Read Heaven's Prisoners for Free Online

glass jewelry hanging all over her, and in the morning she puts a boom-box on the bar and she and him scrub out the toilets and sing opera together like somebody stuck them in the butt with a hayfork.”
    “Robin, I know this tattooed man was in here. I really need you to help me.”
    She flicked her cigarette ashes into the ashtray and didn’t answer.
    “Look, you’re not dropping the dime on him. He’s dead,” I said. “He was in a plane crash with a priest and some illegals.”
    She exhaled smoke into the spinning circles of light and brushed a strand of hair out of her eye.
    “You mean like with wetbacks or something?” she said.
    “You could call them that.”
    “I don’t know what Johnny Dartez would be doing with a priest and wetbacks.”
    “Who is he?”
    “He’s been around here for years, except when he was in the marines. He used to be a stall for a couple of street dips.”
    “He was a pickpocket?”
    “He tried to be one. He was so clumsy he’d usually knock the mark down before they could boost his wallet. He’s a loser. I don’t think this is your guy.”
    “What’s he been doing lately?”
    She hesitated.
    “I think maybe he was buying room keys and credit cards,” she said.
    “I thought you were out of that, kiddo.”
    “It was a while back.”
    “I’m talking about now. What’s the guy doing now, Robin?”
    “I heard he was a mule for Bubba Rocque,” she said, and her voice fell to almost a whisper.
    “Bubba Rocque?” I said.
    “Yeah. Take it easy, will you?”
    “I gotta go in back. You want another collins?” Jerry said.
    “Yeah. Wash your hands when to go to the bathroom, too.”
    “You know, Robin, when you come in here I hear this funny sound,” he said. “I got to listen real close, but I hear it. It sounds like mice eating on something. I think it’s your brain rotting.”
    “Who’s your PO, podna?” I said.
    “I don’t have one. I went out free and clear, max time, all sins forgiven. Does that mess up your day?” He grinned at me from under his black fedora.
    “No, I was just wondering about some of those rum bottles behind the bar,” I said. “I can’t see an ATF Bureau seal on them. You were probably shopping in the duty-free store over in the Islands, and then you got your own bottles mixed up with your bar stock.”
    He put his hands on his hips and looked at the bottles on the shelf and shook his head profoundly.
    “Boy, I think you called it,” he said. “Am I glad you brought that to my attention. Robin, you ought to hold on to this guy.”
    “You better lay off it, Jerry,” she said.
    “He knows I don’t mean any harm. Right, chief? I don’t get in people’s face, I don’t mess in their space. I ain’t no swinging dick. You know what that is, don’t you, chief?”
    “Show time’s over,” I said.
    “You telling me? I get minimum wage and tips in this place, and I don’t need the hassle. Believe me, I don’t need the hassle.”
    I watched him walk into the storage room at the back of the bar. He walked like a mainline con and full-time wiseguy, from the hips down, with no motion in the chest or arms, a guy who would break into jails or be in a case file of some kind the rest of his life. What produced them? Defective genes, growing up in a shithole, bad toilet training? Even after fourteen years with the New Orleans police department, I never had an adequate answer.
    “About that Bubba Rocque stuff, that’s just what I heard. I mean, it didn’t come from me, okay?” she said. “Bubba’s crazy, Dave. I know a girl, she tried to go independent. His guys soaked her in gasoline and set her on fire.”
    “You didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know about Bubba. You understand that? You’re not a source.”
    But I could still see the bright sheen of fear in her eyes.
    “Listen, I’ve known him all my life,” I said. “He still owns a home outside of Lafayette. There’s nothing you could tell me about him