Back in his room at the Belle Grande, Carver sat on the edge of the bed and dialed long-distance to Orlando. Desoto was in his office and got on the phone immediately.
Carver told him where he was and why.
“You learn anything other than Kearny Williams been put in the ground, amigo?”
“Above the ground,” Carver corrected. “They don’t bury people here.”
“Figure of speech. McGregor phoned me a couple hours ago.”
“Pissed off, I guess.”
“No, he was very friendly. Like a rattlesnake without a rattle. Said he’d keep me tapped in as he was informed. What a guy, eh?”
“Yeah, he’s sure to be governor one of these days.”
“ Sacro Dios, Carver!” They both knew it was impossible. McGregor had a nose for other people’s weaknesses and there was no ceiling on his ambition.
“There’s an old black woman here,” Carver said. “She was the daughter of the Williams’s maid and sort of grew up with Kearny. She could give me a better slant on the situation before Kearny’s death, only she won’t talk.”
“Maid? Kearny Williams drove a truck. Didn’t figure to be from the kinda family had a maid.”
“Old southern wealth,” Carver said. “The family lost most of it when Kearny was a kid, but the homestead’s still here in a prime area of New Orleans and worth a small fortune. Kearny was the owner of record, though he didn’t hold clear title. He’d borrowed against the place to foot the bill at Sunhaven, but the net value’s still up in six figures.”
“So what’s it all mean, amigo?”
“Can’t tell at this point. The money’ll go to Kearny’s two kids, a son and a daughter, who seem the kind that’ll diddle it away in no time.” Carver hesitated, then said, “Any family members profit big from Sam Cusanelli’s death?”
Desoto answered in his detached cop’s voice. “I don’t think so. It’s something I’ll check.”
“In a little while I’m going to a lounge owned by Kearny’s daughter and son-in-law; maybe I can get a better feel for things. Meantime, can you use your police contacts in Indianapolis and get me an address on a Linda Redmond? She was the social worker who handled Birdie Reeves’s case two years ago. Probably still with one of the agencies there.”
Desoto said he could do that, and Carver gave him the Belle Grande phone number and his room extension. Said he’d be there later that evening.
“This hotel where you’re staying-is it expensive?”
“Expense is relative.”
“You got a bathroom with running water?”
“Sure; place even has windows that go up and down.”
“I put a money order in the mail for you this morning.”
“Not necessary.”
“Tell ’em that at the desk when you go to check out, amigo. I hired you. You need anything, you let me know.”
Carver said, “Just Linda Redmond’s address,” and hung up.
22
Though Melba’s place didn’t feature a live band, it had a ferocious sound system. Huge box speakers were mounted on all four walls, and B. B. King was plucking up a storm through them when Carver limped to the bar.
It was only five-thirty, and there was one other customer, a skinny guy in Levi’s and one of those athlete’s shirts made of net from the chest down. There was a big red number 22 stenciled on the front of the shirt, which looked brand-new. Number 22 was seated at one of the tables near the back, reading a paperbound book.
Carver mounted a stool near the front end of the long bar and watched the bartender amble toward him.
He was a short man with military-cropped blond hair, a barrel chest, and crescent-shaped, friendly eyes. He had a beefy face with a reckless half smile pasted on it that Carver suspected was always there as a sort of mild defense. No matter what he was doing, he was having a hell of a good time, the smile proclaimed. It probably helped him to slip through life with a minimum of confrontation. Hard to imagine the man with that smile being duplicitous or angry; hard to imagine him without the smile. A tough marine drill instructor gone hopelessly good. Nice guy no matter what.
“Not much happening here,” Carver remarked over the music.
“Early yet. What can I getcha?”
“Scotch. You Melba?” Carver was smiling as he asked.
“Not me,” the bartender said. “I’m Jerry. But there’s a sure enough Melba owns Melba’s Place.” He poured some Usher’s into a glass.
“You’re shittin’ me,” Carver said. “Al’s Lounge, Mom’s Diner, Cal’s Used Cars-there’s never an Al, Mom, or Cal.”
“Well, there’s a Melba. Want water or ice in this?”
“Straight-up’s fine.” Jerry set the pebbled glass on the bar in front of Carver on a round cork coaster with “Melba’s Place” lettered on it in black. Carver took a sip and put the glass back down carefully on the coaster, centering it as if that were important. He said, “Hard to believe there’s actually a Melba owns Melba’s Place. Usually it’s a big syndicate or something, and if there was a Melba she’s been dead for ten years or she’s retired someplace down in Florida.”
The bartender chuckled. “It’s that way a lot, but not here. I’d show you our Melba only she ain’t in. Her father died and the funeral was just this morning.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Kinda thing always is, but she and the old man weren’t that close.”
“She own the place herself, or she got partners?”
“Got a husband’s what she’s got.” Jerry said it as if he didn’t like Jack Lipp. “He’s the actual owner, only it was Melba’s money got ’em in here.”
“Rent must be high, right in the Quarter.”
“Eat you up alive. Come winter, though, the place might be bigger. Hear talk of taking over the bookstore next door, knocking out that wall. Make the place twice as big.”
“Make the rent twice as much, too, wouldn’t it?”
The bartender shrugged. “Sometimes it costs money to make money. The main thing is to turn this joint from a hole-in-the-wall into a place where tourists’ll come and listen to live music. That’s what they want here in the Quarter. Hell, they can play tapes at home, that’s what they feel like hearing. Drink at home, too, for that matter.”
“You got a point,” Carver said, and took another sip of scotch. It tasted good; he must have needed a drink and not known it.
B. B. King wrapped up his number. Winton Marsalis took over.
Another customer came in and sat at the opposite end of the bar. He had on a tropical-print shirt and broad red suspenders and needed a shave. The numbed look on his face suggested that life had been kicking him around.
Jerry wiped his hands on a towel tucked in his belt, though his hands were perfectly dry. As if he’d seen too many reruns of old Jackie Gleason shows where Gleason does his friendly-bartender routine. He wandered down to take the new guy’s order. Number 22 got up and left.
Carver downed the rest of his scotch in one gulp, felt it sear the back of his throat and warm his stomach, and swiveled down off his stool. He caught the bartender looking at him in the back-bar mirror and lifted a hand in a parting wave. Jerry widened his jaunty grin and turned away to talk to the customer in the wild shirt and suspenders.
When Carver stepped outside, he didn’t see Melba Lipp staring at him from behind the window of the pastry shop across the street. She stopped there often to pick up cream beignets and coffee before going into Melba’s Place. Her figure was one thing she didn’t have to worry about, and she’d long indulged an incurable sweet tooth.
Her mouth hung open and her eyes bulged with surprise. She’d recognized Carver almost instantly, as soon as she’d seen the cane and stiff leg. No doubt who he was. The cruel-looking guy who’d been talking with Wanda Pichet last night at the mortuary.
The evening was cooling off. Carver stopped in a restaurant with tables outside on the sidewalk and ordered a cheeseburger and a Coke.
When he was finished eating he sat and watched the Quarter residents and tourists wandering by. It was easy to tell who was who. When that got stale, he paid his check and enjoyed the walk back to the Belle Grande.