The newspaper was a wet gob by the time Ray reached his Mustang. He tossed it onto the hood of the Lincoln parked next to him. Then he unlocked his door and slid behind the wheel. As he hunched forward, aiming the key at the ignition switch and tugging on the door handle, Ray felt the door jerked out of his hand.
He turned and saw Rocco peering at him through the open doorway. In his huge right fist he gripped a big black pistol, a Glock. 45 by the look of it.
Rocco grinned. “Say good-bye, Raymond.” Then the. 45 dropped out of sight, and Rocco’s left hand came up holding a small black gun, one Ray didn’t recognize.
Everything slowed down. Rocco’s finger tightened on the trigger. Squeezed it back. There was no chance to get away. Not even time enough to duck. No possibility of Rocco missing. Ray had a flash realization: it’s over. Everything. No worries. No guilt. No nothing. He almost welcomed it. Then he realized that Rocco’s stupid, grinning face was going to be the last thing he ever saw. He opened his mouth to curse his cruel fate.
Something shot out of the end of the barrel, but it wasn’t a bullet. It was a stream of liquid that filled Ray’s open mouth, splashed into his eyes, and squirted up his nose. He gagged on it and almost vomited. Instinctively, Ray shut his eyes, but it was too late to protect them from the burning liquid, and although he couldn’t see, he could still smell, and he recognized the acrid stench for what it was-urine.
A squirt gun filled with piss.
Ray’s hands jumped to his face and wiped frantically as he tried to clear his vision. He kicked out with his left foot but only managed to bang his shin on the door. A voice, a voice he recognized, said, “How’s it taste, Raymond? I didn’t know you were into golden showers.” That name again, Raymond. God, how he hated that name.
By the time Ray managed to force his eyes back open, Rocco had taken a step back and had the Glock. 45 up again, pointing it at Ray’s head. Behind Rocco, Tony Z. stepped out from the front passenger seat of the Lincoln and popped open an umbrella to shield him from the driving rain.
The two of them stood staring at Ray. At Rocco’s feet lay the black plastic squirt gun. Tony held the umbrella over his head but wasn’t sharing any of it with his sidekick. Rocco, the big dummy, just stood in the rain getting soaked. Ray waited, both hands on the steering wheel, griping it tight, his knuckles feeling like they were going to explode.
“Did you like our little joke?” Tony said.
Rocco chuckled.
Ray said nothing.
Tony grinned. “I wanted to get your attention, Raymond.”
“My name is Ray.”
Tony shrugged. “Whatever.”
“You got my attention. What do you want?”
“When Mr. Messina asks you to do something, you don’t think about it, you just do it.”
Ray felt a drop of urine run down his cheek. He grabbed a hand towel he kept wedged between the console and the driver’s seat and wiped his face. “I thought that’s what he had guys like you for?”
“He wants you to handle it.”
Ray tossed the towel onto the passenger seat, then looked at Rocco, at the rain soaking his clothes, the big fat drops splashing off the Glock. 45 in his hand. Turning to Tony, Ray asked, “Why me?”
Despite the rain, Tony was still managing to look cool, the umbrella protecting his gel-slick hair and silk suit. “Since it’s your mess, it’s only fair that you have to clean it up.”
“I’m not the dumbass who left three hundred grand up there.”
“You let four assholes with guns come into our-”
“With guns is right, Tony. What the hell was I supposed to do? Stick my finger in my pocket, tell ’em to freeze?”
Tony jabbed a finger in Ray’s face. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to relay a message. You either find these assholes or you die in their place.”
Rocco chuckled again.
“We’re not talking about four douche bags who were looking for a Seven-Eleven to knock off,” Ray said. “They knew exactly what they were doing, and they’re not going to stick around afterward. That crew is long gone by now.”
“You better hope not.”
“What makes you think I can find them any better than you can?”
Tony shook his head. “I don’t.”
“Then why-”
“I told you, this is what Mr. Messina wants.”
Ray stared at Tony, his slicked hair, his Italian suit, his Bruno Magli loafers.
Why do these wiseguys need a broken-down ex-cop and ex-con doing their dirty work for them. Unless…
“You screwed up, didn’t you, Tony? It was you who left all that money in the counting room. What happened? Were you upstairs knocking off a piece of ass when you should have been taking care of-”
“Shut up!” Tony snapped. He shot a glance at Rocco, then nodded at Ray. Rocco stepped in quick, lowering the pistol as he swung his left fist at Ray’s face. Seeing it coming, Ray threw his hands up and leaned back. He got one hand in the way, taking some of the power off Rocco’s punch, but not enough as the goon’s brick-size fist caught him in the mouth.
Ray rolled back across the console and tucked his knees up into his belly in case Rocco came in after him, but he didn’t. Instead, the big man bent down and picked up the water pistol. He aimed it at Ray and pumped the trigger three times, laughing as the stream of urine hit Ray in the face and head. On the fourth pump, just a dribble came out and Rocco threw the empty plastic gun on top of Ray, then slammed the Mustang’s door shut.
Tony pressed his face against the closed window and yelled, “Somebody’s got to pay, Raymond. It’s either going to be you or them.” Then he disappeared into the passenger door of the Lincoln and closed his umbrella. Like a faithful dog, Rocco trotted around the big car and squeezed in behind the wheel. The motor cranked. Then the Lincoln tore out of the parking lot, its tires spinning on the wet pavement.
CHAPTER SIX
Ray called three times and left three messages. Jimmy didn’t call him back. Ray decided to go in person.
The New Orleans Police Department headquarters building is an ugly, 1960s-era, five-story block of cement and smoked glass that stands between the jail and municipal court. As Ray crossed the open plaza in front of the dilapidated building, he passed the dry, weed-choked memorial fountain and tried not to look at the memorial wall.
Set in a corner of Sirgo Plaza, the fallen-officers memorial was the only modern edifice in the entire jail-court-police complex. The memorial wall was a seven-foot-tall pane of thick glass, surrounded by a rectangular concrete frame. Etched into the glass were the names of all of the New Orleans police officers who had been killed in the line of duty. When he was a rookie cop, Ray used to stop and stare at the glass wall. He would get choked up thinking about the fallen heroes whose names were inscribed there. This time he raced past it, too ashamed to look.
Just inside the main door to headquarters, angled off to the left, was a security desk, almost always manned by a cop who was on light duty, usually one recovering from an injury. Two rope lines and a red carpet guided people to the security desk, but Ray slipped to the right as soon as he got inside. The officer on duty was busy with a couple of visitors and didn’t notice as Ray passed the elevator and glided toward the back stairs.
On the third floor, Ray opened the door marked CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION BUREAU. A window made of bullet-resistant glass was set in the wall of the tiny waiting room. There was a small circular talking device mounted in the window. It looked like some sort of aluminum speaker. No one was behind the window, so Ray rang the old-fashioned metal bell that sat on the ledge in front of the glass.