Asylum Heights

by Austin R. Moody

  Sal thought a moment then said, “I understand.” He reached out his hand and firmly shook Glen’s then turned and went downstairs to notify the chauffeur.

  As the returning ferry landed at the foot of Canal Street, the driver pulled out and up the steep angle of the ferry platform to the street and began to proceed toward the Chartreuse Hotel. Glen suddenly interrupted and instructed the chauffeur to take him to the French Quarter. Perplexed, the driver asked, “Where do you want to go? Where shall I take you?”

  Glen said, “I want a woman. I don’t care who she is, or where she comes from, I just want some female companionship without a lot of courting.”

  The driver smiled and exclaimed, “You want to go to Storeyville!”

  “How far from New Orleans is that? Do I need to bring anything?” Glen inquired. The driver replied, “Just money. They’ll take care of the rest.” Then he broke into uncontrolled laughter. Glen laughed vacantly too, but still wasn’t satisfied. He asked again, “I have plenty of money, but how far is it?”

  “You are ten blocks away. Look, I’m going to take you to the fanciest, most expensive joint in the district. Just relax and tell them you’re from Memphis. They are very good at what they do, but they don’t think a lot. Tell them what you want, maybe a young blonde with big tits, or a tall brunette, skinny with a lot of class. Personally, I’d prefer the blonde with the big tits.”

  Glen laughed dutifully, extracted the wallet from his back pocket, fetched a one hundred dollar bill and handed it across the back seat to the driver. “Thanks, take me there,” he said.

  As the driver reached to accept the bill, Glen continued, “I’m glad you work for Sal. He is a friend to both of us.”

  The driver accepted the currency and responded, “If you ever need me, or I can help you, just call.”

  Glen nodded. The chauffeur drove down Bourbon Street and turned out onto the brisk traffic of the night. Ten minutes later he stopped and turned off the engine.

  He said, “This is the Trojan Club. I’m going in and tell the boss who you are, that you are lonesome, and need some companionship. He will get you all that you need.”

  He got out and disappeared into the place. After another fifteen minutes he returned with one of the bouncers of the establishment. He opened the passenger’s rear door and stood at rigid attention as Glen emerged.

  “Glen, this is George. He understands that you a very special guest and has been instructed by the manager to see that you have every enjoyment that the Trojan can provide and that you are not disturbed by anyone during your visit. Take anything you find or may enjoy; compliments of the house.” He then returned to the driver’s compartment and drove away.

  A moment later, Glen followed George to the door. The bouncer knocked forcefully and was recognized immediately by another employee through a small sliding port in the door. It opened quickly and they passed through to the noisy, congested room. Glen narrowed his eyes and gazed at the patrons in the darkness. He stepped five paces to the bar and was instantly recognized by the bartender.

  Before the tender could speak Glen reached out his hand containing another fifty dollar bill and said, “Hello, I’m down here on a little vacation from Picayune up in Mississippi, I understand you have a newspaper named after my home town. I’d like a shot of absinthe. Put the bottle out because I’ll want more than just one.”

  The bartender grinned and replied, “Hi, Mr. Hailes. You know I can’t display anything and I can’t take your money. Just sit down and try one of our Coca-Colas. Everybody’s raving about it.”

  A few moments later a tumbler of the dark liquid was placed on the bar before him. He looked at it, sniffed its aroma, and then took a swig of the contents. He tasted the whiskey within, noted the smooth roundness and lack of bite on his tongue and knew immediately that it was his whiskey. He was very pleased, but made no perceptible indication of his recognition of its origin. He sat back and remained expressionless.

  “Well?” The bartender queried, “What do you think of it? Do you know it?”

  Glen answered and said “Yes, I can understand why people like it. It tastes very nice.”

  “That’s it?” The bartender exclaimed, “Don’t you know where it came from?”

  Glen looked at him and replied, “I find your concern to be most complimentary, and I am very pleased. However, celebrity in these matters can be most confining. I am sure you understand. What is your name?”

  The bartender, somewhat baffled, remained silent for several moments, then answered, “Yes sir, Yes sir, I know what you mean. My name is Milford, Milford Boggs. I certainly won’t talk about it anymore.”

  Glen said, “Thanks, I appreciate your understanding. I know I’ll enjoy it, Milford.” Glen was angry and had been hurt deeply by Sybil. The oppressive heat and humidity of the Louisiana night, coupled with his having had little fluid or food sustenance throughout the day fired both his thirst and need for the solace that could be provided within the tiny tumbler before him, and a woman.

  He turned and looked about. George was not far away. Glen motioned for him to join him at the bar. “What can I do?” George asked.

  “Thanks for being here for me, George, but all I want to do tonight is have a good time and have a little female company. I’ve had enough brainy brunettes for a full lifetime, and I understand there is a particularly fetching little blonde lady with exceptional breasts that might be available for the evening. If you could introduce us, I think I can take everything from there.”

  Glen retrieved his wallet once more and extracted a hundred dollar bill, then continued, “After that, thank your boss for his hospitality, and take the rest of the night off.”

  George responded, obviously pleased, “Thanks, Mr. Hailes, I’ll be back in a few minutes with Laurice.” The bouncer departed quickly.

  Glen took a deep draught of his drink, then another, accelerating the volume and the frequency of his aspirations. He sat alone, separate, and isolated. He felt it acutely as the rest of the patrons of the club laughed amongst themselves. They drank, their voices moving like a wave with troughs of whispers and intimacy, then with counterpoints of peaks of loud talk, jocular shouting, and boisterous laughter. So very disparate, he quickly emptied the first drink, and motioned the bartender for another. The tender dutifully reached beneath the bar, extracted the bottle and another clean glass, filled the empty tumbler with ice, placed it all before his customer and poured.

  Glen smiled gratefully and took a more aggressive swallow. He turned to the bandstand and listened. Moments later, he felt the warmth and comfort of his own creation being ingested and assimilated. It wasn’t enough, but it was a step in the right direction. He was so very tired, but still pressed by a primal drive for compensation for the slights, the emotional, almost physical hurt that he had suffered from Sybil.

  He could wait no longer. He stood up and stepped away from the bar, then he motioned the bartender once more, “Please tell George when he gets back that I’m going to take a walk around Storeyville. I just want to see what it’s all about.”

  The bartender suddenly became very animated. “Wait just a second, and I’ll call the boss. You don’t have to look around for anything. It’s all right here.”

  Glen smiled, turned toward the entrance rather unsteadily then called out as he left, “You have been very hospitable. Thank the boss, and tell George, I said, ‘thanks.’

  Glen felt the dampness of the night as he left the club and had reached a half block before a tiny finger touched his upper back. He turned and faced a young, small, recognizably professional young woman whose accent labeled her as a French expatriate.

  She smiled and said, “I know a lot about men. You look like you don’t want to be alone. For a price I can help you through the night.”

  He gave her fifty dollars. She wrapped her elbow beneath his and took his hand, guiding him along a street illuminated periodically by soft gaslight lamps.

  The next morning he awake
ned on Jackson Square and gazed up from the lawn to a figure of the General upon his mount. Glen had only one shoe on his right foot, a vague recollection of the events that had occurred after the payment of his mysterious companion’s commission, a room, an interlude of sex and darkness. He had been barefooted for most of his life and could easily run at full speed across foliage and rocks. He removed the left shoe, looked at it and laughed, “I hate to get rid of you, but unlike me, you don’t work very well alone.” He removed the sock and tossed them both into a handy garbage can. He stood up and tested both of his feet, then trotted up the awakening street back to his refuge in the Chartreuse Hotel. He walked briskly to the desk and asked for his key.

  The desk clerk looked up, reached into his room key slot and noticed several pieces of paper within the opening. “Mr. Hailes,” He reported, “You have received several messages, apparently urgent last evening. The night clerk told me to notify you just as soon as you came in this morning."

  Glen took the key and the messages, found a five dollar bill in his pocket and extended it to the clerk. He thanked him and walked quickly back to his room. He entered the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He read the messages but kept only one, tossing the remainder into a wastebasket in the corner. He was bone tired, had a flaming thirst and a blinding headache. He removed his shirt and trousers and discovered that every pocket was empty. His wallet, which contained approximately eight hundred dollars, his driver’s license and all of his personal identification, was gone. He went to the bathroom and voided, felt better, then saturated a large bath towel and had a spit bath.

  His senses refreshed, he became more acutely aware of the dimension of his loss. At that moment he heard a gentle knock upon the door. The clerk called from the hallway, “Mr. Hailes, a delivery boy brought something that belongs to you, I believe.” Perplexed, Glen pulled a large, fresh, dry towel around his waist and went to the door. He opened the safety lock and opened it a tiny crack. “What is it?” He inquired.

  “It’s a wallet, and a note,” The clerk responded.

  “Is he still here?” A tone of urgency entered Glen’s voice. Quickly he continued, “Don’t let him leave. I must talk to him right away!”

  The clerk advised, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Hailes. He’s already left. I never saw him before, and I don’t know where he came from or could have gone.”

  “Then let me have them.” Glen responded and thrust his hand out through the door into the hallway.

  The clerk dutifully placed the items into the outstretched hand and responded, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Hailes, I just didn’t know what it was all about.” Glen thought a moment then said, “It’s alright. Thanks for bringing it down to me.”

  “Would you like for me to call the police?” The clerk continued.

  Glen quickly replied, “No thanks!” Then he closed the door. He took the wallet with the note and returned to the bed. First, he opened the wallet. Nothing was missing. All of it; his ID, his license to drive, and seven hundred eighty-six dollars remained undisturbed in the confines of the purse.

  Amazed, he opened the note and read a feminine handwriting, “Cheri, I hope you had a good time. You got up in the middle of the night, put on your clothes and walked out after a parting kiss. You left this behind, and I know that you will need all of your papers, and especially your money. When you come back to New Orleans, just take a walk down the street, and I will find you again. I do hope that you will come back to me.”

  The note was signed, “Claudine.”

  Glen smiled to himself and thought, “You can bet that I will, Claudine.”

  Having completed his sponge bath, he pulled out fresh underclothes and a shirt from the drawer. He still had no shoes.

  It was now Sunday morning. He left the room and returned to the front desk. He spoke once again to the attendant at the desk. He asked the man to place a call to the Greyhound Bus Depot on Canal Street and find out what times the bus left for Dothan, Alabama throughout that day. He returned to his room, and shortly thereafter he had the schedule of departures.

  Glen then gave him the telephone number that had been on the message that he had received upon his arrival. Glen asked him to call the number and connect him to the phone booth in the hallway. Glen then went to the booth and waited. A few moments later the telephone rang within the enclosure. Glen lifted the receiver and inquired, “Sal?”

  The telephone nearly exploded, “Where in hell have you been? We have all been worried sick about you!”

  Glen waited a bit then answered, “I really appreciate all of your concerns. One of the best things in life is to have someone to care enough to worry over you. Last night I did just what I said I was going to do. I went out and partied, met a very nice little lady, and got my life straightened out again. Now, I’m ready to get on the bus and go back to Dothan, and take care of our business.”

  Sal was silent for a bit himself then said rather sheepishly, “O.k., but before you leave do you need anything?”

  Glen answered quickly without hesitation, “A pair of new shoes, brown, 9D.”

  “The driver will be at the Chartreuse with the shoes before twelve noon. Try them on, and if they fit he’ll take you to the bus station. If they don’t, he’ll take you back to where he bought them, then on to the bus station anyway.”

  “My bus leaves at 3:25 this afternoon. When I get this shoe problem straightened out he can go on his way. I’m only a short walking distance to the bus depot, and I can stay in and rest until time for me to leave.”

  Sal said, “O.k., just call me and let me know that you got back to Dothan safely, and keep me informed how everything is going on that end.”

  At 2:30 that afternoon Glen walked through the entrance to the bus station. He walked with an almost imperceptible limp. The right shoe was a little tight, but Glen knew that it would adjust with time. He bought his one-way ticket and the bus departed right on schedule. En route he gave the bus driver a twenty-dollar bill and instructed him to let him get off on the square near his hotel. No one needed to be aware of his presence, not even his men. He returned to his seat and thought about all that had happened to him during this trip.

  During the weeks after his return to the service station in Dothan, Glen settled into a humdrum, monotonous cycle of making all the components of the business evolve into a smooth, quiet and unobtrusively operational machine. Every team member was coached and rehearsed regarding their procedure and function. It worked very well. They even made a moderate profit from the service station and restaurant sales. The trucks would come twice a week. They would fill their tanks with the volatile liquids, the gasoline and the alcohol, and then depart for the insatiable appetites of New Orleans. Glen maintained a meticulous accounting of every ounce of his product and included copies of these with the other business reports of operations. The profits were mounting exponentially.

  Six weeks after Glen’s return from New Orleans to Dothan, he noticed an irritation in the soft folds of tissue behind the head of his penis. It itched slightly for a couple of days then became a sore. A small papule appeared at the site, then grew into a sedentary mound and erupted into an ulceration that wept and exuded pus. Glen decided to get this checked with a doctor when he got back to New Orleans, but after two weeks the ulcer crusted over with a scab, then gradually faded away and healed. He forgot the whole thing. He noticed, however, that he began to have more difficulty getting out of bed when he awakened in the morning. He felt tired and had to expend more effort in dressing and going to the small office to do the books of the previous day’s business. He encountered more difficulty administering the new challenges of the day and literally fell into bed at night. He realized that something was wrong, but dispelled it as the price of controlling an illicit business in the midst of a most conservative environment.

  He began walking from the station during the early hours of the morning down the narrow little roads, along the damp and humid trees that pressed so near along the way.
His only encounters were a rare truck or car, never a wagon or any human being. The exercise invigorated him, extending an anti-depressant effect on his mind and affect, and increased his appetite. He began to trot, then to run. His condition continued to improve both physically and mentally and after a month he was restored to normal.

  The weeks and months that followed were filled with the focus and attention of managing the myriad details of this way station. He hardly ever left the confines of Dothan, and remained essentially invisible to the residents of the town. He had no time for socializing and found no one that could arouse or stimulate him. Though he noticed that many of the ladies at the station would have readily obliged, he still missed the only woman that he had ever truly loved and would not consider anyone else to replace her. A year passed, then another.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE DISCOVERY

  On one morning Billie Boykin awakened early to run one of the “trot lines” that his family maintained for river fish; primarily trout, perch, and catfish along the Souinlovey Creek. These lines were made of heavy cord that were stretched across the water with smaller lines and hooks at short intervals, baited with salt pork, grubs, worms, or any other edible baits that a transient hungry resident might encounter and ingest. He hastened down to the creek side in his venerable, rather independent old pickup. It had started without complaint on that particular morning.