Natalie's Revenge

by Susan Fleet

  Excellent. The stage was set and the actors were in place: Chip Beaubien, Arnold Peterson, and Natalie Brixton with her gun.

  A soft moan startled her. She grabbed the .38 Special and aimed it at Chip. He didn't move, his eyes closed, his mouth slack, his breathing steady. She checked the time, amazed. 3:15. But she wasn't sleepy. On the contrary, she felt energized and excited. Now that she had Chip under control she wanted him to wake up and face the music.

  A car door slammed, a loud thud, then another. Her breath caught in her throat. It sounded like the car was right outside the room. Were the cops here to raid the motel? It probably wouldn't be the first time.

  She crept to the window, parted the drapes an inch and looked outside. A huge pickup truck with oversized tires was parked in front of the room two doors down. She heard a woman laugh, a rollicking laugh, the laugh of a woman about to have sex with a man.

  Relieved, she turned away from the window. But the interruption reminded her that precious minutes were passing, minutes she couldn't afford to waste. Holding the gun in her right hand, she grasped the plastic cuffs that bound Chip's wrists with her left hand. Bracing her legs for leverage, she raised his arms toward his head.

  He didn’t stir. She let them fall onto his belly. Still nothing.

  She slapped his face. “Wake up, you slimy piece of shit.”

  His eyelids flickered, but his eyes remained closed. She hit him again, a sharp smack on each cheek. He grunted. She moved away so he couldn’t grab her and waited, with the gun aimed at his face.

  His eyes flicked open and settled on the gun. He raised his hands, saw the cuffs that bound them together. His face hardened in a frown.

  “You cunt. What do you want?”

  She smiled, her first genuine smile of the day. “I want to have fun, Chip.”

  He tried to move his legs, but couldn't. Realized his ankles were secured to the bed frame. His thigh muscles bulged as he tried to free himself. The cuffs held, but the bed moved two inches. Scowling at her, he jerked his legs. "You tied me up, you fucking cunt."

  “Now I’ve got the gun, Chip. One pull of the trigger blows your brains out."

  His eyes, malevolent with fury, fixed on her face. "Bitch."

  “'The sins of the father are visited upon the son.'”

  “What the fuck are you talking about? Get these fuckin cuffs off me and we’ll get out of here.”

  “No. I want you to listen to something that proves what a slimy shit your father was.”

  His cheeks reddened. “What is this some kind of revenge movie? You got some bone to pick with Pops? Hell, you never even met him.”

  “Your father murdered my mother.”

  His eyes widened. Then he laughed. “My father did no such thing.”

  “Yes he did. Twenty years ago BoBo murdered my mother.”

  “That’s bullshit, those old rumors—”

  “Shut up, Chip. The rumors were true and I’ve got the proof.”

  "You're full of—”

  “Shut up!” She hit Play on the tape recorder.

  Tell me how you met BoBo, Arnold. Her voice, loud and clear, on the tape.

  Chip’s eyes widened. When Peterson’s voice came over the speaker, he said, “Jesus. Arnold Peterson?”

  “That’s right, Chip. Your father’s pal. The man that helped him get away with murder.”

  “You got no—”

  “Shut up and listen!” She stepped closer, aimed the gun at his face. “If you don’t, I’ll shoot you.”

  Chip clamped his lips together and listened to Peterson explain how he met BoBo in 1988. But as Peterson droned on, Chip’s expression grew angry. “That lying sonofabitch.”

  “Shut up. You haven’t heard the best part.”

  Peterson described what happened when he picked BoBo up near the hotel on Royal Street and drove him home. Under her prodding, Peterson admitted that on the way, BoBo told him he’d murdered a woman in the hotel and asked him never to tell anyone.

  She shut off the tape recorder. “Still think Pops was a great guy?”

  "I don’t believe it. You can’t prove he killed that woman. Peterson got murdered in a hotel room last month. It was you, right? You held a gun on him, just like you’re doing to me. Arnold lied. He told you what you wanted to hear so you wouldn’t shoot him.”

  “He wasn’t lying. He was part of it. You heard him. He picked your father up at the hotel after he murdered my mother and drove him home.”

  “Bullshit! Arnold would say anything to save his own skin. When he was broke, Pops gave him a job. And now, after all Pops did for him, he fingered Pops for a murder he didn't do.”

  Unable to believe her ears, she shouted: "Your father was a murderer! He made his wife swear he was home that night. Joereen lied for him.”

  “Joereen was a pain in the ass.”

  “Your father slapped her around.”

  “If he did, she deserved it.”

  A red haze of rage swam before her eyes. "No, Chip. She didn't deserve what BoBo did to her, and neither did my mother. Your father beat my mother’s face to a pulp.”

  “She was a cheap whore like you, didn’t have the brains of a flea. Fucking men was the only way she could earn money.”

  Rage boiled into her throat, choking her. She thought her head would explode. Deep inside her the familiar iceberg formed, a huge one this time, bigger than the Titanic. An ice-mountain of hate.

  “You worthless piece of shit. You're just like your father. BoBo thought women were playthings to use however he wanted. My mother meant nothing to him. He expected her to kowtow to him because he was rich and powerful. And you’re as bad as he was.” Shaking with fury, she gripped the gun hard to hold it steady. "Your father expected you to run the business after he died. And you did for a while, but that's over."

  A crafty look appeared in his eyes. “What do you want? Money? How much do you want?”

  The irony took her breath away. Just like her father, and all the other rich powerful men who thought they could buy anything with money, even forgiveness.

  “I don’t want money. I want revenge. I don't believe in Heaven, but I bet you do. You're a good Catholic boy. You think BoBo's up in Heaven waiting for you? He's not. BoBo's in Hell."

  "Why kill me? I never did anything to hurt you."

  “Your father was a murderer, Chip. Admit it!”

  He stared at her, his eyes baleful. “Fuck you, bitch.”

  Her ice-mountain of rage exploded into a hatred more profound than her loathing of BoBo. Chip didn't deserve to live.

  She aimed the gun at his forehead.

  Looked into his evil blue eyes and pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER 33

  5:00 a.m. Tuesday, 19 August

  When her alarm clock rang at five, Mrs. Reilly struggled out of bed, put on her robe and wearily walked down the hall to the kitchen. She felt groggy from lack of sleep, but not groggy enough to forget the man that called about April West. The girl who’d sneaked out last night when she wasn’t looking.

  She turned on the TV to catch the Early Bird News, put on a pot of coffee and took out the cinnamon-raisin coffee cake she’d made last night after dinner. It smelled delicious, vanilla icing and chopped walnuts sprinkled on top. She took a sharp knife out of a drawer, sliced off a hunk and set it on a plate as the reporter announced the headlines.

  “The mayor of New Orleans has ordered a mandatory evacuation. We’ll have reports on Hurricane Josephine and local traffic conditions. And New Orleans police urgently ask your help in finding this woman.”

  She turned to see what woman he was talking about, but a commercial was on. Lord-a-mercy, a mandatory evacuation! And that sneaky girl had abandoned her. She set the slice of coffee cake on her kitchen table. Her mouth watered. Should she have a bite now? No, it would taste better with coffee. By the time she washed up and got dressed, the coffee would be ready.

  Fifteen minutes later she returned to the kitchen. An artist’s
sketch of a woman’s face filled the TV screen. The face seemed familiar. She could swear she’d seen it before.

  “Police say the woman uses several aliases,” the reporter said.

  That got her attention. Except for the long dark hair, it looked a lot like April West. And the police were after her. The man that called last night hadn't said why he was looking for her, but she didn’t think he was calling in the middle of the night because April West was someone’s long-lost heir.

  “If you’ve seen this woman or know her whereabouts,” said the announcer, “call the tip-line number at the bottom of your screen.”

  Mrs. Reilly grabbed a pen and wrote the number on a yellow sticky.

  _____

  Hoping no one had seen her leave Room 44, she jumped into Chip’s BMW and slammed the door. In the distance, a sliver of rosy light peeped over the horizon, but dark storm clouds hung low in the dusky sky above her.

  Soon it would be light. She started the car. The digital clock on the dashboard said 5:05 a.m. Chip had been dead for ten minutes. Fearing someone might have heard the gunshot, she had removed the cuffs from his wrists and ankles and stuffed them into her tote with the tape recorder and the .38 Special. Chip's bladder and bowels had let go. Ignoring the stench, she polished anything she might have touched with baby wipes. In the pocket of his pants she found his keys, wallet and cell phone. She had taken the keys but left the wallet and phone.

  Leaving no doubt about the identity of the dead man in Room 44. Sometime after six a.m., the desk clerk would go to the room to collect the key, find the body and call the police. But so what? By then she would have left the city.

  She looped around the building, drove to the exit and stopped, unable to believe her eyes. The exit was completely blocked.

  Westbound traffic on Airline Drive was at a standstill, two lanes of vehicles, some towing small trailers, packed with people intent on leaving town. She glanced over her shoulder. The motel office was 30 yards away. The clerk probably couldn’t see the BMW from the office, but people leaving their rooms could. She had to get out of here.

  The cars blocking the entrance inched forward. She hit the blinker, signaling she wanted to turn left. Now the dashboard clock said 5:10. A sick feeling gnawed her gut. She had to get to Parades-A-Plenty, collect her belongings and leave town before they found Chip's body.

  She nosed the BMW into the traffic. Mercifully, two cars stopped, allowing her to creep through the two lanes of traffic and turn left toward New Orleans. The eastbound traffic was lighter, but the traffic signals slowed her down. She stopped at a red light opposite a big furniture store. No cars in the parking lot, not even a delivery truck, and plywood covered the large plate glass windows along the storefront.

  Two cars drove up behind her. One stopped behind Chip's BMW, the other pulled beside her. With her left hand, she hid her face and accelerated when the light turned green. Fifty yards later she stopped at another red light and massaged her throbbing forehead.

  Chip was dead, but killing him had brought no satisfaction. She felt empty inside, a yawning chasm of nothingness. After she played the Peterson tape, she had expected Chip to admit his father’s guilt.

  But he hadn’t. Far from it. Chip had defended the bastard.

  My father did no such thing. That's bullshit. You can’t prove he killed that woman.

  That woman. Her mother. She was a whore. Just like you.

  As if prostitutes deserved to be beaten and strangled.

  Tears stung her eyes. She should have defended her mother, but all she'd done was call him names: You’re a slimy piece of shit like your father.

  She clenched the steering wheel and screamed, “Murderer!”

  And realized the woman in the car beside her was staring at her, eyes wide, mouth agape.

  The light changed, and she floored the accelerator. The next light was red, but no cars were crossing into her lane. She blew through the light, desperate to get back to Parades-A-Plenty.

  But when she exited at Tulane Avenue, traffic was gridlocked. Four lanes of stalled cars. Now it was 5:20. She drummed her fingers on the wheel, an anxious knot festering in her stomach. The New Orleans mayor must have ordered a mandatory evacuation. That would make it harder for her to get out of town, but not impossible.

  She had already done the impossible. She visualized Chip’s face. Even in death it looked powerful. Angry. Disgusting.

  She focused on the traffic, inched forward a few yards at a time. She got through the next traffic signal by tailgating the car in front of her through a red light, but more stalled cars loomed ahead of her. At this rate it would take forever to get to Parades-A-Plenty, and she didn’t have forever.

  Soon the motel clerk would go to Room 44 and find Chip dead on the floor. She maneuvered the BMW into the right lane.

  Unlike most days, vacant parking spaces lined Carrolton Avenue. She pulled to the curb, shut off the engine, polished the steering wheel and signal wands with a baby wipe and used the wipe to open the door.

  She left the keys in the ignition. With any kind of luck, someone looking to get out of town would steal the car.

  _____

  At 5:22 Frank's cell phone jolted him awake. Foggy with sleep, he groped for it on his beside table and answered. “Renzi.”

  “Frank, it's Ernie Wilcox. I just got a call on the tip line from a Mrs. Reilly. She saw the sketch on the Early Bird News and she says the woman is staying at her bed and breakfast.”

  Instantly alert, he got out of bed and put on his jockey shorts. “Where?”

  “In the Garden District on a side street off St. Charles Avenue. She’s still on the line. Want me to patch you through?”

  “Yes.” He grabbed his sweatpants off the bureau.

  “Hello?” screeched a voice.

  “Hi, Mrs. Reilly? I understand you recognized the woman in the sketch.”

  “Yes. I knew that girl was trouble the minute I laid eyes on her.”

  “What’s her name?” he said, pulling on his sweatpants with his free hand.

  “April West.”

  “Is she there now?”

  “Well. She promised to drive me to Houston, but last night she went out and didn’t come back. Why are you looking for her? What did she do? ”

  Man, the woman's voice like a buzz saw. “I’m coming there now. What’s the address?”

  Mrs. Reilly told him. Then she said, “Someone already called here looking for her, woke me up in the middle of the night.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know, I was half asleep. It was the middle of the night. I don't remember his name. Some man, calling from Washington.”

  Hammer, he thought. Hammer’s after her, too.

  “Her suitcase is still in her room,” screeched the voice. “After that man called, I went upstairs and looked. She wasn't there, so I bolted the front door to make sure she couldn’t sneak in. I was afraid she’d leave without me. But then I saw that sketch this morning”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Reilly. This is a big help. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  He strapped the holster with his SIG to his belt, pulled on a T-shirt and hit his speed-dial. Two rings and Kenyon Miller answered.

  "Kenyon, we got a tip from the sketch. Her name is April West and she’s staying at Parades-A-Plenty, a B&B near St. Charles Avenue. I’m on my way. Meet me there as soon as you can.”

  “Okay,” Miller said, “but traffic’s gonna be a bear.”

  He ran downstairs and got in his car, but traffic was indeed a bear. He dug the magnetized light out of his glove box, set it to flash and slammed it on the roof. It didn’t help much, every intersection gridlocked. Cursing the traffic, he drummed his fingers on the wheel.

  Natalie, aka April West, wasn’t at Parades-A-Plenty now, but Mrs. Reilly seemed to think she'd be back for her suitcase. When she showed up to get it, he intended to be there. Adrenaline jazzed his heartbeat.

  At last he was finally going to meet Nata
lie Brixton face-to-face.

  _____

  Slowed by her spike-heels, she cursed herself for not bringing her Nikes. The air was thick with humidity and she was sweating by the time she reached the intersection on Carrolton where the streetcar line began. A streetcar had just arrived with a full load of passengers. The doors opened and people swarmed out of the car. When the car was empty, it would reverse direction, go down Carrolton toward the river and turn east onto St. Charles Avenue.

  She ran across the street, fished a dollar bill and a quarter out of her wallet and got in line. But it took forever for people to leave the trolley, more than forever for the driver to ready the car for its return trip down Carrolton.

  When the driver allowed passengers to board, she claimed a seat by the door facing forward. Only then she allow herself to think about Chip. Despite her panic when he found the gun and held her hostage, she had outsmarted him. BoBo had died before she could punish him for killing Mom, but now his favorite son was dead. At long last, she had fulfilled her mission.

  But instead of feeling joyful and triumphant, she felt numb.

  How could she have been so naïve? Why would Chip denounce his father? Chip was just like him, a wealthy man who treated women badly. Like his father, Chip had the same callous disregard for women. Because her mother failed to satisfy him, BoBo had murdered her in cold blood. Even after hearing Peterson state that BoBo had confessed to killing a woman at the hotel on Royal Street, Chip wouldn’t admit that his father was a murderer.

  Arnold told you what you wanted to hear so you wouldn’t shoot him.

  Sick with disappointment, she glanced out the window as the streetcar trundled past Loyola University and stopped at a traffic light. When the light changed, a westbound streetcar passed them, full of passengers, some standing in the aisle. Beyond it, the two-lane street westbound was also jammed, cars and trucks and SUVs inching along, bumper-to-bumper.

  As the streetcar continued past Tulane her thoughts returned to Chip. And BoBo. And Mom. Like a Japanese Samurai, she had exacted her revenge. She had killed BoBo's only son. BoBo's Go-Go Bars would never again be run by anyone named Beaubien. Unlike BoBo, Chip had fathered two daughters who had no interest in the business. Her victory was complete.