radiator rose from his body.
"I don't get it.
Your people don't protect cop killers," I said.
He propped one elbow
on the table and bit his thumbnail.
"It's the other
way around. At least that's what the prosecutor's office thinks. That's what
those clowns you used to work with at First District think," he said.
"You've lost
me."
"You remember
the narc who got capped in the Quarter last year? I was in the cage at First
District when the cops brought in the boon who did it. Somebody, and I said somebody, stomped the living shit out of him. They cracked his skull open on a cement
floor and crushed his, what do you call it, his thorax. At least that's what
people say. I don't know, because I didn't see it. But the dead boon's family
is making a big stink and suing the city of New Orleans for fifty million
dollars. Some cops might end up at Angola, too. You ever see a cop do time?
Think about the possibilities for his food before he puts a fork in it."
I kept my eyes flat,
waited a moment, removed my sunglasses from their case and clicked them in my
palm.
"What are you
trying to trade?" I asked.
"I want out of
here."
"I don't have
that kind of juice."
"I want out of
lockdown."
"Main pop may
not be a good place for you, Mingo."
"You live on
Mars? I'm safe in main pop. I got problems when I'm in lockdown and cops with
blood on their shoes think I'm gonna rat 'em out."
"You're a
material witness. There's no way you're going into the main population,
Mingo."
The skin along his
hairline was shiny with perspiration. He screwed a cigarette into his mouth but
didn't light it. His blue eyes were filled with light when they stared into
mine.
"You worked with
those guys. You get word to them, I didn't see anything happen to the boon.
I'll go down on a perjury beef if I have to," he said.
I let my eyes wander
over his face. There were tiny black specks in the blueness of his eyes, like
pieces of dead flies, like microscopic traces of events
that never quite rinse out of the soul. "How many people have you pushed
the button on?" I asked.
"What? Why you
ask a question like that?"
"No reason,
really."
He tried to
reconcentrate his thoughts. "A Mexican guy was at your place, right? A guy
with fried mush. It wasn't an accident he was there."
"Go on."
"He was muleing
tar for the projects. They call him Arana, that means 'Spider' in Spanish. He's
from a village in Mexico that's got a church with a famous statue in it. I know
that because he was always talking about it."
"That sure
narrows it down. Who sent him to my bait shop?"
"What do I
get?"
"We can talk
about federal custody."
"That's worse.
People start thinking Witness Protection Program."
"That's all I've
got."
He tore a match from
a book and struck it, held the flame to his cigarette, never blinking in the smoke
and heat that rose into his handsome face.
"There's stuff
going on that's new, that's a big move for certain people. You stumbled into it
with that peckerwood, the one who killed Jimmy Ray Dixon's brother."
"What
stuff?"
He tipped his ashes
in a small tin tray, his gaze focused on nothing. His cheeks were pooled with
color, the fingers of his right hand laced with smoke from the cigarette.
"I don't think
you've got a lot to trade, Mingo. Otherwise, you would have already done it."
"I laid it out
for you. You don't want to pick up on it..." He worked the burning end of
the cigarette loose in the ashtray and placed the unsmoked stub in the package.
"You asked me a personal question a minute ago. Just for fun, it don't
mean anything, understand, I'll give you a number. Eleven. None of them ever
saw it coming.
"I don't get it.
Your people don't protect cop killers," I said.
He propped one elbow
on the table and bit his thumbnail.
"It's the other
way around. At least that's what the prosecutor's office thinks. That's what
those clowns you used to work with at First District think," he said.
"You've lost
me."
"You remember
the narc who got capped in the Quarter last year? I was in the cage at First
District when the cops brought in the boon who did it. Somebody, and I said somebody, stomped the living shit out of him. They cracked his skull open on a cement
floor and crushed his, what do you call it, his thorax. At least that's what
people say. I don't know, because I didn't see it. But the dead boon's family
is making a big stink and suing the city of New Orleans for fifty million
dollars. Some cops might end up at Angola, too. You ever see a cop do time?
Think about the possibilities for his food before he puts a fork in it."
I kept my eyes flat,
waited a moment, removed my sunglasses from their case and clicked them in my
palm.
"What are you
trying to trade?" I asked.
"I want out of
here."
"I don't have
that kind of juice."
"I want out of
lockdown."
"Main pop may
not be a good place for you, Mingo."
"You live on
Mars? I'm safe in main pop. I got problems when I'm in lockdown and cops with
blood on their shoes think I'm gonna rat 'em out."
"You're a
material witness. There's no way you're going into the main population,
Mingo."
The skin along his
hairline was shiny with perspiration. He screwed a cigarette into his mouth but
didn't light it. His blue eyes were filled with light when they stared into
mine.
"You worked with
those guys. You get word to them, I didn't see anything happen to the boon.
I'll go down on a perjury beef if I have to," he said.
I let my eyes wander
over his face. There were tiny black specks in the blueness of his eyes, like
pieces of dead flies, like microscopic traces of events
that never quite rinse out of the soul. "How many people have you pushed
the button on?" I asked.
"What? Why you
ask a question like that?"
"No reason,
really."
He tried to
reconcentrate his thoughts. "A Mexican guy was at your place, right? A guy
with fried mush. It wasn't an accident he was there."
"Go on."
"He was muleing
tar for the projects. They call him Arana, that means 'Spider' in Spanish. He's
from a village in Mexico that's got a church with a famous statue in it. I know
that because he was always talking about it."
"That sure
narrows it down. Who sent him to my bait shop?"
"What do I
get?"
"We can talk
about federal custody."
"That's worse.
People start thinking Witness Protection Program."
"That's all I've
got."
He tore a match from
a book and struck it, held the flame to his cigarette, never blinking in the smoke
and heat that rose into his handsome face.
"There's stuff
going on that's new, that's a big move for certain people. You stumbled into it
with that peckerwood, the one who killed Jimmy Ray Dixon's brother."
"What
stuff?"
He tipped his ashes
in a small tin tray, his gaze focused on nothing. His cheeks were pooled with
color, the fingers of his right hand laced with smoke from the cigarette.
"I don't think
you've got a lot to trade, Mingo. Otherwise, you would have already done it."
"I laid it out
for you. You don't want to pick up on it..." He worked the burning end of
the cigarette loose in the ashtray and placed the unsmoked stub in the package.
"You asked me a personal question a minute ago. Just for fun, it don't
mean anything, understand, I'll give you a number. Eleven. None of them ever
saw it coming.
Similar Books
