He sniggered at my report on the events of the morning.
“That gal’s one little charmer, ain’t she? Could make the snakes jump right out of their baskets and head back into the swamp quicker than a .45. You gotta watch that woman with both of your eyes.”
The homilies were great, but I wanted to know fact from fiction. Sometimes down here it was hard to tell one from the other.
“Is what she told me about Hillard Williams true?”
Charlie took a sip of ginger ale that had the waft of bourbon to it—a vice he’d acquired soon after the discovery that he was minus a wife.
“Well, that man never could learn to keep his pecker in his pants. In the old days, when he was raking it in poaching gators, he was one tough little dude. He’s a little bitty shit, too.”
Getting information out of Hickok was like trying to pull on a strand of taffy.
“Marie said he was the head of the Nazi movement down here. Is that right?”
Hickok pulled out a nail clipper and began snapping at his fingernails, one after the other. I was beginning to understand why his wife had left home.
“That’s what they say, Bronx.”
“What do you say, Charlie?”
“I say, every time you take a step, before you put your foot down, check exactly where it is you’re going.”
The top of his thumbnail whizzed past me. I was getting nowhere fast.
“Listen, Bronx. Politicians down here are as crooked as a dog’s hind leg, and Hillard is just about as crooked as they come. He’ll do or say whatever it takes to get himself elected, and he sure as hell seems to speak for a lot of the folks around here. He says he’s no Nazi. I ain’t gonna argue with him on that.”
“I hear he used to have a partner from New York that Marie described as a hoodlum.”
Charlie gave a slight laugh. “She was being charitable on that one.”
“I don’t understand why the police haven’t checked out Marie Tuttle. They must know about Valerie’s relation to her.”
Hickok popped open a box of Raisinets, his nod to nutrition. “It’s a bottom-drawer case, Bronx. Back-burner stuff for when their case load gets low, which is never. Ain’t nobody in N.O.P.D. gonna lose any shoe leather over a French Quarter hooker.”
The answer irritated me. “Well, maybe I’ll be able to find out some more for myself. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to be meeting with Hillard Williams at four o’clock this afternoon.”
For once Hickok was caught by surprise.
“You want to fill me in on how you managed to pull that off?”
I didn’t really, but there was no way around it. “The detective in charge of the Vaughn case invited me along. He wants us to pool information on this one.”
Hickok didn’t bother to look up as he emptied the box of Raisinets into his mouth. “And just who is this detective you’re talking about?”
“Jake Santou.”
Hickok’s eyebrows shot up as he went back to clipping his nails. “I’ll give you some leeway on this one, Bronx, but just make sure it’s the case you’re working on. I know that Cajun coonass, and I can guess what he’s really interested in. And it ain’t your investigating skills, neither. You just remember, you’re still working for me, so I get your reports. That also means hauling your rear end back out in that bayou and working this case in between everything else.”
I smiled as sweetly as possible as I walked out the door.
I met Santou outside the police precinct, where I hopped into a LeSabre so old that it made my VW look good. A red plastic crawfish and a set of black rosary beads swung from the rearview mirror, to the rhythm of late-afternoon traffic.
In the daylight, streaks of silver were finger-painted throughout his hair. Having worn a work shirt and jeans last night, he was a different person today in a brown sport jacket, chocolate slacks, and a beige shirt open at the neck to showcase the gold St. Anthony medal that lay against a chest covered with densely matted dark hair. His hooded eyes noticed me checking him out, but Santou was all business as he fought the traffic across Canal.
Originally the dividing line between the French, who considered the Quarter their own, and upstart Americans who dared to move into the area, the street now belonged to upscale department stores and the harried crowds that frequented them. A newly refurbished downtown, it could have been plunked anywhere in the U.S. and looked right at home.
We drove out toward the Garden District, passing the St. Charles streetcar on our way. Known in the past as the streetcar named Desire, which Tennessee Williams had made so famous, it slashed its way back and forth through the Garden District, its rails hot, shiny ribbons of steel under a blistering sun.
Once an exclusive section for the American nouveau riche, the Garden District is lined with one nineteenth-century gingerbread home after another. Each house had been built to surpass the next in an attempt to impress the French, who continued to view American residents as social scum. But Hillard’s house took the proverbial cake. Turning on to Prytania Street, Santou parked outside the high walls of the towering mansion, stained the shade of lemon meringue pie. Walking through the wrought-iron gate, I pulled at the hem of my dress as it clung to my legs in the heat. I had tried to make myself presentable for both Williams and Santou by running home to shower and change. It had been a long time since I’d worn anything besides pants and sneakers, but it seemed the least I could do to meet a character of Hillard’s notoriety.
Santou rang the doorbell, letting his finger rest on the buzzer for a minute or two. Just as I was beginning to think I’d been duped about any appointment, the door swung open, framing a hulking figure who made Santou look small. Towering at six feet five inches and weighing close to three hundred pounds, stood a man who could easily have been snatched up by any pro football team to play defense. Bearing a boxer’s flattened nose and a pompadour pomaded to perfection, Hillard’s butler was dressed in a red knit polo shirt complete with alligator emblem, white polyester pants, and pointy black shoes with a blinding shine. A thick gold band complete with a large, flashy diamond cut into the soft white flesh of his pinky finger. In the background, the high-pitched yap of a frenzied dog was on automatic, like a machine gun out of control.
“Yeah? Whadda youse want?”
I identified it right away as Little Italy, New York, one hundred percent.
Santou flashed his badge.
“Let me check on it.” Little Italy began to close the door, but Santou quickly wedged his foot inside.
“You mind if we step in? It’s awful hot out today.”
I had already begun to perspire and pushed my way through the open door, urged on by a cool breeze from inside. My brashness caught Little Italy off guard.
“Yeah. I s’ppose so.”
As he lumbered off, the air-conditioning took my breath away, along with the three-tiered crystal chandelier that hung in the center of the front hall. I could only guess how many gator skins had gone toward its purchase. A winding staircase stood off to the left. Made of mahogany, the steps led up to a second-floor landing that was bathed in a spectrum of colored light, the domed skylight above a mosaic of stained glass.
Little Italy suddenly loomed above me.
“Yeah. He’ll see youse, but he’s only gotta coupla minutes ta spare.”
Following him across the floor, I caught a glimpse of myself in the French cut-glass mirror. A mass of wild red waves, my hair curled down my back, the humidity making it frizz all the more. While the summer heat had tempted me to cut it off, long hair still seemed a badge of my youth, and I wasn’t ready to let it go.
Santou’s newly acquired Southern drawl drew my attention back to the walking hulk in front of us.
“You working for Hillard Williams down here?”
“Whadda I look like? A guest? I’m his bodyguard.” The heavy New York accent, interspersed with Santou’s Cajun patter, was like being caught between a bowl of gumbo and a heaping dish of lingui
ne with clams.
“And just why would Hillard be needing the expertise of a bodyguard in our peaceful town?”
“Hey, you’re a cop. You should know this is one wacko place. I never seen so many weirdos in my life. When ya can’t find a decent pizza, ya know something ain’t right about a town.”
“My name’s Jake Santou. Who’d you be?”
I glanced at the heavy gold ID bracelet that hung from Little Italy’s wrist like a chain. When he didn’t respond, I answered for him. “Vincent.”
Vincent’s body stopped in place, a veritable Rock of Gibraltar as he turned to face me. “Nobody calls me that except my mother, and she’s dead. Call me Vinnie.”
The sharp rap of high heels caught my attention. I glanced over my shoulder in time to see a woman, carrying a dog the size of a Q-Tip with teeth, disappear up the stairs.
Little Italy answered my question before I had time to ask. “That’s Mrs. Williams, the boss’s wife. She don’t take much to company.”
Turning back around, Vinnie walked toward the end of the hall as Santou continued his interrogation. “You down here from New York, Vinnie?”
Little Italy didn’t bother to answer as he flung open the double doors to Hillard’s inner sanctum. Spread out before us was a room that rivaled the Harvard Men’s Club. Paneled in mahogany, the room was drenched in a golden glow from the afternoon sun that streamed in through a large bay window. An overhead fan pirouetted silently above us, its whirling blades reflecting in the barroom mirror that hung above an immense marble fireplace. But what dominated the room was the oversize desk of cherry wood that you could have rolled a bowling ball on. Mounted directly behind it, and jutting out from the wall, was a bleached alligator skull of gargantuan proportions, beneath which sat a maroon leather chair as regal as a king’s throne.
Perched in its seat was a man whose chest barely met the top of the desk, and whose balding pate was poorly disguised by a few wisps of hair combed from one side across to the other. A pair of electric blue eyes beamed at me in amusement from a face that had all the roundness of a chipmunk’s, its pouches stuffed with food for the coming winter. Jumping up to greet us, Hillard Williams stood five feet tall. A butterball of a man, his barrel chest gave him the appearance of a bantam rooster. The two top buttons of his short-sleeve white shirt were undone, so that curls of wiry white hair pushed their way out in masculine defiance. A pair of red suspenders held up pants which hung below a protruding belly.
“Well, if it ain’t my favorite detective. How ya doing, Jake? Good to see ya.” Hillard slapped him on the back as though Santou had choked on a chicken bone. “And who’s this pretty little lady here?”
I towered over Hillard Williams, and could easily have patted him on the head. Instead I held myself back, allowing him to take my hand as Jake turned on his homeboy charm.
“Why, Hillard, didn’t y’all hear? Fish and Wildlife went and got themselves a female agent all the way from New York City. This is Rachel Porter. I thought this would be a good chance for her to meet the next likely mayor of our town and one of our most prominent citizens.”
Hillard casually began to stroke my hand as though I were a high-strung filly in need of some calming down.
“Well, it’s about time ol’ Hickok did something right. Welcome to New Orleans, honey.”
He gave my hand one last squeeze before I pulled free of his grasp. I tried to imagine kinky sex involving Hillard, Valerie, and Hook, but my mind drew a blank as the man’s eyes moved up and down my body, busy calculating my weight, height, and measurements.
“If there’s anything I can do to make your adjustment to our city any easier, darlin’, ya just holler, and I’ll do my darndest to help ya out.”
A movement drew my attention to the bay window overlooking the garden out back. Heavy burgundy drapes framed the view much like a stage curtain, and the bright afternoon sun flared into my eyes. Squinting against the glare, I saw a man’s dark silhouette slide out from behind the bulky material and realized someone had been standing there all along. Hillard took the opportunity to grab my hand once again as he followed my gaze.
“Well, excuse my backward manners. Gunter is so damn quiet sometimes I forget he’s even around. I want y’all to meet my advisor on foreign affairs. This here is Gunter Schuess.”
Tall and slim, with white-blond hair cut straight across the top like coarse bristles on a brush, Gunter glided toward us with liquid grace. He was dressed elegantly in black, his skin stark white in contrast. High cheekbones jutted up like precarious cliffs. His watery blue eyes flickered over me, then dismissed me quickly as if I were of little consequence. The slightest trace of a smile touched his lips, but no glimpse of humor was to be found in his eyes. Though his grip was light as he took hold of my hand, I was left with the impression that he could easily have crushed every bone in my body. Cold and dry to the touch, his skin reminded me of Hook. I held back a shiver as I let go. Schuess then faced Santou and nodded without offering his hand.
Jake broke the tension, turning to Hillard, who watched the proceedings with amusement.
“Why, Hillard, what are you needing an advisor on foreign affairs for? You haven’t even been elected mayor yet, let alone president. I thought that was another four years down the road for you.”
Hillard looked pleased, as if the thought was one he’d already contemplated. Gunter quickly intervened, his voice as smooth and carefully modulated as his manner.
“In this day and age of global communications, it is to every politician’s benefit to have as many contacts as possible outside his own realm. In Mr. Williams’s case, when he is mayor I will take on the task of bringing European business into the New Orleans area. There is a minor problem with unemployment here at the moment, is that not so? Presenting a global platform will attract foreign business and help to alleviate the situation. It is a very farsighted solution to the problem here, and one that is sure to win Mr. Williams the election.”
Gunter’s strong German accent added an underlying edge to the words, giving the speech a hypnotic effect.
Turning toward me, Hillard took my hand once again.
“Did ya know I’m runnin’ for mayor, sugar? Lord knows, I’m just a coonass country boy, but we got problems here, darlin’, that need fixin’ fast. I don’t mean to scare you none, but New Orleans is like one of those big ol’ oil tankers that’s hit a reef and is sinking like a rock. Why, industry’s leavin’ here in droves, and our river port is just a lazy coon dog out in the noonday sun. All we got growin’ here is people who’d rather collect welfare than work, and our murder rate’s worse than where you come from. You be careful when you go out at night, you hear me, honey? I’m tellin’ you the Lord’s honest truth. You’ll be robbed and raped and wonder what happened. And you stay away from that Bourbon Street. It’s riffraff like that are turning our wonderful city of New Orleans into a city of disease and human filth.”
It sounded as if Hillard were practicing for an upcoming rally. I pulled my hand out from under his, but he barely took notice.
“Most good solid workin’ folks think just like me, which is why I’m puttin’ myself through all this. It ain’t for me, darlin’. We gotta think of our children before they’re out on bread lines. Hell, you can forget about all those illegal aliens taking our jobs away. We’re under siege from the legal ones, we got so damn many of ’em. I ain’t no bigot, you understand. My motto is equal rights for all and special privileges for none.”
As Hillard caught his breath to launch into another round, Santou cut him off.
“To tell you the truth, Hillard, we didn’t come here to discuss campaign strategy and platform stands. You’re the expert on that. We’re here on a police matter.” Santou paused a moment as he turned to glance at Gunter. “It’s something you might prefer to discuss in private.”
Hillard moved behind his desk as he waved us toward two plain wooden chairs in front.
“Oh, come on now, Jake. I’m sure
that won’t be necessary. Besides, Gunter here should be in on whatever’s bothering y’all. He’s my liaison with the public. Kinda like my troubleshooter, if you know what I mean.”
Jake smiled. “Trouble already, Hillard? Shit, you ain’t even got into office yet.”
“Ain’t that the truth. I just might have to call on your services some when I get there. Make you my chief of police.” Turning toward me, Hillard gave a wink. “And as for you, darlin’, how ’bout I set up one of them special wildlife departments here in New Orleans proper so as I can make you head of it? Put a gal like you to good use. Get you to tame some of that wild life in this town.”
Hillard chortled at his own joke as he folded his hands on top of the desk. They looked tiny enough to belong to a child.
“So, what y’all here for? I got too many traffic tickets or something?” Hillard pulled out a stogie the size of one of Vinnie’s fists and lit up.
“Nah. Nothing like that, Hillard. I want to talk to you about one of those topless dancers over on Bourbon Street.”
“You talking about those dens of iniquity, Jake? Well, if ya got some gal you’re hankering to meet, you’re on your own, boy. That’s outta my league these days.” Hillard took a deep puff on his cigar, sending out a ring of smoke, and then winked at me as though I was being let in on a private joke. “What y’all think? Should my administration clean up all those girlie shows, or should we keep ’em and put the taxes to good use?”
Pulling another cigar out of his pocket, he thrust it toward Santou, who declined.
“What I was wondering, Hillard, was if you might have been acquainted with one girl in particular. A dancer by the name of Valerie Vaughn. Does that ring a bell with you?”
Hillard squirmed in his seat as he smiled down at his desk. “I was a man-’bout-town in my day. Ya know that, Jake. It’s not bragging or nothing, just a fact. But I’m a married man now. Mrs. Williams wouldn’t take kindly to no dancing girls coming up to the house.” Hillard turned to look at me. “I bet you wouldn’t put up with that nonsense none yourself. Though why anybody would wanna play around on a gal like you beats me.”
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