Nick Bartello knocked on Rosie’s door as Rooney appeared at the end of the corridor. ‘I got five beds in my room, how many you got, Nick?’
‘Oh, just a double, a single and a cot!’
Rooney shrugged. ‘Well, we ain’t payin’ for it.’
Rosie opened her door and beamed. ‘Hi, come on in. I got a huge room and my own bathroom, it’s so cute.’
‘Any word from Lorraine?’ Nick asked as he sat down on a boxy foam-filled sofa, upholstered in the same Dralon and fringes as the drapes. An old TV was perched high on a repro tall-boy; the oversized nylon lampshades were full of dust and the room smelt of cigarettes and air-freshener.
‘Not yet, no, but I called home and the office and got no reply, so maybe she’s on her way.’
‘I’m hungry,’ Rooney said flatly, and Rosie beamed again.
‘Why don’t we go eat, see a few sights, maybe wander round the French Quarter? I mean, as it’s our first night we can kind of relax, right?’
‘Let’s go,’ Rooney said, gasping for a beer.
Nick hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Okay by me, but you got to get on to the cop shop here, Bill, find someone we can get some inside information from.’
‘Way I hear it, any one of the cops’ll do anythin’ for a few extra bucks.’
‘Hey, we can pick up the streetcar, take a ride, have a look at the riverboat casinos.’
Nick looked at Rooney as Rosie headed out. ‘Dumb broad thinks we’re on holiday.’
Rooney shrugged. ‘For tonight we can be . . . why the hell not?’
‘Okay, man, why the hell not?’ Nick strolled after Rooney as Rosie locked her room, clutching tourist guides and leaflets in her hand. ‘But we’re already five days down. That leaves us nine to break this case.’
‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ Rosie said as they trooped down the stairs, passing four old ladies with crimped perms protruding from their straw sun hats with ‘Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler’ printed on them.
‘Hell, Rosie, this is zimmer-frame location,’ Nick said.
‘Now don’t start, Nick Bartello. Like I said, we’re lucky to get into some place as central as this, it’s coming up to Carnival.’
‘Sure is,’ Nick said as a group of yet more chattering women met their tour guide in the reception area.
‘Ladies, are we all set? Tonight we are going to the historic Voodoo Museum, please all have your special party tickets ready,’ their slick black-haired guide bellowed.
Rosie slipped her hand into Rooney’s arm. ‘I want to go there, to the Voodoo Museum.’
‘Let’s eat first, huh?’ Rooney said, that beer calling him.
Lorraine wrapped the hotel courtesy robe around herself as she dried her hair, conscious of the door to the adjoining room that had remained closed. In his suite, Caley, a towel around his waist, made some calls, the first to Saffron Dulay’s father to arrange a meeting.
It was almost 10.30 but he still continued to call each one of his partners to say he was in town and needed a meeting. Normally, he would have waited until first thing in the morning but he needed to occupy his mind. The door that connected the two suites drew him like a magnet.
Had he said it? she asked herself, or had she misheard? Hadn’t he said he was afraid of what he might do?
‘Shit,’ she muttered, knowing it was ridiculous. ‘Go repack your things and get out before you do something you’ll regret.’ But she did nothing, telling herself that she should go down to the front desk and start asking a few questions. This was the room Anna Louise Caley disappeared from; the dress she was going to wear had been laid out in readiness, and Caley had said he saw her purse in the sitting room. By which door had he entered the suite – the connecting door? Had he said it was unlocked? She couldn’t remember. She finished drying her hair and decided she would go to bed and ask questions the following morning.
Lorraine had closed the doors to the balcony and was pulling back the bedspread when there was a tap on the main door. Her heart lurched as she heard the key turning.
The maid peeked round. ‘Oh, sorry, do you want your bed turned down, ma’am?’
‘No, thank you, er . . . one second. Come in.’
The maid hovered at the door. She had two foil-wrapped mints in her hand, and she curtsied to Lorraine as she scuttled to the bed.
‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ Lorraine smiled sweetly.
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Do you recall Anna Louise Caley at all?’
‘Yes, ma’am, she often stayed here.’
Lorraine came closer. ‘Were you on duty the night she disappeared? It was February fifteenth last year.’
‘Oh yes, I was, ma’am.’
Lorraine looked at her watch. It was 10.45. ‘Did you turn back her bed?’
‘I did not, I knocked but received no reply.’
‘But you just unlocked my door so you obviously have keys, and as I didn’t reply, you walked in.’
‘But you didn’t have a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, ma’am.’
‘Did Anna Louise Caley?’
‘Yes, ma’am, but I came by earlier than tonight. We had a lot of new guests check in this evenin’ so I am late on my round.’
‘So what time did you try to turn down Miss Caley’s bed on the fifteenth?’
The maid looked to the ceiling. ‘Be about eight to half past.’
‘Did you come back to try again?’
‘No, ma’am, I did not, because when I finished my round there was still the sign on the door. That was about ten-thirty.’
‘Thank you. Er, what’s your name?’
‘Ellie, ma’am, Ellie Paton.’
Lorraine slipped her a couple of dollars and sat on the bed. If Anna Louise Caley had stayed here often then she would know the routine of the night staff, so she obviously intended not to be disturbed or found out.
‘Goodnight, ma’am, enjoy your stay.’
Ellie closed the door silently and Lorraine listened, wondering if she would also turn down Robert Caley’s bed. She could hear nothing so she inched open the door and stepped into the corridor. She could see the Do Not Disturb sign on Caley’s suite door.
Lorraine eased off the robe and slipped between the cool sheets. The two mints had been left by the telephone at her bedside. It was now almost eleven and she used the dimmer switch to lower her bedside lamp. Distant voices echoed from the streets outside the courtyard: music, someone singing. She lay there waiting, wondering what he was doing. No way could she sleep.
Nick was tired out. He’d had too much to drink and the hot spicy food had given him one hell of a thirst. He was also feeling the buzz between Rosie and Rooney. Hard to believe, but they were acting like a pair of teenagers, tasting each other’s food, ordering more and more ridiculous dishes. The Cajun restaurant had been as big as a barn, but hot and crammed to capacity, full of tourists being ‘sold’ the atmosphere by over-expansive waiters, all out-of-towners eager to eat their blackened shrimp and jambalaya off greasy check oilcloth and add their business cards to the thousands stuck on the posts that supported the roof. A band played rapid, lurching Zydeco while the singer yelped about his Cajun queen, and middle-aged couples shuffled round the dance floor as though it was the first time they had touched one another in years. The place irritated the hell out of him.
‘You two mind if I split? I’m kind of tired out.’
‘Ah, no, don’t you want a streetcar ride to the riverboats?’ Rosie asked.
‘Another time. I’ll just get some shut eye.’ Nick delved into his tight jeans but Rosie put her hand out. ‘It’s okay, Nick, all on the agency, remember?’
Nick grinned and eased out of his chair. ‘See y’all in the morning for grits Creole-style. G’night.’ He sauntered out, ready to hit some of the strip joints in the real city; the tourist section was all show, all done to hit the wallet, and judging by the packed restaurant a lot would end up well and truly creamed, unaware maybe they’
d seen nothing of what really went on just a few streets deeper down.
Lorraine tossed her sheet aside and, stark naked, reached for her robe. She knew if she stopped moving she’d back out but just as she got to the adjoining suite door, it opened. They didn’t say a word. He slipped his hands beneath her open robe and drew her close. She rested her head against the nape of his neck, inhaling his clean smell, like fresh scented soap, and she could feel his heart thudding alongside her own as she curled her legs around him. He lifted her higher and closer, carrying her towards his bed, then eased her down so her back lay flat against the sheets, her legs still entwined round his waist. He slowly stroked her legs as he knelt down until they opened wide for him to kiss her thighs, her belly. She felt herself opening to him totally as he licked her, kissed her cunt until she was moaning, feeling the rush of heat flood through her as she tilted her hips upwards. Not until she came with another soft purring moan did he begin to strip off his towel. Then he gently moved her so her head lay on the pillow and he lay beside her, stroking her, kissing her body, gentle, sweet kisses. He eased his body over hers and nuzzled her neck until his lips searched out her mouth and his tongue traced hers. Not until she drew his head closer, not until he felt her hungry passion, did he move her hand down to his erect penis as if wanting her permission to fuck her and she murmured, ‘Yes . . . yes . . .’
Caley was the most experienced lover she had ever known. He never at any time seemed to be just screwing her; he was caring and in turn rough, but she began to feel that he was only wanting to give her pleasure, wanting her to orgasm, asking softly what she liked, what she wanted him to do. Without embarrassment she told him; it made her feel as if she was in control and yet she knew she wasn’t. And not until she began to make love to him, caressing him in turn, did she feel him withdraw slightly, and she pulled away from him.
‘Let me love you now . . .’
He closed his eyes as she eased on top of him, looking down into his face. She bent her head close. ‘Look at me, open your eyes . . . I want you to see me, know me.’
Slowly he opened his eyes. Gone was the experienced lover, instead she saw a raw innocence, almost a fear, and she stroked his face. ‘What are you scared of?’
‘You,’ he said softly, because the countless women he had fucked, women like Saffron Dulay, had never touched him so deeply as Lorraine. He was not used to accepting sexual pleasure, only to giving it, and there wasn’t a trick he didn’t know. But tonight there were no games, just two people with the same physical passion for each other, and the more she aroused him the more at ease he became with allowing himself to be desired, until they were equal. His first orgasm left him gasping for breath. Their bodies glistening with sweat, they remained clinging to each other as they drifted into an exhausted sleep. They woke alternately, arousing and waking the other. The night felt long and the dawn was still to come, and they could not get enough of each other.
‘I am loving you, Lorraine Page,’ Caley whispered.
‘And I you, Mr Robert Caley,’ she smiled, leaning up on her elbow, looking down into his handsome face. ‘It’s been a long time for me.’
He laughed softly. ‘Much longer for me, my love, I never believed I could feel this way again.’
‘Again?’ she mocked.
Caley drew her close. ‘It’s as if this is the first time I have ever been with a woman who doesn’t play games because . . .’ He kissed her lips. ‘We don’t need to, more importantly I don’t want to. That said, what was the last position?’
She laughed, tracing his face in the dim light, feeling his rough chin, liking the fact that it had been so smooth when they had first kissed. ‘Remind me.’
Rooney looked at the big riverboat casino, gaudy as a Christmas tree with its rows of gold lanterns and golden illuminated crown encircling the funnel, the lights dancing on the wide Mississippi.
‘Maybe whilst we’re here we’ll treat ourselves to a few chips one night,’ Rosie suggested.
‘That’d be nice, I’ve never been inside a casino.’
They walked on, Rosie now totally at ease about them linking arms. ‘You know, according to the papers two of these riverboat casinos have gone bankrupt. In fact—’
Rooney stopped and looked around. ‘We can’t be far from Caley’s site for his proposed casino.’
Rosie was about to get out her street maps when he took her hand and tucked it under his arm. ‘We’ll start work tomorrow. Maybe we should think about getting back to the hotel.’
‘Okay, fine by me.’
He grinned. ‘You’re good company, Rosie, I’ve enjoyed tonight, good choice of restaurant, real authentic atmosphere. I dunno why Nick dived off the way he did, anti-social bastard.’
‘I’m glad he did,’ Rosie said as they continued walking.
‘Me too,’ Rooney said gruffly, and his big arm tightened on hers. ‘So you were married, right?’
‘Yes, and I got a son, but that part of my life is best forgotten. Not my boy, but you know, Bill, I was a lousy mother. I had this drink problem, and now they’ve moved to Florida, my husband remarried, like Lorraine and her ex, he remarried and her daughters are settled, so is my boy. But one day, well, I hope one day he’ll come to me so I have a chance to explain that no matter what I did I never stopped loving him.’
‘I’d have liked a son,’ Rooney said gloomily.
‘Maybe walk back towards the big hotels, people bound to be getting cabs there,’ Rosie said as if reading his mind.
They turned back and continued walking at a slow, unhurried pace.
‘You ever think about it?’ Rooney asked.
‘Think about what?’ Rosie said.
‘Starting up another family?’
Rosie stopped, looking up into his big round face. ‘I think about it all the time, Bill, but I’m forty-two now . . .’
An empty cab passed and Rooney interrupted her as he stepped out on to the cobbled road to flag it down.
‘What’s the name of our hotel, Rosie?’ Rooney bellowed.
‘The St Marie,’ she said as Rooney opened the passenger door.
The cab driver nodded, about to do a U-turn when Rooney leaned forward. ‘We far from the old Convention Centre?’
‘No, sah, two-minute ride.’
Rooney looked at Rosie. ‘Might as well just drive past, huh?’
‘Sure, Bill.’
‘You know anything about a new casino complex near here?’ Rooney asked the cabbie.
‘I heard they bin thinkin’ about it. These rich guys keep on sayin’ they are creatin’ work for the locals but it’s a load of hogwash. They bring in outsiders, don’t hire locals, not classy enough, so they say, not intelligent enough to deal a pack o’ cards. Good enough to spend their money there though. They is corrupt, this whole city is corrupt, an’ I know it, my cousin is a cop.’
‘You don’t say,’ said Rooney, leaning forward.
Nick had walked a little further than he meant: he’d followed Dauphine quite a way, glad to get away from the bright lights, and then taken a left somewhere. He was bored now with the cheap bar; it must once have been a strip joint, and still had the pink light to make grey-fleshed and jaded girls look younger, and the stage surrounded by sheets of DIY mirror tiles. Old electric cable and piping now hung off the walls, which were covered in tacky seventies posters, and even the red light couldn’t conceal the dirt and neglect. Some young guys played the video poker machines, while an elderly jazz four-piece played with surprising verve and expression under the old glitter ball.
The guys were good, but Nick had had enough, so he signalled the waitress to get his check and she sauntered over. Two kids started screaming at an old black dude who had been sitting on a bar stool for almost as long as Nick had been in the bar. The old guy had played a set and he was a real good horn player. When he had been on, the place had been jumping. One of the kids pushed at the old man who rocked dangerously on his stool. Nick kept one eye on them as he flicked o
ut his wallet, paying the lazy waitress who seemed more interested in her tip than in the fracas.
The two boys, both black, were really yelling now.
‘We paid you, man, we want the goods, man, you owe us.’
The barman was easing down to the bar phone, his eyes out on stalks. The kids got louder.
Nick was almost at the door when the gun came out. There was a hushed silence. No one seemed to want to make a move.
‘Gonna blow your fuckin’ head off.’ The muzzle of the gun was rammed into the old boy’s face.
Everything in Nick was telling him to walk away. But there was something about the old dude and his beat-up trombone.
‘Hey, take it easy, kid.’
The boy turned, waving his Magnum, and close up Nick could see he was well spaced out.
‘Who you tellin’ to take it easy, motherfucker? Stay out of this, none o’ your concern.’
Nick came even closer. ‘You threatening me?’
‘You want your head blown off, man?’
Nick eased into position just behind the old man, who was shaking badly.
‘Sonny, I suggest you put that big Mama away and cool down because you are kind of making this whole place jumpy.’
‘You a cop?’
‘Nope, just a guy enjoyin’ an evening out.’ Nick smiled, then made his move. He was fast, jabbing the kid hard in the groin and at the same time twisting his arm hard up behind his back. ‘Drop it . . .’ The gun clattered to the floor. Nick kicked it away but not one person reached for it. ‘Get the fucking gun, man,’ Nick said to the old boy, who eased off his stool, placed the trombone on the bar and picked up the gun.
‘Okay, now everything’s cool. You two walk out and chill out.’
Nick pushed the stoned kid off him. He fell on to his backside and as his friend hauled him up on to his feet his mouth was frothing with fury. ‘I’ll getyou, motherfucker.’
They ran out, still shouting abuse as Nick helped the old man back on to his stool.
‘You okay?’
‘Sure, brother. You wanna beer?’
Nick didn’t, but he nodded his head. The barman removed the weapon and placed a chilled beer on the counter.
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