by Greg Herren
“How long were they here?” I left a couple of ones on the bar as a tip.
“A couple of hours.” Leonard thought for a minute. “It was about two when they got here, I think. Yes, because I noticed them right after I looked at my watch. I only stay here until three,” he explained. “The dog needs to be let out around then, so I leave here and walk home. I was checking my watch to make sure I hadn’t stayed too long.”
“Every fifteen minutes.” Sam interrupted. “You could set a clock by it. After one thirty, every fifteen goddamned minutes he checks his watch instead of just setting his phone alarm.”
“Fuck off, Sam,” Leonard replied casually. “Anyway, they stood over there by the ATM machine,” he pointed to where the ATM sat, just inside the fire exit door, “and Mr. Big Shot, who wasn’t even five nine if you ask me, got them some drinks. He started getting the dancers to come over. I think he even got Rocky—was it Rocky, Sam? The lap dance?”
“Yup, Rocky was the one,” Sam agreed.
Please, please, tell me the lap dance was for Eric.
“The kid clearly didn’t want the lap dance.”
“I felt sorry for him, all right,” Sam went on. “He was so embarrassed. And then Mr. Big Shot got him another drink. It was after that the kid started acting funny, like he was wasted.” He clucked his tongue. “I thought it was funny he got drunk so fast. You can’t trust them television people.”
“I don’t understand why people do that kind of thing,” Leonard said. “Shoot, why drug someone when—no offense, Marty, pretend you don’t hear me—some of the dancer boys are more than happy to do you right if you’ve got some money?”
Marty started whistling and walked away, lifting up a panel in the bar to walk through and heading back to the stockroom with a bucket for ice.
“I thought for sure he was going to buy Rocky for the night when he got the lap dance,” Leonard sniffed, taking a sip of his drink. “I mean, I didn’t see him actually put anything into your nephew’s drink. All I know is he was back there getting a lap dance and Mr. Big Shot came back to the bar and ordered a couple of drinks, took them back there. And the next time I see him, Rocky’s back up on the bar and your nephew looked wasted, was weaving, Mr. Big Shot was holding him up, you know? If the kid wasn’t drinking, then what the hell else happened back there? He slipped him a Mickey, all right, or whatever it is they do nowadays.”
“This isn’t the 1950s, Leonard.” Sam snorted. “A Mickey. This isn’t a Frank Sinatra movie. He slipped him a roofie. And they left after that, right? He helped him out the front door, at almost three?”
“Almost three. I left about ten minutes or so later,” Leonard confirmed. “I didn’t see them on the street, either, but I wasn’t looking for them, either.”
“Thank you.” I got out my pen. “Do you mind if I get contact information from you?”
They both gaped at me. “Why?”
“I may need you to talk to the police, to confirm my nephew’s story.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Sam shook his head. “I don’t know about talking to the police. I mean, I didn’t really see anything.”
“Me, either.” Leonard chimed in.
I took a deep breath. “Look, you both seem like nice guys. My nephew? The one you saw last night? The guy he was with, Eric Brewer, well, he was murdered last night. My nephew was in the suite with him, but he was unconscious. He says he was drugged, wasn’t awake, didn’t know what was going on, doesn’t remember anything after he got here. I may need you two to back up his story.”
“I don’t know.” Sam looked down at his drink.
“Coward,” Leonard snapped. He took my business card and wrote his name and phone number on the back of it. “I’ll be happy to help your nephew. I can’t imagine how terrible it would be to be falsely accused”—he practically shouted the words at Sam—“and have no one believe you. How about you, Sam?”
Sam turned red but mumbled, “I’m not talking to the police.”
Leonard rolled his eyes. “I’m glad to help you, Scotty.” He gestured with his head at Sam, and whispered, “He had a bad experience with the cops. You leave him to me.”
“Thanks.” I gave him another one of my business cards. “You call me if you think of anything else.” I started to turn away, then gave him another one of my cards. “Can you give that to Rocky and ask him to call me? The more people we have who can confirm my nephew’s story, the better.”
“If he’s dancing tonight, you can count on me.” Leonard winked and dropped both cards into his shirt pocket. He looked at me again. “Didn’t you used to be a dancer?”
“Not here,” I replied, grabbing a plastic cup and pouring my cooling drink into it. “But yeah, I did.”
“You used to dance at the Pub!” Leonard smiled, delighted. He winked at me. “I never forget a pretty face.”
“Thank you.” I felt oddly flattered.
“You remember him, don’t you, Sam?” Leonard elbowed him again. “You used to have a thing for him, remember?”
I flushed, but Sam wouldn’t look up. “Thanks, guys.” I waved goodbye to Marty as he came out of the stockroom carrying the buckets of ice. I went out the front door and into the bitter, strong wind. I gulped down the rest of my drink and tossed the cup into a garbage can as I hurried down Toulouse Street to Royal, tucking my hands deep into my pockets. I crossed the zoo that was Bourbon Street on a Saturday night—which was a lot more crowded and happening than I would have thought, given how cold and wet it was, but people love to have a good time no matter the weather. I turned left onto Royal Street. The Royal Aquitaine was right there across the street, the enormous gray building looming in the darkness.
If only we hadn’t gone to that stupid party.
I hurried down Royal Street. Sure enough, when I reached my parents’ tobacco shop, the Devil’s Weed, all the windows in their apartment upstairs were ablaze with light. The hot buttered rum had worn off and I was cold.
I wanted to see Taylor, just to make sure he was okay.
My phone vibrated as I made it to the iron gate to the back staircase. I checked it as I fumbled with my keys. The text was from Serena: Darling, I just heard about darling Taylor. Such nonsense! That boy wouldn’t hurt a fly. Can you make it to brunch tomorrow? I may be able to help.
Any port in a storm, I thought, unlocking the gate and stepping inside, slamming it shut behind me. Being out of the wind was a lot better, but it was still cold. I pulled off a glove and typed, Any help would be greatly appreciated, What time?
One? came back almost instantly.
Perfect, see you then.
I dropped my phone back into my pocket and climbed the steps to the kitchen door. I didn’t bother knocking. I unlocked it and stepped into the warmth. “Mom? Dad?” I called. There was jazz music coming from the living room, and the thick green smell of burning marijuana. I walked across the kitchen. Mom was taking a big hit off an enormous glass dragon bong, and Dad was sitting in an easy chair. He smiled at me. “Come in, son!” he beckoned. “Have a hit.”
Mom expelled an enormous cloud of smoke. It never ceased to amaze me how a woman in her early seventies could inhale so much smoke. She held out the bong to me. I took off my jacket, gloves, and hat before taking it from her and sitting down in the empty easy chair. “Where’s Taylor?”
“He got up for a while but went back to sleep,” Mom said as I took a big hit of my own off the dragon. The bong was enormous and required a lot of lung power to suck up enough smoke to get a hit. I thought my lungs were going to explode before I could feel the smoke settling into my lungs. I put the bong down, held it for a moment, and let it go.
Almost instant relaxation. Mom and Dad always have the best weed.
“How’s he doing?” My voice sounded raspy, and I started coughing. Mom handed me a bottle of water.
“As well as can be expected,” Dad said. He shook his head. “As much as I’ve seen, I am still shocked by the evil that
people are capable of. How’s Frank handling everything?”
I was tempted to tell them everything—but couldn’t. I couldn’t place the burden of what Colin had done—what Frank and I were in the process of covering up—on them. No sense making the situation worse.
“As well as can be expected.” I waved off the bong when Dad offered it to me again. “No thanks, I’m good. I shouldn’t even be here. But I found some guys at the Brass Rail who can back up Taylor’s story—they saw them arrive and Taylor was fine. The bartender only served Taylor water, but somehow he was wasted and barely able to stand on his own when they left.”
“It’s like that show is cursed,” Mom said. “Both that bastard rapist producer and Chloe Valence murdered on the same night.” She shook her head. She hated the shows, talked all the time about how much they demeaned women and dehumanized the cast—but she never missed a minute of any of them, had an opinion on every feud, and followed some of her favorites on social media. “That’s got to be a nightmare for the network. I wonder what they’ll do about the show.”
“Well, obviously Eric can’t host the reunion show, that’s for sure.”
“I like that lawyer Storm got for Taylor, that Loren McKeithen,” Mom went on. “I’ve met him before at fundraisers. He’s a shark, and that’s what we need. The police aren’t going to hang this on our Taylor.”
I grinned at her. I was pleasantly stoned, and I was feeling the glow from the hot buttered rum. I got to my feet. “Well, tell him I stopped by and I love him. He wasn’t upset we had him stay here?”
“He wasn’t upset—I told you, the boy needs a mom right now.” Mom was putting a couple of buds into a baggie for me. “Here, take this. This is better than the stuff we got you last week.” She kissed me on the cheek. “You tell Frank there’s nothing to worry about. We’ve got you all covered.”
As I went out the back door, I thanked the Goddess again for my family.
I was the luckiest gay man alive.
Chapter Nine
The Hermit
A meeting with one who will guide the Seeker to his goals
I pulled up in front of Serena’s house in the Garden District the following afternoon. I was a few minutes early according to the clock on the video screen in my dashboard, so I could sit for a moment and strategize. Plus, it was warm in the car and I didn’t want to get back out into the cold.
The hard freeze threatening for several days had happened overnight. It was in the low forties now, and probably wasn’t going to get much warmer. There’d been ice in the courtyard fountain when I walked through to get the car. It wasn’t much—just a thin layer over the water basin that looked like icing on a glazed donut—but it was ice. The sun was hiding behind a carpet of gray clouds, the wind whipping and howling around the car.
Frank stayed home with Taylor. He’d called, early that morning, waking us both up and wanting us to pick him up. He wanted to come home—which led to a heated discussion between Frank and me. We couldn’t very well tell him he couldn’t come home without explaining why, so we decided we’d just not leave him there alone until we knew no Russians would be coming to our door with murder on their minds. As for the living room, Frank decided to take the blame. “I’ll just tell him I kind of went crazy angry and started smashing things,” he said.
I hated the lying, but we didn’t have much choice.
And seeing Taylor shattered my heart. He seemed like a completely different kid from the one I’d grown to love, whom I’d gone to that stupid party with on Friday night. He’d always slouched—it was something I constantly nagged him about—but now he seemed even more slumped, like he was trying to compact his frame and make himself as small as possible. His eyes were red, and he kept wiping at his nose. He wouldn’t look either Frank or me in the eye.
If he noticed the changes to our living room, he didn’t mention it. He just lay down on the couch and covered himself with a blanket. Frank went upstairs and got Scooter. When Scooter jumped on his chest, kneading it with his paws and head-butting Taylor, it was the first time I’d seen the light in his eyes come back on since it happened.
“I’m sorry to be so much trouble,” he mumbled, rearranging Scooter so he was tucked between Taylor’s left arm and torso. Scooter sighed, curled up, and closed his eyes.
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Frank replied, glancing over at me.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” Taylor said, turning his head into the couch.
“You aren’t a bother,” I said, sitting on the arm of the couch. “I thank the universe every day that you’ve come into our lives, become a part of our family, Taylor.”
I started to say more, but Frank gave me a warning look.
As tempting as it was to bash Taylor’s wretched parents, Frank was right. It wouldn’t make Taylor feel better.
I waited to cry until I was in the car.
Then I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath.
We’ll get through this. We’ve been through worse things.
Life doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle. It’s how you handle it that matters.
“Okay,” I said aloud. “It’s not going to get warmer if I wait longer.” I turned off the ignition and opened the car door just as my cell phone dinged. I disconnected it from the car and looked at the screen. It was from Frank:
Loren McKeithen is coming by to talk to us at 4. Try to be home by then.
Will do.
I walked to the front gate to Serena’s mansion.
The house had been the site of one of New Orleans’s most notorious murders when I was a kid and had stood empty for years until Serena had bought it. She’d relished the house’s history rather than been turned off by it. It was a gorgeous Victorian, with a spacious yard enclosed by an enormous leaning brick fence.
I’d originally met Serena when she’d had her housewarming party a year ago this past August. She’d just moved in from her condo at 1 River Place, and she hadn’t finished furnishing the place yet. My sister had worked on a charity with Serena and scored me the invitation. I’d liked Serena immediately. She was larger than life and loved it. She was beautiful, with minimal work done on her face—she liked to say “just enough to keep it fresh, darling”—and swore her enormous breasts were hers and not enhanced. She was tall and curvy, probably a little heavy for a Grande Dame but said she didn’t care. “I can be a role model for full-figured women,” she said with that booming laugh of hers, “and it’s past time those skinny little bitches had a real woman to deal with.” We’d bonded over our love of trashy reality television. She’d already been cast in the New Orleans franchise, but filming hadn’t yet begun when she had the party. She also admitted she’d campaigned to get cast. Her money came from oil—she was one of the Crown Oil Castlemaines—and she had been through numerous husbands, including a football player, a ballet dancer, and a rodeo cowboy.
The longest of her marriages lasted just under three years.
“I’m not meant to be a wife,” she always said with a slow wink, “I’m much better as a mistress.”
I was sure she’d be a fan favorite.
Serena, being still a relative newcomer to New Orleans—it would be years before she’d be considered a local—had done her research on her cast members, asking everyone she knew questions about the other women.
She’d even quizzed me a few times. I helped her…to a point.
I mean, this whole town runs on gossip. But it’s one thing to tell friends stories over drinks or at the dinner table and something else entirely when the gossip you share could wind up on national television and in tabloids. New Orleans has always been clannish, closing ranks against outsiders. I wasn’t comfortable with seeding a storyline for the show.
I haven’t watched hours of these shows for nothing.
I was relieved to see there were no production trucks around as I walked up to the front door. A maid answered my ring and took my coat, saying, “Ms. Castlemaine is in the drawing r
oom,” nodding to an open doorway just past the foyer.
“Fidelis Vandiver is a bitch,” Serena Castlemaine was saying grandly in her thick Texas accent, the diamonds on her fingers flashing fire, as I walked in. She was probably the most animated person I knew.
“Hello, Serena!” I said, bracing myself as she leapt to her feet and crushed me to her enormous bosom in one fluid movement. She managed to hold on to not only her champagne glass but the electric cigarette in her other hand.
“Darling!” She air-kissed me on both cheeks. “It’s been too long, my dear. You remember Sloane Gaylord, my production assistant? She’s been such a help to me.”
Sloane was seated across the coffee table on the love seat. She smiled and held out a tiny hand for me to shake. “It’s lovely to see you again, Scotty. I’m just sorry it’s under such terrible circumstances.” She shivered. “I still can’t believe someone killed Eric. And Chloe.” She shook her head, the ponytail swinging. “This—I mean, I…”
“How’s the network going to handle this?” I asked, sitting down in a wingback chair with my back to the front windows. Serena leaned forward and poured me a mimosa from the pitcher on the coffee table.
“No decisions have been made yet,” Sloane replied, hugging herself with her thin arms. “Eric isn’t really our producer, he’s the executive producer, so he just oversees the shows. But his talk show—I don’t know. I’m glad it’s not my problem. And as for Chloe…I don’t know. I mean, this is a whole new situation.” She took a deep breath. “They may just cancel the show. The premiere will definitely be postponed, at the very least.”
“You know, they could always reshoot, do some editing, and just cut Chloe out of the show.” Serena drained her champagne glass. “It really wouldn’t be much of a loss, other than I suppose it would be expensive. And it would eliminate the entire lawsuit problem. They can’t just cancel the show, can they? I’d think the murders would be great publicity—people would watch out of gruesome curiosity. I know I would.”