The JAX brewery towered over the riverbend like a monument to some fabled industrial boom time. Its iconic neon sign spelled out the name of the South’s second oldest beer in three red letters the size of eighteen-wheelers turned on their ends.
The parking lot behind the brewery lay almost empty at a few minutes before three in the morning. Claude Sherman had no problem finding a free spot.
Claude parked his two-toned Pontiac station wagon in a row close to the brewery’s back exit. He doused the lights. The wagon, with over 150,000 miles on the odometer, had served him well since he’d acquired it from a used car dealer who owed Mr. Abellard a favor. Claude found it a comfortable ride, with ample room in the back for hauling, but the shitty two-toned paint job bugged him. He was due for a vehicular upgrade, and he intended to remind Mr. Abellard of that when the proper moment arose.
Claude couldn’t worry about that right now. He needed to get this phone call over with, and keep it brief. His left ankle still throbbed from the bad landing he’d taken on the sidewalk after his leap off the front porch, but it didn’t feel worse than a minor sprain.
What a fucked-up night. Claude almost couldn’t believe he’d been ordered to break into the girl’s apartment, but that’s what Mr. Abellard wanted. And Mr. Abellard got what he wanted.
It was a strange thing, being instructed to look for clues in a crime Claude himself had committed. Like a rabid dog sent out to track down his own scent. But what choice did he have?
It started out well enough. Claude had parked his wagon across from the apartment shortly after eleven. He patiently sat there for more than two hours, waiting for her next door neighbors to turn off their lights and go to bed.
When midnight passed with no sign of that happening, Claude made the calculated risk of breaking in while they were still awake. It turned out to be a good decision. The murmur of their television stifled the sound of him picking the lock. He was inside in less than a minute, leaving the door open just a small gap so he could exit the apartment with total silence after searching the place.
All smooth enough. A hell of a lot smoother than when he’d broken in the first time. Claude found it much simpler to unlawfully enter a person’s home without having to carry an inert body in a duffel bag on the way out.
Claude shook that image from his mind and dialed the number in Vacherie.
“You’re late,” he heard after the first ring. “Start talking.”
“I went through the whole place, the way you told me. Every room with a penlight. Desk, drawers, closet, cabinets, all of it.”
“And you saw nothing like we talked about? No sign of a break-in?”
“No. Everything looked, uh, normal. Just some chick’s pad.”
A short silence ensued, and Claude realized it probably wasn’t a great idea to refer to Marceline Lavalle in such a casual way. Not to Joseph Abellard. Not in light of recent events.
“I guess I gotta believe you, Claude.”
“I don’t see why you wouldn’t. Even if this was about the hospital, my neck’s stuck out a lot farther than yours.”
A lengthier silence met those words. Claude shrank into the driver’s seat. Silence from Joseph Abellard could inspire more dread than the most unhinged tirade, and he was a man capable of unleashing an apocalypse of verbal abuse when prompted.
“I’m glad you mentioned that,” Abellard said calmly. “Spares me the trouble. You are in this shit deeper than me. Deal turns sideways, who’s the first motherfucker going toes-up?”
“You’ve made that clear, Mr. Abellard. Many times.”
“Better hope it sunk in.”
Jangled by the threat, Claude almost opened his mouth to mention the dude who jumped him inside the apartment. That qualified as the most unexpected turn of the night, though he badly wanted to dismiss it as sheer coincidence. Why not? Random guy sees an open door and ducks in for something to steal. Either that or just another drunk on a Frenchman Street bender, too hammered to find his way home to the right address.
Wasn’t that possible? Claude wanted to believe it, so he kept his mouth shut.
“OK fine,” Abellard said gruffly. “It was worth a look. You didn’t find anything, tough shit. We got bigger priorities right now. Professor Bitch needs that new batch, pronto.”
“I don’t see how we can make that happen. Told you already—”
“Never heard her so wound up,” Abellard interrupted, “spouting some crazy noise about what’s goin’ down if we don’t deliver on schedule.”
“What do you want me to do?” Claude asked with a note of annoyance that he’d never let slip if speaking to his boss in person.
“I want you to stalk that motherfucker at the clinic tomorrow. Don’t let him leave until he knows our business is the only priority he needs to worry about.”
“I already talked to Roque, more than once. He gives me the same answer each time.”
“Sounds like talk ain’t getting it done.”
“Cash will. He wants a bigger bite, says his end’s worth twenty percent.”
“I don’t need to hear any of that, Claude. My deal got done months ago, nobody said shit about negotiation. All I want to know is you’re delivering the next batch, harvested and viable, by Tuesday morning. If you gotta lean on the fucking doc to make that happen, lean on him.”
“Why not meet him halfway? Offer ten and he’ll probably take it.”
“Fine, if it comes out of your cut. Split it up any damn way you want, long as he delivers.”
“Look, Roque’s the only source we got. He knows it. Goddamn maternity ward’s out.”
“And who’s fault is that?”
Claude silently cursed himself, unable to believe he’d just made the mistake of broaching that particular topic.
“Forget I mentioned it. Bottom line, Roque thinks he’s holding the cards. That’s the problem.”
“It’s your job to make him see the situation otherwise. Fail to do that, you fail to be of any use to me. And by now, Claude, I think you’ve pieced together a pretty clear picture of how I handle deadweight.”