Murder in the Rue St. Ann

by Greg Herren

  “Just a few more questions.” There’s nothing like a client who doesn’t tell you everything. “What did you do when you got the fax?”

  She glowered. “I got mad. I tried calling Mark’s cell phone, but he didn’t answer, so I called the office number and talked to one of his flunkies.” She smiled. “I gave him a piece of my mind. I was mad, so I decided to get the hell out of here and go get some dinner. It was about eight o’clock when I walked out.” She folded her arms. “Are we done here? I have work to do.”

  I got up. “Sure.” I walked out of her office, glancing at my watch as I went down the stairs. I had about twenty minutes before meeting Paige at Snug Harbor. The party was still going on in the front room. I stopped at the bar. “Hey, Sly.”

  Sly grinned at me. “More champagne, man?”

  I shook my head. “Were you here last night?”

  “I came in around four.”

  “Was Dominique here the whole time?”

  He put his elbows down on the bar, looking off into space. “She was here when I got here—in her office. She was in there the whole time, then later on she went on.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I’m not sure.” He frowned. “Around seven, I think. She seemed in a rush.”

  “When did she come back?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t see her come back.” He shrugged.

  “Thanks, man.” I smiled at him, and walked back out onto Bourbon Street.

  Snug Harbor is on Frenchmen Street in the Marigny, about nine blocks from Domino’s. Parking down there is just as much a nightmare as it is in the Quarter, so it didn’t make sense for me to move the car. I’d probably have a ticket when I came back, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I tried calling Paul again as I walked, but still just got his voicemail. I wondered if the flowers had been delivered.

  Paige was waiting for me in the bar at Snug Harbor, which was a shock. Paige is always late, but she was puffing on a cigarette and had a lipstick smeared glass of red wine on the table in front of her. She got up to hug me, then waved at the bartender. “Go ahead and put our order in.” She grinned at me. “I ordered, since you always get the same thing.”

  Snug Harbor serves one of the best burgers in town, along with huge baked potatoes. I always got the same thing whenever I came in—a mushroom bacon cheeseburger with a baked potato buried in butter and cheese. “Thanks.” I sat down. We were at one of the few restaurants in New Orleans where you can’t smoke in the dining room, so we always ate in the bar. “Have you talked to Paul?”

  She nodded. “He’s really upset, poor thing.” She took a drag on her cigarette. “Chanse, what were you thinking? He said you bruised him.”

  I looked down at the table. “I wasn’t thinking.” I toyed with a napkin. “Do you think he’ll ever forgive me?”

  She exhaled. “At some point. Do I need to give you the domestic violence lecture?”

  “Uh uh.” I shook my head. I’d seen enough domestic violence when I’d been on the force. I knew the statistics, the patterns, everything. “Paige, I’d never hurt him.”

  “But you did.” She said gently. She reached out and touched my hand. “What happened?”

  “I lost my temper.”

  “Well, obviously, but that’s not like you.” She pulled her hand back, and looked at me. “Is this because of Ryan?”

  “You said you’d never bring him up again.” My heart was pounding again.

  “I think we need to talk about it. You’ve never told Paul, have you?”

  The name echoed in my head.

  “Isn’t that the real reason you two have never talked about your pasts?”

  “I—I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “We have to, Chanse. You have to deal with it.”

  I’d met Ryan Colby my junior year at LSU. Fraternity Rush was always a nightmare for me. I was always on display, Beta Kappa’s star football player. After my pledge semester, I’d learned very quickly why the brothers had taken someone from a small town in east Texas, who didn’t wear Polo shirts and Tommy Hilfiger jeans. I was carted around by older brothers, introduced to pledges as “Chanse MacLeod—he’s on the football team,” and found myself discussing LSU’s chances for the SEC championship with snobby young rich boys who never got closer to a football field than their seats in the stands, or when they tore down goalposts after we beat Ole Miss. My entire contribution to Beta Kappa consisted of being trotted out to meet alumni or prospectives.

  I’d joined the house because they seemed to want me. Even during pledging, I was treated better than my pledge brothers, which, of course, didn’t exactly endear me to my pledge brothers. During the “inspirational” activities (apparently, calling things ‘inspirational’ rather than ‘hazing’ made everything okay) I was never required to recite pledge lessons any more difficult than the Greek alphabet. No one ever gave me assignments to clean the grease trap in the kitchen. I never had to scrub urinals with a toothbrush, and never had to streak on Sorority Row while screaming at the top of my lungs. My big brother was the president of the house, Scott Simons, who came from a Mississippi family whose money and social status predated the War of 1812. That entire semester, I thought my exalted status was because of Scott. I wanted to be like Scott, just like I’d wanted to be like T. J. in high school. Scott was short, maybe five seven, with a lean little body and blonde hair. He was very in demand for sex from little sisters and sorority girls, so he actually had very little time for me, except on Big Brother Night, when he’d forced me to drink a bottle of tequila, and Initiation Night, when we’d shared a bottle of champagne before he went looking for that night’s piece of ass.

  I’d joined Beta Kappa for two reasons. I wanted to belong to something that would accept me. I was also trying to bury my needs and desires for other men. I figured joining a fraternity in addition to the macho camaraderie of the football team would ‘straighten’ me out.

  I’d gotten back to the house after football practice the first night of rush my junior year, tired as hell. We’d already played two games, and were undefeated; ranked in the Top Ten in all the polls, and a heavy favorite to win the Southeastern Conference. We were a longshot for the national championship, but the entire state was already talking in those terms. The city of Baton Rouge was covered in purple and gold. I’d scored a touchdown in each of the first games, and pro scouts were coming to the games. But my body was tired and battered, and the last thing in the world I wanted to do was put on my phony fratboy smile and talk football with a bunch of spoiled rich prospective pledges.

  The night’s theme was Casino Night, and again, rather than involving me as a dealer or anything, all I needed to do was to show up. As I stood in my room, I thought about just wearing my game jersey and being done with it. Sullenly, I put on a tank top and jeans and walked into the party room. I was given a nametag and went to stand by myself in a corner and wait.

  “Are you one of the brothers?” came a voice from behind me.

  I turned and found myself looking up into the green eyes of a strange man. He looked really young, maybe in his mid-teens, but he was long and lanky with strong muscles and big legs. He had short dark hair, and a gorgeous smile—but it was the eyes that got to me. “I’m Chanse MacLeod.” I said, sticking out my hand and shaking his.

  The moment our hands touched, I felt a stirring in my groin.

  “Ryan Colby.” He had a Georgia accent.

  “Looking to pledge?”

  He looked around the room. The brothers who were dealing at the tables or working the roulette wheels were all dressed in black jacket, ties, and those stupid green visors on. Little sisters were circulating—their job at rush was to sell the house by looking as sexy as possible and being flirty, implying that they were the house whores. Paige was doing her job admirably in a tight black leather skirt, her big breasts barely restrained in a tight red tube top under an open white blouse. “I’m not sure.” He smiled at me again. “Maybe.”r />
  I immediately went into the house spiel: “it’s like having eighty best friends, we have really well connected alumni who can help get you a job when you graduate, we have a lot of fun’.

  It sounded just as stupid coming out of my mouth as it did when I heard the others saying it.

  “Cool. Can you show me around?”

  So for the first (and last) time in my career as a Greek, I took a prospective on a tour of the house, talking the usual mindless fraternity truisms like a used-car salesman who’d landed a gullible one, all the while trying to make him flash that smile again, trying to get glimpses of his butt in his jeans, trying to figure out what his chest and stomach looked like under his shirt.

  He was a business major on a tennis scholarship from Valdosta, Georgia. He dreamed of someday qualifying to play at the U. S. Open, but didn’t think he’d make it that far. He loved tennis; he loved exercise; he loved being good at tennis.

  Never once did he mention a girlfriend.

  He’d pledged, and it seemed he was always stopping by my room for advice; my thoughts on scholarship athletics, school, or the fraternity itself.

  I lay awake at night, wondering what his lips would feel like, how he would feel lying next to me in my bed.

  I was thrilled when he picked me for his big brother.

  “Do you think he’s gay?” I asked Paige over a greasy pizza one night at her apartment.

  She shrugged. “Hard to say, but he’s never made any attempts to get laid at any parties.”

  Big Brother Night is one of those nights where things really do sink to an Animal House level. The objective of the evening is not only to let the pledge know who his big brother is, but also to get the pledge as fucked up as humanly possible. The evening starts with the pledges, dressed in jackets and ties, being herded into the chapter room and blindfolded, then led into the party room. They are lined up face against the wall, and then a bottle is placed in their hands; their “family beer.” Mine was Olde English 800. Then, at a signal, they are required to drink it down. As each ‘family beer’ was a quart bottle, and the pledges are blindfolded, the poor pledge feels as if he is on an endless quest. When the bottle is empty, they have to put it, upside down, on top of their heads, and then they are allowed to remove their blindfolds and turn around to face their big brothers.

  Ryan’s face and hair were drenched with beer when he turned around and smiled at me, before belching.

  The fun and games last all night, but it only took about an hour before I could get Ryan out of there without really being missed. By then, everyone was incredibly drunk, chugging contests and drinking games going on, and the floor was covered with about an inch deep pool of sticky beer. Once we were alone in my room, I sat him down on my bed. His eyes were kind of glassy. As I rolled a joint, I asked him, “Do you need to throw up?”

  He nodded. I led him over to the window, and opened it. All the beer he’d been forced to drink came up quickly in a foamy froth. “Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  I lit the joint and tossed him a pair of sweats. His suit was soaked through in places. “You might as well change.”

  He smiled at me, his face pale, as he stood up and unbuttoned his shirt.

  I watched as he neatly folded the shirt. His torso was tan and muscular, wiry but not thick. There was a patch of hair in the center of his chest which trailed down to his navel and beyond.

  Next came the pants. He was wearing white underwear with a gold stripe around the waistband. His legs were thick, muscular and hairy. He pulled the sweats on hurriedly. I offered him the joint, but he shook his head. “It’ll just make me sick—“he smiled, “I don’t think I’m done throwing up yet.”

  I nodded.

  He sat back down on the bed as I took another hit. “Thanks for taking me as your little brother.”

  I stubbed the joint out. I was pleasantly high. “No prob.”

  “Chanse—“ he started, then flushed bright red. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “If I was gay, what would happen to me around here?”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re gay?” I asked, my heart jumping.

  He couldn’t look at me. “I—I’m not sure. I mean, I’ve slept with girls and liked it, you know, but there are some guys…” his face reddened. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  It took all of my courage, but I got up and sat beside him on the bed. “It’ll be our little secret.”

  And I kissed him.

  “Paul isn’t Ryan, you know.” Paige said as our waitress arrived with our dinner. “And Ryan wasn’t a bad guy, either. He did love you.”

  “He had a funny way of showing it.” I mashed my baked potato into an orangey-yellow mass.

  “So he couldn’t handle it.” Paige moaned as she took a bite of her burger. “This is almost orgasmic.” She looked me in the eyes and continued. “You guys were just kids then, Chanse. You loved him and he left you, and ever since then you’ve closed yourself off—from everyone, really. You haven’t had any kind of relationship with anyone—not even friendship—with anyone other than Blaine and I since then.”

  I couldn’t argue with her. She was right. “But I’ve already blown it with Paul.”

  “You haven’t.” she insisted. She reached over and touched my hand. “Look, it’s not too late to patch things up. The two of you need to talk—you need to tell him about Ryan. Tell him everything, Chanse.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “Just that you bruised him. That you lost your temper.” She sighed. “He’s afraid you don’t love him anymore.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, he doesn’t know that. I mean, look at how you reacted to all this wrestling stuff.”

  “I was a jerk.”

  “Stop calling and go over there.” She sighed. “Let your guard down once and for all, okay?”

  “Yeah.” I finished my burger. “Look, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “I need you to find out whatever you can about Charlie Wyatt, an Atlanta lawyer. He’s Dominique’s ex-husband, and I also need you to find out everything you can about a Ricky Dahlgren.” Paige has access to newspaper archives I don’t, and even though she complains about it, she likes to help me out when she can.

  “Ricky Dahlgren?” Her eyebrows went up. “Why?”

  “He was Mark Williams’ boyfriend, and he was there that night.”

  “That isn’t possible.” Paige replied. “There’s no way he was Mark’s boyfriend, no way.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I know Ricky Dahlgren.” She laughed. “I dated his older brother a couple of times, and I met the whole family. Ricky’s not gay.”

  “Paige, several people have told me Ricky was Mark’s boyfriend.”

  “Hmmm.” She scratched her head. “Well, I would have thought if any of the Dahlgren kids were gay, it was the sister—that’s a dyke if I’ve ever met one. But okay.”

  She took one last bite of her potato. “Go on, go see Paul and work this out, okay?”

  I started to get out my wallet, but she waved me off. “This is on me.”

  She never treats if she can possibly help it. I smiled at her. “Thanks, Paige, for everything.”

  “Get out of here.” She lit another cigarette. “I’ll email you what I find out tomorrow.”

  Chapter Eleven

  I didn’t call and tell him I was on my way. I told myself I just wanted to surprise him. I was afraid he’d leave if he knew I was coming—or worse yet, tell me not to come at all. I did have a bright orange parking ticket tucked neatly under one of my windshield wipers when I got back to the car. I put it in the glove compartment. It had gotten colder while Paige and I were having dinner, so I started the car and turned on the heater. I sat there for a while, rubbing my arms for warmth while the engine got hot.

  Ryan Colby

  I shivered.

  We’d been insepa
rable after Big Brother Night. I remember the following morning, waking up with him in my arms. I hadn’t gotten drunk, but he had a hell of hangover. We’d started kissing, bad morning breath and all, all over again. I couldn’t believe I was so lucky. This was what I’d wanted with T.J., with some of the guys I’d meet when I snuck down to New Orleans on a weekend. The trick was to spend as much time together as possible without raising suspicion in the rest of the brothers. Being his big brother helped somewhat, as it is a kind of mentoring thing. Maybe we were closer than most pledges were with their big brothers, but no one seemed to notice. Not that the rest of the brothers were paying much attention. They were all busy studying, getting drunk, smoking pot, snorting coke and trying to get laid. It didn’t hurt that we were both scholarship athletes, either. After all, we were jocks, and jocks couldn’t be fags, right? Sometimes those stereotypes work in your favor. Besides, we were the only real jocks in the house. It was only natural we’d become friends. His explanation for spending so much time at the house was his roommate in the dorms was a complete asshole. Nobody really questioned him. Spending so much time at the house was a point in his favor as a pledge, and no one really fucked with him much. The brothers believed Beta Kappa was the center of the universe. Being the football star’s little brother helped—nobody wanted to piss me off. I was easily the biggest guy in the house, and there were all my so-called buddies on the football team.

  He’d come by to study as soon as I was home from practice. If we could wait until after eleven, we were pretty safe from being intruded on. Most everyone was either studying or locked down in a room getting wasted by then. It was quiet hours, when no one was supposed to be loud or bother anyone. I’d bolt and lock the door—earlier than eleven, it would seem odd. He would come up behind me and put his arms around me and start kissing me on the neck, while I reached back with my hands and undid his pants. We always waited until we got down on the bed before finishing undressing each other.

  It was the first time in my life I remember being happy.