New Orleans Requiem

by D. J. Donaldson

  Next to the door, there were two dressing tables with mirrors ringed by bulbs. Phyllis sat in front of the one with the chair and began touching up her eyeliner, which, in the good light, was already greatly overdone, making her look like Betty Boop.

  Aside from the toilet stalls and the chair Phyllis was in, the only other place to sit was an armchair whose cushion visibly remembered every butt that had ever been in it. But it was the stains on the arms that made Kit decide to stand.

  “You’re amazing,” Kit said. “I don’t see how you do some of that stuff in your act.”

  “Two hours a day in the gym, seven days a week is how,” Phyllis said, touching at the corner of her eye with her little finger.

  “That’s a lot.”

  “Everything has a price. It’s push-pull. You want something, you have to give up something.”

  Kit suspected that Phyllis was not talking about exercise as much she was recalling the price she’d paid for her drug habit. She seemed clean now, though.

  “You work out?” Phyllis said, looking at Kit in the mirror.

  “I walk my dog every day.”

  A faint smirk passed across Phyllis’s lips. “You’re gonna have to start doing more if you want to keep that body.”

  The door burst open and the dancer with the low-slung boobs charged in. “Jesus H. Christ,” she said, shrugging out of her pajama top, “there’s something wrong with that guy out there. Look at me.”

  The light glistened off her breasts, which were soaking wet. “He’s got a tongue like a dog.” She shivered and headed for one of the lockers, where she pulled out a towel and dried herself off.

  “Do you mind?” Phyllis said. “We’re trying to have a private talk.”

  “Well, excuse me all to hell. Jesus, it ain’t like I got any other place to go. I mean, you ain’t got exclusive rights here.”

  “The longer you stay, the less money you’ll make,” Phyllis said.

  “Yeah, well, you’re right about that—but understand, I ain’t goin’ because of you.”

  She put the towel back and slammed the locker shut, then pushed past Kit without a glance and went back into the bar. As the door closed behind her, Phyllis said, “Like I told you. There’s a price for everything, and she’s mine for working here. Speaking of which, I’m not making any money either, sitting on my duff. You want something more than to tell me how much you like my act?”

  “I wanted to talk about this. . . .” Kit took the picture of the band from her bag and gave it to Phyllis.

  As she looked at it, she pressed her lips together and began shaking her head, giving the impression she was remembering the Heartbeats with regrets. Abruptly, she looked up.

  “Why are we so stupid when we’re young?” She turned the picture and pointed at Gene Ochs. “I bet this guy makes two or three hundred K a year now. And I could have had him. And how bad would it have been? Doctors are never home, everybody knows that. A little grappling two or three times a week, in return, a nice house, clothes, a car. . . .” She shook her head. “Stupid.”

  “I don’t think so . . . if you didn’t love him.”

  Phyllis gave Kit a look of incredulity. “Love? You gotta be kidding. What are you—thirty, thirty-one?”

  Kit nodded.

  “Married?”

  “No.”

  “Take my advice, kiddo. Forget love and go for security. Men don’t want love, anyway. They’ll just use it against you.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  Now Phyllis really looked disgusted. “Where do you come from? No, don’t answer that. Tell me this . . . what do you think of what I do for a living?”

  “I’m not here to judge you.”

  “Oh bullshit. You’ve been judging me from the second I first talked to you. You think I didn’t see that look in your eyes when Shauna came in here. You’re judging all of us. But you’re too dishonest to admit it. So don’t give me any crap about honesty.”

  Kit felt her face color. “I’m sorry. . . .”

  “About what? Being dishonest? You’re not getting the point. Everybody’s dishonest. So don’t worry about it . . . use it, make it work for you.” She handed the picture back. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”

  Kit explained, then said, “And I was hoping you might be able to tell me what the connection is.”

  “Aside from occasionally kicking myself for telling Ochs to take a hike, I haven’t thought about the band in years. And I sure don’t know anything about those murders. Now, I gotta get back to work.”

  “Sure, thanks for talking to me.”

  As Kit turned to go, Phyllis said, “How’d you find me?”

  “Bill Pope told me you worked here.”

  “Yeah, I saw him in the pit a couple weeks ago, but he left before I started to circulate. What’s he doing now?”

  “Operates a pet shop on the West Bank.”

  “Pet shop.” She considered this a moment and said, “Good thing I didn’t hook up with him. I’ll take that card now—in case I think of anything.”

  Kit gave her the card, then left the room, mulling over Phyllis Merryman’s cynical views. Marrying a man just for the comfort he could provide was nothing more than legalized prostitution.

  From a remote part of her brain, a small voice that sounded a lot like Phyllis Merryman said, What about Teddy? You’re sleeping with him and you’re not sure you love him.

  “That’s different,” Kit muttered.

  Bullshit, the little Merryman said.

  Back in the bar, she found Bubba in one of the chairs ringing the stage. When she crooked her finger at him, he jumped up and followed her out.

  On the sidewalk, she turned his cap forward, saying, “Thanks for going in there with me. I appreciate it. How was the root beer?”

  His brow furrowed and he looked into the gutter in thought. “Ah can’t remember. An’ dey say da legs are da first to go.”

  “I think legs had something to do with it all right.”

  “Now Doc, it ain’t right for you to ride me. Ah only came ’cause you asked me.”

  “That’s true. I apologize.”

  “Think you might wanna come back tomorrow night?”

  Bubba grinned and Kit pulled his cap down so the bill covered his eyes. Putting it right, he said, “Someday you can tell me what we were doin’. But right now, if you don’ need me anymore, Ah’m goin’ back to work.”

  “That was all I wanted. Thanks.”

  He waved and headed back the way he’d come. Kit set off in the opposite direction.

  A block from Shirley’s Place, Kit saw, across Bourbon, the Amazing Living Statue, with a larger crowd around him than the last time she’d encountered him. She would have paid scant attention except that on the edge of the crowd was the little old lady who had stolen her purse in the library. Next to her, there was a pear-shaped guy in blue Bermudas eating a Lucky Dog and watching the living statue do nothing. On his hip was one of those ugly kangaroo pouches, which, in addition to his personal effects, contained the old lady’s hand.

  Kit crossed the street and sidled up to the old lady on the side opposite the guy with the hot dog. Carefully, she slipped her fingers around the twisted paper handles of the grocery bag the old lady was carrying, then leaned over and said, “I see we’re being naughty again.”

  The old lady took a split-second look in Kit’s direction and then she was gone, dodging through the crowded street like a human pinball. She’d made an admirable escape, but Kit now had the grocery bag, which she soon discovered, contained half a dozen wallets.

  The guy eating the hot dog wandered off and Kit let him go, believing she’d prevented him from losing anything. What to do now with all the wallets? Since there wasn’t a cop in sight, she decided to take the wallets to the Vieux Carré police station a few blocks away on Royal.

  She walked down to the corner, crossed the street, and turned toward Royal. In the middle of the block, she felt a sharp tug on the
grocery bag, which would have torn it from her hand had her fingers not become tangled in the handles. Before she could turn to see what was happening, she was spun around and thrown against a brick wall by a man with high cheekbones and yellowish reptilian eyes.

  He showed her his left fist, one finger of which wore a ring mounted with a bulky diamond. “Gimme the sack, honey, or I’m gonna damage you bad.”

  He was still pulling on the bag, so that she couldn’t let go.

  “I can’t. You’re—”

  Seeing his hand draw back, she brought her knee up, aiming at his crotch, but he turned, so the blow merely grazed the front of his pants. His nostrils flared and anger flamed in his eyes. As his hand arced toward her face, she wished for Bubba and his pistol.

  14

  Kit pressed the back of her head against the wall behind her, knowing even as she did that it would not save her face. A scant tick before the diamond crashed into her cheek, a blur came from her left, striking her assailant and altering the course of his fist so it barely missed her nose as he was spun on one foot and driven against the wall himself. With an economy of movement that almost made the fight seem choreographed, the man who had come to her aid twisted her assailant’s arm at the wrist with both hands, driving him to his knees, howling. Then the one standing delivered a vicious kick to the other one’s arm, producing a sharp crack like a bat hitting a home run. This brought a horrible shriek from the injured man and he was allowed to roll into a ball, clutching his arm.

  “You bastard. It’s busted. You busted my goddamn arm.”

  The whole thing had lasted only a few seconds and they’d been moving fast, mostly with her rescuer’s back to Kit. But she’d known immediately who it was.

  “You all right?” Nick Lawson said, turning to her.

  “I think so.”

  “Hey, Nick, what’s this all about?” a loud voice said.

  Finally, a cop, one Kit didn’t recognize.

  Lawson pointed at the mewling body on the pavement. “Tommy, that guy attacked my friend.”

  “He was after this,” Kit said, holding out the grocery bag. “It’s full of stolen wallets.”

  The cop’s brow knitted. “How’d you come by them?”

  “I took them from an old lady picking pockets on Bourbon Street. I think that’s her accomplice.”

  The cop turned the guy on the pavement over so he could get a better look.

  “I’m Dr. Franklyn. I work for the medical examiner and the police.”

  “I can vouch for her,” Lawson said.

  Though grateful for Lawson’s intervention, Kit bristled at his presumption she needed a reference.

  “Where’s the old lady?” the cop asked.

  “Who knows?” Kit said. “When I caught her with her hand in somebody’s kangaroo pouch, she took off.”

  “You mind comin’ around to the station and givin’ us a statement? Won’t take but a few minutes.”

  “Of course,” Kit said. She looked at Lawson, who appeared a bit wild-eyed.

  “Lead on,” he said.

  The cop got the guy up and handcuffed him, ignoring his screams of protest about his broken arm. After they’d given their statements and were back on the street, Lawson let out a whoop and clapped his hands together. “What a rush.” He whooped again.

  Unexpectedly, Kit’s knees got a case of the wobbles.

  “Whoa,” Lawson said, steadying her. “I think you need to sit down.” He guided her half a block down the street to a dimly lighted piano bar where, as soon as they found a table, a waitress in a short black skirt, pleated blouse, and a black bow tie appeared for their order.

  “Rum and Coke,” Kit said. “Heavy on the rum.”

  The waitress accepted Lawson’s order of iced tea showing no change in her pleasant expression. Kit, however, found his choice surprising. “You don’t drink?”

  “Dulls the senses,” Lawson said. “And you never know when you’re going to want to be sharp.”

  “That’s right, you’re a . . .” She hesitated, searching for a phrase that wouldn’t offend. “You like to take risks.”

  Lawson cocked his head and his eyes narrowed. “How’d you know that?”

  “Someone I was talking to mentioned it in passing.”

  “Terry Yardley, maybe?”

  “I don’t divulge my sources.”

  “Good for you. It’s true. I once heard it said that life without risk is a twilight existence. I believe that. Be honest— didn’t you get just the tiniest rush out of what happened out on the street?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Don’t answer out of habit. Think about it. The possibility of serious injury, rescue at the last minute, most people have to experience that at the movies or in books. You got to live it.”

  “I’ll take the movie version anytime. Did you have to break his arm?”

  “We weren’t dancing out there. That guy was serious. You get in a street fight with scum, you have to put them down for good. People like that survive by exploiting charity and timidity.”

  The waitress arrived with their order and Lawson paid her, including a tip, which, considering the run-down place he lived in, seemed to Kit too generous. Kit hadn’t touched her drinks at Shirley’s, but she took a long pull at this one and quickly felt the fiber returning to her legs.

  “What were you thinking when you got involved with those pickpockets?” Lawson asked.

  “Like I told the cops, the old lady tried to steal my purse in the library the other day. When I saw her again, doing the same thing, I couldn’t help myself.”

  He nodded. “I can respect that, even if it did almost get you hurt. You should have kept the little guy with the gun around a while longer.”

  “How’d you know about him?”

  Lawson looked at her oddly over the rim of his iced tea, then lowered the glass. “I didn’t exactly just happen by. I was following you.”

  Kit straightened in her chair. “Why?”

  “Because Kyle Ricks didn’t tell me anything interesting and Bill Pope wouldn’t talk to me at all. I didn’t know what to do next. So I thought I’d see what you’d come up with. Is Merryman working at Shirley’s?”

  “What makes you think that picture has anything to do with the killer we’re after?”

  He shot her a disappointed look. “C’mon, Kit . . . Ricks told me what you and he discussed.”

  “How’d you get Ricks to talk to you?”

  “Why shouldn’t he? Did you tell him not to?”

  “Actually, I didn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t have mattered if you had, because he somehow got the idea when I called that I was your superior, checking on your conversation with him.”

  “And Pope didn’t get that idea?”

  He shrugged. “So, is Merryman working at Shirley’s?”

  She considered lying about Merryman, but all Lawson had to do was hang out at Shirley’s a while and he’d see her. Like he said, he was a clever guy. “She’s working there as a dancer.”

  “Big change for an EKG tech.”

  “She had some drug trouble at the hospital where she worked and got canned. Apparently, she’s had trouble getting a job at another hospital, so she took up stripping.”

  “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it? You gave me something and now I’m going to give you something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The right to tell me if I can use any of this.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t. I think the band is the key to the killer’s identity and I’d prefer that stay under wraps for now.”

  “All right . . . providing you keep me posted. And I promise that whatever you want off the record stays off the record until you say otherwise. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, since I always like to know who I’m working with, let’s talk about you. Where’d you grow up?”

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  “Humor me, please.”

  Ki
t twirled the plastic stick around the ice in her drink, setting up a tiny whirlpool. “It was an obscure little town in New York State where they think Camp Fire Girls is preparation for life in the real world.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad.”

  Even though Kit had been with Broussard for over a year and had seen in that time nearly every kind of human depravity, Phyllis Merryman had spotted her for what she still was, a small-town girl who didn’t have a prayer of becoming the streetwise urbanite she wanted to be. Still smarting from Merryman’s discovery of that, Kit said, “It’s just . . . I can’t seem to shed what that town did to me. Sometimes I’m so provincial I can’t stand myself.”

  “Supportive parents that got along well?”

  “Sure, the whole bit.”

  “Mother a good cook?”

  “It sounds crazy, but I can’t recall. Maybe that means she wasn’t. But then, food has never been very important to me.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you get much use out of your kitchen.”

  “I not only have no ability there; I have no guilt about it. Grocery shopping is something I do when I’m out of toilet paper.”

  “When somebody says they have no guilt about something, does that mean they really do?”

  “Usually, unless it’s me.”

  Lawson smiled, not the wise-guy grin she’d seen in the past but a genuine smile with no hidden agenda lurking in the corners. Then his expression turned wistful.

  “I wouldn’t have minded parents like yours. Mine paid more attention to the dog than they did to me. I took off right after my high school graduation and I’m not sure they’ve noticed yet that I’m gone.”

  “You haven’t done so badly for yourself.”

  “I suppose. If I had any ambition, though, I probably wouldn’t still be in the cop shop. But I can’t imagine doing anything else. That’s where the action is.” He moved his glass on the table in a figure eight. “Knew that’s what I wanted from the time I was an intern. I’d get to a scene and see a guy lying there all bloody and wonder what had happened . . . how he’d gotten in such a mess. Was it his fault, or was he minding his own business and trouble found him? From there, it was a short hop to the one responsible. What brings someone to take a life? What makes a killer? You know what I mean?”