Louisiana Stalker

by J. R. Roberts

  Another time she was astride him, but with her back to him, riding him, bouncing up and down so energetically he felt like a bronc being ridden.

  And her energy never seemed to wane. At one point he woke from a deep sleep, finding her sucking on his hard cock avidly. After exploding into her mouth—she not releasing him from the suction of her lips until he was dry—he checked the time and saw that he’d only been asleep an hour.

  “Jesus, don’t you get tired?” he asked her, sometime after that.

  “I just want to make sure you’re nice and happy,” she told him.

  “I’m happy,” he said, “believe me, I’m happy, but I could use some sleep.”

  “Oh,” she said, “well, okay, I could use some sleep myself.”

  She proceeded to draw the sheet up to her neck, turn her back to him, and fall asleep. He went back to sleep himself, wanting to get as much shut-eye as he could before she woke him again for more.

  • • •

  The sun was streaming in the window when he awoke. Lying next to him, Jeannie was snoring gently. He checked the time and saw that this time he’d been asleep for five hours.

  He settled down on his back, stretched, and regarded the ceiling as he replayed the events of the previous evening. Jeannie had barely looked at him, or even spoken, during the entire meal, but once they were away from the restaurant—and away from Capucine—she changed from a shy young lady into a whore—well, practically a whore. No money had exchanged hands, but she did things with him even a whore probably wouldn’t have done—although he couldn’t be sure, since he did not make use of whores. Even as a young man, he’d been pursued by women of all ages, so he’d had no need of prostitutes.

  He turned his head and looked at her. The sheet molded itself to her body, so that he could even make out the crack of her ass. He felt himself stir, and figured this time he’d wake her up.

  He pressed himself against her, slid his hand down to her butt, rubbed her through the sheet, ran his finger along that sweet crack.

  “Now who doesn’t need sleep?” she asked, but she turned into him . . .

  • • •

  Clint watched as Jeannie got dressed to leave. He had offered to buy her breakfast, but she said she had to get back.

  “Will I see you later when I meet with Cappy?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “I won’t be there. She’ll want to talk to you alone.”

  He didn’t ask when he could see her again, and was surprised when she didn’t ask. Most women did.

  She turned to him when she was dressed and smiled. It looked like a very practiced and professional smile.

  “Thanks for a great night,” she said.

  “It was great for me, too.”

  “Bye.”

  She went out the door without looking back.

  Clint had never paid for a whore, but he had a feeling this was what it felt like when you had.

  • • •

  He had breakfast in the hotel, just to get it over with. Maybe another morning he’d take more time and find a real good place for it. Today, he wanted to eat and get out. When he left, he found Henri waiting out front, seated in his cab.

  “Hey,” the young man called when he saw him, “good mornin’, boss.”

  “What are you doing out there?” Clint asked.

  “Waitin’ for you, boss,” Henri said. “I figured you’d have someplace to go today.”

  “Actually, I do,” Clint said. “Several places.”

  “Well,” Henri said, “let’s get started.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. He climbed into the back of Henri’s cab.

  “Where to, boss?” the young man asked.

  “The sheriff’s office.”

  Henri turned and looked at Clint.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Got a crime to report?”

  “Henri,” Clint said, “are we going to talk or are you going to drive?”

  “I’m drivin’,” Henri said.

  TWELVE

  “Another visit so soon?” Sheriff LeBlanc asked as Clint entered. He was still seated behind his desk as if he had never left it.

  “I just have a few more questions to ask you, if you don’t mind,” Clint said.

  “Well,” LeBlanc said, waving him to a chair, “have a seat and fire away.”

  Clint sat and the sheriff folded his arms.

  “First, Sheriff,” Clint said, “I would like to know why you told Capucine Devereaux that I was in town, and where I was staying.”

  “Oh, that . . .” The sheriff looked embarrassed. “Well, the fact is I knew she needed help, and that I couldn’t offer that help. I simply thought that you—being the man you are—might be able to. I hope you’re not too angry with me.”

  “No, no,” Clint said, “I’m not angry. I was just . . . curious.”

  “Good,” LeBlanc said, “I’m glad.”

  “Now I’d like you to tell me something about the Devereauxes.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Whatever you know.”

  He shrugged and said, “He’s very rich, and she’s very beautiful.”

  “Is he older than she is?”

  “Oh, yeah,” LeBlanc said, “and his family goes way back here in Louisiana.”

  “And her?”

  “She’s not from here,” the lawman said.

  “Where is she from?” Clint asked, even though he already knew.

  “Ireland, I think.”

  “Right from Ireland to here?”

  “That I don’t know,” the sheriff said. Clint didn’t know either. “No, I don’t think so. He didn’t meet her here, but he didn’t meet her in Ireland either. I think maybe it was New Orleans.”

  “Why would she come from New Orleans to here?” Clint asked him.

  Sheriff LeBlanc shrugged and said, “I guess because . . . he brought her here.”

  “And what does she do?”

  “Whataya mean, do?” LeBlanc asked.

  “Come on, Sheriff,” Clint said, “she sent me to my hotel last night with her ‘assistant.’ This girl knew more about sex than any assistant I ever met. My bet is she’s a whore. That would make Mrs. Devereaux a madam.”

  LeBlanc didn’t speak.

  “Probably a high-class madam, with her husband’s money behind her, eh?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Don’t make me ask her to her face,” Clint said. “I’m seeing her again this afternoon.”

  “Yeah, well, okay, she runs some high-class whores.”

  “Does she have a house?”

  “No,” LeBlanc said, “her girls go to her clients’ homes and hotel rooms.”

  “And is her husband a pimp?”

  “He’s the moneyman,” LeBlanc said. “He’s just financing her business, but he’s not involved.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive,” LeBlanc said. “He’s a legitimate businessman.”

  Clint didn’t know how legitimate the man could have been if he was funding a prostitution business, but he let it go.

  “What do you plan to do with this information?” the lawman asked.

  “Nothing,” Clint said. “I just want to know who I’m dealing with. Do you know what her problem is?”

  “We never went into it,” LeBlanc said.

  “It’s not somebody trying to take over her business, is it?” Clint asked. “I wouldn’t want to get caught between rival prostitution rings.”

  LeBlanc shrugged and said, “You’ll have to find out from her.”

  “I’ll do that,” Clint said. He stood up. “Thanks for talking to me.”

  “Sure.”

  “One more thing.”

  “What’s that?”
>
  “Don’t talk about me to anyone else, understand?” Clint asked. “I don’t like it.”

  He gave the young lawman credit. He bristled, and came back at him.

  “Is that a threat?” LeBlanc asked. “I am the law, you know.”

  “I understand that,” Clint said, “and I respect it. I’m just telling you I don’t like it when people talk about me. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do it anymore. I don’t think that’s a threat, do you?”

  The lawman calmed down a bit and said, “Well, no, I don’t.”

  “Then we understand each other?”

  “We do.”

  “Have a good day, then,” Clint said, and left the office.

  THIRTEEN

  The stalker rode into Baton Rouge, completely certain that Clint Adams had not yet left. Even if he had, he’d be able to track him down again very easily. His tracking abilities were second to no one. But Adams was here. He’d obviously gotten himself a hotel with the intention of staying awhile. That was okay with the stalker. He could use some time off the trail himself.

  Funny. Ever since he’d started trailing Adams, he’d begun to think of himself as The Stalker, and not by his own name. It was his name, and it was what he was doing. He wasn’t tracking Adams, or following him, or hunting him, he was “stalking” him, and always from a distance.

  This would be the closest he had been to the Gunsmith in weeks. Only he hadn’t yet decided if he was going to let Adams see him. That was a decision he’d have to make as soon as he found him.

  • • •

  Capucine Devereaux stepped down from the carriage in front of her pied-à-terre, and then turned to speak to her driver.

  “Now you understand what you are to do, right?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Go to the Cajun House, pick up Clint Adams, and drive him directly here. No stops along the way.”

  “Very good,” she said. “Go.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  But he didn’t drive off until he saw that his employer had gone into her building safely.

  • • •

  Clint was back at the hotel in plenty of time to be picked up by Cappy’s driver.

  “Why can’t I drive you, boss?” Henri asked. They were standing by his cab.

  “I told you, the lady is sending her personal driver for me.”

  “Is he better than me?”

  “I don’t know, Henri,” Clint said, “but that’s not the point.”

  “How about I follow you?” the young man asked. “In case you want to leave in a hurry?”

  Clint was about to say no, but then thought better of it.

  “You know,” he said then, “that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Yes!”

  “But at a distance,” Clint said. “I don’t want the driver to know he’s being followed.”

  “He won’t know a thing,” Henri said, “I swear.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “I’m going to go and wait by the front door. Move your cab so he doesn’t see it.”

  “Yessir!”

  Henri pulled his cab away as Clint walked up to the front door. The hotel was small and didn’t have its own doorman, so Clint stood there alone, waiting.

  A hansom cab pulled to a stop in front of the hotel and a thickset, middle-aged man stepped down and came walking up to the door. Clint had only ever seen hansom cabs in New York.

  “Mr. Adams?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Simmons,” he said. “I’m Mrs. Devereaux’s driver.”

  “Good to meet you.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Are you ready, sir?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Simmons nodded and led the way back to his carriage. He waited while Clint climbed aboard, and then got up into his seat.

  “We’re off, sir!” he called.

  “Let’s go!”

  The carriage started moving, and Clint hoped Simmons wouldn’t see Henri following behind.

  FOURTEEN

  The carriage stopped in front of a small house that was part of a row of small houses with not much space between them. It had two floors, and the second floor had a balcony—or what in Baton Rouge was called a “gallery,” which was a balcony supported by posts or columns that reached the ground.

  “This is it, sir,” Simmons said.

  Clint stepped down to the sidewalk and approached the door. Simmons didn’t wait for him to go out, just flicked his reins at his horse and drove away.

  The door was opened by Capucine herself, wearing a lavender robe that was tied at the waist.

  “Clint,” she said, “right on time. Please, come inside.”

  As he stepped past her, she surprised him by kissing him on the cheek, then closed the door behind him.

  “Come with me. We can have some lunch in the back, on the patio.”

  He followed her through the small but well-appointed rooms. He assumed the second floor had the bedrooms. On the first was a sitting room, a small dining room, and an even smaller kitchen.

  They passed through all those rooms to an outdoor patio, furnished with wicker chairs and a matching table. The floor was made of flat slate stones. It was the kind of area he didn’t see much in the West—but Louisiana was different, especially New Orleans, and now, he supposed, Baton Rouge.

  “Have a seat and I will bring you some coffee,” she said. “Lunch will be here in minutes.”

  “Be here?” He had noticed that there was nothing cooking in the kitchen.

  “Oh, God,” she said, “I hope you didn’t think I was cooking? No, no, I don’t cook. I’m bringing lunch in from outside.” There was a knock at the door just then and she said, “And there it is. I’ll be right back.”

  As she left, he looked up, saw that there was another gallery on the back of the building, overlooking the patio. He wondered if the entire floor, front to back, was a bedroom.

  When Capucine came out, she was carrying the coffee. Behind her was a man in a white waiter’s jacket, carrying the food.

  She put the coffeepot and cups down on the table, and the waiter laid out the food.

  “What do we have here?” Clint asked.

  “Po’ boys, sir.”

  “What?”

  “That’s all right,” Capucine said, “I’ll explain it to Mr. Adams. You can go.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The waiter left and Capucine poured the coffee and sat down.

  “These are roast beef sandwiches,” she said. “The roast beef is almost chopped up, the bread is called a baguette. It has a crisp outside crust, but a soft center.”

  “Is there gravy?” he asked.

  “Lots of it. Try it. You’ll like it.”

  He picked up the sandwich and tried to take a bite without dripping gravy all over himself. It was worth the effort.

  “This is delicious.”

  “I knew you’d like it.” She picked hers up and ate it like a sailor. She got gravy all over her chin, but didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’m glad to see you not trying to eat it like a lady,” he said.

  “Believe me, you can’t eat something like this with ladylike bites.”

  Clint sipped the coffee and found she had made it good and strong.

  “I paid attention last night, when you kept telling the waiter to make the coffee stronger. I hope it’s to your liking?” she asked.

  “It is,” he said. “So was your assistant, by the way.”

  “Ah, you like Jeannie?”

  “I liked the Jeannie who came back to my room with me,” he said. “Not so much the Jeannie who was your quiet, mousy little assistant at the restaurant.”

  “So she came alive for you at your hotel?”

 
“Alive?” he asked around a bite of sandwich. “She was a regular little whore.”

  She studied him around her sandwich, then put hers down and stared at him.

  “I told her to go easy.”

  “Easy?” he asked. “She almost killed me.”

  “So her secret is out.”

  “Cappy,” he said, “I’m afraid your secret is out. I found out some things about you.”

  “Oh?” she asked. “You mean the sheriff has a great big mouth?”

  “I think turnabout is fair play, don’t you?” he asked.

  “You’re probably right,” she said. “So, what do you think you know?”

  “You’re a high-class madam.”

  “Thank you for the ‘high-class.’”

  “Does your problem have anything to do with your business?” he asked.

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “It does,” he said.

  “Are you a prude, Mr. Adams?”

  “I think you only need to talk to Jeannie—is that her real name?”

  “It is.”

  “Well, ask her if I’m a prude.”

  “Very well,” she said. “My problem is not directly connected to my business.”

  “Not directly?” he asked. “Sounds to me like you’re hedging a bit.”

  “Okay,” she said, “let me put it this way. I’m not exactly sure if it’s connected to my business or not. That’s part of what I want you to find out.”

  He bit into his sandwich, chewed very deliberately, and didn’t say anything.

  “Just listen to my sad story,” she said. “After that, if you don’t want any part of it, I’ll understand.”

  “So I just have to listen?”

  “Right.”

  “And I can finish my sandwich?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” he said, “start talking.”

  FIFTEEN

  “There’s a man,” Capucine said.

  “Isn’t there always?”

  “Well, actually there are two men,” she added. “The one I’m having trouble with, and the first man I tried to get to help me.”

  “What was the problem with him?”

  “He was more interested in helping himself.”