Trick Turn

by Tom Barber

Summertown.

  Oxford.

  He smiled and rose from the chair, grabbing Chalky’s mother by the hair and dragging her out of the room.

  THIRTY FOUR

  ‘Anything?’ Archer asked Bellefonte, who shook his head. The pair had reconvened in a public records file facility at a municipal building not far from downtown, Bellefonte having gained them access. The slightly jaded NOLA cop whom Archer had first met this morning seemed to have been reenergised. He’d called in a junior detective called Ruiz to help them in their search for Gerry McGuinness’ Six Flags file, which they knew may not even exist. But Archer was well aware Ruffalo wanted them to catch his old Bilodeau Show worker, removing a future threat for him, so didn’t see an obvious reason why he would have lied.

  Fans and air conditioning were humming away, keeping the place cool, while the three men thumbed through page after page of employee records from the defunct amusement park. They’d been informed by the clerk who’d let them in that the files had never been digitally scanned and stored, which meant a laborious manual search through a room full of boxes of paperwork concerning every person who’d ever worked at Six Flags; what made it worse, in the rush to store the records safely before the hurricane hit, the files had been dumped haphazardly in a storeroom, which meant none of them were in any sort of order.

  ‘Millions of dollars of investment and they couldn’t dump all this shit on a computer?’ Ruiz grumbled.

  ‘Everything was on paper back then, kid,’ Bellefonte replied. ‘Enjoy it. This is like old-style police work. Paying respect to your elders.’

  ‘This was the early 2000s, not the 1970s.’

  ‘Any idea how many workers we could have here? Archer asked as he thumbed through sheaves of paper, looking at faces and names.

  ‘Over 20,000? And that ain’t including Jazzland employees before Six Flags came in. Those files are next door.’

  ‘That many?’ Archer replied, looking at the stacks of boxes. ‘Six Flags were only there for a couple of years.’

  ‘Cotton candy doesn’t spin itself,’ Bellefonte told him. ‘Ride operators, performers, paramedics, parking attendants. Ticket punchers, cashiers, servers, cleaners, security guards. Finding your man could take us days. If he’s even here.’

  ‘We don’t have that much time,’ Archer said, thinking of Dr Wyzyck. He threw another file onto his read list. ‘Can you find a map of the park online?’ he asked Bellefonte, needing a brief mental break from looking through the stacks of paper. His own phone was plugged in and charging across the room. ‘Curious to see what it used to be like.’

  Bellefonte took out his cell and after a quick Internet search, found what Archer had asked for. He passed over the smartphone; Archer looked at the map, and was able to apply exact locations to what was left of the partly-destroyed, overgrown remains of the place he and Bellefonte had wandered around earlier.

  ‘How it should look, today,’ he muttered. ‘Sad.’

  ‘Very. You ever go out there, Johnny?’ Bellefonte asked Ruiz.

  He nodded. ‘When I was a kid. Went a few times. That place kicked ass. Hot as shit in summer, though. No-one thought to build in any shade cover.’

  Archer studied the layout, seeing where they’d walked earlier on the south and east sides. ‘There was a midway?’ he asked, his eyes locking onto a section of the park just below Lake Pontchartrain, connecting the east and west sections of the park. It reminded him of Dusty, and the tricks he’d pulled with the basketballs and hoop.

  ‘Games and Arcade section,’ Bellefonte said, tracing over the map with his finger. ‘Boxed in by the Big Easy wheel to the right, Pontchartrain Flyer on the left. Thinking your guy could have run a stall?’

  ‘I’m not sure. With his skills and experience growing up in the carnival, I guess he could’ve worked anywhere on site. The old-timer I spoke to at Bilodeau and Ruffalo both said the teenage McGuinness apprenticed all over the show, on loads of different acts and attractions.’

  The park was centred around the circular inlet of water from the Pontchartrain which Archer had taken care to avoid earlier. The map showed the name in red of different sections of the site, and his eyes shifted to the west side of the park.

  ‘Six Flags had a contract with DC Comics,’ Bellefonte said, pointing to rides with names like Lex Luthor’s Invertron, Catwoman’s Whip and Batman: The Ride. Archer remembered the NOPD detective telling him the latter had been removed, but he knew the others were still there, alongside several more. Bright and spotless on the map, coated with rust and bearing the scars of neglect in reality. Below the DC section was Cajun Country, where one of the water rides was located, along with another attraction called The Versailles House of Mirrors, and then immediately to the east was the main entrance, that faux French Quarter street with saloon-style buildings on each side and graffiti tagged on the walls. It ends too soon.

  ‘The kids would be drawn to the Looney Tunes section, right?’ Archer said, his eyes shifting to the south-east of the park and lingering there.

  ‘Sure. The younger ones, anyway. Go see Bugs Bunny and his friends.’

  ‘Let’s focus on that and the beach section,’ he said. ‘This guy would want to be near kids.’

  ‘How you so sure?’ Ruiz asked.

  Archer remembered his brief trip to Kemah; the four children who’d gone missing there. Children who’d never been found. ‘A gut feeling.’

  ‘Not a good one, I guess,’ Bellefonte muttered, getting back to work.

  In Oxford, Chalky had taken Isabel back to their rented accommodation. They’d walked around the shops for another hour or so after his mother had called, but Issy noticed he’d been in a strange mood ever since.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked him as they walked in.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, giving her a quick smile. ‘Want to see if there’s a movie on TV? I can make us some dessert.’

  ‘What happened to Archer’s sister?’ she suddenly asked as he headed to the fridge.

  He’d just opened the door and turned to look at her. The unexpected question had caught him by surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I know she’s in a wheelchair and she wasn’t born that way. I found photos when me and Vargas lived with Archer, from when he and his sister were younger. I asked, but Vargas would never tell me.’

  ‘So why are you asking me?’

  ‘You’re his best friend.’

  Chalky sighed. ‘Not sure it’s my place to talk about it, kiddo.’

  ‘I can keep a secret.’

  He looked at her for a moment. ‘She fell down some stairs when they were both younger. It damaged her spinal cord.’

  ‘Was Sam involved somehow?’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘So why was Vargas weird about it?’

  Chalky hesitated again. ‘He and Sarah were having an argument. He doesn’t like people in his personal space, so he pushed her back. He didn’t realise she was standing so close to the stairs.’ He paused. ‘That’s all I want to say, OK? Want more information, ask them.’

  She nodded then walked into her room, easing the door closed, the conversation seeming to have put her in a downer. Closing his eyes for a second, hoping he’d been right to share that information and part of him wishing he hadn’t, Chalky turned his attention to what had been bothering him most of the day and evening.

  His mother called him sometimes, worrying about her son and the risks that his job in the ARU exposed him to, but something about that conversation earlier was playing on his mind. He knew her voice better than any other, and had picked up something wasn’t right.

  She’d sounded strained.

  He tried calling her back, but no-one answered. Then he remembered tonight was her book club night, so decided she was probably there. He sent her a quick text message, asking if all was OK, then picked up his Glock and took up his position to the side of the window, looking out onto the street, still feeling unsettled.

  McG
uinness has no idea who you are. Unbidden, an image of the tall man with the yellow teeth and wolfish grin torturing the Jewish ME at his home in Queens came to mind; the former carny demanding information on what they’d done with Issy as he slung knives from across the room and buried them in the innocent man’s flesh.

  Doc Wyzyck couldn’t have told him anything. He didn’t even know my name.

  Did he?

  THIRTY FIVE

  ‘Let’s take a break, y’all,’ Bellefonte told Archer inside the NOLA downtown municipal offices, tossing another unrelated file into a box before leaning back in his chair and stretching.

  ‘Have at it,’ Archer said. ‘I can’t right now.’

  ‘Johnny boy here will keep going through the stacks, right kid?’ he said, giving Ruiz a wink. ‘That’s what he’s paid for.’

  ‘Thanks, Detective. He might be talking sense though, man,’ Ruiz said to Archer. ‘When’s the last time you took a break from this thing?’

  Archer glanced up from the latest file he’d opened, and decided to be honest. ‘Haven’t since it started.’

  ‘You’re not gonna be able to find this guy if you’re walking on dead feet, brother. You’ll miss details. Could be the ones you need.’ Bellefonte got to his feet. ‘I agree. Quick break for something to eat. I’m buying.’ He smiled. ‘Show some Southern hospitality. It’s what we’re famous for.’

  They relocated to a sandwich place a couple of blocks away, ending up in what Bellefonte told him was the French Quarter. Although he’d heard a lot about this city, and remembered studying A Streetcar Named Desire in English class when he was a teenager, Archer had never visited Josh’s home turf, and only now he had the time, started to fully appreciate its unique flavour. It was the first real chance he’d had to take in his surroundings rather than think about hunting down Gerry McGuinness since he’d arrived this morning.

  On their drives to and from Six Flags earlier, he’d noticed moss trees hanging over the roads in the city, hunched over with long draping arms, some of the branches low enough to touch the concrete sidewalks. The city was dirty and hot, with cracked roads, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter; something interesting seemed to be seen or heard on every street corner. Murals daubed on walls, the sound of busking musicians filling the air, creativity woven into the fabric of the place. It definitely possessed a certain vibrancy he’d never experienced before.

  But with the reason he was here, he was also finding the constant sighting of voodoo masks, skeletons and dolls disconcerting; everywhere he looked, there they were, from store windows to murals on street walls. He’d also noticed them on the walls and décor of the coffee joint this morning where he’d met Bellefonte. Right now, he didn’t need reminders about the finality of death; especially after the close call at Carousel Gardens earlier in the day.

  The sandwich spot specialised in local favourites, and Bellefonte had just devoured a seafood Po’boy, eating fast then tossing the rolled-up wrapper into the small tray it had been served on. Archer had barely started on his food, taking the opportunity to unwind for ten minutes or so before he needed to crank his focus back up again; his sandwich was something called a muffuletta which Bellefonte had recommended. Cold cuts, cheese and bread soaked in oil; the first bite was as good as Bellefonte had promised. ‘I know this time-out was for me,’ Archer said. ‘But you look tired too, my friend.’

  Bellefonte nodded. ‘I feel tired. Wasn’t lying earlier when I told you Homicide’s stretched. Division’s got me on call almost twenty four hours a day. We’re in the top three for city homicide rates in the country right now, and I’m one of just nineteen detectives in the rotation. Three of us work cold cases, which is why I can be spared to help you out. But the Department’s so understaffed, they pull us into manning traffic barricades during Mardi Gras and Saints games during off-duty time. No disrespect to the kids coming out the academy, but I’m a homicide detective, not street feet anymore. Paid my dues a long time ago.’

  ‘How long you been a cop?’ Archer asked.

  ‘Twenty one years, in September. Wasn’t planning on it being that long, either.’ He drank some water from one of two cups he’d just filled from a jug near the counter, Archer with the other one in front of him. ‘Katrina’s fault, again. That bitch.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘My brother used to work as a miner for Morton salt, but was sick of it. He and I got to talking, and we decided to pool our money to buy a couple houses in the Garden district, place we met this morning, just off Magazine Street. Was gonna quit being police in ’06 and help renovate with him. Once the houses were fixed up, we were planning to start renting them out, build a portfolio, that kind of thing.’

  Archer guessed what was coming next. ‘Did you lose them in the storm?’

  He nodded. ‘Less than six months after we bought ‘em. Totalled. Woulda cost twice as much to rebuild, insurance wouldn’t pay and we didn’t have the cashola to do it ourselves. There went my plan and my retirement. Brother went back to mining and I stayed in the Department. Ended up in CID; wouldn’t be so bad if we had more manpower and funding. But right now? Not many guys my age want nineteen hour shifts, six days a week.’ He finished his water and leaned back in his chair, watching Archer who was almost done with his sandwich. ‘How’d your detective partner in New York make out in the storm? You said he was from here.’

  Archer thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. He’s never really talked about it. But he’s had a rough ride.’

  ‘I can relate.’ He paused. ‘If your boy McGuinness killed people here at some point, that’s FBI territory. We might be losing this case.’

  ‘No proof yet, though. But everywhere he goes, bad things to seem happen.’ Archer finished his muffuletta and used some of his water to rinse away the oil on his hands, the residue going onto the empty grease-paper the sandwich had come wrapped in. He drank what was left in the cup, the salt in the food making him thirsty. ‘If he did, maybe I can help you knock CID’s homicide case clearance rate back up a bit.’

  Bellefonte nodded and took their tray. ‘That was part one of dinner. Part two’s in a bottle next door.’

  ‘I can’t kick back and get buzzed, Leo. That son of a bitch is out there right now. We need to find him.’

  ‘Ruiz can take the weight. He’s keen to impress and he’ll be going through those files fast. We need a break. You look wiped out.’

  ‘Let’s get back, and the three of us can do it even faster. Once we catch this asshole, I’ll buy the drinks.’

  ‘You always like this?’ Bellefonte replied with a smile, realising he wasn’t going to win. ‘OK, but I’m picking up a sixer on the way. Old men like me make the most of our overtime.’

  Archer smiled, rising from his chair. ‘Deal.’

  ‘OK, you got me convinced,’ Vargas told Vincent Castelione from the Baltimore Italian mob, having just called him as she drove back into in the centre of D.C. from Alexandria, stuck in gridlocked traffic. ‘McGuinness has been working as a killer-for-hire.’

  ‘Now get me protection.’

  ‘I’ll work on it. You have my word. Who out of your crew is talking with him?’

  ‘Marco’s been the point of contact. Why?’

  ‘We get hold of McGuinness’ cell number, we can try to trace it and find out where he is.’

  ‘I’ll try to get it outta him.’

  ‘Do it fast. When’s the last time Marco heard from the guy?’

  ‘The night he found your girl’s body wasn’t in the morgue.’

  As he waited for Bellefonte outside a drug store, standing on the street in the French Quarter, Archer saw the night’s revellers were out in force, beads around their necks and drinks in their hands. He remembered Josh telling him once the city was one of the few in the United States where you could walk around in public drinking alcohol, as long as it was in a plastic cup. Archer recalled those two youngsters in the Garden District café this morning nursing headaches and smile
d, wondering if they were back out on the town tonight. He had a feeling they would be. At that age, you recovered fast.

  ‘How do the locals and tourists get along here?’ Archer asked Bellefonte, who emerged from the CVS with a six pack of Dixie Voodoo in a plastic bag and a bag of tortilla chips in case Ruiz needed sustenance.

  ‘Could be better, could be worse,’ Bellefonte said, the two men starting to walk back to the municipal building. ‘They spend a lotta money, help our economy. Bourbon Street by itself generates millions of bucks a year for the businesses.’ He side-stepped to avoid a noisy group of women tottering towards them, dressed as if they were on a bachelorette party. ‘Get a few assholes, but most of ‘em mean well.’

  Archer noticed what looked like several locals watching a group of inebriated college kids stumbling out of a bar. A scene he recognised as having the potential to turn threatening. He also saw there was an increased police presence now night had fallen. ‘How often do people get rolled?’

  ‘Every weekend. This place has got its magic, or used to, but it sure as shit ain’t safe. Specially if you’re twenty one years old, drunk off your ass and trying to find your hostel.’

  ‘Get homicides with out-of-towners?’

  ‘Occasionally. Lotta injuries get sent the hospital’s way.’

  Archer watched a girl around Isabel’s age, holding tight onto her father’s hand as he whistled for a taxi, having just walked out of a dinner spot. But then beside him, Bellefonte suddenly stumbled, losing his balance.

  Archer caught him as he knocked into a trash can, which raised some cheers from a bunch of passing male partygoers. ‘You alright?’ Archer asked, gripping his arm. ‘You didn’t even start on the beers yet,’ he joked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, blinking repeatedly. ‘Just gimme a second.’

  Archer noticed he looked a little out of it. ‘You had a headache since Ruffalo hit you with the wood?’

  ‘I’ve had a headache all day.’ He shook his head. ‘Man, something don’t feel right. I’m dizzy as hell.’