by Greg Herren
It wasn’t like it was a science, or anything.
The only thing I’d known for sure was it was gone, and to be honest, I didn’t really mind all that much.
Was it coming back? Why? And why now?
Of course, it could have just been the mimosas.
I sat down, grabbed my go cup, and downed what was left in a few gulps. I passed it back to my dad, who refilled it.
“You okay, Scotty?” he asked as he handed me back my drink. Dad is tall and skinny, with a full beard and a graying ponytail. He was wearing faded jeans ripped at the knees and his I love my gay son T-shirt. His eyes were concerned. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” I said, taking another drink and standing back up.
“You’re sure? Maybe you should sit for a while.”
“Seriously, I’m okay, Dad.” I patted his shoulder and grabbed another handful of beads, which I tossed up to some guys on the balcony of Oz. I turned and tossed some more into the crowd in front of the Pub.
I still felt a little woozy. Was it possible that the gift was coming back?
Did that mean I was in danger?
Most of my life it hadn’t been much; a twinge here and there, knowing who was calling before the phone even started ringing, and getting answers sometimes from the cards.
It had become more powerful only when I was in danger of some sort.
Hardly a reassuring thought.
It wasn’t him. It wasn’t anything. You just got a little dizzy from the mimosas and not having lunch. Get a grip on yourself.
“Idiot,” I said to myself as as I grabbed another handful of beads and tossed them to the waving hands. “The gift is gone, and it’s not coming back again.”
The parade started moving again, but I wasn’t into it anymore. Oh, I smiled and posed for pictures, tossed beads to friends and strangers with a big grin on my face, but I just wanted the whole thing to be over so I could go home. I’d promised David I’d meet him at the Pub later for Sunday Tea Dance, but that didn’t sound like much fun anymore.
All I wanted to do was go home and smoke pot until I passed out.
Chapter Two
PAGE OF CUPS
A young man with brown hair and hazel eyes
The parade came to an end at the corner of Bourbon and Esplanade. All the floats and carriages were turning left to head back to Rampart Street. There was an after-party for the riders at a bar called Starlight by the Park I hadn’t planned on attending even before whatever it was I’d felt in front of Oz. As our carriage got to the corner, a drop of rain hit me in the forehead. The wind was picking up as well, and was getting colder. Lightning forked over the river, and a loud clap of thunder followed almost immediately on its heels.
I just wanted to head home, and I needed to get going before the rain started.
“Scotty, are you okay?” Mom asked as I climbed into the back of the carriage. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She grimaced a little as she examined my face. She can always tell when something’s wrong with me—it’s a little spooky. “Here.” She dug into the huge carpetbag she carried with her everywhere and pulled out a T-shirt with Devil’s Weed on the front and a pair of ratty sweatpants. “Put these on before you catch your death.” She gave me a faint smile. “I figured you wouldn’t bring anything to put on over your costume.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I pulled the sweatpants on over my shoes. Another drop of rain hit me in the head as I was putting the T-shirt on. “No, I’m fine, Mom.” I forced a huge grin, hoping it would fool her. “I’m just missing Frank, I guess.”
“My poor baby.” She kissed my cheek and mussed the curls on the top of my head with her free hand. “Well, next year he’s not getting out of riding, even if he’s hospitalized. We’ll just tie his hospital bed to the back of the wagon.” She grinned, taking a small one-hit pipe out of her purse, and took a long drag in full view of a mounted cop. He pointedly turned his head away. Mom was well-known to the French Quarter cops, and they never bothered her. She offered it to me.
I just shook my head and smiled back at her.
“He’ll be home before you know it.” She took another hit. “You want to come by for dinner later? Everyone’s coming.” She waved her hand, taking in all the riders. “Even Storm and Rain.”
“Really?” That was a surprise. Mom and Dad were strict vegetarians, and we all avoided meals at their place as much as possible. I’d vowed when I was a kid that once I was grown up I’d never eat tofu again if I could possibly help it. “No, thanks. I have some leftovers I need to get rid of,” I lied. “I don’t want to have to waste it.” It was the right tack. Nothing infuriated Mom and Dad more than wasting food.
I hugged everyone good-bye and jumped down from the carriage. I stood there waving as they turned the corner and headed back up Esplanade.
I made it around the corner on Decatur Street just as the skies opened. Fortunately, every building on my block has a balcony that covers the sidewalk. The wind picked up, too, and I shivered as I ran the last few yards to the iron door on the left side of my building. The narrow passage that ran alongside the building to the big courtyard behind wasn’t covered, and as I unlocked the gate I prepared to get soaked. The rain was coming down hard, and the gutters were starting to fill with water.
I was sopping wet by the time I got to the back, where the stairs to the upper floors were. I dashed up the stairs, stopping on the second-floor landing to strip out of the wet clothes. My landladies, Millie and Velma, lived on the second floor, and their washer and dryer were on the landing. I stuffed the clothes into the dryer and turned it on.
I lived on the third floor. It was an old town-house style building just across the street from the Old U.S. Mint building. The first floor was a coffee shop. Neighborhood rumor had it the woman who ran it was a Mafia princess—but I didn’t believe it for a minute. I liked Donatella. She was sweet, and always comped my coffee whenever I stepped in. The fourth-floor apartment had been vacant for years until recently. A college student in his early twenties named Levi Gretsch was currently renting the apartment up there. He’d moved in the week after Frank left for wrestling school. I hadn’t seen him since the day he’d moved in, although I’d heard him moving around up there a couple of times. He was good looking in that young straight boy kind of way. He hadn’t set off my gaydar, but that didn’t mean anything anymore. He seemed nice enough, if a little on the shy side. All I really knew about him was that he was from Ohio and had moved down here to go to college. That was all Millie and Velma had told me about him when I’d asked, and I’d let it drop. Either they didn’t know anything more about him, or weren’t willing to say.
I’d find out his life story eventually—in New Orleans, you always do.
I fit my key into my lock and heard the door upstairs shut, followed by footsteps on the staircase. I’d just opened my door when I heard Levi say, “Hey, Scotty, do you have a minute?”
I paused, and turned to look at him. Levi was over six feet tall, with a mop of wavy dark hair and startling green eyes. His face was square. His forehead was square and high beneath the thick shock of hair, his jaw was square, and his chin was a small triangle pointing down from the straight line of his jawbone. His nose looked like it had been broken a couple of times. His neck was thick and strong. He was built like a football player, stocky and powerful. My guess was he’d either been a linebacker or a tight end. His shoulders were broad, his hips and waist narrow, and he was still in the full flush of youthful beauty that seems to fade so quickly in straight men. He was wearing a pair of hideous multicolored shorts that didn’t fit right, didn’t flatter his body at all, and hung down just past his knees. His red T-shirt with the Nike swoosh across the front fit tightly in the chest and shoulders, dropping from there loosely almost to his thighs. He was barefoot, and his weight shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other in that loose-hipped way straight boys affect as he stood there. His thickly muscled calves and forearms were covered
with curly black hair. He had razor stubble on his face and neck. A couple of pimples dotted his forehead.
“Sure, come on in. You want a beer?” I offered, wondering for a brief moment if he was of age.
“Um, sure. Okay.” He bit his lower lip, still shifting his weight from one foot to the other. David thought he was gay, “just didn’t know it yet.” I was pretty sure it was just wishful thinking on David’s part. David was convinced every good-looking man was gay, or leaned that way.
I got the sense Levi wasn’t totally comfortable going into a gay man’s apartment.
Like once I got him inside I was going to rape him or something.
Please. He was at least four inches taller and had at least forty pounds on me. If anyone was going to be overpowered, it wasn’t going to be him.
Besides, if I wanted that, the bars weren’t that far away. I might be a little older and have love handles trying to take root at my waist, but I’m still capable of finding a hot guy.
I walked into my empty, lonely apartment and turned on the hall light. “The beer’s in the fridge—grab one and have a seat in the living room while I put some clothes on.” As soon as I said it, I had to suppress a smile. Maybe he isn’t homophobic, but what I’m wearing would make most straight boys nervous. It would make most gay men nervous, for that matter. My bedroom was the first door on the left, and I shut the door behind me. I slipped off the bikini and pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, a pair of khaki shorts, and an AIDS Walk T-shirt. I slid my feet into my house shoes. I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator for myself and walked into the living room.
Levi was sitting on the couch, clutching a sweating bottle of Abita Light in both hands. He was bouncing his legs. Outside, the rain was beating a steady tattoo on my balcony. A flash of lightning lit up the room. The thunder that followed was so loud and close the house shook a bit.
“You don’t have to be so nervous,” I said, keeping my tone light. “I won’t bite you or anything.”
He gave me a weak smile. “I’m not worried about that,” he replied, and took a long pull off the beer. “Storms make me a little nervous.”
“Ah, this is nothing to worry about. Storms here generally don’t last long.” I opened a drawer in my coffee table and pulled out the box I keep my pot in. I’d rolled a couple of joints the day before, and retrieved one. “You don’t mind if I smoke?” I asked as I put it in my mouth and flicked a lighter on.
He swallowed, his eyes fixated on the joint. “No. I don’t smoke pot.” His face reddened.
“You want to try?” I asked before taking a long drag. I blew out a stream of smoke. I offered it to him, but he waved it away, distaste written plainly on his face. You need to lighten up a bit, straight boy. “What’s up, Levi?” I gave him my friendliest smile. “You didn’t come down here to watch me get stoned. Or did you?”
He shook his head. “Well, I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a while now.” Levi took another nervous drink. “Millie and Velma told me you’re a private eye.” He took a deep breath. “I need to hire you.”
Okay, then, this is going to be interesting. “You need a private eye?” I gave him a smile. “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t charge a lot, but depending on what the case might entail, it could be expensive.” I shrugged. “And any expenses I’d incur wouldn’t be included in the daily rate, of course. I could give you the neighbor’s discount, but it can still add up in a hurry. And I require a retainer, some of the money up front.”
I’ve found that most people who think they want to hire a private eye really just want someone to talk to. They think their significant other is cheating on them, they think this or that or the other. Usually, talking about how much it’s going to cost makes them rethink their options. When I bring up the cost, their faces usually fall. That’s when I ask a few questions, and then it all comes pouring out of them. Nine times out of ten, they just need a friendly ear to listen to them. Once they’ve given voice to their suspicions, they feel better and find they don’t need a private eye anymore. It annoys Frank no end, but I don’t mind.
“I have money.” He took a deep breath. “The reason I came to New Orleans—” He hesitated. “My grandfather—he was all I had, you know? He raised me after my parents were killed in a car accident when I was a kid.” He paused again, gathering his thoughts. He emptied the beer and put the bottle down on the coffee table, covering his mouth to mask a burp. “Excuse me.”
I took another hit. I was starting to feel a lot more mellow—it was very good pot. “I’m sorry about your parents,” I said, waiting for him to go on. “That must have been very rough on you.”
“Thanks. My grandmother—his wife—died before I was born, so I never knew her. He was all I had.” He hesitated again. “A couple of months ago, my grandfather was—was—well, he was murdered.” His eyes swam with tears. “I was supposed to go home that weekend, but I was behind on a paper. I should have been there!” Angrily he drove one fist into the palm of his other hand.
“You might not have been able to save him,” I said gently. “You might be dead, too.”
“That’s what the police said. I still should have been there.” He closed his eyes. “They called me on Sunday night to tell me. The police said—” He closed his eyes, and a tear came out of his right eye. He wiped at his eyes. “The police said he’d been tortured. I had to—I had to identify the body.” He shuddered again. “I could barely recognize him.”
I take a great deal of pride in my ability to find the right thing to say in any situation, but in that moment I couldn’t think of anything. I just sat there and stared at him. I couldn’t begin to imagine how awful that must have been. I’ve stumbled over any number of dead bodies in my life, and it’s not something you ever get used to. I couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to have to identify the body of a relative—especially if it was your only relative—and one that had been tortured. Gruesome images filled my mind, and I forced them back out.
He swallowed, and visibly pulled himself together. “Anyway.” He reached into his shorts pocket. “He’d written me a letter—I got it when I went back to school to clean out my dorm room.” He wiped at his eyes. “I should have gone home. I mean, I’d called him earlier that week to tell him I wasn’t going to be able to come home, and there was—I could tell there was something wrong. He said everything was fine”—he swallowed—“and I had that paper due, so I…” He closed his eyes and shuddered.
“You poor, poor kid,” I replied, finally finding my voice, and wincing at how lame my words sounded. “You can’t beat yourself up about it, Levi. I’m sure your grandfather is glad you weren’t there. He wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you. Do the police have any leads?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Do you want me to find your grandfather’s killer…” I left my voice trail off. He was a nice kid, but I wasn’t about to go looking for criminals that tortured people before killing them. “That’s best left for the police. They have a lot more resources than I do.”
He shook his head as he unfolded the letter and passed it over to me. “No, that’s not what I need you to do.” He wiped at his eyes. “Just read this. This is the last letter he wrote me.”
I took it from him. It was a piece of notebook paper, with three holes on the left side. It was wide-ruled, and the folds were deep. The handwriting was a barely legible scrawl. I started reading.
Dearest Levi:
I fear that when you read this letter, I will most likely be dead. The past has come back to haunt me—a past that would be better off left in the past. The thing I have always feared the most—the actions of three foolish young men in a time of war are now coming home to roost. I always believed that somehow we’d escaped, and that the past would never come back to affect us in the present. But pretending something didn’t happen doesn’t mean that it didn’t, and actions always have consequences.
I won’t tell you any more than that—because the less y
ou know, the better off you will be. But I have to warn you. You have always been a son to me, and I couldn’t be prouder of you than if you were my son. Of the three young men in the picture, you are the only descendant. The first died over there. The other now lives in New Orleans, and has no children. The consequences of what we did—well, I don’t believe that you will come to any harm if you don’t know anything. But if I am indeed dead when you read this letter, you need to go to New Orleans and find Moonie. Moonie has what they are looking for, and he is the only one who can save you from their wrath by returning it.
It has to be returned before more blood is spilled.
I love you, my grandson.
Marty Gretsch
“Moonie? He couldn’t tell you his name?” I shook my head as I put the letter down on the coffee table. “That’s no help at all.” My mind was racing. “But your grandfather seemed to know what was going to happen to him. Do you have any idea what it is that Moonie supposedly has? Or what it is they did over there?” I got up and walked over to the big windows that opened out onto my balcony. Had they committed war crimes, like what’s his name, which’d massacred those people—what was the name of the place? I wracked my brain. It was My something… I shook my head and turned back to face him, figuring I could just Google it later. “And after you got the letter, you came down here?”
“Scotty, I’m scared.” His lower lip started quivering again. “I mean—I don’t know what these people want—and what they did to my grandfather—” He started choking up again.