The Perfect Crime Page 10

  Somebody came out of the St. Ives house. She was wearing a blue dress that Reader could tell a mile away wasn’t bought off the rack at Penney’s. Maison Blanche threads, all the way. She was a knockout, too, even at her age. She got in the Mercedes parked in front, getting in from the curb side. Slid over and drove off.

  “That’s the wife. Maybe we’ll bring two bombs and suit her up too. Yeah. Put some more pressure on ol’ Clifford. Don’t hafta have anything in it, just make them think there is. Good way to keep her quiet, keep from doing something stupid anyway.”

  “You gonna follow her?” Eddie asked.

  “Naw. Looks like St. Ives isn’t home. He’s the one I want, not her.” He’d seen what he wanted but it wasn’t information he wanted Eddie to know. She looked mad. Good.

  He gunned the engine briefly, let off the gas and eased forward and out into the street. When they passed the street person he honked and waved. The old man never looked up.

  “Bet that old fucker’s used t’people honking at him,” he said, heading the car north toward the French Quarter. “You know, that day I braced him, it musta been ninety-five degrees, hunnert percent humidity. He’s got on four layers of clothes under that shiny black suit, all the time. Not a drop of sweat on him, neither. Go figure.”

  He dropped off Eddie back at the Seaport Cafe on Bourbon and leaned across the seat to talk as Eddie stood with the door open, one foot up on the curb. Behind him, a guy in a bottled water delivery truck lay on the horn. Reader ignored him.

  “Now you know the house where we’re going Friday. In suits. With briefcases. You got your briefcase? Tell you what.et a haircut. Get a decent one this time. Go to Kenneth’s out in Metry. You’ll like it. Lots of cute girls. Good cutters. Tell them you’re going to start working in insurance, want to look professional. Let them do what they want. Get about half that shit cut off. Buy you a blow dryer and get the girl to show you how to use it. And no booze Thursday or Friday. I don’t want a lush on this job. I don’t want to see you Friday morning nursing a hangover, neither. Get it out of your system today if you have to. Got it?” He pulled away leaving Eddie standing on the sidewalk, his hand running through his thin, straggly brown strands like he was saying good-bye to them, wanted one last feel.

  Yessir. You’ll want to look professional when they lay you out in that coffin, bitch... Reader stuck his hand out the window as he pulled back into the traffic and gave the trucker behind him the bird. He was disappointed when the truck slowed and didn’t come after him.

  CHAPTER 12

  POOR EDDIE, READER THOUGHT after dropping his partner off. He didn’t have a clue. If Eddie knew who it was they were robbing, there was no doubt the punk’d back out, Reader figured. He’d said it was drug money being laundered, but he hadn’t told him whose drug money it was. Yet. Not till he was further in. If he had, he woulda run screaming down the street. Grudgingly, Reader thought that might show a bit of sense on his partner’s part. He wondered briefly about his own brains. Should he forget the whole thing, take some quick money out of another bank? This setup would work anywhere, any bank he chose. It didn’t have to be this one.

  He sighed. Yes, it did. This is the only bank for the crime he had worked out. For this much money. For not just stinking bank money. What was that? Half a million, a million if they were lucky? If you even got to the vault. Chump change at the teller’s drawers. Not this particular bank, though. This bank was good for three, maybe double that. Maybe seven million. It depended on how good a week Castro would be having. Discount half of what he’d heard and that was three, four million they brought in, at least. All denominations, all unmarked bills, mainly hundreds.

  There was another, more compelling reason he’d chosen this bank. One nobody knew but him. Certainly not Eddie.

  One last check to be made. He headed out to Fat City, out to Houma House Apartments off Veterans. Two sunbathers, both good-lookers, blondes, were sitting out by the pool when he walked through. Both of the women smiled at him and he looked away. When they saw what apartment he went up to, one of the girls said something to the other. Bastard, is what he thought he heard when the door opened and he stepped inside.

  “Ladies out there friends of yours, amigo?” he said, heading to the kitchen counter and the big bottle of Jack Daniels that Octavio kept behind it.

  “They don’t seem to like you,” Reader said, hoisting a glass to the man who opened the apartment door. He poured whiskey into two glasses, ran a little water from the tap in his and handed the other to the grinning Cuban.

  “Those putas? Ay, Reader, I know them. We’re muchachos. Compadres. They love Octavio. They know what I got and it makes them ache they want it so bad.” He pointed to his crotch. “They may be a little pissed at the moment. A misunderstanding. We’ll fix it up. Tonight, we get married. All three of us. You come by for the reception, maybe you can have one. I’ll take the ugly one, amigo, you take the uglier.”

  Reader took a long swallow on his drink and ignored the joke. Octavio never changed. Always thinking with hisck. He decided to humor the man. He had something important for him to do yet.

  “I could see that, my friend. They seemed very much in love, I think. Any changes I should know about? Friday still the day they do it?”

  “Oh, si. Si.” He went over to the one easy chair and sat, swinging his leg over the side. Reader sat on the couch and set his drink on the glass coffee table. The apartment was decorated in what Reader would call “Early Jive-Ass Drug Dealer Tacky.” He’d never seen so much red in all his life. He bet he had red silk sheets on his bed. A waterbed, no doubt.

  “I will be leaving this afternoon,” Octavio said. “Tonight and until Friday, I will be with lots of people, having fun. Miami is nice this time of year. Everything is ready. Your room, your papers, the whole--how you gringos say?--the whole enchilada, she is ready. I talked to Senór Fidel, this morning--an hour ago. He, personally, will deliver the money. He likes doing this. I tell him many times--Senór Fidel, you should not deliver the money yourself. That is what you have people for, to do these things. But Senór Fidel--that is his pleasure. I think what it is, he does not trust anyone. Especially the hombres that work for him. He will be surprised, will he not? Very surprised, indeed. I am glad I will be in Miami when this takes place. I would not want to be near Senór Fidel when he learns his money has been stolen. He will be angry. No, I will be glad I am with a lot of people in a far away place when he learns this. It will not be healthy to be near that man.”

  Senór Fidel was Fidel Castro. Not the one with the beard and the army fatigues who gave six- and eight-hour speeches and went out himself into the sugar cane fields to cut the first symbolic cane and who smoked the finest cigars in the universe. No, not that Fidel Castro. This was a cousin, third or fourth removed, who was named after the Cuban leader. Who too, was originally from Cuba and then from Miami when he grew up and found the opportunities for financial improvement limited under the rule of his famous cousin. Now he was in New Orleans, head of a drug cartel that was one of the wealthiest in the hemisphere, with tentacles reaching from the jungles of certain South American countries clear into the condos and corridors of Washington, D.C.

  This Fidel Castro of New Orleans was handy with a machete too, only he cut throats instead of sweet sugar cane and he preferred the scent of cocaine in his nostrils to that of Havana gold leaf.

  Every Friday evening after regular business hours, Senór Fidel personally oversaw the transportation of the weekly take from his operation to the bank that was pleased to launder it for him, in return for a comfortable commission. A very slick operation that had been in place for over twenty years, even before his present “partner” had taken over his end of the deal.

  At the Derbigny State Bank on Baronne, Fidel and Mr. Clifford St. Ives would sit in leather chairs in his lushly appointed offices and snort lines of sweet white powder while his men brought in bag after bag of greenbacks to be put in St. Ives’ personal office safe.
Mr. St. Ives enjoyed his own coffee setup, not some prissy cappuccino machine made in San Francisco, but a hot plate and coffee maker that emptied into a thermos carafe. He would time the boiling of the milk to coincide with the moment when the coffee finished, and he would pour equal parts of both into huge china cups. Cafe au lait the right way.

  “Yes,” Octavio had often told Reader, “these two gentlemen have a fine time while we are unloading the money. It is a fine thing to see two such excellent gentlemen enjoying themselves while we break our backs.”

  Octavio referred to this conversation again. “I will be thinng of that this coming Friday when you are taking his money from him. Are you going to make Mr. St. Ives carry his own money out?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it afterward,” Reader said. He finished his drink and poured another from the bottle that he’d brought with him. No water this time. Reader said, “Tell me how it goes. Everything.”

  “Man, I told you. Ten times, I told you.”

  “Tell me again.”

  Octavio shrugged, reached into his shirt pocket, took out a joint and lighted it. He swung the other leg up and sank deeper into the chair.

  “First we go to the warehouse. The one in Chalmette, on Parks Road.” He said “Sha-met.” “That’s where Senór Fidel has his office, where everything happens. Shit comes in--shit goes out.

  “Then we load up the limo. You should see this limo. It’s got a false floor, half-inch steel, holds a ton of money. One in front, one in back. Another one under the trunk. Heavy-duty springs, thing looks weird. Nine million dollars, we packed in there before. One time eleven. You know how much eleven million dollars weighs? A lot, amigo, a lot. We pack it in there and we go into N’Awlins on Saint Claude. You want the route again?”

  He squinted through the smoke.

  “Good. Because they change the route all the time. They not dumb, these fellas. There’s two cops, that’s their area. They come around, watch for us while we unload at the bank. That’s two rich cops, amigo, who ain’t gonna be fishing for no sheepshead off a pier when they retire! They watch me and my compadres break our backs unloading and they make more money than we do and we do the hard work. A union is what we need. Maybe the cops’ union, eh?”

  He laughed and pinched out the end of the joint with his thumb and finger and put it back in his shirt pocket.

  “We put it in a safe in C.J.’s office. That’s what Senór Fidel calls him, C.J. They are the best of friends, close amigos. This is a special safe, I think, that Mr. St. Ives has. Then we leave. We don’t stay too long. This is not a social occasion. Mr. St. Ives does something with the money after we leave. He gets it in the regular vault or something. That, I don’t know. It gets to the Caymans. A special bank. That’s Mr. St. Ives’ department. I know one thing about Mr. St. Ives, he likes his cocaine. Senór Fidel--sure, he likes a toot himself--but Mr. St. Ives--he really likes it, you know? It makes el patron nervous I think. I heard him say something one time.”

  He swung his legs around and off the chair arm. “How you gon’ do it, Senór Reader? I showed you mine, now you show me yours. Eh?”

  Reader knocked back a slug of his drink. “You’re going to like this, Octavio. I’m wiring St. Ives with a bomb. He doesn’t bring the money to us, he gets turned into something you wouldn’t recognize. See? He does the robbery himself. Or else.”

  Octavio was impressed. “Senòr, you are a smart man. The smartest man I have ever known. I salute you!” He raised his glass in a toast of admiration. The two men clinked their glasses together.

  “Glad you like it, my friend. Now, I’ll be seeing you in Miami Saturday morning. Eight sharp. At the Fontainebleau in the coffee shop. For a moment only. I’ll give you a key to a locker. I’m thinking Rio, right now. I’ve heard some good things about Rio. You ever been there? You could help me with the lingo. See what you can do, line up a plane. Get somebody doesn’t ask questions.”

  “A plane will be difficult, Senór Reader. Very expensive.”

  “I give a shit about the expense.an you do it?”

  “With enough money, yes; anything is possible.”

  “You’ll have the money, Octavio. Let me know how much.”

  Octavio shrugged. “As you say, my friend. Say,” he said, grinning broadly, “I think I got a disease, Reader. Polio.”

  Reader stared at him. You could never tell when Octavio was serious.

  “Yes,” the Cuban said, his grin widening. “I’m sure I have polio. I have all the symptoms. One of my legs is shorter than the other two.” He laughed aloud, slapping his knee at his wit. Reader smiled back at him, even though he didn’t think it was that funny.

  At the door Reader paused and said, “You be sure and call me if the routine gets changed. You got the number. You know,” he added, “you might want to consider adding a couple other colors to this place. Get yourself a black couch or something. The place looks like it’s hemorrhaging.” He didn’t know whether Octavio laughed and he didn’t much care.

  One of the girls left the pool, but the other remained behind and she smiled as he walked by.

  Behind him, he heard Octavio at the door, “Suzanne. Are you mad with me, my little bonita senorita? I am contrite and ashamed of myself, you know. Won’t you come and talk? I would like to show you how sorry I am. I will be good this time. I am behaving myself, I am so contrite. I am so worried, Suzanne. I think I have a disease. Polio, perhaps. Come up and I will tell you my symptoms. You will be simpatico, I think.”

  On the outside wall by the parking lot, Reader spotted a payphone. He got out his little black book and dialed a number. When a voice answered, he asked for a man. When his party came on, they had a discussion. Reader told the man some interesting things. He was talking so softly that someone standing next to him would’ve had trouble hearing him. Such a person would have had trouble understanding him even if he could hear. Unless he knew Spanish, which was the language Reader was using. He might have heard the name “Octavio” and he might also have heard the name “Fogarty” and he might have heard the name of a motel. But Reader was talking so low that he might not have. And in a peculiar voice. Like he was trying to disguise his normal one.

  After he hung up, Reader glanced back at the pool. The girl was gone. That polio line must have worked, he thought.

  CHAPTER 13

  SARAH ST. IVES SAT at one end of the long, black oak table and looked down at the other end where her grandfather sat in his wheelchair. To her left she could see Blue Boy and several other horses grazing in the pasture on the other side of the whitewashed fence she had helped put up when she was a little girl. In the other room she could hear Cora, her grandfather’s maid, rattling cutlery as she put it in the drawer. The French doors were open, allowing a pleasant breeze to waft through. Sarah remembered how her grandfather detested air-conditioning. She smelled something like watermelon and realized it was cut grass. She thought about the times as a child when she rode on the wagon when the hands made hay. There was another smell that was making her mouth water that she couldn’t identify at first, and then it came to her. It was one of her favorites, bread pudding. Lucy must be making it in the kitchen, she thought. She made a mental note to visit the old cook, who was one of her childhood nannies, and beg her for a bowl. Pour milk over it till the bowl overflowed. Fresh milk, not that pasteurized stuff you get in the stores. Milk from their own registered Guernseys, dottedh flecks of cream.

  She’d told her grandfather everything.

  “That bastard!”

  “Calm down, Grandfather. I didn’t tell you this to make you have a another stroke. I know what to do. I want to know if you’ll help.”

  Sarah St. Ives was sitting in what her grandfather called “the drawing room,” sipping a sherry and discussing the state of her marriage. Her grandfather asked Cora to bring them the bottle of sherry and to close the doors behind her. She glanced around at the room, remembering the times as a little girl when her grandfather excused himself fro
m whatever gathering they were having to come in this room with men in expensive suits. Many state senators and even a U.S. senator had been in this room. The governor, often. Captains of industry. Oil men and men who made the wheels of commerce turn the way they wanted. They always closed the doors and she remembered wondering what they talked about. Something important. Something to do with money.

  Now it was she who was sitting in the drawing room with the doors closed.

  “I’m going to divorce him, Grandfather. My problem is how to get him out of the bank. Without anything. I don’t want him to have a dime. Can we do it?”

  Titus Fuller Derbigny was in a wheelchair, but his back was straight and strong, his white hair neatly cut and combed. The suit he was wearing came directly from Bond Street and not a wrinkle in it. The Sulka tie, perfectly knotted, was the same chocolate color as his eyes. Although his legs were useless, he still had full use of a razor-sharp mind that was legendary in Louisiana financial and political circles. Strings he pulled affected events as far away as New York and Washington and extended to the Mid-East and Europe.

  “I can’t believe that cur!” he thundered. “Fouling his own nest! A decent man would never have a mistress that worked for him. Especially when his own wife owns the bank he and his chippy earn their living from! It’s all because of that damned Edwards.” He was speaking of the governor of the state, a man who openly kept mistresses, both in Baton Rouge and New Orleans. Not only was Edwards’s own wife aware of his peccadilloes, but the entire state was as well.