The Perfect Crime Page 7

  He began walking back to the cash register and Marty followed, keeping quiet and letting Grady talk.

  “Listen. Jack did an inventory last week. I helped him on the goddamned thing. Find the inventory, match the receipts of what he sold in the meantime. Take your own inventory, match it against his and you’ll have what the guy was after. It’ll be a lot of work, but it’ll pay off. Give those eager beavers something useful to do.”

  Marty sighed. “Okay, okay. If there’s an inventory list we’ll find it. We need to know what was taken anyway so if it gets fenced we’ve got another angle to work. You need to get out of here. I’ve done as much as I can, time being. I got to get on home. My old lady thinks I’ve got some bimbo shacked up. She watches too many cop shows.”

  Grady didn’t argue, following his friend to the door. While he was locking it he asked Marty one last question.

  “Did the guys get anything from the neighborhood? Anybody see anything?”

  “Nothing of importance,” Marty said, “except from one of the waitresses across at Bandy’s Grill. One of the girls named Cheryl gave the uniforms a description of someone who might be worth talking to if they could find him.” They were circulating the guy’s description. He’d get Grady a copy of the flyer.

  “Thanks,” Grady said, offering his hand to shake. “I think I’ll go over and talk to her myself. You said it was Cheryl? Tall redhead?” Grady knew everyone who worked at the diner. Cheryl, he especially knew. His pulse quickened inadvertently at the thought of seeing her, even under these circumstances. Cheryl was a couple of years behind him when they were in high school. He noticed her, but adolescent shyness kept him from doing much about it.

  He’d noticed her a lot... And he wasn’t a teenager anymore.

  CHAPTER 7

  NINE P.M. ON A Sunday night sitting across from a criminal in a rundown shotgun house smack in the bowels of New Orleans’ Ninth Ward was not Clifford James (C.J.) St. Ives’ idea of a great place to be. He didn’t have much of a choice, though. The man on the other side of the kitchen table shoving pieces of paper across the dirty oilcloth held the key to his future. St. Ives was keenly aware of the packet of five thousand rubber-banded dollars in his coat pocket. Money he was to hand over, once he okayed the merchandise.

  Passports, birth certificates, drivers’ licenses, social security cards. A marriage license dated two and a half years ago.

  Amanda’s , as well as his own likeness, stared up at him from several of the documents, but the names on them were different.

  His read Raymond Theodore Broussard and Amanda, well...he hoped she’d like her new identity. He’d spent a lot of time choosing it. A long time ago in one of their pillow talks she’d confided to him that she hated her name. Said it always reminded her of some old maiden aunt. Said she especially hated the diminutive form, only she didn’t say that; she said nickname. There were some things about Amanda he wished he could change. Her lack of education was one of them.

  Katina was the name she wished her parents had had enough foresight to give her. Amanda acted as if it were a personal act of meanness on their part.

  Katina Broussard was the name on most of the documents. Except for the birth certificate. That read Katina Hebert. A real stroke of genius, that was.

  Clifford St. Ives didn’t like this place at all, but what could he do about it? He decided the worst thing about the neighborhood was the noise. Sirens erupting continually, kids screeching, doors slamming--it wasn’t much like his own quiet neighborhood.

  The man was dark complected. Too dark, St. Ives thought. There’s some Negro blood there, he’d bet. Trying to pass. What was it they always claimed? They were Indian, Spanish? Right! He was about as Indian as Martin Luther King.

  Something was wrong with the man’s eye, too. St. Ives studiously avoided looking at it directly, focusing on the other one, the good one, the right eye. The one with the eyelid that didn’t droop half over, covering part of the iris. It was a different color too. The color of baby poop, milky brown. The other, the good one, was dark brown. The guy was a frigging mutant. He needed to meet Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon. Maybe they could trade parts--he and Michael.

  “This is the first time I’ve been down in the Ninth Ward in a long time,” St. Ives said. “Almost didn’t find this place. Your directions aren’t the best.” He could smell the spicy odor of boiled crawfish and crab boil and it was making him hungry.

  The man merely grunted and waited on St. Ives to finish inspecting the documents. He tapped out a cigarette from the pack before him on the table and lighted it by striking a kitchen match with his thumbnail.

  “You know why they call these ‘shotgun houses’?” Clifford James said, attempting conversation.

  Clifford James (C.J. to his friends) didn’t know why he was so nervous. Maybe it was because of where he was and all that money in his pocket. The man sitting across from him folded his arms anuinted at him with his good eye through the cigarette stuck in his mouth. He didn’t reply, only sat back and stared blankly like some damned Buddha. C.J. went on, not sure why he was being so voluble to this cretin unless it was nerves.

  “It goes back to the days when there wasn’t any air-conditioning. One, two hundred years ago, maybe longer. They made them this way to beat the heat. They built them to catch the prevailing trade winds...what is that...east and west? I don’t know, I always get that confused. Maybe it was north and south. Which direction’s that?” He pointed toward the front door.

  “Anyway, they faced the houses to catch the breezes. They made them without any room dividers, straight through from the front door to the back. That way, when it got hot they’d open the front door and the back door and the breezes would flow right through.”

  He watched the man to see if he was getting this. A guy like this guy probably lived in this house or one like it all his life and didn’t have the slightest idea of its history. Ignoramus. Manny, that was his name. What the hell kind of a name was Manny? Some Negro thing he bet. Short for Manuel. Trying to act like he was a Spaniard. A conquistador.

  C.J. went on, talking and signing papers. He was starting to feel the perspiration collect under his arms.

  “They called these houses ‘shotguns’ because you could stand at the front door and fire a shotgun at the back door and not hit anything in between.”

  He didn’t know why he was telling this Yat all this. Nervousness, he guessed. It was going to be great to be out of this town with all its ignorant coonasses and scum, like this moron.

  “I guess you know what a camelback house is. It’s a two-story shotgun.”

  Manny sat there, stolid. He said, “You got the money? You got your merchandise. I want my money.”

  It was Manny’s longest utterance so far in the entire visit.

  “Yes. Yes, I do. It’s right here.”

  He extracted the bills and handed them across. Manny didn’t look at them. He sat impassively with his arms folded, a cigarette hanging smoldering from his lips.

  “Aren’t you going to count them or something? Be sure I didn’t cheat you?” He giggled and wished he hadn’t. He sounded like a kid when he did that.

  “It’s there. Every dime. You’re too much a fucking pussy to try and fuck me. By the way, every motherfuckin’ six-year-old in Louisiana knows why a shotgun house is called that.”

  “Well...” St. Ives said, standing up and stretching his arms, trying to ignore the insult. Trying to act nonchalant. He gathered up the documents up and put them in the briefcase he’d brought. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, sir.”

  The man looked at him and said, “Let me ask you a question. I don’t usually ask this, but I’m curious. Who you runnin’ from, man? The cops after you?”

  The cops? The police’ll be the least of my worries if I get caught. I should hope all I have to worry about is the law. The thought of the potential danger he was facing and the way he was handling it made him feel a little bigger. Damn! He
was doing it! If this nobody spade, trying to pass for white, only knew what he was up to, he’d have a heart attack. He decided not to answer the question, to ignore it.

  “Shut the door on your way out.”

  “I will,” said the banker. “I certainly will. And, Manny? Thank you. Thank you very much. Black is beautiful, isn’t it, Manny?” He got up quickly before the man could fig out that he’d been insulted.

  He clutched his briefcase in both arms as if it were a baby that needed to be held carefully, and walked to the front door. As he was closing it he sneaked a glance at the man sitting at the kitchen table and saw he still wasn’t moving or touching the money. Manny was staring at him and St. Ives’ pulse quickened.

  Asshole, he thought hurrying to the car and looking up and down the street. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get mugged in this cesspool.

  He locked the door before he started up the engine, glancing around to be sure the others were still locked.

  It wasn’t until he was in the CBD on Canal that he let his breath out fully and realized he was freezing. He reached to switch the air-conditioning button to the vent; it felt better. He knew he should go home, but he desperately needed a drink. He wanted to be around people with some class. He decided to go to the bar at the Fairmont Hotel. He wondered if Busta was still open. Maybe he’d take his drink up and see. Get a haircut. He’d look good, by God, when he and Amanda got on that plane.

  Katina, he thought, wryly. I’d better get used to calling her Katina. I can imagine her face when I tell her. I’ll tell her when I show her the money. Two surprises at once.

  He gave the doorman a broad grin as he entered the hotel. A gorgeous woman in a dress that C.J. figured had to go for at least a thousand, clicked by him on stiletto heels and smiled. He winked at her and followed her into the bar.

  God! Life was great! Absolutely grand and glorious!

  ***

  The next day C.J. told Amanda he was thinking of taking a vacation. He was considering a cruise on the QE2. Go to England maybe. The QE2 is the crème de la crème of ships, he told her. Very impressive setup he said: plush staterooms, Dom Perignon, Beluga caviar, a real ship like the kind high society people used to take on the Grand Tour.

  “I want you to go with me,” he said, reaching across the table for her hand and squeezing it. He was looking into her eyes, but cognizant of her cleavage as he leaned across the table. About one more square inch of exposure and Miss Jane, the head loan officer, would be having a chat with her. He could feel himself becoming aroused and tried to take his mind off her breasts, but it was difficult. All he could think of was how brown and large her nipples were.

  “But what about Sarah?” she said. “How can we do that?”

  “To hell with my wife!” he said, his face darkening. “Sarah’s history. I’m leaving her. I should have done it a long time ago. The first day I met you, I wanted to leave her. I’ve waited too long to do this as it is. I’m going to do it. I’m going to Europe. I’ve never seen it as a tourist. Always on business. Might as well have gone to New Jersey for all you see when you’re on business. I want to visit cathedrals, drink wine out of your slipper in Montmarte, fuck your brains out in a Swiss chalet. You’re going with me. Won’t you?”

  They were sitting at an outside table at Cafe du Monde in full view of the tourists with their cameras and Bermuda shorts and daiquiris in go-cups and in view of the locals who either worked in the French Quarter or came in from the neighboring parishes to party or hear some music. The locals looked out of place surrounded by Hawaiian shirts and loud children. St. Ives was conscious of the image he cut sitting there. The epitome of wealth and power, Clifford St. Ives wore a dark blue Armani with black wingtips and a Sulka tie. His slender manicured fingers held a Players cigarette and the action he made when he put ithis lips could be described only as a sip, a delicate little maneuver he made through pursed lips. C.J. worked hard to cultivate his image, having spent years studying GQ, W, and Gourmet Magazine... Emily Post... watching others, how they acted, what fork they picked up, how they held their wine glass. It wasn’t the image he was born with. Not an image his mother and father, both Cajuns, would recognize if he ever happened to visit them, which wasn’t a remote consideration. Not since college over twenty years ago. No one at the bank, nor any of his business associates, knew he could speak perfect coonass French or that by the age of ten he could field dress a deer. Or that his father trapped alligators and sold the hides and meat on the black market. His Who’s Who entry read quite differently. A pure piece of fiction that everyone had accepted whole cloth.

  Across the table from him, looking as cool as the iced French Roast she was sipping, in the same white silk blouse and navy blue skirt that could be seen in the window at Saks a few blocks over on Canal, was Amanda Villere. Amanda, who worked for him at the bank as an Assistant Loan Officer, was trying to hide her nervousness at their public exposure. She didn’t especially like the idea of sitting out where everybody in town could see her and C.J. together.

  Before Amanda went to bed for the first time with C.J., she worked in the bank as a teller and worried about keeping her job at Derbigny. She’d made more than a few mistakes in counting out change and more than once was required to stay over to redo the daily count. She knew firsthand the definition of the word probation.

  If we sneak around, she thought, remembering C.J.’s logic over a year before when the affair first began, no matter how hidden the places we go to, someone sometime is bound to see us. New Orleans is a small town especially for a banker. If we go to very public places, no one will think a thing of it. They’ll assume we’re talking bank business. Besides, he said, this is New Orleans. A guy’s got some money, position, he’s expected to play around and have a mistress. Look at Governor Edwards.

  She didn’t care. It still made her jittery. C.J.’s wife was one scary bitch. Her maiden name was Derbigny. That said it all. They met face to face at the Christmas party last year and Amanda could tell by the way she acted that Mrs. St. Ives knew something. Very proper, very dignified, very cool. Mrs. St. Ives didn’t have to say anything special. The look in her eyes was enough. Amanda felt like a deer caught in a car’s headlights. C.J. laughed when she told him. That was like a man. Take everything literally at face value. His wife never accused him of anything, therefore she knew nothing.

  Mrs. St. Ives said only one thing to Amanda at that meeting. You certainly got promoted very quickly, my dear. You must be very intelligent. She flashed a smile without any warmth in it and moved on, her diamonds twinkling.

  “Well? You’ll go, won’t you? You have to go, Amanda. Don’t worry about your job. You won’t need your job. I’m going to take care of you.”

  He sat there, waiting for her answer. He felt the heat rise in his groin again. God, what a body! It was hard to think of anything else with a great pair like that staring at him.

  “All right. Of course I’ll go, sugar. When do we leave?”

  He beamed. “Week and a half. There’s a few things I have to take care of. Details. Do you have a passport? If not, I can get that taken care of quickly.”

  Actually, he said, continuing his sentence silently, it’s already been taken care of, my sweet.

  There’s something he’s not telling m/i>, Amanda thought as they began to discuss plans. I’ll get it out of him ‘cause I know damn well there’s more to this than leaving his wife for a fling with me. And what happens after Europe? I know. Fucker goes back to his wife and I hit the bricks without a job. Horny bastard keeps looking at my tits. Guess I know what’s on his mind. I wonder if we’ll go back to work. Shit! He’s not the one who gets yelled at if I take another afternoon off. I hate the way everybody looks at me with their goddamned noses in the air!

  “Italy,” he was saying. “Definitely Italy. And of course England and France. Is there anywhere special you’ve always wanted to go? Switzerland perhaps? Spain? We can go anywhere, anywhere your little heart desires, pumpkin.”
<
br />   I should tell her, he thought. But I can’t. It would spoil the trip, spoil everything. How do you tell your lover that you’re going to steal four million dollars from a drug cartel? Plus the million already taken from the bank where you both work? That when you leave the country, neither of you will be coming back? How do you tell her she’ll have a new identity? Easy! You wait until you’re in the islands and she sees the money all spread out on the bed. That’s when you tell her.

  “Come on,” he said, digging in his wallet for tip money. “Let’s go. I want to go to the apartment. I’ve got some good stuff. The same stuff I used last time. Primo. I’ll put it all over you, lick it off.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “HI, CHERYL.”

  Grady sat down at a front booth and watched her putting away silverware in the drawer beneath the counter. They were the only two in the diner. He figured Bandy was in the back somewhere like always. He was seldom far away. Grady figured he didn’t trust the help all that much. Either that or he didn’t have a home. Or maybe he did. One that came complete with a ball-buster wife, he suspected.

  “Hi Grady. We heard about Jack. A bunch of us were talking about going up and seeing him. Can he have visitors?”

  Grady could see the concern in her eyes. He and Jack spent many hours in Bandy’s, drinking cup after cup of coffee. Flirting with the girls. Cheryl was nice. Hell, Cheryl was gorgeous, who was he kidding? She seemed to ignore her looks. He’d considered asking her out several times but hadn’t. Back at Dunbar High, he had a crush on her but never got around to taking any action, like asking her for a date.

  “I don’t think so, Cheryl. Not yet anyway. He’s in pretty bad shape. He’s in and out of consciousness. Not a coma...that’s what the doctor says...but it looks like one to me. When he comes to, he doesn’t seem to be aware of much. He doesn’t recognize anything or anybody. The doctors say it will take time. They...they’re not sure if he’ll ever be all right again. The impression I get is that if he makes it, he might be able to serve hamburgers at Mickey D’s, but he’ll need some help if he has to make change.”