Gator Aide

by Jessica Speart

  “Are you still a good guy, Santou? Or were you ever?”

  Santou turned off onto a dirt ribbon that wove through a grove of willow trees draped in shawls of moss. He drove until the main road was out of sight, leaving only a plume of dust to mark our trail. The LeSabre heaved onto the grass under a spreading live oak, where he parked the car, turning off the ignition. I had never felt more vulnerable than at that moment, sitting there in my thin cotton dress.

  “You think I’m crooked, Rachel? Is that what you’re saying?”

  That was exactly what I was becoming afraid of. More than anything, I wanted him to convince me that it wasn’t true. Taking a deep breath, I knew I had to confront him with a few of the things that had begun to eat away at my trust.

  “I found a set of rosary beads inside Valerie Vaughn’s apartment the other day, Jake. They’re an exact match to the beads you gave me.”

  Santou sighed as he reached into his pocket, and my heart began to pound. One of the things I had found so intriguing about the man was that I was never quite sure what he was capable of. At this moment, it terrified me. I found myself wishing I had pants and sneakers on in case I needed to run. But looking around, I wondered, run where? I should have stuck my .357 in my bag, and felt like a fool for having left it at home.

  “Did you give her those beads, Jake?” He looked at me without a word, his eyes guarded beneath hooded lids that began to strike me as more menacing than sensual. “Just how well did you know her?”

  For some naive reason, I had always assumed they’d never met. Now I knew better. His eyes bore into me as what I feared most began to crystallize in my mind. “Were you sleeping with Valerie Vaughn?”

  Santou leaned in toward me, but I backed away. “I thought you knew me better than that, Rachel. I didn’t tell you about knowing Valerie, because I didn’t think it was all that important for you to know.”

  The sun flared through the windshield as it clung to the rim of the sky in its slow descent beneath the horizon.

  “Valerie showed up at the precinct about two weeks before she died. She came to see me with some lame excuse about building-code violations at the club where she worked. I told her she had the wrong department. The police couldn’t help her with that. I knew it wasn’t why she was there, though. It was obvious she had something else on her mind. We began to chat. She hinted around the edges about some kind of trouble, but she was too afraid to talk. Valerie was a Cajun, and we’re a religious type of folk. So I gave her the rosary beads in my pocket. I hoped that would give her the courage she needed.” Santou ran a hand through his hair, the silver strands looking like pieces of tinsel against the brown skin of his fingers. “There wasn’t anything else I could do for her, Rachel. The next time I saw her, Valerie Vaughn was dead.”

  I knew he was right. If Valerie wasn’t willing to talk, not much could have been done to prevent her death. But there was more that bothered me.

  “Buddy Budwell bought Valerie Vaughn’s apartment building two years ago. Why didn’t you tell me he was her landlord?”

  Santou didn’t say anything as he pulled out a Tums.

  “I did some snooping around in the Hall of Records in both Terrebonne Parish and New Orleans today. Buddy’s chock-full of property and businesses, and oddly enough, most of it is co-owned by Global Corporation. Why didn’t you tell me any of that?”

  Santou popped two of the Tums in his mouth. “None of it seemed relevant to this case, Rachel.”

  “Then what makes you so sure that Hillard wasn’t paying Vaughn’s rent? Because Buddy told you so?”

  Santou’s skin grew tight against the bone. “There was no proof of anything. I didn’t need you running around on a wild-goose chase, tipping our hand on something it wasn’t the right time to reveal. So I just didn’t bother to tell you.”

  He was dodging me. Just as Hickok had done all along. “When is the right time, Jake? When Dolores Williams is locked up for murder? You know she had nothing to do with Valerie Vaughn’s death. Dolores was set up to be at the right place at the right time, with a crowbar lying at her feet. Or was that just coincidence? It strikes me that Dolores was made to learn what the inside of a jail looks like, so that she’d keep her mouth shut about whatever she might know. What do you think, Santou? Did the lesson work?”

  Santou’s jaw clenched, letting me know I was on the right track.

  “I don’t know what to think anymore, Jake. You’re the detective on the case. Why is it I feel it’s being squelched at every turn?”

  “I’ve got no proof of anything, Rachel. Only lots of loose ends, just like you. You wondering about Kroll? Yeah, I think he’s a big supporter of Hillard Williams, and would do anything he could to protect the man from scandal. They go back a long way together and share a number of things, one of which is a fondness for the ladies, especially ones who play fast, loose, and enjoy certain games.”

  That was information I already had, and Santou might have known that as well. It didn’t explain why he wasn’t pursuing this case to the fullest extent possible. Even worse, he seemed to be purposely lying low and allowing Kroll to cover up a murder.

  “What about Gunter Schuess? I’ve got a woman he cut up for fun, who now looks like one of his calling cards. It seems he has a fondness for razors, and his handiwork has an uncanny resemblance to what I saw done on Valerie Vaughn.”

  Santou got out of the car and walked over to a stream of water near a group of willow trees. “Will your stripper testify to the fact that it was Gunter?”

  I followed his long, lazy strides. “What makes you think she’s a stripper? I never said that.”

  Santou didn’t reply. Hunkering down, he splashed a handful of water on his face. I was hitting home runs, but felt like I was losing the game. Though I’d withheld information from Santou, now I was sure he’d kept even more evidence from me.

  “No, she won’t testify. It seems she has an addiction to staying alive. But that information doesn’t help you at all, huh?”

  A pair of dragonflies darted through the air, racing to take cover as the blossoms of water lilies folded up in a nocturnal cocoon. A cloud of gnats hovered above Santou’s head like a halo as his fingers splayed the water.

  “What is it, Santou? Bad girls get what they deserve? Because it seems like the death of one hooker doesn’t hold much weight for you. In fact, it sounds as if Gunter might have left his mark on a few other lucky women in town. So, do you at least want to tell me why you’re protecting the guy?”

  He turned to confront me, water running down his face, onto his neck and inside his shirt, his brown skin gleaming through the thin fabric.

  “I’m going to get him on something much bigger, Rachel. I can’t waste it over a murder charge on a stripper.”

  There it was again. Disposable women for a higher cause. “What have you got?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But it’s going to happen. Very soon.”

  The temperature dropped precariously, and I felt myself shiver.

  “Is Kroll in charge of this?”

  Santou moved close, and the temperature zoomed dangerously back up to a steamy ninety degrees.

  “He knows nothing about it at all, and it has to stay that way. You’ve got to promise me that, Rachel. Otherwise, this whole case will be blown, and I’ve worked too hard and too long to let that happen.”

  I could feel the heat radiating off his body as he drew closer still. “This means a lot to me. Things have happened in my life, chère; things for which I need to make amends. This case is the one that will do it. If I can pull this off, we’ll bag Hillard, Schuess, and maybe even Kroll. You’ve just got to trust me for now.”

  His fingers caressed my face and then moved to my neck, where they lingered for a moment, before sliding down to where the gold locket lay nestled between my breasts. Holding on to the necklace, his hand came to rest over my heart. My pulse raced with an exhilarating mix of fear and sheer sexual longing.

  “I
need a week, chère. Can you try to trust me for that long?”

  I wanted to believe him as much as I believed that tomorrow would be another hot, steamy Louisiana day.

  “Why should I? Why should I believe anything you say?”

  His hand sizzled through my dress, burning into my bare skin as he leaned in close. “Darlin’, if I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’.”

  I sighed. “One week, Santou. That’s all.”

  Laying the locket gently back down, his fingers played along my skin as he kissed me lightly.

  “Let’s go find that restaurant.”

  Pasta Nostra sat on the edge of the swamp, hidden away from view in a copse of ancient oak trees. Soft amber candles flickered in each of its windows. Inside, we were led up a flight of stairs by the maitre d’. An exotic mix of Cajun and black, his skin was the color of café au lait. Along with high cheekbones, full lips, and a slim nose, he had jet-black hair lying straight against his head, its ends pomaded into a small and perfect ducktail.

  Seated on the second floor, we could see the swamp spread out beneath us, a tumorous growth encompassing everything in its path. A full moon’s light shimmered on still, black water, dancing in and out of clouds in a seductive game of hide-and-seek. It disappeared completely for a moment and the swamp was left with a foreboding air, as if it might strangle the restaurant and its occupants with its decaying vegetation. But the moon revealed itself once more, and the marsh glimmered like a secret fairyland at our feet. Lying near my hand in a tinted ashtray was the same matchbook I had found at Valerie Vaughn’s, and then again among the jumble of papers at Buddy Budwell’s.

  “Any particular reason you chose this place, darlin’, or did you just miss being away from the swamp?”

  “I thought you did your homework on Global Corporation, Santou.”

  “Obviously you did it for us. This is Sabino’s?”

  “Along with everything else Buddy Budwell owns.”

  Santou smiled and took a drink of his scotch. “One of which was Valerie Vaughn.”

  Valerie Vaughn. Her face was conjured up before me, turning in slow motion again and again with a conspiratorial wink.

  “Have you ever been to New York, Santou?”

  Chewing on a piece of ice from his glass, he shook his head no. “Why? Are you thinking that maybe I’m tied in with Sabino?” His eyes narrowed in on me and then he grinned, taking pleasure in the game of reeling me in.

  “I just wondered if you’d ever been to Times Square. I suppose in some ways it’s New York’s equivalent of Bourbon Street. I’ve developed a fascination for Bourbon and the people who work there.”

  “Like Terri?”

  “Yes.” Terri, a transvestite performer and my best friend in the world.

  “And Valerie Vaughn?”

  Especially Valerie Vaughn. I wanted to know what made a girl from the bayou go bad, and what saved a city girl like me from falling into the same trap.

  “Be careful, chère. Bourbon Street and its characters should scare the hell out of you. It’s seductive from the outside, but that’s one shit world, and the people are pure trouble. Believe me, even your friend Terri is eventually going to hit rock bottom.”

  A glass of white wine was placed in front of me.

  “And what about you, Santou? You have no vices?”

  His eyes pierced through me from under heavy lids. Hickok liked to say that Cajuns had more than their share of secrets. Santou was full of secrets. Secrets about Kroll and Williams and Valerie Vaughn. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft and low, that I found myself leaning forward to catch his words.

  “I’ll tell you a vice I had, Rachel, because I want you to know how dangerous getting involved in that world is. I used to be with the DEA, working undercover on the strip.” Santou swirled his glass and stared into the liquid with all the desire and despair of a parched man confronted with a mirage.

  “I loved that work—the life, the excitement, and the danger. It wasn’t long before I also fell in love with the nose candy. Hell, it’s part of the package. It comes with the lifestyle—free and easy for the taking. You just had to know the right places.”

  He looked at me so intently that I felt like a prize butterfly about to be pinned to a mount. “I made mistakes, got caught, and was kicked out of the agency. They said I couldn’t be trusted.” A telltale muscle twitched under his eye. “I’d sniffed my life right down the drain.”

  This was a revelation I hadn’t expected. The admission made him seem all the more human, and more seductive than ever. My voice barely came out in a whisper. “What did you do?”

  Santou finished his scotch and motioned to the waiter to bring another. “I felt sorry for myself, until I realized that it wasn’t doing me any good. So I went and got cleaned up. Then I got lucky. I was offered a second chance, and joined N.O.P.D.” He ran a finger along the inside of one palm, as if searching for an answer to his future. “The strip is a fascinating place, chère. But sooner or later, it will suck you under; and the price you pay is to lose your soul.”

  Santou’s melancholy was almost a visible throb as he continued to stare at his palm. The spell was finally broken when he looked at me and grinned a lopsided smile. “But don’t you worry. I’ve still got plenty of vices, sugar. They’re even fun to share.”

  I flushed as Santou’s innuendo hit home. Without a doubt, the man knew how to get to me. My pulse began to race once more, and I took advantage of the moment to compose myself by going in search of the ladies’ room.

  I followed the curve of the wall down the stairs to the first floor landing, and past the swinging doors of the kitchen. A second set of steps appeared to lead down to a cellar. The ladies’ room was just around the corner, in a hallway as dimly lit as the dining room above. Walking into the room, thoughts of Santou raced through my mind like an X-rated film. I once again felt his fingers trace the line of my face and slide along my skin, teasing with soft caresses. The more I tried to push such thoughts away, the more explicit the scenes became. I studied myself in the vanity mirror. The flimsy dress, my bare shoulders, the care I had taken with my hair, the receding bruises painstakingly covered over with makeup, were all unmistakable signs. I had a bad case of desire.

  I walked out of the bathroom and was about to turn the corner, when footsteps echoed up from the basement below. The sound of voices drifted to where I had stopped. They were voices I had heard before. Peering around the corner, I was in time to see two heads bobbing up the stairs—one the size of a large melon, carpeted with thinning blond hair, the other draped in a bad toupee. Buddy Budwell and Clyde Bolles came into view together, just as they had been only a few days ago. I pulled back, unable to make out what was being said, but hearing enough to know they were headed in my direction. Sliding back inside the ladies’ room, I kept my ear pressed to the door as they entered the bathroom on my right. Then I eased out and quickly turned the corner, heading for the unlit stairs.

  I climbed down the dim steps, using the palms of my hands to guide myself along the rough wall of stone, until I reached the bottom. A heavy metal door closed off whatever lay beyond. Deciding to risk a look, I grabbed the handle, pushing as hard as I could, but the door refused to budge. At the same moment, I heard the two sets of footsteps again, coming around the corner from the men’s room. I knew that my timing had failed.

  I pressed myself tightly against the door, wishing myself invisible as the lump on the back of my head kicked into high gear, its pain a sharp, searing throb. Time seemed endless as I looked up to see two pairs of feet hovering at the top of the stairs.

  I held my breath as I tried to melt into the metal. Closing my eyes, I didn’t dare move. A moment later I heard the swinging of the kitchen doors, and looked up again to see both sets of feet move off in the opposite direction. I stayed pressed against the door for as long as I could stand it, before pulling off my shoes. Soundlessly scurrying up the stairs, I didn’t stop until I had reached our table.

&nb
sp; Santou was working his way through his second glass of Scotch as I sat down. “Do you always carry your shoes with you when you go to the bathroom, chère?”

  Slipping them back on, I didn’t bother to answer. I thought of the dark stairwell and of what possibly lay beyond. Ordering a second glass of wine, I made a conscious effort to relax during dinner, but I found myself jumping at every strange sound. I caught Santou watching me, but he made no further comment as we filled the time with small talk. Midway through the meal, I glanced out the window once again at the swamp below. Barely discernible through the shadows was the outline of a small boat pushing off from behind the restaurant, its destination somewhere deep inside the swamp. The boat appeared to hold three figures, and I felt fairly certain that two of them were Bolles and Budwell. It took the full moon gliding out from behind a cloud, like Salome ripping away the last of her veils, to reveal the third figure of the trio. Connie Kroll sat gazing up at the moon like a loup-garou, the Cajun version of a werewolf, come to life. I smiled as I felt my luck return once again.

  Dry lightning danced in the sky, its long, thin fingers reaching down to tickle the ground, while off in the distance the low rumble of thunder sounded a drumroll. Thoughts of Pasta Nostra receded from my mind. I gave in to the wine and laid my head back against the seat of the car, reveling in the sounds and smells of the night as we headed back to New Orleans.

  I sensed the warmth of Santou’s hand before it brushed against mine. The rough skin of his fingers slowly explored my palm with the lightest tinge of suggestion. He ran his hand up along the bare skin of my leg, and a surge of heat coursed through me. By the time we arrived back at my place, the air, heavy with humidity, broke like a giant sponge that had been squeezed, and the rain began to fall in a steady sheet. There was no need to question what would happen next as he followed me inside.

  I didn’t bother to turn on the lights. Instead, I opened a bottle of wine as Santou grabbed two glasses, and we headed wordlessly into the bedroom. After opening the French doors to the balcony, we slowly undressed as we listened to the rain streaming onto the roof and down the eaves, covering the nude maidens in the fountain below. Santou made love to me as I had imagined he would, with all the slow intensity of a smoldering fire. Afterward, we lay on top of the sheets and drank cold wine, allowing the wood blades of the fan to cool our bodies before turning to each other again to explore even more slowly this time. I dozed off later, hearing his steady breathing beside me, and didn’t mind that for once the only illumination in the room came from the lightning that ripped through the sky.