Days of Atonement

by Walter Jon Williams

  If you wanted one of Connie’s girls, you had to pay. If you wanted Connie’s company, you had to pay in a different way— you sat in a growing cloud of sweet pipe tobacco while learning about the Golden Age of Prostitution, an era in which Loren was disinclined to believe. According to Connie, she’d been born to a high-class French-Creole hooker in a Storyville whorehouse and grown up there, then migrated West to seek her fortune when Storyville was shut down. Loren, curious, had once looked it up and found out that Storyville had been closed by the Navy during World War I.

  The story wasn’t true. Connie wasn’t that damn old, and Loren suspected she’d never been within five hundred miles of New Orleans. That stuff about raising the price when the NRA came in had to be something she’d heard from older folks in her line of work. She was creating herself a legend to live in, cloaking herself in a rose-hued past in which her life was glamorous, part of a glorious mythology.

  Loren had asked around, and heard that Connie Duvauchelle had first shown up in Atocha in the early Sixties, when she stepped into the management of Maybelline’s, a classic gabled western palace of pleasure that sat by itself on a bluff north of town, with a player piano in the parlor downstairs, a billiard table in the lounge, red-flocked wallpaper, and brass spittoons. Connie’s patron was supposed to have been Meyer Cohen, better known as Mickey. Among the innovations offered by Connie was her assistance to the morale of the local high school— after every winning game, the most valuable player on the team got his ashes hauled for free.

  There had also been freebies to the winners of the Ringside smokers. Loren remembered the parties careening on forever, his relief and the endorphin high and victory champagne keeping the celebration rolling on past dawn. All the gamblers flinging their money around, the officials assuring him of his future with the police department. He wondered if there were still parties like that here.

  The law got after Connie Duvauchelle eventually, and she closed the old building, turning it into a restaurant called the Ore House, with photographs of naughty Edwardian nudes capering on the walls next to sepia images of nineteenth-century Atocha. It was a good restaurant. Families dined there after church. Prostitution was a quaint curiosity provided it happened a century ago, behind bead curtains and to the sound of a ragtime piano, a vice only if it was practiced today. Connie’s status as a restaurant owner, massive donations to local charities, and a certain amount of discreet blackmail had made Connie a member of the Rotary.

  Connie opened the Wildfire Ranch after closing Maybelline’s. The enterprise was carefully situated on the city-county boundary, and Connie went on paying her graft to Luis Figueracion as per normal. The less flamboyant location— at least it didn’t overlook the whole town— and the legal ambiguity concerning its location made her safe from the law. The Wildfire Ranch was officially a massage parlor. Her employees never stayed in town for very long, two months at the most before they were replaced by new girls. There was a kind of vice shuttle going on, run by what FBI bulletins on the subject referred to as “organized crime,” that moved the women in and out. Connie paid her taxes, or at any rate some of them. And she kept other kinds of vice out— no gambling, no theft, no disease transmission. That was part of the deal cut with Luis Figueracion when Mickey Cohen had moved her into town. And, other than what was necessary, she kept on good terms with the law.

  “You wouldn’t believe some of the girls I get now,” Connie said. Tobacco smoke hung blue above her. “Third-generation junkies. They not only try to steal from the customers, but from me. They’re too stupid to get away with much, but what can you do?”

  “Those two.” Loren jerked his head back toward the parlor. “Are they users?”

  “One of ’em uses Dilaudid. The other does love beads.” She tilted her head, looked at Loren through narrowed eyes. “Is that what this visit is about? Has their supplier been dealing in town?”

  “Not that I know of. And if he sells in town, I’ll bust him.”

  Connie gave a sneer. “If he sells in town, I’ll let you know where you can find the son of a bitch. And I’ve told him that. He didn’t like that much.”

  “I bet.”

  “I consider myself a good citizen.” She paused, then peered at him. “So what’s this about? You never come here for fun anymore.”

  “Antonia Caldwell lodged a complaint. So I came up here to see if anything illegal’s going on.”

  Connie barked a smoky laugh. “Look around all you like!”

  “I think I’ve seen all I need to.”

  “That Caldwell cunt. Just because her husband used to come up here for a little relaxation. And she still drove him to an early grave.” She stubbed out her cigarette and took a sip of Comfort. “Now you’re off duty, can you drink?”

  “It’s still too early. And I have a couple other things to ask you.”

  She reached for another cigarette. “Go on.”

  “You heard about my John Doe.”

  “Yep.”

  “Any strangers been through here?”

  Connie shook her head. “Nobody but the regulars.”

  “Nobody waving guns around? Doing a little bragging?”

  “Heh.” A cold smile. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  Loren, looking at the smile, believed it. “Mind if I ask your girls?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Loren took a breath. “Okay,” he said. “Now here’s the funny thing about the body—”

  “He looked like Randal Dudenhof.”

  Surprise flickered through him. “You heard.”

  “I hear everything sooner or later.”

  “Who from?”

  She flicked ash in the general direction of her Cinzano tray. “A customer.”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter. The thing is— Randal used to hang around here a lot.”

  Connie’s lip curled. “Tried to freeload a lot, you mean, after he lost his pocket money at poker. And he was a lousy tipper.”

  “How about the brother?”

  “Did Randal have a brother? I don’t remember.”

  “He was supposed to be gay. He moved West.”

  Connie shook her head. “I don’t remember him at all. I don’t think he came around.”

  “Did Randal get anyone pregnant?”

  Connie seemed surprised. She picked a piece of tobacco from her lip and reflected. “You mean the John Doe might be his kid? Hadn’t thought about that.”

  “I figured you’d know if anyone would.”

  She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so.”

  “It didn’t have to be one of your girls. Maybe he came to you asking for help ’cause he got some girl pregnant . . . ?”

  “Shit, Loren. Abortion’s legal, remember? He didn’t need me for that.”

  Loren shrugged. “I thought I’d ask.”

  “If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.” Connie sipped her Comfort again, leaving red lipstick on the glass. She got a bunch of keys from her jacket pocket, opened her desk drawer, took out a metal cash box.

  “Collection day’s tomorrow,” she said, “but if you like, I can give you the department’s share now.”

  Loren looked at the box and remembered the syndicate attorney at the arraignment Monday morning, the way he smoothed his gleaming hair with ringed fingers. Remembered who it was who shuttled Connie’s girls in and out.

  “I do not know what you are talking about,” he said.

  Connie looked at him cynically. “I remember your bagman days, Loren.”

  “Put the fucking box away, Connie.”

  Connie shrugged and returned the box to its drawer. “You sure changed, Loren. Since I took that picture up there.”

  Loren looked up and saw his face on the wall, grinning after one of his victories at the Ringside. His face was bruised, one eye puffy. Naked women stood, one on each side of him, and there was a champagne glass in his hand.

  No guilt, he thought. I buried that guy.

  There were
other people on the walls as well. Mickey Cohen, who’d set her up in business. Sheriff Shorty Lazoya, the district attorney Castrejon, Loren’s predecessor in the chief’s job, members of the Figueracion family. A young, mustached Cipriano Dominguez, Judge Denver, a couple of governors, most of the town’s mayors, state senators, a congressman, the longtime head of the state police. John Begley, his new patrolman, grinning from under his shock of blond hair, one arm around a redhead with a wicked smile, the other around a male friend Loren didn’t recognize. Candid shots taken during parties, the men waving liquor glasses while women in various stages of undress cavorted alongside. None of them were hiding or covering their faces— Connie had a way of getting her subjects relaxed before bringing out her old Konica.

  Connie knew how to stay in business, all right. Nobody on her wall was going to try to shut her down.

  “You got a picture of William Patience?” he asked.

  Connie snorted. “That’ll be the day. That tight-ass jerk came in a year ago and offered me a reward of a hundred bucks to tell him if any of his men came for a visit.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I got Buck to throw his ass out of here.”

  “Discretion is your middle name, Connie.”

  “Damn straight.” Spitting tobacco off her lip.

  “Timothy Jernigan?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Joseph Dielh.”

  She narrowed her eyes, cocked her head. “Why you asking?”

  “I figure he knows something about John Doe, but isn’t telling.”

  “He’s a regular.”

  Loren waited. Connie took another drag on her cigarette, let it out. “Brags a lot,” she said. “About his money, about how much he gets in grants. About how he’s a big shot at the labs, going to win a Nobel, and about how great he is in bed— and he’s not, I’m told. Pays with a Status Card. Complains about his ex-wife gouging him.” She curled a crimson lip. “A typical john.”

  “Assholes always advertise.”

  Connie laughed, then coughed into a fist.

  “Has Dielh been in lately?”

  “Not since the middle of last week. He’s overdue— he usually comes in at least twice a week.”

  “He may be out of town.”

  Connie shrugged and blew amaretto smoke. “Couldn’t say.”

  “When he comes in, tell him I want to talk to him.” That should jolt him, Loren figured.

  Her eyes narrowed again. “I’ll think about it.”

  Loren looked at her. “Cooperate, Connie. Somebody got killed. I’m not doing this for fun.”

  “I said I’ll think about it.”

  An idea occurred to Loren. “How about Rickey, the pastor? You ever see him?”

  Connie blinked in surprise. “No. What has he got to do with anything?”

  “Nothing. I just heard his sermon on lust, and it wasn’t exactly abstract. So it made me wonder.”

  “This is the age of HIV, Loren. Explicitness is a virtue.” She paused, Comfort halfway to her mouth. “Did my name come up?”

  “Only from the Caldwell broad. Rickey wasn’t as concrete as all that.”

  “Good.” She sipped, then picked up a red business card out of a stack she had lying on her desk. Loren knew it had a silhouette of a black, winking cat on it and the words CATHOUSE: ADMIT ONE FREE. Connie held it out to Loren. “Want a freebie?”

  He remembered the first time he’d come here, the sweaty red card in his hand, a birthday present from an older friend. He’d turned fourteen a month before, but it had taken him weeks to work up the nerve to take the drive to the ranch. In the end he decided he needed the experience; he thought his girlfriend was showing signs of wanting to go all the way and he wanted to know what to do if she did. The girl he picked was pale and had straight blond hair, like his girlfriendars late. The two of them shared a joint out in the trailer before she lit a stick of incense and got to business. The lesson had to be enjoyed for its own sake: his girlfriend dumped him a few days later.

  “No,” Loren said.

  “You sure? It’s been years, and you used to have a real taste for it.”

  Sixteen years precisely. Since Katrina was born. He’d seen his daughter in her cradle, the red-faced little miracle, and among the bright rush of sensations had been the thought that, when his girl grew up, he didn’t want her knowing certain things about him. And the best way to ensure her ignorance was simply to quit.

  “You were a real believer,” the old lady said. “Like there was some kind of secret here, and you were gonna find it out.”

  “Maybe I figured out what it was,” Loren said.

  Smoke drifted out of her mouth as she spoke. “I doubt it.”

  He was somewhat surprised, in spite of his resolution, he wasn’t in the least bit tempted. Whatever Connie’s girls were, he thought, they were still someone’s daughters.

  “You could give it to your brother. I still see him from time to time.”

  “He can get his own damn card.”

  At least, Loren consoled himself, Jerry still maintained some contact with something approaching a normal human desire.

  He stood up. The thick amaretto smoke was making him ill. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll just ask your girls about Dielh.”

  Connie put the red card back in her pile. “Suit yourself.”

  The Mexican soap opera still yammered from the television, but one of the girls had gone, presumably with a customer. The other watched the telenovela without even a flicker in her eyes. No one home, Loren thought.

  He asked his questions. She remembered Dielh, but didn’t have anything to add to Connie’s comments. Buck, polishing glasses behind the bar, didn’t have much to say, either. Loren was trying to decide whether or not to wait for the second girl when the outside door banged open in the wind.

  “Ése bato!”

  It was Bob Sandoval, his unshaven face grinning from under his gimme cap. He had a bottle in a brown paper sack. Connie’s other employee followed him, shrugging out of a down jacket.

  “Hey, Chief,” Sandoval said. “Can you give me a ride back to the Sunshine?”

  “I guess,” Loren said. “Would you mind waiting outside? I have to talk to people here.”

  “Sure, Chief.” The old man waved the hand with the bottle in it. “See ya, Connie.” He turned to his indifferent purchase. “Bye bye, dearie. It was nice.”

  He wandered out. Loren looked at Connie.

  “Half my customers are over sixty,” she said.

  Loren thought about it. “Good for them,” he decided.

  “Their wives aren’t interested anymore.”

  “If they ever were,” said Sandoval’s girl. Coldly, as she lit her cigarette.

  She had nothing new to say about Dielh, so Loren said goodbye to Connie and Buck and left the trailer. Sandoval was sitting in the passenger seat of the Fury, swigging from his bottle. Loren got in and started the car.

  “Where’s your buddy?”

  “He don’t come very often. He’s afraid his wife’ll find out.” He gave a dismissive growl. “Enculado,” he said. Meaning a kept man, that being the local slur for someone faithful to his wife.

  “You’re not worried about your old lady?”

  “I don’t give a shit, ése. She ain’t had nothing good to say to me for years, anyway.”

  I bet, Loren thought.

  Loren pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the gravel drive. Windblown dust danced against his windshield.

  “There was this guy in the Sunshine yesterday,” Sandoval said. “He was asking about you.”

  Loren’s nerves hummed alarm. “Yeah?” he said. “Who?”

  “Said he was an investigator. Wore a suit. He said that he’d found out that a call had been made from the Sunshine on Saturday morning and he wanted to find out who’d made it.”

  Loren’s mouth felt dry. A stone clunked against the Fury’s floorboards.

  “What did
you tell him?”

  “Didn’t tell him shit, bro. Neither did Mark or Coover.”

  Loren turned to him. “Listen,” he said. “That guy’s poison. He works for a syndicate mouthpiece.” And he works fast, Loren thought. Monday would have been the earliest he could have got access to the phone company records and backtracked that call.

  “Man!” Sandoval said, impressed. “I thought he was a fed.”

  “He didn’t show you a buzzer or anything?”

  “A badge, you mean? Naw. Just said he was an investigator.”

  “He’s working for Axelrod, the guy who’s trying to get those drug dealers off.”

  “Chite! I should’ve asked him for money!”

  Loren looked at him. Sandoval grinned. “Just kidding, ése.”

  “You better be.”

  Loren drove the old guy to town, mind buzzing. He was going to have a talk to Coover, get him to warn the old drunks himself. Then talk to Luis Figueracion, get the word out that Axelrod’s man was in town, looking for witnesses.

  Damn, he thought. This was getting too complicated.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Luis Figueracion sat before a patterned tin wall covered with yellowing election posters of FDR, Harry Truman, and John Kennedy. Loren had come to think of it as the Wall of Dead Democrats. Luis lit another cigarette, swept lank gray hair back off his forehead, looked at Loren over the rims of his glasses. “Patronage,” he said. “That’s what we lost. Things went to hell when we couldn’t get a voter a job anymore.”

  “Yeah, Luis,” Loren said.

  The old man’s eyes flashed through his thick spectacles. His hair flopped down on his forehead again. “They don’t wanna let us take care of our own! God damn the civil service laws, anyway!” He brandished his cigarette. “That’s why we got a Republican in City Hall. No patronage to keep the voters in line!”

  Loren resigned himself to the fact that this was going to be his day for sitting with old people while they journeyed down Memory Lane. Luis leaned back in the creaking leather-padded chair that was probably as old as his Roosevelt poster. “This country went down the tubes,” he said. “when the political machines stopped delivering. Not here.” He stabbed his desk with a thick finger. “Not in Atocha County!” He smiled proudly. “Here we deliver. For over a hundred years, we’ve taken care of business.”