Fat Tuesday(51)

Since state-of-the-art equipment was costly, and Burke's budget wouldn't stretch that far, he'd called in a favor from a cop who worked the evidence room. A few years back, his son had got mixed up with a bad crowd. One of Basile's squads had busted him for possession. With the cop's blessing, Basile had come down on the kid pretty hard, scared him into a more receptive frame of mind, and turned him around. The family still felt indebted.

The dime-store-caliber rig had been seized in a raid, nobody would miss it, so the cop had heisted it. He and Basile had tried it out. It worked, but the quality wasn't great.

Thus far tonight, he hadn't had an opportunity to test it. After an hour and a half of surveillance, the master bedroom had remained dark.

He checked his wristwatch. Twelve minutes past eleven. How long could he wait? He was exhausted. Since hearing from Mrs. Duvall earlier today, he'd been busy.

"Father Kevin" had no trouble cashing Duvall's check from the bank he'd written it on. The money had enabled him to pay an individual cash for an inexpensive van advertised in the classified ads. He'd driven the van straight to a cut-rate paint and body shop, where he asked for a rush job. It would be ready by tomorrow afternoon. He then returned to his room and cut out a stencil of cardboard, which he would use to apply the Jenny's House logo to the doors of the freshly painted van.

The limousine glided past. By the time Burke realized that the approaching car belonged to the Duvalls, he was already looking at its taillights. He held his breath and didn't release it until the limo disappeared through the iron picket security gate at the rear of the property. A short time later lights came on in the master bedroom.

He slipped on the headset and immediately heard voices.

" ... in the opera ... heard her ... and ... stunk." That from Pinkie.

Burke readjusted the headset in time to hear Mrs. Duvall say, ".

proud of her for making it past the first audition. She's their only daughter."

"Well I was bored stiff. It's hot in here. Turn down the thermostat."

For several minutes Burke heard nothing more and envisioned them in their respective dressing rooms, preparing for bed. The next words were from Mrs. Duvall: "I'll write them a thank-you note tomorrow."

"Whatever. Take that damn thing off."

The light went out. Coming through the earphones were the sounds of rustling bed linens, of bodies readjusting, of Pinkie moving close to his naked wife and caressing the skin dusted with talcum powder from a silver-capped jar.

Burke closed his eyes.

"All the men there tonight were drooling over my beautiful wife."

"Thank you."

Burke told himself not to listen anymore. They weren't going to talk about Duvall's sideline business. He wouldn't learn anything by continuing to eavesdrop on what was obviously a private conversation.

But he listened anyway.

"I caught old man Salley looking at your tits. I glared at him. He blushed up to the roots of his toupee," Duvall chuckled."By dessert, he and every other man around the dinner table was using his napkin to hide a hard-on."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true."

"I don't believe that."

"Believe it, Remy. When a man looks at you, all he can think about is *." More rustling, the readjustment of limbs."See what I mean?"

She murmured something so softly the microphone failed to pick it up.

Whatever she said pleased Duvall because he chuckled with selfcongratulationso "You know what to do with it, sweetheart."

A moment later, a satisfied grunt from Duvall.

Burke bowed his head and rubbed his eye sockets hard.

After what seemed like an eternity to Burke, Duvall groaned, "Jesus, baby, that's making me crazy. Come here." Then, "What's the matter with you? How come you're not wet?"

"Let me up, and I'll get something."

"Never mind. Pull your knees ... yeah, like that. Like Pinkie taught you."

Burke threw his head back against the headrest. He continued to listen.

He listened to Duvall's chant of vulgarities, to his grunts and groans.

He listened through it all, until Duvall climaxed, swearing in loud gasps.

Then there was nothing transmitted into the earphones except a faint, electronic hiss. He listened for several more minutes. When his jaw began to ache, Burke realized that his teeth were clenched. His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel they were white.

Slowly he pried them off. Removing the headset, he irritably tossed it onto the empty seat beside him. He wiped his sleeve across his sweating forehead.

Eventually, he started his car and drove away.

Burke left the newly painted van parked behind an abandoned warehouse, hoping it would still be there, intact, when he returned for it tomorrow morning. Before rounding the corner, he glanced back at the vehicle, and was pleased with his stencil. From this distance, the Jenny's House logo was barely legible. It looked like an amateur job, which was what he'd wanted.

Lost in thought as he made his way along the banquet, he didn't see Mac Mccuen until the man was directly in front of him, blocking his path "Burke! Christ, man, I've been looking all over the city for you."

Mentally Burke groaned. The last thing he needed was Mac's distracting chitchat. But he attempted a smile and pretended to be glad to see him.