Charlie Hustmyre - House of the Rising Sun

“She’s a nurse. She works two to ten in the emergency room at Touro Hospital.”

Tony put the phone back in his pocket, then knocked back the rest of his drink. As he stood up, he took a pen out of his shirt pocket and wrote a phone number on a napkin. He handed the napkin to Jenny. “Call me when you get in touch with her.”

Tony probably wasn’t going home, but Jenny couldn’t be sure. Ray hadn’t had his hour. They’d planned everything to start at nine. She swallowed hard and put a hand on Tony’s arm. It felt like touching a snake. “How much do I get?”

“We’ll see.”

He started to turn away from the bar, but she held his arm. “Do you have to leave? My friend will be home in an hour.”

Tony even smiled like a snake. “What are we going to do for an hour?”

Jenny’s stomach turned, but she forced an inviting smile on her face. “Can you get us a room?”

Ray drove Jenny’s Firebird around the cul-de-sac. Tony’s Lincoln was gone, and so was Priscilla’s Jag. The clock in the dash showed 9:05. If Charlie had been right, Mrs. Zello didn’t spend many nights at home. Ray needed to get the Smith amp; Wesson, then somehow get to Carlos Messina and plead his case directly to the Old Man.

He parked a couple blocks away and walked toward Tony’s house. Just a neighborhood guy out for a stroll. A sign in front of the Zello house warned that it was monitored by an alarm system. A lot of people used the signs as bluffs. Tony’s house might be wired, it might not, but even if it was, the garage probably wasn’t. Ray would still have to check, though. More time wasted. He crouched in the darkness on the side of the garage and studied the window for electrical contacts. When he was pretty sure the window wasn’t wired, he knocked out a pane of glass and sat down to wait.

He gave it fifteen minutes. If the garage was rigged, or if a neighbor had heard the glass break, the cops would show up within that time. When no police arrived, Ray reached through the broken window and unlocked it. He pushed it open and climbed through. Using a mini-LED flashlight he crossed the dark garage.

There were six drawers built into the lacquered wooden workbench, two rows of three, one on top of the other. All the drawers were filled with junk. Ray found playing cards, pieces of wire, loose tools, a long roll of coaxial cable…

Tony must be stealing cable from his neighbor just like me.

But no gun.

Ray swept the rest of the garage with his flashlight. The gun wasn’t lying on the coffee table or on the cabinet beside the TV. He checked the sofa, digging under the cushions. He searched everywhere a pistol could fit.

Nothing.

Ray glanced at the glowing numbers on his watch.

9:30 PM.

Mounted on the wall next to the door that led from the garage to the laundry room was the control panel for the alarm system. The digital display said READY, and the red light under the word ARMED was off. Alarms can’t protect your house if you don’t set them. Ray had to get that gun. To do that he had to get inside Tony’s house.

The metal door was hollow and carried a builder-grade lock. Sixty seconds’ work with a heavy screwdriver scavenged from the workbench and Ray was inside. The alarm stayed silent. No beeps, no warning sirens. So far so good.

A couple of lights were on inside the house, but the master bedroom was dark. Using his flashlight, Ray started with the dresser. He searched all the drawers but didn’t find what he was looking for. Next, he checked the bed. He ran his hands under the pillows, looked beneath the frame, then felt between the mattress and box spring. Nothing.

The closet was a walk-in with clothes hanging on each side and wooden shelves on the back wall. One side was crammed with men’s suits hanging from a high rod. From a lower rod hung pants and sport coats. On the floor were a half dozen pairs of shoes, mostly high-glossed leather loafers, arranged in a neat row.

On the other side of the closet was a single rod packed with dresses, under which had been tossed at least fifteen pairs of women’s shoes, all different types-high heels, pumps, flats, mule backs, even a pair of red stiletto heels with straps.

A system, Ray knew from experience, was the key to a good search. He would work from the bottom up. On his knees, he reached into the space behind Tony’s neatly arranged shoes. Close to the back corner his fingers pushed against something soft. Reaching farther, he felt a strap. He got his fingers around it and pulled.

It was a worn leather bag, two feet long with a zipper running its length. There were two rounded handles, and a shoulder strap hooked to a couple of D-rings on either end. The bag was a bit fancy for the gym, more like an overnight bag. A laminated luggage tag hanging from one of the D-rings identified the owner as Tony Zello and listed his home address and telephone number. In the event of loss, the tag promised an unspecified reward if it was returned to its owner.

Whatever was inside the bag was very heavy. Ray tugged open the zipper. Inside was money, lots of money. All loose cash. No banded stacks, no rubber bands. Nothing but a bag of assorted bills, everything from hundreds to singles. Loose bills like that would take all night to count, but Ray figured he already knew how much it was. Somewhere in the neighborhood of $300,000.

The Rising Sun’s $300,000.

As stunned as Ray was about the money, it wasn’t what he was looking for. So he kept searching. He found the gun on the high shelf over Tony’s suits. Ray tossed it in the bag on top of the cash and pulled the zipper closed.

Leaving the bedroom, Ray’s flashlight swept across the dresser and something shined back. It was Tony Zello’s “Z” lighter, the gold Zippo his wife had given him. The lighter that would have made Elvis proud.

Seeing it lying there reminded Ray how much he needed a cigarette. He patted the pockets of his pants and realized he had left his matches in Jenny’s hotel room. He slipped Tony’s lighter into his pocket.

Jenny Porter felt like shit. As she lay in the bed, alone in a room at the Monteleone, the tears started to come. For almost two full days she had been feeling pretty good about herself. Helping Ray made her feel good, quitting the House made her feel great, but sleeping with Tony Zello knocked her back to the way she usually felt-like shit.

At ten o’clock, after Tony finished fucking her, he told her to call her friend the nurse. Jenny picked up the hotel phone and dialed the number of her own apartment. She didn’t have a machine, so she let it ring. She told Tony her friend wasn’t answering.

Tony hung around for another fifteen minutes, making Jenny call three more times, but he finally got tired of it. “You have my number,” he said, pointing to the cocktail napkin lying on the dresser next to Jenny’s purse. “Call me as soon as you get in touch with her.”

Jenny said she would.

Tony opened the door and stepped out. He paused in the doorway and looked back. “You need to be out of the room in a half hour,” he said. Then he blew her a kiss. “I had a good time. Guess I’ll see you around.”

As soon as Tony closed the door, Jenny ran into the bathroom and threw up.

Jenny’s words hit Ray like a punch in the gut.

He had to take a deep breath before he could speak. When he did, he heard his voice shaking. “You did what?”

Not that he wanted her to repeat the story. He had heard it quite clearly the first time. She had fucked Tony Zello-again.

In their hotel room, Jenny stood at the sink and looked at Ray through the mirror, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t repeat the story. Saying it out loud just once was bad enough. But she did try to justify her actions. “He was leaving,” she said. “It was only nine fifteen and you said you needed an hour.”