Gator Aide

by Jessica Speart

  Tempted to retort with a caustic remark, I held back, leaving Hillard to fill the awkward silence with quick puffs on his cigar, like an inhalator supplying him with much-needed bursts of oxygen. Gunter drifted toward the window, folding himself back in the drapes where he gazed out at the garden, as if the subject matter was of little concern.

  “But this might be a girl you would have known. Her aunt is Marie Tuttle. You remember her, Hillard.” Beads of sweat broke out on Hillard’s brow, his glistening head as highly polished as a cue ball. Placing his cigar in an ashtray molded in the shape of a gator’s claw, Hillard leaned as far forward in Santou’s direction as he could, rising partially out of his seat.

  “I’m gonna take ya up on that offer of privacy, Jake. This ain’t no kinda discussion with a lady present.”

  “I’m also working on the case, Mr. Williams.”

  But Hillard no longer acknowledged me. “Jake, I really would feel a whole lot easier ’bout speaking on such a delicate topic if a lady weren’t present in the room.”

  Not wanting to leave, I spoke up in my own defense. “Please don’t be concerned, Mr. Williams. Nothing that is said is going to offend me. I’m a federal agent, and as Detective Santou can confirm, my interest in this case is totally legitimate.”

  Turning in my direction, Hillard rested the top half of his body on the desk and pulled himself forward until his feet were off the ground. “Sugar, this ain’t New York. You’re in New Orleans now, and we operate differently down here. So why don’t you just relax and lighten up? You’ll live longer that way.”

  Pushing himself back in one fluid motion, Hillard sank into his chair as he smiled at me. “First off, darlin’, agent or not, ya look like a woman to me, and since I’m a Southern gentleman, there’s just some things that can’t be talked about in front of a lady. Secondly, you’ll excuse my bluntness, but I don’t see how a stripper’s death’s got anything to do with you protecting critters. And finally, I wish ya would stop calling me Mr. Williams. Why doncha just call me Hill.”

  I leaned toward him over the desk. “First off, Mr. Williams, I’m here on official business, so obviously there is a tie-in with wildlife. Secondly, my name is Agent Porter. Please refer to me that way in the future. And finally, this is as relaxed as I get.” Sliding back in my chair, I held Hillard’s gaze until Santou broke the tension.

  “You know what, Hillard? I think I will take one of those cigars.”

  Pulling out a stogie from his desk, Hillard rolled it across the top. Santou caught it as it fell off the wooden edge into his hand. Carefully biting off the end, he stuck the cigar in his mouth and lit up, taking the first few puffs in silence.

  “You’re right, Hillard. This is a delicate topic.” Turning in my direction, Santou’s eyes narrowed in on mine so that I knew what was coming before he even said it. “I’m sure Agent Porter understands that as well, and won’t mind giving us a moment in private to ourselves.”

  He couldn’t have made it any clearer that this was his interrogation, and he wasn’t about to let me jeopardize it. He also couldn’t have been more wrong. I minded more than he knew. Given no choice on the matter, I flashed Santou a look that left little doubt as to how I felt as I walked across the room, having been dismissed. I’d been told as a girl growing up that attitudes toward women would change, and on the surface they had. But scratch just beneath the politically correct exterior of the nineties, and all the same prejudices were alive and well, with each same wall to be knocked down as sturdy as ever. New York was bad enough. But in the past few months working in Louisiana, I’d become convinced that a change of attitude here would require nothing less than a second Civil War.

  Walking out the door, I nearly smacked into the woman I had seen running up the stairs. Dolores Williams was dressed in black capri pants and a midriff blouse lost beneath a blizzard of sequins. She had obviously been eavesdropping on the conversation. Her hand was slapped over the muzzle of a toy poodle that, on closer inspection, could have been mistaken for a white cotton ball, but for two pink bows and ten stubby nails painted a dazzling shade of red.

  As for Dolores, an overabundance of makeup worked against her effort to appear young and fresh. Heavy pancake and powder revealed a deep network of lines, while shoulder-length bleached blond hair styled in a girlish flip did little to sustain the illusion. A pair of dark sunglasses covered her eyes. What had probably been an hourglass figure at one time had come to resemble a brandy snifter. Nearly as tall as me, Dolores must have been Hillard’s idea of an Aryan goddess at one time. Now she was just his bothersome wife. As she swayed precariously back and forth on a pair of red high-heeled mules, it was apparent that Dolores’s lack of balance came from the Southern Comfort I could smell on her breath. I estimated that she clocked in at around fifty, though the twin ravages of age and too much liquor had taken their toll. Dolores bounced against the wall as she stuck out her hand for balance, holding on to the poodle, which I now noticed had only three legs. When she let go of the dog’s snout, it bared its teeth at me, emitting a low growl of warning.

  “Stop that, Fifi.”

  The dog looked at me with pure hatred as I started to introduce myself.

  “Save your breath, honey. I heard what’s going on, and let me tell you, that whore got what she deserved.”

  Dolores sported a lighter accent than her husband’s, though her speech tended to slur.

  “Did you know Valerie Vaughn?” I had the feeling Dolores knew plenty. Her remark came from a woman well aware of what her husband had been up to, and was now making him pay for it dearly.

  “If you mean did I know her intimately, like we got together and had lunch, no. But I can tell you we shared more than just my husband.”

  I no longer cared what tap dance Hillard was doing in the next room. Santou had unknowingly done me a huge favor.

  “Would you mind talking to me about it, Mrs. Williams? I’m working on the case. I’d be interested to hear whatever you have to say.”

  “I bet you would.” She barked a loud laugh as Fifi tried to jump from her arms. Leaning heavily against the wall, Dolores studied me carefully in her inebriated state.

  “You don’t look like a cop to me. What are you? Undercover or something?”

  “I’m with the Fish and Wildlife Service. An alligator was found in Ms. Vaughn’s apartment. It had been killed as well. That’s why I was called in.”

  “You’re here about that damn gator? Jesus Christ! What a crock, though I suppose I should be grateful for small favors.” Dolores pulled the dog closer until its head was buried in a sea of sequins. “Thank God that walking handbag’s dead. At least there’s some justice left in the world.”

  Considering where all the money for her house and furnishings had come from, it didn’t seem a very charitable statement. Dolores swayed in my direction, nearly losing her balance. I thrust out a hand to steady her, and Fifi lunged toward me like a hungry piranha as the door to Hillard’s office swung open, and the bristle-combed head of Gunter peered out. Catching sight of our powwow, he glided through the door as if he were skating on ice. Ignoring me, he caught Dolores by the arm and tried to veer her toward the stairs.

  “Shouldn’t you be in your room resting? None of this need concern you.” Gunter’s voice wove a silky web. It was obvious he was a man used to getting his way. Fifi turned toward him and growled loudly as the stump of her leg began to twitch. He pulled away for a moment, uncertain as to what the dog might do. His appearance was vaguely reptilian in the afternoon light, and I noticed, for the first time, that his eyebrows were as white as his hair, while he lacked any eyelashes whatsoever. Gunter grabbed at Dolores again, causing Fifi to launch into frenzied high-pitched barking that could have been taken for a car alarm on the fritz.

  The shrill yelping jerked Dolores out of her stupor. Pulling her arm out of Gunter’s grasp, she barked out her own command.

  “I don’t want to rest. What I want is another drink!” She glared at Gu
nter as he stood ramrod straight. “Now!”

  Analyzing the situation through lashless eyes, Gunter humored her for the moment. “I’ll see what I can do.” Turning on his heel, he left the hall.

  “You do that!” Dolores barked after him. With Gunter out of the way, Fifi turned her attention back to me, baring her teeth in a warning growl. Swaying toward me, Dolores considerately placed her hand over the dog’s snout to keep me from being torn to bits.

  “I’m a goddamn prisoner in my own home. There’s always somebody spying on me.” Dolores pulled back, contemplating me with glazed eyes before leaning in once again. “So, you’re new in town, huh? Good. Someone Hill hasn’t bought off yet. We can’t talk now, but come back tomorrow for lunch. We’ll talk then.” Dolores hiccuped a trail of good bourbon. “I’ll get Vincent to let you in.”

  Southern Comfort promises. My pulse raced as Gunter returned, holding a glass filled with bourbon and ice.

  “I suggest you drink this upstairs.” He handed Dolores the glass, his tone holding a thinly veiled threat as he grabbed her once again by the arm.

  In a well-timed move, Dolores let go of the dog’s muzzle so that Fifi lunged like a cobra striking at its prey, zeroing in to lock her teeth into Gunter’s outstretched hand. For a moment the two froze in place, like a piece of performance art, until Gunter reached for Fifi’s muzzle to try and pry her jaw loose. The dog just held on tight, digging deeper into his flesh with a determined growl. Gunter cursed under his breath as he clamped his free hand tightly around Fifi’s throat. As he cut off the dog’s air supply, Dolores brought the standoff to an abrupt end by rapping Fifi on the nose, and then striking a well-placed kick to Gunter’s shins with the heel of her shoe. Releasing the hand with a look of triumph, Fifi came away with a chunk of flesh as blood ran from Gunter’s wound.

  “Someone is going to kill that damn dog someday.” Ripping a handkerchief from his pocket, Gunter tightened it around the gash in an attempt to stop the spurt of blood that covered his hand and the cuff of his shirt.

  “You just make sure that doesn’t happen, Gunter, or believe me, you’ll have a lot worse than Fifi to deal with.” Dolores held her drink in a rock-steady hand, having not spilled one drop during the melee. “You’ll have me on your German ass, and that’s something you don’t even want to think about.”

  There was no time to imagine how Dolores could possibly be worse than Fifi on the prowl, as the door to the inner sanctum opened and Hillard and Santou walked out.

  “You’re a good man, Jake. I knew I could count on ya to understand. And don’t you worry none. Once I get into office, that job is yours, and that’s a promise.” Ignoring both Gunter’s bloody hand and Fifi’s reddened muzzle, Hillard bounded over to me. “You remember my offer now, honey. Don’t be a stranger, ya hear? I just might have a place in my administration for a gal like yourself. It’s high time we had us a head of wildlife for whatever wildlife it is we got here in this city.”

  Hillard once more felt comfortable enough to address me with endearments. I took this as a sign that their meeting had gone well. As for “head of wildlife,” I was pretty sure he meant local dogcatcher to clean up whatever mess might be made. So far, there seemed to be plenty of them.

  “So, how’d it go with Dolores Williams? I see that she was in her usual stewed state.” Santou sounded awfully chipper.

  “Gee, I don’t know. What can you expect to get from a woman who’s drunk and has her hands full with a psychotic dog? But enough about me. How was your private meeting with Hillard? He certainly seemed satisfied with the outcome.” I had given Santou more than enough information for today, and had come to the decision that unless we played this straight, we might as well each work on our own. “What was all that about making me leave the room?”

  Santou grinned. “It’s known as Southern manners, chère. There are certain things Southern gentlemen don’t talk about in front of a lady.”

  I had reached my bursting point as far as Southern charm was concerned. “Don’t hand me that crap, Santou. Either we work on this together, or we’re wasting each other’s time.”

  The sun highlighted the silver streaks in his hair and deepened his sallow complexion to a rich golden brown. As we approached the car Santou took off his jacket, casually tossing it over his shoulder as he leaned against the passenger door, his eyes narrowing as they homed in on me.

  “Good. I’ve never liked having to deal with some fragile lady. My day is now officially over, so how about having some Cajun food with me and seeing what life in Louisiana is really like? I don’t imagine you’ve come across much of that living in the French Quarter.”

  His remark took me by surprise. “How did you know I live in the Quarter?”

  Santou stared at me a moment, then smiled. “You told me. Last night.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Growing up in New York, the first thing you learned was never to tell anybody where you lived right away.

  Santou shrugged, the smile still lingering on his lips. “Lucky guess, then.”

  I could feel the tension radiating off Santou’s hot-wired veneer. If he was all that curious about my address, it would have been easy enough for him to find out. In spite of myself, I found I was flattered. But not enough to let him off the hook right away.

  “I thought I’d been invited along on a business meeting, Santou. Not to be shunted around like some Southern belle from one room to another. You made me look like a fool back there while you and Hillard were busy playing country boys.”

  Whatever Santou was about to say, he consciously repressed it, wrapping his arms across his chest as though to bottle it in. Studying him in the afternoon light, I didn’t see any one physical characteristic that could be called attractive all on its own, but there was something about the man that exuded sensuality.

  “Chère, don’t you know how to get along with people? Make them feel comfortable? Hillard and I are just two ol’ country boys playing a bit of round-robin with each other. Nothing wrong with that.” Santou’s body still blocked my entrance to the passenger door. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s go for a ride.”

  “If all this was just to get me out on a date, you should have saved yourself the trouble. I’m not interested.” I made a move for the door handle but Santou didn’t budge.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Porter. You’re a good-looking woman, but I just got out of one mess. I don’t need to get myself right back into another.”

  It struck a chord, echoing one of my reasons for leaving New York. In truth, I had run away. I needed to believe that if I picked up and moved, somehow my life would change—or at least my pattern of failed relationships with men. While I had always thought of myself as an independent woman, I kept making the same fatal mistake time and again. I tended to define myself by the way each man had wanted me to be.

  “Listen, Porter, I’m talking dinner between two people working on the same case, that’s all. But it’s up to you. As far as Hillard is concerned, I knew I’d get more out of him if you weren’t in the room.”

  “I’d expect you to tell me what you found out whether we went to dinner or not. That was the deal, wasn’t it?”

  Santou stepped away from the car. Opening the door, I sat down on a hot plastic cover that melted into my skin.

  “Yeah, that was the deal.”

  Santou slid in behind the wheel and reached beneath his seat. “Jesus, Porter. What’s the big deal? We’re not talking date rape, just relaxing over a decent Cajun meal in a setting a whole lot nicer than this while I fill you in on the details. Is that considered torture where you come from?”

  Pulling out a bottle of Mylanta, he twirled off the top and took a swig, making him seem more human. I told myself I could use a break from my daily routine of chocolate bars and po’boy sandwiches. But deep down inside, I knew it was much more than that.

  We rolled past a succession of sugarcane fields as Santou regaled me with stories from his childhood on B
ayou Teche. I heard about his father, who had worked the swamps collecting crawfish and frogs to be sold to pricey New Orleans restaurants, and of his grandmother, who had been a fountain of Cajun folklore for the region. As a blue heron took flight from the bayou’s edge, Santou told me to quickly make a wish before the bird flew out of sight and it would come true.

  “I wish you’d tell me what was so confidential that I had to leave the room for.”

  Santou gave wide berth to a dead cat lying in the middle of the road, all four legs stiffly raised in a salute to the setting sun. “Hillard admitted to sleeping with Vaughn a few times. Says she tempted him till he just broke down and sinned. Made it sound like that little girl couldn’t keep her hands off him. But then Jesus spoke to Hillard and told him to clean up his act, what with the election coming up and all, you know.”

  Santou’s expression remained deadpan.

  “So now, while he lusts after other women in his heart, he’s taken a vow to lie only in the arms of that sweet little wife of his. Hillard said he’s truly sorry about what happened to Vaughn, that he doesn’t know anything, and he sorely hopes she found the comfort of God before she died. Of course, the whole time he was quaking in that big leather chair of his. Seems he’s worried what this kind of information could do to his campaign if it leaked out, to say nothing of his newly acquired upstanding reputation.”

  It was no wonder that Gunter had felt safe leaving the room. I remembered Hillard’s parting promise to Santou of better things to come.

  “And you swallowed that line?”

  Santou pointed out an egret camouflaged in the tall grass, taking in the last rays of day. Behind the bird was a factory exuding exhaust flames as bright as the setting sun.