Authors: Lynda La Plante
Raoul was hauled by his hair from his barstool next to Fryer, but not one cop touched Fryer himself.
“You better have a fucking good reason for this, you motherfuckers,”
Fryer screamed.
Lorraine couldn’t wait any longer and walked into the bar. It was mayhem, screaming and shouting, people huddled in corners, crying and hunched up as the boots and batons still went in.
Lorraine shouted,
“This is for Nick Bartello, Nick Bartellol”
Fryer squinted in the darkness down to the end of the bar.
“His throat was cut down an alley, one block from here.”
Fryer shook his head and pointed.
“You are a crazy bitch, you know that?”
As they spoke cops were hurling the drugs taken from the drawer beneath the till onto the bar. Two more moved up the narrow back staircase to Fryer’s private quarters.
Rooney walked in as Fryer Jones spat a spray of his beer over Lorraine.
“You gonna pay for this, you fucking whore. Nobody come in here and takes over my bar. Nobody!”
“You want to bet, Mr. Jones? I wouldn’t bother, we already took it over.”
Rooney edged closer and said to one of the cops kicking the shit out of a guy caught between the tables,
“I’m with her, I’m with Mrs. Page.”
Lorraine turned, and seeing Rooney she gave a quick grin before turning back to Fryer.
“We will all walk out, Fryer, when you give us the names of whoever cut Nick Bartello’s throat. That’s all we want, all I want, no charges, you all hear me? No charges, but we want who cut my friend’s throat.”
One of the cops searching upstairs appeared in the doorway behind the bar.
“Mrs. Page?”
Lorraine turned to the cop, who gestured for her to come closer, and chucked Nick Bartello’s wallet onto the bar. Fryer looked, and then pursed his lips, swearing. He had fucked up, he had meant to destroy it. But he kept smiling.
“This is gonna cost, you motherfuckers, this is gonna cost.”
Lorraine moved closer to him, and then reached out. He had on the necklace or a necklace similar to the one Nick had been wearing.
“This is yours, Mr. Jones, is it?”
Fryer looked at her, and laughed.
“Sure is, honey, we make ‘em for the museum, how many you want, huh? You fuckers are not even here on a warrant, are you?”
The second cop walked in from the back stairs. He held up Nick Bartello’s license in a small plastic bag and tossed it down.
Harper looked over the wallet and the license, then at Lorraine.
“These your friend’s?”
Lorraine fingered the empty wallet, looked at the license, and said,
“Yes, these belonged to Nick Bartello.”
Harper held his hand up.
“Okay, back off everyone, come on, quiet down in here. Quiet!”
He turned to face Fryer Jones and took out his handcuffs.
“Okay, Fryer, you overstepped yourself, this is one you won’t wriggle out of.”
“I never saw them before in my life!”
Fryer said calmly.
Harper clipped on the handcuffs, roughly pulling Fryer’s hands behind his back. ^
“Well, they was under your pillow, Fryer,Kd they may very well have your prints all over them. So let’s walk out nice and quiet, shall we?”
Fryer Jones bowed his head. He could see Raoul shaking in one corner, his brothers huddled under a table, and Sugar May crying with the hookers. Fryer eased off his stool, his hands cuffed behind him. He was pushed past Lorraine, and he stared at her.
“You got the devil in you, lady.”
Fryer Jones leaned back in the patrol car and closed his eyes. He could never name his own kin maybe one of them even his own bloodso he sighed, and asked if they could bring him his trombone. It made Harper turn and stare, because he had reckoned in all honesty that Fryer had nothing to do with this Nick Bartello. He leaned out of the window and shouted to one of his pals,
“Get this old buzzard his fucking trombone.” Lorraine sat in the back of Frangois’s car and wept, Rooney on one side and Rosie on the other. They just held her tightly between them; she didn’t need to say anything. In fact, they all felt tearful as Francois asked if they still wanted to make it to the airport.
They got there with five minutes to spare, bags and baggage intact.
Fryer Jones played his trombone in his cell until other prisoners asked him to shut up because they couldn’t sleep. He sat there in silence, staring up at the small window of his cell. He wouldn’t name the Corbello boys or Ruby or any of them. He guessed it was time he took responsibility, time he paid his dues, so he admitted to killing Nick Bartello. He didn’t ask to talk to a lawyer; the only call he made was to Juda Salina. She came, as he knew she would, all done up in her turban and false eyelashes.
“Elizabeth Caley’s dead.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Anna Louise Caley’s body was found.”
“Uh-huh.”
She sighed, not meeting his eyes.
“Ruby is ready to be crowned, no guilt, no remorse. That girl worries meshe’d better straighten out.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Raoul’s back, with only half my savings.”
“And I’m goin’ away for a murder I did not commit.”
He gripped the bars with his gnarled hand.
“I’m doing it for you, Juda. You take over my bar, you keep those two young ones in line.”
She gently stroked his hand.
“Why are you doing this, Fryer?”
He gave her that gappy gold-toothed smile.
“Because once you were young and beautiful like Ruby. Nothing stays young or beautiful, Juda, only memories. Take care now.”
Juda wanted to cry, but she just walked away. She could hear him playing his trombone a long time after she left. She could still hear it in her small bedroom at Edith’s. Life played tricks on you like that, hearing things that weren’t there, seeing things that were about to happen. Life was full of strange things, especially in New Orleans and always just before Mardi Gras.
Rosie stood with her bags all packed, and two big boxed crates. Her apartment seemed suddenly bare.
“Well, I got everything,”
she said sadly. She looked around again stripped of her things, the place looked bigger.
“If you’re staying on, Lorraine, you should get a better kitchen put in.”
Lorraine smiled.
“I intend to, Rosie, I’ll get the place done up. It’s a waste of money moving somewhere else, this will do me fine.”
Rosie chewed her lip.
“You can always call me if you need someone in the office, you know, part-time. I’ll always be willing.”
“And able. Yeah, I know, you told me four, no, five times. Now, the checks, you got the two checks?”
“I certainly have,”
Rosie said, patting her purse.
Lorraine smiled.
“You know, I never thought I’d be writing out checks for that amount, and from my own bank account. We’re rich, Rosie, we all got over three hundred thousand, so, you feeling happy?”
Rosie nodded.
“Well, not quite up to the brim, but I guess we’ll make it work. I’m gonna give it a try, and you try to keep up the meetings, won’t you? Keep on going, because I’d hate to see you blow this chance, Lorraine.”
“Rosie, I know I almost lost it, but I promise you I’m off the stuff now, and if it makes you feel any better, I give you my word that I’ll keep going to the meetings. I’ll contact Jake to be my sponsor, how’s that?”
Rosie kissed her, and then hugged her tightly.
“Oh, hell, I’m gonna miss you.”
Before Rosie could become tearful, Rooney arrived and honked from the street. Rosie began to take her bags and boxes and cases down, and he appeared, moaning as he helped her carry all her bits ana”
pieces:
“I don’t know if this is gonna work, Lorraine, but at least…”
She laughed.
“You’ll give it a try? And youiiow there will always be a job open for you at Page Investigations, I’ve toMRosie that too. Office will be open Monday morningyou got the number?”
“Right, thanks.”
Eventually it came to the real good-byes; it was a bit awkward. They didn’t really know what to say to one another because for all the offers of work in the future Lorraine knew it was the end of their partnership. Neither Rosie nor Rooney had actually said it, but she just knew. They all knew.
“We might sort of go on an extended honeymoon,”
he muttered.
“Great, you do that, but I will be invited to the wedding, won’t I?”
“Hell, don’t be stupid.”
There was nothing left to say, but it was the last moment and they hung on to it. They seemed not quite to know how to walk out the door, so Lorraine pushed them through it, saying that when they were settled they would all have a big celebration dinner, but until then they should just piss off and leave her alone.
Rosie started to cry, so Rooney told her to go on ahead, then turned back to Lorraine, half closing the door.
“You know, if you need me for anything I’ll always be there for you, anytime you feel, you know … if this drinking problem rears its head. You call me, call us, and we’ll be right with you.”
Lorraine reached out and held him close.
“Bill, I’m okay, but I appreciate what you just said.”
He stood holding her for a few moments more, then turned abruptly and walked out, the screen door banging shut behind him.
Lorraine slumped down on the sofa bed, which she would no longer have to sleep on. She would have Rosie’s room all to herself, and she suddenly felt good, looking around the room. Her room. Her apartment. She would start to redecorate the next day, and lay on the old sofa thinking about color schemes, and drapes, and then she sat up abruptly, swearing. She’d forgotten him; in all the excitement of returning home and banking the million dollars, she’d forgotten him, forgotten her promise.
The kennels were just closing when she arrived. She’d made the promise, and she wouldn’t go back on it, but she began to doubt it when the kennel worker started saying that the dog been a handful of trouble from the day he’d been left. He had attacked every one of the helpers and every canine they had in residence, and was now kept in solitary confinement.
Tiger didn’t greet her; he sat at the far end of his wire meshing, his blue eyes beady and angry.
“Hi7 kiddo, it’s just me, I’m afraid. Nick’s not gonna be able to take you home.”
He still sat, and then he bared his teeth.
“Listen, man, it’s up to you, but I am the best bet you got. I walk away and it’s the lethal injection, know what I mean?”
The beady blue eyes froze, and she bent down.
“Come on, Tiger, they want to close up, and I’m tired.”
Tiger slowly got to his feet, his head hung low as he padded toward her. Then his big bushy tail started to wag slowly.
“Okay, man, we’re out of here.”