The Great Beau

by O'Neil De Noux

  Stefi cuts in, “I love these descriptions. We gotta go there sometime.”

  Beau spears an oyster, chews, then goes, “Luke and my Daddy came back to where James and I stood. A craggy-faced man, Luke was around 50 back then with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual squint from long days under the south Louisiana sun. He had a heavy Cajun accent.”

  Beau mimics the accent, “It ees no good, no. City boy in de swamp. It don’ take notin’ for a big gator to snatch a child near de’ water and we got plenty gator dis summer, yeah.

  “My Daddy thanked him and we started away. Luke told us to come back for vittles. Gumbo and jambalaya.

  “As we moved away, I remember Luke calling out, “I don’ tink’ you ever gon’ see dat boy again’.

  “James led us back to the cheniére for a while and the signs were harder to see, but he kept finding blades of bent grass and smudges in the soft soil. I heard a loud snorting and my Daddy moved between the noise and where we headed.

  “He said, ‘Wild pigs. Razorback maybe’. I didn’t know then, but a twenty gauge wasn’t the gun you would bring to a pig shoot. A twelve gauge was more like it. So I guess my Daddy was on edge, watching for hogs while James followed the sign, with me next to him. I remember my Daddy telling us if it was a razorback, climb the nearest tree.

  “I was noticing small signs that I never knew were there left by a person traveling over land.

  “James stopped and I bumped into him and he pointed ahead. A small brown shoe stuck out of the mud in front of us. My young uncle moved forward and pulled the shoe out of the mud, handed it to me and pointed to a small footprint. We saw the fine lines made by a foot covered in a sock. We followed the signs now, easier as the socked foot trailed mud on the grass, then returned to mud puddles as if the lost boy was stepping in puddles on purpose.”

  Beau pauses to eat more and drink tea. Stefi eats too, her eyes riveted to his. Jessie eats slower, watches him. The people at the tables are too occupied with their conversation to hear what he says.

  “The footprints ended at a wide spot in the foliage. Just beyond were scuff marks in the grass and mud.

  James pointed to the marks and said, “A struggle.”

  “Gator?” I asked.

  “James pointed to other prints beyond the place where the struggle had been. We followed the large footprints of a man, footprints that sank into the marsh as if the man was heavy or carried a weight.

  “James and I kept searching for sign until my Daddy whispered, ‘Look. Ahead’.

  “My Daddy spotted a house, a small unpainted place, little more than a shack. The place seemed abandoned, the windows had torn screens, patched in places, but no windowpanes and the front door dangled at an odd angle.

  “My Daddy said, ‘I remember dis place. I tink a hermit lives here’.

  “Your Daddy spoke Cajun?”

  Beau eats a fried shrimp, nods, continues, “As if he heard us, an old man came out on the porch, raised a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

  “My Daddy said he remembered the old man. ‘He used to be janitor when I wen’ to school. Y’all stay here’.

  “My Daddy went up to the porch and spoke with the old man, who fussed, waving his arms around. James moved to the side of the house, still following the sign. I followed and when reached the corner of the house, a loud squawking scared me as a buzzard rose from the ground. I saw entrails piled there, like bloody serpents and the carcasses of two big gators hung from a clothes line running behind the house to a cypress tree.

  “James went pass the carcasses, following drag marks now. I went slower, watching the big gators. They’d been gutted and hung from huge hooks through their jaws. There was a hole in the head of one where it had been shot. A scratching sound startled me and I jumped away from the house. It came again and I peeked under it as the house was raised maybe a foot. I thought there was coon there or some other critter.

  “The scratching got louder and I realized it came from a storage bin attached to the back of the place. A damn coon or a squirrel was probably in there. I took out my knife and stepped closer. It had a clasp with a metal pin through it. I must have made a noise because the scratching stopped. I waited and saw James looking at me now from the far corner of the house. I was about to go to him when the lid of the bin rattled and I jumped back, dropped the shoe I’d been carrying. James came over with the twenty-two but he kept it pointed to the sky. He nodded for me to open the bin. The pin came out easily and I threw the lid open and jumped back.”

  Beau grabs Stefi’s arm and she jumps.

  “Nothing came out. I inched closer and James nodded for me to look in so I did and the white face staring back at me was dirty with large, frightened eyes. The boy was in his drawers, jockeys that were once white and he was filthy as he cowered, lying in the fetal position, staring up at me and James. He shivered and tried to say something. James rested the twenty-two against the bin and we helped the boy out.

  “When my Daddy and the hermit saw us walking the boy around to the front of the house, the old man went inside. It took my Daddy a moment to realize what was going on and he stepped up on the porch as the old man came out with a butcher knife. My Daddy stepped back off the porch. The old man glared at me and James and started moving toward my Daddy with the knife raised.

  “My Daddy called out for him to put the knife down and backed away from the man. He kept backing away and the man kept coming with that big knife held high. I still had my knife out and wanted to run over and stick the old bastard but James grabbed my shirt collar and pulled me back. My Daddy told the man to put the knife down again as they went around a big magnolia tree and started moving our way. My Daddy talked softer, tried to talk the old man into dropping the knife. The old man got closer to my Daddy who pointed his shotgun that way but the old man kept coming, slashing at the air now, his face contorted in a hideous grimace. My Daddy almost slipped and the man got closer, too close and I could only think – why doesn’t my Daddy shoot him?

  “The old man with the knife was so close to my Daddy. Why won’t he shoot? He kept talking to the man, smiling now, being the sweet Cajun Daddy. I heard my Daddy say, ‘You don’ wan’ to do dis’ The man was way too close and I held my breath.

  “A shot rang out and the old man’s eye exploded and he staggered, went straight down. James slowly lowered the twenty-two, reached for my knife. He passed me the twenty-two, went over and sliced off a swatch of the dead man’s gray hair, stuffed it into his pocket.

  “My Daddy’s eyes met mine and I saw pain in his but there was nothing to do now, except get the little boy to a hospital. James came back, handed me my knife and looked deep into my eyes and I saw something in his eyes.”

  Beau pauses for a deep breath, looks into Jessie’s eyes, tells her, “I saw myself in James’s eyes.

  “It was at that moment, I knew why my Daddy didn’t shoot the man. My Daddy was Cajun. The blood of Crazy Horse runs through my veins, the blood of the warriors of the great plains. Lakota.”

  Jessie takes in a deep breath.

  “Our enemies called us Sioux for we are ferocious.”

  Beau chews on the rest of a hush puppy, raises his tea glass and says, “There’s no doubt, I would have shot the old man.”

  Jessie says, “You’re giving me goose bumps.”

  “So your cousin taught you how to kill men.” says Stefi.

  “A Sioux does not need to be taught. It’s innate.”

  “What?”

  “Instinct. The same reason Stella won’t harm a kitten.”

  Stefi leans forward with furrowed brows.

  He tells her to think about it.

  JESSIE IS IN a post-intercourse glow and snuggles against Beau who’s stretched out on his back in their king-sized bed. Stella jumps up on the bed and walks in a tight circle before curling up at the foot of the bed.

  The ceiling fan blows the AC over their damp bodies and Beau watches the wooden slats rotate above them,
keeps watching, lets the steady beat make him drowsy then sleepy and he closes his eyes to let himself drift away with visions of Jessie looking up at him as they make love, and snapshots of this new life with her. No visions of blood. No snapshot of brains. His mind drifts until his right hand clenches into a fist. Jessie’s eyes are closed and he raises the hand, sees Stella looking at him. Jessie stirs and as his left hand starts tightening. He gets up while he can move his legs, looks back at Jessie.

  Those pale green eyes open and she blinks at him.

  “You OK, Babe?”

  “Sure.” He starts for the bathroom.

  “Last night your body was so tight when I brushed against you.”

  “I’m OK.”

  He makes it to the bathroom, closes the door and latches on to the towel rack and both hands lock around the metal bar. He closes his eyes and tries deep breathing. His legs quiver then go weak and he has to hold himself up on arms straining with stiffness.

  It’ll go away. It’ll go away.

  Perspiration works its way down the sides of his face and he waits, the muscles in his arms straining, hands squeezing the rack, his muscles burning now.

  A scratch at the door.

  Stella?

  The door starts to open and Jessie says, “You all right, Babe?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  She leaves the door cracked and Beau feels the stiffness in his arms give way and his legs hold him up now. He’s able to open his fingers and pull his hands from the bar. He looks in the mirror and takes in a deep breath. He could be pale or it could be the light. Otherwise, he’s the same. He checks himself, no telltale stiffness from a stroke. He runs his hands over his chest, reaches over and turns on the shower, adjusts the temperature and climbs in.

  He lathers up and rinses off, reaches for the shampoo and Jessie pulls the glass door aside and climbs in with him. She lathers up and he finishes with his hair and shampoos hers and they towel each other off and go back to bed. She lies her head on a towel. The stiffness in Beau’s arms does not return.

  Jessie’s fingers glide up and down his back and he reaches back to pat her hip.

  “Get some sleep, Babe.” Her voice is soft and he feels himself slipping into sleep.

  BEAU WAITS UNTIL 10 a.m. to call Juanita, whose cruise ship returned to New Orleans yesterday.

  “Just called to let you know we’ll pick you up at 8:30 in the morning.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. We have a new member and a new office.”

  “Jesus. Gone 10 days and everything changes. Who’s the new member?”

  “Words can’t describe him. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  THEY GATHER IN the long conference room of the Law Offices of Marten, Stoat and Fisher, Claire D’Loup in a skirt suit, the same charcoal gray color as Mr. Fisher’s baggy suit, Beau in a white dress shirt over black RipStop tactical pants with his weapon and gear on his black canvas belt. Jordan’s managed to locate black RipStops as well and wears a khaki shirt with it.

  Inspector Juanita Cruz, her dark complexion more cocoa colored after more than a week in the Caribbean and her dark brown hair looks fluffier, hanging to her shoulders, wears a dark blue polo shirt with a gold NOPD star-and-crescent badge and khaki RipStop tactical skirt with the same canvas belt. She’s been warning Beau how the police tac-skirts come in different lengths, including a mini-length, which she wears for the first time today.

  The new guy obviously never worked with a woman before, keeps checking her out, her legs especially. She’s not sure how she should feel about it. Her skirt’s midway up her thighs and snug and she resists tugging it down.

  A woman who could be the older sister of Mrs. Soffon, who married Father Time and outlived him and now works for Jessie, comes in with a steno pad to sit to the right of Fisher who’s at the head of the long mahogany table in a room smelling of flowers – more plug-ins. Claire sits to Fisher’s left, Jordan next to her. Beau opts to sits across from them. So does Juanita.

  A cell phone starts shrieking and Alizée doesn’t shriek, so it isn’t Beau’s phone. Jordan fumbles for his iPhone and turns off the noise, glances at the screen, gives Beau a weak smile just as Beau realizes the noise is the music from the shower scene. Psycho.

  Juanita leans close to Beau, whispers, “Ring tone fits him.”

  Beau remembers to take out his iPhone, mute it and starts recording.

  Fisher looks at the oversized wall clock, pulls a legal-sized document from the briefcase next to him. He announces they can begin now and reads the will of Albert D’Loup, naturalized U.S. citizen born Albert Wolfschlucht in the Kingdom of Bavaria in 1916.

  “Filed into probate …” Fisher gives the date five years earlier. The will was witnessed and notarized by Kenneth Stoat and Marvin Fisher, attorneys at law.

  Fisher turns the page of the document. After three paragraphs of legal gibberish, Fisher says, “The undersigned bequeaths 1.25 million dollars from his account in the 1st Louisiana National Bank to Immaculate Conception Parish, New Orleans, Louisiana.”

  Jordan gasps. Juanita shakes her head.

  “The undersigned bequeaths 1.25 million dollars from his account in the 1st Louisiana National Bank to The Society of Jesus.” Fisher glances at Claire. “The remainder of the earthly possessions of Albert D’Loup is bequeathed to granddaughter Claire Maureen D’Loup or her heirs if her death predates Albert D’Loup’s death.”

  Fisher lists the property on Prytania Street including all its contents, Valence Antiques on Magazine Street including all its contents, the remainder of his funds in the 1st Louisiana National Bank, and all funds in the Creole Savings Bank of New Orleans and Brandenburg Trust Bank, Zurich, Switzerland. The old lawyer reaches into the open briefcase and pulls out a small tan envelope, holds it up.

  He reads from the will. “The undersigned also bequeaths the contents of Vault 223 of the Silvers Vault Complex, Common Street, New Orleans, to Claire Maureen D’Loup.” He holds up the small envelope, looking at Claire now. “The key is in here. You and I and Mr. Stoat have an appointment at Silvers at 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. Will that be convenient?”

  Claire nods slowly.

  He pulls out another small envelope. “Car keys to Albert’s 2006 Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedan.”

  He flips to the last page and says, “In the event Claire Maureen D’Loup or any heirs do not survive Albert D’Loup, her share of the estate will be divided evenly between Immaculate Conception Parish and the Society of Jesus.”

  He looks up. “Filed into probate, this will became effective the moment of Albert D’Loup’s death.”

  Claire stares at the table.

  “Gee,” Jordan says. “You have a Mercedes?”

  Juanita glares at him.

  The elderly stenographer passes Fisher a small note and he gets Claire’s attention.

  “Who is Countess Isenburg?”

  Claire looks at Beau who sees her eyes seem glazed.

  Beau says, “She was the old man’s succubus.”

  Jordan goes, “What?” Then covers his mouth with a hand.

  “Ah,” Fisher says, “New Orleans has an inordinate amount of succubi.” He taps the table to get Claire’s attention. “Your bankers are outside waiting to speak with you.”

  She looks at the door and nods slowly again. Fisher tells Beau the bankers wish a private meeting with Miss D’Loup. He passes Claire a copy of the will and reminds her he and Mr. Stoat will meet her tomorrow morning at Silvers, 10 a.m. He steps to the door, opens it to let in two middle-aged men with briefcases.

  Beau stands, gets Claire’s attention, tell her she knows how to get a hold of him and leads the cops out.

  “Damn,” Jordan says when they are out of earshot. “I wanted to see how much is in those accounts.”

  Juanita gives him a hard look.

  Beau takes out his iPhone when they get into the elevator, unmutes it and saves the recording
before typing a reminder to ask Jessie if any of those banks belong to the Louviers.

  Jordan goes, “What was that suck-u, whatever?”

  “Succubus,” Beau explains as they make their way out of the old brick building. “A supernatural being. A female demon, comes in dreams to seduce men. Uses sex to suck the life out of them. Here in Earth a succubus sucks money from old men.”

  “I know one of those supernatural ones. Redhead. Comes in my dreams.” Jordan turns to Juanita and puts on his sunglasses. “Always been partial to redheads.” He looks back at the building as they reach the SUV. “Especially rich ones who own a Mercedes.”

  “And bank accounts,” Juanita says.

  “And art,” Beau adds.

  “I’m also partial to sultry brunettes.” Jordan grins at Juanita. “Are you in love with anyone?”

  Yep, she thinks, He’s nuts. Most of the good looking ones are. Except Beau.

  The SUV pulls into traffic and Juanita has a question.

  “What is the Society of Jesus?”

  “The Jesuits,” Beau says.

  “I’m sure you’ll catch me up on all this.”

  “Soon as we get to the new office and I’ll pass the black SUV to you two.”

  He feels Juanita looking at him.

  “Two?”

  He waits for it.

  She pokes his side.

  “Two?”

  “You’re a team now. I’m the chief inspector. Remember? I get the new car.”

  Psycho starts up again and Jordan answers it, “Can’t talk now. I’m at work. I call you later.” He hangs up.

  Beau goes, “Nice ring tone.”

  “That was Phil the Sutt.”

  “The Sutt?” Juanita asks and Beau cringes. She’s encouraging him to talk.

  “Yeah. Ugliest ATF agent in the world. Looks like Jabba the Hutt. Like that movie Star Wars. I’ll explain. It’s about two androids and a little guy named Luke and bigger guy named Han Solo.

  Juanita grits her teeth.

  “and a princess and …”

  “I know Star Wars. Everyone knows Star Wars.”

  “Oh, good. Then when I tell you how you remind me of Princess Leia when she was hot and wearing that bikini thing. I mean you remind me of Carrie Fisher. Back then, not now. Have you seen her lately? Jesus Christ! Talk about …” Jordan barks like a dog.