City of Secrets

by O'Neil De Noux

  Ree and the other nurse pull down the rails on either side of Beau’s bed. He watches Linda staring at him with a determined look.

  “We gonna stand you up and walk you into the hall and up and down. If you can handle it.”

  Beau nods. No problem getting out of bed, standing. He asks Ree, can Linda walk on his other side. He looks at the other nurse, an older woman, tells her, “No offense.”

  “None taken. I’ll trail and if you fall, I’ll help get you up.”

  Linda comes to Beau and he drapes his left arm over her shoulder, catches her perfume now. His legs feel fine, even his side doesn’t ache a bit as Ree guides him slowly. She’s got a strong grip on his right side.

  “You feel strong enough.”

  “I sure do.”

  “We’ll take it slow.”

  The hall is long and there’s no one to the left. To the right he sees three NOPD officers in those newly issued black uniforms. Thugs had broken into three police stations and the police supply house and stole enough baby blue NOPD uniform shirts to clothes a battalion of hellions.

  “Did you ask him about the crying?” Ree’s addressing Linda.

  “Crying?” Beau asks.

  “You’ve been crying in your sleep. Real tears.”

  Damn. He tries a chuckle, sounding – as if.

  “And I thought warriors never cried.” Linda squeezes his hand.

  Beau nods. “Unlike the white man, who is known to show his anger and even cry in front of everyone, if a Sioux warrior did the same, he would be called Woman Face.”

  Ree bumps him. “Sounds like a crock.”

  “When my Papa died, I was a Woman Face for a long time.”

  “Is that what you were dreaming about?”

  Beau has no clue.

  They reach the end of the hall, turn around and Beau’s feeling pretty damn strong. No problem.

  “What happened to your mother?” Linda asks.

  “After my Papa died and I went off to LSU, she returned to the Black Hills to be with her family.”

  “Your family,” says Linda.

  As they approach the three cops standing with their back to them at the other end of the hall, the three start jostling, slapping at one another, one doing a dance now, arms up, mouth open and Beau hears a song on a radio. One’s black, one’s white, one looks Latino. NOPD. Two nurses stand beyond watching and laughing and for a moment Beau remembers a record his Papa used to play, something about clowns to the left, jokers to the right and I’m stuck in the middle with you.

  “These clowns. They’re my family.”

  “I heard most don’t get along with you.”

  “I’m the black sheep.”

  •

  Later that night, after they sedate him again, along with administering some temperature-lowering meds, another face comes to Beau, drifting so close he feels her breath on his lips. She pulls back, moves her long brown hair from her face and gives him that sad smile.

  There were times when he watched her, knowing she had no idea just how beautiful she truly was. Movie star beautiful. Fixing supper together on Sad Lisa, music on, some song she liked, Beau having no idea who was singing but it was soft and Angie would dance slowly as she moved from the stove to the cupboard. In a dark tee-shirt and white shorts, barefoot, smiling at him when she realized he was watching her.

  Angie Calogne. The great New Orleans beauty. He can see her stepping from the shower, wrapping a towel around her hair, blinking those bright blue-green aquamarine eyes at him with that slick, wet body. She was young and lean, twenty-two when they started, her body tight, her legs long, sleek.

  He thought she favored Maria Tomei at first, only Angie’s face wasn’t as narrow. Later he thought she looked like that girl on Friends – Courtney, except Angie was lovelier. Her mouth was a hint too wide, which made those delicate, sculptured lips stand out. She had a deep, sexy laugh.

  Her face, still hovering in front of Beau, changes. Tears form and her lips quiver as she withdraws and he reaches for her. Angie was the one. He was so sure. He loved her so much his heart still aches.

  It’s light outside the windows when Beau wakes. He’s alone. He moves his legs, left arm, feels fine. He rolls his hips and there’s only a hint of pain. Lifting his right arm isn’t as easy, but there’s no pain.

  He waits for Dr. Summers to come in to tell the doctor, “Don’t sedate me again.”

  Whatever the fuck was in that hypo brought Angie back and the memory of her loss is too fresh. Beau doesn’t need the heartache.

  “You must rest after you walk.”

  Beau waits for the doctor to look at him and says, “I mean it.”

  The doctor’s not happy.

  When Fel comes in, Beau snaps. “Remind the doctor I just killed twelve people. When I say no more sedatives, I mean it.”

  “What you talking about?” Fel is in a gray suit this morning.

  Donna Elena comes in with two Styrofoam cups of coffee, brings one to Beau, says, “The nurse says you can have coffee.”

  “Thanks.” He takes the cup, looks at Fel again.

  Fel says, “No more pain killers. I got this.”

  Linda steps in with two Styrofoam cups. Beau is quick with this.

  “Good. I could use a second cup.” He starts in on the first cup.

  Linda and Donna Elena are both in tee-shirts and jeans, Linda putting her black tactical bag on a chair now. She got boots on again and both women found barrettes for their hair. It gives Linda a sultry look, makes Donna Elena look even younger.

  Three minutes later Ann Treadway breezes in with a thermos, announcing, “Stu fixed café noir for you, big guy.” She’s in a semi-sheer pink blouse that reveals a white, French lace bra beneath and wears a pleated mini-skirt and white socks, white sneakers. She does a slow turn for Fel and Beau, leaning over to give them a flash of white panties.

  “Cops at the end of the hall stopped me. Said they had to search me. Snickering at each other.” She puts the thermos on the high table next to Beau’s bed, comes over and pecks him on the cheek, turns back to Linda. “So I lift my skirt and do a slow turn and they shut up and let me pass, told them to drop by Diamond Diane’s if they want to see it all.”

  She looks around, turns to Beau. “Bad news?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I came to tell you the other girl in your life, the one you sleep with is fine but Stella misses you. I went into your dirty clothes hamper, pulled out a couple musty tee-shirts and tossed them on the floor. She curled up on them right away.”

  Beau finds that funny and almost spills his coffee.

  Nurse Ree steps in with a tray of meds. Fel steps next to her, whispers something in her ear. She smiles, looking at Beau and announces. “Dr. Summers has taken you off pain killers.” She brings two hypos, lifts each.

  “This one’s an antibiotic. The other’s a steroid. The good kind.”

  She injects them into the tube, gives Beau a serious look. “You start hurtin’, you tell me.”

  “I will.” He nods to the thermos. “Coffee?”

  Fel starts to leave with Ree, waits at the door for Beau to look at him.

  “I’m writing the report on your shootings.” Fel looks at Linda. “I thought my Homicide days were over.”

  Beau can only imagine trying to reconstruct the crime scene at the marina.

  “I’m trying to keep it one page.” Fel leaves.

  Linda steps to the end of the bed, touches Beau’s foot. “You think he’s serious?”

  “Fel and LaStanza prided themselves writing one-page suicide reports. Who knows – AK?

  Donna Elena’s confused.

  After Katrina. The world’s changed.

  He can see Linda doesn’t want to speak in front of Donna Elena, but she can’t hold it in any longer.

  “You didn’t wear your flak vest.”

  “If I had, I’d be dead. I had enough trouble breathing without making noise.”

  Donna Elen
a looks a shade paler.

  “Come on,” Beau tries to smile. “The Bible says ‘all’s well that ends well’.”

  “That’s Shakespeare,” says Donna Elena.

  Linda adds, “And Old Willie wasn’t talking about a shootout.”

  •

  Beau wakes to a dark room, the only light coming from a lamp next to the windows. It’s pitch outside. He knows he’s not alone and sees a man sitting on a chair in the dark corner near the door. The man rises slowly, moves into the light, straightens his coat. He’s about six-two, gray hair and wearing a navy blue suit, dark red tie with a white shirt. It’s a tailored suit and the man’s hair is professionally cut. He’s clean shaven with deep set eyes a nose a hint too long. Looks to be about fifty.

  He lifts his left hand and there’s a paper in it, moves to Beau’s left side, shows him. It’s a photo. Beau looks closely. It takes a second but it’s the lighthouse victim, only the face smiles and she looks younger. A teen-ager sitting on a sail boat.

  “Her name was Marianne.” The man takes the picture back, slips it into his coat pocket. “My youngest daughter.” There’s pain in the man’s eyes, but he’s got in under control.

  “There’s an old saying that a parent should spend more time with his children than money on them. They’ll turn out better.” The man puts his hands on the rail of Beau’s hospital bed. “I didn’t do that. I’ve got a son in rehab, my older daughter’s tramping around Europe with a Frenchman whose father is a leading socialist. Not that politics matter in something like this.”

  That’s a mid-west accent. Sounds like Doherty from Chicago. He takes in a deep breath, looks at the monitors. “Marianne flunked out of Yale, ran off to California. Hadn’t heard from her for two years.”

  He looks at Beau now. “Her mother took this very badly. Me too. More so, because it’s my fault.” Another deep breath. “If you ever become a father, Mr. Beau, cherish your children and fuck the rest of the world.” The man tries to smile but it doesn’t work.

  He stares into Beau’s eyes for long seconds.

  “I just came to look you in the eye. See the man who killed the bastards who took my daughter’s life.”

  The hands fall away from the rail, the man straightening his coat again.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m with the government.” The voice stronger now. “You are going to be OK, Detective John Raven Beau. The FBI will not be looking at what you did here. No one will. No grand jury. Nothing. It will become a rumor, a whisper on the wind.” The man looks at the door. “It’ll be told around campfires like the lost battles of the Sioux before the white man came along and wrote things down.” He shrugs. “An urban legend.”

  He steps toward the door, stops and looks back.

  “Donna Elena Palma.”

  Beau sits up.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s leaving on a plane with us in the morning. To Washington.”

  Beau looks hard at the man, can’t read a thing in the man’s face now.

  “She can’t stay here. Can’t go home.” The man glances at the windows for a moment. “I believe she tried to help Marianne. She thought my daughter had escaped.”

  “She’s not a stray cat.”

  The man steps back into the light.

  “Besides English and Spanish, Donna Elena Palma is fluent in Portuguese and two native dialects of Mexico, Nahuati and Yucatec Maya. Her mother’s people are from Yucatan.”

  The man turns back to the door.

  “Wait.” Beau almost pulls the damn shit from his arm. “You’re not sending her undercover?” The word cartel flashes in Beau’s mind.

  The man shakes his head. “No. NSA. Surveillance work, listening to voices in a dark room. Good pay. No danger. Intelligence work. Donna Elena has a language arts degree from UCLA. She’s very bright and needs a new start in life. Wouldn’t you say?”

  The rain starts up after the man leaves, fat rain hammering the windows and Beau watches it, lightening dancing in the distance, thunder rumbling. He hears the door open, light streaming in as Donna Elena enters. She’s in a tan suit-skirt, a white blouse, brown heels, hair pinned up on each side with gold barrettes. She’s put a light blush of make-up, red lips standing out. She comes to the bed, puts a hand on the railing. The smile isn’t forced, but it’s not a wide smile.

  “You look very nice,” he says.

  She nods.

  “You should do it more often,” he says. “Then again, jeans are fine.”

  “I will when I get my life back together.”

  She takes his left hand in both of hers.

  “I don’t know what to say to you.”

  He sees the emotion in her eyes.

  “We don’t have to say things.”

  She nods, wipes her eye. “I didn’t want to be such a girl about this.”

  Beau’s throat is tight and his eyes seem to grow a little blurry. She sees it in his eyes and they both smile.

  “I’ll never forget what you did,” she whispers.

  He takes her hand, squeezes and she squeezes back, leans over his kisses his cheek, almost his lips but not quite.

  “You ever need me again,” he tells her when she pulls away. There’s a catch in his voice. “You’ll know where to find me.”

  She back away, wipes both eyes this time.

  “I’ll be in a position to find you no matter where you go, John Raven Beau.”

  He likes that.

  She nods, doesn’t seem to trust herself to speak again, backs toward the door. Her eyes stay with his as she opens the door, stops and says, “You’re right. It’s a different world now – AK.”

  He closes his eyes after she leaves, his throat tight again. A tear rolls down the side of his face. He’s a woman face again but he doesn’t fight it. He’s tired of fighting.

  •

  The New Orleans Marina is quiet in the early evening. The low sun in the western sky beams an orange light across the pier where the blood stains have been washed away. A light, cooling rain taps on the aluminum awning, falling to the wooden pier through holes torn away by that big bitch Katrina. A brown pelican rises from the water off to Beau’s right and flies into the sky.

  “Is that your eye-witness?” Linda asks, nodding to the black cat lying atop Tiger Melon.

  “Yeah.”

  They move slowly, Beau’s right arm in a heavy sling, Linda carrying his bag full of medicine. She in a khaki uniform again, well tooled with a Glock sidearm. He wears a tee-shirt and gym shorts.

  “So quiet here,” Linda says as they get close to Sad Lisa. Beau sees Stu and Ann have moved Kate’s Delight back, directly across the pier from his houseboat. Linda unlocks the gate and the door and Stella’s sitting up in the middle of the room and looking at Beau. The air conditioner’s running. Ann must have come over.

  “Hi, Stella.”

  She lowers her head as Linda follows him in and starts to back away, moving over one of the tee-shirts from the dirty clothes hamper. Beau goes down on a knee and reaches his left hand down.

  “Come on, Baby.”

  Stella comes slowly, cautiously, like a good, careful cat should. He opens his hand, palm up and she climbs in and rubs her snout against his fingers and purrs. He sees her food dish is half full.

  “What’s that wonderful smell?” Linda asks as she steps into the galley area.

  There are three pots atop the stove, a yellow note taped to the biggest.

  “What does the note say?”

  Beau scoops Stella up and joins Linda as she reads, “Welcome home. Shrimp gumbo. Rice. Chicken jambalaya. Compliments of Chef Stu.”

  “The pots are warm,” says Linda. “Ann must be able to predict the future.”

  “I told her I’d be home this evening.”

  Stella slaps Beau’s fingers and he puts her down. She stretches and heads for her food dish.

  “You hungry?”

  Linda says, “I could eat.”

  “I’m
famished.” Beau turns the burner on the gumbo and jambalaya, pulls two bowls and two plates from the cupboard and a large spoon to scoop the warm rice into. He hands Linda a knife with a serrated edge, nods to the loaf of French bread Stu left on the counter. He starts up a pot of coffee-and-chicory.

  “You want to stay up late?” Linda asks.

  “Yep. I intend to put a move on you.”

  “You do?” There’s an sly look in Linda’s eyes. She smiles, moves into the living room and unbuckles her gunbelt, puts it on the recliner where she sits and takes off shoes and socks. She stands, unfastens her khaki uniform trousers and steps out of them. She looks at him as she unbuttons her shirt, drops it on the gunbelt and runs her fingers through her hair.

  Matching white lace bra and panties.

  He stares at her chest now. “Where have you been hiding those?” Her breasts look oversized for such a thin gal and her hips nice and round, legs slim and shapely which she shows him as she does a slow turn-around.

  “Like what you see?”

  He nods slowly.

  She comes back, looking up at him. “I was wondering when you were going to make your move.” She pulls him down and kisses him, wrapping her arms around his neck and their tongues go at it. He winces when they back into the counter.

  “Maybe we should take this slowly.” She touches the bandage on his arm.

  He pulls her close for another long French kiss, pulling her body against his.

  “Don’t underestimate me,” he says when they come up for air.

  It’s not easy slowing down for supper but the food’s so damn good, washed down with icy spring water. Stella curls up next to Beau’s foot and purrs loud enough for them to hear. The gumbo, poured over the rice, is very spicy and the jambalaya succulent.

  After, they move to the sofa and start slowly, kissing, touching, exploring each other’s body.

  “You sure … you’re up … to this?”

  “I’m up and ready,” he quips and she laughs.

  “Take it slow,” she gasps. “I like it slow and you don’t want to rip open any stitches.”

  Beau pulls away, waits for her to look down at him. “I always take it slow.