"What for? I - "
"Check it out, Joe."
"Sure. If it'll make you happy." He buzzed his secretary. "Get me the head bookkeeper over at First Merchants."
A minute later she was on the line.
"Hello, honey. Joseph Romano. Would you give me the current balance in my checking account? My birth date is October fourteenth."
Anthony Orsatti picked up the extension phone. A few moments later the bookkeeper was back on the line.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Romano. As of this morning, your checking account balance is three hundred ten thousand nine hundred five dollars and thirty-five cents."
Romano could feel the blood draining from his face. "It's what?"
"Three hundred ten thousand nine hundred five - "
"You stupid bitch!" he yelled. "I don't have that kind of money in my account. You made a mistake. Let me talk to the - "
He felt the telephone being taken out of his hand, as Anthony Orsatti replaced the receiver. "Where'd that money come from, Joe?"
Joe Romano's face was pale. "I swear to God, Tony, I don't know anything about that money."
"No?"
"Hey, you've got to believe me! You know what's happening? Someone is setting me up."
"It must be someone who likes you a lot. He gave you a going-away present of three hundred ten thousand dollars." Orsatti sat down heavily on the Scalamander silk-covered armchair and looked at Joe Romano for a long moment, then spoke very quietly. "Everything was all set, huh? A one-way ticket to Rio, new luggage... Like you was planning a whole new life."
"No!" There was panic in Joe Romano's voice. "Jesus, you know me better than that, Tony. I've always been on the level with you. You're like a father to me."
He was sweating now. There was a knock at the door, and Madge poked her head in. She held an envelope.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Romano. There's a cable for you, but you have to sign for it yourself."
With the instincts of a trapped animal, Joe Romano said, "Not now. I'm busy."
"I'll take it," Anthony Orsatti said, and he was out of the chair before the woman could close the door. He took his time reading the cable, then he focused his eyes on Joe Romano.
In a voice so low that Romano could barely hear him, Anthony Orsatti said, "I'll read it to you, Joe. 'Pleased to confirm your reservation for our Princess Suite for two months this Friday, September first.' It's signed, 'S. Montalband, manager, Rio Othon Palace, Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro.' It's your reservation, Joe. You won't be needin' it, will you?"
Chapter 13
Andre Gillian was in the kitchen making preparations for spaghetti alla carbonara, a large Italian salad, and a pear torte when he heard a loud, ominous popping sound, and a moment later the comfortable hum of the central air conditioner trailed off into silence.
Andre stamped his foot and said, "Merde! Not the night of the game."
He hurried to the utility closet where the breaker box was located and flicked the electrical switches, one by one. Nothing happened.
Oh, Mr. Pope was going to be furious. Simply furious! Andre knew how much his employer looked forward to his weekly Friday-night poker game. It was a tradition that had been going on for years, and it was always with the same elite group of players. Without air-conditioning, the house would be unbearable. Simply unbearable! New Orleans in September was only for the uncivilized. Even after the sun went down, there was no relief from the heat and humidity.
Andre returned to the kitchen and consulted the kitchen clock. Four o'clock. The guests would be arriving at 8:00. Andre thought about telephoning Mr. Pope and telling him the problem, but then he remembered that the lawyer had said he was going to be tied up in court all day. The dear man was so busy. He needed his relaxation. And now this!
Andre took a small black telephone book from a kitchen drawer, looked up a number, and dialed.
After three rings, a metallic voice intoned, "You have reached the Eskimo Air-Conditioning Service. Our technicians are not available at this time. If you will leave your name and number and a brief message, we will get back to you as soon as possible. Please wait for the beep."
Foutre! Only in America were you forced to hold a conversation with a machine.
A shrill, annoying beep sounded in Andre's ear. He spoke into the mouthpiece: "This is the residence of Monsieur Perry Pope, Forty-two Charles Street. Our air-conditioning has ceased to function. You must send someone here as quickly as possible. Vite!"
He slammed down the receiver. Of course no one was available. Air-conditioning was probably going off all over this dreadful city. It was impossible for air conditioners to cope with the damnable heat and humidity. Well, someone had better come soon. Mr. Pope had a temper. A nasty temper.
In the three years Andre Gillian had worked as a cook for the attorney, he had learned how influential his employer was. It was amazing. All that brilliance in one so young. Perry Pope knew simply everybody. When he snapped his fingers, people jumped.
It seemed to Andre Gillian that the house was already feeling warmer. Зa va chier dur. If something is not done quickly, the shit's going to hit the fan.
As Andre went back to cutting paper-thin slices of salami and provolone cheese for the salad, he could not shake the terrible feeling that the evening was fated to be a disaster.
When the doorbell rang thirty minutes later, Andre's clothes were soaked with perspiration, and the kitchen was like an oven. Gillian hurried to open the back door.
Two workmen in overalls stood in the doorway, carrying toolboxes. One of them was a tall black man. His companion was white, several inches shorter, with a sleepy, bored look on his face. In the rear driveway stood their service truck.