by Corey Brown
Malveaux shook his head. “No, none.”
“Which is exactly why we need to talk.”
The voice penetrated the warm, thick air like an arrow. Both men turned to see her stepping off the staircase. She seemed to glide rather than walk. Slit to the hip on one side, her black dress was an alluring contrast against her pale skin. Her red hair was up, off her slender neck.
“Calí, how did…?” Malveaux started to say. She gave him a look. There was no asking how she knew what his wife had done. Calí just knew, she knew everything.
“You know where Laci is?” Savoy said. “You’ll tell us?”
“No,” Calí said. “Not you, Henri.” She smiled apologetically. “Only Remy needs to know.”
Savoy nodded, knowing he was not to ask why he’d been invited to the meeting. You never asked, you just took the money and did as you were told.
Calí smiled again, seemed to know his thoughts and, as if to reward a little boy for being good, she said, “But you are here for a reason. There is a religious man. He’s young, just starting his church in your district.”
“Pastor Olstein,” Savoy said, with a nod. “The Crossing, over on France Street.”
“Very good. The pastor is to become a part of our family. Contact him, keep him.”
“Done.”
Calí turned to Malveaux, touched his hand. Her skin was both silky and rough. “Come, upstairs,” she said.
Malveaux stood and adjusted his sport coat. For just a moment longer, Malveaux watched as she climbed the stairs. Calí’s paper thin dress was open in back, held up by a pair of spaghetti straps tied together at her neck. Lightly, soundlessly, she ascended and disappeared.
Remy glanced back at Henri then shrugged apologetically. But Savoy was relieved. He took a swallow of beer. There was something about Calí that repulsed him. But, oh, how he wanted to have sex with her.
Upstairs, Remy toed the door and looked around. The room was dark except for a sliver of light from the open balcony door. A breeze gently rifled the sheer curtains and sounds from Orleans Street floated in on the sticky air. Remy moved quietly, glancing around, knowing she was in the bedroom.
A martini in hand, she smiled at Remy, her lips were full and inviting. She patted the pillow.
“Come on, join me, Remy.”
He nodded, took a few steps then stopped, as if a thought had been insinuated into his mind. “Where’s Laci?”
“All in good time. First, I have needs.”
Calí took a sip of gin then set the drink down. Reaching behind her neck, she pulled loose the straps to her dress. Remy caught his breath as it fell away. Her breasts were magnificent. Looking at them he grew hard, he throbbed. Somewhere in the back of his mind, bits and pieces of a memory, a memory of the future, swirled like leaves in the wind.
She loved the tease. Calí could see those bits and pieces spinning around in Remy’s mind. She could taste his lust, smell his revulsion. She stretched out her hands, waggled her fingers, motioning him toward her. Remy took a step forward and in that moment she revealed herself to him.
For an instant, he saw the old woman, her bones wrapped in thin, gray flesh. In a flash, Remy saw her sunken cheeks and stringy hair, saw the purple lesions covering her skin, her wormy lips and saw how those perfect breasts were now flat and shapeless, hardly more than nipples on a ribcage.
Before Remy could hesitate, before he could collect the pieces of thought churning about his brain, she once more became the perfect body he craved.
Another step and Remy could hardly control himself. All he wanted was to take her, please her.
The tease was so pleasurable, almost as good as the orgasm itself. Calí loved giving him a snapshot of reality, knowing he could not resist the image she pretended to be. He would have sex with her knowing what she really is, unable to restrain himself.
Calí laughed out loud as Remy slipped inside her.
«»
His body was damp with sweat, his jackhammer heartbeat just beginning to slow. Remy lay on top of Calí, his face buried in the pillow.
Spent.
Satisfied.
Thin, boney fingers stroked his back, fondled his buttocks.
Aware.
Remy opened his eyes, opened them wide. What had he just done?
Done? Christ, don’t bother asking. Remy knew exactly what he’d done. He’d just spent the last few hours screwing a three thousand year old witch.
Paralyzed.
Maybe she wasn’t a witch. Maybe she was a demon. Who knew? Who cared?
Her lips brushed Remy’s ear, they scratched his skin like sandpaper but her voice was soft as down. Calí whispered things, she told him where to find Laci, told him what to do, what was happening. He felt his soul stirring, an ancient desire more powerful than anything he’d ever felt before.
So many times in this one night Remy had left his seed in her and yet it was as though the reverse had happened. Something from her was in him. Whispering, almost laughing, her words slipped in and out of his mind.
Clarity.
Remy could see everything, now. His body felt powerful and young again. He pushed up, looked at Calí, saw what she really was: a sack of reedy flesh and bones, worn and ugly, heartless, cruel. She was disgusting. Remy bent down, kissed her deeply, made love to her again.
«»
Russell sat up with a start. The phone was ringing, Russell checked the clock: 4:35 AM. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, rubbed his face. It had to be work. Something must have happened, something big. Snatching the receiver, his senses became razor sharp.
“This is Detective Laroche.”
Denise rolled over and forced her eyes open, listened to Russell’s half of the conversation.
“What?” Russell said. “Oh, Jesus. Say again? Bullshit, why me? No, forget you, that’s bullshit, I’m not doing it. Of course I can handle it, but I’m telling you this is a mistake. Give it to Conboy, give it to anyone but not me. I’ll do the scut work, but I won’t take the lead. He did? But it happened in District Five, why me? This doesn’t make sense. Why not give it to someone in District Five? Okay, okay, fine. Where?”
Russell scribbled an address on a scrap of paper. “How’d he handle it?” Russell said. “Uh-huh, all right, yeah I’m on my way.”
Russell carefully replaced the handset and stared at it.
“What happened?” Denise said.
“There’s been a murder, they----Malveaux gave it to me.”
“And you don’t want the case?
Russell frowned and looked away. “It’s Laci Malveaux, Remy’s wife. She’s dead.”
Chapter 3
Malveaux stared blankly at the top of his desk. Why now? Why did she have to go into labor now? He was too busy for this shit. He sighed, picked up the half-eaten pastrami on rye, took a bite then looked at the sandwich and tossed it. Why now, for Chrissakes?
“I have to go,” Malveaux said, walking past his detectives. “It’s Celine.”
“Good luck, Captain,” one man said.
“Yeah, hope it goes well,” another one agreed.
“Whatever,” Malveaux grunted. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Don’t worry about it, Captain,” Russell Laroche said. “We can keep it together here. She needs you, man. Stay with her.”
In the months since Laci Malveaux’s death Remy seemed to have softened, he was less hostile. Mistrustful at first, Russell had been slow to accept his Captain’s new attitude. The guy was a racist pig to be sure, but now things were different. Or, at the very least, things seemed different. Russell assumed the loss of Remy’s wife had affected him in some way that made him less of an asshole.
The first surprise was, that despite being out of his district—District Five should have handled it---the case had been assigned to Russell. The second surprise, the mother of everything unexpected, was learning that Malveaux had personally requested Russell get the case. From the beginning, Russell had thought that catching the case
was a setup: the stupid nigger can’t solve Laci’s murder? Fuck him, he’s gone. Fire him.
But it had not gone down that way. From the very beginning, Russell had known he’d never find the killer. There had been virtually no evidence at the scene, no witnesses and absolutely no discernible motive for the crime. Laci Malveaux had been found alone on the floor of a cheap motel, lying on her back, her windpipe crushed. That was it, the sum of information Russell had been able to collect about the murder.
His only potential clue was a delivery truck driver who thought he’d seen Laci arrive with someone else, a woman, maybe someone young, maybe a teenager. But after two parish deputies questioned the trucker, asked him if he was absolutely positive about the second person, the driver reconsidered. Maybe the deputies were right, he probably hadn’t seen anyone at all.
Now, nine months later, with the case as cold as northern Alaska, Remy Malveaux seemed to have accepted the fact that justice would never be served. Somewhere along the way, Remy even began to warm up to Russell, complimenting him on his work, treating him with some measure of respect.
But now, Malveaux stared at detective Laroche, a hard expression on his face.
“Stay with who, Detective Laroche?” Malveaux said.
Russell hesitated, confused. “With your daughter, Celine.”
“Uh-huh.” Malveaux continued to fix Russell with a mean look. “Tell me,” he said. “Just how long you been on my squad?”
“Captain?”
Malveaux looked at the others and smirked. “It’s a simple question, Detective Laroche,” he said. “How long? How long you been my detective?”
“Uh, almost a year, something like that.”
“That’s right, almost one year, eleven months. You an eleven month-old detective but ain’t figured it out yet.”
Frowning, Russell shook his head slowly. “Figured what out?”
Malveaux sighed, dramatizing the moment. “The City of New Orleans,” he said, his Cajun accent creeping out. “They say I gotta have some of your people. Ain’t got no choice, can’t just have good people, can’t have white people. No, I gotta have niggers. I gotta have you. Like I said, it ain’t my choice but here you are. So let’s get something straight right now----”
“Get something straight?” Russell said, on his feet now, hands clenched in tight fists. “I’ll set you straight, you----”
“Don’t be speaking to me in that tone, boy,” Malveaux interrupted. “You know, I been waiting patiently for you to find my wife’s killer, I give you everything you need and what have you done? Nothin’, not one goddamned thing.” Malveaux held up his hands in mock defense and said, “Okay, I ain’t really expect much out of you, no. Tell the truth, I don’t give a shit about Laci. Forget her, good riddance all I care. But my daughter be something else. Ain’t never let your nigger mind think about Celine. Up ‘till now, I don’t talk about that nappy-headed little thing you call Bobby, so you don’t be talkin’ about Celine. Got it?”
The entire squad room went as silent as a tomb. Russell’s anger burned red hot. He looked around. Oddly, most of the detectives assigned to this district were here and every one of them was staring at him. Staring at him, not at Malveaux.
Did they all feel the same as Malveaux? Until this moment, Russell had not sensed it. Until now, he thought he knew these men. Russell glanced at Clarence Conboy. Clarence looked away. Russell felt Malveaux’s hatred crawling over him like poison ivy.
“Hey, boy, you got that?” Malveaux repeated.
“What I got,” Russell said, slowly turning back to Malveaux. “Is some news for you.”
“You got news? For me?” Malveaux waved his hand dismissively. “I ain’t have time for your silly talk, I’m leaving.”
Stepping forward, Russell grabbed Malveaux by his shirt collar. A look of surprise came over Malveaux’s face and at that moment Russell saw the fear in his eyes. Malveaux talked tough, but it was just persona, it wasn’t real, he was all talk.
Russell saw something else, too. He frowned, caught off guard by an idea that could not quite find purchase in his mind. Then it came to him: Malveaux was the killer.
Exactly why he had this thought, Russell was not quite sure, but he would spend the rest of his life believing Malveaux had murdered his own wife. Moreover, Russell’s last thought, just before a large caliber bullet entered his brain thirty-some years in the future, would be that he had been right.
Russell knew Malveaux had committed the crime and was equally certain he’d never be able to prove it. He glanced once more at Clarence Conboy. A memory, the sound of Conboy’s voice filled his mind, and Russell remembered Conboy telling him how he should be afraid of Malveaux because everyone else was. He thought about this and connected the dots. The mention of his son’s name was a clear warning, a threat to little Bobby’s life.
Russell pulled his weapon. There were crisp, whipping sounds as seven other guns came out their holsters and a thin smile spread over Malveaux’s face.
“What you gonna do, boy?” Malveaux said, his wicked smile growing wide. “Just what is it you have in mind?”
Releasing Malveaux’s shirt, Russell shoved him backwards. Malveaux stumbled, caught himself. Russell tipped his thirty-eight service revolver, exposed the cylinder and six bullets fell to the floor. Then he tossed the gun onto a nearby desk.
“I got news for you, asshole,” Russell said, growling. “I will think any thoughts I choose to, including ones about your daughter.” He took a step closer. Russell wasn’t sure, but Malveaux seemed to draw back. “And I will talk to you in any goddamned tone I want,” Russell continued. “But who would want to waste their breath on a piece of shit like you? Your time will come, Malveaux. I may not see it, but your time will come.”
Taking one final look around the room, Russell stared at seven men, aiming a variety of seven guns, he glanced back at Malveaux. Russell had been a street cop for eight years, making detective only eleven months ago. How the hell could he have missed the bigotry? He was a cop for chrissakes, how could he not know?
This was all he’d ever wanted, being a cop, making detective. But now it was for nothing. The long nights wearing a uniform, earning a detective’s shield, all of it was gone. His career in New Orleans was over. Russell held the shield out for Malveaux. Remy hesitated, tentatively reached for it and Russell dropped it at Malveaux’s feet. Russell flashed Malveaux a bitter look and walked out of the squad room.
“Well, now boys,” Malveaux said, as Russell descended the stairway to the first floor. “That’s one way to get rid of a darkie.”
The squad room burst into laughter and one of the detectives slapped Malveaux on the back. “You got that right, captain. Now, go get Celine.”
“I believe I will. See y’all later, I’m ‘bout to be a grandfather.”
Malveaux eased the New Yorker onto Canal Street then cranked up the fan. The cool breeze from the Chrysler’s air conditioner made him feel a little better, certainly cooler. For a moment he wondered if Laroche’s departure would have any repercussions. The American mind had changed so much since Malveaux was a boy, blacks seemed to be taking over and no one gave a damn.
So how would this play out? Dealing with his Major wouldn’t be hard, the two of them saw eye to eye on the problem of coloreds. But things could turn bad, especially if the papers got a whiff of it. Malveaux owned District Eight and most of Six. Henri Savoy had Districts Five and Nine, Lacombe had District One. Those in other districts could be counted on in a jam. Things should be okay.
Malveaux smiled. Things would definitely be okay. What a life, what a deal. He sold fire insurance, managed the prostitution and controlled the gambling. He was king. His people would simply have a talk with any reporters from the Times-Picayune who might come around asking questions. Assuming any of them even learned about Laroche’s hasty departure, assuming any of them gave a shit.
Malveaux turned his thoughts to Celine, his baby, his little girl. His little slut.
Nine months ago, he’d found mother and daughter asleep in a crash house up in District Five, Laci on one mattress, Celine on another. In Malveaux’s mind, the tart smell of sex from his bedroom, hung in the air like a cloud of vapor even in this filthy room. In his mind, Laci’s legs were spread wide, and Malveaux could see that Bible-thumping asshole, Harrison Treiger, porking his wife.
But the whispers in his ear, the sandpaper lips of Calí told him of the truth. It was Celine who had been whoring around.
Nine months ago, as the sun rose, Malveaux had put Celine into the car, warned her to keep quiet. He left Laci to do whatever she wanted. She could stay in New Orleans, drive to Nebraska or go to hell. Her choice, Malveaux didn’t care. What Laci could not do was come home. She had to stay gone.
A couple of Orleans Parish Sheriff’s deputies had been dispatched to make sure Laci understood what her options were. They were the ones who found her body. It was a worry at first. How would he explain it? Who knew the stupid bitch would die? Had he really hit her that hard?
Then Malveaux had reconsidered. With Laci permanently out the picture he could proceed unencumbered. He could do what needed to be done without having to keep Laci quiet. No doubt it was a good thing, Laci being dead. He told the deputies to sanitize the room and dispose of the car. They asked about Celine, had she seen him hit Laci? That might be a problem. But Malveaux told them not to worry, he would take care of Celine.
At first, Malveaux was troubled by what he had to do. Celine was his daughter after all, slut or not. But there was so much to gain. He remembered the night before, the hours of sex with that demon-witch Calí. And, as promised, something had stirred inside of him. Something filled his soul, clouding his mind, energizing him.