“I sure hope so. I’m damned sure going to try. Speaking of that, can I borrow a few bucks, so I don’t have to go back to panhandling for money to eat?”
Landry apologized, pulled out two twenties and said, “Consider this your first payday as my assistant. So far so good, and I want to keep working with you. The station’s not hiring, but I’ll pay you what I can for now, and we’ll see how it goes. I can only imagine how hard it is for you at the moment, but I have faith in you. We have to solve this mystery. You have money now. That’s dangerous, so be careful.”
Jack thanked him, said he’d be there Monday at eight, and left, while Landry went home and tracked Cate’s flight. She would get a ride into town this time, and if things went well, they would be together before eight. He was ready, because shepherding Jack was a stressful job. Surreptitiously Landry had watched him, unsure when or if the man might take a wrong turn. Now he had to let it go. He needed to listen to his own advice. Jack was in charge of his life, and only he could decide if he survived or failed.
A dozen times while he and Cate were together that weekend, he resisted the urge to call Jack and pretend to be asking something while instead checking up on him. Cate said he should give Jack breathing room and see what happened.
They visited Tiffany in the hospital on Saturday afternoon and learned she’d be discharged the next day. He wished he had more time to talk with her, but she had to get back to her life and her job. She had booked a flight to LA tomorrow afternoon.
“I’m broke from buying airline tickets,” she quipped, “so it’d better work this time.”
That evening Shane Young called and said, “I’m at a pay phone in a bar. I couldn’t make this call from my phone. This is a courtesy call. You’re going to be arrested, Landry. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day — I can’t say when. I don’t think you had anything to do with Tiffany’s assault, but it’s out of my hands. Your time’s running out, my friend. You need to find some answers. And get a lawyer.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On Sunday afternoon Cate flew back to Galveston. Aching with loneliness, Landry walked to Muriel’s in the rain, but instead of going inside, he stood under the balcony and decided against it. So much had happened since he and Cate dined there two weeks ago, and tonight Muriel’s would only bring back a flood of memories. What he wanted was a drink in a place where the bartender didn’t know him. Fame was bittersweet, and tonight he hoped to be an anonymous nobody and not a ghost hunter.
He had so many favorite places in the Quarter he couldn’t come up with something different. He walked aimlessly and saw a sign for Patrick’s Bar Vin. Tucked away off a courtyard in a Bienville Street hotel called the Mazarin, he’d never noticed it. Once inside he found it cozy and almost empty — a place for cocktails and reflections.
He stood at the bar and ordered a vodka tonic, then changed it to a double. The bartender set the glass in front of him and said, “Would you like to run a tab, Mr. Drake?”
Dammit. Landry struggled to be civil, although his first inclination was to snap at the guy and demand privacy. “I would,” he said, “I’m working through some things, and I need a little quiet.”
“No problem with that tonight.” He laughed as he swept his hand around the deserted bar. “I won’t bother you; just let me know when you’re ready for a refill.”
Landry walked to a table in the corner, sat, leaned back and took a deep, satisfying drink.
“It’s a damned lousy night to be alone,” he muttered out loud. Cate was gone, Tiffany was gone, and he hoped Jack was in his room, comfortable, safe and sober. He missed Cate even more than usual. She always knew the words to make things better. They spent the morning avoiding the elephant in the room — his impending arrest — and focused instead on the building, Tiffany’s mystifying attachment to it, and their pride at Jack’s progress so far.
After dropping Cate at the airport, he spent the afternoon preparing for his arrest. He spoke with his boss Ted, who promised any help Landry needed. He’d been in tight places before, and Ted was a friend and a supporter.
He left a voicemail for Pamela Sacriste, the tough criminal lawyer he worked with previously. As false as his story sounded, she’d keep an open mind, even though the truth might be more bizarre than any alibi in her career.
He didn’t expect a call back on Sunday, and all he needed was her presence at the bail hearing. It’s tough to prove you didn’t do something when you and the victim were the only two persons present. He knew even the best criminal lawyer in town would find this case a challenge, but release on bail shouldn’t be an issue.
Landry hailed the bartender and ordered another drink as the only other patrons in the place donned rain jackets and hats and walked out into the thunderstorm.
