Roux the Day

by Peter King

  He was the man I had seen before, and on those occasions I had been sure he was watching me. He had been the one who had driven me to seek refuge in the Mardi Gras World, although I had enjoyed the visit. Lieutenant Delancey had said this was not one of his men. So who was he?

  As I studied him in the mirror, he did not seem to be watching me now. If he was, he was not being very clever about it. His conversation with the people at the table was animated and he appeared to know most of them. He did not once glance in my direction.

  I was near a curve at the end of the bar and if I moved my stool, I could use the whiskered man to largely block the dark-haired man’s view of me. Now I could watch him but he couldn’t see me.

  After a few minutes, he made his farewells to those at the table. I watched closely to see what he did now. He walked among the tables, stopped once to greet someone then went on to the far end of the bar. He talked briefly with the bartender, who lifted the flap and allowed him through. The man opened a door and disappeared.

  It was no way to follow somebody and, relieved, I returned to my conversation with my talkative comrades from the Ould Country.

  We were on the European Union, it seemed, and a great topic for Irishmen with their natural inclination toward independence.

  I kept a sharp eye on the back of the bar at the same time and threw the periodic glance at the mirror in case my pursuer had used another exit and reemerged behind. More customers had come in, and the place was really crowded, which made accurate spotting of a tail difficult. But I kept up my vigil, ordered another Guinness and was rewarded when the familiar figure opened the same door behind the bar and came out.

  He did not even flash a look my way. He spoke a few words to the bartender and pushed his way through the crowd. I watched him in the mirror. Again he spoke a word of greeting to someone at a table, then he went out the door.

  I hastily finished my Guinness, put down a couple of notes and bade farewell to my chatty comrades who were now moving on to more international matters such as the policy of the World Bank and the prospects in the European Song Contest.

  I went out the door, stood in the doorway until I spotted my target, then followed him.

  “The pursuer pursued” was the cliché that first came to mind but it was so appropriate that I did not bother thinking about a replacement.

  It was late enough in the evening that the streets were well populated but I was able to keep my man in sight. I expected him to seek a taxi but he kept to the sidewalk, walking purposefully. We went only a few blocks when he turned out of my sight. I closed in and saw that it was another bar. It called itself Limping Susan, which I knew was an okra pilaf dish. I peered in.

  It was much less crowded than Paddy O’Bannion’s, and through the glass door I could see my man heading for the bar. He didn’t order a drink, though. Instead, a man came from behind the bar, pulling off his apron. The two of them sat at one of the empty tables and engaged in an earnest conversation.

  If I were to go in, the place was too quiet for me to pass unnoticed. That meant I had no chance of overhearing their conversation. I stood, uncertain, then my man rose, shook hands with the other and headed for the door. I quickly moved along the block and stood against a building. When he came out, I followed him again.

  I had no idea what he was doing. Was he in the protection racket? No, surely that had gone with the gangster days. The numbers game? That too. He didn’t drink anything and I saw nothing change hands so he couldn’t even be a bookmaker. I kept following.

  This time, he only went two blocks. The establishment he entered here was called Sporting Life, and was packed with customers. The atmosphere was sporty, with banners and posters describing sporting events, NFL team shirts, photos of basketball teams, football teams, baseball teams. Another wall had golf clubs, hockey sticks, tennis rackets, skis and a few other implements that I didn’t recognize.

  I entered cautiously and promptly blended with a group of seven or eight who were having various conversations among themselves. A waitress was circulating and taking orders. I asked for a Heineken and kept on the edge of the group, looking like I was part of it but watching my man closely.

  He went to the bar again. The bartender picked up a phone and a moment later a short fat man came out from the back of the place. He and my quarry leaned on the bar talking for several minutes then they shook hands and he left. I worked my way around the outside of my group to keep out of his field of vision. When he had left, I went to the bar. The short fat man was still there, talking to the bartender.

  My beer in my hand, I went up to the fat man. He was several inches shorter than I was and at least fifty pounds heavier. He was not that old, though, and greeted me in friendly style.

  I put on an exasperated expression. “Darn it! Did I just miss him? I saw him over here talking to you; I turned away for only a minute and he’s gone.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  I was too busy remonstrating with myself to hear his question.

  “That son of a gun! I should have come over when he was here. He’s getting to be a regular will-o’-the-wisp. Now you see him, now you don’t.”

  “Oh, you mean Dom,” he nodded. “Yes, he just left. Off to his next stop.”

  “He has quite a round, doesn’t he?”

  “Sure does. Got a nice business going. Not a lot of competition, either. Oh, there’s always the big boys but there’s plenty of slots in between that he can fill.”

  “That’s right,” I agreed, wondering what on earth I was talking about. “Been doing business with him a long time, have you?”

  “Seven, eight years, I guess. Know him well?”

  “It’s, um, recent. Hope to get to know him better, though. You know,” I said, sounding confidential, “I’m not even sure how he spells his last name.” I held my breath, hoping it wasn’t Brown or Jones.

  He grinned. “It’s Dominic Landers, that’s L-A-N-D-E-R-S. I should know how to spell it, writing his name on checks every month.”

  I nodded agreement. At least, I had his name but still not a clue as to what he did. I knew he filled in slots between the big boys but that gem of information could hardly classify as being helpful. I had to be careful asking because I couldn’t figure out whether he had a product or a service or another line that I hadn’t even imagined.

  I didn’t make any move to go but I left my options open in case a chance arose to learn any more. I asked, “Think I can catch him on his next stop?”

  “Sure. He’s a creature of habit. Always keeps to the same round. You’ll find him at Stevie’s Bar and Grill.”

  “Stevie’s? Oh, that’s over on, er—”

  “Claremont Street, yes. Near Burgundy.”

  “Oh yes,” I said confidently.

  “They buy a lot of his Violet Dream.”

  “Do they?” I hardly needed to make it interrogative. I was bursting with curiosity.

  “Know it?”

  “No,” I said honestly.

  “It’s one of his own concoctions. It caught on over there. Don’t see it many other places. It’s a bit like a Santa Cruz.”

  “Santa Cruz.” I repeated the name. For the first time in this bizarre conversation, I was hearing a name that made sense. But why? I couldn’t pull it out of my memory but my host was most obliging.

  “The Santa Cruz is not that popular anymore. Used to be a big seller. But Dom took it and used one of our local rums in place of Santa Cruz rum. Instead of just lemon juice, he uses a blend of lemon and lime, adds a few dashes of Curacao.”

  “I remember the name, Santa Cruz; quite a while ago, it seems.”

  “It went out of style like so many liqueurs,” he said. “Have you been out to his distillery?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  He grinned. “Not surprised. Dom doesn’t exactly encourage visitors. Out on Gallivray, you know, not far from the big hospital.”

  “Oh, yes.” I put a lot into those two words. At last, I
had a full picture. My mysterious pursuer was the owner, apparently, of a liqueur distillery. I knew his name and I knew where the distillery was located. I knew that he did his own customer contact and I knew that tonight, he was making the rounds of his customers.

  “Well, I’d better get after him before he dashes off to his next stop,” I said. “Nice to talk to you.” We shook hands and I departed, pondering.

  All that remained was to find out why Landers had been following me. A liqueur producer? Was it something to do with the Belvedere book? It didn’t seem likely that there was any connection … Or one of the two murders? That might be more likely.

  The comment about Dominic Landers not encouraging visitors to his distillery was intriguing but might not mean anything. The more I thought about it, it probably didn’t. Brewers, vintners, distillers—all had secrets or at least what they considered to be secrets. Many discouraged visitors and some even barred them totally.

  I returned to the Hotel Monteleone, watched some mind-numbing television, which had the desired effect. I slept like a baby … well, no, they frequently wake up and cry. I slept like a log. Why a log? Deliberating such weighty matters, I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I FELT I HAD SOME of the answers to the puzzle but a vital segment was missing.

  Where would I find it? I was running out of clues. The most perplexing of these was the appearance of Dominic Landers, a distiller, who had been following me. It was a vague trail but I decided I had better follow it. One visit to the distillery might provide the answer.

  The mimes, the musicians, the acrobats, the vendors were all there in Jackson Square, and so were a good number of tourists. I wove in and out of them, doubling back occasionally, and circling the square, if that is a mathematical possibility. It might be a waste of time but I was taking no chances.

  I passed the mule carriages. My companion of earlier, Benjamin, was not here, probably on some sightseeing mission, and I was not disposed to that form of transport today anyway. Too easy to spot, too easy to follow and too slow.

  I walked around the mule ranks, headed for the taxis and jumped into one as it reached the head of the line. I didn’t give the driver the name of the distillery but only the street name. We squeezed through the busy streets and as we came on to a major road, I saw the hospital that my chubby friend at Sporting Life had mentioned. I told him to drive along Gallivray, and the distillery was easy to spot.

  The street was composed of small- to medium-sized industries. On one side of the distillery was a tile factory and on the other side was an appliance warehouse. It was a modest, industrial neighborhood, by no means rundown but no big names or noticeably major businesses, either. I let the driver go on to the end of the block, and got out.

  I didn’t want to come face-to-face with Dominic Landers so I had to consider my approach. A small market selling food and drink was on the corner and I went in and found their phone. I had looked up the distillery number while I had been making my phone calls from the hotel, which was just as well, as there seemed to be no directory near the phone.

  A female voice answered and I asked for Mr. Landers. “He’s out, I’m afraid,” came the answer. “Can I take a message?”

  “Yes, you can tell him—wait, when do you expect him?”

  “It may be much later in the afternoon,” she said.

  “It doesn’t matter, then. I’ll call later.”

  That gave me enough time to reconnoiter. From the market, I walked down the street and all the way around the block back to the front of the distillery. The whole area continued with similar small factories, warehouses and industrial offices.

  When I approached the small reception desk in the tiny lobby, I noticed that the receptionist was also the telephone operator. I had put on my best American accent when I had made the call. It was my version of a Midwestern cadence and I didn’t think it sounded too different from real ones. I changed it now to my worst American accent. This was what I considered New York and I thought of it as hard and biting. I wouldn’t have wanted New Yorkers to hear it but down here in the South, how could they complain about accents? The receptionist didn’t appear to recognize my voice when I asked for the owner.

  “I’m sorry, he’s out. Won’t be back ’til later. Can someone else help you?”

  A young man with a touch of Creole coloring was brought out. Despite his youth, he was keen and energetic, inclined to be helpful. His name was Poydras, which I assumed was a New Orleans name. I gave him the first name that came into my head—it was Jackson, from the square. I said somberly, “I have to bring a matter of legal importance to your attention, Mr. Poydras.”

  “Very well,” he agreed. “Let’s go into Mr. Landers’s office.”

  It was the first room off the reception area, and nicely furnished with the latest in Scandinavia’s idea of the business office, all wood and leather. He sat behind the light wooden desk and I sat opposite.

  He had a smooth face, very clean shaven. His dark eyes widened slightly. “You’re a lawyer?”

  “I don’t practice much anymore,” I said, adhering to the truth as I always try to do. “However, I find myself in New Orleans on a minor business matter right now and in the course of enjoying a few of your social establishments”—Mr. Poydras gave me an encouraging smile to show that he understood the ways of businessmen visiting the fleshpots of New Orleans—“I enjoyed some excellent liqueur. Liqueurs are libations I particularly enjoy and I would like to think of myself as something of a connoisseur.”

  Mr. Poydras smiled again, showing that he had no doubts concerning my eminence in that field.

  “Frankly, Mr. Poydras, some of these liqueurs I found to be much superior to similar drinks available in Europe. As I also do some consulting work for a chain of liquor distributors there, I wondered what kind of sales representation you have overseas.”

  I paused, invitingly. He obliged with, “We’re—er, not strong in the export market, Mr. Jackson. Not as strong as I personally think we should be.”

  He meant they didn’t export. He was saying, too, that here might be a chance for him to make a name for himself with his boss and boost sales. Mr. Poydras was perfect for my purpose.

  “If I recommend that we bring in a trial lot of your liqueurs, we would run a market study and hopefully establish some strong business links. What do you think?”

  Mr. Poydras was all for it. I had him primed and ready.

  “The reason for my visit therefore is to broach this possibility—”

  “I’m sure we could work out some mutually satisfactory arrangement,” said Mr. Poydras.

  “I think so, too. One question will be asked of me, I know, when I recommend this to my clients. To answer that question, all I need is a brief tour of your premises.”

  Mr. Poydras cooled a few degrees. “Mr. Landers doesn’t favor plant visits. Not that we have anything to hide, of course, but competition is fierce, as you know, and we all have our—well, not secrets, but special ways of conducting certain processes and—”

  “Nothing to worry about there,” I told him firmly. “My clients are not in any way competitive.”

  “I accept your assurance on that point—but, er, Mr. Landers likes to make this kind of decision himself. If you could come back when he—”

  I looked anxiously at my watch. “Unfortunately, the flight to Washington, D.C., leaves in two hours.” I believed that to be true even though I wasn’t going to be on it. I started to get to my feet. “My clients always insist on at least a brief review of the premises and—”

  “I can assure you that our all practices are up to code. Labor, equipment, materials—we operate a very tight ship here, Mr. Jackson, and …”

  “I’m sure you do,” I said smoothly, “and all I need to do today is convince myself of that. A brief tour of the premises would suffice.”

  He leaned back, still a little tight. “Well, I don’t know. Mr. Landers usually approves such visits.”
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  “The reason I have this assignment is that I have spent considerable time in the liquor business. It will only take a few moments to convince myself of your efficiency.”

  “Mr. Landers will be back later. Perhaps you could—”

  “Unfortunately, this flight to Washington …” I looked anxiously at my watch again.

  Mr. Poydras fretted, scratched his chin, looked worried, then said, “Very well. But it will have to be just a quick tour.”

  “That’s all I have time for.”

  He rose, and as I was rising to accompany him, I noticed a framed photograph on Mr. Landers’ desk. It showed a pretty brunette, posed, smiling against the rail of a boat.

  Mr. Poydras saw me looking. “Mr. Landers’ wife,” he said.

  “Very attractive lady,” I commented, and we went out into the plant.

  The distillery was not new but it was maintained in good condition. Most of the stills and condensers were copper, old but showing no signs of verdigris. The piping was the same, no weld or braze repairs. Some places used plastic piping for the sake of economy, but not here. A few automatic controls operated but I saw workers here and there. Some oak barrels were being used; they add flavor.

  Instrumentation appeared adequate, nothing elaborate, but minimal. Clipboards showing inspection and calibration were up-to-date and records of temperatures, times and fermentation levels were well kept.

  I saw only a few workers but they were in clean uniforms—a telltale sign and, surprisingly, not as common as it should be. I visit vineyards and breweries fairly often and make a personal point of checking that the staff look clean and properly dressed.

  We came to an open area on the way to the storage chambers. Mr. Poydras made occasional comments and I replied just enough to make it clear that I was well acquainted with the various operations. A wall on the right had two doors in it. One was old, wooden and had slats nailed across it. The other was steel and had a large padlock.