“This your friend Nick?” the man asked. He was in his late twenties. Easy smile on his face. Relaxed handshake. His eyes kind of unfocused, slow and lazy in his movements. He looked like he’d just woken up and stifled a yawn with his fist.

“This my dog Trey,” Teddy said. “Take care of my financial things. Keep the Ninth Ward show runnin’ hard.”

“Y’all work together?” I asked.

“Trey Brill,” he said. He had that carefully disheveled hair that was supposed to make you look like you’d just crawled out of bed. He was kind of tan and had a slight blondish stubble on his face. He kept his sunglasses on Croakies around his neck.

“Thought I was your one and only token,” I said.

“I like to diversify.”

“Hey, man,” I said to Trey. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“You can come by the office tomorrow.”

I looked at Teddy.

“They ain’t no tomorrow,” Teddy said to Trey. “I’ll explain later. I need you to do this.”

Trey looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I told you about Nick looking into what happened with ALIAS?”

“Yeah.”

“Give him what he needs.”

“What do you do, Nick?”

“Pick up my paycheck at the end of the week,” I said. I hated that question.

Trey gave that relaxed smile. “You’re a teacher or something?”

“At Tulane.”

“Teddy, I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand.”

“Take care of Nick,” he said. “I ain’t got time.”

“I’ve got to head back to my office,” Trey said.

“I’ll meet you there.”

Trey looked back at Teddy, but Teddy had already disappeared under the concrete caves.

12

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I rode the elevator up to the thirty-second floor of a nameless CBD building made of steel and mirrors. A black leather sofa and a small coffee table covered in back issues of the Robb Report sat inside the glass door to BRILL & ASSOCIATES, SPORTS AND ENTERTAINMENT MANAGEMENT. A wooden humidor of cigars and a cutter waited for anyone who needed to indulge. The magazines featured articles on test drives of the latest Ferraris and new Caribbean resorts with nights that started in the $3,000 range.

Framed photos hung on the walls. Couple of old teammates of mine. The current coach for the Saints. A famous jazz musician. I stared through a doorway flooded with dim light into an office and back wall with a view of another mirrored office building across the street. A red light blinked from an antenna on the roof. The sky was orange and black, dark clouds still hovering over Algiers. I hoped the streets would not flood tonight.

Brill walked in with a black man who looked to be somewhere in his twenties. The black man, really just a kid, carried a couple of helmets and footballs. He wore a navy polo shirt and khakis. They were laughing hard, and when the guy put down all the sports paraphernalia, Trey gave him a high five.

The other guy looked at me and his eyes narrowed a bit. Trey waited a second, checked messages on the secretary’s desk, and then turned back. “One minute, Nick. Okay?”

We shook hands and his smile folded deeply into dimples. He divided his long frat-boy hair out of his eyes. “So, what do you need?”

He’d yet to introduce his buddy. The buddy crossed his arms over his chest and peered down at my dirty boots. I looked at him and he just watched me. No smile, no greeting.

“Oh, this is my friend Christian,” Brill said. “We had to grab some of this stuff for a new sports bar a friend of ours is opening. They needed some more Saints crap. Man, we’re going to be great this year. I can’t wait.”

I always hated it when men referred to the teams they followed as “we.” I don’t call drinking beer and yelling at the players doing the actual work some kind of true common bond. Especially the ones who think their affiliation is on a metaphysical plane and they are as responsible for the outcome as the guys on the field.

I followed Brill back to his office, where the walls were lined with more sports stars and photos of him with old NFL greats. One showed him running through some tires at some kind of NFL fantasy camp.

He reached into a small refrigerator by his glass desk and pulled out Evian water. He kicked out of his Nikes, rolled off his socks, and laid his bare feet on top of the desk. “Shoot.”

“I need to look at Teddy and Malcolm’s bank records, any account that was drained.”

He sipped on the water as if it were a baby’s bottle. A pacifier of some kind. He squinted his eyes and nodded with concern. “And what will that do?”

“Find ALIAS’s money.”

He nodded. “O-kay. Haven’t the police already done this?” He gave a forced laugh.

“They tried, but Malcolm wouldn’t let them,” I said. “I need to know when you noticed the money was missing and copies of any withdrawals made.”

He nodded again and downed half the bottle of water. He stood up and patted me on the back. “Listen, I appreciate you being such a good friend to Teddy, and if you hear of anything that can help us out with that missing money, I will let the detectives know. But it’s not our policy to let information like that out.”

“Call Teddy.”

“We already spoke.”