Creole Belle (Dave Robicheaux 19)

He reversed direction, got in the Caddy, throwing the drop in the glove box, and backed all way through an alley until he popped out on the next street, one block away, his mouth dry, his heart beating. He turned off his engine, his breath coming hard in his chest, and knew with no doubt what he had been planning for Bix Golightly and Waylon Grimes.

Just rein it in, he thought. You can still take them down. It doesn’t have to be for the whole ride.

Right?

Right, he answered himself.

He waited until he was sure the cruiser had left the neighborhood, then he got out of the Caddy and began walking up the alley toward the street where Golightly’s van was parked.

THE INSIDE OF the apartment building was poorly lighted and smelled of old wallpaper and carpet that hadn’t been vacuumed in months. Bix climbed the stairs to the second floor, taking them three at a time, pulling on the banister with the elasticity of a simian swinging through the trees. He felt a sense of anticipation he hadn’t experienced in years. The blood-pounding rush of a big score had long ago faded into a memory, like the joys of sex or flashing money at the track. Intravenous drugs once were a great source of pleasure and secret comfort, but they no longer got him high and he shot up only to maintain, as they said in the trade. Which meant he was a zero plugged into the end of a needle. The vices he could easily afford had become bland and uninteresting, and there were days when Bix felt that someone had done a smash-and-grab on his life.

He walked down a hallway that was lit by low-wattage bulbs inside fluted shades gray with dust, the wallpaper stiff from water seepage, the fire escape framed against the glow of the Quarter across the river. He paused in front of a door that had a metal number seven on it and slipped a credit card from his wallet and started to wedge it between the lock and the doorjamb, then realized the door was unlocked. He replaced the card in his wallet and put his wallet in his side pocket and peeled the Velcro strap off the .25 auto strapped to his ankle. He twisted the knob a second time and stepped quickly inside the room.

It was almost totally dark. A digital clock glowed on top of a stereo; a television set was playing in the bedroom, the sounds of a woman in orgasm bleating from the speakers. Bix held the .25 behind him, staring into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. “Waylon?” he said.

There was no response.

“It’s Bix. I got a little hotheaded on the phone. I’m getting too old and don’t know how to hold my water sometimes.”

The only sound in the room came from the porn film.

“Hey, Waylon, what’s going on?”

Bix felt on the wall for the light switch, the .25 flat against his thigh. Then his hand froze on the switch. He stared at the silhouette of a man sitting in a cloth-covered chair, the red glow of the clock reflecting a nickel-plated revolver the man was holding casually in his lap.

“Jesus Christ, Waylon!” Bix said. “You trying to give me a coronary?”

He eased the .25 into his back pocket, successfully concealing it from Grimes. He wiped his palm on his trousers. “This is your fuck pad? Where do you pick up your broads? At the Lighthouse for the Blind?”

Bix waited for Waylon to speak. Then he said, “You want to put your piece away? Let’s have a drink, then we’ll go down to my van and I’ll give you the twenty large you got coming. We’ll forget about Purcel and the nun. Are you listening? Somebody slip you a hot shot?”

Bix hooked his thumb under the light switch, paused briefly, then flicked it on.

Waylon Grimes did not move, not an inch. His right hand rested on the frame and cylinder of a Vaquero .357. His head was tilted back slightly into the upholstery, his mouth partly open. One eye seemed to be fixed on Bix, as though he had been taking a nap and been disturbed by an unwelcome visitor. The other eye had been blown back into the socket, the lid hanging halfway down.

Bix let out his breath. “Hey, who screwed the pooch?” he said, turning in a circle, his piece held out in front of him. “Is there anybody else here? If there is, I got no beef with you. I was here to pay a debt, that’s all. You heard me say it.”

He felt like a fool. Was he losing his guts? He went into the bedroom and the bath and the kitchen, but there was no sign of a burglary. He replaced the .25 in its holster and pulled a hand towel from the rack in the kitchen and wiped the inside doorknob, then stepped out in the hallway and wiped the outside doorknob and stuck the towel in his pocket. Had he missed anything? He couldn’t think. He had touched the doorknobs and nothing else. He was sure of that. Time to boogie and think through complexities after he was clear of Grimes’s pad.

He went back down the stairs and exited the building without being seen, the wind cool on his face and hair, the smell of the river balm to his soul. How lucky can a guy get? he thought. Somebody else had snuffed Grimes, and now Bix was home free, not only on the Purcel scam but on the invasion of the nun’s house and the twenty grand he owed Grimes. He could use the money to square his debts and maybe get into a program for his addiction. Thanks, Waylon. I never thought you could do me so many favors. I hope you enjoy your ride in a body bag to the mortuary.

But who had popped him? That one was up for grabs. Plenty of people hated the punk, including Purcel and the parents of the kid Grimes had killed. Yeah, it could have been Purcel, Bix thought. Grimes must have known the killer, because there was no forced entry. Grimes always had two or three guns stashed around his crib and must have tried to make a play with his .357. It was probably hidden under the chair cushion; he had gone for it, and Purcel had parked one in his eyeball. If that was true, maybe Bix could squeeze a few bucks out of Purcel after all, or see him go down on a murder beef. How sweet could it get?

Or maybe one of Grimes’s broads did it. There were stories that he liked to hang them up on a hook and work them over with leather gloves or make them play Russian roulette. Grimes was definitely not into long-term female relationships. Who cared, anyway? It was a great night. Time to celebrate, have a few champagne cocktails with a lady friend or two, maybe shoot craps at Harrah’s. This was still his city. Then he had a thought. What would make this whole caper perfect? What if he planted evidence implicating Purcel? He had plenty of time. Nobody would find Grimes until he started rotting into the chair. Bix knew a house creep who would steal something out of Purcel’s office and plant it in the apartment for a few lines of unstepped-on blow.

Bix walked down to the van, tossing his keys in the air and catching them, a song in his heart. He opened the door and got in and peeled the Velcro-strapped holster off his ankle and locked it in the glove box. It was no time to get stopped and frisked in Algiers. He inserted the key in the ignition, lighting a cigarette, blowing the smoke at an upward angle out the window, like a dragon that could breathe fire.

He had paid no attention to a figure standing in a doorway across the street. The figure stepped into the light and walked toward the van, wearing a red windbreaker and a Baltimore Orioles baseball cap and tight-fitting jeans tucked inside suede boots. The figure’s hands were in plain view. Bix started the engine but did not shift into gear, his cigarette hanging from his mouth, his grin stretched as tight as rubber.

“Is that you, Caruso?” he said. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”

The figure did not speak.

“I took a wrong turn off the bridge,” Bix

said. “I ought to know better, growing up here and all. You want to get coffee or something? I’m supposed to close a couple of deals tonight. It’s part of a charity drive with the chamber of commerce, can you believe that?”

The figure leaned down as though determining if anyone else was in the van, then stepped back, glancing up and down the street.