Blind Shuffle

by Austin Williams

  “I was pretty badass. Can’t lie.”

  “Ah,” Monday grinned. “Nice to see that false modesty go out the window.”

  21.

  Rusty stood in the shower for fifteen minutes, letting jets of hot water scald away the swamp muck that felt like it had seeped into his bloodstream through every pore. He gave his hair two vigorous washings, the strawberry scent of Monday’s shampoo not exactly his style but a vast improvement nonetheless.

  She’d insisted he leave the door open a few inches. Her tiny bathroom wasn’t sufficiently ventilated to prevent the buildup of mold with the shower running. As Rusty turned the ivory handle to kill the stream, he heard her say something from the adjoining room.

  “What’s that?” he asked, stepping onto a fluffy bath mat.

  “I said there’s a fresh towel on top of the medicine cabinet.”

  He dried himself, detecting a faint alpine scent in the detergent. It blended unexpectedly well with the shampoo. Examining himself in the mirror, he saw an ugly bruise on the small of his back where the chair in Abellard’s office had jabbed him, though the pain had dissipated to a dull throb. The kick to the head didn’t even seem worth remembering.

  “So’d you find anything on Guillory?” he asked.

  “Actually, yeah. Didn’t take much Googling, and it’s pretty juicy.”

  Rusty wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom.

  Monday’s home was a snug studio on Rampart, on the second floor of an aged Mediterranean-style building that overlooked Congo Square. Vintage black and white prints of jazz greats like Jelly Roll Morton and Professor Longhair hung from the walls. A pair of brass lamps in opposite corners stood draped with silk sashes, filling the room with a mellow amber glow. Some early Delta blues played from unseen speakers.

  “I like your place,” he said, sitting in a chair next to a corner window. Through the fogged glass, he could see the arched gateway of Congo Square across the street. Its yellow lights burned in soft contrast to the purple bruise of the sky. Full dark was imminent, inviting all manner of criminal activity into the Square, a well-trafficked tourist site by day that Rusty had long ago learned to avoid after sundown.

  “Kind of a rough neighborhood, isn’t it?”

  Monday glanced up at him. She was seated in a black leather beanbag, an iPad held by her crossed legs. Rusty caught himself looking at her bare feet, which were perfectly shaped and tipped with glossy, blood-red nails.

  “I can take care of myself. Never leave home without pepper spray, and I know which streets to avoid.” She nodded toward the queen bed, neatly made up with thick lavender covers. A visibly nicked Louisville Slugger leaned against the night stand.

  “Hope you haven’t had to use that on any intruders.”

  “Not yet.”

  She hit him hard with those green eyes. A slight curl of her lips let him in on the joke.

  “Your clothes are still in the washer,” she said, returning to the iPad. “There’s probably a pair of jeans somewhere in the closet that’ll fit. My asshole ex left a bunch of stuff, and I’ve been too lazy to clear it out.”

  Rusty stood and opened the closet door, barely dodging a small avalanche of clothes, well-thumbed paperbacks, and other sundry items that came tumbling out.

  “Heads up,” Monday cautioned with an amused glance.

  “Just when I thought the day’s danger was over,” he replied, going down on a knee to dig through the pile for some jeans. “So what do we know about this mysterious professor? Guy’s got to have some heavy stones to make Abellard beg like a dog.”

  “First off, it’s not a guy. Anne Guillory is the author of at least a dozen articles in various academic publications.”

  “No shit.”

  “The Journal of Ecology and Natural Environment, March 2005. The Ecological Society of America’s Quarterly Newsletter. Biological Conservation, Winter Issue 2007. The list goes on. A rather eminent figure, this lady.”

  “Can’t be the same Guillory,” Rusty said with a dismissive scowl. “No chance a thug like Abellard is in the orbit of someone with that kind of pedigree.”

  “And yet the byline from one of her articles would suggest just that,” Monday said, clicking a link. “Professor Anne M. Guillory, head of the Entomology department at Tulane. That’s awfully close for a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “Hmmm. You said he’s had some dealings with Tulane?”

  “Not exactly. I said that’s where he met Marceline, at some charity fundraiser. I doubt he has any official ties to the school.”

  “All the same,” Rusty said, pulling a pair of men’s acid-wash jeans from the pile and quickly discarding them, “kind of a stretch to think there’s another professor with that name in the area.”

  “I agree. Just to make sure, I searched the faculty directory at Tulane’s website. No Guillory’s.”

  “Other than this Anne, you mean.”

  “Nope, not even her. Seems she no longer holds her position there. These articles, they’re all kind of old. Most recent I can find is from 2008.”

  “So she’s not even a professor anymore,” Rusty said, annoyed. “Which gives us diddly-shit to go on.”

  “Slow down,” Monday said, raising a palm. “I see you’re not a fan of acid-wash. Me neither. There should be some wearable chinos in there if you keep digging.”

  Rusty resumed his seat by the window, no longer concerned with locating a pair of pants.

  “OK,” Monday said, opening a new window in her browser, “how’s this for a headline: ‘The Case of the Vanishing Entomologist.’ First paragraph: ‘Why did an esteemed professor at Tulane, head of her department and the youngest woman ever to earn tenure at Louisiana’s most prestigious university, suddenly abandon her post in the middle of the 2011 spring semester? Can the whiff of academic misconduct—or worse—be far from such an unprecedented departure?’”

  “Where’s that from?” Rusty asked.

  “The Gambit,” Monday replied, assuming he would recognize the name of NOLA’s venerable free weekly. “Dated February 10th, 2012. Cover story, in fact. Seems the professor’s disappearing act was kind of a big deal. Par for the course, I guess, when someone famous goes off the grid.”

  This oblique reference to Rusty’s well-publicized flight from Vegas lingered in the air like a provocation. He ignored it.

  “What’s the upshot of the article?”

  “Hush and listen. ‘Anne Guillory was a standout among the elite faculty at Tulane. Even before earning tenure at the scarily impressive age of twenty-nine, her works on insect and animal-borne pathogens had garnered national notice. An invitation to speak before Congress in 2002, during which she gave impassioned testimony on the vanishing wetlands of Louisiana’s Gulf Coast, received coverage not only on C-SPAN but also more mainstream news outlets. It cemented her reputation as one of the leading voices on the inevitable ecological disaster to the region due to unregulated human encroachment. That she was a woman, under thirty and attractive to boot, only served to boost her burgeoning notoriety.’”

  Monday took a sip of tea from a mug on the floor and continued.

  “‘Flash forward eighteen months. The Board of Regents at Tulane, in a ceremony orchestrated for maximum public exposure, named Anne M. Guillory head of the Entomology Department. She was by far the youngest person to achieve that distinction, regardless of gender.’”

  “This is all really fascinating,” Rusty interrupted from his perch by the window, “but I’m waiting for the juicy part.”

  Monday shot him an icy glance, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since their first meeting in the maternity ward.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Ignore me.”

  “I’ll skip ahead a few paragraphs,” she muttered, a fingernail flicking the iPad’s screen. “‘And then, seven years after her deservedly touted promotion, Anne Guillory stepped down. Just like that, with little fanfare and less explanation, she abdicated her post as he
ad of the department. By that point, the novelty of her position had worn off, and thus her departure from the university was met with notably less interest than her rapid rise though its hierarchy.

  “‘But now, one sizable question remains. Why? Why would a tenured professor, nationally published and regarded as a leader in a rarified field of study with broad implications on human and animal life in the most perilous regions of the state, suddenly abandon her post?

  “‘For answers, at least of the official variety, we must rely on two separate press releases, disseminated within days of each other and equally terse in wording. On April 3rd, 2011, Professor Guillory announced her retirement in an open letter to the Student Body. In it, she sounded the obligatory notes of gratitude for the opportunity to work at such a distinguished institution, expressed high hopes for the students she’d been privileged to instruct, and made passing reference to personal matters that required more of her attention than she was able to give as head of the department. A statement from the University released two days later proved equally murky, doing little more than rephrasing Guillory’s goodbye message and offering best wishes for future success in other arenas.

  “‘But the story hardly ends there. Based on a lengthy investigation including off-the-record interviews with both faculty and students, this paper has pieced together a disturbing narrative that puts Guillory’s departure in a notably different light. A follow-up article in next week’s Gambit will make the case that she did not step down for ‘personal reasons’ but was forced to resign lest she bring scandal and possible criminal prosecution to the University.’”

  Monday rubbed her eyes, weary of reading aloud.

  “Talk about a tease,” she said. “There’s a link to the follow-up article if you want to hear it.”

  She got no response. Glancing up from the iPad, she saw Rusty had given up on finding a pair of pants and lay sprawled on her bed clad only in the towel around his waist.

  Monday almost told him not to get any ideas, but stopped when she heard a muted snore.

  She walked over and sat on the bed next to him. His chest rose slowly as it filled with oxygen, seeming to animate the complex sprawl of tattoos on his pectorals.

  Monday just looked for a few minutes, allowing herself a casual and thorough review of his physique. She’d long had a weakness for stylish body art. Though she’d limited herself to only the one bleeding rose, knowing all too well how badly ink treats female flesh over the course of time, she couldn’t help feeling a familiar tingle at seeing such artistic designs spread across such a well-crafted body.

  Reaching out, she placed the tip of her index finger just above his left nipple and tracked a feathery line along the twisting serpent tattoo that reached down toward his ribcage. Strewn along both arms from wrist to shoulder were matching vines of symbols and incantations. Monday retained little memory of the rudimentary Latin she’d memorized as a schoolgirl at the Academy of Our Lady in Shreveport, but she recognized a three-word phrase spelled out on Rusty’s right bicep.

  Actum ne gas.

  “Do not redo that which has been done,” she whispered with a grin. “Probably good advice for a magician.”

  She let her hand fall to his stomach, dipping a finger in his damp navel before traveling lower. Rusty’s eyes opened as Monday reached under the towel to apply a friendly but purposeful grip where it counted the most.

  “I know,” she smiled down at him. “Bad idea, right?”

  “That wasn’t the first thing to pop into my mind, actually.”

  “Wish I wasn’t such a sucker for ink on muscles, but we are what we are.”

  “Indeed we are. Nothing we can do about it.”

  A long, mutually pleasurable moment of silence passed. Monday could see how much Rusty was enjoying her touch, but she saw something else in his gaze.

  “You really care about her a lot, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah. She meant the world to me, for a long time. If anything’s happened to her…anything bad…”

  He trailed off, not wanting to finish that thought. Monday’s hand was moving with soft, practiced strokes.

  “Are you still in love with her?”

  “No. That’s long over. I just want to see her safe and sound.”

  “Me too.”

  Monday leaned down to place her lips on his. They kissed deeply, both surprised by the intensity of it, then she rose from the bed. With two quick motions that flowed so smoothly from one to the next that Rusty barely saw them, she pulled off her tank top and slid free of her shorts. She stood naked before him for a moment, liking the way his eyes canvassed her figure.

  Rusty tossed the towel to the floor and she slid on top of him, their bodies finding an easy fit on first contact.

  “You know,” he said as his fingertips roved down her back, “it’s been sort of an asskicker of a day.”

  “I’d say it’s improving, wouldn’t you?”

  “By leaps and bounds,” Rusty whispered, allowing a hand to slide between her thighs and finding her wet. “Just saying I might not bring my A-game at the moment.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re saying I have to do all the work here.”

  “Let’s call it a 60/40 split.”

  “That’s not a very enticing offer, my friend.”

  “Yeah, but my forty is like a solid eighty for the average guy.”

  “Is that right?” she asked with a laugh, biting his lip just shy of the point of pain. “Talk is cheap, magic man.”

  22.

  “Odd place for a theft,” the clerk at the Hertz office grumbled, glancing up from a claim report he was filling out on his computer. “Usually this kind of thing happens in the city.” He quickly added, “Not that it’s common, mind you.”

  “Yeah,” Rusty said with a commiserating nod. “Surprised the hell out of me too. Just when you think it’s safe to do a little fishing out in the sticks.”

  The clerk didn’t offer any reply to that, turning back to the computer screen.

  Morning lit up the French Quarter in a blaze of brilliant sunshine. It was a few minutes past eight o’clock, and the rental car office had just opened. Rusty walked here from Monday’s apartment, enjoying a meandering course through empty streets filled with silent echoes of the Quarter’s colorful, violent past.

  He’d waited outside the Hertz office for twenty minutes, entering as soon as the clerk unlocked the front door. There was much to be done today, none of which he could do without wheels.

  Rusty had already decided on going with something a little roomier than the Mustang. Being tied up in the back of Abellard’s Escalade made him think a conveyance that size might come in handy.

  “And you’re sure,” the clerk droned on, still typing, “you locked the vehicle before you went fishing?”

  Rusty flashed a polite smile, probably his fifth since this conversation began. He decided it would be the last.

  “Definitely. I’m very consistent about that, even in my garage at home. Force of habit.”

  Not that it really matters, you little prick. That’s what comprehensive coverage is for.

  “Just glad I went full-boat with the insurance,” he continued, verbalizing his thoughts in a more agreeable fashion. “I’m real consistent about that too.”

  “We always recommend the maximum coverage,” the clerk said with an approving nod. “Some credit card companies tell you they provide full protection, but it gets a lot more complicated in the case of a total loss. We don’t process too many of these, fortunately.”

  He might as well have added, Because we don’t often rent to irresponsible lowlifes such as you, Mr. Diamond. Somehow that message got through even without being spoken.

  Rusty leaned hard against the counter and cleared his throat.

  “We about done here? I’d like to get my replacement and not waste the whole day doing it. Let’s make it an SUV, something in the deluxe class.”

  The clerk stopped typing and looked up with a worried
frown.

  “You’re sure you want another deluxe vehicle? Perhaps one of our excellent economy options might be more sensible.”

  A laminated placard showed all the vehicles for rent. Rusty laid a finger on the Lincoln Navigator.

  “This one. Full coverage. Never know if I’ll be victimized by another thief in this lawless town.”

  The clerk winced as if personally insulted, then made some final keyboard clicks and started printing out a new rental agreement.

  Rusty’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Monday’s remedy of letting it sit in a bowl of dry rice had revived it from yesterday’s dousing in Barataria Bay.

  “Hey there,” he said, turning away from the counter. “You’re an early riser. I was surprised to wake up alone.”

  “Disappointed too, I’m guessing.”

  “That’s true.”

  “My shift at the ward started at six. Did you help yourself to coffee?”

  “Sure did. And I unplugged the machine before I left, just like your note instructed.”

  “Yeah,” Monday said in a kind of languid half-sigh that stirred Rusty’s loins, memories of last night flooding his mind in Technicolor. “I’m borderline OCD about not leaving any appliances plugged in when I’m not home.”

  “We all got our quirks.”

  “It’s not totally irrational. My building’s over a hundred years old. I doubt it’s up to code. Visions of a three-story tinderbox keep me up at night.”

  “Not last night, I hope.”

  “No, sir,” she said, and he could hear her smile over the fiber optic line. “I was plum tuckered out by the time I closed my eyes.”

  “Told you my forty’s not bad.”

  “Don’t get cocky. You still owe me sixty.”

  Rusty caught the clerk’s expectant gaze. He grabbed a pen from the counter and scribbled his signature on the rental agreement.

  “I hit paydirt on our mystery janitor,” Monday said. “Name’s Claude Sherman. He was hired on March 25th, dismissed without severance on April 3rd.”

  “Good work. How’d you track all that down?”