“No. Thank you. I can handle it. I’m burying Mama tomorrow. I’ll be back in Philadelphia on Monday.”
When she hung up, she lay on the hotel bed, her thoughts unfocused. She counted the stained acoustical tiles on the ceiling. One…two…three…Romano…four…five…Joe Romano…six…seven…he was going to pay. She had no plan. She knew only that she was not going to let Joe Romano get away with what he had done, that she would find some way to avenge her mother.
Tracy left her hotel in the late afternoon and walked along Canal Street until she came to a pawn shop. A cadaverous-looking man wearing an old-fashioned green eyeshade sat in a cage behind a counter.
“Help you?”
“I—I want to buy a gun.”
“What kind of gun?”
“You know…a…revolver.”
“You want a thirty-two, a forty-five, a—”
Tracy had never even held a gun. “A—a thirty-two will do.”
“I have a nice thirty-two caliber Smith and Wesson here for two hundred twenty-nine dollars, or a Charter Arms thirty-two for a hundred fifty-nine…”
She had not brought much cash with her. “Have you got something cheaper?”
He shrugged. “Cheaper is a slingshot, lady. Tell you what. I’ll let you have the thirty-two for a hundred fifty, and I’ll throw in a box of bullets.”
“All right.” Tracy watched as he moved over to an arsenal on a table behind him and selected a revolver. He brought it to the counter. “You know how to use it?”
“You—you pull the trigger.”
He grunted. “Do you want me to show you how to load it?”
She started to say no, that she was not going to use it, that she just wanted to frighten someone, but she realized how foolish that would sound. “Yes, please.”
Tracy watched as he inserted the bullets into the chamber. “Thank you.” She reached in her purse and counted out the money.
“I’ll need your name and address for the police records.”
That had not occurred to Tracy. Threatening Joe Romano with a gun was a criminal act. But he’s the criminal, not I.
The green eyeshade made the man’s eyes a pale yellow as he watched her. “Name?”
“Smith. Joan Smith.”
He made a note on a card. “Address?”
“Dowman Road. Thirty-twenty Dowman Road.”
Without looking up he said, “There is no Thirty-twenty Dowman Road. That would be in the middle of the river. We’ll make it Fifty-twenty.” He pushed the receipt in front of her.
She signed JOAN SMITH. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.” He carefully pushed the revolver through the cage. Tracy stared at it, then picked it up, put it in her purse, turned and hurried out of the shop.
“Hey, lady,” he yelled after her. “Don’t forget that gun is loaded!”
Jackson Square is in the heart of the French Quarter, with the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral towering over it like a benediction. Lovely old homes and estates in the square are sheltered from the bustling street traffic by tall hedges and graceful magnolia trees. Joe Romano lived in one of those houses.
Tracy waited until dark before she set out. The parades had moved on to Chartres Street, and in the distance Tracy could hear an echo of the pandemonium she had been swept up in earlier.
She stood in the shadows, studying the house, conscious of the heavy weight of the gun in her purse. The plan she had worked out was simple. She was going to reason with Joe Romano, ask him to clear her mother’s name. If he refused, she would threaten him with the gun and force him to write out a confession. She would take it to Lieutenant Miller, and he would arrest Romano, and her mother’s name would be protected. She wished desperately that Charles were there with her, but it was best to do it alone. Charles had to be left out of it. She would tell him about it when it was all over and Joe Romano was behind bars, where he belonged. A pedestrian was approaching. Tracy waited until he had walked past and the street was deserted.
She walked up to the house and pressed the doorbell. There was no answer. He’s probably at one of the private krewes balls given during Mardi Gras. But I can wait, Tracy thought. I can wait until he gets home. Suddenly, the porch light snapped on, the front door opened, and a man stood in the doorway. His appearance was a surprise to Tracy. She had envisioned a sinister-looking mobster, evil written all over his face. Instead, she found herself facing an attractive, pleasant-looking man who could easily have been mistaken for a university professor. His voice was low and friendly. “Hello. May I help you?”