afraid this kid might know something. He’s already hired a lawyer, and is refusing to talk to the FBI. Looks real suspicious.”
“Where do I fit in?”
“We need someone with Memphis connections. We need to see the kid. We need to know where he is at all times.”.
“What’s his name?”
“Mark Sway. He’s at the hospital, we think, with his mother. Last night they stayed in the room with the younger brother, a kid named Ricky Sway. Ninth floor at St. Peter’s. Room 943 We want you to find the kid, determine his location as of now, and then watch him.”
“Easy enough.”
“Maybe not. There are cops and probably FBI agents watching too. The kid’s attracting a crowd.”
“I get a hundred bucks an hour, cash.”
“I know that.”
SHE CALLED HERSELF AMBER, WHICH ALONG WITH ALEXIS
happened to be the two most popular acquired names among strippers and whores in the French Quarter. She answered the phone, then carried it a few feet to the tiny bathroom where Barry Muldanno was brushing his teeth. “It’s Gronke,” she said, handing it to him. He took it, turned off the water, and admired her
naked body as she crawled under the sheets. He stepped into the doorway. “Yeah,” he said into the phone.
A minute later, he placed the phone on the table next to the bed, and quickly dried himself off. He dressed in a hurry. Amber was somewhere under the covers.
“What time are you going to work?” he asked, tying his tie.
“Ten. What time is it?” Her head appeared between the pillows.
“Almost nine. I gotta run an errand. I’ll be back.”
“Why? You got what you wanted.”
“I might want some more. I pay the rent here, sweetheart.”
“Some rent. Why don’t you move me outta this dump? Get me a nice place?”
He tugged his sleeves from under his jacket, and admired himself in the mirror. Perfect, just perfect. He smiled at Amber. “I like it here.”
“It’s a dump. If you treated me right, you’d get me a nice place.”
“Yeah, yeah. See you later, sweetheart.” He slammed the door. Strippers. Get them a job, then an apartment, buy some clothes, feed them nice dinners, and then they get culture and start making demands. They were an expensive habit, but one he could not break.
He bounced down the steps in his alligator loafers, and opened the door onto Dumaine. He looked right and left, certain that someone was watching, and took off around the corner onto Bourbon. He moved in shadows, crossing and recrossing the street, then turned corners and retraced some of his steps. He zigzagged
for eight blocks, then disappeared into Randy’s Oysters on Decatur. If they stuck to him, they were supermen.
Randy’s was a sanctuary. It was an old-fashioned New Orleans eatery, long and narrow, dark and crowded, off-limits for tourists, owned and operated by the family. He ran up the cramped staircase to the second floor, where reserved seating was required and only a select few could get reservations. He nodded to a waiter, grinned at a beefy thug, and entered a private room with four tables. Three were empty, and at the fourth a solitary fjgure sat in virtual darkness reading by the light of a real candle. Barry approached, stopped, and waited to be invited. The man saw him and waved at a chair. Barry obediently took a seat.
Johnny Sulari was the brother of Barry’s mother, and the undisputed head of the family. He owned Randy’s, along with a hundred other assorted ventures. As usual, he was working tonight, reading financial statements by candlelight and waiting for dinner. This was Tuesday, just another night at the office. On Friday, Johnny would be here with an Amber or an Alexis or a Sabrina, and on Saturday he would be here with his wife.
He did not appreciate the interruption. “What is it?” he asked.
Barry leaned forward, well aware that he was not wanted here at this moment. “Just talked to Gronke in Memphis. Kid’s hired a lawyer, and is refusing to talk to the FBI.”
“I can’t believe you’re so stupid, Barry, you know that?”
“We’ve had this conversation, okay?”
“I know. And we’ll have it again. You’re a
dumbass, and I just “want you to know that I think you’re a real dumbass.”
“Okay. I’m a dumbass. But we need to make a move.”
“What?”
“We need to send Bono and someone else, maybe Pirini, maybe the Bull, I don’t care, but we need a couple of men in Memphis. And we need them now.”
“You want to hit the kid?”
“Maybe. We’ll see. We need to