Charlie Hustmyre - House of the Rising Sun

Ray rubbed his eyes. “You guys talk about loyalty…”

Charlie shot his hand across the table and grabbed Ray’s wrist. His grip was strong. He pulled Ray’s hand away and looked hard into his eyes. “Jean and me, we’re home every night sitting in front of the TV. Neither one of us plays bridge.”

Ray nodded. “Sounds like you got a good one.”

Charlie let go of Ray’s wrist.

“Maybe you should be running things,” Ray said.

Charlie smiled. “I’m retiring.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

Ray figured to be dead soon if he didn’t get out from under this. “I just want you to know, for whatever it’s worth, if Vinnie knocked over the House, he did it without my help or knowledge.”

“I know that, kid,” Charlie said. “But Tony’s not the only one who’s been trash-talking you.”

Ray’s stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

“Somebody told the Old Man you knew two members of the crew.”

Jimmy LaGrange. That no-good, rotten bastard. “I didn’t know those guys. I arrested them, and that was years ago.”

“Thanks to Tony, the Old Man believes that not only did you know them, but that you used them to hit his place.”

Ray could feel his forehead damp with sweat. He pressed his drink against it. “What the fuck am I going to do?”

“Like I said, you’re in a jam.”

“How do I get out of it?”

“There’s only one thing you can do,” Charlie said.

Ray was in enough suspense. He didn’t need any more. “What?”

“Find out who really did it and get some proof.”

“Then what?”

“The boss is a reasonable man, but it’s like going to court. You’re going to have to plead your case.”

“But how?” Ray asked, hearing the desperation in his own voice.

“Call me when you find some proof,” Charlie said. “Maybe I can help. Just remember, Tony is looking for you.”

“Are you going be looking for me, too?”

Charlie Rabbit shook his head. “Not yet.”

Ray found Dylan Sylvester’s blue Buick four-door at a sprawling apartment complex off Bullard Avenue. A high iron fence surrounded the complex, and the front gate included a manned twenty-four-hour checkpoint. The security guard had not wanted to let Ray in.

“Who you here to see?” the guard said.

Ray was there early, just past six a.m., so he couldn’t say he was going to the leasing office to ask about an apartment.

“I’m picking a guy up for work,” Ray had said.

“Name and apartment number?” the guard asked.

Ray said the first number that popped into his head. “1141.”

“There is no 1141,” the guard said.

Ray swallowed hard.

“You mean 1101?” the guard offered.

Ray nodded. “That must be it. I get my numbers mixed up sometimes.”

“What’s the name?”

“My name?” Ray was trying to figure out if it was worth it to try an alias. The guard would probably record his license plate number-Jenny’s plate number. Maybe even ask for his driver’s license. Talk about looking suspicious, Ray tells the guy his name is Joe Smith, and then the guy looks at Ray’s license.

“No,” the guard said. “The person you’re going see.”

“Joe.”

“Last name?”

“I don’t know,” Ray said. “It’s just a guy from work. He called and asked me for a ride.”

The guard consulted a list on a clipboard. “There’s no one named Joe in 1101.”

“He lives with his girlfriend.”

“There’s a Yolanda Jackson in 1101.”

Ray snapped his fingers. “That’s it. That’s his girlfriend’s name, Yolanda.”

The security guard glanced at the telephone in the guard shack. Then at his watch. He pressed a button and opened the gate.

Cruising the parking lot in Jenny’s decade-old Firebird, Ray almost drove past the Buick. It was tucked into a tight spot, a pickup on one side, a Hummer on the other. He checked the license plate number. It matched the one in the police report, the one registered to Belinda Sylvester. He had found Dylan, the asshole with the tattoo and the bad teeth. Now what was he supposed to do?

Sylvester definitely had a gun. And he might not be alone. Maybe he had a girlfriend, maybe a couple of kids. Maybe he was holed up with another guy from the robbery crew. In that case they would have at least two guns.

Once again, Ray found himself in a situation in which he really needed a gun.

Back when he was on the job, if he went into an apartment after an armed robber, he would have put together a team of seven or eight cops. Everyone would have had a bulletproof vest. The team would have had a ram to smash the door, a ballistic shield to soak up any bullets that got thrown their way, and plenty of firepower.

Now he had to go in alone and unarmed. Thinking about it made him want to turn around and go home. Except he didn’t have a home to go to. He couldn’t go back to his apartment, Tony had seen to that. He couldn’t even go back to Jenny’s place.

Late yesterday afternoon, when Ray had come back from meeting with Charlie Rabbit, Jenny told him she didn’t feel safe in her apartment. She was afraid Tony might come back. When Ray asked where she wanted to go, she said she didn’t care. She just had to get out. A hotel in Metairie was what they decided on. Jenny charged it to her credit card.

On the way out of the Quarter, with Ray driving Jenny’s Firebird, they had been held up in a line of traffic on Rampart Street. Ray stuck his head out the window to see what the holdup was. Up ahead, about ten cars in front of them, was an old nun in a blue and white habit. She stood blocking traffic, a handheld stop sign raised over her head as a long line of children crossed the street. Some of the kids loped along on crutches. One scooted across in a wheelchair. At the rate they were moving it was going to take all day.

Ray leaned on the horn, giving the old lady and the kids a long blast.

“What is it?” Jenny asked.

“A nun and a bunch of kids crossing the street.”

Jenny stepped out of the car for a minute and looked over the top of the backed-up traffic. When she got back in, she said, “That’s Sister Claire. She runs a home for kids with special needs.”

Ray blew the horn again. “Well the sister needs to get the retards out of the way so we can get moving.”

Jenny crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at him. “You’re such an asshole.”

Ray was confused. “What did I say?”

She didn’t answer, just faced forward, staring through the windshield.

Sylvester’s blue Buick was parked in front of building fourteen. Ray pulled Jenny’s car up to the curb at the side of the building, out of sight of the front doors. Building fourteen was just like all the others: two-story, with eight apartments, all the doors facing the front, two wrought-iron stairwells leading to the second-floor balcony, one on each side of the building.

Which one was Sylvester’s apartment? The parking spots weren’t numbered. The Buick was parked directly in front of the bottom unit on the far left, but also in front of a stairway. That could mean something, or it could mean nothing. People were basically lazy; they liked to park in front of their own door, if possible. Maybe Sylvester lived in the bottom-left apartment. Or maybe he lived on the second floor and parked as close as possible to the stairs.

It could also mean Sylvester took the only spot available when he got home. About the only thing Ray was sure of was that Dylan Sylvester wasn’t going to stick his head out of the door and invite him in for coffee. Ray had to do something, so he decided to do the same thing he did when he was a cop: knock on doors. He went to the bottom left first.