Charlie Hustmyre - House of the Rising Sun

“In the back of my head I knew something wasn’t right,” Sylvester said. “We were supposed to meet at the end of Esplanade, by the dock. I was driving, Wop had the money, and Eddie had a shotgun just in case the shit went bad. When I pulled up, there was nobody there. I turned the car around so we could get out in a hurry. That’s what saved my life.

“Soon as we stepped out of the car, them dudes must have been hiding already ’cause they started shooting. I only saw one guy, but there must have been more. The one I saw had a pistol and was back up against that big cement wall they got by the river, and he just kept shooting. I got hit, fell back inside the car. That’s when I saw Wop and Eddie on the ground. I just threw it in drive and got the hell out of there.”

“What about Scooby?”

“He’s dead, too. After the shit went down, I drove home. I can’t go to no hospital. Besides that, I’m safe here. Nobody knows where I live. I just moved here, not even Scooby knew about this place. I got home, found out the bullet went right through.” He pointed to the blood-soaked bandage. “I patched it up and been here ever since. I heard about Scooby on the news.”

“The guy you saw, what did he look like?”

Sylvester shook his head. “It was dark. He was backed up to that wall.” Sylvester raised a hand like he was touching the top of something tall. “That big…”

“Retaining wall,” Ray said.

“Yeah, the retaining wall. He must have been there when we pulled up ’cause like I said, soon as we got out of the car he started shooting.”

“Where’s the money?”

“Wop had it.” Sylvester shrugged. “I guess they got it now.”

“Who are they?”

“Them guys shooting at us.”

“Why do you think there was more than one guy at the river?”

“Seemed like too much shooting, but I guess it could’ve been just one guy.” Sylvester took a deep breath, pain showing on his face. “If it was just one guy, he was a good fucking shot.”

“You sure they’re dead-Wop and Eddie I mean?”

“I seen that on the news, too,” Sylvester said.

Ray never watched the news.

“What happens now?” Sylvester asked, leaning over on the seat cushions.

Good question, Ray thought. Charlie Liuzza said to call him if Ray needed help.

I sure as hell need help now.

Ray saw a telephone on the wall in the kitchen. He backed toward it, keeping the Smith amp; Wesson aimed at Sylvester. The telephone had no dial tone. “What’s wrong with your phone?” he asked Sylvester.

“I couldn’t afford the deposit, so I never got it hooked up.”

So much for calling Charlie. As he walked back to the sofa, Ray thought of another option. He could drive Sylvester to the House. Make him repeat what he had just told Ray. But who could he tell? Vinnie? Vinnie was probably in on this, and if so, he hadn’t done it alone. The guy at the dock, the one doing all the shooting, that sure as hell wasn’t Vinnie. So who was it? Tony, Rocco, Joey? It could have been anybody. Vinnie had access to a lot of shooters. For all Ray knew, it could’ve been Hector.

Charlie Rabbit had said, Find out who really did it and get some proof. Then all Ray had to do was take the proof to the Old Man.

Dylan Sylvester was the proof.

Ray looked down. Sylvester was sitting up against the backrest with a gun in his hand. A. 25-caliber automatic. A piece of shit that cost about twenty dollars on the street.

I forgot to search the goddamn sofa.

Ray had the Smith down by his right leg. Somehow between the couch and the kitchen, he had dropped his guard. Too much thinking.

He dropped to the floor, angling left as he fell. The. 25 auto flashed and popped. Ray felt something whiz past his right ear. He raised the Smith and jerked the trigger. The heavy gun bucked in his hand. The floor knocked the wind out of him. He had to lie there for a few seconds until he caught his breath.

When Ray crawled to his feet, Sylvester was still sitting upright on the sofa. The. 40-caliber bullet had hit him just above his top lip, right below that little piece of skin that separated his nostrils. His eyes were wide-open, staring at the wall.

Dylan Sylvester was deader than shit.

Looking down at the body of the man who had tried to shoot him three times, Ray remembered what Sylvester had said about the bullet that had buried itself in the floor of the House, the one that had almost buried itself in the back of Ray’s head. “Sorry about that, Dylan. The gun just went off by itself.”

Ray tucked the Smith. 40 into his pants, then grabbed a hand towel and wiped off everything inside the apartment he might have touched.

Outside, with the door locked, Ray rubbed the towel over the knob and the peephole where he had pressed his thumb. Then he walked down the stairs to Jenny’s car. The hand towel would go in the first trash can he saw.

“You got balls interrupting my fucking supper,” Carlos Messina said. The mouthful of half-chewed calzone made his words hard to understand, but Tony had no trouble understanding his tone. The Old Man was at a booth in the back of Carmine’s, sitting across from a thirtysomething redhead showing a lot of cleavage. His two bodyguards slurped spaghetti at a nearby table.

If it weren’t urgent, Tony never would have come. The boss liked his privacy, especially when he was entertaining one of his girlfriends. Looking at the two of them-Mr. Messina and the redhead-Tony wondered what kind of woman wanted to go to bed with such a fat old man, even a powerful fat old man.

Shane had disappeared, but Tony had one lead. A degenerate gambler who spent all of his nongambling time hanging out at bars in and around the French Quarter had called him, which is why Tony needed to see the Old Man right away.

Carlos swallowed a chunk of calzone, then said, “What do you want?”

Tony fidgeted beside the booth. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Messina,” he said as he glanced down at the redhead’s tits, “but it’s business.” Using the code, saying they needed privacy.

Carlos nodded to the woman. “Go powder your nose.”

The redhead glared at Tony. “I don’t need to powder my nose.”

The Old Man fixed her with one of his looks, a look that didn’t invite argument. “Take a piss, go to the bar, whatever you want to do, but give us a minute.”

She made a sound through her nose, sort of a “hmmff,” but she got up and walked to the bar. Tony watched her ass as she left, wishing he’d gotten her name. No way the boss could keep a woman like that satisfied.

“You finished looking?” the Old Man said.

Tony turned back to the booth. He could feel his cheeks burning. “I was just making sure-”

“Tell me what’s so fucking important.”

“Shane’s disappeared.”

The Old Man threw his napkin on the table. “That’s what you came here to tell me?”

Tony shook his head. “No, sir.”

“What else?”

“A guy called me, said he saw him in Hobnobber’s yesterday.”

“So find him. You ain’t got to tell me how you do it.”

Tony lowered his voice so the bodyguards couldn’t hear. “He was in there with Charlie Rabbit.”

Carlos Messina took a deep breath. For a second-just a second-Tony saw pain on his face, the pain of betrayal. Then it was gone. The Old Man raised his napkin and wiped his mouth. Then he took a sip of wine. “Who was it said that about Charlie?”

“Guy who’s into me for five grand.”

“How’s he know Shane and the Rabbit?”

“He’s an old-” The boss was old. “He’s been around the Quarter a long time. I put it out I was looking for Shane, and he must have heard. Probably thinks I’ll give him a break on some of what he owes if he helps me out.”