John Raven Beau Read online

  Her hair is curled and falls past her shoulders. Her face is made up like a fashion model, her lips a bright crimson. Sandie’s full breasts are perfectly round with small nipples and delicate pink areolas. Her thick mat of public hair stands fluffy. I’m sure she brushed it out. Her legs are long and slim, sculptured, like a dancer’s legs.

  Repositioning myself, I try to cross my legs but can’t with my jeans. I try to subtly readjust my crotch, but Sandie notices and grins at me. My watch reads 7:57.

  Why was Angie angry? I just met her when she asks about the bandage on my cheek. What was I supposed to say? The truth? I got nicked in a shootout. Sounds like a pick-up line. Like I’m trying to impress her. Hell, I don’t want to impress anyone. Especially her. Especially when she focuses those aquamarines on me. She’s too damn young and too damn pretty.

  “Thank you,” the woman in pink tells Sandie as everyone starts packing up their stuff. Sandie gets up, twists and turns to work out kinks in her back. Grinning, she strolls over and folds her arms under her breasts.

  “Enjoy the show?” She winks at me.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”

  Two students, one blond and one Asian, check Sandie’s ass as they pass.

  “Wait here,” Sandie says, touching my knee momentarily before bounding away to an oriental screen on the back side of the room. I almost laugh as she goes behind the screen to dress. A dark haired young man stands just inside the door and checks me out, only when I look back, he looks away. He switches his backpack from his right shoulder to his left and waits, staring at the screen now.

  Sandie comes out brushing her hair. She’s in a red minidress and white sandals. She hurries over to the dark haired guy, pecks him on the lips and takes his hand to pull him over to me. I climb off the stool as they arrive.

  “This is Samuel,” she tells me. We shake hands and his palm is damp.

  “This is my cousin Beau. He’s from the country.”

  The country. Cute.

  I take Sandie by the wrist and tell Samuel we need to talk alone for a moment. Sandie follows me away, rolling her hips back at Samuel, who isn’t pleased.

  “Two things,” I say when we’re out of earshot.

  “Isn’t he scrumptious?”

  “Yeah. Right. First – tell no one and I mean no one about the missing badges.”

  “OK.” She bounces and looks back at Samuel. I catch a whiff of her strong perfume.

  “Second – I’m backing you up tomorrow night. Understand?”

  “OK.” She starts to back away.

  “I’ll pick you up at nine p.m.”

  “OK!” And she’s off, hurrying back to Samuel who puts his arm around her. On their way out he squeezes her ass and looks back at me with this bad-ass look and I have to laugh. Tough schoolboy. Maybe he should back her up tomorrow night. I find a pay phone outside the Education Building and call Felice’s auntie.

  “I’m looking for Felice.”

  “Well, she ain’t here.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “No and ifin I did I ain’t tellin no body on no phone.”

  “Can you ask her to call me?”

  “What your name?”

  “Beau.” I spell it.

  She corrects my spelling and says it should be Bo.

  “Wif one ‘O’,” she says. “Ifin it be with two ‘Os’ you’d be a ghost, right?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  She hangs up.

  Eight fifteen and I’ve got nothing to do. As I walk back to the Caprice, I wonder if I should hunt for Felice, as futile as that sounds. If I find her, I couldn’t talk to her anyway, not in any bar. I crank up the Caprice and head over to the Fifth District Station. Maybe some street cops can tell me about biker bars in the Ninth Ward.

  •

  At five the following evening, I’m back in the squad room, sitting at my desk watching Bob Kay go over the leads from yesterday and today.

  Gonzales, in a black shark-skin suit, his hair slicked back, sits at his desk and seems to be listening intently to Kay’s words. The other homicide detectives assigned to the Task Force sit at their desks with bored looks on their faces. Al Mercier, his light brown hair neatly trimmed, his tan suit neatly pressed, looks as if he stepped out of an ad for Gentleman’s Quarterly. His partner, Sam Costanza sits reading a Playboy. His dark hair is messed and his pink tie clashes with his maroon jacket, but he’s happy scanning the pictures in the mag. I fight off a yawn as Kay explains that the lead involving the braggart high school students has no merit. Big fuckin’ surprise.

  “Now, we still have no corroborative information about the former Manson family members who might be running around with the grunge people in the Quarter. We’re still working on that.”

  I notice Tim Rothman for the first time today as he moves to the coffee pot. He’s in a tan suit too. I, for a change, am not wearing black. I wear faded jeans, a dark green tee-shirt with a brown sport coat and white Nike running shoes. That’s as colorful as I get.

  “As for the psychic from Mississippi ...” Kay pauses as the cat calls break out. Someone lets out a loud fart sound behind me. I don’t have to look. It’s Tony Dunn, burglary detective with the annoying habit of providing sound effects at inopportune times.

  “Detective Rothman,” Kay continues, “worked through the night with the psychic ...”

  Someone in back hoots, while Sam Costanza laughs out loud. Tony Dunn makes a barfing sound. They must have seen Ruthie too.

  As the tirade continues, Rothman shoots me a disgusted look and moves toward the back of the room. Dunn injects a loud “ping” and two “pops” followed by a “zowie.” Rothman stops next to a stocky detective wearing a two-tone Baltimore Orioles baseball cap. Before Rothman can escape, he’s in the middle of a Fudd.

  The stocky detective, Elvis Channard, better known as Elmer Fudd, because of his striking resemblance to Bugs Bunny’s nemesis, leans close to Rothman and starts talking. The most long-winded of creatures, Channard’s mouth moves rapidly as Rothman closes his eyes. I’m sure he’s trying to ignore Channard but it’s plain by the hangdog look on his face, Rothman is in the middle of a Fudd and can’t get away.

  “Detective Rothman,” Kay’s voice rises, “um, feels, um that this psychic has nothing relevant to add to this investigation.”

  “Big fuckin’ revelation!” Al Mercier’s voice booms, which causes everyone to pause. Usually quiet, it’s not like Al. He shrugs and acknowledges the momentary glitch by looking down, like a schoolboy who said something out of place in class.

  Sam Costanza turns to me and shows me the fold-out in his Playboy. It’s another naked blond. I’ve seen her before, or her clone in any number of previous Playboys. Kay starts passing out leads for tonight. I look out at the darkness closing on the city. Reaching my desk Kay passes me a memo. I read it:

  Det. Beau,

  I’m giving you this piece of paper so the others will think I’m giving you an assignment. Pretend you have an assignment. And when you get a chance will you let me know what the fuck you’re doing!

  Assistant Superintendent Kay

  As people start getting up to leave, Kay calls for everyone’s attention one more time. He pulls a paper from his clipboard. I recognize it immediately as a National Broadcast from the FBI to all local agencies.

  “Summary of law enforcement officer killed.” Kay’s voice booms. “Paris Texas Police Department advises officer, 39-year old Hispanic male, shot and killed one a.m., this morning, while executing a narcotics warrant. As officers entered residence, white male, aged forty-two, barricaded himself in bedroom and fired upon officers with nine-millimeter semiautomatic handgun. Deceased officer shot in head, two other officers wounded and assailant justifiably killed.”

  Kay pulls another sheet of paper out and reads from it. “Over the last twelve months 161 police officers have been killed in the line of duty in the U.S. Of that number, only two cases are still unsolved.” Kay fol
ds the papers and looks over everyone’s heads. “Both of those murders are here.”

  He takes in a deep breath. “There’s never been an unsolved murder of a New Orleans Police Officer. I don’t intend to rest until we erase this fucking blot!”

  He’s one of the few cops I know who puts the “g” and the end of fuckin’.

  Sam Costanza puts the Playboy away. Mercier is his serious self again. Gonzales, standing now, pulls out his Glock and checks it. Even Rothman’s jaw is set in determination. I gotta hand it to Kay. He knows how to motivate.

  As people shuffle out, I pour myself a fresh mug of coffee and head for the police computer. Pulling out the notes I took at the Fifth District Station, I start running addresses in the computer, addresses of Ninth Ward Bars. An hour and a half later, I stand and stretch. Before returning to my desk, I tear the print outs off the dot matrix printer. I have seventy-seven pages of arrests at various bars, incidents from disturbing the peace calls to knifings and shootings from the last twelve months. As I approach my desk I hear yelling on my portable radio.

  Turning up the volume, the radio is suddenly silent. I drop the print outs on my desk as a faintly familiar voice calls in a Code four, then starts asking for a homicide team and the coroner. I recognize Mercier’s voice and start packing my briefcase immediately.

  Jodie answers headquarters and learns Mercier and Costanza are calling for a homicide team in the 1000 block of Gravier Street. The radio goes bananas again and I turn it down as I grab my sport coat and head for the door.

  •

  I park my Caprice around the corner on South Rampart just as Jodie arrives. She climbs out of her car, brushes her skirt down and spots me. I raise both hands and shout, “I didn’t do it! Just got here.”

  She shoots me a weary smile, then reaches back in her car for her radio. I do the same, slipping mine into the back pocket of my jeans. I leave my coat in the car, readjusting my Glock’s canvass holster at the small of my back. I’m getting used to wearing it back there, butt pointing to my right so I can easily reach around for it. Easier to hide. My star-and-crescent badge is clipped to the front of my belt.

  Jodie waits for me at the corner. She looks especially nice this evening and I almost tell her. Her eyes look more cat-like than usual. Probably new eye-liner. Her blond hair looks freshly blow-dried as usual. She’s in a gray skirt suit with a black blouse. She lets out a tired sigh and says, “You don’t need to be here.”

  “Thought you could use a hand,” I tell Jodie as she turns and leads the way around the corner. A squeal of brakes behind Jodie turns us both around as Bob Kay jumps from his car and rushes down Gravier Street.

  Mercier leans against the side of his unmarked white Ford LTD, parked on the uptown side of the street. Costanza is on the other side of the vehicle, on the sidewalk. A uniformed sergeant stands next to him. Six feet away, next to a gray building, lies the crumpled body of a white male in dark clothes.

  Costanza points at the body and starts blabbering to Bob Kay, who looks stunned. Jodie steps between them, separates Costanza and moves him away. I don’t have to hear to know she’s telling him to stop talking. Behind me a bright light comes on and I know a TV camera is firing up. Kay wheels and the uniformed sergeant moves immediately toward the camera.

  “Hey,” shouts Kay. “Keep those people outta here!”

  Behind me two more uniformed men have arrived. It’ll be their job to cordon off the area. Jodie waves me over and asks me to stay with Mercier. I step around to Mercier who stands looking up at the dark sky.

  “You all right?”

  He nods and looks at me. “Costanza shot him.” Mercier’s voice is low, for my ears only. He looks over his shoulder at his partner, then nods toward the body. “Stupid fuck came at us with a knife.” Mercier holds up his left arm to show the neat slice in his sleeve of his nice tan suit coat.

  “Fuckin’ 107 call.” Mercier closes his eyes again. A 107 is a suspicious person call, the same type of call that got Cassandra Smith killed.

  The officers at the end of the street start yelling and Kay rushes over to help them fight off the media. I see two television cameras now. Jesus, they get here fast. It takes another twenty minutes for the crime lab to arrive. Mercier and I pass the time in silence as I watch Jodie take notes, watch her move around, like a feline predator, stalking out the crime scene. When the crime lab technician arrives, she snaps quick and precise orders.

  Costanza passes his weapon to the tech. Jodie flags Kay over and asks if he can take Costanza to headquarters where another sergeant waits to take Costanza’s statement.

  She points to me. “You get Mercier out of here. We don’t need the media circus.”

  “But I thought I’d canvass.” I grin and Jodie shakes her head.

  Kay waves me along and I turn and ask Mercier if he’d like a lift, knowing he can’t ride or talk with Costanza until after they give their statements.

  “Sure.” He pushes off the car and we start back.

  Only someone touches my shoulder and I turn to see Jodie leaning close to my ear.

  “Look who’s here.” She points to a blond apparition at the end of the block. The blond wears a long red dress and spiked heels. Abby Grange, arms folded, glares at me. I wave and smile broadly.

  “If I wasn’t so fuckin’ tired,” Jodie says, “I’d kick her ass.”

  She leans her elbow up on my shoulder and I grab her waist to keep from falling off the edge of the sidewalk. Jodie has a nice, curvy waist. She pulls back and blows a strand of hair from her eyes.

  “Get out of here.”

  And she turns and walks back into the crime scene.

  As I start for the corner, I spot the Orioles baseball cap in the camera lights as Elvis Channard’s unmistakable portly figure bobs through the lights, heading my way. I pick up my pace, leading Mercier forward.

  “Wow!” Channard says as he arrives. “Is Jodie here?”

  I point over my shoulder and suddenly remember Jodie mentioning how she thinks Elmer Fudd has a crush on her.

  “Think she can use an extra hand?” Channard looks past me.

  “Sure,” I tell him. “I’m sure she could use some help.”

  “Goody!” And he bounces away.

  He said goody. Ya’ gotta love the guy.

  I lead Mercier to the corner where Abby Grange waits with her cameraman. She positions herself in my way, her mike in hand. As we converge, Abby calls out, “Did you kill someone else, Detective Beau?”

  I grin at her and ask, “Where’s your corsage?”

  “Detective Beau, were you involved in yet another shooting?”

  I step closer to her as Mercier slips by, heading for my car.

  “You have very pretty eyes,” I tell Abby as I move around her. She has beady blue eyes.

  “Why won’t you talk with us, Detective Beau? Do you have something to hide?”

  I spread my arms, palms up, as I backpedal. “Women in red dresses intimidate me!”

  I turn and unlock the passenger door for Mercier, go around and climb into the Caprice and drive away, the bright television light glimmering in my rearview mirror. Mercier and I do not speak all the way to headquarters. And it occurs to me that Kay sure knows how to motivate his troops, all right. How did he put it, “... assailant justifiably killed.”

  Goddamn suspicious person call.

  •

  Sandie climbs out of the Caprice and wiggles away in her black spiked heels. She wears a low cut red blouse and tight black jeans. Crossing Port Street, she moves to the corner of North Rampart to Borman’s Bar, a one story wooden neighborhood bar with two Harley Davidsons parked out front. It’s the fifth bar we’ve visited and it’s barely eleven p.m. I wait fifteen minutes and follow her in.

  She’s the only woman in the place. Bending over the pool table, she doesn’t look up as I enter. A burly man with a full beard checks out her ass as Sandie shoots and misses. Giggling, she picks up her beer and passes the cue to a
tall, skinny man wearing a vest but no shirt. The man has tattoos on both arms and hair in a long, greasy-looking pony tail.

  I sit at the bar and order an Abita dark from a bartender who looks a lot like Brian Dennehey. And as I take a hit of the cold beer I try to remember what movie Brian Dennehey played a bartender in. I can’t hear what Sandie and her pool partners are saying, but the men seem to be having a good time, brushing past Sandie, holding her waist as she bends over for a shot.

  At eleven-thirty, a bored customer rises from the far end of the bar and plays the jukebox. Lord no. Country music. Still nursing my Abita, I endure the reverberations of a steel guitar as some hillbilly starts wailing about his woman who left him for an insurance salesman. What?

  All right. I get it. It supposed to be funny. I smile at the bartender, who looks back stone-faced. The next song is funny too. Some woman complaining about how she shaved her legs for this. I finish the Abita and have a little buzz now, so maybe everything is going to be funny. I stop drinking and peek at Sandie, who’s sandwiched between the two pool players. Flirting and yakking, I hope she comes up with something, besides hard-ons.

  Round midnight, Sandie picks up her tiny purse and heads for the door, the tall skinny man following like an excited raccoon. I ease off my stool and beat them to the door. Without looking back, I walk around to the Caprice. As I pull around to the front of the bar, Sandie is in perfect position next to the street. Slim has his hands in the back pocket of his jeans as he throws his head back in laughter.

  I slide the Caprice up and Sandie opens the door and climbs in and Slim gives us a good impersonation of Disney’s Goofy caught in a big surprise as he watches us drive away.

  “Ten.” The name of the movie comes to me and I tell Sandie.

  “What?”

  “Brian Dennehey played a bartender in that movie with Dudley Moore and that naked girl. Ten. Remember?”