The Great Beau

by O'Neil De Noux

  “From your old office downstairs.”

  Beau points to the far wall. He goes out to direct the arrival of every item from their old office including the other computers. He sees Aileen working on her iMac. She points to a small door at the far corner of the room, explains it’s a storage room with filing cabinets a table with two chairs and a sink and coffee pot with coffee and sugar. Creamers in a small refrigerator.

  “You can change your door lock combination after I give it to you,” she says.

  “Naw. Better you and I both have it so I don’t forget.”

  A half hour later, Beau’s back in his captain’s chair, pulling stapler and paperclips from a box to put into his desk.

  “My father’s a black preacher,” Jordan explains as he sits in the same chair. “What did your father do?”

  “Fisherman. Hunter.” Beau looks up. “A preacher, huh? Which church?”

  “Church of himself. He preaches on street corners. For people to drop money in a hat. A genuine bible thumper. My mother is a typical Jewish mother. So I grew up in a Baptist-Jewish house. Only good part was I got to celebrate the holidays of both religions. You grow up to dislike Jews?”

  OK, think of something to get him out of the office.

  “Never met any until I moved to New Orleans. Haven’t met one I don’t like.”

  “What about Hispanics?”

  “You mean Latinos? I picked Juanita Cruz for my partner. She’s Latino.”

  Beau finishes emptying the box, puts it aside.

  “What about blacks? You don’t have a fuckin’ confederate flag on your car, do you?”

  “Only people I dislike are criminals. And they come in every color.”

  Beau gets up, crosses the room. Jordan follows.

  “This Juanita Cruz. What’s she like?”

  “Sharp. Her IQ’s about 50 points higher than yours.”

  “You know my IQ?”

  “ATF provided your personnel file.” Beau lies.

  Jordan shuts up but only for a few seconds.

  “Juanita good looking?”

  Aileen looks up from her keyboard and Beau rolls his eyes.

  “She’s pretty. And short like you. Big boned.”

  “Oh, you mean fat?”

  “I never said that.”

  “She’s Mexican, right?”

  “Yeah. And don’t stare at her legs.”

  Beau tries not to smile, anticipating Juanita’s reaction when this loony bird calls her a Mexican.

  “Something wrong with her legs?”

  “No. They’re nice but she doesn’t like to wear pants and wears skirts to work. Some short, but not too short.”

  “Any up to her ass?”

  “No. That would be my girlfriend.”

  “Your girlfriend wears skirts up to her ass?”

  “Not always, but sometimes.”

  Aileen tries not to laugh now.

  “Does it bother you?”

  “She’s got a great ass.”

  “You don’t get bothered guys hawking her out?”

  “If Jessie showed up with no make-up and in a long burlap sack, guys would hawk her out.”

  “Burlap sack? She’s got you blinded.”

  “Wait ‘till you see her.”

  Beau goes back into his office, opens his briefcase and pulls out everything he has on the D’Loup case and hands it to Jordan.

  “Go read this and don’t lose any of it.”

  Jordan starts to read and Beau tells him, “Take it to the conference room, SA Jordan.”

  THE MAN KNOWN to Beau only as the man from Washington leans into Beau’s office doorway, looks around the office before coming in and closing the door behind him.

  “How’s the arm?”

  “It’s OK.” Beau stands, moves around the desk to shake the man’s hand, shows him the bullet wound that fractured his ulna in his final shootout with the Brown Ravens. They both stand 6’2”, the man around fifty and a little thicker in the torso. His hair is still gray, still professionally cut and he wears a well-tailored gray suit with a red tie.

  “How is she doing?” asks Beau.

  The man from Washington draws an unsealed white envelope from an inside pocket, hands it to Beau who turns it over and sees a Hallmark imprint. He opens the envelope, pulls a greeting card from inside, looks at the drawing on the front of the card – a pen and ink drawing of three pit bulls, their paws up on a wooden fence as they snarl and foam at the mouth at a gray cat – looks a lot like Stella. The cat sits atop the fence casually licking its paw.

  He opens the card to see Hallmark’s inscription – ‘If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs …’

  The handwritten note on the blank side of the card is in blue ink. A neat, flowing script.

  “Look familiar? I am well and think of you often. Hope you still think of me. – D. E.”

  He thanks the man from Washington. The man holds up a bulky brown envelope now.

  “The keys to your new SUV. This year’s model. Secret Service package. And credit cards for all three of you. For gas and expenses. Within reason.”

  Beau takes the envelope, thanks the man who looks at the blank walls.

  “Room for all your commendations.”

  “I don’t have any commendations.”

  The man nods. “I know. There’s no medal for not getting indicted by the Grand Jury.”

  “No True Bill is good enough.”

  The man pulls out a billfold and hands Beau a business card.

  “About time you know my name. Especially since I’m the one financing and running this show.”

  The card reads:

  Thomas James Madison, Director

  ECON COM

  Eisenhower Executive Office Building

  Washington, DC 20500

  202.555.0001

  cell 202.555.0011

  “ECON COM?”

  The man moves to one of the chairs and sits. “We’re part of the Executive Office of the President. ECON COM is a classified law enforcement initiative, a special helping hand. Putting money where it’s needed. I will not direct your operations. Your superintendent is one of our,” He pauses, then says, “emissaries. We’re also starting up a multi-agency task force to address street crime here but you’re still separate.”

  Beau moves around the desk to sit.

  Thomas James Madison waits for him to sit. “The D’Loup family is of special interest to us and Interpol.”

  Beau pulls out his Moleskine and pen.

  “That’s why Janet called you. A dossier with details will arrive for you soon. From Interpol. It involves stolen jewels and art.”

  “Any Renoirs or Remingtons?” Beau thinks a second. “Um, sculpture by Claudel.”

  “I do not have details but you will get contact information from Interpol.”

  Madison looks at his watch, stands and straightens his jacket.

  “One more thing. Something personal.”

  Beau stands.

  “Hillel Jordan. His father and I go back a long way. Vietnam.” Madison lets that sink in before, “If you can give a little guidance to the son, I’d appreciate it.”

  Beau nods, moves around the desk to shake the man’s hand.

  “How do I get a note back to her?”

  Madison tells him to send it to him. He heads for the door, looks back and adds, “Your new car’s parked next to your old car.”

  Back at his desk, Beau picks up the Hallmark card again and re-reads what she wrote.

  D. E. – Donna Elena Palma. Daughter of a Los Angeles cop who got mixed up with the Brown Ravens. She tried to save the life of Thomas James Madison’s daughter but failed. Beau did not fail saving Donna by methodically killing the Brown Ravens. And now she’s up in Washington working and apparently OK now.

  He closes his eyes, sees Donna Elena’s young face, sweaty and panting as she stems the blood flowing from his arm, kept him stable until they came and took him to the hospital
. She’d saved him back.

  The phone on Beau’s desk buzzes. It’s Aileen.

  “I have combinations to all three door locks, new MacBook Pro computers, iPads and radios with some sort of super scrambler in them. According to Mr. Edwards. Your new NOPD call number is CIU 1. The others are 2 and 3 and there’s one for my desk. I’m CIU 4. Pretty smooth, wouldn’t you say?”

  Jordan peeks in, says, “Hey, can I wear 5-11 tactical pants like you? And a polo shirt?”

  “Sure.”

  “Groovy.” Jordan jots in his notebook.

  Beau packs his small briefcase, tells Jordan they have police work to do. It’s called a canvass.

  THE MAGNOLIA TREES along Prytania Street stand nearly as tall as the live oaks of Audubon Park but provided little, if any shade, as the branches are too close together and too close to the ground. After knocking on each door on the block running along the uptown side of Albert D’Loup’s house, Beau tosses Jordan the keys to their black SUV.

  “Put your coat in the car or you’ll melt.”

  They skip Superintendent Féroce’s house, find no one who saw anything along D’Loup’s side of the street. Directly across the street from the dead man’s house they find another older woman – most people along the street are in their 60s – who saw nothing beyond the police cars the day Albert’s body was taken away.

  “Never met the man, officer.” This is Memphis Lansing, white female, 62, who has lived on Prytania for 43 years. “Is there something amiss about his demise?”

  Amiss about his demise? Beau writes that down without smiling.

  Jordan writes it too, probably wondering what he’s missing here.

  “No, officer, I saw no one around the place after the fellow’s body was removed.”

  Four doors down, Joan Lansing stands in the doorway of her two story red brick house and lets out a long draft of cigarette smoke. “My mother-in-law sees nothing beyond her front room. I, on the other hand, saw a woman on the front gallery of the old man’s house the day before he died. I’ve seen her once before.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Well dressed. Tall. Elegant looking.” Joan sucks in cigarette smoke. “In her 50s, tall, blond hair. Skinny.” She blows the smoke out the right side of her mouth, away from Beau, thankfully. “Well dressed. Dresses and heels.”

  “Was she with Mr. D’Loup.”

  “Only saw her out on the gallery. Alone.”

  “What time of day?”

  “Afternoon.”

  Time for another suck of cigarette smoke.

  “See anyone else around the last day or two?”

  “Just you and the redhead. Cops in uniforms.”

  “What kind of car did the blond lady drive?”

  Joan Lansing exhales, shrugs.

  He asks if there was anything else she remembered. No. Beau leaves a business card.

  Joan Lansing says, “That’s an odd name. Your mother like black birds?”

  “Edgar Allan Poe fan. My brother’s name is Usher.”

  She looks at Jordan for confirmation and gets a confused nod as Jordan writes quickly in his notebook.

  An hour later, they climb back into the SUV and turn up the AC.

  “We gotta come back at night.”

  Jordan nods, still writing in his notebook. “Yeah. Yeah. Why?”

  “The burglary happened at night and somebody had to see something.” Beau drives off. “Thief had to use a vehicle. Nobody walks away from here with two 3-foot fuckin’ paintings.”

  Jordan keeps writing.

  “This brother named Usher. He older than you?”

  “I’m an only child.”

  Jordan gives Beau a narrowed-eyed look.

  THE FIRST CLUE supper would be interesting comes from Stella who chatters loudly from atop the teakwood table in the foyer when Beau comes in. How she moves between the smoky-glass lamp with its gossamer shade and the milky-white porcelain vase set with delicate silk orchids without knocking either over is another example of feline awesomeness.

  “What is it, Baby?” Beau pets her head and she rubs her snout against his hand and goes, “Arowl. Arowl.” Louder than before. Louder than she’s ever spoken.

  It’s Jessie’s turn to get supper and Beau smells Chinese food. Stella follows him to the kitchen, now chattering the way she does at birds outside. Once he sees Stefi sitting at the dining room table with her arms folded and a scowl on her face, he recognizes this as the second clue.

  Jessie’s hair is in a ponytail, well most of it, some dangles in her eyes as she pulls plates from the kitchen cabinet. Beau steps up and kisses her neck and she points to the white boxes. They serve themselves egg rolls, Peking duck, Moo Goo Gai Pan, Cashew Chicken over white rice and fill tall glasses with iced tea, take it into the dining room.

  “You eating with us?” Beau asks Stefi, who won’t look at him.

  He heads back for the kitchen and Jessie snaps, “Don’t serve her.”

  “I’m serving my favorite girl.”

  He opens a can of Friskies chicken-n-gravy for Stella, passes Stefi coming in the kitchen on his way out.

  What the hell’s she wearing?

  He tries not to do a double-take but this 14 year old-who’s-going-on-21 wears a yellow blouse with vertical black stripes and fairly sheer yoga pants with pink and orange horizontal stripes. He quickly sits and waits for it.

  Three minutes into the meal, Jessie tells her little sister, “You can’t stay here.”

  “You’re gonna have to throw me out.”

  Beau won’t look up now. Let the sisters go to it. The Peking duck is crispy fantastic.

  He makes the mistake of looking up a minute later and both are looking at him as they eat.

  “How about those Saints?” He tries a smile.

  Jessie rolls her eyes. No one at the table likes the Saints or pro football for that matter and it isn’t football season any way.

  Stefi waits to catch his eye again, says, “All I did was send a boy a nude selfie of me. He’s going to paint me.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Beau says just to see Jessie’s eyes go wide, then tells Stefi, “It’s just against the law.”

  “It’s my body.”

  “Nude photos of your naked body are against the law.” He raises his hand. “I don’t write the laws.”

  Beau takes a fork full of Moo Goo, chews, then goes, “In fact, no one can see you naked until you’re 17 except immediate family, doctors and nurses.”

  “That’s stupid.”

  The cop in Beau asks, “Hope this boy is a juvenile like you.”

  “He’s 14 too.”

  Jessie glares at Beau.

  “If the boy is 17 or older he’s in serious trouble. Possession of child porn.” Beau looks at Stefi. “Who found out?”

  “His mother stole his cell phone and found it and told my mother.”

  It’s always the parents.

  Stefi looks at her sister now. “And you got some nerve with your red nude painting upstairs.”

  “I was 23 when I posed for that.” Jessie points her fork at her sister. “Quit taking it out on me. Mom’s the one flippin’ out about this.”

  What did I say? Always the parents.

  “That’s why I have to stay here a while.” Stefi looks at Beau. “You don’t mind, do you, Johnny? I know you two can’t do stuff on the couch with me around. But y’all have a big bed.”

  Stella’s ears and eyes peek up over the table. She’s on Stefi’s lap.

  Son of a gun.

  “Everyone’s overreacting,” goes Stefi. “I’m handling this better than you did with Alaina.”

  That freezes Jessie.

  Beau dips his egg roll into the hot mustard, then the sweet and sour sauce and takes a bite.

  “You’ve always been so jealous of Alaina. Miss Perfect Beauty. Miss Louisiana. I was there when you tore up that poster of her.”

  Jessie looks at Beau but he’s ahead of the game now, his fa
ce deadpan. He calls this the expressionless face of the plains warrior. His eyes show nothing either.

  Stefi waves to get his attention. “My biggest sister was Miss Louisiana and Jessie’s in her 20s and president of a bank.”

  “A holding company.” Jessie doesn’t get a chance to say she’s more of an overseer for the Louviers.

  “I’m not finished. You have Nude In Red and him.” Stefi points at Beau.

  Stella puts a hesitant paw up on the table.

  “And you.” Stefi’s talking to Beau now. “How many killers have you sent to jail? Catching murderers. What’s more important than that?”

  They all take a moment to actually eat and Beau leans forward until Stella sees he’s watching her and her paw slides from the table and her face slowly sinks from view.

  Stefi says, “I have to come up with something to do or just give up.”

  Jessie says, “You’re only 14 for God’s sake. You better come up with something better than sending child porn over the internet.”

  “Well, I’ve decided I want to be an artist and a model. I need art supplies.”

  Jessie’s eyes go big-wide. Then she laughs of all things.

  “Remember your first report card?”

  Stefi is not amused.

  Jessie looks at Beau. “In the place where a parent supposed to sign the report card, little Miss I-have-to-come-up-with-something-or-give-up signed ‘Mom’ and turned it back in. She tried to convince the sisters that her mother actually signed the report card – ‘Mom’.

  “Busted in first grade. What was that Lincoln thing you did?”

  “What Lincoln thing?”

  “Sending him a message?”

  Stefi’s shoulders slump and she almost smiles. “Stupid nun.” To Beau now, “I was in fifth grade. The assignment was ‘Imagine you lived at the same time as Abraham Lincoln and you meet him, what would you say to him?’ I wrote ‘You’re not Italian so you don’t know this but don’t sit with your back to a door, especially in a theatre’.”

  When it looks like they’re finished for a moment, Beau points his fork at Stefi.

  “You are a couillon.”

  She narrows that left eye. “What does it mean? Something bad?”

  “It means sweet, mischievous one.”

  “What?”

  “In Cajun. A loving little fool. Like a little brother who takes your toy to play with and breaks it. Or a little sister who borrows a dress and tears it.”