The Snake Tattoo (22 page)

“Forget your key?” she said when she opened the door. Then she looked around me and was struck dumb by the sight of Sam. She always approved of Sam. Said he had a great body. Which he has.

“Roz, meet Valerie. Take her in the kitchen and feed her, okay? And keep her there. She runs.”

“I'm not hungry,” Valerie protested. She wanted to stay with the adults, I could tell.

“Better still,” I said. “Take her upstairs to my room and keep her there.”

“Yeah,” Roz said. “March.”

“She's tricky.” I warned.

Valerie smiled at that. She also smiled at Sam, testing out her feminine allure and three layers of mascara.

“So am I,” Roz said. “So long.”

That left me and Sam freezing on the porch. I was very aware of my disheveled hair and the dried sweat on my back.

“Can I come in?” he said.

“Sure,” I said, making it into the foyer without stumbling over the front step. So did he.

“I've got news,” he said, while I said, “Gloria told me—”

We both came to abrupt halts.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“No, you,” he said.

“Thanks for getting the license plate.”

“Did Gloria tell you—”

“Just that you got the plate.”

“She should have—” he started, while I chimed in with, “I was too busy to—”

We both stopped again.

“Listen, Carlotta,” he said, “the plate you gave me belongs to an undercover cop car.”

It took a while to sink in. “Are you sure?” I said.

He nodded.

“Shit,” I said. I wandered into the living room and sank into Aunt Bea's rocker. I never sit there.

“There's more, not much.”

“Would you like to sit down?” I said, standing again, suddenly aware that I'd been staring at him. “Have a beer or something.”

“Yeah,” he said, walking around the living room. “The place looks good.”

“It's okay.”

“You look good,” he said.

He followed me into the kitchen. Close. I don't know how he was feeling but I was having trouble keeping my hands to myself. Sam has that effect on me. I think I have that effect on him. I used to. It's like a danger signal, red, pulsing, and overwhelming. I hadn't been alone in a room with him for seven months.

“Carlotta.” He put his hands on my shoulders and I froze. Then he turned me around, and walked me backward until my back pressed up against the refrigerator. I cooperated.

“Jesus, your hair smells good,” he said.

“Sam,” was all I could manage because the smell of him, the combination of shampoo and after-shave and Sam was just the same, and it hit me hard, in the stomach and below.

“It's been a long time,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said. His hands were busy on my shoulders and my neck.

“I missed you,” he said.

“Yeah,” I muttered. It was the only sound I could make.

“Look, Carlotta, what happened, happened. It really didn't have anything to do with you and me. We were just there, right?”

“We sure were.”

“I thought you were using me, to get close to G&W.”

“I thought you were using me.”

“Are we even?” he asked, rubbing his fingers on my cheek.

“Even,” I said.

“So what do we do now,” he said. “Now that we're even.”

“Want a drink?” I said.

He leaned down and kissed me, one of those soft, melting kisses that calls for an immediate, more urgent encore, and another.

After a while I surfaced and said, “This is not what you call great timing. I've got a runaway upstairs and a cop car involved in God knows what and I don't have time to—”

He kissed me again and I went along for the ride.

“Sam,” I said. “I hate to do this, but I need to know what you found out, and I need to talk to this kid upstairs, and what I'm telling you, Sam, is I need a rain check.” This took me a while to spit out because we were busy kissing and pawing each other. He smelled wonderful, tasted wonderful. I was breathing faster than I had during the chase.

“Sam,” I said, putting some muscle behind it. “Sam, back off. Sit down. Tell me what's going on.”

“I don't think I can move,” he said. “I'm pinned.”

“Sit,” I said with a grin. “I'll pour a beer on it.”

“You haven't changed,” he said. “Except probably you're in worse trouble.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

So we sat at the kitchen table and drank beer and tried to keep our hands off each other.

“My friend got the name of the cop who usually uses the unit. It's one of the old turds from Area D. Joe Manelli. You know him?”

“Manelli, Manelli, Manelli,” I mumbled. “Sounds familiar.”

“He's not one of your more honest cops.”

Anybody else says that about a cop, I get pissed. Sam says it, he knows. His sources of information are incredibly reliable. People don't lie to Sam Gianelli. He might tell Papa Of course, he wouldn't—he doesn't even speak to Papa—but the stooges don't know that.

“Shit,” I said, banging my fist on the table “Manelli!”

“It means something.”

“Christ, Sam, it means everything. Thank you. I mean it. Thank you.” Manelli was the guy at the Blue Note, the one who'd poured scotch on the floor. In a sudden flash, I saw him leaving the bar, and recognized him as the man with the greasy hair and narrow shoulders, the driver of the gray Caprice.

If the Caprice was an undercover unit, it would have a police radio, standard issue. Manelli could have noticed me tailing him, called for somebody to take me out.…

“You gotta go now, Sam,” I said. “I've got work.”

“It's bedtime,” he said.

“I wish,” I said. “Honest, Sam, I wish. Do me a favor and go home before I jump you.”

“Hell,” he said. “Why should I?”

“Please,” I said.

So we kissed some more, like frustrated teenagers in Mom's back room, and he left.

Sex. It can overwhelm your better judgment.

CHAPTER 28

After Sam left, I breathed for a while. Then I hollered up to Roz to make sure things were under control. They were, so I dialed a number I know by heart, and gave the extension for the detective's squad room. An unfamiliar voice picked up after eight rings. I asked for Detective Triola.

“Hang on,” the voice said. “I think she's around here somewhere.”

I blew out a sigh of relief and three minutes later Joanne came on the line. “Triola,” she said crisply.

“Jo,” I said, “It's Carlotta.”

“Carlotta, I told you—”

“Look, I know about the car. It's an undercover unit, and you think you can't talk to me about it because it's police business and all that crap, but once you hear the whole story, you'll be glad to talk—if you want to get Mooney off the hook.”

“You know I do,” she said cautiously.

“The plate belongs to a car I tailed through Franklin Park. Mooney's missing witness was inside, also two guys I thought were johns, okay? I'd been on them for maybe fifteen minutes when I caught a tail of my own. Now if the car was an undercover, they could have radioed for backup—the kind of backup that ran me off the road.”

“Shit,” Joanne said.

“It might help Mooney if you check the police garage, see if anybody brought a unit in for front-end repairs.”

“They wouldn't be that dumb,” Jo said.

“What would you suggest?”

“There's a lot of background noise here,” Jo said softly, “but I think I ought to talk to IA.”

“You know somebody clean?”

“I think so,” she said after a long pause. When you're dealing with crooked cops you have to be damn careful. Cops have friends. They're all connected in some kind of network. Jo wouldn't want to take her case to Manelli's brother-in-law.

“If you could get a tail on Manelli, I think he'd lead you to Mooney's witness.”

“Got a name on the witness?”

“Just a first. Janine. Hooker. Lots of paper on her. Does decal tattoos. Blonde. Caucasian. Five-five. Renney used to pimp for her.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Joanne said.

“Jo, can you get Mooney in on this?”

“Shit, Carlotta, it's kind of delicate, you know.”

“But you'll try.”

“You don't ask much.”

“I know. Look, I'm gonna call him now. I'll let him know you'll be in touch, okay?”

“You're jumping the gun, Carlotta.”

“I gotta go now, Jo. Thanks for everything.” I slammed the receiver down quickly because I knew she'd want to dicker, and I didn't have the time. I needed to talk to Mooney, and I needed to get upstairs to Valerie. I dialed, hoping I wouldn't wake Mooney's mother.

“Hello?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Mooney,” I said. “Carlotta. I've got to know some stuff quick.”

“Carlotta?” he said. “It's—”

“It's late, I know, but this is important.”

“It better be.”

“Get your feet on the floor, Moon, and pay attention.”

“Are you okay?” he said. “Your voice sounds kind of funny, like you been running.”

“I have,” I said. It wasn't really a lie, and I didn't want to tell him I was still practically panting from my encounter with Sam.

“Okay,” he said. “I'm up. Shoot.”

“Joe Manelli,” I said. “Area D. Is he one of the cops you testified against on the bar scam?”

“Carlotta—”

“Don't even try to tell me it's departmental business, Moon. It's your business, believe me.”

“What if he is?” Mooney said, always cautious.

Bingo.

“Would it interest you,” I said, “to know that I saw him twice this week, once at the Blue Note and once with a tattooed woman?”

“Huh?”

“Mooney, how did your testimony go over? At the bar scam hearing.”

“What do you expect?” he said bitterly. “One crooked cop accusing another crooked cop, that's the way they looked at me.”

“That's what Manelli did to you,” I said. “He's hiding your witness. He's got her stashed somewhere till after the hearings. He's real friendly with the people at the Blue Note, probably been arranging protection for them all along. Somebody must have called him as soon as the fight went down. He bought the witnesses, and snitched the one who wouldn't shut up. So you'd look bad, Mooney.”

“Jesus,” Mooney said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“A cop,” he said.

“Where would Manelli stash a witness, Mooney? That's what you've got to find out.”

“I'll kill the bastard,” Mooney said.

“Not a good idea.”

“What he put me through, what he put my mother through—”

“Let him rot in jail, Mooney,” I said. “It's better.”

“Maybe,” he said, but he didn't sound convinced.

“Mooney, we're gonna find her. I've already talked to Triola, and she's going to Internal Affairs. If Manelli can stash her, you and me and Jo can find her, right? Am I right?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Triola's going to handle it. She'll call you. Be sure to tell her the whole thing, about Manelli and the bars and your testimony. She's going to get the honest cops on your side.”

He didn't say a word. I could hear him breathing.

“Mooney,” I said, “Much as I hate to change the subject, did you find out anything about my Lincoln suicide?”

“Shit, Carlotta, I'd have called. Maybe not at three in the morning. But I'd have called.”

“What did they say?”

“Straightforward suicide.”

“Aw, Mooney, don't tell me that. Tell me something suspicious, something weird.”

“That's why you got bounced from the force, you know, Carlotta. Gotta make everything weird.”

“I have a suspicious nature, Mooney. You know that.”

“I guess,” he said with the first hint of a smile in his voice.

“So what gives?”

“I got a copy of the coroner's report.”

“Good. Now what's in it that invites speculation?”

“No funny stuff. I mean it. Death by carbon monoxide inhalation. You probably don't need to know the number of parts per thousand. There was a bruise on the side of the guy's head but the medical examiner figures that's where he banged his head when he fell against the side door. No note, either, but the file's practically nailed shut. That school has clout and they don't want it open.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“For what?” he said.

“You'll see.”

“Manelli,” he said.

“He saw a way out of his own jam, Mooney, and he took it.”

“He's supposed to be a
cop
,” Mooney said.

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“I'm not gonna be able to sleep,” he said. “Leaves a bad taste in my mouth, you know.”

“Yeah. I'm sorry.”

“Hell, you got nothing to be sorry for. Here I been relying on the cops to save my ass. I'm not gonna sleep,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I don't suppose you'd like some company?” he asked.

“Oh, Mooney,” I said. “Not tonight.”

CHAPTER 29

“This babe is one hard case,” Roz declared when I came up the stairs. The way she said it, she didn't mean it. Roz is tough enough to know.

Valerie had made herself at home in my room to the extent of sprawling across the unmade bed. I never make my bed. She'd taken off her heels and tossed them across the room. Her face was buried in my pillows.

“Drugs?” I asked Roz.

“No tracks,” Roz said. “I think she's just tired and cold. Maybe she's hungry but she won't eat. She's major-league pissed. Took a swing at me.”