Jack said, “Do you believe in voodoo, Ms. Parker?”
Rebecca sighed wearily.
Jack looked at her and said, “Bear with me.”
“This is pointless.”
“I promise not to be excessively open-minded,” Jack said, smiling. To Shelly Parker, he said, “Do you believe in the power of voodoo?”
“Of course not.”
“I thought maybe that's why you won't talk about Lavelle — because you're afraid he'll get you with the evil eye or something.”
“That's all a bunch of crap.”
“Is it?”
“All that voodoo stuff-crap.”
“But you have heard of Baba Lavelle?” Jack said.
“No, I just told you—”
“If you didn't know anything about Lavelle,” Jack said, “you would've been surprised when I mentioned something as off-the-wall as voodoo. You would've asked me what the hell voodoo had to do with anything. But you weren't surprised, which means you know about Lavelle.”
Shelly raised one hand to her mouth, put a fingernail between her teeth, almost began to chew on it, caught herself, decided the relief provided by biting them was not worth ruining a forty-dollar nail job.
She said, “All right, all right. I know about Lavelle.”
Jack winked at Rebecca. “See?”
“Not bad,” Rebecca admitted.
“Clever interrogational technique,” Jack said. “Imagination.”
Shelly said, “Can I have more Scotch?”
“Wait till we've finished questioning you,” Rebecca said.
“I'm not drunk,” Shelly said.
“I didn't say you were,” Rebecca told her.
“I never get potted,” Shelly said. “I'm not a lush.”
She got up from the sofa, went to the bar, picked up a Waterford decanter, and poured more Scotch for herself.
Rebecca looked at Jack, raised her eyebrows.
Shelly returned and sat down. She put the glass of Scotch on the coffee table without taking a sip of it, determined to prove that she had all the will power she needed.
Jack saw the look Shelly gave Rebecca, and he almost winced. She was like a cat with her back up, spoiling for a fight.
The antagonism in the air wasn't really Rebecca's fault this time. She hadn't been as cold and sharp with Shelly as it was in her power to be. In fact, she had been almost pleasant until Shelly had started the “neese” stuff. Apparently, however, Shelly had been comparing herself with Rebecca and had begun to feel that she came off second-best. That was what had generated the antagonism.
Like Rebecca, Shelly Parker was a good-looking blonde. But there the resemblance ended. Rebecca's exquisitely shaped and harmoniously related features bespoke sensitivity, refinement, breeding. Shelly, on the other hand, was a parody of seductiveness. Her hair had been elaborately cut and styled to achieve a carefree, abandoned look. She had flat wide cheekbones, a short upper lip, a pouting mouth. She wore too much makeup. Her eyes were blue, although slightly muddy, — dreamy; they were not as forthright as Rebecca's eyes. Her figure was too well developed; she was rather like a wonderful French pastry made with far too much butter, too many eggs, mounds of whipped cream and sugar; too rich, soft. But in tight black slacks and a purple sweater, she was definitely an eye-catcher.
She was wearing a lot of jewelry: an expensive watch; two bracelets; two rings; two small pendants on gold chains, one with a diamond, the other with what seemed to be an emerald the size of a large pea. She was only twenty-two, and although she had not been gently used, it would be quite a few years before men stopped buying jewelry for her.
Jack thought he knew why she had taken an instant disliking to Rebecca. Shelly was the kind of woman a lot of men wanted, fantasized about. Rebecca, on the other hand, was the kind of woman men wanted, fantasized about, and married.
He could imagine spending a torrid week in the Bahamas with Shelly Parker; oh, yes. But only a week. At the end of a week, in spite of her sexual energy and undoubted sexual proficiency, he would most certainly be bored with her. At the end of a week, conversation with Shelly would probably be less rewarding than conversation with a stone wall. Rebecca, however, would never be boring; she was a woman of infinite layers and endless revelations. After twenty years of marriage, he would still find Rebecca intriguing.
Marriage? Twenty years?
God, just listen to me! he thought, astonished. Have I been bitten, or have I been bitten?
To Shelly, he said, “So what do you know about Baba Lavelle?”
She sighed. “I'm not telling you anything about the Carramazzas.”
“We're not asking for anything about them. Just Lavelle.”
“And then forget about me. I walk out of here. No phony detention as a material witness.”
“You weren't a witness to the killings. Just tell us what you know about Lavelle, and you can go.”
“All right. He came from nowhere a couple months ago and started dealing coke and smack. I don't mean penny ante stuff, either. In a month, he'd organized about twenty street dealers, supplied them, and made it clear he expected to expand. At least that's what Vince told me. I don't know first-hand 'cause I've never been involved with drugs.”
“Of course not.”
“Now” nobody but nobody deals in this city without an arrangement with Vince's uncle. At least that's what I've heard.”
“That's what I've heard, too,” Jack said dryly.
“So some of Carramazza's people passed word to Lavelle to stop dealing until he'd made arrangements with the family. Friendly advice.”
“Like Dear Abby,” Jack said.
“Yeah,” Shelly said. She didn't even smile. “But he didn't stop like he was told. Instead, the crazy nigger sent word to Carramazza, offering to split the New York business down the middle, half for each of them, even though Carramazza already has all of it.”
“Rather audacious of Mr. Lavelle,” Rebecca said.
“No, it was smartass is what it was,” Shelly said. “I mean, Lavelle is a nobody. Who ever heard of him before this? According to Vince, old man Carramazza figured Lavelle just hadn't understood the first message, so he sent a couple of guys around to make it plainer.”
“They were going to break Lavelle's legs?” Jack asked.
“Or worse,” Shelly said.
“There's always worse.”
“But something happened to the messengers,” Shelly said.
“Dead?”
“I'm not sure. Vince seemed to think they just never came back again.”
“That's dead,” Jack said.
“Probably. Anyway, Lavelle warned Carramazza that he was some sort of voodoo witch doctor and that not even the family could fight him. Of course, everyone laughed about that. And Carramazza sent five of his best, five big mean bastards who know how to watch and wait and pick the right moment.”
“And something happened to them, too?” Rebecca asked.
“Yeah. Four of them never came back.”
“What about the fifth man?” Jack asked.
“He was dumped on the sidewalk in front of Gennaro Carramazza's house in Brooklyn Heights. Alive. Badly bruised, scraped, cut up — but alive. Trouble was, he might as well have been dead.”
“Why's that?”
“He was ape-shit.”
“What? “
“Crazy. Stark, raving mad,” Shelly said, turning the Scotch glass around and around in her long-fingered hands. “The way Vince heard it, this guy must've seen what happened to the other four, and whatever it was it drove him clear out of his skull, absolutely ape-shit.”
“What was his name?”