One Must Wait

by Penny Mickelbury

  Fifteen minutes later they were back in the truck, on their way back to New Orleans. Carole Ann's insides pounded on the seemingly endless drive, even though she knew that the return trip would be shorter by at least an hour. She apologized in advance for falling asleep, and then remained wide awake, marveling at the completeness and the complexity of the darkness that surrounded them.

  "What did Eldon say that got to you?" Warren asked so suddenly it made her jump.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know good and goddamn well what I mean," he snapped. "Eldon Warmsley said something that scared you, worried you, or made you mad. My guess is it has something to do with the infamous Congressman Devereaux. Am I right?"

  She was too tired to try to hide the truth from him. "You are. Al's boss's name is—was—Larry Devereaux." She would have sworn she heard an intake of breath from him, but it could easily have been the sound of the wind, or of something in the night.

  "What do you plan to do?" he asked after a while.

  "I plan to find out everything I can about Larry Devereaux," she said with a shrug that made her feel like Louisiana.

  "What do you want me to do?" he asked, his voice totally devoid of emotion or expression.

  "You have more than enough to do," she said, recalling the crowd in the Legal Center's reception area. "You don't need to add this to your list. Besides. It may turn out that Larry Devereaux is from Boston or Terre Haute or Seattle." And I don't think I trust you worth shit.

  "Do you really believe that?"

  "No," said and leaned back and closed her eyes and tried to hurry the distance between wherever they were and her hotel room in the French Quarter.

  She walked into her room at eleven-fifteen and picked up the telephone. She barely noticed that Billy was so surprised to hear her voice that he stumbled over his greeting to her.

  "Cleo, I need you to listen very carefully to me, and to understand exactly what I'm telling you. OK?"

  "What's wrong with you? Terminal case of heat stroke or something?" Cleo snapped at her, sounding mean and nasty.

  "Listen to me, Cleo, please. I need all the information and background you can dig up on Ernie's boss once removed. Do you understand me?"

  "Who the hell is Ernie and do you know what time it is, C.A.?" Carole Ann had never heard Cleo angry and for a moment it threw her. This woman was her employee. This woman did what Carole Ann told her to do. She did not display anger to Carole Ann. Then reality slapped her. Hard. She took a deep breath and gripped the phone so hard her hand hurt. "I apologize for waking you, Cleo, but I need your help. Please listen carefully. Please. Ernie. Unemployed Ernie, the erstwhile social engineer." She waited for Cleo's response for what seemed like an hour, and, hearing absolutely no sound on the other end of the phone, almost panicked. "Cleo? Are you still there?"

  "I'm here. You did say Ernie's boss once removed?"

  "That's what I said."

  "Such a lovely dream I was having." Cleo pronounced the words "Lovely" and "Dream" separately and distinctly and emphatically and Carole Ann breathed an audible sigh of relief and gratitude.

  "I am very sorry to have disturbed you, Cleo. I didn't think about the time difference. And... I...um...guess I forgot that things were different...and I just got in and wanted to call you right away." Carole Ann worked hard to disguise the relief she felt and to convey, instead, remorse and to seek the forgiveness that came with it.

  "It's not the middle of the afternoon, you know?" Cleo, now awake and fully caught up in the drama of the charade, was enjoying herself. "I do have a few other things to do," she said archly.

  "I understand," Carole Ann replied meekly. "By the way," she said, quickly changing her tone. "How's Billy's back these days? You all able to engage in kinky sex once again?"

  Cleo let go a throaty burst of laughter tinged just slightly with lewdness. "How did you guess?"

  "Billy sounded quite mellow when he answered the phone. And as you know, I always wish the best for you, Cleo. And I won't forget my place again."

  "I know, C.A., and I appreciate it. I'll fax the info to you tomorrow before five." And with that, Cleo severed the connection, leaving Carole Ann missing, for the first time, her other life, the one in which she had had nothing to fear. How long ago that time seemed. So long ago that it felt more like dream than memory. But the fear she felt was real. She truly was afraid to think that her husband's murderer was his law partner and boss but it was that thought—that Larry Devereaux had murdered Al Crandall—that stomped around her insides all that night and the following morning until she fled the hotel and joined a tour group for an afternoon riverboat cruise on the Mississippi. It was late afternoon when she returned to her room to retrieve the respectable pile of faxed pages that was waiting for her. Thirsty and hungry and still too jittery to endure the confines of the hotel room, she scooped up the info sent by Cleo and strolled around the corner to an establishment that couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a down-and-dirty cafe or an upscale restaurant. It boasted of serving the best Po Boy sandwiches in the state of Louisiana and had a wine list to rival K Paul's. Carole Ann asked to be seated on the patio and was early enough to secure an umbrella-covered table in the rear corner of what was a surprisingly lush garden, which gave her not only a view of the entrance to the patio, but of the glass-enclosed interior dining room as well. She removed her hat and sunglasses, retrieved her reading glasses from the bottom of her purse, and waited for the nineteenth century-clad hostess to take her order. Then she settled down to work, focusing first on Larry Devereaux's entry in the D.C. Bar Directory. It could easily have been the bio of any man of similar age:

  Lawrence W. Devereaux, born November 1, 1940 in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Enlisted in the United States Marines June 1959; honorably discharged July 1963, recipient of a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. Attended the University of Pennsylvania on the GI Bill Sept. 1963-June 1967 and graduated with honors with an undergraduate degree in Political Science. J.D. cum laude from George Washington University in Washington, D.C. 1971. Admitted to the D.C. Bar November, 1971; admitted to the Maryland Bar 1973; admitted to the Virginia Bar 1974. Member Trial Lawyers Association of America. Married Angelina Carro of San Francisco, California in August, 1971. No children.

  Carole Ann got out her map, wondering idly what Larry had done to earn medals, and realized with a jolt that he would have been in the Army at approximately the same time as her father, who'd been killed in action. She sloughed off that thought and returned her focus to the map. Baton Rouge, the state capitol, was less than two hours away. It had been many years since she'd done a records search, but she found herself looking forward to it. The search would help her organize her thoughts, which, at the moment, were behaving like a room full of unruly teenagers.

  She pulled a pen from her purse and began jotting down some those thoughts, corralling them, taming them. First and foremost, there was the Devereaux connection: Leland, Lafayette and Larry. Then there was the Parish Petroleum situation to unravel. How could it be that Parish Petroleum had perished in the early 1970's, brought down by a class action law suit, and yet still be alive enough to hire an attorney to represent it before the regulatory authorities? Two different sites, Eldon had said.

  She wrote down information she'd need from both Warren and Lil before launching her search and, feeling a bit more in control, finished her iced tea, gathered up her belongings and walked back to her hotel, deciding along the way to treat herself to a real Louisiana dinner.

  Carole Ann hadn't eaten dinner alone in a restaurant in fifteen years. Not a formal, elegant dinner in a world famous, world class restaurant, wearing clingy peach silk that dramatized her newly-acquired bronze hue and short hair cut. She'd followed Jake Graham's instructions to the letter, choosing to dine at Dooky Chase's a short taxi ride away from the French Quarter and her hotel, because she knew that despite her discomfort with the notion of dining alone, she was hungry enough to appreciate and enjoy the meal. She w
as not disappointed. She ordered what sounded interesting—shrimp Clemenceau and fried catfish and sweet potatoes and for desert a bread pudding that brought a sincerely sensual joy. She was gratified to catch a glimpse of the legendary, regal Leah Chase across the dining room chatting with a table of celebratory customers. And rather than allow the sadness that was creeping up around her to take hold and spoil her magnificent meal, she declined a second cup of coffee and went out to join the cast of characters in the French Quarter.

  She was acutely aware that the crowd swirling about her did nothing to ameliorate her feelings of loneliness and isolation, so she allowed herself to be carried along Bourbon Street by the crowd, and turned with it at Chartres Street, slowly ambling because the sidewalk was too packed for the swift stride she'd have preferred. She stopped to watch a group of drunken men watch a strip show from an open doorway. Inside were more drunken men like the ones outside, who were fumbling in their pockets for the price of admission to the club. Carole Ann peered over their heads again and into the darkness where the almost-nude female forms were back-lit in shades of pink and purple. The noise, masquerading as music, was as garish as the scene it kept time for.

  Carole Ann walked on, stopping here and there to peer inside the open doorways. Sounds and smells and sights mingled and mixed to create the kind of sensory overload she'd imagined the French Quarter would supply. Yet she didn't recall this experience the one time she'd been here before, with Al. Hadn't they walked about the Quarter? Certainly they'd eaten, though not at Dooky Chase's, and she didn't remember where. Nor did she recall the name of the jazz club where they'd heard Ellis Marsalis, or the blues club where they'd heard Aaron Neville, or the honky tonk where they'd heard Dr. John. How could she not remember? These were moments she'd shared with Al, who would never again be any more than a memory. How could she have forgotten? The sorrow enveloped her, wrapped around her like a straight jacket, tight and confining. And so was the growing crowd, bumping and jostling.

  Then she understood that the pressure she felt on her back and on her arm was not the idle jostling of someone in a crowd but a deliberate attack on her person. Reacting instinctively, she reached across herself and grabbed the hand that was heavy on her left arm, quickly found the pressure point, and squeezed. Then she pushed back on the thumb and quickly stepped away from the man who screamed and dropped to the ground. She did not look around, but continued to propel herself forward through the crowd. As she walked, she checked her pockets and her purse, to make certain that she hadn't been robbed; and she berated herself once again for losing herself in her misery. Not only was it counterproductive, it was dangerous. She was a woman, alone. Displaying her sadness openly like that made her all the more vulnerable, and that was a luxury she could not afford

  It was a lesson she took with her to Baton Rouge the next day, though she gave up early on worrying about being followed. There were too many cars on the road—in front of her, behind her, and in the lanes beside her—to make herself paranoid that one of them was stalking her. Carole Ann did watch her back at the state office building, and in the Federal court building. And while she was careful not to place herself in any position that invited trouble, she could not have sworn that she did not encounter one man more than once during the long, exhausting day. She also could not have sworn to the contrary. Men were beginning to resemble each other, especially tall, lean, reddish-hued men with pale eyes and dark brown, curly hair. Men like the one at Eldon's General Store who doubted that she was from Atlanta; men like Eldon Warmsley himself; men like Larry Devereaux.

  Lawrence W. Devereaux was not born in Baton Rouge on the first of November, 1940, or if he was, the state of Louisiana did not have a record of it. Lafayette and Leland were duly recorded, the former in May, 1937 and the latter in February, 1935, both in Assumption Parish. Carole Ann looked it up and found it to be south of Baton Rouge and west of New Orleans. While she was at it, she'd looked up Warren Forchette and Eldon Warmsley. Forchette, like Devereaux, was as common a surname in Louisiana as Smith or Johnson or Jones elsewhere in America, and it took some looking, but she found Warren, or who she thought was Warren, if he'd been born in 1955 in New Orleans. And she found Eldon Warmsley, born in Assumption Parish in August of 1939. And she found the original filing of the Articles of Incorporation of the Parish Petroleum Company and the charter licensing it to do business in Assumption, St. Martin, St. James, and St. Mary Parishes. Four sites, not two or three.

  Carole Ann left Baton Rouge with a headache and not just from eye strain and the heat. Assumption damn Parish! Surely to God it was not mere coincidence that Assumption Parish kept popping up like the jack rabbit in the shooting gallery. Where had Warren taken her yesterday? Had she been in Assumption Parish? Where "on the water" was Eldon from? He'd made it sound far away; or perhaps that's merely how she'd interpreted his comments because she'd applied her own reference points to his words. She'd learned enough of the topography of New Orleans and environs to know that water was everywhere. In fact, New Orleans rode so low that portions of it were actually below sea level. Swamps and bayous and watery pathways to the Gulf of Mexico were everywhere. The place was so wet that people couldn't be buried underground, because there was no underground. There was only swamp. So. Wherever Assumption Parish was, it was nearby. Wherever "on the water" Eldon Warmsley was from, it was nearby. And it was the same place that was home to the Devereaux brothers. Including Larry, of that she was certain.

  She looked into the rear view mirror and jumped when she saw the big pick-up so close on her bumper. She flipped on her signal light and moved quickly from the center lane into the far right lane. The truck moved with her, on her tail. She took her foot off the gas pedal and her car slowed suddenly. The truck slowed with her. She returned her foot to the gas pedal with increasing pressure, causing her car to accelerate with increasing speed. The truck stayed with her. Without signaling, she swerved into the left lane, causing the red Jeep she cut off to give her a loud, angry blast of its horn. She accelerated and moved left again and sped past three cars before returning to the center lane. A check of her mirror showed the white pick-up in the far left lane and gaining speed quickly. Carole Ann looked ahead, checking to see if there was an exit, and quickly abandoned that notion. She'd get off the interstate and go where? She forced the rising fear back down. Fear wouldn't save her life but her phone could!

  She reached into her purse, retrieved the little phone, and flipped it open. Steering the car with her left hand, she activated the phone with her right and punched in the emergency number.

  "Operator, this is an emergency," she said in what she prayed was a calm voice. "I am being chased by a vehicle," and she gave the operator her exact location, the description of the truck following her, and a description of her own car. She'd been watching the big truck in her rearview mirror the entire time and it was only the density of the traffic that prevented his being directly behind her. Then she saw the flashing lights on the approaching overpass and saw the police car swerve on the ramp leading to the expressway. A Louisiana State Trooper. She sped up, quickly cut in front of an eighteen-wheeler, and slid on to the shoulder. She slammed on her brakes, threw the car into reverse, and spewed gravel as she backed up to where the trooper was entering the flow of traffic.

  She stopped, shifted into park, and cut her engine. Shaking and sweating, she took several deep breaths, then opened the car door.

  "Get back in the car, Miss, and put your hands on the steerin' wheel where I can see 'em." The hollow, loud-speaker voice debilitated Carole Ann in a way she wouldn't have believed possible, but did as she was told, awash in fear, anger, and irony; and as she did so, the big, white truck sped past in the right lane. She leaned her head into the steering wheel, understanding the helplessness Black people everywhere feel when confronted by the law. She might have led a sheltered existence, but she wasn't ignorant of the realities of being black in America.

  "Is something wrong, Miss?" She heard his voi
ce so close she jumped, sat up too quickly, and made herself dizzy; heat and fear obviously were a dangerous combination.

  "Someone...I was being followed, chased," she managed, and looked up into the face of the trooper and saw her own reflection in his mirrored sunglasses.

  "Can you give me a description?" He was serious to the point of gravity. He took out a notepad and pen and waited for her to speak.

  "A white pick-up. A new one. And big. A Chevy. It just passed us. I couldn't see the driver...couldn't see his face. I know it was a man."

  "Color?" asked the trooper, and it took Carole Ann a moment to understand that he was asking the driver's race. And she grinned wryly and shrugged, Louisiana-style.

  "I hope you won't take offense, Officer, when I say I haven't spent enough time in Louisiana to be able to tell sometimes."

  The trooper relaxed his face and his posture. "No offense, Ma'am. And I take your meanin'. But what do you think he was?"

  "I think he was a swamp baby," Carole Ann said, surprising herself as much as the trooper with that response, but she knew that it was true, and that knowledge, somehow, reduced her fear and brought both clarity and comfort. For someone to openly threaten her must mean that she was getting too close to whatever the truth was. Just as Al had. Only Al hadn't known enough of the truth to know that what he knew was dangerous. Carole Ann did know. And she also knew it was time to seek some protection. But from whom? She didn't think she could trust anyone: Not Warren, not Eldon, not Merle. Lillian? Jake! Jake and Tommy.