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“My name is Rouche—Kenneth Rouche.”
“Okay.”
“Can we go up to your room? I have something private to discuss.”
“Nah.”
“What about the bar? It’s pretty empty in there.”
“I like it here.”
Rouche had pale gray eyes. For some reason this simple fact disconcerted me.
“I have to talk to you,” he said.
“Talk.”
“The topic of the conversation is private, very much so.”
“Nobody’s payin’ attention to us, man.”
Right then, Mr. Rouche’s eyes decided they didn’t like me.
“You went to see Paulie Antonucci today,” he said. “You were asking all kinds of questions about Arman Babylon and his granddaughter, Twyla Mann, and her mother.”
“I didn’t mention anything about Twyla’s mother,” I stated. “I don’t know anything about the woman. And anyway, what the fuck business is it of yours?”
“You better have some respect talkin’ to me, brother,” he warned.
“Fuck you.”
Kenneth Rouche made a bodily gesture that was reminiscent of a man about to jump. He didn’t, however, make the leap. I found myself regretting his common sense.
“Look, dude,” I said, approximating reasonableness. “I can see by your socks that you’re a man to take seriously. But you got to understand, I been runnin’ into men like you my entire life: tough, self-confident, well-dressed. I call you white niggahs, livin’ on the edge an’ thinkin’ you just about to make sumpin’ outta yourself. But the truth is you would have to kill me to get what you want. And if you did that, then you’d lose anyway.”
“I would like to see you bleed, Mr. Oliver,” Kenneth Rouche admitted, speaking softly, agreeing with my estimation of his violent aptitude upon what would have been a snakelike smile—that is, if snakes smiled.
“And so you may, Mr. Rouche, and so might I.”
I walked off to the lobby elevator, and Mr. Rouche, I suppose, left the premises.
I made it up to the top floor and into my spacious suite, poured myself an Angel’s Envy bourbon, and drank it down. I poured a second shot, but before I could drink it, the landline of the room rang.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Joe King Oliver?” a workmanlike voice inquired.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“They call me Rodrigo. My friends are Bob and Chin. The three of us do odd jobs. Mr. Frost suggested that you might need some housework.”
“Do you bring your own tools?”
“We do.”
“Meet me at the downstairs Royal Palace restaurant at nine, for breakfast. And bring me an ax, just in case you need some help.”
“Okay,” the caller said, and then he hung up.
