Fat Tuesday(67)

He's no Brad Pitt pretty-boy, but Toni thinks he's attractive. I always figured it was his mustache that gave him sex appeal, but obviously he's got more than that going for him. Something that only broads "

"He shaved off his mustache?" Pat's stomach did a nose dive "Didn't I mention that?"

Pat stood and reached for his suit jacket hanging on the coat tree.

Mccuen was nonplussed."What's the deal? Where are you going?"

"Jefferson Parish," Pat answered over his shoulder as he rushed through the door.

Dirty gutter water soiled the tires of Bardo's car as he pulled up to the crumbling curb."This is it."

Pinkie looked at the building with distaste. It was the same caliber neighborhood, the same caliber flophouse in which he'd found Remy living with her mother and infant sister."Squalid" was an inadequate adjective.

He had been brainstorming all night, trying to identify the two kidnappers who'd masqueraded as priests. His underground network was humming with news of the abduction. He had offered a sizable reward to anyone who came forward with information.

During one of his repeated recounts of the incident, Errol remembered something previously forgotten."The guy calling himself Father Kevin was ready to hammer the other one himself. I heard him say something about jail."

"Jail?"

"Yeah. I can't remember his exact words on account of I was busy doing my duty and getting Mrs. Duvall out of there. Whatever he said made me think Father Gregory had been in jail for doing something like that before."

The bodyguard was so desperate to win back his favor that Pinkie wondered how reliable this information was. It was feasible that an ex-con with a grudge was trying to avenge a long-forgotten slight, but it was just as feasible that Errol was making it up in order to get his ass off the firing line. But Pinkie couldn't discount any clue, so he had one of his snitches in the N.O.P.D working up a list of repeat sex offenders.

A telephone company employee, who was working off a legal fee, was tracking the number on the business card bearing the Jenny's House logo, which Pinkie now knew was a fake. His secretary had checked it out, but apparently she'd been tricked by some very clever individuals.

Less than half an hour ago, when they received word that the number on the business card belonged to a pay phone in this building, Bardo had hastily assembled a team of four men, who had followed them here in another car.

Pinkie had insisted on riding along with Bardo. When these audacious priests died, Pinkie wanted to be looking them in the eye. Flushed with adrenaline and indignation, he alighted onto the littered banquet.

Bardo stationed two of the men at the front door and signaled the other two to go around to the back of the building in case the kidnappers tried to hustle Remy out a rear exit.

Pinkie and Bardo stepped over a wino sleeping in the recessed doorway and went inside. Pinkie had the odd feeling that he was being led, that he was doing exactly what the kidnapper wanted him to do.

Tracking the phone number had been too easy. For having planned such an elaborate kidnapping, the perpetrator shouldn't have overlooked something so elementary. It left Pinkie wondering if the oversight had been intentional.

On the other hand, he knew from experience that even the cleverest crooks got trapped by the stupidest mistakes.

To the left of the entrance was a reception desk, but no one was attending it. Bardo moved across the seedy lobby to the public telephone mounted on the wall and checked the number. He shook his head.

Pinkie motioned him upstairs.

They trod softly. When they reached the second-floor landing, they saw the telephone about halfway down a narrow hallway decorated with graffiti. The lighting was so dim that Bardo had to hold his cigarette lighter up to the cloudy plastic sleeve on the front of the telephone to read the number. He gave Pinkie the thumbs-up.

Pinkie's blood pressure soared. He hitched his chin toward the door at the end of the hallway. When Bardo's low command to open the door met with no response, he kicked it open. Inside was a man sprawled across a bed, deep in a drunken stupor. No Remy. They determined from his condition and the number of empty rye bottles surrounding him that he wasn't their culprit. Furthermore, he was pudgy, pink, and sixtyish, and didn't fit the description of either priest. The second room was empty, and bore no signs of recent occupation.

In the third, a woman cowered from them in terror and began a lament in loud, rapid Spanish. Bardo backhanded her across the mouth.

"Shut up, bitch," he ordered in a nasty whisper. She shut up and clutched several hungry-looking children against her to keep them from crying.

The fourth and last room was also unoccupied. But on the bed a white envelope was propped against the pillows, and on that envelope was printed Pinkie Duvall's name.

He snatched it up and ripped it open. A single sheet of paper drifted from it onto the grimy rug. He retrieved the paper and read the typewritten message.

Then he uttered a roar of rage that shook the windowpanes.

Bardo took the note from him. He cursed when he read the message.

"They wouldn't dare."

Pinkie rushed from the room and bounded down the stairs, Bardo on his heels. Bardo's men were ordered to follow. They piled into the second car and raced to catch up as he sped away.

Pinkie could barely contain his fury. His eyes were hot and murderous.

"I'm going to kill them. They are dead men. Dead."