Sucker bet - James Swain [66]
“He looks just like a kid,” Popjoy said. “But I guess you know that.”
Hicks put the bottle on the table and said that he did.
“Where was I?” Popjoy asked. “Oh, yeah. It was the strangest thing. I stood in front of his cage, and he picked up a ukulele and played an old Cajun song. How Come My Dog Don’t Bark (When You Come Around). I mean, I didn’t say a damn thing.”
“You like this song?”
“It’s my favorite,” Popjoy said. “It was like he read my mind.”
Many people had said this about Mr. Beauregard, and Hicks guessed it was because they weren’t used to being around an animal as smart as them. A nurse appeared and told Popjoy he had to leave.
Hicks walked his visitor into the hall. The sergeant took a notepad from his hip pocket and flipped it open. “I have a lead on the person who shot him. A young boy sitting on the Ferris wheel saw a black limousine pull up to your trailer. A man got out and went inside. When he came out, the boy thought he saw an object in his hand that looked like a gun.”
“A black limousine?”
Popjoy nodded. “The boy didn’t make out the plate, but I was wondering if you might know who owned the vehicle.”
Hicks sure did. It was the punk from New York who’d paid him to rig the games so a drunk Englishman and his hooker could have an hour of fun. He’d kept the punk’s business card, which now resided in his wallet.
And what would Popjoy do with such a piece of information? They couldn’t arrest the punk—not enough evidence. But they could pay him a call and shake him down. Which was why Popjoy had come calling.
“Sorry,” Hicks said.
Popjoy looked disappointed. He shut his notebook and put it away. Then put his hand on Ray Hicks’s shoulder and left it there longer than Hicks would have liked.
“I’m here to help. I want you to remember that.”
“Go to hell,” Hicks said when he was gone.
30
Bill Higgins had stayed in his car Saturday night casing Saul Hyman’s condo. Once or twice he’d dozed, but for the most part, he’d stayed awake. And now he was paying for it. Sunday, seven A.M., and he felt like he’d been run over by a Mack truck. An old guy doing a young guy’s work.
It had been a dull night. At three A.M. he’d called Saul’s private line, having gotten the number from a Miami-Dade cop he knew. As Saul picked up, Higgins hung up. He was willing to bet Saul hadn’t slept since.
Which was why Higgins hadn’t gone anywhere. Let Saul look out his window and see the guy who’d run him out of Las Vegas sitting there, pining for him. That would be enough to make his defibrillator go off.
He played with the radio, trying to find a news station that wasn’t Hispanic. He considered calling Tony, just to see if he’d gotten anywhere, but decided against it. If Tony wanted to tell him something, he’d call. Otherwise, it was best to stay out of his way.
They’d met in Atlantic City in 1978. Higgins was there to give testimony against a blackjack dealer who’d ripped off a casino in Reno a few years earlier. Atlantic City had been overrun by cheaters at the time—what hustlers called a candy store—and Higgins had offered to help the local police learn how to spot problem players. The police had agreed. Tony, then a detective, had been one of his students.
Over time, a friendship had developed, and Higgins had immediately realized that Tony was no ordinary cop. He had great instincts and was damn smart, characteristics that were rare in law enforcement. He also had a huge chip on his shoulder and was not someone you wanted to cross. In that way, he was like most cops, including himself. Higgins’s chip had come from spending his formative years at the Haskell Institute. Where Tony’s had come from, he had no idea.
A Hispanic kid on a flashy bike had braked next to Higgins’s rental. Higgins rolled down his window.
“You Bill Higgins?” the kid asked.
“Who’s asking?”
The kid took a brown envelope from his basket. Higgins’s name was written on it in Magic Marker. He watched