Landry motioned him over and pointed to one of the cement benches. “Have a seat, Ray.”
Ray sat down and listened to the cop’s story. A whore had called PIB, claiming LaGrange beat her up in a motel on Tulane Avenue.
“She was beat up,” Landry said. “But that’s not why she called. Turns out Landry wouldn’t pay her. She said she didn’t mind giving him a couple of freebies not to hassle her, but after a while it got to be every day, and it was cutting into her work time.”
So she decided to set him up for PIB.
“We wired her room at the Rose Motel,” Landry said, “and got him on video fucking her, then threatening her when she asked him to pay for it.”
According to Landry, LaGrange had been eager to make a deal. He promised to give up the Vice Squad in exchange for his job and total immunity. Carl Landry Sr. was on the Vice Squad. Because of the conflict of interest, Landry Jr. called in the FBI. The U.S. Attorney inked a deal with LaGrange’s lawyer. Then LaGrange started talking. Based on what he said, the feds got a court-ordered wiretap. Sixty days was all it took, sixty days to wrap up everyone on the squad, everyone except Detective Jimmy LaGrange.
“And you let him stay on the job?” Ray said.
Landry shrugged. “That wasn’t my decision.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
The detective shrugged. “I just thought you should know.”
That wasn’t the reason. Landry wouldn’t piss on Ray’s head if his hair were on fire. Something else was driving the man. Ray thought about something Landry had said that night at the House. “Why did you leave PIB?”
Landry’s face tightened. “I wanted a change.”
Ray shook his head. “Tell me the real reason.”
The detective stared at Ray for several long seconds before he answered. “If your father is a crooked cop doing federal time, they don’t need you in PIB.”
Still not the whole story. Ray said, “It bother you that Jimmy LaGrange is still on the job?”
Landry looked down at his tie. He used both hands to tighten the knot, then smoothed it out with his fingertips. When he looked up at Ray, he had a death’s-head grin on his face. “It doesn’t bother me at all.” Then he stood and walked away, leaving Ray sitting alone on the bench.
Now Ray understood. Landry couldn’t stand the idea that Jimmy LaGrange was still a cop. By telling him that LaGrange had been the government’s snitch, Landry was turning up the heat, trying to bring things to a boil and hoping Ray would strike back at LaGrange. Ray knew the game, and he wasn’t going to play.
At least not by Landry’s rules.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ray drove his Mustang east on Chef Menteur Highway. Past the strip bars, the Asian sex spas, the Vietnamese village, then out into the swamp where Chef Menteur lost its name and became just U.S. Highway 90. He drove all the way to Sawmill Pass, on the north side of Lake Catherine. Still inside the city limits of New Orleans but so different from the densely packed urban decay of the rest of the city that it might as well be on the dark side of the moon.
Out here there was nothing but rednecks with shotguns, pickup trucks, and shrimp boats. The year Ray had spent in the Seventh District, he had answered maybe three calls out here. These people took care of their own problems.
The only reason he knew where he was going was because on slow nights some of the cops would drive by the Messina camp. The older Seventh District hands were like teenagers, spinning tales to younger kids about a haunted house in the neighborhood. According to police legend, the secluded camp had been the site of at least a dozen mob murders and more than a few torture sessions. The walls were painted red to hide the bloodstains. Ray’s old sergeant said the swamp around Carlos’s place was a watery grave, hiding the bones of dozens of people who had crossed the Don, and that alligators nested there, waiting for their next meal. But Ray didn’t believe that stuff, at least not all of it.
After his accidental meeting with Carl Landry, Ray had gone back to his motel. For the next several hours he had thought about Jimmy LaGrange, about the whores on Tulane Avenue, about the Rose Motel, and about one teenage whore in particular, one he knew was dead. Thinking how the whole Vice Squad went to prison except for Jimmy LaGrange. Thinking about Jimmy the Rat.
Finally, it was time.
Ray had left his room at 9:00 PM. Old Man Carlos was supposed to be a reasonable man, so maybe he would recognize the truth when he heard it. It was ugly, but it was still the truth.
It had been years since Ray was there, so he almost missed it. An unmarked gravel drive that ran off the highway, back toward the lake. Messina’s camp sat on about five acres of land, the front half of which was densely wooded. The only way in was the single-lane driveway.
Tires on gravel make too much noise, so Ray killed his lights and parked on the soft shoulder of the road. From the trunk he pulled the leather bag holding the money and Dylan Sylvester’s Smith amp; Wesson. He thought about leaving the gun behind. You didn’t win friends or people’s trust by pulling a gun, but he decided to keep it in the bag, just in case.
The camp was a hundred yards from the road. It was a single-story, wood-framed house set on thick pylons nine feet above the ground. A wide staircase led to a screened-in porch on the front. Looking under the house, Ray could see a second, smaller set of stairs in the back, on the lakeside. Parked on the cement slab beneath the house were two cars, a black, four-door Cadillac Deville-spaghetti and meatballs, mobsters and Caddies-and Priscilla Zello’s maroon Jag.
As he stood looking at the house, the only sounds Ray heard were the crickets in the woods and the gentle lapping of the water against the boat dock out on the lake. Even though it hadn’t rained since last night, the ground was still saturated from the recent downpours. Through the front windows, Ray saw a couple of lights burning inside.
By fishing camp standards, the place was big, at least 2,000 square feet, with unpainted, rough wooden siding that gave it a rustic look. On three sides the woods were cleared back twenty yards; the lakeside was cleared a little farther, thirty yards down to the water’s edge. The ground between the woods and the cabin was covered with grass. As Ray stepped off the gravel driveway, his shoes sank in the soggy earth.
Creeping toward the house, his feet made sucking sounds each time he lifted them, then sloshed as he took his next step; but it was better than the crunching sound of his footsteps on the gravel. He passed the front steps, went under the house, past the two silent cars, then paused at the foot of the back stairs. They rose to a covered porch with a wooden railing, much smaller than the screened-in patio on the other side of the house. A dim light shone through the glass panes of the French doors.
Ray thought about slinking away, about how stupid this was, about taking the money and leaving town. Instead he tightened his grip on the double handle of the leather bag and tiptoed up the stairs.
I must be crazy.
On the porch, Ray stood to the side of the doors and peered through the glass panes like a Peeping Tom. The master bedroom was lit only by the light from the half-closed bathroom, but that faint glow was plenty enough to see by. Plenty enough to see Carlos Messina’s big fat ass thrusting rhythmically between a pair of soft white thighs.
The sound of the Old Man’s panting and grunting drifted through the door but was nearly drowned out by the shrill screams from the woman under him. Ray couldn’t see her because Carlos’s big, bald head was beside hers, facedown on the pillow, blocking Ray’s view, but he had no doubt who she was.
There was no way he could get a fair hearing if he interrupted, so he waited, but he couldn’t turn away. Like someone passing the scene of a horrible accident, he had to look. After a few minutes the Old Man’s thrusting grew deeper and quicker while the woman’s shrieks became sharper and shorter.
Finally Carlos tensed up, thrust one last time as he let out a long moan, then collapsed on top of the woman.
