She flushed the skinny cigarette butt, and sat on the edge of Ricky's bed. She had vowed to get through this ordeal one day at a time, but damned if the days weren't getting worse. She couldn't take much more.
BARRY THE BLADE HAD PICKED THIS DUMPY LITTLE BAR because it was quiet, dark, and he remembered it from his teenage years as a young and aspiring hoodlum on the streets of New Orleans. It was not one he routinely frequented, but it was deep in the Quarter, which meant he could park off Canal and dart through the tourists on Bourbon and Royal, and there was no way the feds could follow him.
He found a tiny table in the back, and sipped a vodka gimlet while waiting for Gronke.
He wanted to be in Memphis himself, but he was out on bond and his movements were restricted. Permission was required before he could leave the state, and he knew better than to ask. Communication with Gronke had been difficult. The paranoia was eating him alive. For eight months now, every curious stare was another cop watching his every move. A stranger behind him on the sidewalk -was another fibbie hiding in the darkness. His phones were tapped. His car and house were bugged. He was afraid to speak half the time because he could almost feel the sensors and hidden mikes.
He finished the gimlet and ordered another one. A double. Gronke arrived twenty minutes late, and crowded his bulky frame into a chair in the corner. The ceiling was seven feet above them.
"Nice place," Gronke said. "How you doin'?" "Okay." Barry snapped his fingers and the waiter •walked over.
"Beer. Grolsch," Gronke said.
"Did they follow you?" Barry asked.
"I don't think so. I've zigzagged through half the Quarter, you know." "What's happening up there?" "Memphis?" "No. Milwaukee, you dumbass," Barry said with a smile. "What's happening with the kid?" "He's in jail, and he ain't talkin'. They took him in this morning, had some kinda hearing at lunch before the youth court, then took him back to jail." The bartender carried a heavy tray of dirty beer mugs through the swinging doors into the dirty, cramped kitchen, and when he cleared the doors, two FBI agents in jeans stopped him. One flashed a badge while the other took the tray.
"What the hell?" the bartender asked, backing to the wall while staring at the badge just inches from the tip of his wide nose.
"FBI. Need a favor," said Special Agent Scherff calmly, all business. The other agent pressed forward. The bartender owned two felony convictions, and had been enjoying his freedom for less than six months. He became eager.
"Sure. Anything." "What's your name?" asked Scherff.
"Uh, Dole. Link Dole." He'd used so many names over the years, it was difficult keeping them straight.
The agents inched forward even more and Link began to fear an attack. "Okay, Link. Can you help us?" Link nodded rapidly. The cook stirred a pot of rice, a cigarette barely hanging from his lips. He glanced their way once but had other things on his mind.
"There are two men out there having a drink in the rear corner, on the right side where the ceiling is low." "Yeah, okay, sure. I'm not involved, am I?" "No, Link. Just listen." Scherff pulled a matching set of salt and pepper shakers from his pocket. "Put these on a tray with a bottle of ketchup. Go to the table, just routine, you know, and switch these with the ones sitting there now. Ask these guys if they want something to eat, or another drink. You understand?" Link was nodding but not understanding. "Uh, what's in these?" "Salt and pepper," Scherff said. "And a little bug that allows us to hear what these guys are saying. They're criminals, okay, Link, and we have them under surveillance." "I really don't want to get involved," Link said, knowing full well that if they threatened even slightly he'd bust his ass to get involved.
"Don't make me angry," Scherff said, waving the shakers.
"Okay, okay." A waiter kicked open the swinging doors and shuffled behind them with stack of dirty dishes. Link took the shakers. "Don't tell anyone," he said, trembling.
"It's a deal, Link. This is our little secret. Now, is there an empty closet around here?" Scherff asked this while looking around the cramped and cluttered kitchen. The answer was obvious. There had not been an empty square foot in this dump in fifty years.
Link thought a second or two, very eager to help his new friends. "No, but there's a little office right above the bar." "Great, Link. Go exchange these, and we'll set up some equipment in the office." Link held them gingerly as if they might explode, and returned to the bar.
A waiter placed a bottle of Grolsch in front of Gronke and disappeared.
"The little bastard knows something, doesn't he?" the Blade said.
"Of course. Otherwise, this wouldn't be happening. Why would he get himself a lawyer? Why would he clam up like this?" Gronke drained half his Grolsch with one thirsty gulp.
Link approached them with a tray loaded with a dozen salt and pepper shakers and bottles of ketchup and mustard. "You guys eating dinner?" he asked, all business, as he swapped the shakers and bottles on their table.
Barry waved him off. Gronke said, "No." And Link was gone. Fewer than thirty feet away, Scherff and three more agents crowded over a small desk and flipped open heavy briefcases. One of the agents grabbed earphones and stuck them to his head. He smiled.
"This kid scares me, man," Barry said. "He's told his lawyer, so that makes two more who know." "Yeah, but he ain't talkin', Barry. Think about it. We got to him. I showed him the picture. We took care of the trailer. The kid is scared to death." "I don't know. Is there any way to get him?" "Not right now. I mean, hell, the cops have him. He's locked up." "There are ways, you know. I doubt if security is tight at a jail for kids." "Yeah, but the cops are scared too. They're all over the hospital. Got guards sittin' in the hallway. Fib-bies dressed like doctors runnin' all over the place. These people are terrified of us." "But they can make him talk. They can put him in the mouse program, throw a buncha money at his mother. Hell, buy them a fancy new house trailer, maybe a double-wide or something. I'm just nervous as hell, Paul. If this kid was clean we would've never heard about him." "We can't hit the kid, Barry." "Why not?" "Because he's a kid. Because everybody's watching him right now. Because if we do, a million cops'll hound us to our graves. It won't work." "What about his mother or his brother?" Gronke took another shot of beer, and shook his head in frustration. He was a tough thug who could threaten with the best of them, but, unlike his friend, he was not a killer. This random, search for victims scared him. He said nothing.
"What about his lawyer?" Barry asked.
"Why would you kill her?" "Maybe I hate lawyers. Maybe it'll scare the kid so bad h"'ll go into a coma like his brother. I don't know." "And maybe killing innocent people in Memphis is not such a good idea. The kid'll just get another lawyer." "We'll kill the next one too. Think about it, Paul, this could do wonders for the legal profession," Barry said with a loud laugh. Then he leaned forward as if a terribly private thought hit him. His chin was inches from the salt shaker. "Think about it, Paul. If we knock off the kid's lawyer, then no lawyer in his right mind would represent him. Get it?" "You're losin' it, Barry. You're crackin' up." "Yeah, I know. But it's a great thought, ain't it? Smoke her, and the kid won't talk to his own mother. What's her name, Rollie or Ralphie?" "Reggie. Reggie Love." "What the hell kinda name is that for a broad?" "Don't ask me." Barry drained his glass and snapped again for the waiter. "What's she sayin' on the phone?" he asked, in low again, just above the shaker.