by Greg Herren
“Have you gotten any weird phone calls or letters?” I watched his face. “Noticed people following you?”
He took a deep breath. “No, nothing like that. But that doesn’t mean—” his voice trailed off. After a moment, his body shook as he tried to keep control of himself.
What else could I do? I walked over, sat on the arm of his chair, and put my arm around him. “We’ll figure it out, and I’d be happy to help you find Moonie,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t regret the words later, and suspecting it was likely. “Was there anything else?”
“I also have this.”
He pulled an old photograph out of his pocket and handed it over to me. It was of three young GIs standing in front of what looked like a jungle base camp. It looked like Vietnam, but all I knew of that war was from movies and television shows. It could have been any jungle, anywhere in the world.
The three young men were all smiling, holding cigarettes in one hand and rifles in the other. Jungle camouflage helmets were low on their foreheads. They were wearing jungle camouflage shirts, open to reveal white T-shirts underneath and dog tags hanging from their necks. Their camouflage pants were tucked into black boots. The picture had faded and yellowed with age. The one on the left looked older than the other two, but not by much. A white margin framed the picture, and across the bottom was printed the date it was developed: 06/07/66.
Over forty years ago.
I turned the picture over. On the back were written three names: Marty, Moonie, Mattie. It was in the same scrawled handwriting as the letter.
I turned it back over and looked at their faces more closely. “Your grandfather is the one on the left?” There was a slight resemblance to Levi in the shape of the face and the square jawline. The one on the right rang no bells in my memory.
The one in the middle, however, looked slightly familiar.
Well, according to the letter, he lived in New Orleans. Maybe I’d seen him around somewhere. It was possible. New Orleans was really nothing more than a big small town—everyone was one degree of separation from everyone else. But I couldn’t recall ever meeting or hearing about someone who went by Moonie.
He nodded. “I don’t know what to do,” Levi went on. “I have no idea how to find this Moonie guy. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do when I find him. I mean, the only people I know in New Orleans are Millie and Velma. And you.” He finished the beer and put it down. “Do you think you could help me find him?”
I stared at the picture. That middle face—I was sure I recognized it. Shouldn’t have smoked the damned pot, I cursed at myself. “How do you know them, anyway?”
“I really don’t know them. When I decided to come down here, to try to find Moonie, I went on craigslist and found this apartment listed. When I called, it turned out that Millie went to school with my grandmother. She was from New Orleans.” He hesitated again. “Millie doesn’t know about any of this, by the way. I didn’t know if I should tell her—about the letter. I mean, she knows Grandpa was murdered, and then she mentioned one day you were a private eye”—he swallowed—“so I thought I would come to you. I have some money—”
I cut him off. “We’ll worry about that later.” My curiosity was aroused. Turning the picture over in my hands again, I looked at the names written on the back. I flipped it back and stared at the faces again.
I knew I’d seen Moonie before, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on where.
And as I stared at the picture, it started to swim out of focus.
Everything started going dark around the edges of my vision, and my mind started slipping down into darkness.
I had time to think crap before everything went dark.
It was hot. The air hung thick and damp, making my skin damp. I could feel sweat running down my back into my already soaked underwear. My armpits were dripping, and I wiped my hand across my face to keep the sweat from running into my eyes. I was in a jungle, in the middle of the afternoon, but everything was still and quiet. No insects were humming, no birds were singing, and nothing was moving anywhere. I could hear the sound of a river off to my right as I crept along the path. I was carrying a machine gun, and the ground was a little muddy underneath my feet.
The silence was strange, oppressive, and not right. It shouldn’t be so quiet. The jungle was always alive with sound. Usually, such silence meant they were out there. Moving silently through the underbrush. Maybe even now I was being sighted, a gun aimed into the center of my back.
I could feel dread rising inside me, but I fought it back down. They were out there somewhere. I had to find them before they found me. I felt like I was being watched, but even though I kept scanning my eyes back and forth across the thick foliage, I saw—and heard—nothing. It might just be my imagination, but the silence—that wasn’t, and that meant they were out there somewhere. Maybe they were afraid, like I was. Maybe they were afraid I would spot them before they spotted me. I stopped moving and wiped my hand across my eyes again.
That was the worst part of it, really—how silent the enemy was. They slipped through the jungles like wraiths, soundlessly, and you never knew where they were until they opened fire.
I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being watched.
“Mattie?” someone whispered from my right. It was Marty. I heard a branch snap underneath my feet. It sounded like a gunshot in the silence.
We just had to get through this mission, and then we could go on leave. Two glorious weeks away from the jungle…and then we would be set. For life.
I heard a rustling in the bushes ahead of me.
“Scotty! Are you all right?”
I opened my eyes. I was lying on the couch, and Levi was hovering over me, his face pale. “I’m fine,” I said, struggling to sit up. My mind was still foggy. He started to say something else, but I held up my hand to silence him. The vision was fading, and I needed to remember as much of it as I could.
It was gone.
I cursed to myself and reached for my beer. I took a long pull on the bottle and glanced back over at Levi. He was still standing, his face white, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he watched me. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his neck as he dry swallowed. I put my beer back down and gave him a weak smile. “Levi, I don’t know if Millie or Velma said anything, but I’m a little psychic.”
His eyes widened and he licked his lower lip. “No, they didn’t say anything about it.”
“Please. Sit down. You’re making me nervous.” I waved him into one of the wingback chairs. “It’s nothing to worry about, and really, it’s been such a long time since I’ve had anything, I’d really thought it had gone away.” I hesitated. “Sometimes I have visions—and when that happens, I guess the best way to describe what happens is I kind of pass out, in a way.” I shrugged. “I’m sorry—I would have warned you, but when it happens it’s very sudden. And like I said, it hasn’t happened in a long time.” I crossed my arms.
As a rule, I didn’t like to tell people about the gift. But I didn’t have much choice in this instance. I waited for him to say something, bracing myself to be asked for the Powerball numbers, or something equally stupid.
Instead, he leaned forward, his face curious. The color was coming back into his face. “What did you see?”
I shook my head. “Sometimes I remember, sometimes I don’t. This time I don’t. That’s why I shushed you—I wanted to try to remember what I saw, in case it was important.” I noticed the picture had fallen out of my hands and was lying on the floor. I reached down and picked it up. “All I really remember was being in a jungle.” I looked at the picture again. “This is Vietnam, right?”
He nodded. “My grandpa didn’t really like to talk about it, but I knew he served.” He shook his head. “He got a Purple Heart, there were pictures of him in uniform in his den—but whenever I asked him about it he didn’t want to talk about it. I guess that’s normal with war veterans.”
“And you said the police don’t have
any leads on his killer?”
“No.” His eyes got wet again, but he seemed to shrug it off. “The sheriff said it was more than one person…I mean, the house was trashed. And they tortured him before they killed him.” His voice broke, and my heart went out to him, the poor kid. “I don’t know what they did to him—I don’t want to know.”
“And nothing was missing?”
“Not as far as I could see. I mean, I didn’t know what all he had in the house.” He shrugged. “But it didn’t make any sense, you know? I mean, what could he have had that someone would want so bad…” He paused and swallowed again.
So bad they would torture him to find it.
I got up and walked over to my desk. I handed him one of my business cards. “All of my numbers are on there,” I said, “so if you think of anything else, let me know.”
“So you’ll find Moonie?” His face lit up. He really was a gorgeous young man.
“I’ll do my best.” I led him to the door. “I’ll get started in the morning.” I shut the door behind him, cutting off his thanks.
I walked back into the living room and plopped down on the couch. A case! I felt positively rejuvenated. Besides, looking for Moonie would help me pass the time until Frank got back.
I picked up the joint and sparked it up again. I grabbed a notepad and started making notes.
The easiest way to find Moonie would be to contact the Veterans Administration. They would have records—they might not be willing to open their files to me, but I was sure after I told them the story, they could find out the names of the other guys who served with Marty Gretsch. But if I couldn’t convince them, maybe Storm could do something. My older brother was a dreadful tease who loved to pick on me, but he was also one of the best lawyers in New Orleans. And wasn’t there some law that allowed people to request records? What was it called?
Damn, it was good pot.
Oh, yeah, the Freedom of Information Act. I made a note to look it up online and find out what information could be requested.
My cell phone started ringing. I answered. “Yo.”
“You coming to tea?” It was my best friend, David. “I’m down at the Pub already. You’re late.”
I glanced over at the clock on my mantelpiece. “Oh, man, sorry about that. I was meeting with a client.”
“Well, get your ass down here—there are hot guys everywhere.”
I sighed, and debated with myself. There wasn’t really anything I could do until the morning, anyway. “All right. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Well, hurry your ass up.” David hung up.
I wandered down the hall to get dressed.
Chapter Three
NINE OF SWORDS
Death of a loved one
I had a slight buzz going as I headed home from the bars about nine.
David had been right—the bars had been packed. They usually were on holiday evenings. After spending the day with family, most guys couldn’t wait to get to the clubs and get their gay on. It was a lot more festive out than a usual Sunday, and everyone seemed to be drinking quite a bit more. Usually, I love to meet people and flirt, but I hadn’t been into it tonight. Frank and I had an open relationship in theory, but so far neither one of us had strayed—and anyone I would have met would have been a poor substitute for him. Instead, I avoided making eye contact with anyone and just stood in a corner, nursing beers while David kept a running commentary on the fuckability of every guy who walked past us. Every guy I saw I compared to Frank—and they came up on the short end of the comparison. Finally, David zeroed in on a hot young Hispanic, and as they went through the gay mating ritual, I tossed my beer bottle into the trash and beat it out of there. I said good-bye, but David was so caught up with the Hispanic I don’t think he even noticed.
The evening was cold, and I shivered a little bit. The rain had passed, but the sidewalk and streets were still slick and wet. I walked down Bourbon Street, stopping into the Nelly Deli to get a Coke. A cute guy was in there, waiting for his food, and he started cruising me. I just smiled and took my Coke to the cash register.
When did you turn into such a dull boy? I scolded myself as I walked home. You’re in an open relationship, and even if you don’t want to hook up with someone, there’s no harm in flirting with people.
It wasn’t just about missing Frank, though. As I took a swig of my Coke, my mind went back to Levi.
I felt really sorry for him. I couldn’t imagine how rough it would be to be all alone in the world at that young an age. I was glad I’d taken his case. Was it likely his grandfather’s killers were after him? Probably not, unless they thought he had whatever it was they’d been looking for in his grandfather’s house. I made a mental note to do an Internet search for information about his grandfather’s murder when I got home. All I needed was the name of the investigating officer. I doubted he’d give me any information about an open case, but he could let me know if he thought Levi was in any danger. The most important thing was to find Moonie. He had whatever it was they wanted.
I wondered again what the three young GIs had done over there.
I turned the corner onto Governor Nicholls and stopped dead in my tracks.
A block ahead, past Royal Street, several police cars were pulled up on the sidewalks, their lights flashing. An ambulance was parked in the middle of the street, its lights also flashing. I recognized the van from the police crime lab. Several cops had cordoned off the block and were keeping a crowd of people back.
I sighed. The crime rate had been going back up in the city as more people returned. There had been several shootings in the Quarter in recent months, and the residents were starting to get restive. I debated just turning down Royal and walking home down Barracks Street, but curiosity got the better of me.
“What happened?” I asked a tall, beautiful woman with red hair when I got to the crowd behind the barricade. She was holding a gorgeous King Charles spaniel on a leash. I leaned down to pet the dog. It started jumping on my legs excitedly.
“Down, Rambla,” the woman commanded. The dog ignored her and placed her front two paws on my thighs. “Some poor man fell from a balcony, from what I gather.” She shook her head. “It’s a wonder there aren’t more balcony accidents. He was probably drunk.”
I scratched the spaniel’s silky ears and cooed at her. “That’s a good girl, yes.”
I straightened up. The dog started sniffing around my feet. “Which balcony?”
“The one above the candle shop.”
My heart sank into my shoes. I left her and pushed my way through the crowd of spectators to the barricades, all the while telling myself, No, it’s not Doc, it can’t be Doc, I was just there this afternoon, it’s not…
I took a deep breath.
There was a body lying in the middle of the street, covered with a tarp from the coroner’s office. The feet were uncovered, and I saw a pair of navy blue loafers and navy blue pant legs.
I grabbed hold of the barricade as my body started to sag.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a door open, and two police detectives I recognized walk through it out to the sidewalk.
It was Doc’s door.
I turned my eyes back to the corpse.
I looked up at Doc’s balcony. There were several cops up there, and someone was dusting the railing for fingerprints. A camera’s flash went off. I felt the beer in my stomach trying to come back up. I took a deep breath and fought the nausea down. Tears started to well up in my eyes.
Memories started flashing through my mind. I saw Doc lighting a cigar and enjoying a glass of bourbon as he explained the sociopolitical situation in the Middle East to my parents. I remembered Doc explaining to me the significance of the Stonewall Riots and the birth of the gay rights movement. I remembered Doc, who always hung a black wreath on his door on the anniversary of Lee’s surrender at Appomattox, arguing with my mother that it wasn’t racist to take pride in ancestors who fought on the wrong side of th
e Civil War. I could hear Doc saying that the only good Republican was a dead one. And I remembered how kind he had always been to me. I remembered how, after the flood, he had told Frank and me that how we chose to move forward with our lives was more important than anything awful that had happened to us that year. I remembered him telling us we had to grab for every brass ring life offered to us, and that the worst thing would be to look back on our lives and regret not doing things, not taking chances, not living our lives.
I choked back a sob.
No, no, no! There must be some mistake, it can’t be Doc there under that tarp, it must be someone else, there must be some mistake, yes, that’s it, Doc can’t be dead.
“Venus!” I shouted at the two detectives. “Blaine!” I started waving at them.
Venus Casanova is a tall, striking black woman of indeterminate age. She wears her hair cropped short, and years of exercise have kept her body fit and strong. Her partner, Blaine Tujague, is a sexy guy in his early thirties with dark black hair and bright blue eyes. I’d dealt with them before on several murders I’d gotten involved in, and while I know I got on their nerves, they were thorough professionals.
Venus made a face when she saw me, and started walking toward me. Her heels clicked on the pavement. She was wearing a navy blue pantsuit over a yellow silk blouse. Her eyes narrowed, and she sighed. “Scotty Bradley. What are you doing here?’
“Is that”—I swallowed—“Benjamin Garrett?”
“Let him through,” she said to the cop standing in front of me. The cop stood aside and let me pass. She turned her back to me and started walking over to the corpse. I followed her. “We’re not sure who this is, there was no ID on him. But he came from that balcony up there, and the name on the box is Benjamin Garrett,” she said, squatting down next to the tarp. “Can you handle taking a look?”
I nodded, and took a deep breath. She pulled the tarp back.
I felt gorge rising up in my throat. “It’s him.”
His face was down against the pavement. Blood was pooled under his face, and his nose was flattened. There was no sign of his glasses.