The Storm

by Blake Banner

  “But you didn’t believe her.”

  “At first I did. But now that you’ve told me about the painting…” She turned around, keeping her body close to mine, and faced me. She placed one hand on my chest. “Maybe she was projecting her feelings for me onto them… Could it be…?”

  “Who were these men, Simone? Try to think. There has to be some hint, something you remember.”

  Her eyes were distracted. Her body was pressing up against mine. I could smell the lemon from her drink on her breath. She frowned at me and touched my cheek with her fingers.

  “Harry, one of them was Harry. She let slip that he ran a club. It had to be Harry.”

  Her fingers went up into my hair. My belly was on fire and my heart was pounding. When I spoke, my voice was thick. “Simone, don’t do this…”

  “Shut up and hold me,” she said, and her mouth closed on mine.

  Thirteen

  I lay staring at the ceiling. The overhead fan turned with a throb like a slow pulse, but did nothing to cool the thin film of perspiration on my skin. Outside, I could hear the clatter and rattle of random objects, lifted up and dragged this way and that by the mounting gale. A moaning, wailing voice howled out of the sky, warning that bad things were going to happen.

  Simone’s head lay on my chest. She was snoring softly, her body clinging to mine, her bare skin hot under my hand. I taught myself a long time ago that guilt is a useless emotion. Sometimes remorse can lead you to fix something that you have done wrong, but all guilt ever does is twist you inside and make you bitter.

  All I felt, then, was regret. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever known, and I had wanted her badly. But not like that, not then.

  I slipped my arm from under her and made my way to the bathroom, where I stood under a cold shower for five minutes, like I was trying to wash away my mistakes. But by the time I got out and toweled myself dry, they were still there. All of them.

  She was awake, lying with the twisted sheet coiled around her like a snake. I stood in the bathroom doorway, leaning on the jamb, watching her watching me.

  She said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It is what it is.”

  She gave a humorless laugh. “You’re not the romantic type, right?”

  I picked my jeans up off the floor and pulled them on. “Are you?”

  She sat up, dragged the sheet up around her to cover herself. “I don’t know. I never had the chance to find out.”

  “I’m sorry. I was never the man to find out with.”

  “Do you regret it, Lacklan?”

  I bent down and picked up my shirt. “Do you?”

  Now she laughed with more humor and I smiled. It was a nice laugh.

  “I’m the psychiatrist, remember? I’m the one who is supposed to answer every question with another question.” The smile faded. “Do you regret what we have done?”

  I pulled on my shirt and started buttoning it up.

  “No. But I wish we had done it at another time, for another reason.”

  She looked sad and turned away. “If it’s any consolation, so do I. Maybe…” She watched me pull on my boots. “Maybe when this is over…”

  “Yeah, maybe then.”

  I went down to my car with anger twisting inside that I did not understand. I hit 100 MPH going back up 61 and wound through the empty streets of Burgundy till I came to St. Claude Avenue. I parked outside the Blue Lagoon and walked down Desiré to the entrance. I was surprised to find it open, and pushed through the door. It was empty, except for Harry polishing glasses behind the bar. He flashed me a grin.

  “We’re closed, my friend, and I don’t know if we gonna be open tonight. But seein’ as you braved Sarah to get here, I guess I have to give you a drink. What’ll it be?”

  I sat on a stool and put my elbows on the bar. “Give me a Bushmills, Harry, straight up. Make it a large one.”

  He put the tumbler in front of me and a bowl of peanuts, uncorked the Irish and poured me a generous measure.

  “You Bartholomew’s friend, right?”

  “Yup. Lacklan.”

  “That’s bad, what they doin’ to him.”

  I nodded. “I know he loved her,” I said. “But I also know he didn’t kill her.” I shrugged and took a sip. “When you serve with a man as long as I served with Bat, you get to know him. Besides…” I put a smile on the right side of my face, where it looked rueful. “He’s a trained assassin, Harry…”

  He looked at me like I’d just said he was from Mars. “Bartholomew? A trained assassin?” He burst out laughing. It was a high-pitched screech of a laugh. “What you tellin’ me?”

  “Eight years in special ops.”

  “Well, I knew he was in some British special ops unit, but a trained assassin?”

  I nodded. “The SAS is not just a military regiment. It does a lot of…” I paused to give it meaning. “Specialized work. If Bat had wanted to kill her, he would have made a clean job of it. This…” I shook my head in disgust. “This is amateur. This is a mess.”

  “Man. You’re serious.”

  “Sure I am. Say, what kind of woman was this Sarah? I heard she slept around a bit?”

  He grinned. “I ain’t no gossip. And she was discreet. I’ll give her that. She had class, know what I’m sayin’? She was never scandalous. Never made a scene. She’d come in, listen to the jazz. And you always knew when she had chosen some dude. She’d let it be known, know what I mean? She’d let it be known real cool, with a look or a smile. And after a bit, she would leave.”

  I smiled. “You’re kidding. Really? And how would they know where to go? I’m guessing she didn’t take them home. She was married, right?”

  “Oh, she was married all right, and Mr. Carmichael ain’t none too fond of colored folk. He was civil enough, but he believed in segregation.”

  I frowned like I didn’t understand. “Segregation? What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Oh, man, she didn’t like white boys. The woman had taste!” He laughed. “She liked her men of the dark persuasion. You wouldn’t stand no chance!”

  He laughed again and I smiled. “How about you? You ever get the wink and the nod?”

  He was still laughing his high-pitched laugh. “She would discreetly slip you her number. An’ you would call, and she would tell you where to go. It was kind of exciting.”

  “So you did, you old dog!”

  He slammed the bar with his palm. “Man! She was hot. I went once. You never went more than twice. That was the word. I went once.”

  “When was that?”

  His laughter died away. He chuckled a couple of times and then wagged his finger at me. “Uh-uh, no way, man. No way! I see what you’re doin’. I see where you’re goin’. No, uh-uh. I’m gonna ask you to leave now.”

  “What’s the matter, Harry? We’re just sharing old war stories. You were one of the privileged few. When did you go see her?”

  His face had gone like stone. “Get out, man.”

  I shook my head. “No, Harry. I’m afraid not. You’re going to talk to me, and you are going to tell me what I need to know. Don’t fight me, ’cause this is only ever going to end one way. Be smart.”

  He leaned under the bar. I knew what he was going to do before he knew it himself. As he swung the shotgun over the counter I slammed it down with my left hand, then yanked savagely on it and gripped the barrel under my arm, making him lurch forward. At the same time I caught the side of his head in a right cross that made his mouth sag and his eyes dilate.

  His legs had gone to jelly. He was struggling not to fall. I vaulted over the bar, grabbed the hair at the back of his head and smashed his face down on the bar twice. I heard him gasp, “Oh God…”

  I leaned close to his ear and snarled, “Now, this can go one of two ways, Harry. You choose. I can stick that shotgun up your ass and blow your brains out of the top of your head, or you can talk to me. What’s it going to be?”

  “Don’t hurt me
anymore, man, I’ll talk to you. Just don’t hurt me no more.”

  I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him from behind the bar to the nearest table. I sat him down, then collected my whiskey and the shotgun and went and sat opposite him.

  “When d’you sleep with her?”

  “It was about a month ago. I don’t remember exactly. It was difficult for me.” He gestured at the room around him. “I have the club…”

  “So who else? Was there anyone who got real sweet on her?”

  He swallowed and looked scared. “Bartholomew. He was pretty sweet on her, man. She invited him over twice. She liked him, too. Liked the way he played the horn. I thought they was gonna get serious.”

  “Yeah, I know about that. Who else?”

  His eyes became abstracted. “There was that guy. I can’t remember his name. He wasn’t from round here.”

  “You shining me on?”

  “No man, I’s serious. He was from out of town somewhere. Not from Burgundy. He came in most nights for a couple of weeks.”

  “How long ago?”

  He frowned. “Now you mention it, it was just before she died. But she wasn’t here that night. Neither was he.”

  “I know. What was this guy’s name? What did he look like?”

  “He was tall, real tall, maybe six three or four, slim, but you could tell he was strong. Like whipcord, know what I mean? What was his name? It wasn’t his real name. It was a nickname, like Snake or Blade, somethin’ like that.”

  “And Sarah liked him?”

  “She liked him a lot. I think she liked him because he looked dangerous. A lot of women go for that. He had them black glasses, like Ray Charles, and that big grin with all them real white teeth…” He snapped his fingers. “Ivories, or Ivory, that was his name. Ivory. I remember now. On account of his teeth. ’Cause they was so white.”

  “Ivory.”

  “That was his name. She was into him, big time. I think she saw him more than twice.” He frowned again, like he was trying to remember something. “I think him an’ Hays was friends. He was askin’ me about him one night, and they got talkin’.”

  “No kidding. Where can I find this grinning snake?”

  He shook his head. “I swear I don’t know. He came into town for a couple of weeks. Then he vanished. I never seen him before or since.”

  “If I find you are lying to me, Harry, bad things are going to happen. Do you fully understand what that means?”

  He nodded several times at high speed. “I never seen him before and I never seen him since. I swear, man.”

  I broke open the shotgun, took out the shells, and put them in my pocket. I shoved the weapon across the table at him. “This wasn’t necessary. We could have gotten here without the violence. I just wanted to ask you some questions.”

  He spread his hands. “Sorry, man. I thought you wanted to put me in the frame…”

  “Water under the bridge, but Harry? Don’t ever pull a weapon on me again. I have no more questions I need answering. You understand me…?” He looked queasy as the meaning of my words sank in. I nodded and put a hundred bucks on the table. “Let’s be friends instead. Be smart.”

  I stepped out into Desiré. In the alley it was almost as dark as night, still and quiet aside from an occasional breeze that moved the trash on the ground. But on St. Claude Avenue, at the end of the cul-de-sac, there was an unearthly whistling and howling. Somewhere, a shutter had come loose and it was hammering with an incessant rhythm. To me in that moment, it sounded like a daemon trying to break out of his infernal cell.

  I walked to my car, leaning into the battering air. This was not the hurricane yet. This was just the gale. The real storm was yet to come. I got behind the wheel, closed the door and fired up the powerful engines.

  Ivory.

  The guy who’d asked about Bat at the bar, the guy who’d offered him the job and taken him to the warehouse, the guy who’d tricked him into putting his prints on the murder weapon. But I was remembering, I’d heard his name somewhere else. I’d been too tired and preoccupied at the time to register it. I was real mad at myself. I could see Sergeant Bradley’s crimson face in my mind’s eye, scowling at me and roaring in his Kiwi accent, “It’s sloppy, fucking carelessness like that, Walker, that gets men killed! Get your fucking act together!”

  He wasn’t kidding. I moved down Main Street and turned left onto Route 61, into the storm. Get your fucking act together, Walker. I remembered where I had heard the name. Only it wasn’t Ivory, it was Ive, and a cute babe with Afro hair had told me he sold coke, at the Full Moon.

  I wondered if Simone would have called that Jungian synchronicity.

  FOURTEEN

  I pulled off the road about a mile from the Full Moon, in the lee of a wall of bowing trees and, with my clothes and hair flapping around me, I went to the trunk. I opened it and pulled open my kit bag.

  Kenny had been my father’s manservant and butler as long as I had been alive. He was family to me, more than family, because where my family had all turned their backs on me, he never had. He had stayed the course and been a true, loyal friend. When my father had died, I had inherited his house and his fortune, and Kenny had come as part of the package[]. He was happy about the arrangement, and so was I.

  I had asked him to prepare me a kit bag, and he knew what that meant. There were my two Sig Sauer p226 Tacops, a Heckler & Koch assault rifle, my take-down hickory bow with twelve aluminum broad-heads, the Smith & Wesson 500, a couple of cakes of C4, and enough ammunition for a short war, plus a couple of bugs and tracking devices. The man knew me better than I knew myself.

  I selected a Sig, checked it was loaded, and removed the safety. Then, I slipped it under my jacket in my waistband and climbed back in the car.

  Like the Blue Lagoon, the Full Moon was still open for business, but there was practically nobody there, save an old guy sitting in the corner over a beer, and the barman. I leaned on the bar and he came over.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Give me a beer. Surprised you’re open. Everybody seems to be closing shop and running north.”

  He shrugged. “We’ve had these scares before. These storms, they hit the coast and stay there. It’s gonna be rough on New Orleans, maybe Baton Rouge will get some damage. But not all the way up here.” He cracked a bottle and handed it to me. “You want a glass?”

  I shook my head. “They’re saying it’s the worst storm in history.”

  “Sure. Two hundred and thirty mile an hour winds. But by the time it hits land, it’s gonna be a tropical storm, lots a’rain, but only gale force winds.”

  I nodded like he was wise. “Hope you’re right. Say, I’m looking for Ive, he around?”

  “Who’s askin’?”

  “Name’s Walker. I was in here last night. I had a drink with a cute chick, short, Afro hair…”

  He shrugged and made a face that said I was boring him. “There are a lot of cute chicks in this bar. We’re famous for it.”

  “She said Ive was the man to see for a bit of blow.”

  “Come back tonight. I don’t know who the hell you talkin’ about, but all kinds of people show up here at night. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Sure.”

  He eyed me sidelong while he washed some glasses.

  “You’re new in the district. I ain’t seen you around.”

  I grinned. “I came down for the storm.”

  He looked at me like he wanted to hit me. “You came down for the storm?”

  “Climate change. It’s the big thing, man. My editor wanted me to cover it.”

  “You’re a long way from the storm, friend. Storm’s in New Orleans.”

  “Yeah, and you got every network and paper in the country covering it. What you’re going to find in the New York Times is how climate change is affecting the lives of people who live on the periphery. How is the storm affecting your life and business…”

  I gestured at his empty b
ar.

  He looked skeptical. “You’re with the New York Times?”

  I nodded. “You know, you’re right. The storm will drop from hurricane to tropical storm when it makes landfall, but…” I counted out on my fingers. “One, it’s out of season by two months. Two, it’s diameter is one thousand miles, so even if it drops to tropical storm from hurricane, it isn’t the wind you need to be worrying about. It’s the rain. Now, I ask you, how is severe flooding in Louisiana in November going to affect…” I counted out on my fingers again. “Cotton, pecan, sugarcane…” I gave a humorless laugh. “And I don’t need to remind you that Exxon is right there, on the Mississippi in Baton Rouge. So the point my editor wants to make is that, wherever you are in Louisiana, this storm is going to affect you.” I nodded several times. “Let’s face it, wherever you are in the U.S.A., this storm is going to affect you.”

  He watched me throughout the speech, a cloth in one hand and a glass in the other. When I’d finished, he went back to polishing.

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

  I drained my beer and laid some money on the bar. “Thanks. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Yeah, man.”

  My cell rang as I was reaching the door. It was Hirschfield.

  “Yeah.”

  “I got the sample.”

  I frowned. “That’s too quick. It’s less than twenty-four hours.”

  “I know. I called the DA and asked him what the hell is going on. He blamed the storm. Said there’s not much work coming in to the lab. I told him bullshit and he said that, as well as that, Carmichael has influential friends—him among them—and they want to expedite things. He heard about your crackpot theory and wants you to prove to yourself that it’s horseshit.”

  “You believe any of that?”

  “I believe they have a reason for us to get the sample fast. They don’t want delays. They want the conviction in the bag.”

  I thought about it for a moment. “Who’d he hear it from?”

  “My guess is Jackson.”

  “Yeah. Where are you?”