Free House of the Rising Sun by Chuck Hustmyre Page B

was the geek with the laptop—what kind of man dyes his hair orange and eats granola biscuits?—but after only a few seconds inside this joint, Ray was already angry. “Cut the cloak-and-dagger bullshit, Jimmy. You weren’t worried about being followed back in the day when you were stuffing Vinnie’s envelopes into your pocket.”
    LaGrange’s eyes popped open. He leaned across the table and spoke in a harsh whisper. “Hold your goddamn voice down. I don’t do that anymore. I told you I got a new wife anda new . . .” His eyes darted around the yuppie coffee shop once more, then focused on Ray. “That stuff’s over.” LaGrange made a short cutting motion with his hand. “Finished.”
    Ray wanted to ask his old partner how, if he really was clean, he could afford a new family while he was still paying for his old one—an ex-wife and two kids. But he didn’t ask. He needed LaGrange’s help. “What did you find out?”
    A waitress came by, a big smile plastered on her face. She interrupted them and introduced herself as Brandy and said she would be their
server
. She was cute, Ray thought, in a wholesome, well-scrubbed, perky sort of way. He figured she had to be a college student. Real people weren’t that happy. He ordered the closest thing they had to black coffee. LaGrange ordered an espresso and a bran muffin.
    â€œA bran muffin?” Ray asked after the waitress left.
    â€œMy cholesterol,” LaGrange said. He looked embarrassed.
    A few minutes later the perky waitress brought their order.
    When they were alone again, LaGrange leaned back, looking a little more relaxed now that he had his espresso and bran muffin. “You’re lucky, you know that?” he said.
    Ray didn’t feel lucky. “Why?”
    â€œThis case is on the fast track.”
    Ray raised his eyebrows. “How come?”
    â€œLandry’s on it.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou know how he is,” LaGrange said. “He’s got it in for the Messina family. My guess is he wants to spin this off into another investigation of dirty cops.”
    â€œHe told me he isn’t with PIB anymore.”
    LaGrange looked surprised. “You talked to him?”
    â€œSort of,” Ray said. “He slugged me.”
    The detective sat up. “He did what?”
    â€œI mentioned his dad.”
    LaGrange nodded. “Then I’m not surprised. Even as muchof a tight-ass as Landry is, he goes ape-shit if anybody brings up his old man.”
    â€œScrew Landry.”
    LaGrange drummed his fingers on the table. “How’s his dad doing?”
    Ray took a sip of coffee. It tasted like warm shit. “He got sick about a year before I got out. They transferred him to the medical prison at Springfield. I haven’t heard from him since.”
    â€œCancer?”
    Ray nodded. “In his colon.”
    LaGrange looked down at his cup, quiet for a few seconds. “When the indictments came out and you guys got arrested, I was sick to my stomach, too. I mean really sick, vomiting every thirty minutes. But what was I supposed to do, turn myself in? Go tell the feds, hey you forgot about me?”
    â€œWe’ve all got to live with our choices, Jimmy.”
    Neither one said anything for a while. LaGrange took a bite of his muffin to fill the silence. When he finished chewing, he said, “Everything about this case is getting pushed through really fast: follow-up reports, lab results, IBIS—”
    â€œWhat’s IBIS,” Ray asked, pronouncing it
Eye-Bis
, like LaGrange had.
    LaGrange exhaled sharply. “You have been away a long time.”
    â€œI was in prison.” Ray said. “Which is exactly where you would have been if you hadn’t punched that drunk in the back of the head on Bourbon Street.”
    For Detective Jimmy LaGrange, it must have been like winning the lottery, only better. Through pure dumb