House of Blues (37 page)

"Orrin," she said, "I'm looking for a
guy named Manny Lanoux."

Orrin was probably six-feet-four, and skinny, with a
prominent Adam's apple. He would have been a dead ringer for Ichabod
Crane if not for a pair of exceptionally broad shoulders. Skip was
willing to bet he had a terrific chest and good biceps as well.

"Oh, Manny. Yeah, he used to work here. Left
about six months ago." He had sun-bleached hair that looked fine
as corn silk.

''What happened?"

"
He got a better job. But I don't think it was
working on cars—said he'd never have to get his hands dirty again."

"Do you know where he went?"

"Well, it wasn't a company, I don't think. Some
kind of', like, assistant's job or something."

"Assistant to whom? Did he say?"

"He told me, but it was a while ago." He
looked troubled. "Hey!"

"Beg your pardon?"

"
Hey!" Orrin stared into space. "He
gave me an address. See, I'm the one does the hirin' and firin'. I
was s'posed to send his last check to the new place. He had some kind
of problem with things getting stolen out of his mailbox." He
started walking toward a cluttered office. "Come on. Let's see
if I still got it."

Rayson was in the office, but thought of pressing
matters elsewhere when he saw Skip bearing down. Orrin rummaged in a
wooden box full of three-by-five cards.

"Here it is." He pulled one out in triumph.
"Damn. It's only a P.O. box. Got a name, though. Think that'd
help?"

"
Might. What is it?"

"Larry Carlini."

"Did you say 'Carlini'?"

"Umm-hmm. Don't know him. Do you?"

"
I don't think so."

But she did. Larry Carlini was a small-time creep
with alleged mob connections, nobody important, but nobody you wanted
to meet in a dark alley either.

He wasn't in the phone book, but she knew that was no
problem, any more than locating Manny had been. He had a record the
approximate length of a fishing pole—mostly minor offenses, but
lots of them. A little research and she found he lived near the lake,
in a new-money neighborhood that prided itself on its ostentation.
His house was of white-painted brick, originally a sort of two-story
rectangle with a narrow balcony on its otherwise plain facade. It was
a couple of decades old and therefore hadn't been built to take up
every inch of its lot. Later owners, perhaps the Carlinis, had added
a couple of wings that remedied that situation. The thing looked like
three oversized building blocks piled together by some demented baby.

To Skip's delight, there was a motorcycle parked in
front. Carlini must work out of his house.

A black maid answered the door, in uniform and
looking cross about it. Skip didn't think being a cop was going to
get her anywhere.

"I work for the mayor," she said, which was
borderline true if you considered that he appointed the
superintendent of police, for whom Skip could arguably be said to
work.

"There's something we need to speak to Mr.
Carlini about."

The maid looked alarmed. "I'll get him,"
she said, and disappeared. She came back alone. "He says show
you into the living room."

Was it safe? She thought so. He wasn't going to try
anything in front of this woman.

She was shown into a living room that looked exactly
like a Henredon ad in Architectural Digest. In fact, it was eerie,
the sense of d
éja vu
it gave. Gold and burgundy print sofa, dark wood coffee table, even a
phalaenopsis in a brass pot on a desk at the side, exactly as if a
decorator had said, "Okay, let's do design 122. I'm going to the
beach; wake me when the check's signed."

Or maybe there had been no decorator. Maybe Mrs.
Carlini had simply torn the ad from the magazine and systematically
set out to re-create it.

In a moment, a tall man who did nothing to dispel
gangster stereotypes joined her. He had dark hair to which some sort
of grease had been applied, a too-studied tan, white slacks, and
white polo shirt. His arms looked as if he might work out now and
then, but his waistline looked as if he ate out even more. He had
probably been a looker ten years ago, but now he had pouches under
his eyes, and a couple of chins; it wasn't so much a look of
dissipation as of giving up, of saying good-bye to a piece of
himself. If Skip had seen him in a lineup, she would have said he was
depressed, but it seemed an odd description to apply to a gangster.
Behind Carlini—if that was who it was—was Manny Lanoux, as ornery
as his picture, and twice as ornery as the last time Skip saw him. He
wore jeans and a black T-shirt. He was too heavy, with a neck so
thick mice could nest in its folds, but he looked powerful. Perhaps
he was Carlini's bodyguard. He probably had an IQ about like Angel's,
but in case he remembered her, Skip didn't want to say her name.

"Hello, Mr. Carlini," she said instead, and
stuck out her hand. As Carlini gripped it and began pumping, Manny's
face, over Carlini's shoulder, registered horror. He mouthed
something: "Shit," Skip was pretty sure; and headed for the
door.

Skip couldn't move. "What his problem?" she
said to Carlini, hoping he'd turn around and let her hand go, but he
did only the former.

Manners were no longer appropriate. She broke away
and raced after Manny, who by this time was flinging a leg over his
motorcycle.

"Manny! Stop!" she hollered, knowing he'd
as soon send her a taped confession whenever he mugged an old lady.

She grabbed his arm, but he shook her off. However,
she'd slowed him down enough that she was able to fling a leg over
the hog herself. She attached herself to his back, arms around his
neck, just as the chopper took off. She reached for footholds and
tightened her grip on his neck, having no choice. He tried to shake
her off, tried to get his speed up enough to unbalance her, and it
worked.

The problem was, he unbalanced himself and the
machine as well. Skip was thrown off, onto a grassy area. Manny wiped
out on the street. Naturally, he hadn't stopped to put on a helmet.

Carlini rushed out. "What the fuck is going on?"

"
Police. You better call an ambulance."

Skip was shaky, but in one
piece. Manny was out cold, and she couldn't find a pulse.

* * *

It was a couple of hours before he was conscious and
recovered enough to be interviewed. He had scrapes on his face and an
IV in his arm, but otherwise he looked mean as ever.

"
Manny, how's it going?"

"
You're the bitch got me for that thing with Pam
Kansco."

"Language, Manny. You're looking kind of
helpless today."

"Bitch," he said again.

"Sticks and stones, big boy. Pam looked kind of
bad when you got through with her."

"Fuck!" he yelled, "I don't have to
take this shit."

Skip heard a scurrying outside, hospital personnel
coming to quiet them. She reassured them and closed the door.

"
Now we're alone and, like I said, you're kind
of helpless. You gonna be good?"

Skip, you sadistic bully.

Yeah, I guess so. Second time today.

But she had no intention of stopping.

"I don't have to talk to you," he yelled
again.

She smiled sweetly. It was delicious having a captive
audience.

"
Oh, yeah? You got something better to do? Due
at the White House or something?"

"What do you want?"

"I'm so glad you asked. Here are my
non-negotiable demands. First, I'd like you to speak in a normal tone
of voice. Second, apologize for calling me a bitch. Third—"

"
You're full of shit."

"Now that's better." He had spoken in
almost a normal tone. "I just want to ask you some questions,
Manny boy. About another of your ex- girlfriends."

"They're all cunts."

"
Now, now. That's not a nice word at all."

He was silent, eyes smoldering.

"
Evie Hebert."

"Evie. Shit. Evie."

"Meaningful relationship, I gather?"

"Know what? That bitch is poison. You wouldn't
have a cigarette, would you?" His tone was definitely
conversational now. She had his attention.

"You can't smoke in hospitals."

"Evie fuckin' Hebert. Evie!"

"Piece of work, huh?" Skip was actually
enjoying herself.

"God, I hope I never hear her name again."

"
This is your lucky day, Manny boy. You can pour
out your whole sentimental heart to Auntie Skip."

"
You tryin' to be funny?"

"
Uh-uh, it just comes natural."

"
You're different from that other time."

"
When I arrested you, you mean?"

"
Yeah. You ain't half as mean. What's the
matter, you in love or something?"'

She had arrested him six months after graduating from
the academy. She winced to think how nervous she'd been, how
frightened that she'd do something wrong, blow the only thing she'd
ever really wanted. She probably was different now.

"
In love with you, Manny boy, if you tell me
what I want to know. You cooperate and you're walking out of here."

"
What the fuck! Why wouldn't I walk out of here?
I haven't done anything."

"No? Then why'd you take off like that?"

He actually chuckled. "Force of habit, I guess."

But there was something. There had to be, and she
could find it if she had to. Manny knew that.

"What you want to know about Evie?"

"Where she is."

"I don't know."

"Have you seen her lately?"

"
Not for six months." He raised his eyes to
the ceiling. "There is a god."

"
Okay, then, start from the beginning."

"What do you mean?"

"
Give me the whole Evie story. How you met her,
how she dumped you, and everything in between."

His pig eyes turned ugly. "What makes you think
she dumped me?"

"Manny boy, you're really going to have to quit
shouting. This is a hospital."

"
Okay, okay, she dumped me."

Skip waited.

"
You sure you don't have a cigarette?"

"It's a great day to quit. You'll feel a hundred
percent better."

He gave her a look of pure hatred. "I met her in
a bar." He shrugged. "How does anybody meet anybody?"

"What bar?"

"
Now how in the hell would I remember something
like that?"

"It shouldn't be that hard. You probably have
different bars you frequent. It must be one of those."

"Wait a minute. Yeah. Yeah, I was washing my
clothes. It must have been Igor's."

"
Igor's! You've got to be kidding."
Somehow, she hadn't thought of Igor's as a preening place for the
sexually available. It was a bar, all right, but it was also a
Laundromat. In fact, there were two of them—the concept must have
caught on.

Manny stroked his upper lip, maybe compensating for
not smoking. "No. No, it was definitely Igor's. I remember I got
up from the bar to go put some money in the dryer, and there was this
babe, this incredible blond babe, sorting out her whites and her
darks."

"Which Igor's was it?"

"
The one on St. Charles. That's where I always
go."

If I ever need to pick you up again, I'll know where
to look.

"
The babe was Evie?"

"
Yeah. Yeah, that was her. She belonged to some
crazy religious group and she wasn't supposed to drink. But she was
in Igor's, you know? I mean, if you're just going to do your laundry,
what do you need a bar for?"

''What happened next?"

He shrugged. "We had a drink. I think that's
what she had in mind."

"And you got to know each other."

He laughed. "You could say that, lady. You want
the details?"

"
If they're relevant."

"Relevant to what? What the hell's going on here
anyway?"

"You're shouting again."

"I don't give a shit."

"
Doesn't it make your head hurt? You've got a
concussion, I you know."

"
It's none of your damn business what I have!"

"Let's get back to your favorite subject."
.

"Evie's not my favorite subject. Oh, no. You can
think again on that one."

"Sure she is. The girlfriend you love to hate."

He stroked his upper lip again, staring at the wall.
For once, he made his voice low, almost too low to hear. "You
know what that bitch did to me?"