She gleeks him back.
“LaStanza.”
Friday
• Mystery Street, 10:10 a.m.
Ally Jones, dressed in a red blouse and jeans, stands next to her desk as Beau leads Juanita into the offices of Mystery, Inc. Ally stuffs a large book into a back pack and nods to the smoky-glass door marked ‘Private’.
“He’s expecting you.”
She hurries past them and out the door.
The smoky-glass door is cracked open and they step in. LaStanza sits behind a large desk. He’s talking and there’s an earpiece with a mic wrapped around the right side of his face. He waves them in, points to thick, red leather chairs in front of the highly polished mahogany desk. Matching filing cabinets line the wall to Beau’s left. There’s an open door there to a full kitchen and bathroom beyond. The wall on the right has windows and plaques and commendations.
Beau moves over, Juanita hovering behind and sees a framed teletype that reads:
TO:All Departments
FROM:Superintendent of Police
ATTENTION:Effective immediately, Detective D. F. LaStanza
is transferred from Homicide Division to Records & Identification.
Across the teletype, in red marks-a-lot, LaStanza had written in bold letters, “Like Fuckin’ Hell.”
The small frame is sandwiched between LaStanza’s two Medals of Valor, the highest decoration the department issues. Also on the wall, lined in a long row, are the eleven other commendations LaStanza had received.
Beau taps the frame around the teletype, tells Juanita, “Now that’s the way to resign.”
They sit. Juanita thinks the only way to know they are not in 1940 is the elaborate telephone and the Macintosh computer on the credenza behind the desk which is up against a huge picture window overlooking the neighborhood. Two lamps on either side of the desk have frosted globes with POLICE stenciled in an old script. The file cabinets are vintage as is the desk and the large captain’s chair LaStanza sits in and the deep cushioned chairs they sit in.
She’d heard LaStanza is about five-six and he looks that size behind the big desk. A good looking guy with dark hair and a nice moustache, a pair of intense, light green eyes looking into her eyes for a few seconds.
Beau looks over his shoulder, back at the reception room, wonders if Jessie is in the office.
LaStanza reaches over and punches a button on the phone console, pulls off the mic and earpiece and looks at Juanita.
Beau introduces his partner and LaStanza nods, tells her, “You need to get one of those shirts for Beau. I’d like to see the big lug in pink.”
“What’s wrong with pink?” Beau says.
“Nothing. Lizette bought me a pink polo shirt and I wear it only I’m a little guy. You would look like an giant bottle of Pepto-Bismol.”
“Which brings me to why we’re here,” Beau says. “We need help with La Cosa Nostra.”
LaStanza blinks at him, looks at Juanita, then back at Beau and closes his eyes, exhales. “Tell me about it.”
For the next six minutes, Beau lays it out to LaStanza who leans back in the captain’s chair with his eyes closed.
“We can email you the particulars, dates, times, script on the victims.”
“You know how to download the videos on your computer?” LaStanza says.
“Yeah.”
“Send me the surveillance videos too.”
“Then you’ll look into it.”
LaStanza’s eyes snap open. “I’m not looking into anything, Crazy Horse. Mystery Inc. is not investigating anything. However, I will talk to someone after I digest the information.”
Beau lets a smile crawl across his chiseled features. “You know a guy who knows a guy, right?”
“Nick Cataldo.”
Juanita sees Beau is surprised.
“You talk to Cataldo?”
LaStanza gives him a wry smile. “In the past. But I can’t get involved. I promised Lizette after the Long Cold Case.”
“The what?”
“Can’t talk about it. Not even to you.”
Beau explains to his partner. Since Alphonso Badalamente retired, Nick Cataldo is now the Boss. Unlike the New York and New Jersey and Chicago families, La Cosa Nostra in New Orleans has always been a low-profile operation. Said to be one of the most successful organized crime operations, the only killings Beau has heard of involving the Badalamentes since the 1960s involved the man sitting across the desk.
There is the legend of a running gun battle through the oaks of Audubon Park of Homicide Detective LaStanza versus an out-of-control Mafia hit man who happened to be the nephew of Alphonso Badalamente. Shootout ended with LaStanza bleeding and the hit-man’s brains blown out. Beau also heard a rumor of another dead Mafiosi, one who went after LaStanza with le lupo – Sicilian execution weapon, a ten-gauge shotgun, only LaStanza was a better shot.
“I just figure,” Beau says, “this is too sophisticated for them not to know about it.”
“You’re probably right but they won’t talk unless its in their interest.” LaStanza’s green eyes grow sharp. “Killing off the talent isn’t good for business. If she was one of theirs, your killer might have gone into the Mississippi months ago.”
The men stand and so does Juanita, LaStanza coming around the desk. Beau looks over his shoulder and LaStanza smiles, says, “Jessie’s not in.”
They shake hands and Beau thanks him.
“One thing,” LaStanza adds. “Not a word about this to Jessie. I don’t want her involved. Capito?
“Yep.” Beau is thinking the same thing.
Saturday
• Saint Charles Avenue, 5:55 p.m.
Back when Jessie was nineteen, Lizette taught her how to apply lipstick. It takes a few minutes to do it right, painting her full lips with several shades of lipstick, starting with a dark pink undercoat, moving to scarlet, topping it off with a deep, glistening crimson red that makes her lips jump out. Jessie leans back from her vanity’s mirror and approves.
She stands, runs a brush through her long hair one more time and scoops her black pocketbook from her bed, flips off the light and moves up the hall to her front room. She’s in one of her favorite dresses, a pale green Greek goddess-looking dress with a cowl neck. It’s short, not exactly a minidress, with a wide, black belt she wears with black stiletto heels. Her new, white, French lace bra, makes her boobs look even larger. She wears matching white lace panties and thigh-high stockings and knows she looks hot.
Jessie lives rent-free in a house Lizette’s family bought at auction after the owner died two years ago. The Louviers own properties in just about every part of town, comes from being bankers. It’s a two story house mixed in between mansions along the far end of Saint Charles Avenue just off Fern Street, up near Carrollton Avenue, almost a mile up from Audubon Park. The house is made of field stone and wood with a steep, pitched roof with wide eaves and looks like a compact Swiss chalet. Apparently the original owner was Swiss and missed the old country.
This is the first month she’d has the place to herself, has the place without construction workers restoring the house to its original 1915 state, adding new wiring, new water pipes, gas pipes, TV dish on the roof. It’s a cozy four bedroom house with three full bathrooms, too much room for one. There’s a front room, dining room and another living room in back overlooking the new deck and small backyard. There’s a long drive alongside the house and one-car garage, a rock wall around the property and a metal gate with punch code access. If the Louviers re-sell the property, it’ll be worth a lot more than they paid for it. If they re-sell. She’s learned they prefer owning and renting properties, accumulating real estate.
She glances at her cell phone, sees it’s exactly six p.m. and there’s a knock on her front door. She opens it and lets Beau in, moves around the big lug to check him out as he checks her out, both smiling. He’s shaved and his square jaw looks more prominent, as does his slightly protruding brow over those light brown e
yes. He has the look of a hawk about him, a thin nose, lean face. Looks like a fresh haircut.
“Two in a row,” he says, smiling even wider.
“Two what?”
“Two great dresses.”
He wears a white, long-sleeved dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and black pants and shoes. He’s got his baby Glock slipped into the waistband along the small of his back.
“What?” she says when he climbs behind the wheel. “No obsidian knife.”
His eyes bounce. “It’s in a sheath just above my left ankle.”
She steps close to him, eyes searching his. Jessie places her hands on his chest and goes up on her toes, tilting her head to the side, those shining lips pursed and ready and he slowly cranes his neck down until their lips meet. It is short kiss, an electric kiss, a kiss that thunders both hearts and raises pulses. She pulls away, catches her breath.
“I couldn’t resist.” Jessie looks at his lips. “Hey, this new lipstick doesn’t rub off after all.”
She brushes his lips with hers again and Beau realizes his erection is growing from a blue-veiner into a diamond cutter.
Damn. What’s she doing to me?
Jessie scoops her purse and reaches for the door. He grabs her free hand and she stops.
He tells her, “That was pretty damn good.”
She smiles and that face, like last time, is even prettier. “Very damn good.”
She has to climb up into the SUV, the top of her thigh high stockings showing. He makes sure her foot’s in before closing the door. Beau moves stiffly to the driver’s side. As she suspects, when she climbs into the SUV, a gray sport coat’s in there. He’ll wear it to cover the weapon.
“So, where are we headed?” she asks as they pull away up Saint Charles. She feels her heart beating. How long has it been since she was this excited by a first date?
“Just down the avenue. French restaurant. You like French food I hope.”
“Creole? Cajun?”
“No, real French.”
Restaurant Boulangére along Saint Charles lies just off Lee Circle, in a converted ante-bellum mansion. No off-street parking so they have to tool around until Beau spots a van pulling out a block away along Carondelet Street. Beau puts on his jacket as they hurry to beat the rain. Black clouds slither above and the air smells wet. Two old black men sitting on the front stoop of a brick house ogle Jessie as she passes, one letting off a low whistle.
At least fifteen people stand bunched in front of the maître’d’s podium, the bar has no open space and the Beau sees only one unoccupied table, a big one, where two bus boys hurriedly remove plates. He waits for the thin, prim maître’d to spot him, smile and wave him forward. Beau takes Jessie’s hand and eases through the throng, a couple people grumbling, a thick man with gray hair glares at them.
The maître’d, in a black tux, steps around his podium, takes Beau’s shoulders in hand and kisses the big man on each cheek.
“I spot your name on zee reservation list.” The maître’d’s French accent is heavy. “And I hold a table for you.”
“Thank you, Antoine.”
The maître’d nods at Jessie, turns to a young waitress, leans over and whispers something to her.
“I am Monique,” the waitress says as she leads them through the tables. Beau usually doesn’t like sitting up front but this small table is at the end of the room, with a solid wall to their right and a row of windows in front of them so they can look out at the passing streetcars and pedestrians. The place smells of spicy foods and Beau’s stomach rumbles.
The rain comes hard and fast, washing against the windows in waves. Thunder rumbles.
The menus are in French with English subtitles, thankfully, and Beau asks Jessie if she’d like wine.
“Oh, no. No liquor. I don’t want to miss anything tonight.”
He laughs and orders iced tea for both, which comes quickly along with a hot baguette and butter. Monique looks so much like an actress neither can place until their rabbit soup appetizer comes and the waitress smiles.
As the waitress steps away, Jessie leans over and tells Beau, “The girl who was in that movie with Tom Cruise. Cocktail.”
“One with the Beach Boys song about Kokomo?”
“What’s her name?”
“I’m good with faces. Not names.”
Jessie has to break the baguette by hand with only butter knives available and figures that’s how it’s done in France. She passes a piece to Beau and the butter melts on the hot bread as it is spread. It’s delicious.
The first spoonful of soup opens Jessie’s eyes. “Wow.”
A bolt of lightning crashes in a blinding flash and car alarms start up outside as thunder makes the building shiver. Music rises in the restaurant, most likely in response to the storm. Classical music and by the time the main courses arrive, Beau’s order of beef bourguignon with gravy and what looks like linguini to Jessie and her shrimp quiche, Jessie realizes they are listening to Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.
In surreal moments, the lightening flashes as the cannons in the overture boom. Ta Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Da. Boom. Ta Da Da Da Da Da Da Da Da. Boom. And the couple dines on succulent beef and tasty shrimp, their eyes meeting and Jessie feels this is one of those special moments in life. She hopes he thinks the same.
“Elizabeth Shue.” She says.
Beau looks around the table, down to his feet.
“Not shoe.” Jessie laughs. “Elizabeth Shue is the actress from the movie.”
“I knew that. She was in that movie with Nick Cage when he was a stone drunk.” Beau takes another bite of beef.
“Leaving Las Vegas.”
“Met him once. Nice guy,” Beau says. “Some ass-hole slashed one of his tires. He didn’t get mad, just needed a little help and flagged us down.”
Jessie takes a bite of her quiche. Damn it’s good. “What’s with you and the maître’d?”
Beau spots a car sliding in the rain outside, managing to stop before a crossing pick-up almost clips it.
“Antoine’s wife’s car broke down on Prytania Street. I was on the road back them and my partner and I cruised up as a slime-ball had stopped to help her. She hurried over to us said the man creeped her out. I climbed out of the unit and the man took off. Caught him a couple blocks away and he tried to fight me. Lost.”
Monique tops off their tea, asks how the food is.
“Excellent,” Jessie says and Beau nods.
Jessie looks back at Beau who continues his story. “Turns out the slime-ball was wanted in Florida for a series of rapes. Wish I’da beaten him up more than I did. Met Antoine when we went to court. His wife was an excellent witness.”
Beau leaves Monique a nice tip and Antoine kisses his cheeks and Jessie’s before they leave.
The rain ends as it began, all at once. They have to maneuver their way along the broken banquette and puddles back to the SUV. Beau waits until they’re in the SUV to announce, “Lady’s choice. Dancing or a movie?”
“I didn’t peg you as a dancer,” she says, buckling up her seat belt which pulls her dress up to the elastic band at the top of her stockings. She lifts her right leg, flashing a little panty now and says, “These shoes aren’t made for dancing, so I guess it’s a movie.”
The street is flooded nearly up to the banquette but the big SUV has no problem getting up to the interstate and over into Metairie.
“What are you taking me to see?”
He shrugs. “Depends on what’s playing.”
She laughs again. A good sign. “Sounds like a good plan.”
Beau thinks about that, says, “That’s what Custer’s Crow guides told him before the Little Big Horn.”
It takes a half hour to make it to the big multiplex theater in Metairie where they barely beat another rain storm getting inside. They move to the posters of what’s playing, see Iron Man first.
“Robert Downey as a superhero?” Jessie shakes her head.
There’s the new In
diana Jones movie with Harrison Ford pushing fifty.
Cloverfield has a poster of the Statue of Liberty with her head knocked off and New York City burning in the background. Several cartoon movies are playing, one with a fat panda, one that must be set on Madagascar and another with a robot. They stop in front of a poster of Slumdog Millionaire.
“I heard of this one,” says Jessie. “It’s a love story. Won all kind of awards.”
Beau buys tickets, hopes he doesn’t fall asleep in it. Jessie has his left arm wrapped in her arms as she stands next to him outside the entrance to their theater.
“Don’t look so glum. You’re half Indian, aren’t you?”
“Funny.”
He does not fall asleep. After, he tells her, “Now that was a good movie.”
As they step out of the multiplex, Jessie says, “Love the music. And character-driven movies are always the best.”
“Pretty girl,” Beau says, “and the guy was intense.”
“How about that dancing scene at the end? Mumbi. It used to be called Bombay.”
He’s heard of Bombay.
They have to step around puddles again back to the SUV.
Jessie seems to be thinking hard as they pull away. Eventually she says, “You come from dancing people, don’t you? Cajun and the Fais Do Do and the Sioux dance, don’t they?”
“War dances.”
Thinking how different his people, the Lakota are from Indians who grab for life, love. The Sioux struggle for life. Not much laughter with Beau’s mother’s people, whereas his Papa laughed all the time.
As if she’s reading his mind, Jessie comments on how his life must have been confusing. As he’d described on the phone, his mother was serious, almost stoic while his father was a good-times Cajun.
“My father lived every day as if it were a gift. My mother lived every day as if it were a duty to get through it to the next. At the end of the day Papa was thankful for the joys. At the end of the day Mama was relieved that she could finally rest for a while. Odd, I never realized this until later, after my Papa died and my mother returned to her people.”
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