by Don Bruns
‘So, you never show up.’
‘It’s nothing personal.’
‘If you were somebody else, not Homicide, not a cop, would you come? Would you check out the show?’
‘I’m not somebody else.’
As Sandy moved toward a clean booth, Alexia grabbed him by the arm. She leaned in, looking into his eyes. ‘Well, if you knew a certain party was selling heroin,’ she said in a hushed tone, ‘would you come? Would you send an officer to the club?’
‘In the club?’
‘To the strippers,’ she said softly.
‘Who?’
The girl glanced at her friend who had chosen a booth in the back and brushed back her blonde hair. Whispering again, she said, ‘I shouldn’t say this but there is a very lucrative business selling H to some of the girls on Bourbon Street, OK? Some of the girls even have’ – she paused, leaning even closer to his ear – ‘handlers. High-class pimps. I could be in trouble for even mentioning it. Now pretend I was just flirting with you.’ She cupped his chin in her hand and kissed him full on the lips. The contact was jolting and lasted several seconds.
It was the first time any woman had made an advance since Denise had passed and he felt his heart thumping harder, blood rushing to his face. When she finally broke the lip-lock she smiled and winked. Archer was stunned.
The cute blonde turned to join her friend and, looking back at him, she blew another kiss. She was a stripper. She made her living teasing guys. Still, she gave him a shock. For a moment he was still. The information had interested him, but when she covered with a kiss …
The waitress brought him the sandwich, enough food to feed a Third World country. He ate half of it, she volunteered to offer the rest of the meal to the homeless, and as usual, he accepted.
Archer walked out of the small restaurant, making a note on his cell phone to talk to drug enforcement about heroin in the strip clubs. He was certain they knew the problem existed, but there were more important crimes to solve. A bunch of strippers who got high? No big deal. People being killed every day, a little more important. But the city of vice just got dicier every time he turned around.
Playing the Chill kills over in his head, he still came up empty. There was a common element, the can of Chill, and nothing else that seemingly tied the murders together. He flashed on the attractive voodoo lady, Solange Cordray. She’d helped him on the murder of a judge. She’d supplied valuable information that no one else could have known. She offered to help him again if he needed her. And for reasons he couldn’t quite grasp, he was anxious to talk to her. Something about the kiss at lunch from Alexia Chantel made him think of Solange. The sun goddess. For a fleeting moment he wished the kiss had come from the voodoo queen. That made no sense. None at all.
Passing by a small hotel, he was taken with the sign in the window. Hand scrawled, it read Tonight Only: Thrill Kill Plays Live in the Lounge. Archer shook his head. It was nice to know someone was profiting from these insane killings, even if it was only a local band.
Delroy Houston strolled up Bourbon toward Canal smiling as he walked past the legendary strip clubs, big guys on the sidewalk out front shouting at the crowds passing by, promising everyone a good time.
‘Live girls! Come on in.’
Better than dead ones. Delroy knew some of the girls were having a really good time, higher than kites. With all of the drugs that Nasta Mafia and Warhead Solja supplied, those special ladies felt no pain. Some of them were in there literally working their asses off for the next fix. He’d placed some of the strippers himself, taking a hefty cut of their pay. Multiple streams of income. Life was good.
Two girls stood outside Woody’s, dressed in skimpy lace bras and panties, their stringy hair, thin bodies and pale skin giving them the appearance of emaciated waifs. They shivered in the chilly afternoon air.
Houston kept walking, up to Canal, then left to Magazine Street, with its hip urban aura. Trendy restaurants, art shops, a chili-cheese-and-fries joint, and next to the ink shop where the hipsters went for exotic tattoos was Crescent Employment. The small sign on the door announced the business without drawing major attention. As he walked in, the muscular black man nodded at the thin white receptionist with the white magnolia in her hair and walked past her desk to the stairs. He climbed the two flights to an office facing the street.
‘Delroy.’ The paunchy balding man struggled to stand, reached over his oak desk and extended his hand. Houston ignored it, pulling up a cloth chair and slouching in it.
‘We got a problem, Blount.’
Case Blount wiped at his watery eyes and sneezed into a crusty handkerchief he picked up from his desk. ‘We’ve always got problems. It’s the nature of our business. Which specific problem do you refer to?’ Fidgeting with his narrow tie he sat back down, mopping his brow.
‘We work with you. Warhead Solja finds places to put your people, am I right?’
‘You do. You’re a very important part of our operation. And, we pay you well for your services.’
‘Maybe not well enough,’ Houston said, pulling a quarter from his pocket. The black man flipped it once and caught it in his tattooed left hand. A deep purple rose adorned the back and a thorn graced every finger.
‘So this is a financial concern?’
Houston watched the heavyset man as he wheezed and sneezed again, and pushed his chair back to escape the germs.
‘Stay away from me, old man. I don’t need your disease.’
‘You want to negotiate a better deal? To tell you the truth, Delroy, there are other organizations that offer similar services. Other organizations that would be happy with what we pay.’
‘That’s what I’m here to discuss, Blount. We’re tired of other organizations interfering. I’m not sure that you’re not in bed with some of them right now.’
‘What are you insinuating?’
Houston rolled the quarter seamlessly from one finger to the next on his tattooed knuckles.
‘Nasta Mafia. They’re in our face, taking over turf and cutting into our profits. Time we put the word out. Pretty much time we shut those mothahfuckahs down altogether, you understand?’
Blount wiped at his eyes again, picking up a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses and setting them on his short stubby nose. He shuffled through a pile of papers on his desk and finally pulled out a sheet covered with notes. Scanning it for a moment, he pointed to the middle of the page.
‘This is the name I was looking for. Here, Hector Sanchez. News says he was a member of Nasta Mafia. Think, Delroy. Hector Sanchez. Met a rather unpleasant ending. He’s dead.’
‘What about the Spanish prick?’
‘Somebody cut him up. Like in a butcher shop.’
‘Maybe I did see that in the paper.’ Houston gave him a deadpan look. ‘Lots of murders in NOLA, Case.’
‘Can of Chill by his side,’ Blount said.
‘What that means? Cans be bought at any convenience store, Mr Blount,’ he said sarcastically.
Blount blew his nose loudly and gazed around the small room. The picture directly behind Houston caught his eye. It always did. Mounted in the center of the wall, a black-and-white photo of a mousy girl pecking away on a manual typewriter, her horned-rimmed glasses perched on her face and her tongue just peeking through her dark lips. Life was a lot simpler back then.
‘If you were in any way responsible, don’t you think the word got out? They should have backed off.’
‘Assuming we were responsible, it didn’t do us much good. We’re seeing – what’s the word – encroachment, Blount. In a number of our endeavors. I would not want you to be involved with this group, because it is my – it is our intention to set things straight. If you are dealing with this organization, it might not go well for them, or for you. Is that understood?’
‘Boy, if you—’
‘Boy?’ Houston stood up, all six foot three of him. Now he was loud. Now he was screaming at the cringing white man. ‘What the hell, you
called me boy? Tell me you didn’t, mothahfuckah.’
Blount seemed to shrink, becoming smaller in his chair. ‘Calm down, Delroy. I meant no disrespect.’
Houston walked to the desk and leaned over, putting his hands on the smooth wood. ‘I will not accept disrespect. I came here to consult, little fat man. We are going to have a turf war. Not necessarily conventional, but there will be some bloodshed, there will be some casualties.’
‘Jesus, Delroy, not during Mardi Gras. Innocent lives could be at stake.’
‘Innocent lives are always at stake. Just a warning. In case you are sleeping with the enemy, and I believe you are’ – he placed the quarter on edge, then spun it like a top on Blount’s desk. It turned round and round, finally falling on its side – ‘then heads, Case. I win. Warhead Solja gets to take down Nasta Mafia.’
‘You don’t want to do this.’
‘You keep sending business to Nasta Mafia, bad things are bound to happen. Let me ask you somethin’, Case. A serious question. You know what happens when they bury your fat body?’
Blount shuddered, but kept his mouth shut.
‘You become fertilizer, fucker. You get it? Grass grows greener over your dead carcass.’
‘What’s your point, Delroy?’
‘My point, my man, is that you keep fucking with us, your ass is grass. Your ass is grass, mothahfuckah. You dig?’
‘Delroy, did you have anything to do with the killing of Blake Rains, the former city councilman?’
Staring into the fat man’s beady eyes, Houston said, ‘Blount, I am not responsible for every murder in this city. I’m not entirely happy with your insinuation.’ Leaning even closer he said, ‘You see, when someone is shot, stabbed or poisoned, I am not necessarily the most logical suspect. Maybe I should just give you a list of the ones I am responsible for?’ He gave him a grim smile, turned and walked out of the room. He thought the meeting had gone rather well.
EIGHT
Archer visited the voodoo shop on Dumaine Street, but it was closed. The good thing about the store being closed was he didn’t have to breathe in the sweet incense fumes. They gave him a raspy throat and a headache. Archer walked to the French Market, looking out at Decator Street where a blues guitar wailed at the Market Café. He saw Water’s Edge Care Center in the distance and continued toward the building. Pausing for a moment, he turned right and walked up to the raised levee of the Mississippi.
Reaching the crest he marveled at the big river curving around the city. A dirty white tug slowly pushed six long barges up the waterway as the Creole Queen paddlewheel steamer ran closer to shore, jubilant tourists waving from the top deck. Music from a pavilion nearby featured funky jazz by the New Orleans Swamp Donkeys, their brash horns echoing over the water.
The Detroit River didn’t have this romance. It was a working river that froze over in the winter. It was probably clogged with chunks of ice right now. He didn’t miss the cold, the river or the ice. And even though the summer months brought recreational boaters and visitors to the islands and parks that dotted it, Archer always thought of the river as just that twenty-four-mile dirty waterway that connected Lake St Clair and Lake Erie. The Mississippi, on the other hand, now this was the granddaddy of all the rivers in the United States. It too was a dirty working body of water, but the river defined New Orleans. Anything to do with Detroit just reminded him of sweet, beautiful Denise and that thought constantly depressed him.
Slowly walking back to the care center, he thought about his wife’s murder. His friend Detective Tom Lyons had told him good news, that it appeared beat cop Bobby Mercer had been caught on video camera stealing a car in a deserted parking lot. The same car that ran over his wife. But it was a grainy video and there was still work to be done to prove that the slimeball cop had killed Denise. He wanted to bring down a sledgehammer on Mercer. He wanted to bring down an anvil on the entire corrupt gang of drug dealers that posed as upstanding law enforcement officers.
‘She’ll be out in a moment, Detective. Please, have a seat.’
The girl at the desk motioned to the chairs in the lobby and went back to her paperwork. Archer stood, pacing across the small room. As soon as he’d sit, she’d arrive. He just knew it. Four minutes later the petite young woman walked through the door.
‘Detective Archer, so good to see you.’
Again he was reminded of the kiss. Alexia Chantel had ignited something that he hadn’t felt for a long time. Solange Cordray stood her distance, a wry smile on her face as if she knew. It was, of course, his imagination.
‘It’s been a while since we’ve talked.’
The last time was at a coffee shop, catching up on a case she’d helped solve. He remembered it well.
‘Your mother is doing better? I mean, she’s improving?’ He’d rehearsed his opening and was blowing it right now.
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘Not at all.’
It was the wrong intro. ‘No?’
‘Detective Archer, my mother has dementia. I don’t know how much you know about this terrible illness, but I pray for her return and I never give up hope. Modern science has yet to find a cure. Clotille Trouville may never “improve”.’
‘I’m sorry. I really don’t know much about …’
‘Mr Archer, you came here for a reason?’
Taking a deep breath, he nodded. This wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Can we go somewhere? For a few minutes and I can explain the situation.’
‘Sign in at the desk and meet me down the hall. There’s a coffee shop where we can discuss whatever is on your mind.’
Walking down the corridor he was reminded of Henry Ford Hospital where Denise had worked. The institutional look and feel, even the smell of disinfectant lingering in the air. Quiet and sterile. Archer shuddered. Too many memories, too many feelings.
The hospital was named after Henry Ford, head of Ford Motor Company. Only two things worth talking about came out of Detroit: Fords, the Mustang in particular, and Bob Seger. Archer was a big fan.
‘Decaf or regular, Detective?’ She stood by the coffee pots with paper cups and napkins in her hand.
‘Any tea?’
‘No, sorry. We’re all a little hardcore here.’
‘I’ll pass.’
‘What troubles you?’
Archer paused. ‘How do you know anything does? Maybe I just wanted to see you, catch up.’ Trying to be glib, funny. It didn’t work. He studied her for a moment, the rich coarse dark hair swept up off the soft face, skin like melted milk chocolate. She was more beautiful than he’d remembered.
‘That’s not why you are here,’ she said.
‘OK. I wondered if you had heard about the so-called thrill kills.’
‘With the Chill cans beside the body?’
‘Exactly.’
She poured the steaming beverage into her cup and sat down on a chair, motioning for him to join her. He sat across from her. Archer was strangely attracted to her and for a moment wondered if she was casting a spell over him, although he didn’t really believe that was possible.
‘Of course. Everyone in town has heard,’ she said. ‘It’s very scary. Kathy, a friend of mine who works here, she and I talked about it just the other day. It seems like there’s a killing every other day.’
‘It’s probably a long shot, but do you have any information? Any ideas?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I haven’t concerned myself with the matter. However, if I think of anything …’
He nodded, standing up. ‘I just thought that …’ Why did he feel so awkward?
‘Can you bring me a can?’
‘Of Chill?’
‘A can found at the scene of one of the murders?’
‘Yeah, I guess. They’ve already been dusted for prints, checked for DNA, so they’re clean. Sure. I can bring one. What do you expect to find?’
‘You never know, Detective Archer. I’d like to touch one. To see if there is any energy.’
‘Even inanimate objects sometimes pick up vibrations, Detective.’ Smiling, she looked into his eyes. ‘I sense you don’t believe me. Or you don’t believe what I believe. That doesn’t really matter does it? You came here because you have reached the proverbial brick wall. I’m not sure I can break through it, but bring me a can. Today, if possible. Before another killing takes place.’
Nodding he walked to the doorway.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’
Solange stood and headed down the hallway, Archer close behind. He studied her, the sway of the bright colored cotton dress as she moved gracefully in front of him, her hips in perfect rhythm. She stirred something inside of him, the way her free-flowing black hair swayed and the way her hips and bare legs moved as she walked. They turned a corner and walked half the length of the corridor. She slipped abruptly into a room with an open door.
Motioning for him to enter, she turned and addressed the white-haired older lady in the easy chair.
‘Ma, this is Detective Quentin Archer. He’s the man I told you about. There have been a number of discussions. We worked with him in the murder of the judge, remember?’
The frail lady with wispy hair looked straight ahead, never acknowledging either of her guests.
‘This is the famous Clotille Trouville, Detective. She was the queen of all the voodoo practitioners in her day. In her current state, she still knows more than most, and still strikes fear in the hearts of evil men. Or something like that.’ She smiled at Archer. ‘Maman is in there somewhere, I’m sure of it, but no one has found the key.’
Solange put her hand on her mother’s shoulder, squeezing it affectionately.
‘I wanted the two of you to meet. He’s an important man in the city, Ma. He’s down from Detroit and he’s one of the good guys.’
Archer stood still, not sure what to say or do. Finally the lady turned her weathered, sad face and glanced at him. She opened her mouth as if to speak but nothing came out.
‘There’s no reason for you to stay. You can leave, Detective.’ Solange gave him a wistful smile. ‘I didn’t think she would respond but you never know. I make an attempt to stimulate her whenever there’s an opportunity.’