The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 7

by Maxim Jakubowski

  He waves me to my right and I go down the hall to a narrow office with ancient wooden desks and wall-to-wall filing cabinets. Behind one of the desks sits Sean Harrigan, a burly man pushing sixty with a receding hairline and droopy brown eyes. He recognizes me and waves me in. I ask about Freddie.

  “We won’t post him until morning,” Sean tells me on our way down the narrow stairs to the morgue.

  Freddie is in the first cooler. Eyes half open in that dull look of death, my friend still wears the same wrinkled white shirt and pants. I take a long look at him, reach over and touch his hand, already cold now and stiff.

  I have a flashback of that dusty hilltop and Freddie’s grinning face as he drags me away from the line of fire. Guess I always suspected Freddie wasn’t long for this world. My throat tightens and my heart stammers as I pat Freddie’s hand and back away from the drawer.

  “Cause of death?” I ask Sean in a voice I have trouble controlling.

  “Blow to the back of the head. Blunt object.”

  “When was he brought in?”

  Sean closes the drawer, shoving Freddie back into the cooler.

  “Eleven o’clock. Cops found him around ten this morning.” Sean wipes his hand on his black pants as he leads me away. “He was lying in Exchange Alley between Bienville and Conti.”

  Jesus!

  “Did he have a check on him?”

  “Personal effects are upstairs.”

  There’s no check, just a wallet, keys, Sin-Sin breath mints, a pack of Lucky Strikes, Zippo lighter and seven dollars and fifty-three cents.

  I pick up the phone and dial the operator who puts me through to the operator in Bangor, Maine. Three minutes later I hear the scratchy voice of Freddie’s uncle with the unforgettable name Harry O’Hara of Moose River, Maine. He gotta be pushing eighty, a veteran of the First World War, he was middle-aged back then.

  It takes a minute for my message to sink in.

  “Freddie’s folks have passed away,” Uncle Harry tells me. I tell him I know and ask about Freddie’s sister who lives in one of the Dakotas.

  “Yes. Priscilla. I’ll have to look up her number.”

  Uncle Harry thanks me for calling and tells me he’ll contact Priscilla himself. “Aren’t you the friend in New Orleans Freddie talks about?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Good that you’re there for him.”

  Yeah. Fat lot of good.

  I pass the phone to Sean Harrigan who wants to get mailing information for Freddie’s personal effects.

  When I leave ten minutes later, I stop at the bottom of the steps. Taking in deep breaths of fresh air, my face lifted to the sun, my eyes closed, I fight it as best I can. My heart aches and my stomach feels like marbles are rolling around inside. But I can’t let it get to me. Not now.

  I’ve got a killer to catch.

  Billy Bates didn’t kill Freddie.

  Fuckin’ Hays arrested the wrong man.

  Parking on Conti Street, within view of the Third Precinct Building on Chartres Street, where they’re holding Billy and Evelyn, I walk into Exchange Alley. The uneven bricks cause my ankles to turn as I move through the alley that’s as wide as our narrow French Quarter Streets, which were built for horse and buggies.

  Ancient wrought iron light posts dot the center of the alley, which services the rear of the small shops and eateries of Royal and Chartres Streets. Long ago, young blades practiced here. The small buildings of Exchange Alley once housed the finer fencing schools, where Creole Frenchmen and Spaniards learned the art of dueling.

  I find a man emptying garbage into a large bin. He saw nothing this morning. Neither did any of the other people I speak with as I move up and down the alley. A nervous antique shop owner admits she saw police in the alley, but nothing else.

  Since the alley’s only two blocks from Etienne’s Ladies Shoe Store, I pay Ernie Zumiga a visit. He’s finishing a sale. A silver-haired woman with an umbrella figure, an opened umbrella, snorts as she counts her change and leaves.

  Zumiga doesn’t seem to recognize me, so I play it like this –

  “I have some follow-up questions about Freddie O’Hara.”

  His dull brown eyes reveal nothing. He wipes sweat from his brown with the sleeve of the same rumpled brown suit coat he wore yesterday.

  “I thought y’all already arrested that Bates lunatic.” Zumiga moves through the store, repacking several pairs of shoes the umbrella woman must have gone through before making her big decision.

  “We have information that Freddie O’Hara was heading here to collect his last check around the time he was killed.”

  Zumiga turns and glares at me.

  “I gave him his check.” The brown eyes widen as he says, “Hey, ain’t you Freddie’s pal?” He takes a menacing step toward me, a vicious-looking pair of brown mules dangling from his fingers.

  I stand my ground and tell him the check wasn’t on Freddie.

  “Where’s your checkbook?” I ask casually. “We’ll need the check number so whoever took it doesn’t cash it.”

  Zumiga steps right up to me, fists balled up against his hips, mules dangling from his hands.

  “Let me see ya’ badge.”

  I look at his eyes and tell him I turned mine in.

  “Then get the fuck outta here!” He makes the mistake of moving forward but quickly sees I’m not moving backward so he does a little dance before falling back a step.

  “I’ll call the real cops,” he says on the way around the counter.

  “Good,” I tell him as I step up to the counter. “Then we can all check out your checkbook.”

  The door opens and three women breeze in, middle-aged ladies in nice outfits. Wives out shopping. One smiles shyly at me as I step out of their way.

  Zumiga grabs a black checkbook from next to the cash register. He opens it on the counter for me, then steps around to help the women. He tells me to knock myself out.

  It’s right there, two checks back. In the name of Freddie O’Hara for forty-two dollars and seventeen cents.

  Zumiga has his back to me and doesn’t turn around as I close the checkbook and leave it there on my way out.

  It’s four o’clock by the time I step back into my building. There’s a note taped to my office door. It’s from Evelyn, asking me to come see her, if I can.

  She doesn’t answer her doorbell until the third ring. Breathless, she leans out and says, “Oh, Mr Caye. Thanks for coming.” She opens the door wider and I step in.

  Evelyn is in a shortie, blue silk robe with lots of bare legs showing. She also wears blue pumps as she stands there, staring at me, hands behind her back. Her face is made-up as if she’s going out tonight, her hair freshly washed and curled, hanging to her shoulders. Only thing that’s out of place is her eyes. Red-rimmed and ovaled, she bats them at me, so innocently.

  “Where’s Billy?” I ask as I force myself to look away from those legs. Her apartment has the same layout as mine, only everything’s on the opposite side. We have the same light green curtains, but her sofa’s dark green and there’s a matching loveseat and a desk and bar with plenty of liquor stacked atop. The place smells faintly of pine oil.

  “They’re still holding him,” she answers.

  “They won’t for long.”

  She tilts her head to the side, the way a puppy does when you make a funny noise. Her brow furrows in confusion. So I tell her I’m Billy’s alibi. No way he could have killed anyone.

  “I had coffee with Freddie this morning until eight forty-five. Came back and y’all were out in the park. We both how know Billy came right down to work on his car and he was there until the cops came.”

  Her eyes become wet as she tells me she told that to the police, but they didn’t believe her.

  “They’ll have to believe me,” I say. “I’m good on the witness stand.”

  She wipes a tear from her left eye as I tell her that I used to be the police and used to testifying in court. They won’t sh
ake me. Billy has a good alibi because Freddie was my friend and I know Billy didn’t do it.

  “You have a lawyer?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “I know a couple.” I point to the door behind her. “Down in my office. I have their numbers and can make a call for you.”

  “Let me slip into something,” she says as she moves past me quickly toward the master bedroom. She doesn’t close the door, but I don’t peek. I call out, reminding her we need to call right away. Lawyers are nine to fivers.

  She hurries out carrying a pair of brown high heels, a tan blouse and brown skirt draped across her arm. She drops them on the sofa next to me and pulls off her robe and I can’t help staring at her lacy, white bra and semi-sheer white panties.

  “You’ve seen my panties before,” she says in a husky voice. “When you looked up my skirt at Etienne’s.”

  I watch her pull on her blouse and oouch into the tight skirt. She puts a hand on my shoulder as she pulls on each shoe. I catch a whiff of Chanel as she finishes, looks up and pulls her hair away from her face, which is only inches from mine.

  She smiles and thanks me, then leans up and brushes her lips across mine. I have trouble rushing downstairs with the lumber between my legs. We have to catch the lawyer who hired me for the Choppel Case before he leaves for the day. He agrees to see us and I can pick up my check at the same time.

  “He might be a little expensive,” I warn Evelyn on our way back out of my office. “But he’s very good.”

  “That’s what we need.”

  She takes my hand and squeezes it and doesn’t let go until she climbs into my car.

  * * *

  Unlocking her door just before seven that night, Evelyn looks back at me and says, “Don’t be silly. The least I can do is fix you supper.”

  She moves to her small kitchen and puts a pot of water on the stove. Reaching into her refrigerator, she pulls out left-over spaghetti and meat balls. As she warms them, she offers me a drink.

  “Beer will be fine.”

  She passes me a Schlitz on her way to the sofa where she kicks off her shoes and climbs out of her clothes and puts on the robe. Only she doesn’t bother tying it shut. I’m about to get lucky, I guess. If she isn’t a little fuckist, I’m a goddamn bomber pilot, instead of an ex-infantryman.

  We have dinner at her small Formica table, her robe open the entire time. I watch her breasts rise and fall, rise and fall as she breathes, as she talks to me about how she and Billy met. They met cute, him helping her fix a flat along Gentilly Boulevard.

  “But he’s tiny,” she says, finishing off her spaghetti.

  I know where she’s going with this.

  “Everything’s tiny.” She stands and drops her robe on her chair, picks up her plate and goes back into the kitchen, bending over to scrape off her plate in the trash can, pointing that round ass at me.

  She comes back and pulls her bra straps off her shoulders. She reaches around and starts to unfasten it, but hesitates, waiting for something from me. In the long seconds that follows, I know it’s time to decide. Get out now or listen to the beat of the hard-on throbbing between my legs.

  “Let me help you with that,” I say as I stand, readjusting my dick.

  She smiles seductively, opening her arms.

  I step over and reach behind her to unsnap her bra in one smooth movement. It falls to the floor and I stare at her full breasts, at her pink areolae and small, pointed nipples.

  My hands move to her hips as I lean down and kiss each nipple softly, then run my teeth over them. She gasps and pulls my mouth up to hers. We French kiss, our tongues rolling, our arms wrapping around each other tightly. The kiss continues as my hands slip down to her ass. I squeeze and she tightens her arms around me.

  I kiss my way down her throat back to her breasts, cupping them in my hands, kneading them as I suck each nipple. I continue massaging her breasts as I kiss my way down to her panties.

  I lick the front of her silky panties, momentarily sucking at her crotch. Her breath comes fast and she moans and spreads her feet apart. I yank her panties down and bury my face in her bush, my tongue working its way inside her. She’s already nice and wet.

  She cries out and rolls her hips to my tonguing. I continue and she grinds her hips against my tongue. She tugs at my hair, but I won’t stop. Moaning louder, she grabs my ears. I keep licking. She pulls harder until my ears hurt. I flick my tongue against her clit.

  She yanks on my ears, pulling me up to her mouth.

  We barely make it to the sofa, her tugging at my pants, me trying not to fall. She lays back on her sofa, legs spread and guides my dick into her. As I slide in, she cries out and freezes, then starts gyrating and we fuck there on her sofa.

  It’s frenzied. It’s hot. It’s a ball slamming fuck. Trying to hold back isn’t an option and she lets out a high-pitched cry as I come in her in long spurts. We catch our breath and kiss softly before I climb off.

  Evelyn takes my hand and leads me into her bedroom, to her brass bed for a long, smooth, deep penetrating second fuck. And as I’m on top of her, looking down at her lovely face in the dim light, seeing those bright blue eyes looking up at me, eyes filled with passion, I think of Freddie, lying in the morgue.

  I don’t lose my stroke. I keep grinding her, and think of Freddie and her husband, illegally in jail, and here I am nailing this gorgeous woman.

  I know – a hard-on has no conscience.

  For a moment I almost waiver, but only for a moment. I catch my stride again and continue fucking her in long, deep strokes. I do it because we both want it. I do it because she’s beautiful. I do it because Freddie didn’t get a nut and I’m about to get my second one in her.

  I’m finishing what my friend only got to start.

  If there’s one thing I know about Freddie – he’d want me to.

  Something wakes me and it takes a few seconds for me to realize I’m in Evelyn’s bed, alone. The curtain from the French doors of her bedroom swirl in on the night’s breeze and I see her standing beneath a dim yellow light out on the rear balcony of her bedroom.

  I get up and slip out on the balcony behind her, my hand caressing her naked ass for a moment. She turns and kisses me.

  “That feels so nice,” she whispers in my ear. “Don’t be obvious,” she continues whispering. “See the window across the courtyard, on the first floor?”

  I nod.

  “There’s an old man sitting inside watching me.”

  She turns her naked body toward the old man, raises her arms and stretches. Her breasts rise as she arches her back.

  Craning her neck back to me, she whispers how the old man is there every night, watching her. She comes out naked like this every night for him.

  “He probably hasn’t seen anything like this in a long time,” she says.

  “Maybe never.”

  “That’s sad.”

  Evelyn reaches back for my dick, which is already semi-hard. She hardens it, leans her ass against me and bends over, spreading her legs. She guides the tip of my dick to her pussy lips and we fuck on the balcony, Evelyn holding on to the railing, those luscious breasts bouncing back and forth as I screw her while the old man watches.

  It takes less than a day to solve my friend’s murder.

  A visit to the coroner’s office confirms Freddie died of a skull fracture. One blow to the back of the head.

  At nine-thirty, I’m in Exchange Alley looking for people who were there the same time yesterday. Several kids are tossing pennies against a warehouse wall.

  I pick out the boy who appears to be the leader and talk to him man-to-man. He’s about ten, tall and skinny with cocoa skin and black hair. Of the seven kids there, three are white. The leader tells me he’s Michael. I lose a few pennies to them, then pull out some bills to loosen their tongues. It still takes a good half hour.

  Eddie, the smallest in the crowd, a boy with skin so dark it has a blue hue, saw it. He saw Freddie bopping
into the alley, saw the fat man come in behind him, saw Freddie turn. They argued. Over money. Freddie cursed the fat man and turned to walk away. The fat man pulled a pipe from his coat pocket and hit Freddie across the back of the head.

  “Got a good look at the fat man?”

  Eddie nods and points across the alley to a restaurant worker cleaning stainless steel trays. “He saw too.”

  I walk over to the young man. He’s reluctant to talk at first. He gives in after I point to the Holy Cross ring on his finger. We went to the same high school, although he’s a lot younger. His name is Charlie Parker and works part-time at the restaurant, before his afternoon classes at Loyola.

  We get permission from his boss to take a walk. I ask the kids to come along.

  “I’ll give each of you another buck to take a walk with me.”

  They make me pay first and we all go around to Royal Street to Etienne’s Ladies Shoe Store where Ernie Zumiga is just opening up.

  Eddie points through the front window at Zumiga and says, “That’s him!”

  Charlie confirms it and follows me in. Zumiga stops straightening stools and stands there with a queer look on his face as I go around the counter, pick up his phone and call the Third Precinct. As I hang up, I spot a metal pipe under the counter. I think I see a strand of red hair clinging to the end of the pipe.

  We wait. Zumiga sees Charlie and sits heavily in one of his chairs and closes his eyes. He shakes his head and says, “They arrested Bates!”

  When Jimmy Hays rushes in, snarling, “What the fuck is this?” I ignore him. I turn to his partner and lay it out methodically to Frank Lemon.

  “But what happened to the check?” Hays growls.

  “Probably in the trash can.” I point to one under the cash register.

  When Frank Lemon pulls out the crumpled check, Zumiga starts shaking, his lower lip quivering, liquid pooling around his shoes.

  I can’t help thinking of the old police cliché – thank God criminals are stupid.

  The day after the newspaper runs the story of Ernie Zumiga’s arrest by two of New Orleans’ finest, I’m sitting in my high-back chair, my brown and white Florsheims propped up on the corner of my desk.