was a while back.”
“You know his real name?”
“Scooby’s all I know.” Her eyes narrowed. “You said you were his friend. Shouldn’t you know his name?”
Ray didn’t answer, just turned and walked away. The mailboxes at the bottom of the stairs weren’t numbered and not one of them had a name on it, but the seventh one from the left was stuffed with mail. Ray scooped out the envelopes, then climbed into his car.
Just down the street he pulled into a gas station parking lot and flipped through the stack of mail. Almost all the envelopes were addressed to Michael Salazaar. A couple of them were for Dorothy Williams, but Ray figured she was probably a former tenant. Michael Salazaar was the name he had been trying to remember. Now that he had seen it, he was sure.
He remembered a doper he and a couple of other Vice Squad detectives had arrested in the French Quarter. He remembered how he had to grab hold of Salazaar’s big poufy hairdo and wrestle him to the ground.
Michael Salazaar, also known as Scooby.
CHAPTER TEN
The Overnite Motel on Chef Menteur Highway in New Orleans East was a dump. Constructed of painted cinder blocks, the building was a long, two-story rectangle, housing thirty small rooms, all facing the highway. On the left end of the rectangle sat the lobby and a tiny bar.
Rocco was about to turn the Lincoln into the parking lot. “Not here,” Tony said. “Park”-he looked around, then pointed to the Texaco gas station next door-“over there. Pull up there.”
Rocco steered into the gas station. As he stepped out of the car, he asked Tony, “Why here, why not the motel?”
Tony looked over the Town Car’s roof. “Rock, you know, sometimes you’re really stupid.”
Rocco sulked all the way to the motel. Finally, he said, “Why’d you have to say that, about me being stupid?”
“’Cause it’s fucking true. You don’t think this guy might be a little spooked? Maybe he’s looking out the window. He sees my car pull up, you think he’s going to sit there and wait for us to come in?”
Rocco shrugged.
A minute later, standing outside room twelve, on the ground floor, Tony had his ear pressed to the door. Rocco tapped his arm. “How’d you find out Hector was staying here?”
Tony wished the big goof would shut up. “Because I know how people think, especially when they’re trying not to be found.”
“Why doesn’t he want to be found?”
Tony knocked on the door. Inside, someone started moving. Through the door, a voice said, “Who is it?”
Leaning close to the door, Tony said, “Hector, it’s Tony Zello. Open up.”
Silence.
Tony hammered the door with the bottom of his fist. “Open the fuck up, Hector. I need to talk to you.”
Then he heard the rattle of a night chain, and the door opened a crack. An eyeball peered out, looking first at Tony, then Rocco. Hector’s voice said, “How’d you know I was here?”
Tony drove his shoulder against the door. It flew back and smacked Hector on the head, knocking him to the floor. Tony and Rocco rushed in, but Hector got to his feet before they could grab him. He scrambled past the bed and dashed toward the back of the room.
Glancing beyond Hector, Tony saw a sliding glass door. He lunged at Hector, but the little bastard reached out and knocked the lamp off the dresser, dropping it into Tony’s path and slowing him down for a second.
Hector reached the glass door. He flipped open the latch. Tony knew he couldn’t catch Hector before the little spic son of a bitch got out. Tony snatched his snub-nosed. 38 from his waistband and shot Hector twice in the back.
Rocco stopped dead in his tracks. “What did you do that for?”
Tony kicked the front door closed and tucked the revolver back into his pants. “He was going to get away.”
Hector was crumpled into a pile beside the back door, the two dark bullet holes in stark silhouette against his white T-shirt. As Tony rolled him onto his back, a breath of air rattled from Hector’s open mouth. Tony knelt beside him and pressed two fingers against the side of his neck. There was no pulse. Hector the doorman was dead. His sightless eyes stared at the ceiling.
Rocco started pulling the covers off the bed.
“What are you doing?” Tony asked.
“We’ve got to get him out of here, and it’s broad daylight. I’m going to use the bedspread to wrap him up.”
“We’re not moving him.”
Rocco stopped and stared at Tony. “What do you mean?” “Just what I said.” Tony stepped over Hector and opened the back door. A place with back doors was something he’d have to remember in case he needed a room with a quick escape route. “We’re leaving him here.”
Behind the motel ran a narrow concrete walkway, on the other side of which, not more than four feet away, stood a six-foot, wooden privacy fence that separated the motel from the back of another business on the next street over. Tony stepped through the door and turned left. He strolled toward the Texaco station. Rocco, shuffling along behind him, said, “I still don’t understand why you had to shoot Hector.”
Tony spoke over his shoulder. “That’s why I do all the thinking, Rock, not you.”
They didn’t speak again until they were inside the Lincoln. Rocco sat behind the wheel. He looked puzzled. “I thought we were just going to talk to him.”
“You can’t talk to a man who’s running from you,” Tony said.
As Rocco pulled out of the Texaco parking lot, he looked at Tony. “But now that he’s dead, we’ll never get to talk to him.”
Tony took a deep breath. “Just drive the goddamn car, Rocco. Just drive the goddamn car.”
Ray asked Jimmy LaGrange, “Do you remember Michael Salazaar?”
LaGrange shook his head.
“He was a dope fiend we arrested in the French Quarter,” Ray said. He held his hand a foot above his head. “Guy with the hair.”
LaGrange shrugged.
They were in a little bar off Banks Street. When Ray had called to set up a meeting, LaGrange insisted on picking the spot. He made it clear he didn’t want to be seen with Ray.
“We were coming out of Felix’s Oyster House,” Ray said. “Guy walked right up to us and asked if we wanted some dope. I was loaded down with a dozen fried oysters and half a loaf of French bread in my gut and could barely move, so I told him to beat it. But he kept on asking, just begging to go to jail.”
LaGrange nodded like he was starting to remember, then said, “That’s the guy we had the fight with. Ended up, he didn’t even have any dope on him.”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“I remember now. What about him?”
“His nickname was Scooby.”
“So?”
“So he’s dead,” Ray said. “Got nailed in a drive-by shooting a couple nights ago, right in front of his apartment building.”
“Who cares?”
“I need some information on him.”
LaGrange leaned back in his chair. “Why?”
“He’s the one Winky sold that Smith forty to.”
“You think he’s one of the guys who hit you?”
