Sarri released an exaggerated sigh. “Depends on what you’re hungry for, baby. It comes in all flavors. I’ve got Russian, Greek, full service, half’n half, incall and outcall, round the world, French and French kissing. Name your pleasure, honey, ‘cause the one thing I don’t got is time.” She pushed her bra up to expose more cleavage through a V-neck sweater. Stroked his arm. “C’mon, take it. You know you want to,” she said, mechanically.
Jeff cut the engine, then got out. Walked around to where she stood on the sidewalk. He grabbed her arm, roughly guided her into the dark alley. Unbuckled his belt. “For your sake, it’d better be twenty dollars worth.”
>+<|>+<
Sarri Luce strolled up to another prostitute, who stood with her shoulder pressed against the brick wall of a vacant building and her back to a chilly breeze. “Hi Zoe, hell of a night, ain’t it? I realized a while ago, I’ve had the same conversation with men so many times I can’t count ‘em anymore.”
“The men? Or times counted?”
“Funny. You’re a real funny girl tonight, Zoe Madison. Look, I’m twenty-nine, tired, hungry, and totally fed up with this rotten lifestyle. I figure, six more months on my back,”
“Or your knees.”
“Yeah. Six more months, and I should have enough money saved up to move out west somewhere. I wanna open up a little arts and crafts store. Be a part of a nice community. Be respectable.”
“I hope you get it,” said Zoe, a red-haired beauty with an ugly scar down her left cheek, given to her five years ago by a psychotic creep after she poked fun at his performance or lack thereof. She was fifteen at the time, and he was her first paying customer.
Sarri lit a cigarette. “Have you noticed how quiet it is tonight? What is it about men and Monday nights?”
“Football?”
Daisy Hernandez, thirty-one, moved from Phoenix, Arizona to New Orleans two years ago to get her son away from his drug-dealing father. “Dead night. Kinda chilly, too.” She rubbed her arms vigorously, stretched her jacket tighter across her chest.
“We were just talking about that. There’s an odd cold one blowing across the Miss-uh-sip tonight,” said Sarri.
The trio stood at the intersection of Decatur and Ursula in a little section of the city they called Braud Way in honor of Julie Braud, a prostitute, friend, and single mom of three found murdered on the sidewalk. Braud Way was home to sex workers, kinky sex, junkies, the homeless, and the forgotten.
They strolled from one corner of the city block to the other, none in any particular hurry. The night wasn’t going anywhere. Neither were they. Not until they earned a few bucks. But, it’s Monday night and most of the men seemed to prefer staying home and watching the Saint’s game. It was cold out, and the scantily dressed ladies of the Big Easy had other places they’d rather be, too. But who the hell cared?
Sarri wanted to be alone with her thoughts for a while. Saying goodbye to the others with a round of hugs, she returned to the alley where she’d satisfied the smartass a while ago. She ducked into the alley, just far enough in to get out of the wind so she could light a cigarette.
Zoe and Daisy continued strolling. Wind howling about their heads, neither heard a sound from an alley littered with trash bags coated with urine or torn open by hungry strays. No one heard a sound while Sarri was being dragged deeper into the alley. Or when someone said, “You’re nothing but garbage,” as her stretchy miniskirt and underwear were yanked to her ankles. Even the monotone sound of chanting failed to alert a potential rescuer.
CHAPTER 27
BJ tossed her car keys on the table in the foyer, and stepped out of her loafers. The reading had been grueling. Book signings were much more to her liking. They’re a comfortable one-on-one setting. When called upon to read a lengthy excerpt from her novel, she’d always catch at least one person staring at her as if hoping she’d get tongue-tied so they’d have something to snark about later. Some people can’t help being cruel.
She did manage to shake off a bad case of nerves at a downtown bar. It wasn’t her kind of place, but it was dark, and she doubted any of the patrons read books much less bought any. No one knew her, which suited her purpose at the time.
She clicked on a couple of lamps on her way to the kitchen. Paused at the foot of the staircase to listen for any sounds other than the metallic squeak of the ceiling fan in the hallway. A squirt of oil would solve the problem, but if she wanted it done she’d have to do it herself. Thoughts of the stepladder tipping over and sending her headlong down the stairs made the squeaking a lot less annoying.
BJ prepared a cup of instant coffee. Tucking a box of honey-flavored graham crackers under her arm she mounted the stairs. She stretched out on the peach and tan floral chaise lounge in her writing room. Munching on a cracker, she observed the décor. The non-vibrant colors weren’t her first choice. Weren’t her last choice, either. Frank had chosen the combination. She let him because, at the time, she didn’t care.
She shoved the other half of the cracker in the pack. Shifted onto her right side, and propped her head up with her hand. Caught sight of the blinking cursor on the computer monitor. Frowned. She didn’t realize she’d left her story open. Or did she? Had Frank come home while she was out?
She rushed to the hall closet, grasped the silvery knobs on the French bifold doors and pulled them apart. Frank’s matching three-piece set of luggage wasn’t standing side by side on the floor. She lightly slapped the side of her leg. “It’s official. I’ve lost my mind.”
BJ felt ravenous all a-sudden. She tore into the pack of crackers. Bits and pieces found their way from her chin to the sage green carpet. She stood, brushed crumbs off her clothing with her hands. Hurried down the stairs. In the kitchen, she set about piling ham and cheese on rye, slathering mayonnaise across the top with a spatula.
“Mmmm,” she hummed with her mouth full.
She washed the food down with milk. Belched. Sufficiently stuffed, she tucked the day’s newspaper under her arm. Climbed the stairs a little slower now.
She held the newspaper open with both hands. Skimmed over an article about a third businessman found dead in a posh hotel suite, this time in Baton Rouge. The only connection between the men thus far was odd colored handcuffs found on the wrists and bedposts of each victim. Handcuffs had red stripes on yellow, she read again.
She found her horoscope. Smirked over the vague statements applicable to anybody. The predictions weren’t even predictions, they were advice. She folded the newspaper, and cast it aside. Turned on the TV in time to catch the end of the weather forecast. More rain on the way.
BJ went to her desk. Clicked open her story. Scrolled back to the last chapter she’d written. Pulling the details together in her mind, she typed quickly.
<>
Alma lay on the bed staring at a thin crack in the ceiling. She wondered how it had gotten there. Wondered if the roof leaked. Wondered how and when her life had gotten so screwed up. All she wanted was fodder for her stories. Not this. Truth be told she had no idea what this was. She fought back the word lurking in the dark corners of her mind. Stalker. Alma jumped out of bed as if she’d been bitten.
She clicked on her computer. Went to the kitchen, and put on the kettle.
Sipping tepid sweet tea, she thought about what she’d enjoy doing other than visiting chat rooms. Rex was out of town again. She felt secure in the knowledge he still didn’t know what’s happening.
“His knowing would spoil everything.”
Alma switched on the desk lamp. With the gloominess at bay, she checked email. Only one message and it was from him. She still didn’t know who her sinister secret admirer was. If it’s Roger, he’s using a different email address.
Dear Alma,
Enough is not enough, apparently. Two down. More to come. Until you agree to spend some time alone with me. Are you going to sit by idly while dead bodies pile up around the city? Do you have so little compassion for others? One day you’ll get the
message. Or maybe your husband should, Suite Sue?
<>
BJ reread the paragraph. Made sure it sounded as though Alma’s admirer had begun a killing spree to get her attention. Took a deep breath. Called the police department.
CHAPTER 28
Gary Northcutt lie on the bed in the dark. He glimpsed at the digital clock on top of the chest of drawers. Nine-thirty. His wife, Genette, slept soundly beside him. He repositioned his arm under his head. She rolled over onto her stomach, turning her head away from him. She’d fallen asleep moments after the lovemaking.
Has it been reduced to just plain sex? He wondered.
He shifted his thoughts to the Garden District. Wondered whether or not BJ Donovan had called her husband and asked him to shorten his trip and come home. If so, what did he think about what’d been happening to his wife during his continual absence?
Gary’s cell phone vibrated on the top of the nightstand.
He threw back the covers, and got up. Genette pulled the covers tighter around her body. Mumbled something. Another man’s name?
The caller, speaking louder than necessary, identified himself as Officer Jeff Wentzel. He said he’d been assigned to work the service desk while his partner, Darrell O’Rourke, was in the hospital undergoing knee surgery.
Gary interrupted him. “So why are you calling me?” He rubbed his eyes with a palm.
A pause, followed by a huffy exhale.
“I don’t know. I guess I thought you’d want to know that some woman named BJ Donovan called here asking for you. I think she’s the book writer I read about in the newspaper.”
“Hold on.” Gary went to the den. He clicked on the desk lamp. Sat in his favorite overstuffed chair. “Okay.”
“She wanted you to know she received another email from that guy, and you would know which guy she’s talking about.” Jeff lit a cigarette. Blew smoke in the mouthpiece. “I told her you’re off duty, but she insisted I get in touch with you.”
Gary could’ve sworn he detected a note of jealousy in Wentzel’s voice. “Thanks for calling. I’ll take care of everything.” He hung up. Reached for his notepad. Found the page with BJ’s phone number.
CHAPTER 29
Once again, Gary arrived at the Donovan residence within twenty minutes after speaking with BJ on the phone. First thing he noticed before he pulled into the driveway was that the house was ablaze with light.
BJ must’ve been watching from a window. She swung the door open before he switched off the ignition. He walked fast, all the way into the foyer. As soon as she closed the door, she fell into his arms. She didn’t cry this time, only trembled nonstop.
He wrapped his arms tighter around her. “Where’s your husband?” Only then did it dawn on him the guy was flat-out never home.
“He’s in Tampa, Florida.” She gently withdrew. “I changed my mind about calling him.” Turned to walk away. “I printed the email. It’s in the kitchen.”
Gary followed. He read the note, while BJ poured tequila.
He placed the sheet of paper on the table. Accepted one of two glasses in her hands. “Don’t you have anyone you can stay with until your husband gets home?”
She looked at him. About to ask why the hell should she do that, she sighed, heavily. Moved into character mode. “No. As you can see,” she sliced the air angrily with her hand, “I’m pretty much alone.” She hesitated. “I don’t have any family. And Cyndi Nortman, my one and only true friend, has problems of her own. She’s already moved back to Memphis.”
“Tennessee isn’t that far away.”
BJ frowned hard. “I can’t leave. I have a restaurant to run. Books to write. In case you and everyone else haven’t notice, I have a goddamn life!”
Gary was taken aback.
So was BJ. She’d noticed before, she confused Alma’s life with her own sometimes. “Uhm, besides, Rex sure as hell wouldn’t understand. What excuse could I give? If I said I wanted to visit Cyndi, he’d insist on making me wait until he’s free to go with me. He’d never let me travel any great distance without him.” She debated how far she wanted to go on this pity trip. Enough to complete the chapter.
“Rex? I thought your husband’s name is Frank.”
She rubbed the side of her neck. “Yes, yes it is. It’s Frank. Did I just call him by my character’s name?”
Gary nodded.
“I-I guess I’ve spent too much time on my story, here lately. Anyway, Frank doesn’t know. About any of this. He’d have a fit if he did, and I, for one, couldn’t handle it. You can’t reason with an unreasonable person. He knows how to take things and turn them around on me. He hears what he wants to hear and filters out the rest. Then he projects his thoughts onto me. In other words, all he’d hear is that I have been flirting with guys on the Internet. If you’re advertising, you must be selling, he’d say.”
“Surely you could tell him about this. It isn’t as if you’ve actually done anything wrong. There are a lot of oddballs on the Internet, and I can see how easy it would be for one to latch on to someone. It happens a lot, I’m sorry to say. No one really knows who, or what, they’re talking to in there.”
Give me a break. You don’t know anything about being on the Internet. BJ’s patience had worn thin, but she kept up the act. “I understand what you’re saying, but since the person I’m talking with isn’t standing in front of me, I can at least get an idea about them by the words they use. I live in a world of words. They say more than you think.”
Gary scratched his forehead to hide his expression. “I’m worried about you. Professionally and personally.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot. She raised her glass to her lips. Drank thirstily. Poured another shot of the golden liquor. He thinks I am a complete and utter fool.
“BJ?”
Her bottom lip trembled.
“I am so sorry. I truly didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I care about you. Probably more than I have a right to. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
She couldn’t look at him. “People can’t hurt you unless you let them.”
He gathered her in his arms. Gently kissed the top of her head.
The sincere act of kindness brought forth real tears. When he pressed his lips to hers, she pulled back. The need for genuine affection burned through her soul, but now was not the time or the place.
Misunderstanding her reactions, he became embarrassed. “I, I’m sorry. Damn, I keep saying that, don’t I? I think it’s best if I leave, don’t you?”
She nodded. Took him by the hand, and led the way to the door. “We’ll, um, we can talk later.” She edged the door closer to him.
Gary automatically stepped back, crossing the threshold. “Sure. Call me. Anytime.”
BJ shut the door. Locked it.
My god, I thought he’d never leave.
She bounded up the stairs two at a time. Hit the button on the computer to turn it on. Dashed back downstairs. She peeked through the mini-blinds, made certain the detective was gone. Returned to her writing room. Opened her story file. Typed everything exactly the way it had just happened.
BJ reread the last sentence, the one about shutting the door in the cop’s face.
Where to go with the next chapter? I don’t mind making a storyboard, but I can’t see wasting time putting together a longass outline. I write as I go.
“Where to go, though?”
She pressed the backspace key, and removed the ending of the chapter. Began again.
<>
Alma poured Boutin another shot of tequila. She led the way to the living room. They spent the better part of the next hour getting to know one another.
CHAPTER 30
“Alma,” said Mick Boutin, “have you ever tried to talk to someone about your life? I mean, other than me?” He held his breath and waited. He’d learned there were some things he couldn’t say without upsetting her, which in turn struck a little fear in his heart.
“As far back as I can remember, I’ve tri
ed to find someone to talk to; someone who’d listen without tossing his or her own problems into the mix. Every time I got a new job or moved to a new place, I searched for a sympathetic ear. I finally realized no one cares. Everyone has problems of their own, so they don’t want to hear about someone else’s. Unless, of course, your problems make theirs seem trivial in contrast. I gave up. The ordinary life isn’t for me, anyway. I’m, different, from other people.”
Alma folded her arms across her chest, marking the end of the depressing dialogue.
Mick got to his feet. “It’s getting late.” Much as he hated to leave her, his shift would begin in a few short hours. “I know you don’t want to hear this. But I think you need to get out of this house for a while. You can check into a hotel, and stay until your husband returns from his business trip.”
He also cautioned her about her email.
“I want you to call me when you’re about to check it. I prefer to be on the phone before, not after. And until we can get a handle on this guy, you should keep your Internet service. It’s the only link we have with him right now.”
Mick debated about trying to give her a goodnight kiss.
She walked to the front door. Opened it. Changing her mind at the last second, she said, “If you’ll wait until I pack a few things, I think I will check into a hotel. I’d appreciate it if you’d follow me,” she stepped closer to him, “and stay until I’m settled in my room.” Her voice quivered.
“It would be my pleasure, and I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you’re out of harms way.”
Alma’s mind was on what to wear to the hotel bar. She caught the end of his sentence, though. Sliding her arms around his neck, she kissed him. Tenderly, in a non-committal way.
She pulled away from his embrace. Headed toward the stairs. One foot resting on the bottom step, she said, “I want to apologize for my behavior, um...” What’s his name? She’d grown accustomed to referring to him as Detective Boutin. Oh yeah. “Mick. I, um, I want you to know I don’t go around hugging and kissing every man who wants it. I’m just confused about everything right now. So much is happening to me all at once.”
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