Her refrigerator verified it. It’s strange how you can tell if a refrigerator is kept full and has just been cleaned. It has a different feel to it than one that is generally empty. Valerie and I both kept the latter kind. Inside were a few cans of beer and diet soda. A half-empty bottle of cheap white wine, minus the cork, sat lodged on the inner shelf of the door. A container of cottage cheese held large green curds instead of white. Checking the freezer, I guessed it hadn’t been defrosted in years. I usually solved that problem with a hammer and chisel. Valerie had never gotten around to it. A box of fried chicken and a quart of chocolate ice cream lay wedged between two thick layers of ice. The only things that could fit, they depressed me. It reminded me too much of my own life.
“What would Valerie do? What would Valerie do?”
Wandering back out, I glanced at my body in the full-length mirror in her hall, imagining myself in her clothes. At one time, I might have looked great. But along with acting, I had given up my daily routine of working out. In no time at all, an almost-perfect figure had changed into a body I could get by with if I didn’t wear anything tight, and made it a practice to take off as few clothes as possible in any given situation. And then I knew what I had been looking for.
As a stripper, Valerie had made her living with her body. That meant she had been conscious of her weight. She also kept a large container of ice cream in her freezer. I had, too, when I lived in New York. I’d been told by someone in the know that it was the best place to hide anything small and of value. Going back into her kitchen, I removed the container from her freezer, pulled off the lid, and checked inside. Sure enough, its contents had been removed, then carefully repacked and patted back down into place. Having worked cash jobs off the books to support an acting career, I’d been taught how to hide a wad of carefully wrapped bills. Valerie must have learned the same trick.
I began to dig, dumping the ice cream into her sink, until the spoon hit the plastic bag buried near the bottom. I grabbed it by the knot at its top and ran it under hot water, the chocolate running off in muddy streams. Finally, it became clear enough to see a white cloth carefully folded inside. Ripping the bag open, I pulled back one corner of the cloth at a time, revealing perfectly shaped stones the color of ice that reflected the light from the bare bulb above—a necklace formed from dozens of diamonds. Creating an intricate choker of swirls, the stones led down to one enormous pear-shaped diamond. Along with the necklace was a business card for Global Corporation, located on Mulberry Street in New York, in the heart of Little Italy. I had the feeling it was no jewelry store.
I stashed the card in my pocket along with Valerie’s clippings, and placed the necklace back into its shroud. While Hillard might have covered Valerie in Dolores’s old fur and a few of her baubles, I doubted that this had been one of them. Carrying such a fortune outside was more than I wanted to deal with—New Orleans easily matched New York when it came to muggers working the streets. But I couldn’t leave the diamonds here. I had little choice, other than to move quickly and pray. I buried the necklace at the bottom of my bag, one more thief stealing pieces of Valerie’s life. Having gotten what I came for, I closed her door behind me.
The streets of New Orleans are never quiet. This is the land of jazz and zydeco. There’s always the fanfare of tourists and the hullabaloo of Bourbon Street, with its never-ending party. That’s part of its charm. It’s why I chose to live in the city. I like its street hustlers, its tap-dancing kids, the carnival characters, the barkers for girlie shows. I’m a sucker for the French Market with its beignets and café au lait, for lining up for abuse and oysters at the Acme Restaurant, and paying through the nose for a hurricane at Pat O’Brien’s. I love the music that pours out into the street in a spicy gumbo of Dixieland-meets-the-blues. It’s the pulse that runs through this town twenty-four hours a day that in bad times lets me know I’m alive. I’ve always found the idea of being surrounded by people I don’t know appealing. Some might call it passive participation, requiring no active form of commitment. I call it reassuring.
But the undercurrent I caught that afternoon as I stepped outside Vaughn’s building was something I hadn’t heard in years. I felt it before the pitch actually reached my ears. Electricity filled the air like a high-tension wire that’s been cut, lying in wait for the first stooge who’ll walk by and pick it up. Coming up through the pavement, the vibration worked its way through my legs and into my chest, the dull thud of pounding feet beating like a drum with an urgent message. Every nerve in my body hummed to a station whose reception was getting stronger by the minute. The torrid air crackled with a high-pitched frequency that would have had dogs baying at a clear blue sky. Standing perfectly still, I recognized the sound for what it was too late. The hum built to a howl as a throng of bodies burst onto the street.
Dressed for a combination of Halloween mixed with Mardi Gras, the crowd was a breathtaking array of colors and styles, sequins and feathers. Men garbed in everything from miniskirts to evening gowns had costumed themselves as WACS, airlines stewardesses, and Hillary Rodham Clinton. A contingent of women rounded the corner, some dressed in priests’ robes, others attired in black leather and studs. The one thing they all had in common was the expression of stark panic plastered on their faces.
Men ran past, holding on to tattered signs and wigs, with their clothing in shreds. Blood ran down faces and arms and legs, from heads that had been cracked open and flesh that was gashed. A rock flew by, striking a woman in the back of the neck. Tripping, she fell to her hands and knees, to be trampled on by strangers in their headlong rush from something unseen. The scream of senseless words was swallowed up in the terror that gripped the street, their meaning lost before they could reach me.
Sensing the swell that was swiftly building into a melee, the café where I had sat just an hour before pulled its shades closed, locking the door to those who tried to push their way in. I held my bag tightly against my body as I found myself propelled along by the crowd, an unwilling participant caught up in the frenzy. I tried to get back inside Valerie’s building, her apartment suddenly a safe haven. But I couldn’t turn around, let alone make my way through the throng that was now a stampede. I tried to ask the woman melded against me what had happened. Busy maneuvering her own escape, she ignored my question as she scrambled over a body that had fallen down in front of her. Looking at placards that read “Silence Equals Death,” I remembered talking to Terri about the gay rights march that had been scheduled to take place today. I’d been too busy to think about it until now. But the march was supposed to have been held on the opposite end of the city, and should have been over hours ago.
I didn’t have time to sort any of this out. A deadly combination of rednecks and skinheads exploded around the corner behind us and onto the block, in pursuit of the retreating crowd. My own panic began to rise as I found myself pinned against a wall, helplessly watching the ensuing uproar. Thrusting my hand in my pocket, I grabbed onto the news clippings I’d found inside Valerie’s jewelry box. The dry paper rustled against my skin, its crackling whispers insinuating I’d opened Pandora’s box, unleashing the event now taking place. I froze at the thought as someone bumped up against me and screamed into my ear, telling me to run. Turning my head, I caught a blur of studs and swastikas. Hunting caps, black boots, shaven heads, and angry faces began gaining on the frightened crowd.
I spun around to join the others in running for my life, as bats and bricks knocked into bodies around me. Cries of Heil Hitler! echoed in the air. A bottle whizzed dangerously close, crashing into the back of the man to my right. Broken glass splintered in a swirling kaleidoscope beneath frantic feet as shards became pulverized into flying lethal slivers. No longer able to distinguish the drumming of feet from the pulsing of blood resounding in my ears, I looked around to see signs with large black letters that screeched, “Kill Aids Before It Kills You” and “Clean Up The Quarter.” Twisted mouths shrieked obscenities, while eyes filled with murderous rage
picked out their victims, one by one.
Looping the strap of my bag around my neck, I wrapped it in my arms as if it were a child in need of protection. My heart pounded to the rhythm of heavy feet now in stride with my own. A face moved in dangerously close. Its lips, branded with canker sores, puckered into a tight circle as if in search of a kiss. Instead, a thick wad of saliva hit my cheek. I felt it running down my face and desperately wanted to wipe it away, but didn’t dare let go of the treasure I kept gripped close to my body.
Too late, I felt the heavily booted foot coil itself around my ankle. I tripped and fell, trying to pull myself up, but was knocked back down. Another angry stranger grabbed the woman next to me. His hand jerked her head back and I heard her vertebrae pop one by one like a row of champagne bottles exploding on New Year’s Eve. Glancing up at my own assailant, my body now locked in place between his feet, I watched in stunned fascination as thick hands rose above his clean-shaven head, clasping a sign that proclaimed “Support Hillard Williams.” It whirled above me like a sword, ripping down through the air as I raised my hands to try and brace myself against the blow. Its message erupted in a loud explosion inside my head as I crumpled, floating into a warm, liquid darkness.
Nine
I woke to a painful throbbing in my head and a mouth filled with the taste of dry, sour blood. Carefully running my tongue over my teeth, I could feel that my lower lip was split open and distended as though I’d received a double dose of Novocain. The gritty texture of gravel and dirt bit into my skin, and a heavy pain in my chest made me wonder just how badly I’d been hurt. Cautiously moving one hand, I felt beneath my ribs, grateful to find that my bag was still there. When I lifted my head the street whirled around me, a battlefield littered with moaning and broken bodies. Laying my cheek back on the ground, I knew I should try to get up, but my aching head wanted nothing more than to stay put.
A hand came down in front of my face, and I braced myself for the worst.
“Are you okay?”
I let out a painful breath and turned the question slowly over in my mind. I was carefully rolled onto my back, and looked up to see the double image of a man. A lump the size of a grapefruit decorated his forehead. I concentrated on focusing the twin images into one.
“I think I’m all right.”
“Let’s check.”
He slowly helped me sit up and I heard myself groan. Then I doubled over in pain. My stomach felt as if it had been scooped out with a dull plastic spoon. My pants were torn straight down my legs, with fine shards of glass embedded like shrapnel in my skin. Blood mixed with dirt to form a gooey paste. As I slowly moved one leg, my knee cramped up, and I cried out in pain. The sob caught under my ribs, crawling into the space where my purse had been lodged. But all that was secondary to the fireworks going off in my head. I found myself thinking of Santou, and wondering why there were no police in sight.
“We were lucky.”
I looked at the man in front of me, whose bruise had begun to turn the color of purple, and wondered what he was talking about.
“It’s a lot worse over on Bourbon Street.”
“What happened?”
“You weren’t part of the march?”
“No. I just happen to have lousy timing.”
A sharp spasm of pain went through me as his fingers probed for any broken bones.
“Didn’t you know there was a gay rights march going on?”
“I’m afraid I forgot.” I felt like a fool with no ethics.
“I’ll bet you never do that again.”
I tried to laugh and found that I couldn’t.
His fingers continued their search. “The march started later than planned. We even changed our itinerary because of rumors that something like this might happen. We were hoping they’d get discouraged and just go away. But our local neo-Nazis are a dedicated bunch of boys, with not a lot to do and plenty of time to kill. Somehow they discovered our new parade route and planted themselves in teams to attack, splintering us up in different directions. From there it was easy pickings.”
“Did you change it with the police?”
“Of course. It always has to be cleared with them first. In fact, the police were milling around when we first started out.”
His fingers touched my head, and I let out an involuntary yelp.
“Nice lump you’ve got there. You better get yourself to the emergency room and have that checked out.”
As he took his fingers away, I saw they were stained with blood. I had the squeamish feeling it was mine.
“Do you think you can walk? I’m getting transportation to ferry people over to the hospital. If you wait over there with the group on the corner, I’ll see that you’re taken care of.”
I didn’t want to move. “I’m okay. Really. Thanks, but I can get home by myself.”
He took hold of my elbow and lifted me up. “I didn’t say home. I said emergency room. You’re going to need to be checked out. Get yourself over there now.”
He pointed to where a number of people were huddled together, as I tried to figure out the fastest route home.
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
Every inch of my body throbbed in pain. Leaning against a door, I tried not to think about the cut on my head as I watched the man move off. I had told him I was all right. What I felt like was hell.
Sticking close to walls, I made my way home, clutching my bag in one hand as I held myself up with the other. I had no intention of going to the hospital. I’d been to too many in recent years, visiting friends who rarely left. Just as with a Roach Motel, once you checked in, you never checked out.
Ursuline Street isn’t far from where I live, but it seemed to take forever. Hobbling along, I maneuvered around the bodies that littered each block, all in different states of injury. I had yet to see a cop. It was as if a holiday had been declared for the N.O.P.D. Word just hadn’t filtered back to a public who had the audacity to clutter up the streets. The French Quarter was strangely silent.
Placing my ear against the coolness of a brick wall, I heard the sound of water splashing from a fountain hidden from view. I closed my eyes and conjured up a herringbone courtyard awash with flaming hibiscus, letting the sweet scent of magnolia take my mind off the steady throb of pain. Cautiously applying two fingers to the gash on the back of my skull, I was relieved to find a sticky paste instead of gushing blood. I felt sure that with a hot bath and a few hours’ sleep, everything would be all right.
Finally making it home, I fumbled with my keys as I prepared to confront one last obstacle—the long rickety flight of stairs that led up to my landing. Slowly climbing one step at a time, I sat down when I reached the top, resting on the doormat Terri had given me the day I moved in. Woven in golden straw, two skeletons were locked arm in arm in a dance of death. Home had never looked so good.
I had just begun to appreciate my mother’s wisdom on having a heating pad and ice bag on hand, when the pounding began. Closing my eyes, I hoped it would just go away. But the pounding continued until I realized the sound wasn’t coming from inside my head, but outside my door. It was followed by a deep, heart-wrenching moan that had me up on my feet before the rest of my body was ready to follow. I hobbled like an old crone, reaching from chair to table to wall for support. Having been in a perpetual hurry all my life, I silently asked forgiveness from every senior citizen I’d come close to knocking over in my frenzy to get somewhere fast.
The stench of urine hit hard as I opened the door. Curled on the doormat at my feet lay a bloody beaten mess. A few thin strips of cloth were embedded in a back which had been brutally beaten. The flesh quivered like a trembling heart. For a moment I was tempted to slam the door and lock myself in, as a cold, sickly sweat drenched my body. I didn’t want to faint. Not outside. Not with whatever this was at my feet.
“Rach. Help me.”
Staring down at the grisly form, I realized it was Terri. Having lost his blond wig, his hair had been choppe
d in rough patches. Deep red gashes were slashed in his skull. His blue eyes peered out from behind two narrow slits, the skin swollen and puffy from repeated punches, while blood ran from a broken nose into his mouth, making it appear as if he’d just crawled out of a boxing ring. The remains of his Bo Peep outfit were torn and slashed, but a small woollen lamb was still clenched to his chest, its belly slit open. The bloodstained stuffing led a trail up the stairs. I dragged him into my room as carefully as I could. What he needed was to get to a hospital fast, but calling an ambulance proved to be as impossible as finding a cop on Ursuline Street. I finally broke through the constant busy signal, only to be informed there was no telling how long it would be before one could arrive.
“Is this an emergency?”
I hung up without bothering to answer. Trying to drag Terri down to my car was out of the question. Not only would it injure him more, but I could barely lift my own weight at the moment, and I didn’t trust my car under the best of circumstances.
I picked up the phone and called Santou. If the police couldn’t be bothered controlling a riot, at least they could drop off the injured at the nearest emergency room. Like every other cop must have been that day, Santou was at his desk.
“I need some help, Jake.”
I tried to keep any emotion out of my voice, not wanting to appear either helpless or hysterical. But Santou jumped to his own conclusions.
“What’s the matter, Porter? Did you get inside the apartment? Damn it! There was some kind of trouble, wasn’t there?”
Valerie’s apartment. It seemed a world away. I had almost forgotten I’d been there at all, except for the soreness lodged beneath my ribs where I had kept hold of her hidden treasure. Yet Santou thought that was why I was calling—that I had somehow let him down. I found it hard to believe he was unaware of the riot that had just taken place. By now, everyone in New Orleans must have heard the news. But thinking back, there had also been no television crew in sight. It was as if the city had conspired to keep the entire event a secret.
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