let go of her hand. Finally, she pulled away from his grasp. Jenny suddenly felt very uncomfortable. “You didn’t buzz, how’d you get in the building?”

He looked at her face for the first time. “I met one of your neighbors who was coming out. After I introduced myself, he let me in.”

She wondered what the point was of having a secured building if anyone off the street could walk in unannounced. “Like I said, I’ve got to get to work.”

He gave her an oily smile. “This will only take a minute.” Then, with a nod at the sofa, he said, “Mind if I sit down?”

Jenny shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t have-”

But Gordo ignored her. He plopped down and wiggled himself into the cushions, then patted the spot next to him. “Sit down, please.”

Jenny folded her arms across her chest. “I told you I’m on my way to work. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go.”

The fat man leaned back. “Ms. Porter, as I said, I represent a group of medical providers.”

“Which ones?”

“Mid-City Medical Center, Stafford Nursing Services, and Medico Equipment Rentals.” The names rolled off his tongue like a used-car salesman. “You owe them a total of forty-eight thousand dollars.”

“Are you some kind of collection agent?” She glanced at his business card in her hand. HIRAM L. GORDO, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.

She had not known many lawyers, but the ones she had known looked a lot more… respectable. “You’re a lawyer?” she said.

“My firm specializes in the collection of bad debt.”

“Bad debt?”

He gave her a thin smile. “It’s a term we use for debts that are more than ninety days past due. I don’t mean to be offensive.”

“I’m not offended,” she said. “I don’t care what you call it, but I’m not paying them any more money.”

“Ms. Porter, my clients, in the spirit of cooperation and fairness, went to the trouble of working out a very reasonable payment plan for you, but you haven’t been making your payments.”

“Nine hundred dollars a month isn’t what I call reasonable.”

He ignored her. “My clients have sent you letters of delinquency by certified mail, they’ve called you, they’ve done everything possible before contacting my firm for collection. However, now that it’s been turned over to me, I intend to collect.”

“I put my mother in the hospital so they could help her. Instead, they killed her.”

“Ms. Porter, that’s a matter that you should take up with an attorney who specializes in malpractice. My only concern is the unpaid debt.”

“You think it’s fair what they did?” she asked. “They let my mother die, and they charged me seventy-five thousand dollars to do it.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“I know why you’re here. It’s because those sons of bitches care more about collecting bills than they do about helping sick people.”

“I don’t think that’s fair or even accurate.”