29

Okay, the way Wayne saw it, things had gone to hell in a handbasket. He had to consult with Mr. F, and quick.

Here it was. Cindy Lou, the tall drunk in Roberts’s room, was onto the subliminals in her room, ratting out to the woman reporter in 1801 about ’em. Big Gloria was sniffing around his bod, which was good, but jawing all the while about cameras, which wasn’t. There was the missing equipment—plus that tape of Mr. F’s favorite girl waltzing down the runway. That was the biggie. Plus that other special tape he’d made for Mr. F’s own personal viewing pleasure. And Little Dougie was busting his chops, never easing up, giving him no breathing room. Pushing pushing pushing like those little dudes always—no, he couldn’t say that, Mr. F wasn’t so tall himself. And now, now, this was the last straw, that reporter woman’s boyfriend and this gigantico jigaboo come sniffing around about Kurt Roberts. Leaning on him real heavy, like they really knew something.

They’d snuck up on him in Action Central, tapping on the door politely, pretending they were cops.

*

“Detective Leonard, Major Crime Squad, Northfield Barracks,” the big jig said, flashing a badge that looked like he’d bought it in a FrankFair toy department.

Wayne was close. Actually, the badge was part of one of Lavert’s Carnival costumes, the one where he dressed up as Black Bart who used to recite poetry while he was robbing stagecoaches out West. Bart wasn’t really black, but nobody in New Orleans knew that. Or cared.

“Detective Dutch.” That was the curly-headed reporter’s boyfriend, saying that was his name. Which it wasn’t.

Wayne called him on it. He said, “You think I don’t know who you are? You’re staying in 1801, asshole.”

“Which means?” The boyfriend bit down on his words real hard and narrowed his eyes like smoke was curling into them. Like Robert Mitchum in that detective movie Wayne had rented a couple of months ago. Like he thought he was cool.

“Which means you ain’t no cop.”

“Why does the fact that I am staying in this hotel mean I’m not a cop?”

Well, Wayne wasn’t exactly sure. But it didn’t seem like a cop would be staying in a suite with a reporter.

“We have reason to believe that you have some information about the disappearance of one Kurt Roberts,” the big jig said, holding out a notebook.

In it, Lavert had started scribbling possible menus for the lunch he was going to cook for Michelangelo et al on Sunday. He was thinking about quail and polenta. He was thinking about a veal stew. He was also thinking about surprising Ma completely and doing an old-fashioned red sauce Italian that would beat the socks off Ma’s mom’s cooking, and he’d heard Angelina Amato was no slouch in that department.

“Yeah?” said Wayne. “I don’t even know no Kurt Roberts.”

“The gentleman staying in 1803? I myself saw you coming out of his room Tuesday afternoon.” That was the boyfriend—who either was or wasn’t a cop. Who was choosing not to mention that was also the afternoon Wayne had laid into him pretty good.

Wayne said, “Yeah? Well, you know, security’s my job.”

“Indeed,” said the jig. “Could you explain to us exactly what it was you were doing, securitywise that is, in Mr. Roberts’s room?”

“Securitywise, I was checking on the locks.”

“Really? That’s part of your duties, here in operations, to check on guests’ locks?” The jig looked like he didn’t believe him.

“Yeah. He said he was having trouble with ’em.”

“And you fixed the problem,” said the boyfriend.

“Yeah.”

“Did you notice anything unusual at the time?”

“What do you mean, unusual?”

“Oh, you know—” said the boyfriend.

And then the jig finished for him. “Puddles of blood where you did him when he surprised you lifting his room.”

“Fuck you, Jack.”

Lavert didn’t even think about it. He just pulled back his right fist, then laid it across Wayne’s jaw. That was roughly the equivalent of getting smacked by one of the cinder blocks that held up the boards that supported Lavert’s considerable library back home in the French Quarter.

If Lavert had thought about it, he would have broken Wayne’s jaw. As it was, Wayne was sprawled on the floor, out cold.

“That one’s for you, bro,” he said to Harry as they let themselves out.

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“No, I mean, I wanted to do it myself.”

At that, Lavert stopped dead in the hall. “We can go back. You can stomp on his ribs for a while.”

“Nawh. I’ll take a rain check.”

*

Wayne didn’t know any of that last part, of course. He didn’t know anything past when he said Jack.

What he did know, now, was that ice helped the pain. He was using equal parts on his jaw and in his Scotch.

And what he thought was that this business was getting to him—even if they weren’t cops. Making him think he ought to ask Mr. F if it wouldn’t be the best thing if maybe he walked away, which he’d always been so good at doing, till this thing was over, till after Sunday anyway. Then they’d all be pulling out faster than the Miss America Special, and things would quiet down again. He could just go back to maintaining surveillance on the high rollers in their rooms. Wayne knocked back the last of the Scotch.

Yep, he was going to tell Mr. F everything, Take it to the Lord in prayer, as his friend Thelma Thirty used to say when she had a snootful. Lay out to Mr. F his failings and transgressions and fears, the ones that woke Wayne up, night sweats in the small hours, ask for his forgiveness and his advice. Hoping he’d say something in that way he had, like, Look on the bright side. Everything’s coming up roses. No use crying in your beer. Mr. F had the most original way of talking. It gave you a whole new perspective on life.

If only he could get past Mr. F’s assistant—and he didn’t mean Dougie this time.

There was this new girl who’d popped up at the executive reception desk. Young and juicy but prissy, too—kind of like one of those Miss America girls. Like I’m the cutest little thing you’ve ever seen and I’ve got tatas out to East Jesus, but if you touch me I’ll scream and sic the cops on you.

Her name was Crystal.

Wayne had walked over to Mr. F’s office while he worked all this out, and now there was Crystal sitting at reception. With hair so black it looked like it’d leave a mark on your hand if you touched it. Hair twisted up on top of her head. She was wearing a black dress with a collar that came up to the very tippy-tip of her chin, but the bottom of the dress, well, if it was any shorter, you’d see France.

“Mr. Franken’s in a meeting,” she said.

“So, tell him I’m here and it’s an emergency.” It really hurt his mouth to talk.

“Your name?”

Like he hadn’t told her at least a dozen times. Was she stupid, or had she been taking lessons from Dougie? Maybe she was Dougie’s girlfriend. She was about the right size, and she’d popped in right after he did.

So he asked her. He said, You Dougie’s squeeze?

She looked at him like he’d asked her if she picked her nose or chewed her toenails. But she didn’t answer his question. Instead, she said, “Mr. Franken is not to be disturbed.”

“Says who?”

“Says he. And I say I can smell booze on you, and you know that is strictly against the rules—drinking on duty. The Gambling Commission is very strict about these matters.”

What he’d like to do right now was pop her one across the mouth. Instead he said, “And I guess you’re going to narc on me to Mr. F.”

“I didn’t say that. Excuse me.” She turned to a buzzer that she seemed to think was calling her name. Ummm-humh. Ummmm-humh. Then she said to Wayne, “Mr. Franken is going to be busy for the rest of the day. Top-level meeting. You can wait if you want to, but you’ll be wasting your time.”

Oh.

So there Wayne was now, stomping around out on the sidewalk that ran back from the Boardwalk between the Monopoly and the Convention Hall. Some fresh air might help him figure out his next move. Maybe he ought to just walk anyway, call Mr. F from a Motel 6 somewhere, tell him things were too weird—

“Hey, Wayne. Man, you know, that number we did? Funny thing, I got another guy’s interested in it, too.”

What? It was Dean, the guy from the equipment van. The one who’d tapped into the Miss America show for Mr. F. But he wasn’t supposed to tell anybody else about it. Wasn’t that why Wayne gave him the $300?

He said that to Dean, but Dean said, Hey, it was cool. This other guy was connected. Didn’t talk to nobody. Dean gave Wayne a big wink.

Connected to what, Wayne asked.

Like, connected, man. Hey, what happened to your face? Somebody pop you?

Wayne looked all around, then said the words out of the corner of his mouth, what he thought Dean meant. Connected to the—you know?

Shhhhhhh. Never say that aloud.

So, the guy paid you a lot?

Dean nodded.

So why? So what did he want the show for? So maybe he had some special interest, like Mr. F. Wouldn’t that be something? So, so, so, he was starting to sound like Dougie.

Dean put a finger to his lips. You never ask, he said.

Well, like, would he, huh? There might be something in this. Like something Wayne could offer up to Mr. F that would make him be not so mad at him about losing the equipment and the tapes. Not that he lost them, but they were in Action Central, which was his responsibility.

Dean said he didn’t know. It’d be tricky to ask any questions, considering.

Wayne reached in his pocket and found a Franklin. That was one thing about working for Mr. F. No problem with cash flow.

Dean said it’d be a reach, but he’d see what he could do.