That Old Devil Sin

by W E DeVore

  Ben took a deep sigh and breathed out slowly. “She started showing up with all these bruises on her arms, her wrists, legs, you name it. She said she started taking kickboxing at the gym and all the injuries were from sparring. I should have known something was wrong, but like I said, I was working a lot, so was she. We didn’t see each other every day, and I loved her and had no reason not to take her at her word. Anyway, after a few months, she finally broke it off. Said she’d been seeing someone else. Said she needed someone more adventurous than me. Said she wasn’t ready to settle down with the same person she dated in high school.”

  “What did you do?” Q asked quietly.

  He looked at her as if he didn’t recognize who she was. “What the fuck do you mean? ‘What did I do?’ I took the ring back. I let her go. I moved on. I got over it.”

  “You didn’t try to get her back?”

  “Q, I’m a lot of things, but I like to think that stupid isn’t one of them. I wasn’t about to try and get back a woman that lied to me for months while we were planning our wedding. We were coming up with names for our kids while she was sleeping with another man behind my back. That's not the type of person I want to spend my life with."

  Her stomach churned. She couldn’t believe she was questioning him, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from pressing on. “What happened with the police?”

  “I was working. The cops showed up. Said she’d been killed and would I come in for questioning. Her coworkers and family knew nothing about her breaking it off. Just knew that she’d been showing up with more bruises by the day, and that I was as big as I am. The police took me to the station and made me take off my clothes, so they could check for any marks from a fight… even after I told them I was at the hospital, with my family, waiting for my nephew to be born. It was fucking humiliating. They finally confirmed with my family and the staff at the hospital that I was where I said I was. That was the end of it.”

  Q started to tear up. “Why didn’t you tell me? I told you about Pete…about that night, I told you things I’ve never told anyone before and you lied to me?”

  Ben reached out and took her hands in his. “I didn’t lie to you, Q. I just couldn’t tell you after what you told me. I wanted to. Believe me, I wanted to. I planned to tell you on Lundi gras. But how could I tell you that my former fiancé was beaten, raped, and killed, and the police thought I did it, right after you told me what that bastard did to you? In case you haven’t noticed, you have some serious trust issues.”

  She looked down. “Uncle Ernst thinks your family was lying to protect you. He thinks you killed Angela and might have been the one that killed Ronnie, too.”

  He dropped her hands and stood up, stalking to the foyer. Kneeling in front of the built-in bookcase under the stairs, he began pulling out photo albums and flipping through them, ignoring the photographs that fluttered out and onto the floor around him. He finally found the album he was looking for, and brought it back to the living room, slamming it down on the coffee table, and flipping through it to the right page.

  “That file your godfather gave you say when Angela was killed?” he asked, furious.

  “Between 1am and 7am on October 3, 2003,” Q answered meekly.

  “There.” He pointed to a photograph of a much younger Ben with his arm around a woman who had the same amber eyes and blond hair holding a newborn. Both of them tired and smiling. The time stamp in the lower right corner read 1:38am Oct 03 03.

  “And there.” He pointed to the photograph beside it. Ben holding the newborn almost entirely in his large hand, smiling down at the bundled baby. 2:12am Oct 03 03.

  Q sat and looked, mesmerized, at the other photographs on the page. Ben with his long legs stretched out in front of him, lounging in the middle of a large hospital couch. Two girls in their late teens, each using one of Ben’s legs as a pillow. All three of them were sound asleep. 10:52pm Oct 02 03.

  A family sitting around a cluttered table in a restaurant. An amazingly beautiful older woman with Ben’s eyes and long dark hair sat beside a much older version of Ben with a short iron-grey military haircut and pale blue eyes. Ben sitting between the two girls from the hospital couch, holding up a card that read ‘It’s a Boy!’. A woman, who looked like the feminine version of Ben, held hands with a woman with short dark hair. Both sat near the head of the table, smiling. Her companion was gazing adoringly at her, not the camera. 4:35am Oct 03 03.

  “Why aren’t these in the report?” Q asked, looking from one image to the next.

  “Q, this was ten years ago. These were still in my ma’s camera when the police showed up. When she finally got them developed, they had already left me off as a suspect.”

  “I’m sorry, Ben, I don’t know what I was thinking.” She felt physically ill. The guilt of her unwarranted distrust choked her.

  “I don’t know what I have to do to make you trust me, Q. I love you and I haven’t loved anyone since Angela.” Ben unconsciously put his hand on his chest.

  Sudden recognition crashed into her mind. “The angel tattoo. Ernst told me to asked you about it.”

  He sat next to her and took a sip of coffee. He spoke quietly, staring at the floor. “She drew it. She was an amazing artist. You couldn’t believe what that girl could create, with just a pencil and a piece of paper.” Ben paused and looked out the window. “Man, she loved angels. Obsessed with them, more like. I even had a matching necklace made for her as an early wedding present. She always wore it. They didn’t find it.” His voice had turned bitter. “Worst thing about a tattoo is its permanence.”

  Q’s mouth moved in silent impotence, while her mind struggled to find the right words to string together, to somehow justify her accusations, and her unwarranted distrust, but no sound came out.

  “I think you should go, Q,” Ben finally said. Tears started to sting her eyes and she felt her nerves dissolve into a puddle of nausea in the pit of her stomach. She reached out to touch his arm and he pulled away. “Just go. It’s what you’ve been trying to do all along. I shouldn’t have tried so hard to stop you. It shouldn’t be this hard to get you to stay put.”

  She stood up and put the folder back inside her satchel, unable to think of any way to make right what she had just broken. Ben didn’t move. He sat resolutely on the couch, sipping his coffee, and staring at the open photo album. When she got to the door, she stopped and turned. “For what it’s worth, I would have loved to meet your family tonight.”

  She walked out of the house and down the steps, heading for the Carrollton streetcar, wiping away the tears gathering in her eyes, and trying to get a hold of herself. Her head was reeling. Her face was hot with self-loathing.

  Nice job, Q. Way to fuck up the only real relationship you’ve had in a decade. Bravo.

  Q found a seat next to an open window on the downtown bound streetcar. Ben had given her no reason to distrust him, and still, she struggled to accept him at face value. She felt the tears building before she started to cry, and quickly tried to think of something, anything else, that wouldn’t remind her of the mess she’d just made with Ben. Silent anger began to pump into her stomach.

  How could Ernst accuse Ben of those things? Correction. How could I accuse Ben of those things?

  She began to think through everything that she had discovered about Ronnie, and couldn’t believe that with all the evidence pointing to the Multers’ involvement, the police would still accuse Pete or Ben. There had to be something she was missing.

  Ronnie was at that party by invitation with ten thousand dollars in her purse. Where had she gotten that kind of money? If she stole it, someone else in the room would have had to have ten grand go missing, and not say anything about it. Ben checked the safe and said nothing was gone.

  Q inwardly corrected herself.

  Ben checked his safe and verified that nothing was gone. Ben didn’t do this.

  She thought about where she was October 3, 2003. Twenty-one days away from never knowing norm
al again. She wondered if that’s why she and Ben had been so inexplicably drawn to each other. Wounds like that tend to shroud a person. She remembered what he had said about everyone having baggage, and marveled at his capacity to carry his burden. She cringed at her own inability to simply move on.

  When she got off the streetcar at Canal, she decided to walk through the Quarter to clear her head. She was two blocks down St. Peter before she stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk with a sudden realization.

  He wanted you to fight. Why didn’t you fight?

  She fought her way to the corner, looking for a taxi to hail, determined to charge right back uptown to make things right with Ben. She had no idea how, but she would at least try and fight for it.

  Begging will most likely be involved. Probably a good bit of groveling, too. If all else fails, I’ll just camp out on his doorstep.

  With no taxi in sight, she turned to get her bearings while searching for the nearest cabstand. She glanced at the restaurant next to her and spotted Urian through the dusty window, slowly eating a large fried something po’ boy. She bit her lower lip in indecision.

  If she only knew who paid Pete’s debt. And suddenly the missing puzzle piece slapped her brain: The police don’t know about Pete’s debt to Urian.

  Her quest to win back Ben, found itself taking a slight detour as she headed towards the door of the restaurant.

  Ben is going to murder you, a little voice whispered in her ear.

  Ben is not speaking to me because I’m a treacherous bitch, Q reminded the little voice, as she walked into the dim restaurant.

  Several anemic houseplants hung from macramé plant holders. The weakly illuminated counter was headed by an ‘Order Here’ sign and the limited menu. Urian was sitting by the window, still looking out of the grimy glass through the painted logo. She walked over to his table and sat down.

  “Beautiful girl. What a nice surprise,” Urian purred, not sounding like he was entirely thrilled to see her. “You get tired of Price Valiant and come looking for a real man?”

  Q glared at him and put her chin in her hands. “Too bad there aren’t any real men here, huh Urian?”

  Urian glared back and popped a greasy French fry in his mouth. “Let me buy you lunch. You and your boyfriend saved me some trouble with the police last week. I appreciate you not telling them how I got invited to your little party.”

  She was momentarily and visibly flummoxed. Urian grinned. It reminded Q of a vulture gnawing on a piece of road kill.

  “Oh yes, beautiful girl, the police hauled me into the station for questioning. Can you believe that? Wondering why I was there at the party. As if I can’t enjoy the carnival festivities like everyone else. And that stupid, old, black detective actually asked me if I was really there to book a party of my own, like your boyfriend said. Of course, I agreed. Who needs that kind of trouble?”

  She ground her teeth and decided to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible. “Who paid Pete’s debt?”

  “I can’t remember.” Urian took a large bite of his po’ boy. “Now let me get you some food. I recommend the shrimp.”

  “That’s ok, Urian. I already ate lunch. With my uncle. You remember my uncle, Detective Gautraux?” Urian obviously did. Q smiled. “You see, Uncle Ernst may be old, but he's not stupid. He figured out that I lied to him…and Ben lied to him…and Pete lied to him. So, if I were to, say, call him in tears, saying how sorry I was, and how Pete owed you ten large, and you had threatened to kill Pete’s girlfriend if he didn’t pay you, and do awful things to me if I went to the police. Who do you think he’d believe? You? Or me?” Q purred back at him, “You don’t want that kind of trouble, do you, lover?”

  “Why can’t you just be a good girl? You always have to stir up trouble. You and me, we should be friends, but you just can’t stay on my good side. Threaten, threaten, threaten. That’s not friendly, not nice at all.” He sipped his drink.

  “Just tell me who paid off Pete’s debt,” she replied, annoyed.

  “Uh-uh. Is that the way one asks a polite question of a friend?”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “Say ‘please’ and we might be.” Urian stared calmly, a slight smile crept over his face.

  Q took a deep inhale and said, “Urian, dear friend, please tell me who paid Pete’s debt and I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch in peace.”

  He looked indifferent. “Was that so hard? The girl. Pete’s woman. She paid me.”

  “She paid you ten thousand dollars? All of it? But she had ten thousand, in cash, on her when they found the body.” Q was stupefied.

  “Then she must have started out with twenty.” Urian shrugged. “Look, she came to me the night you and I struck our bargain. Begging me not to hurt Pete. Offered to fuck me, blow me, anything.” He picked a piece of shrimp out of his back molar with his pinky and sucked it off his nail. “I don’t fuck junkies. It’s like fucking a dead body.”

  Q hoped he wasn’t speaking from experience.

  Urian continued, “Then she said she had some information about some rich people. Powerful people. Information I could use to get some money.”

  “What was it?” she asked.

  “How the hell should I know, I’m not a filthy blackmailer,” Urian spat.

  “You’re a drug dealer and a bookie. You threaten people for a living and you expect me to believe that blackmail is beneath you?”

  “Look who’s talking about threatening people,” he replied. “Believe me. Don’t believe me. Look, beautiful girl, I deal in vices. That’s my business. If word gets out that I use those vices against people, no more business.” Urian leaned back in his chair and rested his elbow on the back. “Look, Q. I like you. You've got spirit. You've also got terrible taste in friends, you should be more careful about who you choose to spend time with. Listen to me when I tell you: Stay out this.”

  “Or what?” Q asked.

  “Or nothing.” He sounded exasperated. “It’s not a threat. It’s a piece of friendly advice. Pete’s woman was, how you say, ‘coocoo for cocoa puffs’.” Urian drew slow circles with his finger next to his head. “She had a screw loose. Too many pills, too many bad men. Who knows? But she was not right in her head. Anything she was mixed up in, is nothing but trouble.”

  When the psychopathic pot calls the junkie kettle nuts, it’s probably best to pay attention.

  Q stood to go and Urian took her hand. “I mean it, beautiful girl. Stay out of this. Powerful animals are dangerous when they’re cornered. Call your uncle and tell him to come talk to me. Don’t go digging any deeper into this.”

  “Thought you didn’t want any trouble,” she said, confused by Urian suddenly acting like a human being.

  He kissed the inside of her wrist and said, “Like I said, I don’t like fucking dead bodies.”

  And there’s the freak show we all know and loathe.

  “Thanks for the info, Urian.” She took her hand back and left the restaurant, wiping her wrist on her jeans as she walked into the overcast afternoon.

  Q’s mind was racing as she walked up Decatur towards Jackson Square, running through the facts that she could trust. She had seen Ronnie with the Senator and Jessica had seen the same thing. Ben said he saw Ronnie leave the storage room and found Senator Multer in there fixing his zipper, claiming he was making a phone call. Q figured Ronnie couldn’t have been blackmailing Multer. If anything, getting caught having sex with a stripper would have clinched his reelection. Louisiana voters preferred their politicians to be openly morally corrupt; it was more honest that way. She had to be right about that, because the Multers hadn’t lied to the police about how Ronnie ended up on the guest list. The Multers hired Ronnie and Jessica to perform at the after party and then changed their minds.

  What in the hell is a ‘girl talk’ party, anyhow?

  She suddenly remembered creepy Marianne Multer’s business card and dug it out of her wallet, looking at the neatly gold embossed
lettering on the milky, white parchment. She impulsively pulled out her phone and dialed the number.

  “Multers,” said the voice on the line.

  “Um, hi, this is Q Toledano from QT and the Beasts, is Mrs. Multer available?” Q asked, feeling like an idiot.

  There was a brief pause, then Marianne Multer’s voice slurred into her ear, “Miss Toledano! What a pleasant surprise. How lovely to hear from you.”

  Q didn’t know quite what to say. “I found myself with a free afternoon and I’d thought I’d give you a call.”

  “Well, how wonderful. I’m quite all by myself this afternoon as well. You don’t happen to be near Governor Nichols and Burgundy now do you? I’m spending the weekend at our condo here in the Quarter.”

  Q’s stomach flipped. She considered backing out and lying.

  Get your ass in a cab and get back to Ben.

  But she instead said, “As a matter of fact, I’m just in Jackson Square.”

  Marianne Multer’s voice drawled across the cellular waves telling Q she’d be a welcome visitor and providing her with the address. Q walked towards the Multers’ condo and tried to come up with a game plan. She just needed to find out what kind of party the Multers were throwing and how well they knew Ronnie, then she’d head right back to Ben’s and grovel until her knees bled.

  Easier said than done.

  She thought about Urian’s warning and wondered how much of it she could accept at face value. Every instinct she had told her to heed his advice and get back to Ben’s house as fast and as far away from Ronnie’s murder as she possibly could.

  If you leave now, you can make things right in time to go with him to Sunday dinner. Just take Urian’s advice and let it go.

  She stopped, unable to decide if Urian was actually looking out for her or looking out for himself, and finally decided that it didn’t matter. She looked up and down Burgundy for a taxi, but the street was deserted. She sat down on the damp curb on the corner of Governor Nichols, suddenly exhausted.