“I finally cornered him,” I say. “He tried to bushwack me. We exchanged gunfire. That’s it.” I withdraw my Glock to hand it to him.
“Save it for the Crime Lab,” he tells me. “You’re going to the office. You know the routine.”
He leaves me up on the trestle. I close my eyes to the relentless sun, now hot on my head. A lightheaded feeling of floating makes me waver as I stand, so I sit on a cross-tie, arms folded and wait.
Channard’s voice booms from below, something about how this is the most incredible case. Whistles and chirps, followed by zoom sounds and a loud pop tell me Tony Dunn is down there too. Footsteps approach, lightly. Someone leans over me, blocking out the sun momentarily. A hand touches my shoulder and I catch a whiff of Jodie’s perfume.
“My God,” she says, brushing my hair off my forehead. “I’m getting a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor.” My voice almost cracks. “I just need water.” I’m famished, but I know I need water immediately. I blink up at her. Her blonde hair dangles in front of her face, as she leans forward.
“You need a stretcher. I’ll get a helicopter.”
“No! I’m walking outta here.” It takes all my strength to stand. Jodie takes my arm as my legs quiver.
“I could use some water,” I say with a rasp.
“Somebody bring a canteen up here!” Jodie shouts.
Channard hustles up, pulling a large plastic canteen out of the knapsack on his back. I take one look at the hat on his head and almost fall down. He’s in khakis and looks exactly like Elmer Fudd.
Laughing, I lean on Jodie. I can’t stop. I point at him and laugh even louder, which causes Channard to pull the canteen back. Jodie snatches it out of his hand, opens it and pours water over my head.
It’s chilled and sends a shiver through me. I grab it and press it to my mouth. For the next several minutes, I down as much as I can. Jodie pulls the canteen away and douses my head again.
I bend over to catch my breath. As soon as I do, I thank Channard.
“Can you do me another favor?”
“Sure.”
“Give me just one ‘Oh, you waskally wabbit.’.”
Standing straight I hold tight to Jodie’s arm and look Channard in the eyes that seem hurt. “Can you two help walk me outta here?” To his credit, Elvis ‘Elmer Fudd’ Channard sees it in my eyes and grabs my other arm. We three descend the levee.
“Wait.” I stop and dig my car keys from my pocket and call out to Gonzales. When he looks up from taking notes for the crime lab technician processing the scene, I toss them to him.
“See if you can bring my car home, OK partner?”
He smiles and misses the keys, but digs them out of the muck immediately. Holding them up he says sure, he’ll get the T-Bird home.
We move through the small army of law enforcement officers who stare at me as if I’m some exotic predator at the Audubon Zoo. Crossing the wide marsh takes a long time. I’m moving fine now that I’m not so stiff. Jodie flags down an EMT who dresses my leg. They’re several scratches, but none are deep enough for stitches.
Chef Menteur Highway is partially closed, lined with dozens of police cars as well as TV vans. Jodie waves several wild-eyed patrol officers forward and asks them to help me to her car. She rushes ahead.
Off to my right, I spot a flash of blonde hair. Abby Grange, microphone in hand, hurries through the maze of cars, a cameraman trying to keep up. She wears a flowery red skirt with a black top and high heels.
“Detective Beau!” She has to slow to let her cameraman catch up.
I pull away from the officers holding my arms and continue away on my own power.
“Detective Beau! Did you kill another?”
Jodie waves us forward as she stands next to the open front passenger door of her car. When I get close, she hurries around me and heads for Abby who’s not far behind now. I climb in. The sun, shining through the front windshield temporarily blinds me. I rub my eyes and let them water.
Loud voices and shouting breaks out in front of the car. I blink and focus my eyes in time to see Jodie heading for the car, a flash of red in her left hand. The cops who’d escorted me are laughing a few feet beyond, the cameraman beating a hasty retreat. I don’t see Abby.
When Jodie climbs in, she tosses Abby’s flowery skirt on my lap.
“It got this caught on my watch,” She says as she cranks up the engine. “Stupid bitch,” she adds as we pull away. “Next time, she’ll wear panties under her pantyhose.”
I laugh, close my eyes and lean my head back against the head rest. Sirens echo in front of us. I peek and can’t fuckin’ believe it. We have a motorcycle escort.
“Is the Pope behind us or something?”
•
Jodie doesn’t say a word the rest of the way to headquarters. She doesn’t even look at me, but I know what she’s thinking. We’re supposed to catch them, build a case, bring them to court, put ‘em away. I know. I’m an aberration. I want to tell her I know that, know I’ll never fit in. Hell, I don’t want to anymore. I’m Sharp Eyes of the Oglala Sioux. Fuck ‘em all if they don’t understand.
Pulling in the police garage, Jodie parks and shuts off the engine, but doesn’t move. Staring straight ahead, she has a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.
“Damn,” she says in a throaty voice.
I wait.
Eventually, she pulls her right hand off the steering wheel and reaches for my hand. I grab hers and she squeezes my hand hard. Two deep breaths later, she pulls away, climbs out and we go in. Thankfully, the Homicide Squad Room is empty.
“I have to make a call.”
“Make it quick. This place’ll be swarming in a minute.” She heads for the water cooler.
I don’t dare sit. Leaning my butt against my desk, I pick up the phone and punch in my home number. Angie answers after the first ring.
“Hello there.”
“John!”
“I was careful.”
“Where are you? Are you all right?”
“Sure.” Then I realize. “You’ve been watching the news.”
“You’re all over T.V.”
“Do yourself a favor and switch to the SciFi Channel. It’s more realistic.”
Then I tell her, if she wants, she can go home. I’ll still be a few hours. I’m at headquarters.
“No. I’ll wait here for you, if that’s OK.”
“Sure. I’ll see you soon.”
“Good.” She doesn’t hang up. I wait, listening to her breathing on the other end. Two-L follows Jodie back across the squad room. He heads for the coffee pot and starts fixing a pot of coffee. Jodie, tape recorder in one hand, a wet rag for my dirty face in the other hand, pauses next to the first interview room and looks at me.
“I have to go,” I tell Angie.
“OK. I’ll see you soon.”
I hang up. The tone of her voice tells volumes about how she feels. My Daddy used to say a man doesn’t make his own luck, it just finds him like a nice surprise. I guess found it in the swamp this morning. With Angie, it’s found me, big time.
Darlene Wilson enters the squad room and heads straight for me. I wait. Stopping next to me, she gives me the angry, black woman’s head-bob.
“We’ll never get the names of who else raped Felice.”
She’s right, of course, but I don’t feel like discussing it, so I walk away. She won’t let it rest, so I turn and tell her, “There’s no such thing as a perfect case, Darlene. Show me one and I’ll show you a made-for-TV movie.”
I cross to the interview room as Two-L arrives with two cups of coffee. He hands one to Jodie and one to me. He looks at me as if he’s never seen me before and gives me a cold, mortician’s smile.
“All right,” I tell Jodie as we step into the room. “Let’s get this over with.”
•
Buck’s out on deck, wagging his tail like a maniac as I approach the gate. He barks, then throws back his head and t
ries to howl, only it gets caught in his throat and fades. Angie opens the houseboat door and hurries out on deck. As soon as she sees the mud still covering my clothes, she stops.
“How about that supper?” I ask as I step up, put my hands on her shoulders and lean forward to kiss her lips softly. She presses against me and I feel her tongue. We’re at it big time, our tongue moving against each. I’m awake now.
Eventually we come up for air.
She kisses my lips again as she’s still pressed against me. Then she pulls her mouth away and hugs me, her arms under mine. I’m very glad I had Gonzales stop for breath mints on my way home.
“Angie, right?” he had to ask when I climbed back in the car.
I didn’t respond.
“It’s about goddamn time,” he’d said.
I didn’t respond.
“I was about to put a move on her myself since you’ve been too fuckin’ busy to put – ”
“Shut the fuck up! Just get my T-Bird back later.”
To my shock, he shut-up.
“You must be famished,” she says.
“I am.”
“I’ll cook – ”
“No,” I cut her off. “I’m taking you to dinner. Someplace where we need reservations. Someplace where I have to wear a coat and tie.”
She pulls back and looks into my eyes. “You in a coat and tie? This I have to see,” Angie says.
“I think I could use a shower too.” I take her hand and lead her back into the houseboat.
“You telling me?”
I laugh as I pull away.
“I need to go home and change, too.” Angie pulls me back and wraps her arms around me again. She takes her time hugging me. I close my eyes and hug her back tightly.
The promise
I can’t keep my eyes open.
Sitting on Angie’s sofa, my charcoal-gray suit coat draped across an easy chair, I loosen my silver tie, kick off my black loafers and lay back. The brisk, air-conditioned air feels so good. I drift ... into a deep sleep.
Her voice wakes me. She’s calling John. I blink open my eyes and Angie stands smiling at me. In a sleeveless, dark red mini-dress, she does a slow pirouette. The dress is triple-tiered and her legs look so fine in stockings and red high heels. I sit up immediately.
When she finishes her pirouette, I stare at her face. Mocha lipstick makes her lips look fuller and her eyes are radiant with only a hint of beige eye-shadow.
I stand and let out a long, breathy, “Wow!”
She smiles broadly and says, “That’s the reaction I was looking for.”
Of course, she’s driving. I have to push the passenger seat as far back as I can in her little white Geo Storm. Soon we’re parking at the edge of the French Quarter on South Rampart Street. Stepping out, I readjust my off-duty, compact nine-millimeter Smith and Wesson Model 669, which I’ve tucked in the waistband of my suit pants, along my back.
Hand in hand, we stroll down narrow St. Louis Street, passing Creole cottages, nestled between masonry buildings built right up against the banquette. Passing beneath black, wrought iron balconies, I notice how most of the buildings have natural gas lamps outside their doors.
Soon the electric streetlights will flicker on in the fading light.
Angie squeezes my hand and says, “For over two centuries men have walked their ladies along here.”
She’s right. The Quarter is like a time-machine back to the days when people walked everywhere, ladies and young men, arm-in-arm, on their way to fine restaurants beneath a beaming summer moon. As we approach our destination, Antoine’s Restaurant, I ask Angie, “Wasn’t there a book called Supper at Antoine’s?”
“It’s Dinner at Antoine’s.” She tucks both arms around my left arm as we walk. “It’s such a cliché now. The books so dated. About how so and so spent the morning and how so and so spent the afternoon and how they all had dinner at Antoine’s.”
Stopping in front of the glass window of Antoine’s, beneath yet another wrought iron balcony, I notice the gas lamps attached to the building. The lamps give off an amber glow, reflecting off the beveled glass front doors. Except for the electric lights inside, I’m sure Antoine’s looked exactly like this a hundred years ago.
The main dining room in front is packed and smells wonderfully of cooked foods I can’t identify, but want immediately. Angie leads the way to the prim maitre d’ standing behind his podium. He finds our reservations and waves to a thin waiter with cafe-au-lait skin.
“Hello, I’m Marcel,” the waiter announces as he leads us to an even larger back room with no windows. Instead, the room is lined with photographs. Most are autographed and almost all of well-known people.
We are led past pictures of Tyrone Power and Jimmy Carter, Aretha Franklin and a series of black and white photos of pretty women movie stars from the 1940s, including Lauren Bacall. Stopping at a table nestled into a corner, Marcel asks if this would be fine.
“I thought you two would prefer a more private dinner.” None of the tables around us are occupied.
“Thought you were tucking the working-class people in a corner,” Angie says in a pleasant voice.
He holds her chair for her. “Oh no, this room is for locals only. We put the tourists out front where it’s noisy. They like all the glass and the view. We’ve seen the city before, haven’t we?”
The table is round and we sit with our backs to the room, a little uneasy for me. Cops like to see what’s coming. But the view of Angie’s face is more than enough tonight. Beneath the warm light, her aquamarine eyes seem a shade darker, like the ocean water just above a coral reef. I’ve never seen that color, except in pictures of the Caribbean, until I saw her eyes.
Marcel returns with ice water and warm bread and menus.
“Good, they used to be in French only,” Angie says, studying the menu.
“You’ve been here.”
“Once, when I was ten.”
She orders trout almondine. I order the baby veal and wonder aloud what kind of wine to drink. Red or white.
“According to wine experts, it really doesn’t matter,” Angie tells me.
“Could you order for us?”
Marcel brings a wine list and Angie orders a bottle of Médoc Bordeaux. While the bottle breathes, we nibble on the bread and butter. I ask Angie how her classes are going.
She tries not to laugh. “It’s summer. The semester’s over.”
“So you passed.”
“Silly.”
I wave Marcel over and ask for coffee and chicory. Strong. He returns with a silver tray carrying a silver coffee pot, two cups and saucers, a silver creamer and matching sugar bowl. I need all the caffeine I can get.
“Seriously, how’d you do this semester?”
“I made the Dean’s List, but only for the second time.”
“American Literature, right?”
She smiles again and tells me about Poe, about discovering some of his lesser known stories, about his four mysteries, how he invented the detective story. She’s animated and I watch her, listening as closely as I can. I don’t want to think about ... the case.
Angie keeps talking, using her hands, tilted her head to the side. She’s a vision. I pour myself a second cup of strong coffee. Marcel returns with her trout and my veal, which is tangy and succulent. I don’t realize how hungry I am. I have to force myself to eat slowly. Marcel brings fresh bread without us asking. At first, I pay no attention to the steady beating in the background. When thunder rolls through the old building, I realize it’s raining outside.
I try not to think of that wet May night, the evening of the great flood, when Cassandra Smith lay dead in a pool of her blood. I try not to think of the exploding gunfire in Exchange Alley and the deep silence after the echo died. I try not to think of Felice’s scarred face and Sandie’s frightened face, the fear I put in Mullet’s evil eyes when my knife drew blood from his forehead, Clyde Pailet’s face when the realization hit him just before my bulle
t struck.
I try not to think of the pain I bring to Jodie’s eyes, or Merten’s face without the scowl as he tells me how much I worry him. I don’t even want to think of my Daddy’s face or the great plains warriors of my people. Not tonight.
I focus on Angie, on this delightful woman sitting next to me. She’s very smart. I like that. I don’t want to think of the pain I will probably bring to those mesmerizing aquamarines – one day. I won’t think of that tonight, no matter how tired I become. It’s our first night together. We have a right to this evening, without all the baggage I tow around.
We take our time at dinner and dessert after, then leave this grande dame of New Orleans restaurants. Angie wraps her hands around my arm as we step into the night air that still smells of rain. The places I hardened inside during the long night in the swamp feel softer now. I pull Angie close and smell her light perfume. We cross Dauphine Street and a sharp noise explodes behind us.
Angie jumps.
“Car backfire,” I tell her, wrapping my arm around her.
She looks back. “You sure?”
“Count on it.”
Pulling her close, we walk off into the promise of a beautiful, south Louisiana evening.
THE END
•
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John Raven Beau Page 22