“Shouldn’t we pay a visit to that bank?” Ike asked.
“First thing in the morning,” Jack replied. “Since we have a couple of hours, I’m going to take that nap.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Ike said.
“While you guys take a nap, I’m going to start checking Bourbon Street. Maybe I’ll check out a couple of the strip clubs.” J.D. grinned as he went through the adjoining door to his room to retrieve several photos of Cross.
J.D. rode the elevator down and walked through the lobby with its white tile floor and gold pillars. He took a detour to the left into the courtyard, took a deep breath and smelled the aroma of the flowers that surrounded a fountain that cascaded its water to the lilies floating below. When he walked to the entrance, two doormen dressed in blue waist coats with gold trimming opened the doors. He stopped and reached into the manila folder he carried.
“Afternoon, gentlemen.” He handed one a photo of Cross. “Either of you seen this man? He might look more like this now.” He handed them two more photos, one with Cross bald and one with long, gray hair.
Both men studied the photos and shook their heads. “Nope,” the first said. “I’ve been working this door for fifteen years. Don’t recall seeing him. Henry, you’ve been here longer than me.”
“Sorry. I’m not any help either.”
J.D. thanked the men and replaced the photos in his folder as he turned left into the crowds and noise that was Bourbon Street. He crossed the street to a courtyard where a band played and people sat outdoors, drinking and listening to the four musicians on an elevated stage. When the host saw him standing there, she approached and asked if he would like a table. He showed her the same photos of Cross and received a shake of the head in return.
He turned up the street and walked a block until he was confronted by a young, black man. “Hey, there, big dude. Come right on in. Buck naked women dancing for your pleasure.”
J.D. hesitated and then showed his photos with the same negative response. He stepped into the near darkness of the dimly lighted dive and stood at the entrance until his eyes adjusted. To his right was a bar, behind which was a walkway with a bleach blonde swaying up and down it. She was nude. Lights from the walkway reflected from her eyes. The eyes were bloodshot and glassy, obviously comprehending very little. J.D. figured she must be high on something. To his left were tables, mostly empty at that time of day. A few were occupied by men about his age and at least one dancer per table, wearing a bikini bottom, high heels, and nothing else. The men were buying champagne for the dancers that probably cost a buck and a half a bottle and sold for twenty dollars a glass. So much for checking strip clubs. J.D. turned and walked out into the sunlight. He tried three more restaurants, two tourist stores selling T-shirts and such, and one voodoo store before returning to the courtyard across from the hotel. This time he took a seat and ordered a Bud Light. He sipped it slowly while he enjoyed the jazz. When the band finished its set, he placed a twenty in the tip jar and returned to the hotel.
An hour later the three men walked up Bourbon Street a few blocks. When they passed the strip joint that J.D. had briefly entered, he said, “That place cured me of ever visiting a strip club again. Women have vacant eyes, boobs pumped full of silicone. They might as well be slaves.”
“They are, J.D.,” Ike said, “slaves to heroin. I knew their grandmothers back in the day.”
When they arrived at Galatoire’s, Ike continued. “I used to know the host here. He played in my band when I was a youngster. Name’s Louis. Maybe he’s working tonight.”
The host, dressed in a dark blue suit and a red bow tie, was greeting guests and picking out sport coats for men who didn’t have one. After five o;clock, men had to be dressed properly. That meant a coat. He glanced up as they entered. “Ike, I’ll be damned. Sorry I couldn’t help you with that sheet music. When I changed careers, I tossed all that.”
The two men hugged and sized each other up. ‘You’re looking good. Who are your friends?” Louis asked.
“The man with the cane is Jackson Bryant. The big one is his son, J.D.”
Louis turned to a closet and picked out three coats. “I hope this one is big enough for J.D. It’s a triple XL. Put them on and I’ll escort you to your table.”
J.D.’s coat had sleeves that were two inches short and he couldn’t button it, but he was now appropriately attired. Louis escorted them to a table by the window, looking out on Bourbon Street. Louis snapped his fingers, and a waiter appeared to take drink orders. He hovered around until the waiter hurried to the bar.
“So, what brings you to New Orleans? Did you do any good with that issue about our old songs?”
Ike nodded. “Sure did. Jack was my lawyer. Thanks to him, I’m pretty well set, only Fort Worth is my home now.”
“Louis, if I can interrupt, we’re here for a reason,” Jack said. He took photos from J.D.’s folder. “We’re trying to find this guy. You ever seen him?”
Louis studied the photos. “Yeah. He comes in here every once in a while. Calls himself Cross. Looks more like this one.” Louis pointed to one with the hair long and gray. “Hair comes down below his neck, but I’ve seen a tattoo that looks like a black cross on one side.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” J.D. asked, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.
Louis gazed up at the ceiling while he thought. “I’d guess a couple of months.”
Jack handed him a card. “Do us a favor. When he comes back, try to strike up a conversation, maybe find out where he lives. Call me at that number any time, day or night.”
Louis took the card and placed it in his pocket. ”Must be something important.”
Jack nodded. “We’re investigating a murder.”
Louis’s eyes grew big as he fished in his pocket and took another look at the card before returning to his post at the front of the restaurant.
After dinner they split up, with Jack taking the south side of the street and J.D. and Ike on the north side. They stopped in every establishment and met at each corner to compare notes. Three blocks past the hotel and two hours later, they were striking out. Jack got to the next corner first and was standing, leaning on his cane when a street person, obviously strung out, accosted him. “Hey, man. I bet you have five bucks to spare.”
Jack ignored him and continued to stare across the street, waiting for J.D. and Ike to catch up. The street person persisted. “Look, man. I’m not kidding. In fact, it’s going to cost you a twenty now.” He pulled a switchblade from a frayed pants pocket and flicked open the blade. Jack backed up a step to open the space between him and his attacker. “If you had ever seen Crocodile Dundee, you’d know what is about to happen.” He raised his cane and pushed a button on the handle. A ten inch dagger suddenly appeared in the end. He stuck it in his attacker’s stomach, not breaking the skin, but pushing enough for him to know what would come next.
“I suggest that you drop that knife in the gutter and get the hell out of here, or I’ll shove this knife all the way through until it comes out your ass.”
The man’s face filled with fear. “Look. I didn’t mean no harm. Wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“Drop it,” Jack said.
The knife clattered to the sidewalk. The man turned and took off. J.D. and Ike had stepped from a shop across the street and saw the last of the altercation. J.D. ran to his dad. “You all right?”
“Just fine. You’ve seen me use one of these before.”
“Yeah, back in that Hispanic bar on the north side of Fort Worth. How’d you get that on the plane?”
Jack smiled. “Different cane. It’s ceramic, housing and blade. Blade won’t cut a steak, but it’ll damn sure punch a big hole in a man’s gut.”
58
The men were finishing the last of their breakfast coffee in the hotel dining room.
“What I learned from last night is that about eleven o’clock, maybe twelve, is about as late as we should be out,
particularly if we’re going to hit some of those bars on the side streets,” Jack said.
“If it’s later or on one of those dark streets, the three of us need to stick together,” Ike added. “Where do we start this morning?”
“Like I said yesterday, we’re going to Cross’s bank over on Canal,” Jack said. He glanced at his watch. “It ought to be opening right about now.”
They left the hotel to find the sidewalks and pavement wet. “Did it rain last night?” J.D. asked.
“Naw,” Ike said. “Street gets littered every night with beer cans, broken bottles, needles, human puke, you name it. About four every morning, a water truck comes through, spraying everything down, followed by a street sweeper. City doesn’t want tourists to walk through the filth from the night before. There may be some drunks sleeping it off in doorways. Cops will leave them alone until the shops start opening. Then, they’ll roust them out and send them off to streets where tourists are not likely to trip over them.”
“We’re going to go down Bourbon to Canal and then hang a left. Bank should be in the next block,” Jack said.
After a ten minute walk, they were in front of the bank. “J.D. we don’t want to intimidate the manager with three of us. You stay out here and talk to a few of the shop owners. Ike and I will go inside.”
Jack and Ike entered the lobby and stood, surveying the bank. Jack spotted a glass enclosed office with “Manager” stenciled in gold letters on the door. They walked to the office and saw a young man sitting at the desk working on a computer. Jack tapped on the door. The young man smiled and motioned them to enter. “Morning, gentlemen. Name’s Dean Babineaux. Have a seat. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Babineaux, I’m Jackson Bryant. I’m a lawyer and a deputy sheriff from Fort Worth. My friend is Ike Irasmus, formerly a resident of your fair city. Now Fort Worth claims him. Here’s my card.” He handed his deputy sheriff card across the desk. The banker studied it and placed it on the desk.
“Again, what can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the murder of a prominent Fort Worth man and the near fatal wounding of Texas Governor Rob Lardner.”
“I remember that. Didn’t I read that they caught the killer somewhere out in West Texas?”
“That’s true, but it didn’t end the investigation. You have a bank customer named Adam Crossmore.” Jack handed him a wire transfer slip that Walt had obtained from the army.
Knowing he could not evade the question, Babineaux answered, “I recognize the name. I, uh, don’t deny that he is one of our clients.”
“What can you tell us about Mr. Crossmore?” Jack asked.
The banker stood behind his desk. “Mr. Bryant, we have a very strict policy of confidentiality regarding our customers. I told you he was a customer because you presented me with that wire transfer slip from the army. That’s all I can confirm. You’ll have to get a warrant if you want more information. So, if you’re finished, I have work to do.”
Jack rose and shook the banker’s hand, realizing they had hit another dead end. As of this visit he had no basis to get a warrant from any judge, state or federal, regarding Adam Crossmore. He and Ike walked out onto Canal. They walked a few doors down and saw J.D. coming out of a pawn shop.
“You do any good?” J.D. asked.
“Struck out again. Couldn’t even hit a foul ball,” Jack said.
“What do you suggest, now, Ike?”
“Let’s try Jackson Square. Place will be overrun with tourists, starting about now. Worth knocking on a few doors, anyway, maybe talking to a cop or two.”
As they made the short walk over to Jackson Square, Jack told Ike about Colby being pushed into the river near the Natchez and his having to dive in to save her. Rather than stop in every shop, at random, one of them would step inside a shop or bar and return in a few minutes with an empty look on his face. It was a big city with hundreds of shops, restaurants and bars. The haystack was looking gigantic. That evening they sat at the bar at the hotel and re-traced their steps.
“Hell, Dad, we could spend a month, maybe a year, and never find the son of a bitch.”
“Let’s spend one more day. If we come up empty-handed, we’ll catch our flight back on Friday. We know he’s here, but it’s a big city.”
“Can’t we get the New Orleans police involved?” Ike asked.
Jack shook his head. “That would take some Texas law enforcement agency to make the request. They all agree that the case is now closed. They damn sure won’t admit they closed it too soon. Dead end there. I’ve already been through that analysis when I considered trying to get a warrant to serve on the bank.”
They started trying hotels and casinos on Thursday. They even went to the other side of Canal and talked to bellmen and desk clerks. At the end of the day, they stopped at NOLA’s for dinner. Ike addressed his two companions. “When we’re through with dinner, I’m going to take you to some out-of-the-way places. Tonight we stay together. I don’t want Jack having to use his dagger again.”
Jack nodded his agreement. “You lead. We’ll follow. J.D. and I do have our guns.”
Ike’s choices were several jazz clubs, off the beaten path, but with incomparable sounds drifting through open doors. The men took their time, enjoying a beer and the music at each stop. Soon it was pushing toward one o’clock.
“You figure it’s time to call it a night?” Jack asked.
“One more stop down this way,” Ike said as he took them down what appeared to be little more than an alley. Halfway down the block, they came to Trombone’s. “I used to work here. Usually not crowded during the week. We’ll see if any of my old friends are still in the band.”
He led the way to a seat near the front. The six piece band played to an almost deserted club. The bartender was sitting in front of the bar, drinking a beer since there were virtually no customers to serve. When they took seats, the bartender moseyed over and took drink orders, returning to place them on the table before again taking his seat.
Ike surveyed the musicians and turned to his friends, excitement in his whisper. “I know the piano player.”
J.D. had been looking at the few patrons and settled on one. “Dad, go find the restroom. When you come back, take a look on the other side of the room at that one guy seated by himself at the front.”
Jack nodded and headed toward the restroom. When he returned, he stood at the bar for a minute, as if to let his eyes grow accustomed to the dimly lighted room. He moved to the table and took a seat. “It’s pretty damn dark, but he fits the description. Long gray hair, craggy face. Couldn’t see the tattoo or scars on his face in this light.”
“What do we do?” J.D. asked.
Jack thought a moment. “We’re going to wait until he leaves and follow him until we can get a better look. We’ll figure something out.”
An hour later the band concluded its last set. As the last wail from Bernard’s cornet sounded, Cross put a twenty on the table and walked toward the front door. When Jack saw him leaving, he said, “Ike, stay and talk to your friend. See what you can learn about Cross. J.D. and I are following him.” Just as he finished speaking, the overhead lights came on, improving the visibility, but it was too late. Cross was out the door.
Ike walked to the stage as Jack and J.D. beat it for the front door. When Al, the piano player turned, he did a double take. “Ike, is that you? You done got old on me.”
Al stepped from the stage and hugged his friend, then stepped back. “Well, on second thought, you don’t look so old, just got white hair now. Matter of fact, it looks good on you.”
Al was six feet, two inches with a prominent nose and pencil thin black mustache. “Thanks, Al. You’re still tickling those ivories with the best of them. Like the sound you guys are producing. May be I’ll write some music for you one of these days.”
“I heard you were living in Fort Worth and made a killing on some damn lawsuit. What brings you here?”
“No killing, bu
t some young rapper stole some of my old songs, and he’s having to pay for it. I’m pretty comfortable these days.” Ike turned to point to where Cross had been sitting. “What do you know about that gray haired fellow that was sitting over there?”
Al glanced at the empty table and nodded his head. “Oh, you mean Cross?”
Ike felt a shiver flow through his body as he heard the name. “Yeah, what can you tell me about Cross?”
“Comes in here two, three nights a week, rarely on weekends. Doesn’t like tourists. Likes our music, though. He’s good for a beer on breaks. Bernard over there knows him best.” Bernard was bent over, putting his horn in its case. “Hey, Bernard, come over here and meet an old friend of mine.”
Bernard closed the lid and walked over to the piano. “Bernard, this is Ike Irasmus, one of the best horn players New Orleans ever saw.”
The two men shook hands.
“Ike is asking about Cross. I told him you knew more than anyone else about him.”
A flicker of concern crossed Bernard’s face. He looked around to make sure that Cross was gone. “Can’t help you. He’s just a regular in here. I have a beer with him on occasion. That’s about it.” He looked around again. “I, uh, I’ve got to go. Got to meet a guy over on Bourbon in ten minutes.” He hurried to grab his horn and rushed out the door.
Al shook his head. “That’s a little strange. You’re not a cop these days, are you? I don’t want to get Bernard in no trouble.”
“I’m definitely not a cop. You know how many years I spent in Angola? I want nothing to do with cops.”
Al lowered his voice. “Yeah, I forgot about that. Okay, you didn’t hear this from me. Word on the street is that Cross buys jewelry. I’ve seen folks come in here and sit in the back until a break. Then Bernard motions them to Cross’s table. Even seen the flash of gold or silver once in a while. My guess is that Bernard is getting a piece of the action. That’s probably why he didn’t want to talk to a stranger about Cross. Why are you asking?”
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