by Mike Dennis
Now, she transformed all her past hardships into a soulful musical style the New Orleans public lapped right up.
≈≈≈
Eddie scouted the room. Away from the piano, there was another kind of activity.
Guys in suits sat on expensive loveseats scattered here and there, sipping drinks. A few were alone, but most were in groups of two or three. At many of these tables, the men were in the company of a woman or two.
None of this looked funny to Eddie. The women looked high-toned, not like whores. They seemed properly dressed for a night out in a fancy bar — no tight, street-slut outfits or overdone makeup. The men all appeared to be unwinding after a hard day at the bank.
Laughter and high spirits filled the room, while the good times rolled. Everything gleamed with a kind of alluring polish. Eddie had never actually been in a real whorehouse before, but he sure didn’t think they looked anything like this. As a matter of fact, it all reminded him of that one time he was in the lounge of the Hyatt Regency back in Houston.
Now that was one classy joint.
They took the last available table. As they sat down, Linda gave Eddie a big smile from behind the piano during a song, along with a head-gesture hello.
The waitress came over. Garner gave her a fifty, then said, “Honey, you take twenty out of here for yourself and let us know when the rest is drunk up, okay?”
She smiled and took their order. Since Garner was buying, Eddie went all the way, ordering Jim Beam.
As the drinks arrived, Garner said, “Damn, Eddie, that gal can sing! If I had a place like this, I’d damn sure never let her go.”
Eddie didn’t reply. His mind fled to the trunk of the Ford back in the hotel parking garage.
The crazy-quilt crowd noise overpowered Linda’s music. The laughing, the drinks, the clapping, Garner’s endless talking — it just wasn’t right somehow. All this good-time shit in here, all these people enjoying themselves. They just didn’t know.
He eyed the doors that led to the street. Outside those doors — who knows where? — there were men in frantic pursuit.
Shouldn’t I be on a plane out of the country or something? No, wait, they got Customs agents in those other countries, searching your bags and shit.
Well, how about somewhere else in this country. I mean, shouldn’t I be running right now? Moving? Doing something? Laying low? Driving to, like, South Dakota or someplace, where Salazar’ll never find me?
Why am I sitting here right out in the open? Just a six-hour damn drive from Houston. Felina was right. We should be on the move … but … but … I gotta see Linda.
I just gotta see her.
The music escalated. So, eventually, did all the other noise, up and up, in all keys, major and minor, dominant and relative, louder and faster than before. He couldn’t feel any letup, until he reached for his shot of bourbon and slammed it back, ignoring the chaser. It scored.
He pulled himself together a little for a few more minutes of quivering calm. Soon, Linda took a break, then came over to join them.
She gave Eddie a big, long hug, as all her earlier hostility melted away. “How are you, baby? Oh, it’s so good to see you. I swear.”
He settled down, lovingly patting her back, as he returned the hug. “It’s been way too long, darlin’. I wish I’d come here before. I’ve really missed you.” And right then, he meant it.
They whispered a few more personal things to one another, while their hands ran across each other’s backs. Eddie held onto her just an extra moment or two, losing himself in the familiar, sensual contact with her body conforming to his, inhaling her natural scent that took him way back.
He broke the hug, and then he said, “Linda, I want you to meet Felina. She’s very special to me. And — and this’s Lowell Garner. He’s from Brenham. We gave him a ride over here — well, not all the way, exactly, y’see his car broke down over by Lake Charles an’ —”
Linda’s eyes stayed on Felina. She didn’t like what she saw. Cheap cotton clothes clinging to firm curves, lips parted in a permanent pout, with an invisible sign hanging from her neck, asking Wouldn’t you love to fuck me? Searching her black eyes, Linda found nothing, only inky veils covering everything that lay behind them. She extended a cool hand.
“Welcome to New Orleans, Felina.”
Felina returned the hand, as well as the scrutiny. Linda’s hair bothered her right away. Not because of its thick, wavy style, which Felina knew would draw maximum attention from men, but because of its natural strawberry blonde color.
Felina always resented this accident of nature. So did a lot of other dark-complected females, who sometimes questioned their own sexuality whenever men rushed right past them to endlessly fawn over women with blonde hair.
She also noted Linda’s body, neither particularly voluptuous nor sexpot-tight. Her slim, well-tended contours integrated well with her personality, allowing her to move stylishly, with a fluid grace. Her face didn’t hide her age, but like finely-weathered wood, it looked pretty good.
“Thank you, Linda,” replied Felina. “And thank you for letting us stay with you. It was very kind.”
“Uh, Linda,” Eddie broke in. “Like I said, this’s Lowell Garner. We gave him a lift from Lake Charles —”
“Why, they did more’n that.” Garner shook Linda’s hand. “They helped out a stranger in trouble along the roadside, and now they invite me over here to meet you. So I guess that makes me twice grateful and ten times happier.”
Linda smiled a thank you at Garner, their eyes locking for the moment. Then she slowly turned to Eddie.
“Now, why’d you come to New Orleans, little brother?”
Eddie fidgeted. He shot his eyes once toward Garner, who still focused on Linda. “Well, um, uh — we’re just here for a, um, a couple of days. We, uh —”
She picked it up. “Okay, okay,” she said, waving it off. But those two okays also said, We’ll get to it later, and you better let it all out, and Eddie knew it.
Another round arrived at the table, and his hand shook a little. He brought the shot glass to his lips, trying to steady the tremble, but with no success. A little of the blended whiskey ran down his chin.
Linda looked at Garner with interest. “So why’d you come to New Orleans, Lowell?”
“Business.” He almost let it go at that, but then he added, “Actually, to get away from business. I was kind of forced into a — a temporary retirement. And I’m just — well, I’m just taking a rest from the stress, if you know what I mean. But lemme tell you, lovely lady, I know that AJ Frechette owns this hotel, and whatever he’s paying you, it ain’t enough. Not near enough. You’re damn good! And you can draw the people. Look at this!” He made a wide Texas gesture, taking in the whole crowded place.
“Well, thank you, Lowell. That’s very nice of you to say that, but I think there’s another attraction here too.”
“What? Oh, you mean the girls? Well, yeah, but there’s a lotta people who aren’t here for that. They’re here for you and your music. Listen,” he added, cupping his ear with his hand. “Listen real careful to the sweetest music of all. The ringing cash register.”
Although she sensed more than just a compliment, she accepted it modestly. “AJ’s right over there,” she said with a coy smile, indicating the rail-thin owner standing at the end of the bar, “so don’t let him hear that he’s not paying me enough.”
Garner’s big grin was accompanied by a gesture. It wasn’t much of a move, just a little flip of his hand. But it made Linda blink twice. There was something about that gesture. Then it hit her. It was Eddie’s. He flipped his hand the very same way sometimes when he smiled.
Garner started telling a joke. As he delivered the punch line with perfect timing, he jabbed an elbow into Eddie’s side while Eddie forced a nod and a chuckle.
Garner added through his laughter, “Besides, Eddie, your sister’s a whole lot better lookin’ than you are.”
Felina jumped in f
rom the other side, grabbing Eddie’s arm. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she said.
“No,” said Linda, as her body stiffened. She took Garner’s arm. “I don’t think you do.”
“Well,” she replied, “it’s pretty obvious which one in the family has the looks.” She nuzzled Eddie, rubbing a round breast against his arm.
“Right. Same one that’s got the brains,” Linda shot back.
“Linda,” Garner said, “can I buy you a drink? What’re you having?” Without waiting for an answer, he signaled the waitress for another round, adding, “Bring Linda one, too, sweetheart.”
“Uh, Lowell,” Eddie said, “I think we really ought to go. We’ve got a lot of —”
“Naw, y’all can have another round with me. C’mon. I’m buying.”
“Sure, little brother,” said Linda. “Stick around.” She slid a little closer to Garner, moving her eyes in on him. Up close, she saw traces of a resemblance to Eddie.
She had always thought her brother was really sexy looking, and it bothered her that other women only saw him as a sucker to be manipulated for their own selfish ends. His wiry build and angular face showed a lot of sensuality, the kind that stirred her soup, but of course he was blood, so that was that. But here was a man who had the same kind of look, the same appeal, only with a more forceful personality.
She touched his arm, trying to picture him without the mustache. When she finally copped the image, a giddy spasm rolled over her insides.
“Yeah, stick around,” she said. “Lowell’s buying. Besides, where you gonna go?”
Garner returned Linda’s move with a smile. Then: “That’s right! Where y’all gonna go? This’s the best place on the street, anyway. The place to be!”
So they stayed. As the night wore on, Linda cranked out her remaining sets. Her bright blue spangly dress somehow blended with the blazing red of the piano to form the perfect visual for her driving blues and boogie-woogie. The crowd cheered raucously and sang along.
Over at the tables, the businessmen cracked lame jokes, while the whores laughed.
Through it all, Eddie Ryan pitched and rolled on a sea of Jim Beam. The stuff kept coming, everybody kept singing and laughing. As the whiskey tide rose, he floated farther and farther away, away from the hot music, away from Felina and the noisy crowd, until eventually the whole place swirled like a rowdy neon dream.
15
By the time two o’clock rolled around, Eddie felt like he’d been in that bar for a week. He’d already puked once in the men’s room, but when he and Felina walked out onto Bourbon Street just ahead of Linda and Garner, he felt another one coming on.
The street was mercifully quiet. He tried to straighten up, but no luck. He felt the first spasm as soon as he hit the sidewalk. Luckily he made it to curbside before spitting up the soupy mess.
Felina grabbed some napkins from back inside, then wiped him clean, as he hunched down on one knee for another minute or so. Finally, with most of the poison drink in the gutter, he got to his feet, rasping, “Let’s go get the car.”
“Eddie, we don’t need the car,” Linda said. By now she was very cozy with Garner. “I live just a few blocks from here. Corner of St. Louis and Burgundy.” She pointed down Bienville Street toward Burgundy. At the end of the dark block, a gay whore in hotpants and white boots stood under a streetlamp waving at a passing car.
“No, no, we gotta get the car. We gotta —”
“All our stuff is in the car,” Felina said. “We really should get it.”
“Well, where is it?” asked Linda.
“It’s here in the hotel parking garage,” Garner said, putting his arm around Linda and moving her in that direction. She responded by nuzzling him.
“Yeah, in the garage,” Eddie said, the rasp still all over his voice.
They walked toward the garage. “Here, Eddie,” Garner said, “gimme the parking stub. I’ll get the car and drive us to Linda’s.”
“Yeah … yeah, the car,” he repeated through the remaining foggy fumes of the Jim Beam.
“Eddie,” said Linda, “give Lowell the stub.”
Hhe fumbled through his pockets until he dragged up the ticket. Garner took it.
“Y’all wait around the corner by the exit. I’ll go get the car.”
The street had grown silent, so the sound of the Ford’s howling tires coming down the garage ramp seemed like the loudest sound on earth. Eddie ground his teeth, wishing it would stop.
Before he got into the car, he pulled the keys from the ignition. He stumbled around to the rear of the car, opening the trunk. The big leather suitcase lay undisturbed.
Garner took back the keys. He got into the driver’s seat, while Linda sat next to him. Felina poured Eddie into the back seat.
They pulled out of the garage turning right onto Bienville past the iron-gray Jaguar sitting just to their left. When they slowly ambled up the street toward Burgundy, no one noticed the Jag humming to life, moving in the same direction.
≈≈≈
There were no available parking spots on Burgundy, so they turned up St. Louis, locating one near the corner. Garner maneuvered the car into the spot. They all piled out, not seeing the dark-tinted Jaguar pulling up alongside. When the door opened, the woman in the driver’s seat whispered a word to the man who stepped out. He was somewhere in his forties, with a stocky build that filled out his western-cut shirt. He approached Garner, still standing in the shadowed street, shutting the driver’s side door of the Ford.
“Lowell?” he asked in a low-pitched voice.
Garner became nervous. “Wh-what can I —”
”Mr. Kilgore sends his greetings.”
In an eyeblink, his right hand thrust forward, underhand style, into Garner’s midsection. It was so quick no one had time to see the glint of the blade. Garner uttered a soft groan, followed by a throaty rattle as he doubled over, collapsing to the pavement.
The killer jumped back into the gray sedan, where he disappeared behind black windows. The car sped off, vanishing around the next corner by the time the others realized what had happened.
The women let out a few hysterical shrieks, rattling the quiet side street. Eddie sobered up immediately, and they all rushed around the car to Garner’s side.
Gasping frantically, trying to catch a breath, he clutched his gaping gut. His eyes bulged wide from their sockets, seeing only his own approaching death. Eddie and Felina and Linda all knelt helplessly beside him, their anxious hands trying to give comfort.
Before any of them could speak, his final breath had left him.
“Lowell,” cried Linda. “My God. Lowell.”
“God damn,” Eddie said. “They — they killed him. He’s dead!”
“Lowell. Lowell. My God.” Linda shook the corpse, trying to restore its life. “Lowell.”
Felina, meanwhile, bent over him, fishing through his pockets until she found his wallet. She checked it for a moment, then quickly said to Eddie, “Gimme your wallet.”
Eddie, still in shock over the brazen murder, said, “Did anybody get the license number of that car?”
“Never mind that,” snapped Felina. She was all hard edge and toughness. “Gimme your wallet!”
His eyes flicked back to the scene. He finally acknowledged her.
“Wh-what’re you talking about? My wallet?”
She reached around into his back pocket till she located the billfold. She grappled with it for a second, then pulled it out. After checking it, she removed the money. Wiping it clean, she then placed it on the street in the bloody puddle by Garner’s body. Her eyes scanned the street. No one yet.
“What the fu — Hey! Felina …”
“Just shut up and let’s get out of here.” She stuffed Garner’s wallet into Eddie’s pocket.
Linda’s hysterical shock had melted down into fury. “Hey, hold it right there, honey.” She grabbed Felina’s forearm. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
F
elina shook loose of Linda’s hard grip.
“I’m saving our asses!” she cried, her nostrils flaring. “And unless you want more trouble than you ever thought about, you’re gonna let go my arm and we’re all gonna go into your apartment. Eddie! Get our suitcase. Get Garner’s, too.”
Eddie went around to open the trunk. As he was retrieving the suitcases, Linda had reached the point of explosion. “Don’t you give me any of your shit, you little bitch. Now you tell me what —”
Felina gestured with her head down the street. A group of happy drinkers were in the next block, headed their way, singing their version of When The Saints Go Marching In.
“You want them to find us here next to this stiff? Because if you do, Eddie’s gonna join him before too long, take my word for it.”
Linda snorted in disbelief.
”Tell her, Eddie,” Felina said. He half-nodded. “She’s right, sis.”
With the righteous weight of truth finally in her pocket, Felina growled, “Now get your goddamn hands off me and let’s get the hell into your apartment. Now!”
Linda glanced down the street. The carousers were moving slowly, but their drunken path was taking them straight to the scene. Garner’s blood oozed from his body into a widening puddle in the street.
“All right, inside. The both of you.”
She guided them into the building, through the silent courtyard behind. The nineteenth century French fountain dominated its center, barely disturbed by the bobbing of the blue water hyacinths in its dark pool. Surrounding the courtyard, the three-story building showed only dark windows, with bushy ferns hanging in the galleries. Grimly, the trio trudged up the stairs to her second floor apartment.
Once they were all inside with the door shut, Linda grabbed Felina from behind, spun her around, and flung her back against the wall. She held her there with a forearm on her throat.
“Now,” she hissed, “you little fucking taco queen, you’re gonna tell me just what kind of shit you’ve got my brother into.” She flung Felina’s head back hard against the wall without removing her forearm. “Tell me!”