John Connolly - Every Dead Thing

“You better leave now,” said Joe Bones, with quiet, obvious menace. I shrugged and stood up, Louis moving close to me as I did so. We exchanged a look.

“Man got us on the run,” said Louis.

“Maybe, but if we leave like this he won’t respect us.”

“Without respect, a man got nothing,” agreed Louis.

He picked a plate from the stack on the table and held it above his head. It exploded in a shower of china fragments as the.300 Winchester cartridge impacted and buried itself in the wood of the house behind. The woman in the chair dived to the grass, the two goons moved to cover Joe Bones, and three men appeared running from the side of the house as the shot echoed in the air.

Ricky, the Lizard Man, was the first to reach us. He raised the pistol and his finger tightened on the trigger, but Joe Bones struck out at his gun arm, pushing it upward.

“No! You dumb fuck, you want to get me killed?” He scanned the treeline beyond his property, then turned back to me.

“You come in here, you shoot at me, you scare my woman. The fuck do you think you’re dealing with here?”

“You said the N-word,” said Louis quietly.

“He’s right,” I agreed. “You did say it.”

“I hear you got friends in New Orleans,” said Joe Bones, his voice threatening. “I got enough troubles without the feds crawling on me, but I see you or your”-he paused, swallowing the word-“friend anywhere near me again and I’ll take my chances. You hear?”

“I hear you,” I said. “I’m going to find Remarr, Joe. If it turns out that you’ve been holding out on us and this man gets away because of it, I’ll come back.”

“You make us come back, Joe, and we gonna have to hurt your puppy,” said Louis, almost sorrowfully.

“You come back and I’ll stake you out on the grass and let him feed on you,” snarled Joe Bones.

We backed away toward the oak-lined avenue, watching Joe Bones and his men carefully. The woman moved toward him to comfort him, her white clothes stained with grass. She kneaded gently at his trapezius with her carefully manicured hands, but he pushed her away with a hard shove to the chest. There was spittle on his chin.

Behind us, I heard the gate open as we retreated beneath the oaks. I hadn’t expected much from Joe Bones, and had got less, but we had succeeded in rattling his cage. My guess was that he would contact Remarr and that might be enough to flush him from wherever he was holed up. It seemed like a good idea. The trouble with good ideas is that nine times out of ten someone has had the same idea before you.

“I didn’t know Angel was such a good shot,” I said to Louis as we reached the car. “You been giving him lessons?”

“Uh-huh,” said Louis. He sounded genuinely shocked.

“Could he have hit Joe Bones?”

“Uh-uh. I’m surprised he didn’t hit me.”

Behind us, I heard the door open as Angel slid into the back seat, the Mauser already back in its case.

“So, we gonna start hangin’ out with Joe Bones, maybe shoot some pool, whistle at girls?”

“When did you ever whistle at girls?” asked Louis, be-mused, as we pulled away from the gate and headed toward St. Francisville.

“It’s a guy thing,” said Angel. “I can do guy things.”

IT WAS LATE afternoon when we got back to the Flaisance, where there was a message waiting from Morphy. I called him at the Sheriff’s Office and got passed on to a cell phone.

“Where you been?” he asked.

“Visiting Joe Bones.”

“Shit, why’d you do a thing like that?”

“Making trouble, I guess.”

“I warned you, man. Don’t be screwing with Joe Bones. You go alone?”

“I brought a friend. Joe didn’t like him.”

“What’d your friend do?”

“He got born to black parents.”

Morphy laughed. “I guess Joe is kind of sensitive about his heritage, but it’s good to remind him of it now and then.”

“He threatened to feed my friend to his dog.”

“Yeah,” said Morphy, “Joe sure does love that dog.”

“You got something?”

“Maybe. You like seafood?”

“No.”

“Good, then we’ll head out to Bucktown. Great seafood there, best shrimp around. I’ll pick you up in two hours.”

“Any other reason for seeing Bucktown other than seafood?”

“Remarr. One of his exes has a pad there. Might be worth a visit.”

Bucktown was pretty in a quaint sort of way, as long as you liked the smell of fish. I kept the window up to try to limit the damage but Morphy had his rolled right down and was taking deep, sinful breaths. All in all, Bucktown seemed an unlikely place for a man like Remarr to hole up, but that in itself was probably reason enough for him to choose it.

Carole Stern lived in a small camelback house, a single-story at the front against a two-story rear, set in a small garden a few blocks off Bucktown’s main street. According to Morphy, Stern worked in a bar on St. Charles but was currently serving time for possession of coke with intent to supply. Remarr was rumored to be keeping up the rental payments until she got out. We parked around the corner from the house and we clicked off the safeties of our guns in unison as we stepped from the car.

“You’re a little out of your territory here, aren’t you?” I asked Morphy.

“Hey, we just came out here for a bite to eat and decided to check on the off chance,” he said, with an injured look. “I ain’t steppin’ on no toes.”

He motioned me toward the front of the house while he took the back. I walked to the front door, which stood on a small raised porch, and peered carefully through the glass. It was caked with dirt, in keeping with the slightly run-down feel of the house itself. I counted five and then tried the door. It opened with a gentle creak and I stepped carefully into the hall. At the far end, I heard the tinkle of glass breaking and saw Morphy’s hand reach in to open the rear door.

The smell was faint, but obvious, like meat that has been left in the sunlight on a warm day. The downstairs rooms were empty and consisted only of a kitchen, a small room with a sofa and an old TV, and a bedroom with a single bed and a closet. The closet contained women’s clothes and shoes. The bed was covered only by a worn mattress.

Morphy took the stairs first. I stayed close behind, both of us with our guns pointing toward the second floor. The smell was stronger here now. We passed a bathroom with a dripping showerhead, which had stained the ceramic bath brown. On a sink unit beneath a small mirror stood some shaving foam, blades, and a bottle of Boss aftershave.

Three other doors stood partially open. On the right was a woman’s bedroom. It had white sheets on the bed, potted plants, which had begun to wither, and a series of Monet prints on the walls. There were cosmetics on a long dressing table and a white fitted closet ran the length of one wall. A window opposite looked out on a small, overgrown garden. There were more women’s clothes in the closet, and more shoes. Carole Stern was obviously funding some kind of shopping addiction by selling drugs.

The second door provided the source of the smell. A large open pot sat on a camper stove by a window facing on to the street. It contained scummy water in which a stew of some kind was cooking on a low heat. From the stench, the meat had been allowed to simmer for some time, probably most of the day. It smelled foul, like offal. Two easy chairs stood in the room on a new red carpet. A portable TV with a coat-hanger aerial sat blankly on a small table.

The third room was also at the front of the house facing onto the street, but its door was almost closed. Morphy took one side of the door. I took the other. He counted three and then nudged the door open with his foot and went in fast to the right-hand wall. I moved in low to the left, my gun level with my chest, my finger resting on the trigger.