33: Detective Sam Porter arrived in New Orleans at a little after ten, following a two-hour layover in Dallas, the only flight he could book same day. While in Dallas, he attempted to eat at a McDonald’s in the terminal, but his stomach was a mess. He couldn’t keep anything down.
From the New Orleans airport, Porter took a cab directly to the Orleans Parish Prison on Gravier Street. He told the driver to circle the prison until Porter spotted the chainlink-surrounded sidewalk and the sign from the photograph. There he asked the driver to stop and wait for him.
Porter got out of the cab and crossed the street, sweating in his heavy coat even at this late hour. He had never been outside of Chicago during the winter. The difference in temperature this far south was amazing. The air was thick, humid, filled with the distant stench of a city that felt used, abused, and hosed down nightly.
He approached a guard stationed near the gate. The man told him visiting hours started at nine and went until six, no exceptions. The warden would be in at seven. Take it up with him.
The guard didn’t recognize the woman in the photograph, but he did recognize the guard walking in front of her. “That’s Vince Weidner. He’s on days, gets in at eight.”
Porter thanked him and returned to the cab.
“You got someone in there?” the driver asked, and Porter pulled the door closed.
“Someone, yeah.”
“I spent my share in that place, probably be in there now if my cousin hadn’t hooked me up with this gig. Tough to make a living around here. The jobs pay just this side of shit, and all the tourists drive up the real estate. A regular joe can’t afford to live in the city on what you get. Got to live in one of the outer parishes and commute. Or you got to find a way to augment your income.”
“That how you ended up in there? Augmented income?”
The driver let out a chuckle. “My other cousin taught me the fine art of pickpocketing. He can separate just about any man from his wallet.”
“If he’s so good, how’d you get caught?”
“Didn’t say I was good at it. I think Cousin Mic may have left out a step or two during training. I got nabbed on my first attempt. Had my fingers in some man’s back pocket, he grabbed my wrist and snapped it. I yelled so loud, three cops came over to see what all the ruckus was about. I shouldn’t have picked such a big son a bitch for my first mark, but I figured he wouldn’t feel much with all that bulk in the way. I was very wrong.”
“How long did you get?”
The driver let out a sigh. “Three long weeks and a day. Time served by the time I made it to trial. That was enough for me, though. I got no interest in seeing the inside of that place again, no sir. My butt is perfectly happy right here in this seat. Speaking of which, where are we heading?”
Porter’s eyes were locked on the building. Beige stone, narrow windows. She was in there somewhere. “What can you tell me about the warden?”
“Not a damn thing. I got in there and kept my head down, didn’t speak to damn near anybody. I did my few weeks in my lonesome, washed the stink off when I got out. I saw the warden for all of two minutes when I first came in off the bus, and he didn’t speak a word, just watched the guards drive the fresh cattle into their stalls,” the driver said. “Hard-looking man, that one. Comes with the job, I suppose.” He looked at Porter in the rearview mirror. “Probably none of my business, but what’s your friend in there for?”
“Dunno.”
“Reason I ask is the minimum-security prisoners are housed in the other building at the east wing. We get a lot of drunk and disorderly around Orleans—most of the rides I take out here are to pick someone up who had one or ten too many the night before in the Quarter and ended up getting hauled off for a sobering night in the tombs. The east wing is on the other side of the prison. This here side is for the hardcore criminals. The ones who need a little more than a one-night scare to get them right with God. You gotta go into the right building, or you’ll waste an hour getting to the front of the line before you find out you’re in the wrong place,” he explained.
“She’s in this building.”
“Oh, well, that’s too bad.”
“Is there a hotel near here?” Porter asked.
“Shit, no place you’d wanna stay. Why don’t we head back to the strip and get you something nice on Bourbon.”
“I need someplace close.”
The man drew in a long breath. “Well, we got the Traveler’s Best up the block, but I didn’t even let my cousin stay there, and that was after he got me busted.”
“That’s fine,” Porter said.
The driver rolled his eyes and slipped the car into gear. “Your vacation, spend it the way you like. Fair warning, though—you throw beads from your balcony at someone in that part of town, and they’re likely to empty a .22 on you.”
The hotel was not in the best of neighborhoods. Only a few blocks from the prison, the squat pink building sat atop a parking garage, two stories of rooms beneath a large fluorescent sign that read TRAVELER’S BEST VALUE INN HOTEL—VACANCY. Half the lights were out, and two of the bulbs flickered from behind the dirty white plastic.
The driver slipped the cab into Park at the side of the building. “You sure about this?”
Porter was already halfway out the door. “They take cash, right?”
“You could probably trade a pack of Luckys and a bottle of Ripple for a room in that place. I’m sure they welcome cash.”
The meter read $51.23. Porter pulled three twenties from his wallet and handed them to the driver. “Keep it.”
They quickly disappeared in the man’s shirt pocket. “I’m Hershel Chrisman, by the way. You need a ride anywhere, you give me a ring and I’ll be right over, even here.” He nodded at the hotel, handing Porter a business card with his phone number printed in big block letters. “Walk through the parking lot along that concrete wall. The office is on the other side of the elevator, opposite end of the building. You change your mind and decide you want a room at the Hilton on Bourbon, you give me a ring. You want to see the sights, you give me a ring. Been here all my life, I know this town inside and out.” He lowered his voice. “If you can’t spring your lady friend, I know a few places where you can find yourself a brand-new lady friend. Just give me a ring.”
Porter nodded and slipped the card into his pants pocket. “Thanks for the ride, Hershel. Take care of yourself.”
The cab pulled away, and he found himself standing there alone, the distant sound of sirens and loud voices drifting in from the dark.
Porter followed the cinder-block wall through the parking garage, which reeked of rotting garbage, and found the office beyond the elevators. There was no door or friendly lobby, only a thick glass window stained and smeared with God knew what. A man in his late fifties, pudgy, with a balding gray head and black-rimmed glasses, watched Porter as he approached, first on a small computer monitor, then from the window.
Porter stepped up to the glass. “I’d like a room, please.”
The man licked at his cracked lips. There was something at the corner of his mouth. It looked like a crumb of Doritos, orange and moist. “I’ll need to see two forms of identification and a credit card.”
Porter pulled out his wallet. “No ID. I’m paying cash.”
The man shrugged. “Twenty-nine nighty-five per night, plus a hundred-dollar security deposit. We need to protect our valuables.”
Porter fished five twenties out of his wallet and shoved them through the small slot at the bottom of the window. “That’s a hundred bucks. If I decide to stay longer than three nights, I’ll be back.”
The manager scooped up the bills, hit the side of an ancient cash register with a balled-up fist to open the drawer, and slipped the bills inside. “What about the security deposit? Can’t have you walking off with our sheets or towels.”
“I recently redecorated, so I’m all set. No need to worry. I won’t even touch the minibar.”
The manager narrowed his eyes, studied Porter, then must have figured it wasn’t worth the fight. He slid a clipboard through the slot in the window. “Sign in, please.”
Porter scribbled Bob Seger on the next available line and passed the clipboard back to him.
The man studied the name, then pulled a key from a pegboard at his side and dropped it into the metal tray under the slot. “I’ve got you in our penthouse suite. It’s located on the east side of the building with a wonderful view of the city. Our continental breakfast can be found in the vending machines located at the end of each hall. Enjoy your stay.”
Porter reached for the key, not one of those credit card keys but an actual key on a plastic ring, with 203 stamped on it in faded black letters. He dropped it into his pocket, picked up his bag. “Thanks.”
The manager had returned to the security monitors. He waved a noncommittal hand at him, the fingertips orange from chip dust.
Porter walked past the elevators to the stairs, followed them to the second floor, and located 203. If he had any neighbors, he couldn’t tell. All the windows appeared dark.
He fumbled with the lock a bit to get the key to turn. When it did, he pushed the open, stepped inside, and flicked on the light.
A queen-size bed stood at the center, with a scratched light-oak dresser on the opposite wall. There was a sign beside the television remote that read FREE HBO! but there was no television—only an empty space where one once sat, evidenced only by the scuff in the wood. A faded brown stain took up much of the floor. There was no discernible pattern to it. Someone had tried to scrub the green Berber with some kind of cleanser and only made it worse. A scratched desk and chair filled the far corner.
The room had a bathroom, but Porter couldn’t bring himself to take a look. He’d build up to that. Instead, he dropped his bag onto the bed and crossed the room to the window. He pulled back the thick curtain. The lights of the prison were visible in the distance, thin, slotted windows lit up randomly at this late hour.