New Orleans was hot The office sucked in heat Guy sat behind his desk and peeled sweat off his forehead with a switchblade.
Pete kept drifting back to Barb. He couldn’t hold a non-Barb line of thought for more than six seconds.
The phone rang. Banister dug through desk debris and caught it.
“Yeah?… Yeah, he’s here. Hold on a second.”
Pete stood up and snagged the phone off the desk. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Fred. And don’t you fucking lose your temper for what I’m gonna tell you.”
“You just calm down, then.”
“You can’t calm down when you got a fucking concussion. You can’t calm down–”
Pete walked the phone to the far end of the office. The cord stretched taut.
“Calm down, Freddy. Just tell me what happened.”
Freddy caught his breath. “Okay. Kemper Boyd called the post this morning. He said he was looking for you, but I knew he was lying. Now, he came by–in person–an hour ago. He knocked on the door looking like a crazy man. I didn’t let him in, and I saw him practically knock down an old lady and get into this cab she was getting out of.”
The phone cord almost snapped. Pete stepped back and cut it some slack.
“And that’s it?”
“Fuck no!”
“Freddy, what are you say–”
“I’m saying Lenny Sands came by a few minutes later. I let him in because I figured he knew what Boyd was up to. He brained me with a chair and sacked the place. He stole all the tapes and written transcripts and took off. I woke up after, shit–I don’t know, half an hour. I went by the Carlyle and saw, all these police cars out front. Pete, Pete, Pete–”
His legs dipped. The wall caught him.
“Pete, it was Lenny. He kicked the door in and trashed the Kennedy suite. He pulled out the microphones, and fucking escaped out a fire door. Pete, Pete, Pete–
“Pete, we’re fucked–
“Pete, it had to be Lenny–
“Pete, I wiped down the post and moved out all my equipment and–”
The connection died–Pete twitched and jerked the cord out of the wall.
o o o
Boyd knew he was in New Orleans. Boyd would catch the first available flight down.
The gig was burned. Boyd and Lenny collided and fucked things up somehow.
The Feds knew by now. The Secret Service knew. Boyd couldn’t go to Bobby to explain–his Mob ties compromised him.
Boyd would come here. Boyd knew he was staying at the hotel across the street
Pete sipped bourbon and played every Twist song on the jukebox. A waitress swooped by with regular refills.
A cab would pull up. Boyd would get out. He’d intimidate the desk clerk and gain entrance to room 614.
Boyd would find a note. He’d obey the instructions. He’d carry the tape recorder over here to his booth at Ray Becker’s Tropics.
Pete watched the door. Every Twist tune brought Barb back that much stronger.
He called her in L.A. two hours ago. He told her the gig was blown. He told her to drive down to Ensenada and hole up at the Playa Rosada.
She said she’d do it. She said, “We’re still on, aren’t we?”
He said, “Yes.”
The bar was hot. New Orleans held the patent on heat. Thunderstorms hit and burned themselves out before you could blink.
Boyd walked in. Pete screwed a silencer to his magnum and placed it on the seat next to him.
Boyd was carrying the tape recorder in a suitcase. He had a .45 automatic pressed to his leg.
He walked up. He sat down across from Pete and put the suitcase on the floor.
Pete pointed to it. “Take the machine out. It’s running on batteries, and there’s a tape looped in already, so all you have to do is turn it on.”
Boyd shook his head. “Put the gun in your lap on the table.”
Pete did it. Boyd said, “Now unload it.”
Pete did it Boyd popped the clip out of his piece and wrapped both guns in the tablecloth.
He looked soiled and haggard. The ungroomed Kemper Boyd–a true first.
Pete slipped a .38 snub-nose out of his waistband. “It’s compartmentalized, Kemper. It’s got nothing to do with our other gigs.”