bed. He ran his hands under the pillows, looked beneath the frame, then felt between the mattress and box spring. Nothing.
The closet was a walk-in with clothes hanging on each side and wooden shelves on the back wall. One side was crammed with men’s suits hanging from a high rod. From a lower rod hung pants and sport coats. On the floor were a half dozen pairs of shoes, mostly high-glossed leather loafers, arranged in a neat row.
On the other side of the closet was a single rod packed with dresses, under which had been tossed at least fifteen pairs of women’s shoes, all different types-high heels, pumps, flats, mule backs, even a pair of red stiletto heels with straps.
A system, Ray knew from experience, was the key to a good search. He would work from the bottom up. On his knees, he reached into the space behind Tony’s neatly arranged shoes. Close to the back corner his fingers pushed against something soft. Reaching farther, he felt a strap. He got his fingers around it and pulled.
It was a worn leather bag, two feet long with a zipper running its length. There were two rounded handles, and a shoulder strap hooked to a couple of D-rings on either end. The bag was a bit fancy for the gym, more like an overnight bag. A laminated luggage tag hanging from one of the D-rings identified the owner as Tony Zello and listed his home address and telephone number. In the event of loss, the tag promised an unspecified reward if it was returned to its owner.
Whatever was inside the bag was very heavy. Ray tugged open the zipper. Inside was money, lots of money. All loose cash. No banded stacks, no rubber bands. Nothing but a bag of assorted bills, everything from hundreds to singles. Loose bills like that would take all night to count, but Ray figured he already knew how much it was. Somewhere in the neighborhood of $300,000.
The Rising Sun’s $300,000.
As stunned as Ray was about the money, it wasn’t what he was looking for. So he kept searching. He found the gun on the high shelf over Tony’s suits. Ray tossed it in the bag on top of the cash and pulled the zipper closed.
Leaving the bedroom, Ray’s flashlight swept across the dresser and something shined back. It was Tony Zello’s “Z” lighter, the gold Zippo his wife had given him. The lighter that would have made Elvis proud.
Seeing it lying there reminded Ray how much he needed a cigarette. He patted the pockets of his pants and realized he had left his matches in Jenny’s hotel room. He slipped Tony’s lighter into his pocket.
Jenny Porter felt like shit. As she lay in the bed, alone in a room at the Monteleone, the tears started to come. For almost two full days she had been feeling pretty good about herself. Helping Ray made her feel good, quitting the House made her feel great, but sleeping with Tony Zello knocked her back to the way she usually felt- like shit.
At ten o’clock, after Tony finished fucking her, he told her to call her friend the nurse. Jenny picked up the hotel phone and dialed the number of her own apartment. She didn’t have a machine, so she let it ring. She told Tony her friend wasn’t answering.
Tony hung around for another fifteen minutes, making Jenny call three more times, but he finally got tired of it. “You have my number,” he said, pointing to the cocktail napkin lying on the dresser next to Jenny’s purse. “Call me as soon as you get in touch with her.”
Jenny said she would.
Tony opened the door and stepped out. He paused in the doorway and looked back. “You need to be out of the room in a half hour,” he said. Then he blew her a kiss. “I had a good time. Guess I’ll see you around.”
As soon as Tony closed the door, Jenny ran into the bathroom and threw up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jenny’s words hit Ray like a punch in the gut.
He had to take a deep breath before he could speak. When he did, he heard his voice shaking. “You did what?”
Not that he wanted her to repeat the story. He had heard it quite clearly the first time. She had fucked Tony Zello-again.
In their hotel room, Jenny stood at the sink and looked at Ray through the mirror, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t repeat the story. Saying it out loud just once was bad enough. But she did try to justify her actions. “He was leaving,” she said. “It was only nine fifteen and you said you needed an hour.”
Ray stood across the room by the door. “So you decided to hop in the sack with him.”
She pounded her small fists on the edge of the sink as she leaned closer to the mirror, like she was leaning closer to him, coming nose to nose with his reflected image. “I had to do something,” she screamed. “He was walking away!”
Ray was over the shock, but the hurt was starting to set in. He needed to focus on something positive, like anger. What he wanted to do was hurt her back, not physically-he would never do that-but emotionally, like she had done to him. He locked eyes with her in the mirror. “Once a whore, always a whore, is that it?”
She looked away, her shoulders shaking with her sobs.
Just like last time, Ray thought. As soon as he left her alone she was screwing somebody else. Last time he left for five years, but this time, two fucking hours, and she does the same thing. With the same guy!
Ray bent over and picked up Tony’s leather bag from the floor. When he stood up, he felt dizzy. He must be hungry. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Forget about Jenny Porter, he told himself. There were plenty of other things to worry about besides her.
The bag felt like it weighed a ton.
Ray pulled Jenny’s keys out of his pocket and tossed them on the bed. He did the same thing with the room key. They stared at each other’s reflections in the bathroom mirror for a few seconds longer. Finally, Ray broke it off. He opened the door and walked out, slamming it shut behind him.
The cab dropped Ray off at a seafood restaurant a quarter mile from his apartment.
It was midnight.
At the far side of West End Boulevard, on the edge of Lake Pontchartrain, sat a parking lot ringed by boarded-up bars and out-of-business restaurants. Once a hot spot on the lakefront, it was now nothing but a ghost town. Only one restaurant was still in business, but it closed every night at ten, so even the cleanup crew was gone. Ray stuffed Tony’s bag beneath the Dumpster behind the restaurant. If Tony or some of his goons were waiting for him inside his apartment, he would need something to bargain with. Maybe he could trade the money for his life.
Hiding in the shadows thrown by the streetlights, Ray eased across West End Park and took a seat at a picnic table across from his apartment. His Mustang was still parked at the curb. He needed that car. So he waited and he watched. After half an hour he was pretty sure no one else was watching his apartment or his car.
He went in the way he had last gone out, through the back window. His landlord had taped a sheet of plastic over the window and picked up most of the broken glass. Ray peeled back one corner of the plastic and slipped through.
Inside the apartment he didn’t waste any time. It was possible someone really good was watching, someone he hadn’t spotted. A couple of hard-asses could be creeping up the steps right now. Ray needed to leave. His car keys were on the floor, just where he had dropped them. Ray stuffed them into his pocket and climbed back out the window.
In the old days, back when Ray was with Vice, he knew he wouldn’t have given it a thought. If he had somehow managed to get his hands on three hundred grand, there would not have been any question what he would have done. He would have packed his shit and left, left his job, left town, left the state. Florida maybe. Get a job on the beach renting out Jet Skis, or open a bar.
Now he was too scared to run. Having the money was more dangerous than not having it, because whoever had it would be the one to catch the blame for ripping off the House and killing Pete Messina. And now Ray had the money.
Tony, that motherfucker. It was all starting to come together, like looking at one of those pictures you had to stare at for ten minutes before you could see the image. Ray had been staring at this picture for a long time, and he
