The Shoal of Time

by J. M. Redmann

  A bedside lamp was turned on. I squinted my eyes at the sudden light. Emily was sitting up, her naked back to me, the sheets tumbled around her. Her voice was a contrast to the setting, cool and professional. Her side was mostly listening, with an occasional question like “How long ago?” and “Who called it in?”

  Then she said, “I can be ready in fifteen minutes,” and hung up.

  I glanced at her bedside clock. It was a little past five in the morning.

  “They work you early, don’t they?”

  “I’m going to have to be a cad and ask you to leave. My superior is picking me up in fifteen minutes. I can’t have you here.”

  “He’s not going to drop by for a social visit, is he?” The bed was warm and comfortable.

  “I can’t risk it. Please, do this favor for me.” She was hastily throwing on professional clothes.

  “Might be easier to hide me in the closet,” I countered. “At least that way you don’t need to worry about him seeing me walking down your street with my pants halfway on.” I could see the worry in her eyes. He might not know she liked women. Even if he was okay with that, he certainly wouldn’t be impressed to find me here.

  “I’m really sorry, but please, get dressed and leave.” Her voice had an edge. She wanted me out of here.

  I wanted to stay, less to sleep, but this would give me a chance to check out her place, a possibility she seemed all too aware of.

  “Love ’em and leave ’em, right?” I said as I rolled out of bed.

  “I am sorry,” she said as she headed to her bathroom. She almost sounded like she meant it.

  I hastily grabbed my clothes and threw them on. She wasn’t going to allow me unfettered access to her apartment. All I could accomplish by dragging my feet was to get her into trouble. Even if I couldn’t trust her, I didn’t need to piss her off. She wanted me gone, I would be gone.

  I needed the bathroom myself, but decided I could wait the six blocks to my house. Her fifteen minutes were ticking away.

  She emerged to find me fully dressed.

  “Let me out and you’re free and clear.”

  “Thank you,” she said as she walked me to the door, turning on lights as she went.

  It was a nice place, a kitchen with high-end appliances and granite counters, clearly renovated recently with the kind of period touches like antique doorknobs and molding that cost money. The furniture was also new and nice, luxurious matching leather couch and chair, custom bookcases, the walls decorated with artwork. She either had great taste or had hired a designer. Or had family money, since this was beyond most government salaries.

  But she quickly walked me to her front door, and I had little time for more than a brief glimpse.

  She put the key in her deadbolt, but before opening it turned to me and said, “This…wasn’t planned…”

  “Kicking me out before the larks have woken up and farted? I should hope not.”

  She managed a bare smile. “None of it.” She glanced at her watch. Then she kissed me, very briefly, and opened the door.

  “I am sorry,” she said as I went down the steps.

  “Yeah, me, too,” I muttered, but the door was already shut.

  It was still dark out. My way was lit by a few outside gaslights until I got to Rampart with its major streetlights. Few cars were out at this time. I walked quickly to signal that I wasn’t drunk and wasn’t a target, should any miscreants be lurking. But it was late enough or early enough that even they should have been in bed.

  I considered doubling back around to see if someone really picked her up. I settled for crossing Rampart and heading up her street until a convenient tree from Armstrong Park gave me decent cover in the dark. This is why smart detectives never wear neon green—unless it’s underwear and can’t be seen in public. My black pants and dark jacket faded into the shadows.

  I looked at my watch. It had been eleven minutes since the phone call. My bladder wasn’t happy about the detour.

  “Alcohol dehydrates, remember?” I muttered out loud. It would make me look crazy just in case anyone was considering a quick mugging. Robbers don’t like crazy any more than the rest of us.

  At fifteen minutes precisely, a big boxy black car turned down Emily’s street. It stopped about where her house would be. I was too far away to read the license plate or glimpse more than a shape in the driver’s seat.

  Someone who was either Emily or her double got in the car. Even a good block away it was easy to recognize her stature and brisk walk. The street was one-way heading into the Quarter, so they wouldn’t drive by me.

  Still I headed farther into Treme, taking the side streets to my house, the last few blocks at a jog, more for the sake of my bladder than worrying about things going bump in the night.

  I got home, quickly closing the door behind me, to make sure the cats didn’t try and get out.

  Then I remembered the cats were no longer here.

  I hurried to the bathroom. I had spent years worrying about the cats getting curious and getting out the door. It was habit. One I’d need to break.

  Once my bladder was empty, I guzzled water and took two aspirin, a standard when I’ve imbibed on the heavy side.

  It was still dark out. The late-winter sun would stay hidden for another hour or so.

  I stripped off my clothes, tossing them into the laundry basket. I didn’t want to smell any lingering scent Emily might have left.

  Then I flopped into bed, willing the oblivion of sleep to come.

  Of course it didn’t. Instead my brain rambled through everything, picking at old wounds. In my much younger days there were a few mistakes when I took the cowardly path of sneaking out on the woman (women, in a few cases) I’d stumbled home with, leaving in the early hours. But this was the first time anyone directly asked me to leave on such short notice.

  What was her game? Could it possibly be as simple as she alleged? She was lonely, checked out a local gay bar, saw me there, bought me a drink on impulse, and let the impulse—aided by Scotch—bring me back to her bed? A seasoned FBI agent?

  It was as likely as the tale I’d spun about needing to pee and pulling off the road in broad daylight.

  The solution to Emily Harris was easy. Avoid her until the case was solved. Until I had some way of knowing what she was up to. Until I could trust her. If ever.

  The only solace was the sex was good and she seemed attracted to me. It wasn’t much, but I’d take what I could get.

  That left me mulling on the other upsetting thing tonight, forgetting about the cats, forgetting about the phone. Cordelia was gone, not coming back. Why couldn’t I get that through my head? She certainly had.

  The reasons were obvious. She was the one who had chosen to leave, so she had more time to plan and accept it. She moved to a new place, so didn’t run into memories everywhere she turned. And if the rumors were right, she had someone to spend her nights with, someone to fill the space she’d left empty for me. Ten years doesn’t go away in a few months.

  Maybe I should move.

  Or at least redecorate.

  Somewhere in trying to contemplate rearranging furniture, I fell into a fitful doze.

  Chapter Eleven

  I woke in the late morning, finally pulled from sleep by a bright sunbeam on my nose. I was groggy and grumpy. It was after ten. Other than bar peanuts, I’d eaten little last night. Emily had kicked me out before breakfast.

  First order of business was caffeine. Coffee with toast, plain, as I was too lazy to find the jam. The coffee woke me up and the bread settled my stomach.

  Then a shower.

  Then I could sort my day.

  Aided with more coffee and toast with the newly discovered strawberry jam, I sat down to scroll through the messages on my cell phone.

  None. That was quick work.

  Emily hadn’t called to apologize for the hurried exit last night. Maybe she was still out fighting evil. She’d get twenty-four hours, then she was dead to me. />
  Ashley hadn’t called either. She’d gotten me into the mess. The least she could do was keep me up to date on what was going on. Maybe Ashley could call the dogs off.

  Cordelia hadn’t called. But she wasn’t going to.

  Get dressed, go to your office. Muddle through the day, I told myself.

  I threw a load of laundry into the washer before I left. I could put it in the dryer when I got back, the only way I’d have clean clothes tomorrow.

  I took a roundabout way to my office, stopping at one of my favorite Mid-City po-boy shops. I got both roast beef and fried shrimp, plus a large order of fries. Perfect hangover food. I could microwave the roast beef this evening, and that would be supper.

  I’d eat lunch while checking messages and email at my office.

  About two bites of it. There were no messages. Well, there were some, one wrong number, one call about donating to a cause I had no intention of donating to, and three messages from the wronged wife who had changed her mind and wanted me to go after her husband again.

  Email was equally scintillating. Messages about erection pills—do they send them to everybody because they haven’t yet noticed that half the population doesn’t have a penis?—about half-price events that I wouldn’t go to for free, more donation requests, and a reminder about my mortgage.

  The exciting life of a PI.

  I called the wife back, told her I was busy and couldn’t retake the case for another three weeks. I left the name of a rival I didn’t much like but who was dumb enough to think I might refer him business.

  That left me at loose ends, waiting for phone calls that might never come.

  I don’t like loose ends, especially mine.

  I scrolled through my computer, searching for what I’d been doing last. Ah, the girl Ashley had mentioned, Kimmie Fremont.

  I looked back over the file I’d made on her from what I could find on the Internet. It wasn’t much, but thirteen years of life didn’t leave much of a trail, no graduations from high school or college, military service, marriage, children, the things that leave marks on paper.

  I wasn’t going to contact the family, not unless I found a solid lead. But in the initial newspaper article about her going missing was the name and number of a detective to call. He might hang up on me, would probably blow me off, but sometimes cops appreciated a private eye looking into cases like this, ones they didn’t have the time or resources for. It was only four years out—he might still be around.

  I dialed the number and asked for Frank Mullen. He wasn’t in and I left a brief message, just that I wanted to talk to him about an old case.

  Then I considered the women listed in the red ledger. Did their families wonder what happened to them? What kind of life do you have when it’s reduced to cryptic numbers, one line each in a cheap record book? Who was looking for those women?

  Not me, I told myself. Not my case, not my area.

  Right. I finished my last fry and put my jacket on.

  Drive around, ask a few questions. I knew people who knew people who might know something. I need to be legal, but I don’t need to be nice and legal the way Ashley and Emily need to be. If they had corruption in their ranks, that might make things even more difficult. Other than a few scars on my soul, I was pretty clean.

  I had given Ashley and her crew the generic sin city tour, highlighting the places vice happened. But there were a few areas I had connections in.

  Tulane Avenue—nowhere near Tulane University—was slowly being gentrified with new apartments and business, waiting for the completion of the new medical centers there, one for the VA and the new LSU one to replace Charity Hospital. There was talk of a Bio District.

  But some of the hooker hotels held on. This had long been the stroll for women down on their luck and men who weren’t too choosy. I doubted the red ledger women were in this area. It takes money and logistics to traffic women, and that meant they didn’t offer ten-dollar blow jobs. But what happens to a woman when she’s no longer young and pretty enough to command top dollar? Some of them get out of the life and some end up in places like my first destination.

  The motel had probably never seen better days because it wasn’t the kind of place that had ever been a beacon of hope. It had probably started out cheap and tacky and gone downhill from there. The paint was slapped on, the décor tacky, a small sign that was easy to drive by. You either knew what you were looking for or you drove right by and never noticed it. There were a few cars parked in the lot, a large pothole in the middle. My three-year-old bottom-of-the-line Mazda was the newest one in there.

  In a few years this would be gone, taken over by businesses clustering around the shiny new hospitals and medical businesses. Where do the women at the end of the line go when their line runs out?

  “Sorry, all booked up and we don’t do business with dicks anyway,” was my greeting on opening the door to the office.

  “Be careful who you alienate, Chuck. I counted at least four code violations with my eyes closed.”

  “Alienate. You and your big words. What the fuck do you want, Knight?”

  Chuck was not a friend, not even really an informant. I’d stumbled over him while surveilling a business and noticing that some of the employees were using the back storage room for marijuana bricks. Chuck was small potatoes, but he went down. The only favor I did for him was vouch that he indeed was pocket change and not very bright pocket change at that. I got the impression that he felt if he was going to prison he wanted folks to consider him a kingpin, but his small role did reduce his prison sentence. He didn’t consider that much of a favor, just enough that he couldn’t pull a gun on me. I’d seen him shortly after he got out and prison seemed to have been good for him. He’d lost weight and gained muscle. His hair was a neat buzz cut. But that had been a few years ago. The weight had come back on, a double unshaven chin, and his T-shirt was snug over his stomach, his pants hidden below the bulge. His hair had grown out but was a straggly knot that only emphasized the growing bald spot at the top. His skin was the pasty white of no sun and too much fried food and cheap booze.

  “The kind of info only a man of your talents might possess.” Flattery goes a long way in Chuck’s world.

  “Bullshit. And I’m clean here.”

  “In this kind of hotel?”

  “What, you desperate? Want me to fix you up?” He cackled a laugh that showed he had two missing teeth and one gold one.

  “Soliciting? You know that’s illegal.”

  “Hey, it’s a joke. I’m as clean as a whistle.”

  One I’d want to dump in bleach and leave there for a week.

  “You’re in the clear. I’m just looking for information.” I held out a twenty-dollar bill.

  He snatched it out of my hand.

  “What kind of information?”

  “Trafficking.” I quickly added, “Now, I know it’s not happening here. But word gets around. Anyone here who might talk to me?”

  He looked down at the register, looking for long enough that I started tapping my foot.

  Finally he said, “Bianca. She’s on the second floor. She should be up by now.”

  “Room number?”

  He rubbed his fingers together.

  I handed him another twenty. “If you’re wrong I’m coming to get my money back.”

  “Twenty-four. When have I ever been wrong?”

  Most of your life, but I didn’t say that. Chuck was another person who would be left behind when the new shiny buildings came.

  I hadn’t been lying about the code violations, just prescient. One room had a heavy-duty electrical cord snaking out to power the chugging window unit in the room next to it. A trash can was overflowing with a stack of takeout pizza boxes on top, the stale grease smell tipping into rancid.

  Room twenty-four was in the top tier. The stairs were a sturdy concrete, the iron railings rough from painted-over rust. They were probably slick in the rain, but would hold me long enough to get in and
out.

  I paused outside the room, listening. Chuck could be sending me here to discover a dead body. In which case, I would take my bribe back from him and include interest. Inside a radio was playing softly, a not-so-soft voice chiming in on the chorus. I waited for the song to end, then knocked.

  The radio snapped off.

  I knocked again. Forty bucks meant I wasn’t going away easily.

  “Please open up. I’m a detective and I just need some information. Once we talk I’ll go away.”

  Silence. Then soft footsteps coming to the door. A distorted eye in the peephole.

  “What kind of detective?” a muffled voice asked.

  I pulled out my license and flashed it across the peephole.

  A chain, then a lock and another lock were thrown and the door opened.

  “Private. Why didn’t you say you were a private dick?”

  Bianca, in her six-foot glory, stood in front of me.

  “Oh, Lordy, and you’re a girl, too. Just like them TV shows.”

  She wore a red kimono with matching red slippers, clearly her lounging outfit. Her Adam’s apple and large hands—in addition to her height—gave her away as trans. While it was obvious to me she had started life being called male, her face was androgynous, with full lips, eyes on the cusp between brown and green, startlingly light against her dark skin, and her high and full cheekbones giving her a long, regal face. Her hair was short and pulled back. I guessed she used a wig while working.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I am a woman, but real life is not as exciting as television.”

  “Since you can’t arrest me, you’re more than welcome to come in. Would you like some tea?” She stepped aside to let me enter.

  It was the same sad room as all the others, but she kept it neat, the bed crisply made, her clothes put away, with a few hangings on the wall to hide the baby-puke-green color.

  “Tea would be lovely,” I said. There is never enough caffeine in the world for days like this, so I wasn’t going to refuse any that didn’t look like it would kill me.