City of Secrets

by O'Neil De Noux

  Kay, wearing horn-rimmed glasses with an elastic band that holds the glasses close to his round face and cuts a perpetual line across the back of his close-cropped brown hair, stands six feet even, but appears bigger because he always wears a bullet-proof vest – always. Today it is clearly visible beneath his white dress shirt.

  “I want y’all to know how proud I am to be commanding this Task Force.”

  Bob Kay isn’t a boy scout, actually. He just sounds that way. The long-time commander of the Training Academy, Kay had personally trained every detective in the room. We were his pupils, his little brothers and sisters; and he cares for us more than his life. He’ll tell you.

  “For y’all that are new to this investigation I’ll give you a run down.”

  For the next fifteen minutes Kay explains the random shootings of two police officers and the fruitless investigations into the killings. Then he takes a minute to explain about the shooting of Officer Cassandra Smith. It seems that her killer was a 107 – a suspicious person. As soon as she stepped off her Yamaha, he shot her four times.

  “As you know, the killer was subsequently killed by Detective Beau in Exchange Alley.”

  Someone at the back of the room claps, but only for a moment. Kay shoots the clapper a harsh look.

  “The Colt Python the man carried was not the murder weapon used to slay Officers Stevens and Cochran. Consequently the killer from Exchange Alley,” Kay pauses to look at his notes again, “this Casey Jones, is not the man we’ve been looking for .”

  “Fucker was named after a train?” someone at the back of the room calls out.

  “Hey, Beau.” Another voice from the back. “How’d your Superintendent’s Hearing go?”

  Kay answers for me. “As you can see, Detective Beau has his Glock back on his hip and he’s here, isn’t he?”

  “All fuckin’ right,” a familiar voice says.

  I turn and see it’s my old partner, Tim Rothman. Tim grins back and nods furiously, his curly Harpo Marx hair bouncing, his eyes bulging.

  Fuckin’ lunatic.

  I turn around just as another voice from the back congratulates me for another good shooting.

  “Fires three shots. Three hits.”

  “Fuckin’A!”

  “You’re all right, Beau!” It’s Rothman again. “Even if you are a lone-fuckin-eagle crazy Sioux Indian. You’re all right.”

  I have to force back a smile. Rothman and I go way back. Straight out of the academy we were teamed together in the Second District, the Jew and the Sioux riding through the wild nights, like little boys with guns. He’s the reason I’d given up correcting cops, telling them I’m Lakota and that our enemies called us Sioux, which means “snake in the grass.” Sioux sounds fiercer anyway.

  Kay finally raises a hand. “I promise y’all one thing.” His voice gets deeper. “We will catch the man who killed Stevens and Cochran – no matter what it takes.” He flips open his notebook and reads the roll call, running off the names of the assembled cast of four homicide detectives, two robbery detectives, two burglary detectives, two sex crimes investigators, and three general assignment dicks. When he finishes, Kay gives everyone their new assignments, dividing up the murders of the two officers for intensive follow-up.

  Since each officer was shot while on duty, each in a different part of town, the areas around the crime scenes would be thoroughly investigated again for witnesses and or suspects. Kay assigns other detectives to follow-up any miscellaneous leads that come in.

  Then he says, “Detectives Beau and Gonzales will work independently. Gonzales, because he speaks Spanish, will use that expertise in the Latin areas of town. Beau, because that’s the only way he works, or so I hear.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” someone cries out.

  “Track ’em. Shoot ’em. Scalp ’em!”

  I raise my hand.

  “You have a question, Detective Beau?” Kay likes to keep things formal.

  I pull my wrap-around Ray Ban super-black sunglasses from the front pocket of my dress shirt and put them on and say, “We’re not working this on the day shift, are we?”

  “No way,” Kay answers and raises a hand when another ‘Fuckin’ A’ rings out. “And we’re taking Lieutenant Merten’s suggestion to end the surveillance work. We’re working this case like a homicide should be worked. At night and on the street.” Kay sticks his jaw out and pounds his chest. “No more sitting around, waiting to react. We’re using pro-active homicide investigating.”

  Good. My kinda ball game.

  Chapter 3

  It’s time to go play shoot ‘em up

  I rub my chin and feel my perpetual five o’clock shadow. Standing with my back against the rear wall of The Blue Note Bar, I scan the crowded room. The driving sound of a reggae band reverberates in my ears. Couples gyrate on the hardwood dance floor. Women, mostly brunettes in miniskirts, move hypnotically to the music with well-dressed partners, young men wearing baggy pants and open-collared shirts.

  I’m wearing a blue, linen tee-shirt, black pleated pants, and a short-sleeved, navy blue dress shirt, unbuttoned and hanging out of my pants to hide my badge, Glock and the handcuffs I’d tucked into my belt at the small of my back. I have an Abita beer long neck in my left hand. A whiff of cigarette smoke wafts across my face and I wave it away just as the crowd on the dance floor opens and a dark-haired couple, doing the Lambada, dry-hump each other to the rising cheers of the crowd.

  I continue scanning the bar, looking for red hair. The Blue Note’s young crowd is a true melting-pot of whites and blacks and various shades in between, like me. The band of Caribbean blacks, their shirtless skin shimmering under the band lights, sound so much like Bob Marley and The Wailers, I did a double take earlier. The lead singer’s hair is braided Rastafarian-style, and he looks a little like the late Bob Marley.

  Just to the left of the steel drummer, I spot a familiar face also scanning the crowd. I smile to myself and slip away from the wall to worm my way through the crowd and ease up next to Mike Gonzales. I wait until Gonzales looks my way, raise the Abita and call out over the music, “Óla, amigo!”

  Gonzales closes his eyes and shakes his head.

  A blonde in a silver minidress pushes past me, her perfume strong and sweet. She gives me a wicked wink and continues on. I take a swig of beer.

  Gonzales opens his eyes and shouts, “Your cologne stinks.”

  I point to the swaying hips of the retreating blonde.

  Gonzales shoots her a look, cups his left hand next to his mouth and says, “What are you doing here?”

  “Working? I thought you were hanging out in the Latin areas?”

  Gonzales’ brown eyes widen. “This is a Latino bar.”

  “It is?” I look around at the people and shrug.

  Gonzales throws his head back and laughs. He points to the front door and shouts, “Outside!”

  I lead the way through the people and the sound of driving guitars, a hollow steel drum and a singer moaning about waiting in vain for love. Outside the heat and humidity wash across my face like an oven door opening. A bus moves along Magazine Street, puffing acidic exhaust fumes over us. Gonzales coughs.

  I wait to catch my breath, then say, “I’m looking for a red-headed girl.”

  “So who isn’t?” Gonzales wears his hair slicked back tonight, á la Andy Garcia, along with a nice two-piece black suit. His shoes are two-tone black and white.

  “Her name’s Sandie. She’s a hooker.” I take a hit of Abita, then say, “Half-a-hooker, actually. Semi-pro.”

  Gonzales laughs so hard he starts coughing.

  I look up and then down narrow Magazine Street. Most of the shops are closed at night. Cars are parked back to back on either side of the two-lane street. Most of the small businesses have apartments to rent upstairs, wood frame buildings painted loud colors in this lower-middle class part of town.

  When Gonzales recovers, I add, “She only works weekends. This is Tuesday. She’ll be out catt
ing.”

  The door opens behind us and I turn in time to see the blonde in the silver minidress slink out. I step aside and she breezes between us, her strong perfume ridding the air of exhaust fumes. We watch her pass and watch her turn around.

  She purses her lips at us and says, “You’re wanted in the car.” Lifting her right hand, she points to a white Ford Taurus parked against the curb a half block down Magazine.

  “Yeah. Right!” I take another hit of Abita.

  “You,” the blond calls out. “Tall boy. I’m talking to you.” She waves her finger at me.

  Gonzales leans a hand against the wall to keep from collapsing from laughter.

  I give the blond the look my Sioux grandfather taught me, the stern look of the plains warrior – a hard glint to the eyes, a face completely void of expression.

  Just then a head sticks out of the Taurus, a red-head. “Beau. Get your Cajun ass over here.”

  “Come on,” I tell Gonzales. “Better back me up. The blond looks dangerous.”

  “No. I’m looking for someone too.” Gonzales rolls his eyes. “Only my snitch ain’t as nasty-looking as yours.” He goes back into the bar.

  The blond leans against the side of the Taurus and sucks on a cigarette.

  I move around her as Sandie leans across the front seat to the passenger side window of the car. She wears a red minidress so low-cut I can see her left nipple. She smiles at me and purrs, “Sorry I’m late.”

  I look at the blond again and she blows smoke up in my face.

  “You know,” I tell the blond. “You look a lot better from a distance.”

  “Yeah! Well fuck you!” She pushes away from the car. “Fuckin’ cop.” Then she swishes back into the bar.

  Sandie pulls her long curly hair away from her face and shrugs. “She’s got a temper, that one.” She runs her tongue lightly over her lips which shine with bright red lipstick.

  “So.” I lean into the car. “You come up with anything?”

  Sandie twists her head to one side and says, “Not a goddamn thing.”

  “Come on. There’s not one word on the street? Not even a rumor?”

  “I hear you got men working the projects pretty hard. You know I can’t help you there.”

  “You slummin’ on me, young lady?” I shake my head.

  She recoils as if I’d slapped her.

  “You know better than that.” She bats her light brown eyes and gives me a hurt look. A long-time snitch ever since I helped her get away from a boyfriend who liked to beat her, Sandie is as good as she is naughty. I check my watch. It’s ten sharp.

  “All right,” she says. “I told you I’d come up with something and I will. It just isn’t easy.” She leans over further, her minidress rising. She touches my arm. “We’re talking about cop killers, for Chrissake. They ain’t easy to catch.”

  I back away from the car and her hand falls away. I pull out a business card and jot my home phone number on the back and pass it to her. “Call me when you come up with something. Call headquarters or this number.” I point my right index finger at her pretty nose. “Call me.”

  As I walk away, she says, “How about a hum job? On the house.”

  I’d parked the Caprice a block down from Magazine on Milan Street beneath the twisted branches of a magnolia tree. Cranking up the engine, I put the AC on frosty and take Milan straight down to Annunciation. The AC hasn’t had time to even cool me before I pull over in front of a white shotgun house sandwiched between two camel-backs. I step through the front gate of the page fence in front of the house. Three steps later I’m up on the narrow front gallery knocking on the screen door. Across the street, three wary black faces watch me.

  The door opens and Reverend Chester Holliday’s face beams at me.

  “Well,” Holliday says, opening the screen door. “Come on in John.” One of the few who call me by my first name. I step in and the reverend pats me on the shoulder. “Good to see you, my boy.”

  The house smells of lemon cleaner and popcorn and is thankfully cool. I fan my dress shirt . The reverend waves me to an easy chair next to the sofa.

  “Popcorn?” The reverend lifts a huge orange plastic bowl from the coffee table.

  “No thanks.”

  “How about a cold one?”

  “A soft drink’d be nice.”

  The reverend puts the popcorn bowl down and goes back to the kitchen. He’s back in less than a minute with two icy Coca-Colas and passes one to me. He sits on the sofa and scoops up the popcorn bowl with his free hand.

  I take a sip of Coke. “I’m working on the murders of those police officers.”

  “I figured.” The reverend leans back and shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth. A former New Orleans Saint now in his mid-fifties, he’s a big man with a massive frame and a wide face as muddy brown as Mississippi River water.

  “You got a real problem don’t you?” The reverend’s brow furrows.

  I nod and take another drink of Coke.

  “I’m familiar with the case, of course.” The reverend takes a drink of his Coke. “I’m concerned, since one of the murders happened not far from here.”

  Cochran was killed not six blocks from here on Tchoupitoulas Street. I watch the big man’s eyes.

  “I’ve been checking on my own.”

  “I figured you would.”

  I wait while the reverend stuffs another handful of popcorn into his mouth. We’d met five years earlier, when I was a patrolman. Reverend Chester Holliday called police when he saw four teen-aged boys park a car in front of his house and start to strip it. When my patrol car made the corner, the teens bolted like jack rabbits. I recovered the stolen car. When the reverend said he didn’t know the names of any of the teens, I didn’t push the issue. The reverend seemed to appreciate it and over the years always talked straight to me, as straight as any man could.

  “I was worried at first. So I talked with the kids around here. They know everything that happens in a neighborhood.”

  I couldn’t agree more.

  The reverend goes, “I’m pretty sure it’s nobody from around here. I hear it’s a street thing.”

  “What?”

  “Just a rumor. A street thing between some hard-ass white boys and the police.” The reverend blinks his dark eyes at me. “Thank God, it’s white boys.”

  I make sure my eyes don’t reveal my thoughts. A witness had seen a white man running away from one of the murders.

  “I appreciate your help,” I tell him. “If there’s any way you can find anyone who saw anything, or who hears anything – ”

  “I got my ear to the ground.”

  “Thanks.” I stand up and finish the Coke.

  Before leaving I ask to use the bathroom.

  “Remember what Lyndon Johnson said?” Smiling, the reverend points the way to the bathroom. “He said never pass up a free meal or the chance to use the bathroom.”

  •

  I make a quick stop at the A&P on Robert E. Lee Boulevard before heading for Bucktown. As I pass Flamingo’s, I look at my watch. Ten-forty. I have time for a good supper after I check on the puppy. I park the Caprice next to my gate and grab the grocery bag. The puppy starts yipping before I unlock the gate. As I step onto Sad Lisa, the puppy bounces up and down, then spins around in circles, yipping louder.

  “So how’s it going, little buddy?”

  The puppy rolls on its back and kicks its paws at me. I put the bag down, lean over and rub the puppy’s belly. It licks my hand furiously. I reach in the bag with my free hand and pull out a can.

  “See what I bought you?” I show him the can of puppy chow. So excited, the puppy pees on my hand.

  “Great!”

  I get up and move to the outside sink and wash my hands. We go into the main cabin and fix the puppy’s supper, mixing dry food with a half can of puppy chow. I put it out on deck and the puppy attacks the food. After making sure the puppy has fresh water, I go back in and wash my hands thoroughly i
n the bathroom and check the answer machine. No messages.

  Stepping back on deck, I catch a whiff of urine. I turn on the main lights and see yellow spots on deck, as well as a couple puppy turds. I pick up the puppy and his food dish and put them on a chair, then grab the hose and wash off the deck. Putting the puppy and dish back down, he doesn’t seem to notice he’s been moved. He keeps eating. I refill his water bowl.

  “See ‘ya later,” I tell the dog on my way off the boat and remind myself I need a good name for the little sucker.

  •

  Flamingo’s Cafe is an old-fashioned diner with a long counter running from the register next to the front door to the bathrooms at the rear. A center aisle divides the counter’s stools from the five booths against the wall of windows that face the oyster shell parking lot and Orpheum Avenue. With pink walls and a turquoise Formica counter that matches the table-tops of the booths, Flamingo’s is straight out of the Fifties.

  As usual, the cash register is manned by owner Cecilia Henderson, white female, fifty-five, five feet-five inches tall, weighing in at around two hundred. Cecilia wears her light brown hair up in a bun in back and the sleeves of her white waitress uniform rolled up her beefy arms. Her spectacles dangle around her neck on a silver chain. The grill, behind the counter, is manned by a short, wiry black man named Joe whose perpetual smile is as much a fixture as his great cooking.

  When I enter, Cecilia looks up at me and her mouth makes a little ‘O’. She waves me to my usual booth at the rear of the diner and follows me with a short glass of water and a napkin wrapped around two spoons, a fork and a butter knife. The strong smell of fried burgers and onions causes my belly to rumble.

  “How it’s going Joe?” I call out as I pass.

  “OK, how you doing?” Joe waves a metal spatula at me.

  “Fine.” I put my radio on the table and settle in my booth, my back against the rear wall so I can watch the front door like a good cop.

  Cecilia puts the utensils and water in front of me, leans over and says, “Are you really OK?”

  “Sure why not?”

  It takes a second for me to realize she’s shook.

  “What is it?”