If Buddy could lie for Hillard, maybe he could fill in some blanks as well.
“Tell me about Gunter Schuess. Is he involved with the movement down here?”
Buddy snorted in disgust. “That arrogant asswipe? Naw. He’s just pulling the wool over Hillard’s eyes with that liaison bullshit. He’s getting himself a free ride for a while. But let me fill you in on something, since you seem to be so interested. American Nazis don’t need the damn Germans. The Krauts, they think they’re better than us, you know what I mean? Shit, we could teach those bastards a thing or two would make their heads spin.” Buddy leaned back as he let out a burp. “But I don’t bother myself with none of that, cause I’m just a good-natured ol’ swamp boy. I love everyone.”
He grinned in a way that made my skin crawl. Taking a quick glance around the room once more, I spotted a sawed-off shotgun. It poked out from a pile of clothes where it stood against a wall. Buddy followed my gaze.
“You got a hankering for guns, sugar? That there ain’t nothing. I got me a real beauty at home. A goddamn Remington with a silencer that I used to hunt gators with in the old days. I figured it would come in mighty handy in case I ever bumped into a game warden I hadn’t bought off. It could shoot his ass to kingdom come and never make a sound.”
Buddy watched me closely, then broke a smirk. Logic told me to get up and leave, but there were a few things I still needed answered.
“Clyde Bolles is a strange kind of guy. Since he seems to have taken such a dislike to me, is there anything I should know?”
Buddy reached down between the buttons of his shirt and slowly scratched his belly.
“Doncha know? Ol’ Clyde used to be a poacher himself before he got a job with the state. Now I’m giving him tips on who’s poaching gators these days. I don’t need no scum cutting into my business. Now that I’m legitimate, that is.” Buddy laughed as his hand heaved up and down on his stomach. “But Clyde, he’s kind of a loner. Don’t like no one messing around in what he considers his territory. At the moment, you’re sitting in part of it.”
I stood up to leave, placing the gator skull on top of the jumble of correspondence and bills. Catching a glimpse of a black matchbook that looked vaguely familiar, I leaned in closer as I bent down to pick up my beer bottles. On the way back up, I managed to get a better look. The matchbook was from Pasta Nostra.
Driving back along Route 1, I swerved around a walking stick that had been thrown in the middle of the road. The boy standing there earlier had disappeared from sight. The empty stretch of road ahead glistened under a hot white sun like a long string of black licorice. Passing by the 7-Eleven, I saw the girl in her tube top and short shorts sitting on a wooden step, lazily fanning herself with a wilted newspaper. I was more confused than ever after my visit with Buddy. With no clear-cut lines dividing the poachers from the politicians from the gay bashers, it was all one big roux being stirred in the hotpot of southern Louisiana.
The raucous cry of a great blue heron rose up from the bayou. I pulled my attention back to the road just in time to slam on my brakes as a pickup veered toward me. Swerving at the last second, it barreled down a narrow dirt road, coughing up hairballs of dust. The whirlwind it had thrown up settled back down to earth in time for me to catch sight of the license plate, with its letters HONK. It was Hunky Delroix, getting even with me for our tiff the other morning. On another day I might have let him go, not wanting to bother with a Bayou car chase, but this morning I needed to vent my frustration.
Peeling out after him, I dodged one pothole after another in a road leading to nowhere as Hunky churned up a layer of dirt that fell like fine volcanic ash. Squinting at the road ahead, I rounded a bend in time to see his vehicle fly up in the air and then crash back to earth with a heavy thud, the frame settling onto a tire as flat as a pancake. Pulling up a few yards behind, I watched as Hunky waddled around, trying to assess just how bad the damage was. The axle of his pickup rested on top of a sharp rock that was lodged in the middle of the road.
“That’s what you get for cutting me off, Hunky. It wasn’t a nice thing to do.”
Glaring at me, he returned his attention to the tire that was beyond any hope of repair. “Dammit, Porter. I ain’t having no luck these days.”
I sympathized with him on that, feeling pretty much out of luck myself.
“There’s a 7-Eleven not too far back. I’ll make a call and have the nearest service tow you out.”
Hunky kicked at a spider as it scurried out of his way. “I ain’t got no money for that. I’ll change the damn thing myself. I got another tire in the back was mended not too long ago.”
Evidently, Hunky was used to flat tires. If he wanted to kill himself in the heat, it wasn’t my place to argue with him. Getting out of my car, I joined him to examine the damage.
“Where were you heading off to so fast anyway, Hunky? You got something in the back here I should know about? Maybe another bag of ducks?”
Hunky’s face flushed bright red as though he had just stepped out of a sauna. “I ain’t got nothing back there, Porter. You got me the other day. Even took my gun, remember? Why don’t you just leave me alone now? I got everything here under control.”
Tiny beads of sweat rolled down his face and onto his beard, where they clung like miniature Christmas balls. Sauntering over to the back of his pickup, I peered in. Hunky trailed after me.
“I’ve changed my mind. Maybe you oughta go call that tow truck for me, Porter. Okay? Will you do that?”
“Sure, Hunky. Just as soon as I see what’s going on back here.”
Stepping up on the rear fender, I swung myself over the tailgate and into the bed of the truck. I landed on a burlap sack stuffed with millet seed, used for baiting a lake and shooting geese. Pushing aside a fishing pole and a container of worms spoiling in the heat, I rummaged through a pile of old clothes grungy to the touch, stiff from dirt and sweat. Beneath those were some cardboard boxes flattened to cover the floor of the truck. Seeing nothing there, I realized Hunky’s reaction to me had become like that of one of Pavlov’s dogs—except instead of him getting hungry, I just made him sweat. Ready to give up and head back out, I took a final look around.
“Porter, I want you outta my pickup right now. Don’t you need some kinda warrant or something to go searching back there?”
That did it. There had to be something, and I was going to find it, even if it meant tearing the truck apart piece by piece.
“I don’t need any search warrant, Hunky. But if you’ve got a problem with this, feel free to have a chat with Hickok after you fix your tire.”
Pulling up the cardboard, I discovered a long wooden pole with a sign nailed to it. I turned it over and read, “Kill All Fags. Get Rid of AIDS. Vote Hillard Williams.” Looking at Hunky, I now knew one other person who had been at the march that day.
“Nice sign you got here, Hunky. I was hit over the head with something that looked an awful lot like this. In fact, I had to go to the hospital because of it.”
Hunky cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I got a constitutional right to express myself, same as everybody else.”
“You’re absolutely right, Hunky—you do. But it stops at bashing people over the head to make your point. Assault and battery of a federal agent is an offense punishable with jail.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Porter.”
“I think you do. In fact, I think you’re the one who gave me those contusions. Yep, it’s all coming back to me now. I think I’m going to have to press charges against you.”
“You’re a crazy woman, Porter! You know that? I didn’t even see you at that march! You can’t throw me in jail for something I didn’t do!”
“It’s your word against mine, Hunky and I think the police just might believe me before they do you.”
He stood with his head hanging down, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, muttering to himself.
“What was
that, Hunky?”
“What do you want this time, Porter?”
Hunky was the only key I had.
“I want to know who was responsible for planning the riot, and where you hold your meetings.”
Hunky stamped his feet, pawing at the ground. “Are you outta your mind? I can’t tell you that stuff!” Letting loose, he kicked the flat tire. “Besides, I don’t know.”
“Let me make this easier for you, Hunky. You’re aware that I caught Trenton, aren’t you? Well, he wants to know awfully bad who it was that gave him up. Since he’s willing to work with me, I feel kind of obliged to tell him.” Hunky’s complexion went from red to ash grey in a matter of seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice came out in a rasp.
“You can’t tell him. You promised me! I’ll be a dead man!”
“You’re right. And I’d feel really bad about that Hunky, so I’ll tell you what. I’m going to make you a deal. You tell me what I want to know, and I won’t bring charges against you. I also won’t tell Trenton who it was that turned him in. Is it a deal?”
Hunky’s brow furrowed in a mass of deep wrinkles as he worked out every angle.
“If I tell you what you want, you can’t use this Trenton stuff on me again the next time.”
“Agreed.”
Hunky doubled over as if he were fighting off gas pains. “Shit. I can’t believe I gotta tell you this stuff.”
Leaning against the sign, I showed no pity.
“All right. It was Buddy organized the thing. He’s just trying to help Hillard win the election, was all.”
“Who else was involved besides Buddy? Was Hillard in on it?”
“He mighta known about it. I don’t know. It wasn’t like he was at the meeting or nothing.”
“Who else was there?”
“Nobody you’d know, Porter.”
I’d been a fool to think this was going to be easy. “Was a German there by the name of Gunter Schuess?”
“Yeah. He was there.”
“What’s his involvement? Is he one of the leaders?”
Hunky glared at me.
“No. He ain’t no leader. Buddy’s the leader. Schuess wants to be the leader. But he ain’t our leader.”
This was obviously a sore point. I decided to poke around and open it up. “I don’t think he should be the leader either. After all, this is America, so why should a German think he has the right to come in and take over an American group?”
Hunky warmed to the topic. “That’s what I say. You know, this Kraut comes here telling us all about how powerful his group is over in Germany, and how they’re getting the upper hand. Well then, how come he suddenly has to leave and come over here? Huh? We don’t need the kinda trouble that he got in over there.”
The best thing about Hunky was that once he got worked up and rolling, he generally had a hard time stopping himself. “What kind of trouble did he get into back there? Did the members of his group kick him out?”
“Shit, Porter. The police bombed their headquarters. So Schuess is laying low over here for a while. But all the Kraut cares about is our money. Says it’s all one big brotherhood, and how we should be helping them out. I say bullshit. I don’t see no one helping us out any over here.”
The information matched what I’d read in Valerie’s clipping. “And how are you supposed to get all this money for him and his group?”
Hunky’s eyes glazed over, aware that he’d given away more than he should have. “I don’t know, Porter. I don’t go to them meetings much anymore. I’m too busy trying to keep food on my table, thanks to you.”
“Where’s your meeting place, Hunky?”
His eyes headed up the road, and for a moment I had the uneasy feeling we weren’t totally alone. “I can’t tell you that. It changes all the time. We don’t stick to one spot.”
“We have a deal. You don’t give me this information, and the deal is off. It’s your decision, but I know for a fact that Trenton is home today.”
“Jesus Christ, Porter! No wonder you’re still single. You don’t know when to stop twisting a man’s balls.”
“I guess it’s just one of those things my mother forgot to teach me. Make up your mind now, Hunky. I haven’t got all day.”
“All right. I can tell you one place. As I said, I don’t go much to the meetings no more. ” Pulling at his pants, Hunky leaned against the truck as he looked around. “Buddy’s got a place, a hunting camp they use for meetings. It’s right outside Morgan City on Bayou Maringouin. And don’t ask me how to get there, ’cause I don’t know. You gotta have a boat, and you gotta know the swamp. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Thanks, Hunky.” I climbed down from the pickup and walked toward my own wreck of a car. I already knew the man who could take me to Bayou Maringouin when the time was right.
“And I’m not the one who hit you neither, Porter!”
“I know that, Hunky.”
As I turned my car around, I saw Hunky kick his flat tire hard, as though he was wishing it were me.
Thirteen
Stopping by the Central Grocery long enough to dash in and grab a muffuletta sandwich for lunch, I made it home just after noon. The mail had already arrived and my mailbox slot was jammed wide open, a thick manila envelope having been rammed tightly inside. Cursing the U.S. Postal Service under my breath, I struggled to get the envelope out. The one time I’d managed to get hold of the mailman, I’d asked if he could deliver my mail so that it didn’t look as if it had been shipped in from Beirut. I’d paid dearly for that. Since then, everything I received appeared to have been put through a wringer.
Eating my sandwich straight out of its wrapper, I tore open the envelope to find a videotape. It had been packed without any note as to what it was. For a moment, I wondered if the mailman had been playing musical mailboxes again, purposely stuffing Terri’s mail in my slot. Not owning a VCR myself, I knew no one who would have sent it to me. Postmarked from New Orleans and marked to my attention, no return address had been given, leaving me without any kind of a clue. I grabbed the keys to Terri’s apartment and headed downstairs.
Rocky mewed and launched into commando mode as I let myself in, attacking me from behind to land squarely on my back. Clinging tightly as I tried to push him off, he raked into my skin with his claws. It was only when I finally gave up that he loosened his grip and climbed onto my shoulder. Rubbing his head against my cheek, he purred loudly into my ear—like most men once they’ve gotten their own way.
Walking into Terri’s apartment was always like entering a museum of the exotic and strange. The hallway was cluttered with charcoal portraits of dead movie stars, and a hand-painted border ran across the top of each wall. Displaying a slight variation on the Kama Sutra, all the figures were male in a variety of acrobatic positions. In the living room was a photographic history of Terri, from the obligatory pose as a baby lying naked on a lambskin rug, to his earliest days as a hoofer. Autographed photos featured him in wacky poses with Liza Minelli, Bernadette Peters, Cher, and his idol, Tommy Tune. Reviews of his one-man show on Bourbon Street were framed on the wall, as was a poster of himself dressed as Marlene Dietrich from her movie, The Blue Angel. Small sculptures of male nudes, always well endowed and minus the head, were artfully placed about the room.
I turned on the VCR, pushed the tape in, and settled back into the black leather couch. Rocky made himself at home, rolling up into a tight ball of fur on my lap. The first image appeared, looking like an old black-and-white B-movie. What I took to be a barren landscape slowly evolved into the back of a man’s head, as bald and smooth as a ball bearing. Turning around to face the camera, Hillard Williams was caught in a most casual pose. Picking his nose, he appeared oblivious to his surroundings, which clearly weren’t part of his home. Even more interesting, Hillard was totally nude and seemed unaware that he was being filmed as he sat down on a couch. The focus grew sharper and a table appeared in the background. Chained to one of the metal legs was Hoo
k. After a moment, another figure wandered into frame, the stout torso of a man covered with dark, shaggy hair. Looking like some creature who had lagged behind in the evolutionary process, the figure walked around and sat down to join Hillard. Though the profile of the man’s face was slightly blurred, the silhouette was oddly familiar. Pushing Rocky off my lap, I leaned forward hoping to get a better view. With the nub of a cigar clenched tightly between his teeth, a neck the thickness of a freshly cut sequoia, and a crew cut that would have done a marine proud, Captain Connie Kroll turned toward the camera and froze as though he were posing for a mug shot.
I pressed freeze frame and stared at the two upstanding pillars of the New Orleans community, already able to guess what was about to take place. As I turned the tape back on, a mass of dark, wavy hair filled the lens. A jolt of recognition ran through me as the body of Valerie Vaughn sashayed into view. It was startling to see her alive, having first viewed her as a mutilated and bloodless corpse. Dressed in high-heeled boots and black leather gloves with a thin gold chain at her waist, she planted herself in front of the two men with a whip curled loosely in her hand. She unfurled it with a snap of her wrist, and Hillard ejected off the couch like a spent bullet and onto his knees at her feet. Valerie excelled in the role of dominatrix, debasing the city’s two most powerful men.
Like a bad porno film, Hillard and Kroll took turns performing one “lewd and lascivious act” after another. Illustrating the very thing Hillard was preaching against and that Kroll had taken an oath to obstruct, the tape was pure dynamite, capable of blowing both men’s careers to smithereens. At one point, Valerie turned her back on her two companions to wink at the camera and, for a moment, I felt sure that wink had been meant for me. A chill ran through me as if Valerie had lunged out of her grave and reached in to twist at my soul.
Rewinding the tape to her entrance, I watched the performance again, slowing the action as she turned to the camera so that we stared at each other once more, conspirators in her secret. The perfect tool for blackmail, the tape could have been how she ended up owning the diamond necklace. It might also have been the cause of her death. It was obviously one of the reasons why Connie Kroll had closed off a murder investigation to all but a select few.
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