Линда Ла Плант: Cold Blood

‘Eh! How’s Ruby?’

‘Oh man, she’s gettin’ so in with Mama and Juda she don’t have time for us.’

‘She getting into all that voodoo shit, huh?’

The two boys, now hurling empty bottles against a wall, didn’t really pay any attention. Fryer Jones looked down from his dirty window, pulling the sacking curtain aside. He could see his three nephews that might even be his own sons, but he sure as hell didn’t like what he was seeing. They were whooping and hollering and smashing up bottles. He drew on his dirty old jeans and had a good scratch before he made his way down the stairs. He was well hungover. It had been a good night, too good, and he was still buzzing.

‘Eh, Zak, gimme a pick-up, will ya?’ he shouted down, and Zak was waiting for him with his usual glass of snake’s eye.

‘That Raoul’s turned up,’ he said.

Fryer knocked back his pick-me-up in one, and kissed his swollen lips. ‘Yeah, I see him, and I had enough o’ my fucking relatives to last me a lifetime. Give us another, I need something to waken me up before I get my belt off to those little no-good shits.’

Lorraine was washing her hair: she’d had a good few hours’ sleep and was feeling, if not a hundred per cent, at least a lot better. She had stopped drinking, and hadn’t had a drop since she’d been at Caley’s hotel, but she wasn’t congratulating herself, just hoping she’d be able to keep it up. All around her in the room was Rooney and Rosie’s baggage, but where they were she had no idea. A second later, though, Rosie banged on the door.

‘It’s us, Lorraine,’ she shouted.

‘It’s open,’ replied Lorraine, still rubbing her hair dry.

Her partners came in and Rooney sat heavily on the bed — unlike Lorraine, he hadn’t caught up on sleep from the night before, and he yawned, resting back on the pillows.

‘I banked the cheque, the teller said it would take a couple of days to clear. Where have you two been?’ Lorraine combed her hair and began to dry it with the hair-dryer.

‘With Harper,’ Rosie answered.

‘He’s got five guys, plus him makes six, and you and me. He doesn’t want you to go in, Lorraine.’

‘I want to be there. Did he get a search warrant?’

Rooney shook his head. ‘He didn’t say, but I doubt it. They’re all ex-cops, two grand each.’

‘What?’ Rosie said, astonished.

‘For twelve thousand dollars, it’s worth it,’ Rooney said.

Lorraine switched off the hair-dryer. ‘And Nick Bartello’s dead. If he was alive, Bill, he’d get a hell of a lot more from his share of the one million bonus, so quit beefin’. And you, Rosie.’

‘I never said anything!’

‘Right, but you were thinking about it,’ Lorraine said, checking her hair. The ends were still damp, so she turned the dryer on again and began to curl them over a brush. She watched Rosie and Rooney in the mirror: both looked exhausted, Rosie yawning and Rooney’s eyes drooping as he leaned back on the pillow.

Nobody spoke, and Rooney nodded off and began to snore. Eventually Lorraine switched off the dryer and went back into the bathroom to dress. When she came out, Rosie was also fast asleep. Lorraine smiled: sometimes the pair of them were like two kids, and she felt worried about the idea of involving them in the scene at Fryer’s bar. She didn’t want anything to happen to them, not now that they’d found one another at last.

She stared at them, and then sat down and wrote a note. She left it on Rooney’s big heaving chest, packed her bags and carried them out, closing the door quietly behind her. Neither woke. The note said: ‘Don’t stay for Mardi Gras, see you back at my new place. Good luck. L.’

Lorraine left her cases at the desk and walked out to pay off François. He was still hovering, even after she settled his bill, asking if she needed him to take her to the airport, astonished she wasn’t going to stay on for the Carnival.

‘Thanks, but no thanks François. You take care now.’ She walked off, and he counted out the dollars. She’d given him a bonus, fifty dollars more than he’d asked for. He grinned, a happy man.

Lorraine walked out into the French Quarter. It was a muggy evening and the street was crowded as more and more tourists flooded in. Purple, green and gold were everywhere and there was already a carnival feeling in the air, but she didn’t feel in a festive mood.

The six men were waiting in two patrol cars down a side street. They were smoking, wearing dark glasses, all the car windows open. Lorraine got in beside the obese Officer Harper, and smiled as he introduced her to the men squashed in the back seat.

‘Cash up front, Mrs Page.’

She opened her purse and took out an envelope. ‘Twelve grand, right? Half now, half when we’re through.’

Harper turned to look at the officers behind him, they shrugged. He got out of his car and waddled to the car behind him, leaned in the window, had a brief conversation and then returned.

‘Okay, but you’d better not try to put anything over on us.’

Lorraine smiled. ‘You think I would really try it on with you guys? Come on, I know you’re taking a big risk.’

It seemed to do the trick. He nodded, his cheek jowls wobbling.

‘So how do we work it?’ she asked quietly.

Rooney grunted, and his body jerked. He lifted his head. ‘Shit, what time is it?’

Rosie murmured as he eased himself off the bed. The note fluttered to the floor and he picked it up. The room was in darkness so he turned on the bedside lamp.

‘Rosie, wake up, girl. Rosie!’

She blinked and swallowed, and then sat up with a start.

‘She’s gone. Read this.’

Rosie took a moment to adjust to the light, and then read the note. ‘What should we do?’

Rooney hesitated, then crossed to the bathroom. ‘Check if there’s a flight out of here. If there isn’t, we’ll stay.’

‘We’re going to leave her?’

‘Just see if there’s a flight, sweetheart.’

Rooney splashed cold water over his face and patted it dry with one of the damp towels Lorraine had used. It smelt of shampoo, and he lowered it from his face, staring at himself in the mirror. He felt old and tired, wondering what the hell he was thinking of doing, getting himself engaged at his age. Had he really suggested she move in with him? He sat on the edge of the bath, wishing he’d taken his shoes off before he fell asleep; his feet felt swollen.

Rosie called out that there was a flight in an hour and a half.

‘Gimme a second,’ he shouted back. He didn’t know what to do. Not knowing what the hell Lorraine had arranged with Harper or when they were going to do it, or for that matter why. What did she expect to gain? He sighed.

Rosie was brushing her hair when he walked out. ‘I gave them your credit card number, that okay?’ She watched him plod across the room, and she turned. ‘Bill? You want to leave or not?’

‘I’m thinking about it, Rosie.’

She’d been thinking about it too, and virtually asked him the same questions he had just asked himself.

‘I mean, what does she expect to find at the end of it?’

‘I dunno, Rosie, maybe someone scared enough to say they saw Nick, who knows? I think she’s throwing away good money, but that’s just my opinion.’

‘It’s mine too. I liked Nick, of course I did, but it’s a long shot, isn’t it? We don’t even know if he was in Fryer’s bar the night he got killed. Even if she was to find the gris-gris, even if whoever did kill Nick was dumb enough to hang on to it, they wouldn’t have it in the bar, would they?’

‘I don’t know, Rosie.’ He hadn’t meant to snap at her, it just came out that way.

‘Listen, if you feel guilty about going, we’ll stay.’