“Tony’s not fucking Vinnie’s wife because of her looks. He’s fucking her because she’s Vinnie’s wife, and that gives him an edge over Vinnie in case he ever needs it.”
Ray gulped down a mouthful of Jameson. This was too much.
Charlie lowered his voice. “You know what’s funny?”
Ray didn’t think any of it was funny. “What?”
“Tony’s wife…”
“Yeah.”
“Belongs to the same bridge club.”
“Huh?”
“The Old Man is fucking her.”
Ray felt like his jaw had dropped all the way to the floor.
Charlie said, “Show you how smart Tony is, his wife tells him she’s playing bridge, but what she’s really playing is hide the salami out at the Old Man’s fishing camp.”
Ray knew the place. “Out in the Rigolets?”
“You know where his camp is?” Charlie asked, surprised, like he thought it was a big secret.
“I used to work in the Seventh District. Every cop out there knows where his camp is.”
Charlie looked disappointed. “I didn’t know that.”
“It takes almost an hour to get there from downtown. He drives all that way just to screw Tony’s wife?”
“He’s an old man. She a beautiful woman, half his age. And you can bet she’s not a bitch when she’s with him. It’s a big deal for him. Once a week he gets dressed up and drives himself out there. No driver, no guards. He doesn’t want anybody else around. It’s a serious violation of the rules, fucking the wife of an underling.”
“What’s she get out of it?”
Charlie shrugged. “Who knows? When Tony’s not dipping his pole in some strange, he’s at the House till two or three in the morning. Maybe she just wants somebody to pay attention to her. Maybe that’s why she’s such a bitch. Maybe Tony ain’t taking care of his wife like he should.”
Ray rubbed his eyes. “You guys talk about loyalty…”
Charlie shot his hand across the table and grabbed Ray’s wrist. His grip was strong. He pulled Ray’s hand away and looked hard into his eyes. “Jean and me, we’re home every night sitting in front of the TV. Neither one of us plays bridge.”
Ray nodded. “Sounds like you got a good one.”
Charlie let go of Ray’s wrist.
“Maybe you should be running things,” Ray said.
Charlie smiled. “I’m retiring.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Ray figured to be dead soon if he didn’t get out from under this. “I just want you to know, for whatever it’s worth, if Vinnie knocked over the House, he did it without my help or knowledge.”
“I know that, kid,” Charlie said. “But Tony’s not the only one who’s been trash-talking you.”
Ray’s stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”
“Somebody told the Old Man you knew two members of the crew.”
Jimmy LaGrange. That no-good, rotten bastard. “I didn’t know those guys. I arrested them, and that was years ago.”
“Thanks to Tony, the Old Man believes that not only did you know them, but that you used them to hit his place.”
Ray could feel his forehead damp with sweat. He pressed his drink against it. “What the fuck am I going to do?”
“Like I said, you’re in a jam.”
“How do I get out of it?”
“There’s only one thing you can do,” Charlie said.
Ray was in enough suspense. He didn’t need any more. “What?”
“Find out who really did it and get some proof.”
“Then what?”
“The boss is a reasonable man, but it’s like going to court. You’re going to have to plead your case.”
“But how?” Ray asked, hearing the desperation in his own voice.
“Call me when you find some proof,” Charlie said. “Maybe I can help. Just remember, Tony is looking for you.”
“Are you going be looking for me, too?”
Charlie Rabbit shook his head. “Not yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ray found Dylan Sylvester’s blue Buick four-door at a sprawling apartment complex off Bullard Avenue. A high iron fence surrounded the complex, and the front gate included a manned twenty-four-hour checkpoint. The security guard had not wanted to let Ray in.
“Who you here to see?” the guard said.
Ray was there early, just past six a.m., so he couldn’t say he was going to the leasing office to ask about an apartment.
“I’m picking a guy up for work,” Ray had said.
“Name and apartment number?” the guard asked.
Ray said the first number that popped into his head. “1141.”
“There is no 1141,” the guard said.
Ray swallowed hard.
“You mean 1101?” the guard offered.
Ray nodded. “That must be it. I get my numbers mixed up sometimes.”
“What’s the name?”
“My name?” Ray was trying to figure out if it was worth it to try an alias. The guard would probably record his license plate number-Jenny’s plate number. Maybe even ask for his driver’s license. Talk about looking suspicious, Ray tells the guy his name is Joe Smith, and then the guy looks at Ray’s license.
“No,” the guard said. “The person you’re going see.”
“Joe.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know,” Ray said. “It’s just a guy from work. He called and asked me for a ride.”
The guard consulted a list on a clipboard. “There’s no one named Joe in 1101.”
“He lives with his girlfriend.”
“There’s a Yolanda Jackson in 1101.”
Ray snapped his fingers. “That’s it. That’s his girlfriend’s name, Yolanda.”
The security guard glanced at the telephone in the guard shack. Then at his watch. He pressed a button and opened the gate.
Cruising the parking lot in Jenny’s decade-old Firebird, Ray almost drove past the Buick. It was tucked into a tight spot, a pickup on one side, a Hummer on the other. He checked the license plate number. It matched the one in the police report, the one registered to Belinda Sylvester. He had found Dylan, the asshole with the tattoo and the bad teeth. Now what was he supposed to do?
Sylvester definitely had a gun. And he might not be alone. Maybe he had a girlfriend, maybe a couple of kids. Maybe he was holed up with another guy from the robbery crew. In that case they would have at least two guns.
Once again, Ray found himself in a situation in which he really needed a gun.
Back when he was on the job, if he went into an apartment after an armed robber, he would have put
