by Greg Herren
The light at St. Charles was red. “Wow.”
“It is what it is.” He shrugged. “They’ll come around someday.”
And what if they don’t? I thought. Why worry about it, though? That’s just borrowing trouble. And he’s here with us—we can help him grow into the person he’s supposed to be.
We drove the rest of the way in silence. I made a right turn onto Constance Street and started looking for house numbers after we went through the intersection at Octavia Street.
Barney Fleming’s house was a double shotgun camelback in the middle of the block facing the river. It was painted fuchsia, with black trim. There was a black wrought iron fence running alongside the sidewalk, which was surprisingly level. The house, originally a two-family dwelling, had been converted into a single home at some point in its history. There was a battered red Chevrolet Cavalier parked in front. I parked behind the Cavalier and shut off the car.
“That’s it,” Taylor said in a hushed town.
I stared at it for a moment. Something was off about the place—I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
I opened my car door and slid down to the street. I walked over to the gate and put both hands on it, leaning on it for a bit. I couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong.
“What are we waiting for?” Taylor said behind me.
I pushed the gate open and walked up the sidewalk, which was made up of red bricks set into the ground. The neighborhood was really quiet other than an occasional car driving by on Jefferson Avenue a block away. I climbed the steps to the porch with Taylor right behind me. The sun had come out now, and it was starting to get hot again. A bee buzzed around one of the rose bushes in front of the porch. I rang the doorbell, but didn’t hear any noise from inside. Thinking the bell might be broken, I opened the wrought iron screen door and knocked on the door, which swung open silently.
Okay, this is definitely not good, I thought, taking a step back “Hello? Is anyone here?” I called. There was no response, but I heard something—a sound of some sort from the back of the house. “Stay here,” I hissed at Taylor and stepped inside the house, making sure to leave the front door open. I turned back to him. “If you don’t hear from me in five minutes, get in the car and call the cops, okay? Lock yourself in.”
He nodded, his eyes opened so wide they looked like they might pop out.
I turned back around.
The walls separating the front rooms on both sides had been removed to create one enormous room. The hardwood floor was polished so it shone. There was a black, red, and white Oriental rug underneath the gray sofa to my immediate left. An enormous flat-screen TV hung on the opposing wall, and a mahogany coffee table stood in front of the couch. Framed black-and-white artistic male nudes hung on the eggplant-painted walls. The lights of the chandelier over the coffee tablet were on, the blades of the ceiling fan turning slightly and making a faint squeaking noise. To my right was what appeared to be a sitting area, with another gray sofa and some matching gray reclining chairs gathered around a glass-topped table. There was a tall table with bottles of liquor, glasses, and an ice bucket set out on top.
I moved forward, trying to make as little noise as humanly possible. I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, loud and rapid. Adrenaline surged through my body. I crept into the next room, which was a dining room. That day’s paper was scattered all over it, and there was also a pile of mail—magazines and unopened envelopes—close to the far left corner. A coffee mug with a cigarette butt floating in it was next to the disheveled newspaper pages.
The door to the next room, which I presumed to be the kitchen, was closed.
“Hello?” I called again, my voice only slightly shaky. “Is anyone here? Dr. Fleming?”
I heard the slight thump again. It was coming from the other side of the door.
I crossed the room and put my hand on the door handle. I heard the slight thump again, and took a deep breath, twisting the knob at the same time.
I heard a muffled sound, like someone trying to talk through a gag.
I pushed the door open and gasped.
Dr. Fleming lay on the floor on his side, bound and gagged.
He thumped the floor again with his feet, his watery green eyes looking at me pleadingly.
“Oh my God!” I rushed to his side, yelling for Taylor at the same time. I loosened the gag, sliding it down over his chin. He gasped for air as I helped him up to a sitting position. “Are you all right?”
He nodded, his face red. “Can…you…untie…me…please.”
The knots were too tight, so I had to get a butcher knife and saw through the ropes. When Taylor appeared in the doorway, I ordered him to call the police.
“No, no—please don’t,” Dr. Fleming begged as I finally managed to get the ropes off his wrists. He took the knife from me and cut through the ropes around his ankles. He stood up, breathing hard, and set the knife down on the kitchen counter. He rubbed his wrists, which were red where the ropes had bit into the skin. “I really don’t want the police involved.” He picked up a pair of wire-framed glasses off the floor beneath the kitchen table.
He wasn’t very tall, maybe an inch or so taller than me. He was wearing khaki shorts that sagged underneath a round belly and stopped just above his knees. His calves were bony and covered in thick black hair. He was wearing a dark green Polo shirt with half-moons of sweat at the armpits, and his thinning dark hair was also slick with sweat. He got a glass from a cabinet and filled it with water from a plastic jug inside his refrigerator, gulping it down quickly.
“You were tied up in your kitchen,” I objected with a frown. Why didn’t he want to call the cops? What was going on here?
He goggled at me. “I know you, don’t I?” He placed the glass in the sink. “You look familiar.”
“We met at a party a few months ago, at my grandparents’—the Diderots?” I replied, sticking out my right hand. “Scotty Bradley. This is Taylor Rutledge.”
“Yes.” He took my hand. His was warm, soft, and moist. “Yes, of course. Your grandparents are wonderful people, and they certainly know how to throw a party.” He smiled at me. His teeth were yellowed by nicotine, and not particularly straight. He hadn’t shaved that morning, so there was salt-and-pepper stubble all over his chin and neck.
“That they do.” I nodded, and he smiled at Taylor, looking him up and down in a way that kind of turned my stomach. I remembered him hitting on my uncle Misha and Colin at the Thoth party and bristled. He also seemed remarkably calm and collected for someone who’d been bound and gagged in his own kitchen just a few minutes earlier.
“I don’t understand why you don’t want me to call the police,” I said again. “What happened, Dr. Fleming?”
“Please, call me Barney. I’m sorry, where are my manners? Would either of you like something to drink?” When we both declined, he got his own glass back from the sink and refilled it from the jug again. He leaned back against the counter. “That’s right, you’re a private investigator, aren’t you?” His forehead creased. “Maybe you can help me. Why don’t we all have a seat in the living room and talk?”
Taylor and I followed him into the living room and sat down in what I thought was the sitting area. “What’s going on, Dr. Fleming?” I asked. “Who tied you up?”
“I’m afraid I may have gotten into something I shouldn’t have gotten involved in,” he said, removing his glasses and wiping the lenses on his T-shirt. “As you may know, my specialty is Louisiana history. I’m currently working on a history of the Huey Long organization, his years in power in Louisiana. He was a remarkable man, a most remarkable man.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about Huey Long,” I replied. “Other than he was corrupt, of course.”
He rolled his eyes. “Huey Long wasn’t corrupt. A corrupt man enriches himself at the public trough. Huey didn’t make himself rich.” He shook his head. “Anyway, my work isn’t going as quickly as it should, because—well, nev
er mind why, that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? You’re interested in what happened here today.” He took his glasses off, wiped them with a chamois cloth sitting on the coffee table, and placed them back on his nose. He gave me a phony-looking smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A few months ago, a man came to see me in my office on campus and offered me a very generous grant to help me with my research.” He got a dreamy look in his eye. “Enough money so that I could afford to hire not only a research assistant, but a fact checker for the manuscript, even so I could take an unpaid sabbatical from the university if I needed to. In exchange, he simply wanted me to let him know if I came across the Porterie diary in my research, or anything about it.”
This got my attention. I leaned forward. “The Porterie diary? What exactly is that?” I gave Taylor a warning look I hoped he knew meant for him to keep his mouth shut and let me do the talking.
“It really is criminal how little the people in this state know about its history.” He scowled, pointing an index finger at Taylor. “Make sure you learn Louisiana history, son. Make sure you know and understand it. There’s a lot we can learn from history, if we study it and learn the lessons it has to teach us.” He leaned back in his chair. “Those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it—and you’d be horrified to know how true that quote really is.”
Taylor bit his lower lip and nodded.
Dr. Fleming cleared his throat. “When Huey Long was just getting started in politics, he befriended a New Orleans businessman who was also interested in political power. That man’s name was Warren Porterie. Warren had been a big donor to the political machine controlling New Orleans at the time, but he was tired of them and thought it was time for things in both New Orleans and Louisiana to change. He really liked Huey and became involved in the machine he was building. Warren wasn’t interested in kickbacks or a position for himself. He was primarily interested in making money through his businesses, and he believed that the best way for him to get more customers was to create them—and Huey was all about helping the poor.” He shrugged. “No one really knows why Warren Porterie became so aligned with Huey, but it’s a fact. Do you know the story of the deduct box?”
Taylor looked confused, but I said, “Yes. The deduct box was Huey’s campaign war chest, and it was rumored to have a couple of million dollars in cash in it.”
“A couple of million dollars was a lot of money back then,” Dr. Fleming observed. “I doubt there was ever more than a hundred thousand dollars in it. I don’t know how to adjust for inflation, but a hundred thousand dollars in the 1930s would probably be about ten million dollars in today’s money, maybe? But Warren Porterie was the only person Huey ever trusted with the deduct box. After Huey was assassinated, the deduct box was missing. Huey had moved it out of the safe at the Roosevelt Hotel only a couple of days before he died, and he never told anyone what he had done with it. He died before he could say where he’d put it. Obviously, the logical conclusion at the time was he’d given it to Warren Porterie, the only person he’d ever trusted it with before. Unfortunately, the very same night Huey was shot and killed, Warren Porterie was also killed—he was in a car accident just outside of New Orleans—he was heading for the north shore. His car flipped over, killing him and his mistress instantly.” He snorted. “Of course, that never got into the papers—that he was with his mistress, I mean—the Porteries were too powerful and too wealthy for that. But that’s the true story. And his diaries were also missing—he was quite famous for keeping a diary. Huey always joked that Warren’s diaries would ruin everyone in Louisiana some day.” He smiled at me. “It’s generally always been believed that his last diary, the missing one, has the location of where he hid the deduct box. And this millionaire who wanted to fund my research—he was very interested in the Porterie diary. What else could I conclude but he wanted to find the deduct box after all this time?”
“I don’t understand,” Taylor blurted out. “Why would anyone care today where the box is? That’s not a lot of money. Especially if he’s a millionaire.”
“Ah, my young friend, that would be true if all that was in the box was cash.” He folded his hands in his lap.
“There’s something else in the box?” I asked, not quite sure I believed what he was saying.
“Huey believed there was a conspiracy against him—and he was probably right.” Dr. Fleming went on. “The story is that right before he died, he took all the cash from the deduct box and bought state bonds with them. State bonds with the name left blank. Warren Porterie recorded the serial numbers of the bonds in his diary, and so if anyone stole one of the bonds and cashed them, there would be a record of who did it—that was Huey’s fail-safe.” Dr. Fleming smiled. “With compound interest, those bonds would be worth tens of millions today, my friends. Tens of millions of dollars owed to whoever possessed those bonds, owed by the taxpayers of the state of Louisiana.” He smiled. “Huey also kept a lot of damaging information in there, in case he ever needed to strong-arm either friends or enemies. There were rumors he had affidavits on Franklin Roosevelt, evidence of wrongdoing by the president that would not only destroy his political career but could possibly land him in jail.” He shrugged. “All those people are long dead now, of course, so that information would only be of interest to a historian like myself. But the bonds? Whoever had those bonds would have the power to possibly bankrupt the state. And that is not just financial power, but political power.” He grinned at me. “Wouldn’t you think the governor would do just about anything to stop someone from bankrupting Louisiana completely? Our governor has his eyes on a much higher prize than Baton Rouge, you know. Something like this could finish him politically.”
“So, who was the millionaire who gave you money?” It was hard for me not to use the words “bought you.”
“I never actually met the man—he sent an assistant to meet with me.” He said the name.
I froze in my seat, hoping I didn’t give myself away with a facial expression.
I knew the man all too well.
Rev Harper.
I bit my lower lip. Barney was still talking, but I was only vaguely aware of what he was saying. A chill when through my body, and I flashed back to a memory—
—I was strapped to Colin’s back, and we swung out and away from the building, and the stars and the night sky over my head rotated as we dropped, and I felt my stomach jump into my throat as we dropped through space. Then we were moving back toward the building and I closed my eyes. There was a thud as Colin’s feet hit against the side of the building—Jax Brewery, that’s where we were, he was rescuing me and I’d been drugged, my mind was only vaguely aware of what was going on, and with my eyes closed I could hear the traffic on Decatur Street and a band playing somewhere in the distance, and as Colin pushed off from the building yet again I heard the sound of the nylon rope zipping through the pulley he was controlling, and we were dropping again, and I realized it was better to have my eyes open—
“Scotty?”
I shook my head and came back to the present. “I’m sorry.” Barney and Taylor were both staring at me. “So, it was Harper’s men who did this to you?”
Barney gave me a funny look, but he nodded. “They wanted my notes—they took everything. I wasn’t moving fast enough for Harper, so he decided to go after the diary himself.” He wrung his hands. “So you can understand why I don’t want the police involved. It would really look bad for me at the university, and—really, there wasn’t any harm done, was there?” He gave me a phony smile.
“But if we hadn’t shown up when we did, you could have—”
Fleming cut Taylor off abruptly. “I told you, they were starting to question me—there’s no telling what would have happened, but we heard your car pull up. They gagged me and went out the back door when you knocked on the front door.”
“But what if they come back?”
“They got what they came for.” Fleming stood up. “For what good it will do them. If I couldn
’t figure out where the diary was, they don’t have a chance. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to lie down for a while.”
I nodded at Taylor, and we both stood. “You’re sure…”
“Positive.”
“Come on, Taylor.” I shook Fleming’s hand. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Fleming.”
Chapter Ten
The High Priestess, Reversed
A selfish and ruthless woman
“He was lying, wasn’t he?” Taylor said once we were back in the car.
I was impressed. I hadn’t believed a word of what Fleming had said about getting tied up either. “Why do you say that?” I said, putting the keys in the ignition.
Taylor rolled his blue eyes dramatically. “Someone breaks into your house, ties you up, and threatens to torture you if you don’t talk, but you don’t want to call the police?” His eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. “I call bullshit on that. Bullshit.” He shrugged. “And then wants to be left alone in the house and isn’t worried about them coming back? Uh-uh. No sense at all.” He buckled his seat belt. “So, who is this Rev Harper person?”
“No one, really.”
“I’m not blind, Scotty—I saw how you reacted when he said the name.”
“He’s a millionaire—made his money in oil, I think.” I put both hands on the steering wheel. “He’s a little on the unsavory side, and he’s not above bending the law to get what he wants.” To say the least, I said to myself.