can get back to business? I've got a club to run here.'
Buck Buttrick said, 'Maybe not for long, Shelb.'
The fat man looked up, his expression suddenly haunted and hunted. There was a lot of fear in him. 'What… what do you mean?'
'The licensing board might take a dim view of all the goings-on here, all them murders and such.'
'I had nothing to do with them!' Shelburne all but shrieked. 'I'm a simple club owner!'
Dooley said, 'He's just funnin' you, Shelb. Nobody figures you had any piece of this, 'cause you're a yellow belly. Now hush up for a minute.'
Francine snickered, a dirty laugh. Shelburne turned to her, demanding, 'What's so funny?'
'You,' Francine said. 'You should hear yourself. When you get excited, you start screeching like an old lady.'
Shelburne turned on her. 'Shut your mouth, you… '
'Yeah? Or what?' Francine was the type to rush into a confrontation, not back off from it. 'What do you think you're going to do, fatso?'
Buttrick said, 'Can the chatter.'
Shelburne and Francine fell silent.
Dooley turned to Jack and Pete. 'Which one do you want to question first?'
Jack indicated Shelburne. 'Him.'
While Jack was grilling Shelburne, Pete Malo and Floyd Dooley had a little private chat. Buttrick remained behind at the bar to keep an eye on Dorinda and Francine, to, as he put it, 'make sure they don't put their heads together and cook up any stories.'
Pete said, 'That was nice work you did on identifying Dixie Lee so quickly.'
'Shucks, that weren't nothing,' Dooley said. 'Lots of fellows on the force could have done that. Dixie's been around for a long time, with a long rap sheet.'
'I appreciate that you passed the word to me first.'
'What I do, I play the man. I know you, I know you got something on the ball, Pete, and I know that you know how to follow a hot lead when you got one.
'I also know you know how to keep a secret instead of blabbing it around to all creation,' Dooley added.
He didn't have to come out and say what he and Pete both knew, namely that the streetwise CTU agent knew plenty about the deep-dyed corruption that lubricated the big-money machinery of the New Orleans infrastructure, including some shady doings that Dooley and his partner, Buck Buttrick, were involved with, and that Pete kept it strictly confidential.
And why not? CTU wasn't a law enforcement agency, it was a counterterrorism operation dedicated to protecting the people of the United States from catastrophic acts of mass destruction hatched by the nation's enemies. If that mission required looking the other way when it came to the sideline rackets of a couple of crooked cops who'd proved to be valuable informants in the past, why, then, so be it.
''Sides, I figure you and your bunch will know what to do with it better than the rest of those clowns out there,' Dooley said, gesturing toward the club's front windows, which looked out on the mass of investigators milling around the crime scene.
'Look at 'em. Everybody's trying to get into the act. The District Attorney's got his special squad of investigators snooping around. The Mayor and the Governor have got their folks sticking their noses in. Then there's the parish Sheriff's Department; the State Police boys; the FBI; Homeland Security; the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms revenuers; and who knows who else. They're all so busy stumbling over each other's feet that they wouldn't know what to do with a clue if it up and bit 'em on the ass,' he said.
Pete said, 'Was Dixie wired into the local mob?' The New Orleans Mafia had been established early in the twentieth century, and was one of the most powerful branches of the national crime syndicate.
'Hell, no,' Dooley said, 'though not for lack of trying. He was too political — that is, he was hip-deep in with the Klan and American Nazis and that sort. Supplying 'em with guns and bombs and whatnot. That brings down too much Federal heat, and that's one thing the Family don't need. Plus, them Ku Kluxers are down on the Catholics, and that don't sit right with them Mafia dons.'
'You know how things work in this town, so I'd be grateful for any light you can throw on Dixie and where he fits in with the Paz hit try.'
'Like I said, Pete, I made Dixie right off, but the rest of those jokers laid out on the street were strangers to me. They sure wasn't Mafia, I can tell you that. As to who they was, well, your guess is as good as mine. Probably better.'
Dooley added, 'Word is, Paz is big in the drug trade. Could be a rival gang tried to wipe out the competition — but I'm just guessing now.'
'You've been a big help,' Pete said. 'What can I do for you?'
Dooley pushed his fishing hat back on his head. 'This ain't no city matter, it's something much bigger. Just you being involved tells me that. That makes it Federal and puts it way over my head. Still, there's a local angle involved. Anything you can say to make me and Buck look good with the Police Department or the Mayor's office, put in a good word for us and say how we're cooperating, come up with some helpful clues, you know the routine, well, I'd surely appreciate it.'
'Consider it done,' Pete said. 'And if you come up with anything else, you know where to reach me.'
'Right now, you know what I know. Me and Buck'll keep our eyes and ears open. Anything comes up, we'll see that it gets to you in quick time.'
Dooley frowned, shaking his head. 'Thing like this, a mass killing on Bourbon Street, it's bad for business.'
Where to take Shelburne for questioning? The manager had a private office in the back of the club, but Jack nixed that. Chances were that it might be bugged by the city's Vice Squad or some other law enforcement agency. The side rooms off the main floor, where patrons could go with the performers for private dances and whatnot, were also ruled out, for the reason that an operator like Shelburne was likely to have them outfitted with hidden video cameras to pick up some blackmail material.
Jack wound up taking Shelburne off to one side of the main floor, to an alcove where a pillar blocked the view of the stage. A table with bad sightlines was undesirable, a spot to be relegated to customers of no importance, and therefore least likely to be bugged or wired for sound. All the same, Jack looked under the table for evidence of eavesdropping devices, but found none.
Grouped around the table were four rickety, wooden armless chairs with woven cane bottom seats. Jack was doubtful that they could support the manager's massive weight, but Shelburne must have dealt with that problem before, because he came up with a ready-made solution. He pushed two chairs together and sat down on them with one meaty buttock perched on each chair.
Jack sat across the table from him. Shelburne said, 'Why're you picking on me? I didn't do nothing. I'm a legitimate businessman. I've got no more to do with those killings than the man in the moon.'
Jack said, 'Vikki Valence works for you. She lives upstairs over the club. Her boyfriend was attacked outside your place in an ambush that left seven dead. Vikki's gone, disappeared. You're involved, all right.'
Shelburne squirmed in his seat, the chairs creaking beneath him. 'Sure, I rented the apartment to Vikki. Why not? It's standard business practice, see? It's a tradeoff. She gets a knockdown on the rent and the club gets a knockdown on her fee. She's a headliner and headliners are costly. It's the star system. It's a perk. If she don't get it from me, well, there's plenty of other clubs in the Quarter who'll give it to her.'
He bobbed his melon-sized head in the direction of the two women seated at the bar. 'Francine and Dorinda got a similar arrangement; they live upstairs, too. It's strictly business.'
Jack said, 'How long was Vikki going out with Paz?'
Shelburne shook his head, agitating his triple chins. 'Hey, I'm not responsible for what the talent does during their off hours. These are healthy young women with normal physical appetites. What they do in their private lives is none of my business.'
Jack, flat-eyed, looked at Shelburne until he was squirming again. He repeated his question. 'How long was Vikki going out with Paz?'
