12 Bullets Page 5

  “I need a key to this place.”

  “You take the streetcar again?

  “Of course. What happened to your chin?”

  “Tripped and fell.”

  “That doesn’t sound exciting.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Where did you trip?”

  “In a swamp.”

  “Swamp? You messing with me again?”

  She leads the way into the kitchen.

  What’s for supper?”

  “Your sister’s getting Indian food when she’s finished shopping.”

  “What? Buffalo? Venison? Rattlesnake kebobs?

  Beau pulls out his cell and calls Jessie.

  “Get extra orders of everything,” he says. “The couillon just showed up.”

  Jessie huffs.

  “With a back pack the size of Oregon.”

  “She can’t stay.”

  “Tell her when you get here.”

  Stefi goes down the hall calling Stella’s name as if the cat’s gonna come to her.

  Stella steps into the hall, tail high, prancing and going, “Meow. Meow. Meeoooow.”

  Son-of-gun.

  Stefi plops on the hardwood floor and pets Stella who moves around her in a circle before climbing into Stefi’s lap as she sits cross-legged. At fourteen, Stefani Agabitta Carini is a smaller version of Jessie, a green-eyed beauty whose boobs haven’t kicked in yet. Stefi is a wanna-be exhibitionist. Facing Beau as she sits in her miniskirt, she makes sure he can see her pink panties before he moves to get behind her.

  The girl keeps getting into sexy trouble – sending nude selfies to boys – flashing boys and men on the streetcar –getting naked in the new Jacuzzi Jessie installed on the rear deck out back when she knows the old man in the house behind is in his backyard.

  “When’s the last time he’s seen a young naked body?”

  Jessie’s been telling Stefi how her middle name agabitta means aggravating when the word means ‘energetic and determined’ in Italian.

  “Challenging her doesn’t work,” Beau had told Jessie.

  Stefi points to her big sisters as examples of exhibitionists. Alaina, former Miss Louisiana, did a spread in Playboy and has appeared topless in two movies. Jessie was the model for the Nude in Red portrait by Pablo Cortez, grandson of Janvier Cortez, friend of Picasso and Dali. The portrait hangs in Jessie and Beau’s bedroom.

  “Your website is finally cooling down,” Stefi says, “but your facebook page is wild. We need someone who understands French, Italian and German. You have a lot of followers in Europe.”

  Lord, help me. One Legion of Honor, on the covers of every important magazine in Europe and America and I’m a lame-ass social media sensation. All I did was kill a couple guys.

  Thanks to Stefi, proud to be the little sister of a man the French call Le Grand Beau, the Great Beau.

  JESSIE EXPLAINS THE soup, “Steamed lentils with tamarind juice, tomatoes, peppers and cumin.”

  Not bad.

  Baked chicken and fish with a thick brown gravy over yellow rice is tasty, so is the vegetable chowder called huli and a stuffed leaf dish. All dishes are spiced with curry and comes with a flat biscuit rotti and round baked balls called goli bajii.

  “Too much curry,” Stefi complains to Jessie who loves every dish.

  Beau spots Stella in the doorway. The odd scents don’t seem to attract her so there’s no begging for table food tonight.

  “Coffee will be served in the living room,” Jessie says as they rinse off their dishes and pack the leftovers into the refrigerator.

  They shoo Beau out of the kitchen and he finds Stella waiting in the living room.

  The drums and chanting start up on his iPhone and he sees it’s LaStanza.

  “You get a new clutchy pillow yet?”

  “Fuckin’ A. We have to put it in the closet every morning. You and I have a sit-down with Cataldo after mass tomorrow, Rienzi’s on Saint Charles. Pick me up at 8:30.”

  Rienzi’s. Beau knows the place. Smallish Italian restaurant set back from the avenue.

  “See ya’.” LaStanza hangs up.

  JESSIE PICKS UP the silver tray of with the coffee carafe, cups, cream and sugar as Stefi lifts the chocolate cake. Juanita Cruz and Hillel Jordan snatch up some of the gifts. They had sneaked in through the kitchen door.

  “I thought Johnny doesn’t want a birthday party.”

  “He doesn’t.”

  In the living room, Stella jumps in Beau’s lap when Jessie and Stefi come in with coffee and a chocolate cake.

  “Happy Birthday!” Stefi calls out and Beau looks at the ceiling, closes his eyes a moment.

  When he opens them, he sees Juanita and Jordan. Now he must endure a birthday party, unwrapping presents in front of everyone – a thick sweater from Jordan (might be able to wear it once a year) – couple dress shirts from Juanita (one with horizontal stripes Beau will never wear). Jessie watches her boyfriend pretending to like this.

  Stefi waits to give him her gift and he unwraps a portrait of Stefi in a silver frame. A close-up, unsmiling, wearing make-up but not a lot, her lips a deep scarlet, those light-green eyes staring into the lens. A 14-year old going on twenty. She signed it – “To my biggest fan, the Great Beau. Love, Stefi.”

  Beaus smiles for the first time, hugs Stefi who kisses his cheek.

  Jessie comes back into the room with a package, maybe three feet long, six inches wide. They clean off the coffee table and she puts the package in front of Beau, waits.

  He unwraps it, his eyes growing wide.

  “Know what it is?” Stefi asks.

  He nods slowly.

  “It opens here,” Jessie shows him the latches along the glass top of the cedar case. She offers him a small container of hand wipes and box of Kleenex.

  “Professor Lannes at Loyola says you should sanitize your hands and wipe off before you touch it.

  Beau cleans his hands, opens the case and lightly brushes his fingers across the gift.

  “What is it?” Jordan asks.

  “Wampum belt,” Beau’s mouth is dry. “Old.”

  His fingers glide across the white beads, black and purple shells, feels the rough milkweed fibers holding the belt together.

  “It’s 2 ¼ inches wide and 29 ½ inches long,” says Jessie. “It’s from an eastern tribe, the Lenape, also called the Delaware.”

  “They friends with the Sioux?” Stefi asks.

  Beau’s voice is raspy. “From New York, Connecticut, Rhode Island. Nowhere near the Sioux.”

  “Professor Lannes says the Dutch bought Manhattan from a Lenape band,” says Jessie.

  Beau nods. “Peter Minuit.”

  Jessie goes on, “The professor ran a test, carbon dated the fibers – 1500 to 1510.”

  She sees Beau’s eyes growing wet now. She tells him there is a message in the black shells. He looks at her for a moment and looks back at the belt.

  “Language called Munsee.”

  He nods. “Language of the Lenape.”

  “The message reads, ‘I am Blue Swan Daughter of the Wind’.”

  His breathing grows deeper, catches and he closes his eyes.

  Stefi touches his arm. “What is it?”

  Beau sits up straighter, takes in a breath.

  “The people.” He clears his throat, wipes his eyes. “The native peoples of North America, including the Lenape, the Sioux – all tribes believe if your name lives, you live. You are in the trees and in the wind and feel the warmth of the sun. When a breeze rustles leaves, it is the people long gone, whispering to the living.” His voice catches and his eyes fill.

  Beau lets out a long breath. “Over 500 years ago a Lenape maiden strung this together, creating this thing of beauty and declared to the world she was Blue Swan Daughter of the Wind.” He tries to clears his throat but his voice catches. “Her spirit –,” he clears his throat again his voice lower now.

  “Her spirit has long ago traveled along the path of the stars t
o the highest of the Twelve Heavens and is with the maker of all things where the dead wait for the living to arrive.

  “Today, we speak her name and she is here again among the living on the good Earth. Her name is no longer lost from the world because we know it and speak it. Blue Swan.” He wipes his eyes again.

  “My ancestors would say it is a fine thing to reach across the long years. 500 years.”

  Beau looks at Jessie with tears in his eyes.

  “This is the finest gift anyone could ever give me.”

  Stella climbs into his lap and he pets her.

  Jessie wipes her eyes. “We can hang it in here.”

  Beau shakes his head. “No, in our bedroom. Next to your Nude in Red. I want to see both every evening and every morning.” He wipes his eyes one more time.

  Everyone eyes are wet, except Jordan, who says, “Jessie, you sure know how to bring down a party.”

  Thunder rumbles outside and Jessie steps to the windows facing Saint Charles Avenue. No rain yet. The café-au-lait is luke warm but they drink it anyway, Beau still looking at the wampum belt. Jessie sits next to him on the sofa.

  She’s in a miniskirt as well and spots Jordan checking her out. Stefi notices Jordan hawking out her sister and decides sitting cross-legged on the carpet is OK. Juanita catches Jessie’s eyes and rolls hers.

  A louder roll of thunder sounds.

  “Is it raining?” Stefi asks again.

  “Not yet.”

  Beau looks over his shoulder at the windows, turns to Stefi, realizes how she’s sitting, asks her to come sit on the other side of him. She rolls her eyes. She’s having fun with Jordan.

  When she sits next to Beau, he elbows her shoulder, says, “Thunder is the voice of the gods who live in the lowest of the Twelve Heavens as they protect the people from danger. It is the sound of their anger. When you hear thunder and there is no lightning or rain, heat thunder we call it sometimes, the gods have succeeded in keeping a storm away. When there is thunder and lightning it is the battle of good and evil and the people are swept into the storm.

  “When it rains without thunder it is a good rain that wets the plain and feeds the rivers.” He touches the belt again.

  “You really believe there are Twelve Heavens?” Stefi asks.

  Beau does not answer.

  “What about the men you killed? The bad guys. They in the Twelve Heavens?”

  “They are in hell.”

  “The Sioux believe in hell?”

  Beau almost smiles. “I was raised Catholic, little Miss Exhibitionist.”

  She bumps him with her shoulder. “Exhibitionist? I learned everything I know from my sisters.” She sticks her tongue at Jessie who realizes Jordan’s eased over and has a good view up her skirt.

  Jordan must see Juanita watching him too.

  “Damn,” goes Jordan. “You guys are some intense people.”

  Jessie realizes the pattering outside is rain.

  JESSIE SUPERVISES PUTTING up the two hooks for the wampum belt case on the wall near the Nude in Red painting, across from the foot of their king-sized bed. They both step back and see it’s level. Jessie puts the hammer on an end table Beau moves behind Jessie, cupping her breasts.

  She sighs, leans back against him, says, “Don’t get carried away. We’re saving it until tomorrow when you get you final present.”

  “Not tonight?”

  “You should have taken Stefi home.”

  “In the rain?”

  “In your super-duper Secret Service SUV.”

  They undress now and he asks, “How did you find a wampum belt?”

  “Lizette called me from an estate sale. She was looking for arrows supposed to have been carried by Andrew Jackson’s braves at the Battle of New Orleans.”

  LaStanza’s wife Lizette. Daughter of Alexandre Louvier. Woman with the chewed-up clutchy pillow.

  BEAU WAKES JUST after 3 a.m., hears wind in the trees outside, climbs into shorts, takes his iPhone in case someone calls and his .357 magnum. You never know what’s in a backyard. Stella raises her head from her sleeping position at the foot of the bed but doesn’t follow him.

  He goes out the new French doors opening to the deck in back, moves around the Jacuzzi and steps out from the overhang, the wet grass cool under his feet. The breeze rustles the leaves of the oak and magnolia tree, dripping rainwater, and he listens, remembers what his mother’s father told him. If you listen hard enough you can hear the dead, hear them whispering with the wind, sighing through the leaves of trees.

  “It is our ancestors whispering to us,” his grandfather said.

  Beau closes his eyes and listens and after a while his voice comes out in a whisper, “I think it is a fine thing to know you, Blue Swan, daughter of the wind.”

  Another breath of wind rustles leaves.

  “I am Sharp Eyes of the Oglala Sioux. Lakota. And I tell you we are still here. The people are still here on the Earth and your name is heard again and now you are here and I will listen for your words in the wind.”

  Misty raindrops fleck his face from the leaves and he keeps listening.

  Before he goes back in, after the breeze is gone all the air is still, he whispers again. “Blue Swan. If you see my Papa, tell him how much I miss him.”

  BEAU PARKS THE navy-blue SUV where Garfield Street dead ends at Audubon Park, next to the white, three-story Louvier Mansion, where Dino LaStanza lives with his wife Lizette Louvier. The mansion faces the park on the concrete promenade running along the downtown side of the park, the promenade known as Exposition Boulevard. He goes around to the front gate of the black wrought fence and rings the doorbell.

  “Come to the side door,” LaStanza says through the intercom. Beau sees the small camera next to the large mailbox atop next to the gate.

  Beau goes back to the banquette running along Garfield to the side door where LaStanza stands with a cup of coffee in hand. At 5’6”, LaStanza is eight inches shorter than Beau. Around forty now, LaStanza’s longish hair and moustache are still dark brown. He wears a white dress shirt over black 511 tactical trousers. Beau wears a black T-shirt and the same tactical pants with his gunbelt where his gold star-and-crescent badge clipped in front of his holster with the .357 magnum Model DX1. He also wears a gray dress shirt, unbuttoned and untucked to conceal his weapon.

  “You’re early.”

  No surprise to former homicide detective LaStanza. Good cops are usually early for everything. He turns back into his kitchen and Beau follows, LaStanza waving to the coffee pot as he goes to the small kitchen table to scoop his iPad. Beau brings his coffee to the table.

  Two greyhounds scramble into the kitchen, both coming over to nuzzle Beau, who pets them.

  Flash and Thompson. Named by LaStanza for a guy in Spiderman comics.

  LaStanza says, “Your girlfriend and my wife are featured on a new website. www.handa.com.”

  Gotta be an NOPD site. When LaStanza and Beau were patrolmen, they had HANDA printed on the back of their business cards. HANDA – Have A Nice Day, Asshole.

  LaStanza turns the iPad to Beau who takes a moment to realize what he sees. Jessie and Lizette wearing Mardi Gras masks and standing between two cops in uniform – Eddie Honney and Johnny Melon, a black and white team from the Sixth District. The men are looking down at the women holding their tops open, flashing their breasts. The crowd in the background watches. Gotta be in the Quarter.

  “That you, Beau?” Lizette’s voice calls out and he turns to see her come into the kitchen wearing a blue T-shirt which barely covers her – no it doesn’t. Part of her white panties are visible. She walks past her husband for the coffee pot, the bottom of her ass peeking out at Beau now. Beau’s seen Lizette naked before but only at night in and out of the oversize Jacuzzi in their backyard. Pushing thirty now, Lizette is still stone-fuckin-gorgeous, her gravity-defying boobs are even larger than Jessie’s and her waist just as narrow. Must run in the family. No – Jessie is LaStanza’s cousin.

>   Like Jessie, Lizette has a full bush. Their men are old school. She smiles at him as she comes to sit between them.

  “Good morning, everyone.”

  “You remember to put clutchy pillow in the closet?” Beau asks Lizette.

  Lizette slaps her husband’s arm.

  “Big mouth.”

  “I haven’t told him about backy pillow.”

  Her eyes go wide.

  “Since I don’t cuddle as much in summer, my wife has to press a pillow against her back when she sleeps. Backy pillow.”

  “Jessie’s a cuddler, winter, summer, spring, fall.”

  “Y’all don’t get sweaty in summer,” LaStanza asks.

  “No, but the hard-ons can be a pain.”

  LaStanza shows Lizette the picture on the iPad. She laughs, takes a hit of coffee, looks at Beau. “Surprised they didn’t put a picture of me from that balcony. A 70-year old retired cop help me strip down on a balcony. Butt naked. I wore over-sized sunglasses.”

  “Man rode with my father as a patrolman,” LaStanza adds.

  “Didn’t know that.”

  LaStanza’s father is a retired NOPD captain.

  “As if the glasses hid her face. I’m sure he told my old man all about stripping my wife.”

  This is the woman who took Jessie’s exhibitionist tendencies and turned them into a near-obsession.

  “Have you been talking with Stefi?” Beau asks.

  “Not recently.”

  He tells them about the nude selfies and flashing, ending with Stefi’s too young.

  “You need educating, Mr. Beau,” Lizette says. “Once the hormones hit and the flashing bug bites a girl, you can’t stop it. I started at thirteen, Jessie around fourteen. Most girls are shy. We are not.”

  Beau looks at LaStanza who has the expressionless face down pat.

  Lord help us.

  TWO STREETCARS CLATTER as they pass along the neutral ground in the center of Saint Charles Avenue. Beau and LaStanza stand on the banquette just down from Rienzi’s Italian Restaurant, a small, narrow place with two picture windows in front. Strong scent of tomato gravy wafts from the place, mixing with the smell of car exhaust. They watch the passing cars, the occasional pedestrian, a stray dog sniffing a tree.