If Tommorrow Comes Part 16

"You must be outta your mind, woman. I ain't gonna f.u.c.k around with no Perry Pope. That dude'll come down on my a.s.s so hard I'll never see daylight again."

"You don't gotta worry about him. He won't never be botherin' no one again."

They were naked on the water bed in Ernestine's apartment.

"What you gettin' out of this deal, anyway, honey" Al demanded.

"He's a p.r.i.c.k."

"Hey, baby, the world's full of p.r.i.c.ks, but you don't spend your life goin' around cuttin' off their b.a.l.l.s."

"All right. I'm doin' it for a friend."

"Tracy?"

"That's right."

Al liked Tracy. They had all had dinner together the day she got out of prison.

"She's a cla.s.sy dame," Al admitted. "But why we stickin' our necks out for her?"

"Because if we don't he'p her, she's gonna have to settle for someone who ain't half as good as you, and if she gets caught, they'll cart her a.s.s right back to the joint."

Al sat up in bed and looked at Ernestine curiously. "Does it mean that much to you, baby?"

"Yeah, hon."

She would never be able to make him understand it, but the truth was simply that Ernestine could not stand the thought of Tracy back in prison at the mercy of Big Bertha. It was not only Tracy whom Ernestine was concerned about: It was herself. She had made herself Tracy's protector, and if Big Bertha got her hands on her, it would be a defeat for Ernestine.

So all she said now was, "Yeah. It means a lot to me, honey. You gonna, do it?"

"I d.a.m.n sure can't do it alone," Al grumbled.

And Ernestine knew she had won. She started nibbling her way down his long, lean body. And she murmured, "Wasn't ole Ralph due to be released a few days ago...?"

It was 6:30 before the two men returned to Andre's kitchen, grimy with sweat and dust.

"Is it fixed?" Andre asked anxiously.

"It was a real b.i.t.c.h," Al informed him. "You see, what you got here is a condenser with an AC/DC cutoff that---"

"Never mind that," Andre interrupted impatiently. "Did you fix it?"

"Yeah. It's all set. In five minutes we'll have it goin' again as good as new."

"Formidable! If you'll just leave your bill on the kitchen table---"

Ralph shook his head. "Don't worry about it. The company'll bill you."

"Bless you both. Au 'voir."

Andre watched the two men leave by the back door, carrying their canvas bags. Out of his sight, they walked around to the yard and opened the casing that housed the outside condenser of the air-conditioning unit. Ralph held the flashlight while Al reconnected the wires he had loosened a couple hours earlier. The air-conditioning unit immediately sprang into life.

Al copied down the telephone number on the service tag attached to the condenser. When he telephoned the number a short time later and reached the recorded voice of the Eskimo Air-Conditioning Company, Al said, "This is Perry Pope's residence at Forty-two Charles Street. Our air-conditioning is workin' fine now. Don't bother to send anyone. Have a nice day."

The weekly Friday-night poker game at Perry Pope's house was an event to which all the players eagerly looked forward. It was always the same carefully selected group: Anthony Orsatti, Joe Romano, Judge Henry Lawrence, an alderman, a state senator, and of course their host. The stakes were high, the food was great, and the company was raw power.

Perry Pope was in his bedroom changing into white silk slacks and matching sport s.h.i.+rt. He hummed happily, thinking of the evening ahead. He had been on a winning streak lately. In fact, my whole life is just one big winning streak, he thought.

If anyone needed a legal favor in New Orleans, Perry Pope was the attorney to see. His power came from his connections with the Orsatti Family. He was known as The Arranger, and could fix anything from a traffic ticket to a drug-dealing charge to a murder rap. Life was good.

When Anthony Orsatti arrived, he brought a guest with him. "Joe Romano won't be playin' anymore," Orsatti announced. "You all know Inspector Newhouse."

The men shook hands all around.

"Drinks are on the sideboard, gentlemen," Perry Pope said.

"We'll have supper later. Why don't we start a little action going?"

The men took their accustomed chairs around the green felt table in the den. Orsatti pointed to Joe Romano's vacant chair and said to Inspector Newhouse, "That'll be your seat from now on, Mel."

While one of the men opened fresh decks of cards, Pope began distributing poker chips. He explained to Inspector Newhouse, "The black chips are five dollars, red chips ten dollars, blue chips fifty dollars, white chips a hundred. Each man starts out buying five hundred dollars' worth of chips. We play table stakes, three raises, dealer's choice."

"Sounds good to me," the inspector said.

Anthony Orsatti was in a bad mood. "Come on. Let's get started." His voice was a strangled whisper. Not a good sign.

Perry Pope would have given a great deal to learn what had happened to Joe Romano, but the lawyer knew better than to bring up the subject. Orsatti would discuss it with him when he was ready.

Orsatti's thoughts were black: I been like a father to Joe Romano. I trusted him, made him my chief lieutenant. And the son of a b.i.t.c.h stabbed me in the back. If that dizzy French dame hadn't telephoned, he might have gotten away with it, too. Well, he won't ever get away with nothin' again. Not where he is. If he's so clever, let him f.u.c.k around with the fish down there.

"Tony, are you in or out?"

Anthony Orsatti turned his attention back to the game. Huge sums of money had been won and lost at this table. It always upset Anthony Orsatti to lose, and it had nothing to do with money. He could not bear to be on the losing end of anything. He thought of himself as a natural-born winner. Only winners rose to his position in fife. For the last six weeks, Perry Pope had been on some kind of crazy winning streak, and tonight Anthony Orsatti was determined to break it.

Since they played dealer's choice, each dealer chose the game in which he felt the strongest. Hands were dealt for five-card stud, seven-card stud, low ball, draw poker--- but tonight, no matter which game was chosen, Anthony Orsatti kept finding himself on the losing end. He began to increase his bets, playing recklessly, trying to recoup his losses. By midnight when they stopped to have the meal Andre had prepared, Orsatti was out $50,000, with Perry Pope the big winner.

The food was delicious. Usually Orsatti enjoyed the free midnight snack, but this evening he was impatient to get back to the table.

"You're not eating, Tony," Perry Pope said.

"I'm not hungry." Orsatti reached for the silver coffee urn at his side, poured coffee into a Victoria-patterned Herend-china cup, and sat down at the poker table. He watched the others eat and wished they would hurry. He was impatient to win his money back. As he started to stir his coffee, a small particle fell into his cup. Distastefully, Orsatti removed the particle with a spoon and examined it. It appeared to be a piece of plaster. He looked up at the ceiling, and something hit him on the forehead. He suddenly became aware of a scurrying noise overhead.

"What the h.e.l.l's goin' on upstairs?" Anthony Orsatti asked.

Perry Pope was in the middle of telling an anecdote to Inspector Newhouse. "I'm sorry, what did you say, Tony?"

The scurrying noise was more noticeable now. Bits of plaster began to trickle onto the green felt.

"It sounds to me like you have mice," the senator said.

"Not in this house." Perry Pope was indignant.

"Well, you sure as h.e.l.l got somethin'," Orsatti growled. A larger piece of plaster fell on the green felt table.

"I'll have Andre take care of it," Pope said. "If we're finished eating, why don't we get back to the game?"

Anthony Orsatti was staring up at a small hole in the ceiling directly above his head. "Hold it. Let's go take a look up there."

"What for, Tony? Andre can---"

Orsatti had already risen and started for the stairway. The others looked at one another, then hurried after him.

"A squirrel probably got into the attic," Perry Pope guessed. "This time of year they're all over the place: Probably hiding his nuts for the winter." He laughed at his little joke.

When they reached the door to the attic, Orsatti pushed it open, and Perry Pope turned on the light. They caught a glimpse of two white hamsters frantically racing around the room.

"Jesus!" Perry Pope said. "I've got rats!"

Anthony Orsatti was not listening. He was staring at the room. In the middle of the attic was a camp chair with a packet of sandwiches on top of it and two open cans of beer. On the floor next to the chair was a pair of binoculars.

Orsatti walked over to them, picked up the objects one by one, and examined them. Then he got down on his knees on the dusty floor and moved the tiny wooden cylinder that concealed a peephole that had been drilled into the ceiling. Orsatti put his eye to the peephole. Directly beneath him the card table was clearly visible.

Perry Pope was standing in the middle of the attic, dumbfounded. "Who the h.e.l.l put all this junk up here? I'm going to raise h.e.l.l with Andre about this."

Orsatti rose slowly to his feet and brushed the dust from his trousers.

Perry Pope glanced down at the floor. "Look!" he exclaimed. "They left a G.o.dd.a.m.ned hole in the ceiling. Workmen today aren't worth a s.h.i.+t."

He crouched down and took a look through the hole, and his face suddenly lost its color. He stood up and looked around, wildly, to find all the men staring at him.

"Hey!" Perry Pope said. "You don't think I---? Come on, fellas, this is me. I don't know anything about this. I wouldn't cheat you. My G.o.d, we're friends!" His hand flew to his mouth, and he began biting furiously at his cuticles.

Orsatti patted him on the arm. "Don't worry about it." His voice was almost inaudible.

Perry Pope kept gnawing desperately at the raw flesh of his right thumb.

Chapter 14.

"That's two down, Tracy," Ernestine Littlechap chortled. "The word on the street is that your lawyer friend Perry Pope ain't practicin' law no more. He had a real bad accident."

They were having cafe au lait and beignets at a small sidewalk cafe off Royal Street.

Ernestine gave a high giggle. "You got a brain, girl. You wouldn't like to go into business with me, would you?"

"Thanks, Ernestine. I have other plans."

Ernestine asked eagerly, "Who's next?"

"Lawrence. Judge Henry Lawrence."

Henry Lawrence had begun his career as a small-town lawyer in Leesville, Louisiana. He had very little apt.i.tude for the law, but he had two very important attributes: He was impressive-looking, and he was morally flexible. His philosophy was that the law was a frail rod, meant to be bent to suit the needs of his clients. With that in mind, it was not surprising that shortly after he moved to New Orleans, Henry Lawrence's law practice began to flourish with a special group of clients. He went from handling misdemeanors and traffic accidents to handling felonies and capital crimes, and by the time he reached the big leagues, he was an expert at suborning juries, discrediting witnesses, and bribing anyone who could help his case. In short, he was Anthony Orsatti's kind of man, and it was inevitable that the paths of the two should cross. It was a marriage made in Mafia heaven. Lawrence became the mouthpiece for the Orsatti Family, and when the timing was right, Orsatti had him elevated to a judges.h.i.+p.

"I don't know how you kin nail the judge," Ernestine said. "He's rich an' powerful an' untouchable."

"He's rich and powerful," Tracy corrected her, "but he's not untouchable."

Tracy had worked out her plan, but when she telephoned Judge Lawrence's chambers, she knew, immediately, that she would have to change it.

"I'd like to speak to Judge Lawrence, please."

A secretary said, "I'm sorry, Judge Lawrence is not in."

"When do you expect him?" Tracy asked.

"I really couldn't say."

"It's very important. Will he be in tomorrow morning?"

"No. Judge Lawrence is out of town."

"Oh. Perhaps I can reach him somewhere?"

"I'm afraid that would be impossible. His Honor is out of the country."

Tracy carefully kept the disappointment from her voice. "I see. May I ask where?" .

"His Honor is in Europe, attending an international judiciary symposium."

"What a shame," Tracy said.

"Who's calling, please?"

Tracy's mind was racing. "This is Elizabeth Rowane Dastin, chairwoman of the southern division of the American Trial Lawyers' a.s.sociation. We're having our annual awards dinner in New Orleans on the twentieth of this month, and we've chosen Judge Henry Lawrence to be our man of the year."