“They’re white boys. Everybody knows that.” She gives me the black woman’s head bob, chin jutting out as she bobs. Even under the harsh white light and after the years of abuse, she’s still a pretty woman. Then again, she’s barely nineteen.
“Everybody knows it, huh?” I say.
“You know I hang out in white joints, sometimes. To make a buck. I heard it was some bad-ass white boys doing this.”
“Which joints?” I finally recognize the room’s smell as old vomit.
Felice pulls the folding chair from the table and sits across from Sinclair. She looks at Sinclair, cocks her head to the left and says, “We gonna have to make a deal. About these burglaries first.”
It takes a while. Sinclair has to call the D.A.’s Office. I keep Felice talking, trying my best to get as much information as possible, in case the D.A. doesn’t want to play ball. Finally, someone in authority at the D.A.’s Office tells Sinclair, “Sure, OK, make a deal. Just quit calling us after hours.”
Sinclair comes back and tells me. Then I tell Felice, “This is going to be a long night, young lady.”
We sign her out and bring her, still in her orange jumpsuit, to the Detective Bureau where she sits cuffed to the chair next to Sinclair’s desk. I make a fresh pot of coffee, its strong aroma finally ridding my nose of the vomit smell. Felice signs two dozen confessions, implicating her old man in each.
Sinclair clears so many burglaries he almost loses count. Stretching as Felice signs her last confession, Sinclair yawns and says, “Only good thing about this is that I get to book your old man tomorrow with a shitload more counts.”
“Just keep him in jail,” Felice’s voice is low. “He’s bad news.”
Sinclair leaves and I’m alone with Felice. I unfasten the handcuffs and tell her, “OK, so how are we gonna work this?”
First, I have to get Felice some front money from a reluctant Bob Kay, who insists on meeting Felice and delivering a lecture on citizenship and helping the police. Felice listens, her eyes ovaled and unbelieving. I hold back a smile. Kay is a boy scout.
Then I take Felice back to the House of Detention to get her released. She comes out a half hour later in a green halter top and cut-off jeans, no shoes. I take her to where she stays to pick up her clothes. I wait outside in the Caprice.
Felice comes out in a white crew neck tee-shirt and designer jeans and black high heels. She’d made up her face a little and looks pretty nice. I almost tell her, but don’t want to go in that direction. I drive her to her auntie’s house on Congress Street.
Sitting out front of her auntie’s small wood frame house, in the semi-darkness of the Caprice, I tell her to be careful. The yellow streetlight filters in through the windshield and Felice gives me a strange look.
“You beginning to sound like that other guy.” She means Kay.
I look at her eyes and say, “Don’t get your ass in a crack you can’t get out of, understand?”
“Why? You gonna worry ’bout me?” Her voice sounds brave but I can see a hint of emotion in her eyes. I reach into my pocket and pull out a business card, jot my home number on the back, just as I had with Sandie, and give it to Felice.
“Call me.”
She opens the door. “I’ll keep in touch.”
Before closing the door, she leans back in and looks at me. Her mouth turns up in a sad smile as she says, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Then she walks away, as smooth as a cat.
•
I dream of my daddy that night. In my sleep I feel my chest aching as I dream. I see the sun shimmering off the dark green water of Vermilion Bay as my dad guides our pirogue around Cypremort Point. A bass jumps out of the water to our left and freezes in mid-jump.
“Shoulda brought de cane poles,” my dad says, his face grinning at me. Then the old man’s face freezes into a snapshot as the pirogue continues gliding across the water. I study my father’s craggy face.
Skin nearly as dark as cypress bark, the old man’s cheeks are taut and lean, his chin square and his nose wide. His hair is as black as a raven’s feathers and his thick moustache droops over a mouth that seems to smile all of the time. A cigarette perpetually dangles from his lips. I swear, I can smell the cigarette in my dream. He smokes Picayune cigarettes, no filters, so strong the smoke is never white, it’s as gray as angry rain clouds.
Unlike my mother, who’s as serious as her Sioux warrior ancestors, Calixte Lucien Beau found humor in nearly everything. Once, when my dad and I were caught in a sudden Gulf storm in Southwest Pass, the old man laughed as the waves tossed the pirogue around like so much flotsam.
“Hold on, boy,” Calixte called out and then laughed again as the flat bottom boat plunged over another white cap.
I remember my father’s arms, muscles flexed as he paddled the pirogue into the safety of the great Marsh Island. We crashed against cypress knees and had to weather the rest of the storm in the open, sandwiched between cypress trees and the alligator marsh, cold rain stinging hot against our faces. Calixte railed against the rain, calling it dirty names in Cajun French and in English.
My dad’s face un-freezes in my dream and the bass slaps back into the water.
“If I had a scoop net, I could have caught it,” I say.
“Mais yeah.” My dad laughs and rubs his chin.
“What, you don’t think I can catch it?”
My dad continues to paddle and shakes his head. “You sho’ a funny kid.”
Then he starts coughing a hacking cough. The cigarette still dangles from his lips as he convulses. They’ll kill him one day, when I’m in high school on the saddest day of my life.
In my dream, I’m nine years old.
When my dad finally stops coughing, I ask him, “How funny was I, when I was little?”
I like this part the best because my dad always tells me funny things I’d done when I was too young to remember. Like the time I chased a coon out of the yard with a wooden spoon. Barely two, I managed to swat the coon a good one on its flank as it scampered over our wooden fence. Then there was the story about how much I liked to play hide-and-seek in our old house, how I always hid in the same place, behind the kitchen door next to the refrigerator.
Once, when we were supposed to be going somewhere, I insisted on hiding. As usual, my dad pretended he couldn’t find me. He went into my room and brought out my stuffed monkey, Zip, walked Zip through the house, letting Zip sniff for me. My dad pretended Zip was talking, making high-pitched monkey noises as he led my dad straight to where I was hiding. Zip pointed behind the kitchen door and my dad found me.
I stepped out angrily and kicked Zip in the belly and said, “Stupid Zip.” I never liked that damn monkey after that. I tried to feed it to the raccoons.
The dream slips away and I roll over and realize I’m in my bed in the loft at the rear of Sad Lisa. I look at the digital clock on the night stand and it’s four a.m. I sit up and look around the houseboat. It looks secure, so I lay back down, readjusting the sheet. I hear the puppy moving around at the foot of the stairs down on the main deck. Then it’s quiet again and I drift back to sleep.
And dream again. This time it’s like a movie. It’s as if I’m behind a camera panning an open prairie. Suddenly, over a slight rise directly in front of the camera, four warriors ride toward the camera, their long black hair unrestrained and streaming behind them.
Crows.
The warriors ride furiously. One looks back over his shoulder just as four more warriors crest the rise behind them. These warriors wear white feathers. They are Sioux. The lead warrior, tall and lean, has painted white spots on his body. As a boy, his name was Curly. After he lead his famous wild charge against the Arapahos, he is known as Crazy Horse.
Cresting another rise, the Crows race headlong down to a river and crash into the water, each rider falling off his horse. When the Sioux warriors reach the crest overlooking the river, they stop and look down at the Crows struggl
ing and gasping in the water. Crazy Horse lifts his battle lance and laughs and the Sioux warriors laugh with him as the Crows are washed down river. One by one the Crows make it to the other side of the swollen river and one by one they stumble away, coughing up river water, with the echo of Sioux laughter ringing in their ears.
I had that dream before and it’s as familiar as the creases in my daddy’s face. I roll over again and feel a slight movement of the houseboat beneath me as it rolls gently in the canal. I fall asleep again and see the worn face of my snowy-headed Sioux grandfather. Sitting in the old rocking chair on the back porch of his South Dakota home, my grandfather tells me how the Sioux fears no one, fears nothing on the earth, except drowning.
“If a Sioux drowns, his spirit remains trapped in the water forever and cannot fly up into the Land of the Ghosts.”
It was at that moment, at age nine, I realized my grandfather would never visit us in Cannes Bruleé. There was too much water. My grandfather’s gravely voice echoes in my ears. I’m six years old now, sitting on that same back porch. My grandfather has just commented on the excellent vision of my light brown eyes. Leaning forward, conspiratorially, the ancient warrior says, “I will tell you something now, John Raven Beau. Tuck this secret next to your heart, little one. Your secret Lakota name is ... Sharp Eyes. Tell no white man this name, not even your father. And don’t let the white man say your name because the more it is spoken, the more your strength is taken from you.”
Sitting back in the rocker, my grandfather says, “Remember always, you are Lakota. You are Oglala Sioux, the fiercest warriors of the great plains.”
“Yeah,” I say, “but I’m half Cajun, too.”
“Only from the waist down.”
There’s a twinkle in the old man’s eyes.
•
The phone wakes me. It’s still dark. The digital clock reads five-twenty. I pick up the receiver and grunt into the mouthpiece.
“Hey, good lookin’. You busy?”
Recognizing the voice, I roll over on my back and say, “What is it?” I close my eyes. My mouth feels cottony from the three beers it took to put me to sleep after dropping Felice off.
Sandie lets out a long sigh on the other end of the line, then says, “Those dead cops. Were they missing anything?”
My eyes snap open. I sit up in bed and tell her to go on.
“Were they missing something shiny?”
I feel my heart racing.
“Go on.” I try to keep my voice level.
“I heard the killers took their badges.”
“Where are you?”
“Right now?”
“Where are you?” It’s no use, my voice is excited.
“I’m at the pay phone outside Café Du Monde.” Her voice has a teasing quality to it, like she’s playing a game.
“Go inside and wait there for me.”
“It’s an outdoor cafe.”
“Go inside. By the cash register and wait for me!”
“All right. All right.”
“Do it now.” I hang up and jump out of bed.
I dig a gray tee-shirt from my dresser drawer and climb into a fresh pair of jeans, pulling on my white Nike running shoes, not bothering with socks. I scoop my Glock and two magazines loaded with hollow point rounds from atop the night stand and clip my badge to my belt as I descend the stairs.
The puppy is up and doing circles at the bottom of the small staircase. I bend over and pet it a moment before grabbing a light-weight black jacket from the downstairs closet to hide the Glock now tucked in the jeans at the small of my back. I shove the magazines into the jacket’s pockets and snatch my radio on my way out. Setting the dead-bolt, I steady my hands.
“Jesus!”
She knows about the badges. I feel myself breathing heavily as I hurry off the boat. Only the killers and a handful of homicide detectives know about the missing badges. I feel myself smile nervously. Sandie sure did good.
And I remember the old police saying that a good snitch is worth a hundred nights on the street.
They’ll have something on you
I don’t spot Sandie as I cross Decatur Street to the high banquette running alongside Café Du Monde. A dozen or more people dot the outside tables of the open air cafe. Mostly alone, they are typical New Orleans all-nighters. A line of white clad waiters sit next to the windows outside the closed part of the cafe. I still can’t see Sandie.
Scents of powdered sugar and coffee fill my nostrils as I move through the narrow double doors and step into the well-lit cafe. Sandie sits in the far corner, in a nice blind spot that can’t be seen from the street. Her long red hair fluffed like a lion’s mane, she wears an iridescent blue top and pink miniskirt. She uncrosses her legs to give me a view of her white panties as I approach. She opens her knees and grins at me. As I sit, a waiter hurries over.
“Two coffees,” I tell him.
The waiter lingers a moment, leering at Sandie’s crotch before backing away. Sandie leans back in her chair and opens her knees wider. Her dark pubic hair is plainly visible through the sheer panties.
“And I wasn’t going to wear panties tonight,” she says in a slurred voice. Her eyes are bleary.
I reach for the cup of coffee already in front of her and raise it toward her bright red lips. “Come on, Babe. Drink some of this.”
“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow. “I’m Babe now, huh? The other night you wouldn’t even let me suck your dick, now I’m your Babe?”
I lean close and ask her to keep her voice down. “You’ll scare the straights. OK?”
She leans over and kisses my neck, then pulls back giggling. I lift the coffee to her lips and she takes a sip, then another. The waiter returns with our cups of fresh cafe-au-lait and I pay him. As he leaves, he checks out Sandie’s panties again on his way back to a group of waiters who have now gathered behind me. Sandie giggles again and crosses her legs, tugging her skirt down.
“Enough for now,” she says.
I pour sugar in my coffee and two spoonfuls into hers and stir both. She bats her bleary eyes at me as we take a sip.
Smiling broadly, she says, “I did good, didn’t I?”
I nod and tell her to drink more coffee. She does and it isn’t until we start our second cup that I get down to business. Sandie is still drunk and it takes a while to get the story out of her. I take notes.
She was in a bar in the Ninth Ward. Can’t remember the name. Some bikers came in, greasy-looking men wearing leather vests and tattoos on their hairy arms. Talking loudly among themselves, they were rowdy from the start and sidled up to Sandie who was sitting at the bar in her hot outfit. Jesus. She went to a Ninth Ward Bar dressed like this.
Sandie’s eyes brighten for a moment as she taps a finger against her temple. “I foxed them. I been telling people my ex is a cop. A real son-of-a-bitch of a cop. Most bar-roomers don’t like cops.”
She goes on to explain how one of the bikers said something derogatory about cops and Sandie keyed in, telling her story. A tirade of loud talk ensued. Some time later, one of the bikers said something about the murdered cops. Then another said something else. Eventually one of them said he heard the cops were missing something. The bikers laughed even louder.
“Then I turned on the charm,” Sandie says. “I got the big one to tell me what was missing. I let him feel up my tits. He said it was their badges.”
I press her for details, descriptions, exactly what was said. I put more coffee into her, but I can see in her eyes, it’s no use. She’s floating in a liquid heaven.
“Come on.” I help her stand and lead her to the ladies room.
She wants me to come in with her, but I stand outside the door. She comes out and hands me her panties. I shove them into my pocket and put my arm around her and lead her out back to Decatur and around Jackson Square to where I parked my car in the police zone next to the Cabildo. I glance momentarily up Chartres Street to where Cassandra died before I climb into the Caprice.<
br />
“You taking me home?” Sandie curls up against the passenger side door.
I take her into the Ninth Ward, to the side streets running off St. Claude Avenue, pass bar after bar through the dark, narrow neighborhood known as Bywater. I look for motorcycles and I ask her if each is the bar. It’s no use. She has no idea.
“How’d you get to Café Du Monde?”
She’s confused and finally laughs, “The big fucker.”
“What?”
“The big fucker from the bar. I promised him a hum job, but I bailed on him when we stopped for a light on Decatur.”
“Where’s your car?”
“At home. I took a cab to St. Claude Avenue and started walking.”
“Jesus!”
As we reach Poland Avenue and the Industrial Canal, I stop and look around at the faint dawn light. “Did you cross the canal?”
Sandie is asleep. Her skirt hiked up nearly to her waist, her reddish brown bush exposed and pointing toward me. She has no purse and I realize I don’t know where she lives, exactly. Somewhere on Jackson Avenue, I think.
I turn the Caprice around and head for Sad Lisa. Readjusting my dick, I punch the accelerator. I have a diamond-cutter hard-on. All I fuckin’ need. I remind myself of what LaStanza once told me. The man who broke Jodie into Homicide, the best Homicide cop I ever knew, once told me – “Never fuck an informant. If you do they’ll have something on you. They got a piece of you and I’m not talking about a little dick either.”
•
“Hey!”
Sandie’s voice wakes me. The clock reads eleven-thirty. Sad Lisa is bright with sunlight.
“Hey! Where the fuck am I?”
I climb out of bed and peek down from the loft. Sandie sits up in the daybed downstairs, her head in both hands. My puppy comes out from the kitchen area and yips at her.
“Bucktown,” I tell her.
She looks at me and squints.
“Beau?” She’s surprised.
I run my hands through my hair and stretch. Sandie sinks back on the daybed. I go down and start a pot of coffee, then take a quick shower and shave. She’s sitting back up when I step out, a towel around my waist.
John Raven Beau Page 5