Part 22 (1/2)
”No one's following us,” I said.
He relaxed slightly.
”I'm afraid I've got some bad news,” he said, still reminding me of a puppy, one leading its owner to some very chewed up slippers.
”Yes?” I said.
”I couldn't get the books. I mean, they weren't there to take.
Milo removed them before lunch, told me to wait for him, and left. I didn't know what to do. I knew you were waiting. Should we try again tomorrow?”
”No,” I said quickly.
”Should I have waited for Milo? He might have brought them back.” he said, trying to repair the damaged slipper.
”No. The only thing Milo was coming back for was you.”
”Oh, my G.o.d,” he said, understanding me. He visibly paled. I took his arm and led him across the street.
”Jambalaya's way too hot. Those books would have been moved a long time ago if Milo's boss didn't have so many important friends.”
I led the way into the building. Torbin had left me his keys and admonished me to make ourselves at home. He wasn't in the apartment when we arrived, but there was a ”Be back soon” note stuck on the middle of his couch.
”You mean, if I hadn't left at lunch, Milo would have...” He trailed off.
”Right. Early retirement.”
Frankie put his head in his hands. He seemed quite shaken. I sat down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder.
”At least we've got good timing,” I started. ”Look, we still outsmarted them. You're out and you're alive.”
”Yes,” he said, sitting up and lifting his head. ”I wish I could see the look on Milo's face when he realizes that I disobeyed his orders. A sissy f.a.ggot like me.”
”Let's hear it for sissy f.a.ggots,” announced Torbin, making an entrance. He was carrying a sack of groceries and a bag of video ca.s.settes. ”You know, Micky, I do like you daring d.y.k.es, but my heart belongs to sissy f.a.ggots.”
I made introductions. Torbin explained his plans for the next few * 151 *
days. Good food, great movies, and perhaps a few lessons on makeup.
I didn't ask whether he meant Frankie or me.
Torbin insisted on having a slumber party, so I spent the night.
I also thought Frankie would feel more comfortable with me around.
Torbin was telling him that he could be all the things that he had been told he was sick for wanting. That can be very scary. But, after the second Bette Davis movie, Frankie started loosening up, like a kid being let into a toy store for the first time in his life. He started asking Torbin all sorts of questions, which Torbin, with his love of an audience, delighted in answering. Possibilities opened up for Frankie. I would have sat through ten Joan Crawford flicks just to see the change that came over him that night. Well, at least out of this jumble of ashes, one phoenix has risen, I thought as I finally laid down to sleep.
After a late breakfast the next day and a stern warning to Torbin not to even let Frankie out of his apartment, let alone try and take him to one of his drag shows, I left. I spent about an hour wandering around the neighborhood, checking it out, and finding nothing even remotely suspicious. Then I headed off to do business. I stopped at a pay phone to call Ranson, but she was out. I kept walking. It was one of those gray and chilly February days. Mardi Gras was in a few weeks. Soon the parades and parties would start. I came to another pay phone and called Ranson again. This time she answered.
”Where the h.e.l.l have-” she started, but I cut her off.
”How about a nice little romantic saunter on the levee? Half an hour by Jackson Square? Bye.” I hung up and started walking toward the square.
Five minutes after I arrived, Ranson showed up.
”A punctual public servant, I like that,” I said.
”Twenty-five minutes, not thirty. I'm early,” she responded.
”Couldn't you have waited until I was off duty?”
”But this is about duty, my dear Sergeant Ranson. A poor young boy who wants to forsake his life of crime.”
”This had better be good, Micky.”
”The best. Milo and company. Maybe Da Boss himself.”
”I told you to stay out of it,” was Ranson's thanks.
”But dear Officer Ranson, it was an accident, I do declare.
I just b.u.mped into this young fellow on the street and he, instantly * 152 *
recognizing me as the great private investigator M. Knight, begged me to help him.”
”Bulls.h.i.+t. Who do you have?”
”The boy that's been doing their books for the last three years.”
Ranson let out a low whistle. It was the only hint that she was somewhat impressed by my coup.
”And,” I added, ”we almost got the books, too, but Milo walked out with them for parts unknown.”
”s.h.i.+t, Micky, you're playing a dangerous game. That accountant would have gotten killed if they'd caught him,” Ranson lectured me.
”He would have gotten killed anyway,” I shot back. ”Milo or somebody was coming back for him and it wasn't to give the poor guy a golden watch for his retirement.”
”Okay, so you're a wonderful humanitarian. When do I meet him?”
”When we've arranged a deal that's satisfactory,” I said.
”I'll do what I can, but Micky, remember that I'm just a police sergeant.”
”Right. I understand you've got a few friends in the D.A.'s office.
Get them to help you,” I replied. I almost said drinking buddies, but I caught myself. ”We want protection and relocation. Call me when you've got something worked out.” I started to leave.