“Name and apartment number?” the guard asked.
Ray said the first number that popped into his head. “1141.”
“There is no 1141,” the guard said.
Ray swallowed hard.
“You mean 1101?” the guard offered.
Ray nodded. “That must be it. I get my numbers mixed up sometimes.”
“What’s the name?”
“My name?” Ray was trying to figure out if it was worth it to try an alias. The guard would probably record his license plate number-Jenny’s plate number. Maybe even ask for his driver’s license. Talk about looking suspicious, Ray tells the guy his name is Joe Smith, and then the guy looks at Ray’s license.
“No,” the guard said. “The person you’re going see.”
“Joe.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know,” Ray said. “It’s just a guy from work. He called and asked me for a ride.”
The guard consulted a list on a clipboard. “There’s no one named Joe in 1101.”
“He lives with his girlfriend.”
“There’s a Yolanda Jackson in 1101.”
Ray snapped his fingers. “That’s it. That’s his girlfriend’s name, Yolanda.”
The security guard glanced at the telephone in the guard shack. Then at his watch. He pressed a button and opened the gate.
Cruising the parking lot in Jenny’s decade-old Firebird, Ray almost drove past the Buick. It was tucked into a tight spot, a pickup on one side, a Hummer on the other. He checked the license plate number. It matched the one in the police report, the one registered to Belinda Sylvester. He had found Dylan, the asshole with the tattoo and the bad teeth. Now what was he supposed to do?
Sylvester definitely had a gun. And he might not be alone. Maybe he had a girlfriend, maybe a couple of kids. Maybe he was holed up with another guy from the robbery crew. In that case they would have at least two guns.
Once again, Ray found himself in a situation in which he really needed a gun.
Back when he was on the job, if he went into an apartment after an armed robber, he would have put together a team of seven or eight cops. Everyone would have had a bulletproof vest. The team would have had a ram to smash the door, a ballistic shield to soak up any bullets that got thrown their way, and plenty of firepower.
Now he had to go in alone and unarmed. Thinking about it made him want to turn around and go home. Except he didn’t have a home to go to. He couldn’t go back to his apartment, Tony had seen to that. He couldn’t even go back to Jenny’s place.
Late yesterday afternoon, when Ray had come back from meeting with Charlie Rabbit, Jenny told him she didn’t feel safe in her apartment. She was afraid Tony might come back. When Ray asked where she wanted to go, she said she didn’t care. She just had to get out. A hotel in Metairie was what they decided on. Jenny charged it to her credit card.
On the way out of the Quarter, with Ray driving Jenny’s Firebird, they had been held up in a line of traffic on Rampart Street. Ray stuck his head out the window to see what the holdup was. Up ahead, about ten cars in front of them, was an old nun in a blue and white habit. She stood blocking traffic, a handheld stop sign raised over her head as a long line of children crossed the street. Some of the kids loped along on crutches. One scooted across in a wheelchair. At the rate they were moving it was going to take all day.
Ray leaned on the horn, giving the old lady and the kids a long blast.
“What is it?” Jenny asked.
“A nun and a bunch of kids crossing the street.”
Jenny stepped out of the car for a minute and looked over the top of the backed-up traffic. When she got back in, she said, “That’s Sister Claire. She runs a home for kids with special needs.”
Ray blew the horn again. “Well the sister needs to get the retards out of the way so we can get moving.”
Jenny crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at him. “You’re such an asshole.”
Ray was confused. “What did I say?”
She didn’t answer, just faced forward, staring through the windshield.
Sylvester’s blue Buick was parked in front of building fourteen. Ray pulled Jenny’s car up to the curb at the side of the building, out of sight of the front doors. Building fourteen was just like all the others: two-story, with eight apartments, all the doors facing the front, two wrought-iron stairwells leading to the second-floor balcony, one on each side of the building.
Which one was Sylvester’s apartment? The parking spots weren’t numbered. The Buick was parked directly in front of the bottom unit on the far left, but also in front of a stairway. That could mean something, or it could mean nothing. People were basically lazy; they liked to park in front of their own door, if possible. Maybe Sylvester lived in the bottom-left apartment. Or maybe he lived on the second floor and parked as close as possible to the stairs.
It could also mean Sylvester took the only spot available when he got home. About the only thing Ray was sure of was that Dylan Sylvester wasn’t going to stick his head out of the door and invite him in for coffee. Ray had to do something, so he decided to do the same thing he did when he was a cop: knock on doors. He went to the bottom left first.
A sleepy-looking black girl answered. Ray said, “I’m here to pick up Dylan for work.”
She sighed and rubbed a hand across her face. “You got the wrong apartment.” She raised a finger and pointed upward. Ray went up the stairs to apartment 1405, second floor, all the way on the left. He put his thumb over the peephole and knocked. Not a gentle tap but not a police pounding either. A business knock.
A voice on the other side said, “Who is it?”
“Security,” Ray said.
“What?” came the answer.
“Security. I need to talk to you about your car.”
The dead bolt turned. Ray glanced around. No one was in sight.
I sure wish I had a gun.
The door opened a crack. The chain was on. Ray slammed his shoulder into the door and tumbled through.
In the den, a long-haired white guy staggered backward. The door had smacked him in the forehead. He held his head with one hand, a pistol with the other. The longhair raised the gun. Ray knocked the gun aside, stepped in real close, and smashed his elbow into the longhair’s jaw.
The guy dropped hard and the gun clattered to the floor. Ray kicked the door shut, then scooped up the pistol. A. 40 caliber, stainless-steel Smith amp; Wesson. The man lay on his back, shirtless, with a blood-soaked bandage covering a wound on the left side of his stomach. The bandage was held in place by a wide gauze wrap that encircled his torso. He wore a pair of black sweatpants. Across the back of his right hand stretched a spiderweb tattoo.
Hello, Dylan Sylvester.
Ray stomped his heel on the wound, bringing a sharp cry from Sylvester and fresh blood seeping from the edges of the bandage. “That’s for shooting at me the other night.” Ray stomped again, more cries, more blood. “And that’s for trying to shoot at me just now.” Ray knew he had been lucky. This could easily have gone the other way, with him lying on the floor bleeding. It reminded him of something Sergeant Landry used to say, It’s better to be lucky than good… But when your luck runs out, you better be good.
Holding the Smith amp; Wesson in one hand, Ray grabbed Dylan Sylvester’s tangled mass of hair with his other hand and dragged him across the floor to the sofa. “Get up,” he said as he kicked the wounded man’s shins and forced him to his feet, then shoved him back onto the sofa.
Sylvester had both hands pressed against the bloody bandage. Slouched down on the sofa, he rocked back and forth, moaning as Ray stood in front of him with the pistol pointed at his face. He wanted Sylvester to get a good look at the muzzle, just the way Ray had the other night. “I don’t have time to fuck around,” Ray said. “You answer my questions, I’ll let you live.”
“Fuck you.” Dylan Sylvester spit his words through clenched teeth.
Ray jammed his foot down on the man’s stomach.