Youre crazy. Id never go to him for help. Never! Not if I was penniless, or
A shot rang out.
Suddenly Margo was lifted half off her feet as Blu dragged her to the end of the pier. Then, they were jumpingjumping into the murky depths of the Mississippi River while gunshots exploded around them.
If youre there, God, get your scrawny backside out here. Ry craned his neck and scanned the dark alley in the French Quarter. In an attempt to escape the late-night rain, homeless bodies were huddled together on both sides of Pirates Alley, their damp, unclean clothes giving off a ripe stench.
No one made an
attempt to move or speak when Ry called out once more. Disappointed, he turned to leave, deciding that his snitch, Goddard Reese, had bedded down elsewhere for the night. Two steps into his departure a familiar voice brought him up short. Just cause I aint got no address dont mean I sleep denned up like a pack of rats.
God stepped from an alcove and into the rain. The minute he vacated the sheltered doorway, two ragged bodies leaped to their feet to crowd into the dry space.
Their intent clear, Goddard pulled his precious piece of cardboard from the doorway and tucked it beneath his arm. Doan like sharin, neither, he grumbled, guarding his dry bed like a selfish child would his favorite toy. You just get back from Algiers?
Ry motioned to the dry alcove. Thats a prime spot. Choice accommodations like that usually require an early stakeout. If thats the case, and youve been here half the day waiting for sour weather, how do you know Ive been across the river?
Goddard grinned. If I tell you all my secrets, Superman, you wouldnt need me anymore. Ive grown partial to eatin regularly.
Ry assessed Goddards emaciated body. The man wasnt fifty years old, but his hunched shoulders and white hair easily added twenty years to his appearance. His cheeks were paper thin, his storm-cloud-gray eyes too small for his oversize, sunken sockets. It was true he ate at least once a daythanks to Rystill, the best snitch in New Orleans didnt weigh a hundred pounds.
Talk is, one of yours aint gonna get up with the sun tomorrow, Superman. Anybody I know?
You tell me. Youre the one with ears in every corner of the city. Ry ignored the rain and settled his shoulder against the brick building. He was already soaked to the bone, his jeans hugging his lean hips, his shirt outlining his broad shoulders.
Hed spent the past three hours on DuBay Pier investigating the death of a fellow officer along with a crime lab technician, the coroner, plus a pile of uniformed patrolmen who had no reason to be there beyond curiosity. In the end, what he had was a dead cop with a hellish surprise burned into his eyes on a riddled pier; that and blood in three separate locations which suggested multiple victims. Only, there had been only one body: Mickey Burelly, a rookie cop who had come to the NOPD less than a year ago.
I heard it was the suit they scraped off the pier, God said. That yammerin fool who liked to hear himself talk. The older man scratched at his chest, then dug deep into an armpit. Guess he wont be worryin about what color tie to wear tomorrow. Bet he wishes hedve been movin instead jawin, too.
How God knew what he knew always amazed Ry. But the point was, Goddard Reese, one of the many homeless in the French Quarter, had connections in places most people didnt even know existed. And he was right about Mickey Burelly; the kid did have a fetish for expensive suits, and he did like to jaw, as God put it. Maybe thats why everyone had ignored him when the kid had started crowing in the locker room yesterday about some big case he was about to crack wide open. Talk, as they say, was cheap. Every cop fantasized about the case, the one that would land him a notable raise, along with a front-page spread in the New Orleans Times-Picayune. The officers at the Eighth District were no different.
Goddard pulled up the collar on his ragged jacket and curled into the brick wall to avoid the rain. If you ask me, that aint the suits styleholding a meeting in nasty weather. Hard on those expensive duds.
Was that what he was doing, meeting a snitch? Rys ears perked up. As far as he knew, Mickey didnt have any solid connections on the street. Because he liked to talk too much no one trusted him.
Dont know. Nobody I know worked for him. He was too stingy. He wore his money. Guess that didnt leave him any extra to work with.
Ry was always interested in Goddards gut reaction. Like cops, the homeless who survived the gritty streets of New Orleans did so by their wit and intuition. God had lived in and around the Quarter longer than Ry had been a cop. At age thirty-three, Ry was about to celebrate his tenth year with the NOPDthe last two had been spent in homicide. Valuing Gods street experience, he asked, So whats your take on it?
Could be turncoat. God peeled his stocking cap off his narrow head and scratched at the thin strands on top. Plenty of them around. More likely, some gutless wantin a piece of somebody elses action. Fools everywhere these days. They find out, too late, they dont have big enough balls, and then you go to work scrapin um off a lonely pier in the middle of the night.