John Raven Beau Page 8

  She squints at me so I tell her about the bartender looking like ... She gives me a bored look.

  “Did you learn anything?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” She pulls off her heels and says this shit’s getting old. “Bring me out to UNO”

  “What?”

  “That big dorm on Leon Simon. That’s where Scrumptious stays. You know. Samuel.”

  I drop her off a half block away and watch her prance into the dorm like she belongs. When she doesn’t come right out, I drive off, back downtown.

  A half hour later, I kill the lights as I ease the Caprice against the curb fifty feet from Felice’s auntie’s house on Congress Street. I roll down the driver’s side window, hunker down and wait. Beneath the twisted branches of a huge magnolia, I’m sure no one can see me. The dim streetlights at the end of the block gives the dark street and eerie yellow glow.

  At exactly three a.m., I spot Felice coming down the sidewalk from the direction of North Claiborne two blocks away. I climb out slowly and Felice stops. I move around into the street so she can see it’s me. Shaking her head, she continues forward. She’s in tight jeans too, baby-blue jeans with a black blouse. Her hair looks freshly corn-rowed.

  “How about some coffee?” I ask as she arrives.

  “How about some breakfast?”

  One of the nice things about New Orleans – you can eat anytime.

  I give Felice her choice of places and she picks Aleta’s Cafe in the Monteleone Hotel.

  “So what’s up?” I ask, pulling onto Claiborne.

  She looks out at the passing houses for a minute but finally answers. “Been getting my affairs in order. Got myself set up with some money for the future.” I don’t ask. I wait for her to continue, but her patience outlasts mine. As we cross Franklin Avenue, I re-start the conversation.

  “You been hanging out at those white joints you mentioned in the House of D, or what?”

  “Matter of fact, that’s where I came from tonight.”

  “Yeah. What places?” I glance at her and she’s still looking out the passenger window.

  “I don’t write down all the names, but I been to four places in the Quarter and four near the muses.”

  The muses – she’s talking about the Sixth District, streets named for the Greek muses, Melpomene, Terpischore, Euterpe. I think there were eight originally before the city fathers started renaming them after dead New Orleanians.

  “Learning anything?”

  She shakes her head and says it ain’t from lack of trying.

  “What about bars around here? In the Ninth Ward.”

  She looks at me and furrows her brow.

  “I don’t fuck around by my auntie’s.” She looks straight ahead. “You know the old saying. Never shit where you eat.” Before I can agree, she adds, “Men will do that, o’course.”

  I laugh and can’t stop for several blocks. When I look back at her, she’s smiling. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her smile. In that moment, she looks so young. Then again, she’s still a teenager.

  Our day begins when their day ends

  Bob Kay pulls off his sport coat, turns and drapes it over the back seat. His bullet proof vest is bulky beneath his shirt. Surprisingly, I don’t see any boy scout merit badge. I check my watch. Sandie’s been in the Hoodwink Bar seven minutes. We’re parked in the next block, beneath another magnolia tree. It’s only nine p.m. and there’s only one motorbike parked outside the bar.

  “Now, let me get this straight,” Kay says. “You’ve been doing this for a week?”

  “Nearly two weeks now.”

  Again, I apologize for not telling him about what Sandie heard. I explain I wasn’t holding anything back. She was so lit that night, she couldn’t remember who told her or even where she heard the story. Kay nods as he listens and tells me it’s no problem. My penance for holding back – I get to ride with Kay tonight. Lucky me.

  A car whizzes past and takes the corner so fast its wheels squeal.

  “It’s like fishing,” I say.

  Kay continues nodding.

  “Put out your bait and hope for a strike.” I don’t believe I’m saying this, but it seems to be working. “We can go in like storm troopers, if you think that’ll work. Raid all the bars.”

  “No.” Kay shakes his head forcefully. “We’ve been doing that all over town. You heard about that warrant last night?”

  It’s my turn to nod. The previous evening nearly thirty officers stormed a house on Law Street, not far from St. Augustine High. Looking for a parole violator who used a .357 magnum in an armed robbery a week ago, the officers succeeded in terrorizing an entire neighborhood, shooting two dogs which attacked fence-jumping officers, without locating the parole violator or his magnum.

  “He surrendered this morning,” Kay explains. I’d heard. “Even brought the gun, which was a Smith and Wesson.”

  I look at my watch and it’s been nearly ten minutes since Sandie slithered out of the car.

  “Come on,” I say as I climb out. Kay follows and I suggest he put his jacket back on.

  “It’s too hot.”

  I point to his vest and he looks at it and asks if it’s that obvious.

  “Yep.”

  As we start for the bar, Sandie comes out. In another pair of tight jeans, pink this time, she wears a low-cut white blouse and red high heels. She waves at us, shaking her head. We stop and wait.

  “Goddamn ass-holes!” Sandie breezes by us for the car. She turns and says, “Y’all comin’, or what?”

  Kay takes off his jacket as I head back to open the car. Sandie climbs in the back seat. As soon as we’re settled, she says she’s had enough tonight and is anyone hungry or just her?

  “I could eat,” Kay says.

  I crank up the engine. Kay passes Sandie his jacket and she folds it across the back seat.

  “What about that place by your houseboat?” Kay asks. “The one you’ve been bragging about?”

  Sandie leans forward and asks coyly, “You have a houseboat?” As if she doesn’t fuckin’ know.

  “In Bucktown,” Kay volunteers enthusiastically. “It’s kinda old ...”

  “The Sad Lisa,” Sandie says as she sits back. “He sleeps in a loft and has a puppy named Buck.”

  “Huh?” The boy scout blinks at Sandie.

  “I woke up there once with no panties and my skirt up to my waist.”

  Kay’s mouth drops.

  “I don’t think we fucked, but I’m still not sure.”

  I pause a second for a red light at Elysian Fields, then drive through it. Kay clears his throat. I know. I know. Don’t run red lights.

  “Why don’t we go to Jaegers or Fitzgeralds?” I suggest two nice seafood restaurants along West End. Sandie and Kay prefer to try out my place. So it’s Flamingo’s.

  Parking the Caprice in the oyster shell lot, I spot Angie standing next to the counter. She’s talking with Cecilia who waves at me as we approach. Joe is the only other person in the place. He grins at me from behind the grill.

  Angie turns as I step in and hold the door for Sandie and Kay. Leaning against the counter in her white uniform, she looks at me from over her shoulder. With her body twisted, her hips look especially nice. She focuses those killer eyes at me for a moment, then looks at Sandie, then away. Her face remains expressionless as I introduce Assistant Chief Kay and Sandie to Cecilia, Joe and Angie, who curtly scoops three menus from the counter and leads us to my usual booth.

  Sandie asks for the ladies room and Angie points to the door. Kay and I slip into opposite sides of the booth.

  “I like this place,” Kay says, tapping a knuckle on the Formica table top. “Reminds me of when I was a kid. The Woolworth Cafe on Canal Street.”

  Angie hands him a menu and drops the other two in front of me. I try not to watch her rear as she moves away, but it isn’t easy. Kay stares and when Angie’s out of earshot says, “Mighty pretty, ain’t she?”

  Sandie comes out and
slides in the booth next to Kay, who moves closer to the window. She’s got him pinned, sitting too close to him now. She picks up the menu and asks him what he ordering.

  “What’s good here?” he asks me.

  “Best burgers in the city. The catfish is great. Chili’s excellent.”

  Angie returns with water and set-ups. She doesn’t look at me as she puts them down and pulls out her pad and pen.

  “I’ll take the usual,” I say without picking up my menu. Sandie asks what that is and I tell her. She orders the same without the onions and Kay follows suit. Angie moves away without looking at me and I feel the frost.

  As Sandie asks Kay about his bullet-proof vest and he starts in on the merits of police safety, I look out at the dark sky.

  It’s better, I tell myself, that Angie is a cold fish tonight. Better that she’s keeping her distance, better that – then it hits me. Why? That elusive word most homicide detectives don’t ask because why isn’t the important question in a murder investigation. You start asking why and you jump to conclusions. In homicide, how is more important. Find out how someone is killed and that will lead to who.

  But I ask myself why. Why is Angie like this tonight?

  Sandie?

  Naw. Sandie’s all over Kay.

  Angie returns with our three Barq’s. I look at her but she doesn’t look back and I remember that lingering look as I held the door and Sandie breezed in. I take a hit of the cold Barq’s and wonder. Naw. It’s something else. She’s too young and too pretty and I’m too tired tonight.

  I tune out Sandie’s chattering, letting my mind drift and find myself in a pirogue, sitting between cypress trees as the red sun falls into Vermilion Bay. I smell the salty water, hear the screech of a hawk, feel the sun’s warmth on my face.

  Joe’s burger is as good as ever – hot, spicy and juicy.

  Sandie keeps the conversation going and Kay is more than eager to talk with her. I find myself looking at Angie again as she sits on a stool next to the counter. She’s cut her hair. Only a little, but it’s curled under and looks very nice. So does the line of her face in profile, her small nose and sculptured lips. I chuckle at myself and Sandie asks what I’m laughing at.

  “Nothing.”

  She turns and looks at Angie, looks back and waves a finger at me.

  “You’re so obvious,” she says. Smiling at Kay, she tells him all men are obvious. That’s one of the things she likes about men. They’re simple.

  Yeah. Right.

  Kay surprises me later, as we drop Sandie off. He gives me more money for Sandie and Felice. Sandie thanks me, turns and kisses Kay softly on the mouth before moving away into her apartments. He’s so stunned, he sits like a stiff for the next five minutes.

  Coming out of it, he finally speaks. “You’re not really having sex with her, are you?”

  I remind him of LaStanza’s saying.

  Kay approves, then goes on to tell me about how he apprehended a murderer once at a Schwegmann’s Super Market and how LaStanza came and handled the case.

  “Best detective we ever had,” Kay concluded. “One reason why Jodie Kintyre’s so good. He broke her in.”

  Then, as we pull into the police garage, Kay adds. “Of course, Kintyre had the talent all along. He just pointed her the right way.”

  “And she broke me in,” I remind Kay.

  “Exactly.” Kay lets out a long sigh. “You trouble me, Beau.”

  I know. No need to ask, he’ll go on.

  “LaStanza’s problem was he went looking for trouble. And the fact he can kill with the best of the Sicilians.” Kay pauses for effect. “You, on the other hand, seem to find trouble without looking for it.”

  “Just lucky,” I tell him as I park the car.

  Kay shakes his head and continues shaking it all the way up to the office.

  •

  The sun wakes me and I roll over on my back and just lie there. Golden sunlight streams through the open portholes, illuminating the cypress rafters above me. The afternoon light falls directly on the museum-quality print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night, hanging on the wall above the night stand where my Glock rests. The dark blues and bright whites seem to shimmer in Van Gogh’s yellow moonlight. The swirling night sky is luminescent.

  I watch it as I listen to the water gurgling outside. A boat must have drifted pass on its way through the inlet, or maybe a speedboat on the lake sent a distant wave to shore that finally brushed against the hull of Sad Lisa.

  The air smells of salt water, brackish water that’s far less salty than it should be. Just before the recent flood, as if by divine knowledge, the Corps of Engineers opened the spillway above New Orleans to lower the river level, sending millions of gallons of muddy fresh water into Lake Pontchartrain. Pissed off the ‘Save The Lake’ folks, big time. Don’t know why exactly, except when anyone fornicates with the lake, the ‘Save The Lake’ people get pissed off.

  I stretch. It’s nice under the sheet with a warm breeze flowing over me. And, for the hundredth time, I remind myself how much I like Bucktown. It’s peaceful, even though we’re still in the city. There’s a different feel here, tucked into a small corner of the big city, with a wide lake at our back.

  Buck yips downstairs. I stretch again and crawl out of bed. I peek down the ladder and Buck is at the bottom, looking up. Seeing me, he spins and yips louder, bouncing on his big feet. Time to let him out to do his business. Time to shave and shower and start mine, but only after feeding the little tike. Then I’ll take him to the levee for a good run.

  At four o’clock, I stop by Flamingo’s for a late lunch. I’m the lone customer. Angie isn’t there and Cecilia waits on me, as talkative as ever. Today the subject’s the Audubon Zoo. She leads me to my booth, explaining how she liked the zoo better when it was free, back when it wasn’t animal-friendly, back when it was people-friendly.

  I watch Joe plop my burger patty on the grill and sprinkle generous slices of onion on it. The strong scent of sizzling beef drifts my way. Cecilia tells me how she used to go to the zoo all the time. It was free. You could walk in and walk out, have picnics there. Now it’s a damn zoological garden, costs twelve bucks a head and you can’t get anywhere near the animals. Cecilia used to like to play with the monkeys in their cages, back when they were within arm’s reach.

  Joe turns my patty over, sprinkling more onions and slices of garlic on it. Cecilia goes on to berate the damn uptowners, those money-grubbing ‘Friends of the Zoo’ who turned an admittedly inferior zoo into a Disneyesque theme park with all the personality of a shopping mall. When you got right down to it, Cecilia admits, what galls her the most is when things change.

  The door opens and Angie rushes in, dropping her school books behind the counter. She’s in a fitted pink tee-shirt and black jeans. Her hair is nicely windblown. Cecilia moves away as Joe slides my plate on the counter. Angie scoops it up on her way to my booth.

  “Hi,” she says in a breathless voice as she places my plate in front of me.

  “You OK?”

  She brushes her hair from her eyes. “Running late.” Her lipstick is more faint than usual. She looks at my table again and goes back for my Barq’s and a frosty mug. I thank her as she heads, purse in hand, for the bathroom.

  When Angie comes out, she’s less rushed. She puts her purse behind the counter next to Cecilia, turns and heads back for me. She puts a knee up on the seat across from me and lets out a long sigh. The sculptured lips are deep red now. Suddenly her face reddens as she asks who was that redhead. I want to say something smart-assed, but I opt for the truth.

  “She’s trying to help us.”

  “She’s with the police?”

  I lower my voice, the way Jodie taught me, because people listen more intently if they have to pay attention just to hear.

  “She’s working the street for us. Going places we can’t go. It’s dangerous work. Really.”

  Angie looks out the window and lets out sighs again.

&nbs
p; I change the subject. “Rough day in class?”

  “Exams coming up.”

  “What are you majoring in?”

  “American Lit. We’re doing Nineteenth Century right now, you know Poe, Hawthorne, James Fenimore Cooper.”

  “I thought Cooper was earlier.” I have a dim recollection of The Deerslayer taking place before the American Revolution.

  “He wrote about earlier times, but The Last of the Mohicans was published in 1826.” She stares hard at me, steps to the side and looks at my face in profile.

  “What?” I ask.

  “The more I look at you, the more you look like Indian.” She moves back to the booth. “Um, Native American.” She corrects herself.

  “We’re all native Americans. We were born here. But what can our tribes do, call ourselves Indigenous Americans?”

  She nods. “I know. I know.” She sounds as tired as I do of the politically correct things to say.

  “What do you mean, the more I look like an Indian?”

  She puts her knee back up on the seat.

  “You have the look of a bird of prey,” she says seriously.

  I almost laugh and take another bite.

  “Yeah?”

  “You have a hawk nose.”

  I choke down the piece of hamburger and take a quick hit of Barq’s. She leans forward and looks closely at my nose. I wipe my mouth with the napkin. “I’ll have you know, young lady, I have a falcon nose.”

  She throws back her head and laughs. It’s a deep laugh, one that goes on and on and she has to sit across from me now. It takes her a while to control herself. As she does, I turn my head to the side, and point to my falcon nose and let out a shrill bird cry. She laughs again until tears form in her eyes.

  Just as she recovers again, two men come in and she has to work. As she takes their orders, two more men come in. And for the next twenty minutes, I watch her work, watch her step back and forth from the counter to the booths, watch that nice ass move away from me.

  Each time she looks my way she smiles and I feel it, in that look, in the way she laughed. There’s something passing between us. And I remember how my Daddy told me a Cajun secret, back when I was starting the long process of trying to figure out women. The Cajun secret was – get them to laugh.