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  Door number one would be Kristi paying some miscreant like Ragman for it. That would be way out of character for her. At least everything I had learned about her screamed that.

  Door number two would be if she got it unknowingly. Bought it, but didn’t know what she was getting. Maybe some dealer simply handed her the wrong joint? That sort of thing. Or maybe it was supposed to be some sort of prank? Some dealer or a friend trying to fuck with her and Kirk. Really? Prank Tony Guidry’s niece? I figured any dealer, or friend for that matter, that did that had a death wish.

  Door number three would be a friend giving it to her for some darker reason. Who? Why? It could only be if that someone had it in for her or Kirk and was planning to kill her and frame Kirk. Seemed convoluted and not likely, but it was that door we were trying to pry open. It seemed to be Kirk’s only path to freedom.

  Jimmy Walker, aka Ragman, was a piece of work. A piece of something, anyway. The alley he did business from, as Doucet had said, was wedged between the fire station and an industrial-looking building that had seen better days. The sidewalk was veined with cracks and the alley narrow and littered with refuse. As we reached the alley entrance, we saw him. Thin, black, baggy pants, a New Orleans Saints jersey, three sizes too large, almost reaching his knees, cigarette hanging from his lips, slouching against the building. He looked up from the phone he was working with his thumbs and came off the wall, moving toward us. He didn’t seem alarmed. Probably thought we were customers.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” he said, smiling. A true salesman. Probably would do well with aluminum siding. Or as a midway barker.

  We introduced ourselves, Ray saying we were PIs and needed to ask a few questions to which Ragman said, “I don’t got to talk to you.” His head swiveled up and down the street. Like he didn’t want to be seen talking to us.

  “No, you don’t,” I said. “But we’d appreciate it.”

  “Go appreciate something else,” he said.

  “It’s about your business,” Ray said.

  “I ain’t got no business.” Another glance up the street. “I suggest you move along. Get out of my face. Might not be healthy for you white boys to hang around here. Know what I’m saying?”

  I love watching Pancake work. It’s a true art form. Mostly he’s a gentle giant, wouldn’t hurt anyone. Even go out of his way to avoid trouble. Then there were times he did stuff that made you stare in disbelief. Even if you’d seen it before.

  This time, he simply grabbed Ragman’s arm and tossed him into the alley. Just like that. Like a kid having a tantrum and tossing a doll across the room. Ragman rolled and bounced a couple of times, but to his credit, quickly scrambled to his feet. Pancake was on him. He poked his chest with a finger. “No, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Hey, dude, you can’t do that.”

  “I’m just getting started.” Pancake palmed Ragman’s chest, pressing him against the wall.

  I had to give it to Ragman. He was scared, no doubt, but not exactly terrified. Not yet. “You guys don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

  Ray tapped Pancake’s shoulder. Pancake lowered his brace and stepped back. A half step.

  “Listen up, Jimmy, Mr. Walker, Ragman, whoever the fuck you are, you’re going to talk with us. One way or the other.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ragman said, still trying to sound tough. “I got my guys watching.”

  “Really?” Ray looked up and down the alley. “I don’t see them.”

  “They be here if I need them.”

  “You mean Ju Ju? Tony Guidry?”

  His fear ramped up a bit. Trying to figure how we knew so much about him, I suspected. I mean, we had known him all of a minute and yet we knew all his names and his associations. I could almost hear the hamster wheel whirring in his head.

  Ray was just getting warmed up. “If you think they can protect you, you couldn’t be more wrong. If you want to escalate this into a little range war, I can have a half dozen guys here before the sun sets. Guys who love war. Got a PhD in it. Over in that shit hole they call the Middle East. Guys who actually love it. And have no compunction whatsoever about waging a scorched-earth campaign. Am I clear?”

  Ragman stared at him. He had run out of clever comebacks and bluster.

  Ray wasn’t done. “But that ain’t going to help you right here, right now. Whether you walk out of this alley or are carried out by the medics is your call. If you want, I can turn my man here”—he nodded toward Pancake—“loose on your sorry ass. And if he don’t want to, I will.”

  “I want to,” Pancake said. “I really, really want to.”

  “What’s it going to be? Answer a couple of questions or get a lung punctured?”

  Ray was on a roll. It was a beautiful thing to witness.

  “I don’t know what you want, man,” Ragman said. His voice had risen an octave. “Why you come here getting in my grill about shit I probably don’t know nothing about.”

  “What kind of shit do you sell? Marijuana? Crank? Oxy?”

  “I don’t sell nothing. If you heard something else, you be listening to the wrong people.”

  Ray twisted his neck one way and then the other. “We’re beyond all that, Ragman. I know you do. Everyone knows. What I want to chat about is ketamine. You know, bump? Purple? Special K?”

  “I know what it is. What I don’t know is how come everyone come around here asking me about that shit? The cops. Tony’s nephews.”

  “We aren’t the only ones that know you supply it.” Ray smiled.

  “Okay. So what?”

  “The question of the day is, did you sell any to Kristi Guidry?”

  His head wagged back and forth. “You think I’m crazy? Think I’d sell anything to Tony’s niece? Shit, man, that’d be suicide.”

  That was a very good answer. And it seemed truthful to me. Even Ragman wasn’t that stupid.

  “What about Kirk Ford?” I asked.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Don’t get stupid on me, Ragman,” Ray said. “Everybody knows who he is.”

  Ragman shook his head. “Yeah, I know. But I never seen him. Not in person.”

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. What about someone that isn’t your usual customer? Say the last week or so?”

  Finally getting a grip on his situation, he said, “Maybe a couple of folks.”

  “Tell me.”

  “There was two dudes. About your age. Too old for that shit. But they had cash, so, there it is.”

  “What’d they look like?”

  “Two white dudes. Looked like tourists. Shorts, new tee shirts that said some shit. I don’t remember what but some tourist shit. One had a baseball cap. New. Turned backwards like he was some badass.”

  “You only saw them the one time?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Like I said, they weren’t local.”

  “Who else?”

  “A couple of college girls. Not from around here either. Good-looking bitches’s all I remember.”

  “Two hot chicks and that’s all you remember?” I asked.

  “They was in jeans, halter tops. Short dark hair.” He looked up as if remembering. “Both had on red lipstick. I remember that.”

  “Eye color?”

  “They had on sunglasses. They was scared, too. Kept looking around. But I see that a lot.”

  “I bet,” Ray said. “Selling on the street has its disadvantages.”

  Ragman shrugged. “What you gonna do?” Like that justified his entire existence.

  “Anyone else?” I asked.

  “Yeah. They was this couple. Maybe thirties, forties, I don’t know. Looked like they was from Ohio or some such shit. Tourists for sure. Don’t know what the hell they wanted with bump. Looked like schoolteachers or something. The dude’s hair was already getting gray.”

  “You have a big tourist trade?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Some. You asked about folks I didn’t know. Not local or usual buyers. I got m
y regulars. Lots of them. Most of the rest are tourist types. Seems like this place is infested with them. Like a fucking plague.”

  “But they do come see you?” Ray said. “For their party favors?”

  Ragman laughed. “You might say I do community service. Promote tourism. Shit, the mayor should give me a fucking recommendation.”

  “Commendation,” I said.

  “What?”

  “It’s called a commendation.”

  “Well whatever it is they should give me one.”

  Somehow, I didn’t think a mayoral proclamation was in Ragman’s future.

  “What did you sell these people?” I asked.

  Ragman looked at me like I was insane. “What we been talking about, man?”

  “What I mean is did you sell them laced joints or what?”

  “Don’t do that, man. Too hard to carry and hide. Liquid’s the way to go. They can do what they want after that.”

  “Is that it?” Ray asked. “All the onetime customers you can think of?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything else you want to tell us?” Ray asked.

  “Ain’t I said enough?”

  “You did good,” Ray said. “But I need a favor from you.”

  “Shit. You climb in my face and now you want my good graces?”

  Ray handed him a card. “If you think of anyone else, or if one of the people you told us about shows up, can you give me a call?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Well, that’s fine. But if we need to have another chat, we know where to find you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “THAT WAS FUN,” Pancake said.

  We had left Ragman in his alley and were now standing a half block away, on the corner of Decatur and Conti, discussing our next move. Ray was of the opinion that we might want to go shake Ju Ju’s tree. See what fell out. Pancake had other ideas.

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  “I’m shocked,” I said. “What’s it been? An hour since your last feeding?”

  “Wasn’t much.”

  Pancake’s idea of “much” and mine were different things altogether. I only had one biscuit at Mother’s Kitchen and I was stuffed. But I knew not to argue with him when he was hungry. Sort of like poking a bear with a stick. A big, angry, hypoglycemic bear.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s head down to Café du Monde. Maybe Gloria’s working. We can see if she’s heard anything.”

  “I love their beignets,” Pancake said.

  “Of course you do.”

  We found a table more or less in the middle of the covered patio. Still messy, as the couple who had been there were just leaving as we walked up. A busboy appeared and the clutter of dishes and the tabletop’s frosting of powdered sugar disappeared. We sat. I saw Gloria coming from the kitchen and waved her over. She nodded, and after delivering the order she carried, weaved through the tables toward us.

  “How you doing?” she asked.

  “Fine.” I introduced her to Ray and Pancake.

  “Pancake?” she said. “I love pancakes. Especially big old strawberry ones.”

  He smiled. “That’s me.”

  Charming. Always charming.

  Once Pancake and Gloria finished their banter, we ordered. Ray and I, coffee; Pancake, coffee and two plates of beignets. Took only a few minutes for our order to return and then Gloria was off serving other tables, but before Pancake finished the first plate she was back.

  “Anything new?” she asked. “About Kristi?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” I said.

  She glanced around. “The cops were here.”

  “A Detective Doucet?”

  “Yeah.” She looked at me. “Did you tell him about me?”

  “No. But I’m sure he knows you and Kristi were friends. Makes sense he’d come by.”

  She shrugged. “Guess that’s true.”

  “And?”

  “He talked to me and a couple of the guys in back. Wanted to know about Kristi and where she might have gotten the smoke.” Again, she scanned the area, then squatted, placing her tray on the table. Her voice dropped low. “And he asked about ketamine. What’s that all about?”

  “Looks like that was involved.”

  “What? Kristi?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Jesus Christ on a bicycle.” She shook her head. “I asked that detective dude why he was interested in that shit. He wouldn’t say. I thought maybe it was that actor dude. Never crossed my mind that he meant Kristi.” Then her eyes widened. “Did he drug her? Please tell me he didn’t.”

  “Wish we could. It’s possible, but the truth is it looks like both of them were drugged.”

  “That don’t make no sense.” She shook her head for emphasis. “I know for damn sure Kristi wouldn’t use any of that. Shit, smoking a joint is a stretch.”

  “Did you talk to the guys that work here?” I asked. “The ones you mentioned. About them giving anything to Kristi?”

  “I sure as hell did. Police did, too. They both swore to me that that would never happen. Said only an insane person would feed drugs to Tony Guidry’s niece.”

  I smiled. “That seems to be the consensus.”

  “You can bet on it.”

  “What about a friend at college? Could Kristi have gotten it there?”

  She thought for a minute. “Possible, I suspect. But she lived at home and commuted to school. Didn’t hang out there or do any of that sorority stuff. I don’t think she had a lot of friends there.”

  “Really?” I asked. “She seemed to be the friendly type. From what we hear.”

  “She was. But she wasn’t into all that college campus stuff. Her friends were her friends way before that. She hung close to home. Except for her classes, anyway.”

  I nodded.

  “There was one girl. She came by here a couple of times with Kristi.” She shook her head. “But I don’t think she would’ve. Far as I know, anyway. She seems like a carbon copy of Kristi. Nice and all.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Betty Smithson.”

  “Know how we might reach her?” I asked.

  “Hattiesburg. She only did one semester. Had some family deal. Someone, I think her mother, got the cancer. Had to leave and handle all that, so she ain’t been around for a few months.”

  A dead end.

  She stood. “I better get back to work.”

  “Thanks. If anything comes up, call me. You still have my number?”

  “Sure do.” And she was gone.

  My cell chimed and I answered. It was Owen Vaughn. He wanted to talk.

  Took twenty minutes for us to walk back to the Monteleone, grab Pancake’s truck, and drive over to Vaughn’s Motor Works. Carl greeted us as we entered. I introduced him to Ray and Pancake.

  “You the PI guys?” he asked.

  “We are,” Ray said.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Owen called me,” I said. “Wants to talk.”

  “I see.” He didn’t look happy, but he jerked his head toward the back. “He’s out back cleaning up a couple of carburetors.”

  That’s where we found him.

  “Thanks for coming,” Owen said. He stood next to a metal table, a pair of disassembled carburetors before him. He wiped his greasy hands on an orange shop towel.

  I introduced Ray and Pancake.

  “You have some questions,” I said.

  “Robert and Kevin dropped by yesterday. They as much as accused me of being the one that killed Kristi.”

  “They did?”

  “More or less.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because they’re idiots. Maybe because they’re confused, probably hurting and wanting answers.”

  That was an excellent take on things. Owen continued to impress me. He seemed smarter than he first appeared.

  “They also told me some disturbing stuff.” He looked at each of us in
turn. “Told me about ketamine. That true?”

  I nodded. “Looks that way.”

  “They said the police were looking at maybe someone else being the killer. Someone who had it in for either Kristi or Kirk Ford. That true?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so folks like Robert and Kevin think it might’ve been me? Of course, the truth is that right about now I don’t give two shits what they think. But what about the cops?”

  I could sense the anger—fear?—in his voice.

  “I’m not sure you’re where the cops are focused,” I said. “But the idea that it might’ve been someone else is at least part of the discussion.”

  “I’m here to tell you that I ain’t had nothing to do with it. I wouldn’t do that. Couldn’t. I loved her.” He looked up toward the sky. “Still do.”

  “I believe you,” I said.

  He looked at me. “But do the police?”

  “I can’t tell you that for sure, but my impression is that they aren’t looking real hard in your direction. Have they talked to you again?”

  “No.”

  “They probably will be back.”

  “Shit.” He looked lost. Almost like an abandoned puppy.

  “Just tell them exactly what you just told us,” I said.

  “I wish it was that simple.”

  “Oh?”

  “Cops don’t always believe the truth,”

  “That’s what they do,” Ray said. “That’s their job. To suspect everyone.”

  “Well they can suspect somewhere else.” He shook his head. “Please tell me they’re looking elsewhere, too.”

  “They are.”

  “You mean they have someone else in mind? Who?”

  “That we don’t know,” I said.

  He said nothing for a moment. “This ain’t ever going to be over, is it?”

  “Not until it is,” Ray said. “Not until the killer is uncovered.”

  “They don’t think Ford did it?” Owen asked.

  “Actually, they do,” I said. “They’re just doing their jobs. That’s all. Don’t take it any other way.”

  “Hard not to feel under the gun here.”

  “Do you know Betty Smithson?” I asked.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I hear she was Kristi’s friend from college.”