It was 6:30 before the two men returned to Andre's kitchen, grimy with sweat and dust.
"Is it fixed?" Andre asked anxiously.
"It was a real bitch," Al informed him. "You see, what you got here is a condenser with an AC/DC cutoff that - "
"Never mind that," Andre interrupted impatiently. "Did you fix it?"
"Yeah. It's all set. In five minutes we'll have it goin' again as good as new."
"Formidable! If you'll just leave your bill on the kitchen table - "
Ralph shook his head. "Don't worry about it. The company'll bill you."
"Bless you both. Au 'voir."
Andre watched the two men leave by the back door, carrying their canvas bags. Out of his sight, they walked around to the yard and opened the casing that housed the outside condenser of the air-conditioning unit. Ralph held the flashlight while Al reconnected the wires he had loosened a couple hours earlier. The air-conditioning unit immediately sprang into life.
Al copied down the telephone number on the service tag attached to the condenser. When he telephoned the number a short time later and reached the recorded voice of the Eskimo Air-Conditioning Company, Al said, "This is Perry Pope's residence at Forty-two Charles Street. Our air-conditioning is workin' fine now. Don't bother to send anyone. Have a nice day."
The weekly Friday-night poker game at Perry Pope's house was an event to which all the players eagerly looked forward. It was always the same carefully selected group: Anthony Orsatti, Joe Romano, Judge Henry Lawrence, an alderman, a state senator, and of course their host. The stakes were high, the food was great, and the company was raw power.
Perry Pope was in his bedroom changing into white silk slacks and matching sport shirt. He hummed happily, thinking of the evening ahead. He had been on a winning streak lately. In fact, my whole life is just one big winning streak, he thought.
If anyone needed a legal favor in New Orleans, Perry Pope was the attorney to see. His power came from his connections with the Orsatti Family. He was known as The Arranger, and could fix anything from a traffic ticket to a drug-dealing charge to a murder rap. Life was good.
When Anthony Orsatti arrived, he brought a guest with him. "Joe Romano won't be playin' anymore," Orsatti announced. "You all know Inspector Newhouse."
The men shook hands all around.
"Drinks are on the sideboard, gentlemen," Perry Pope said.
"We'll have supper later. Why don't we start a little action going?"
The men took their accustomed chairs around the green felt table in the den. Orsatti pointed to Joe Romano's vacant chair and said to Inspector Newhouse, "That'll be your seat from now on, Mel."
While one of the men opened fresh decks of cards, Pope began distributing poker chips. He explained to Inspector Newhouse, "The black chips are five dollars, red chips ten dollars, blue chips fifty dollars, white chips a hundred. Each man starts out buying five hundred dollars' worth of chips. We play table stakes, three raises, dealer's choice."
"Sounds good to me," the inspector said.
Anthony Orsatti was in a bad mood. "Come on. Let's get started." His voice was a strangled whisper. Not a good sign.
Perry Pope would have given a great deal to learn what had happened to Joe Romano, but the lawyer knew better than to bring up the subject. Orsatti would discuss it with him when he was ready.
Orsatti's thoughts were black: I been like a father to Joe Romano. I trusted him, made him my chief lieutenant. And the son of a bitch stabbed me in the back. If that dizzy French dame hadn't telephoned, he might have gotten away with it, too. Well, he won't ever get away with nothin' again. Not where he is. If he's so clever, let him fuck around with the fish down there.
"Tony, are you in or out?"
Anthony Orsatti turned his attention back to the game. Huge sums of money had been won and lost at this table. It always upset Anthony Orsatti to lose, and it had nothing to do with money. He could not bear to be on the losing end of anything. He thought of himself as a natural-born winner. Only winners rose to his position in fife. For the last six weeks, Perry Pope had been on some kind of crazy winning streak, and tonight Anthony Orsatti was determined to break it.
Since they played dealer's choice, each dealer chose the game in which he felt the strongest. Hands were dealt for five-card stud, seven-card stud, low ball, draw poker - but tonight, no matter which game was chosen, Anthony Orsatti kept finding himself on the losing end. He began to increase his bets, playing recklessly, trying to recoup his losses. By midnight when they stopped to have the meal Andre had prepared, Orsatti was out $50,000, with Perry Pope the big winner.
The food was delicious. Usually Orsatti enjoyed the free midnight snack, but this evening he was impatient to get back to the table.
"You're not eating, Tony," Perry Pope said.
"I'm not hungry." Orsatti reached for the silver coffee urn at his side, poured coffee into a Victoria-patterned Herend-china cup, and sat down at the poker table. He watched the others eat and wished they would hurry. He was impatient to win his money back. As he started to stir his coffee, a small particle fell into his cup. Distastefully, Orsatti removed the particle with a spoon and examined it. It appeared to be a piece of plaster. He looked up at the ceiling, and something hit him on the forehead. He suddenly became aware of a scurrying noise overhead.
"What the hell's goin' on upstairs?" Anthony Orsatti asked.
Perry Pope was in the middle of telling an anecdote to Inspector Newhouse. "I'm sorry, what did you say, Tony?"
The scurrying noise was more noticeable now. Bits of plaster began to trickle onto the green felt.