Baby Face, page 17
part #2 of Bubba Mabry Series
Felicia answered with a brusque, automatic "Quattlebaum," like she was at the office rather than at home, probably still in bed, sleeping late like Sultan Sweeney.
"How would you like a big story?"
"Bubba?"
"Yeah, it's me. You want to be on the front page tomorrow?"
"With what?"
"I know who killed the hookers."
"Oh boy. Are you sure?"
"I'll be right over. Pick you up on the street."
My pulse pounded in my ears while I raced through traffic to Felicia's place. She waited at the curb, looking thrown together in T-shirt and jeans. She had a camera bag slung over her shoulder. I drove past her, did a U-turn, stopped with the passenger door dead in front of her.
She flung open the door and threw in her camera bag.
"The back," I snapped. "Get in the back."
"Why?"
"We've got to pick up Sultan Sweeney next."
"Why don't we do this ourselves?"
"He's the client. Get in the back."
She scowled, but huffed her way into the cluttered backseat.
"If you use that thing," I said, pointing at the camera bag, "make sure you don't get Sweeney in the picture."
"How come?"
"Afraid he'll insist on that. In fact, it might be better if you didn't take any photos until the police arrive."
"You're calling the police?"
"If we can find the guy. You should see him. He's big as a house. Let the cops handle him."
I sped away, explaining about Hughie over my shoulder, getting a good case of chauffeur's neck. I adjusted the mirror so I could see her while I talked. Her head was down in concentration as she rocked to the potholes. She was writing down everything I said. That made me stumble. Was this a good idea, bringing her along? I finished my point about the timing of the murders, and she looked up and met my eyes in the mirror. She grinned at me, her face flushed. Yeah, it was a good idea.
Only thirty minutes passed between the time I hung up the phone with Sultan Sweeney and the time we arrived at his house in Ridgecrest. Still, he was pacing on the porch when we got there, decked out in a loose-fitting, five-hundred-dollar suit and sipping from a china coffee cup.
Sultan set the cup on a table and sprang down the steps, graceful as a panther. He stopped short when he reached my side of the car and saw Felicia in the backseat.
"Who's dat?"
"Sultan Sweeney, meet Felicia Quattlebaum."
"Who?"
"She's a reporter with the Gazette."
"A reporter? What de hell you doin' to me, Bubba?"
"We owe her. I couldn't have solved this thing without her. Get in."
"I'm not ridin' with any reporter."
"She's, uh, also my girlfriend." God, it sounded silly.
Sultan leaned with his hands on my door. He glared at Felicia another few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders.
"Don't know why I'm objectin'," he said, the chill back in his voice. "We ain't gonna find Hughie anyhow. If he's not home, I don't know where to look for him."
"We'll find him. Get in." I was beginning to sound like John Wayne. My head pounded from the excitement and the arguing and all the rushing around. Sultan put that icy glare on me, but after a second he could see it wasn't having any effect and he turned it off and jogged around the car to the passenger door.
He gave me directions to Hughie's apartment, all the time looking around at the interior of the Chevy, with its tattered upholstery and its sunburned dash.
"Don't let anyone see me in dis car."
"What's the matter with this car?" Felicia demanded from the backseat.
He turned in his seat to look at her. "You got a mouth on you, too. Looks like you found a perfect match, Bubba."
Felicia made a sound like a growl in her throat.
"You two just cool it," I said. "I'm trying to pay attention to the road. I don't need to hear a lot of are-we-there-yet."
I wheeled the Chevy onto Hughie's street. He lived on the second floor of a typical Albuquerque low-rent apartment house, a concrete cube with iron balconies across the front. I parked and turned to Sultan Sweeney.
"Why don't you go knock on his door. Just see if he's home. Tell him you need him to work today, something like that."
"He's off on Mondays."
"Tell him to meet you later. Make something up. Then just hurry back down here and we'll call the cops."
"I don't want any cops. I want to talk to Hughie."
"Just go knock on the freaking door. If he's still not home, none of this matters."
Sultan shrugged, slipped out of the car. Felicia slid across the backseat behind me, and I could feel her breath on my neck as we watched Sultan glide up the stairs. He knocked on an apartment door, waited, knocked again. Nothing.
"How do we know that's Hughie's apartment?" Felicia said to the back of my head. "How do we know he isn't scamming us?"
"You heard him. He wants to talk to Hughie, sort this thing out."
Sultan came back down the stairs.
"Look at him," she said. "He's too slick. He looks like a killer to me."
"Jesus. Don't start up with him, okay?"
"Okay, okay." She fell back in the seat with a huff.
Sultan climbed into the car. "What do we do now?"
"Where else might he be? Where does he eat breakfast? Where's he wash his clothes?"
"I told you. I don't know any of dat. He just works for me."
That slowed me up. "Think. He must've said something in the past. Anything."
"You know Hughie. He don't say much."
Felicia sighed loudly, like she'd known all along we'd end up stumped.
"Okay, look, he's probably around Central someplace," I said. "We'll go warn your girls to stay away from him, keep their doors locked, and we'll keep an eye out for his car."
Much grumbling all around, but nobody came up with a better idea, so we roared away toward the cheap motels of the Cruise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Our first stop was the Shifting Sands Motor Inn, a flat-roofed monstrosity that looked cockeyed, all its windows slightly off square, like it should've been called the Shifting Foundation Motor Inn.
Sultan Sweeney pointed me into a parking slot, said, "Wait here," and got out of the car. He pounded on a nearby door until it was opened by a woman I didn't know, a bosomy redhead in a bathrobe, her hair mussed and her eyelids heavy with sleep. She snapped to attention when she saw it was Sweeney, made gestures like she was inviting him in, then listened as he talked quickly. Only some of the words drifted as far as the car where I waited with Felicia.
"Oh yeah," she said, nudging the back of my seat with her foot, "this will be on the front page tomorrow. No question."
Without turning around, I said, "We can take you home if you like."
"Oh, no, I wouldn't miss this for the world. Riding around with a pimp, checking on his employees, before breakfast."
"Would you rather we didn't warn these girls? Today's Monday, Hughie's day off. He's got a whole day to get up a head of steam and go after another one.”
That shut her up. She scribbled a few notes, sighed some more. Sweeney returned to the car, a little excitement leaking through his cool exterior.
"She hasn't seen him."
"You told her to keep her door locked?"
"Yeah, yeah, let's go."
"Where to?"
"Over to de Paradise. Where de other girls are staying."
"All of them?"
Sultan let the silence lie heavy in the car. "Ain't dat many left."
It wasn't far to the Paradise Motel. Sultan explained on the way over that he'd persuaded all his girls—all but the redhead, who was a longtime resident of the Shifting Sands—to move to the Paradise after the killings started. So they could keep an eye on each other.
"Didn't work so well for Lorrie Quintana, did it?"
I couldn't help myself. If I'd known he'd put them all in one place, it would've saved me a lot of running around earlier. He should've told me.
Sultan jumped out of the car once we reached the Paradise and started his door-pounding routine. The hooker who calls herself Melody opened the first door, already dressed for work in hot pants and camisole. She glanced over at our car, but I resisted an urge to wave. I could feel Felicia's eyes on the back of my head. The less I had to explain later, the better.
Melody shook her head a couple of times, nodded, then closed her door. Sultan hurried down the sidewalk away from us, passing several doors before reaching the next one where one of his women waited. He raised his hand to knock, but the hand froze in midair. He cocked his head, listening, then dug into his pockets and came up with his keys.
"Uh-oh," Felicia said behind me.
"Looks like something's up," I agreed, and popped open the car door.
Always the southern gentleman, I held the seat forward while Felicia dragged the camera bag out of the back, but my eyes were on Sweeney. He fiddled with his keys, gently unlocked the door. Then he snaked a pistol out from under his coat and pushed the door open.
"Hey!" I shouted. "Sweeney! Wait!"
I ran around the car and down the sidewalk, fishing out my gun as I ran. Felicia's feet slapped behind me.
Before I reached the door I could hear what Sultan had heard. Howling. Hoarse bawling like a cow caught in a fence. A horrible sound that pulled me up short. Felicia crashed into me, nearly bowled me over. We got untangled and I waved at her to show her to stay back. Then I took a deep breath and ducked through the door, gun held high in both hands, just like the cops in the movies.
Two steps into the dim room, then into a squat, gun barrel moving with my eyes. What I saw made my mouth fall open, my gun barrel droop.
Hughie sat cross-legged in the bed, naked except for a pair of white briefs, his hairless, pasty, oozing skin exposed to the air and reeking. His mouth was open and his bright red face contorted with his sobs. He was a grotesque baby, bawling in his crib, stroking the hand of a dead whore.
My eyes ran up her body, past bottle-tanned legs and bare hips and a ripped camisole. Her hair was over her face, but I recognized her as Side Street Sally, the hooker with designs on Sultan Sweeney, the one for whom prostitution was a temporary means to a happy ending. Her cheek was the color of a plum, and her neck bent at a funny angle, and she was as dead as her plans for a Las Vegas wedding. If her friends could see her now.
Sweeney stood off to my right, his feet wide, his gun pointed at Hughie's face. His mouth twisted down in anger and his eyes were cold. The gun trembled ever so slightly in his hands.
Felicia's shadow fell from the doorway to the green carpet at my feet. She gave a little gasp as her eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight. Having her there reminded me I needed to do something more than gawk.
"Take it easy, Sultan." It wasn't much, but it was all that occurred to me. It distracted him ever so slightly.
"Shut up, Mabry."
Hughie shrieked even louder. I didn't know a grown man could cry like that.
"Hughie!" Sultan barked it, and Hughie clamped his mouth shut, swallowed the howl like it was dry oatmeal. His breath came finally in great shudders, but he wasn't bawling anymore.
Felicia said from the door: "What's the matter with his skin?"
Hughie hiccuped, looked like he was ready to let go again. Sultan wheeled on Felicia, pointed the pistol at her face.
"Would you all please shut up?"
Felicia gulped.
My own gun was pointed at the floor, frozen there as securely as an anchor chain in the Antarctic.
Sultan's eyes swung from Felicia to me to the bed, where Hughie still held the hand of the late Sally. The pistol never wavered from its aim on Felicia.
"While we're at it, Mabry," he said, "why don't you drop your gun? I don't want no one makin' a mistake."
I had no choice. I bent at the knees, let the gun fall a couple of feet to the carpet.
"Now, you," he said to Felicia, "get in here and shut dat door."
The door gobbled up the shaft of sunlight, and it was much darker in there, and Hughie let a quaking sob escape. Sultan, in control now, turned back to him, pointed the pistol.
"You don't have to shoot him, Sultan," I said. "He's not going anywhere."
"Wrong, Mabry. He's goin' straight to Hell."
I saw the muscles in his shoulder tighten through his suit, like I could watch the nerve function run down his arm from his brain to his trigger finger. Then I was off my feet, flying at him, no freaking idea what I'm doing. I crashed into his arm as the gun went off and Hughie screamed behind me and Sultan and I fell to the carpet in a tangle of elbows and knees.
The pistol was loose on the floor. Sultan got a hand on my face and bent back my neck. I struck at him blindly, not punching, more like thrashing at him with my forearms. A knee caught me in the short ribs, sent a wave of pain through me like all my internal organs had been jarred out of place. I gasped and clutched at him and tried to roll him over, to get my weight on top, awkward as a gator wrestler.
Felicia danced around us. She'd dropped her camera bag somewhere, but it apparently hadn't occurred to her to pick up my gun and get this insanity under control. She was looking for a place to jump on the pile.
I turned my head to instruct her, and Sultan socked me one under the jaw that made me see lights. Then he rolled me back the other way, tried to break free from my grip, still scrambling for his pistol. From nowhere something cracked against the side of my head and the lights flashed again and everything went dark.
I came to in Felicia's arms, my head cradled in her lap.
"Bubba, I'm so sorry."
I didn't know what she meant. I blinked my eyes and tried to focus, tried to find Sultan Sweeney. Hughie howled and hiccuped behind us like an ambulance.
"What happened?"
"I kicked you in the head. It was an accident. I'm really, really sorry."
Sultan Sweeney stepped into view, kept clear of my legs. He pointed the pistol toward Hughie and shouted, "Shut de fuck up!"
Hughie choked and sputtered and sobbed, but he managed to crank down the volume.
With most men, it would've been enough. That kind of interruption, only a minute or two, would give them time for second thoughts, make them slow to pull the trigger. But Sultan Sweeney standing over me, all rumpled suit and viper eyes, looked ready to plug all three of us.
"Come on, Sultan," I said from the floor, "you don't want this. It isn't your style."
"What de fuck you know 'bout my style?" His anxiety showed in his voice, the Cajun poling its pirogue ever thicker into his accent. It was getting very close to nut-cutting time.
Think! I told myself. And the word seemed to echo in my head.
Sultan looked back toward Hughie. "How come you do dis to me, boy?"
I heard a gasp behind me as Hughie tried to answer, then the dam broke again and great shuddering sobs filled the room.
Sultan rolled his eyes. "Goddamn! Will you shut dat noise up?"
"Listen to him, Sultan," I said. "You can hear him for a city block. There was that shot. The cops'll be here any second."
"Dey gonna find a mess."
"Don't make it any worse than it is. You can just walk away."
Sultan allowed himself a snort. "Too late for dat."
"No it isn't. You said yourself you could just walk away and leave all this. Walk out that door, around the corner, catch a cab. The cops come, you were never here."
"You think dat reporter gonna keep it to hersdf?"
"She won't say a word, won't write it in the newspaper.”
Felicia tensed under me. "Now, wait a minute—"
"Not a word."
Felicia took a deep breath, and I felt her relax, accept it. She said, "Not a word."
Then she pinched my ear, hard enough to make me say "Ow!"
Sultan looked at us like we were stupid, playing around so close to death. He sighed, blinked.
"Where would I go? The cops'll never leave me alone now."
"They'll hunt you a lot harder if you shoot somebody. You can find someplace to vanish. You did it before."
I rose up on an elbow. Slowly.
"I'll keep a gun on Hughie until the cops arrive."
Sultan squinted at the ceiling, sighed, still not sure. Felicia and I held our breaths. Hughie moaned and whimpered.
"Ah, hell, why not? Mosta my harem's gone anyway. Includin' dis sweet little girl here. I can't believe it."
He let his gun arm fall. He stepped lightly to the door and was gone, quick and smooth.
Felicia exhaled loudly. I rolled over, got to my knees, and crawled over to my pistol before Hughie could catch his breath enough to try and escape.
Felicia and I sat on the floor, gasping with adrenaline and fear.
"You know," she said, "it would've been a better story if you'd let him go ahead and shoot this brute. Fewer trials to cover later."
"I couldn't have done that. And he wouldn't have let us go after we'd seen it."
"But to let him just walk away! He's responsible for all this, for putting these women in jeopardy."
I shook my head to show her I wasn't going to bite. She sighed, rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.
Then the door burst open and sunlight spilled in, and two shadowy cops pointed guns at us. Hughie screamed in surprise.
"Police. Drop the gun."
I did it.
"Now," the cop said, stepping sideways into the room, "you're all under arrest."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It took a while to sort it all out.
The cops handcuffed us and read us our rights. I talked all over the part about remaining silent, but they ignored my explanations.
No way they could fit a handcuff around Hughie's pulpy wrist, so they ordered him out of the bed and against the wall and kept their guns trained on him. Other cops arrived. They locked Felicia and me in separate squad cars, which was fine by me. Better than listening to her holler about her First Amendment rights.
I sat on my cuffed hands until Romero arrived. He had the uniforms hoist me out of the car, and leaned me against a fender while he got the whole story. Everything except any mention of Sultan Sweeney. Which was, naturally, the one thing he asked when I was done.
