City of Secrets

by O'Neil De Noux

  He feels a tightness in his throat. John Raven Beau truly believes he would have been content to have died at the end of his childhood, before the great loss of innocence. When he was little he wanted to grow up so badly but he was wrong. Living in that old house with his mama and papa and the great adventure of the swamp and floating prairie of home was the only time he fit in this world. He is a stranger here, a stranger everywhere, a shadow among the people.

  He spots the pot of café noir, moves to it and pours himself a larger than usual cup of extra strong coffee-and-chicory, the French version of espresso, puts in three heaping teaspoons of sugar, takes it to Felicity, sits across from him.

  “You’re here early,” he says.

  Fel takes a sip of his coffee, pushes an empty plate away from him. “Brought in a body from Algiers. Man fell off a roof nailing up a blue tarp.”

  Donna Elena approaches, running a towel through her long hair. She stops behind Beau, leans forward and rubs the towel through her hair. She’s wearing a new pair of Levi’s, a white tee-shirt with an Apple Corporation logo that reads ‘I Don’t Do Windows’ and white sneakers. Sketchers.

  “Tables in back are full of clothes from companies. Even bras and panties from Victoria Secret.” She looks out from under the towel, sees Fel and her face grows serious again.

  Beau introduces the intelligence officer, asks Donna Elena. “What is you last name?”

  “Palma.”

  “There’s some extra strong Cajun coffee over there in the silver pot and regular coffee in the carafes.” She heads for a cup and Beau explains her situation to Fel.

  “Her father’s a cop?”

  “That what she says.”

  “Delta and United are flying in and out of New Orleans, but not regularly.” Fel nods to Donna Elena as she comes back. “You know the drill. We take care of our own.”

  Donna Elena sits in a chair one spot away from Beau.

  “Det. Jones here will contact your father,” Beau tells her.

  “It might take a day or two.”

  Beau spots Mrs. Touchard, goes over to her, arranges it all, comes back, picks up his cup, takes a hit, looks at Donna Elena’s owly eyes.

  “You can bunk here with the Cajun women. Just stay put and we’ll get you to L.A.”

  She nods.

  Beau pulls a pen and note pad from his tactical bag, looks at Felicity. “Take out your pen and note book.”

  Back at Donna Elena. “Felicity here is an Intelligence Officer. We’re going to need you to tell us all you know at Carlos Rodriguez and the rest of the Brown Ravens.”

  Nearly an hour later, Linda Pickett comes in with Agent Isaak. Both in Khakis, gun belts, ready for action. She comes straight up to Beau, puts a hand on his shoulder and leans down, kisses his lips, a nice, firm kiss that charges through his tired body.

  She pulls back, sees Donna Elena and tilts her head to the side. Beau introduces them and sees Isaak likes what he sees in the young Latino woman. Felicity closes his note book as Beau stands. He realizes his eyes are burning now. He’s not as young as he used to be. He needs sleep, stands and stretches.

  He nods at Fel. “You got this?”

  “Yeah. You riding around tonight?”

  “No. I’m waiting for them to come to me.”

  Linda touches his arm. “We’re going to try to get you some back-up.”

  “Have them come before dark or I might mistake them.” He smiles.

  Donna Elena’s face changes, looking more like the girl in the car on the way over. Beau steps up to her chair. She looks at her coffee.

  “You’ll be safe here. We’ll get you to L.A.”

  She nods, won’t look up. Isaak brings a cup a coffee, sits across from Donna Elena.

  Linda walks Beau out, takes his hand and he squeezes hers. They stop next to the Escalade and he looks down into those green eyes. “When this over, we going to need a little time, wouldn’t you say.”

  She nods, smiles. “Yes. We do.”

  He moves his mouth to hers and they kiss even longer than before. Who gives a fuck if they draw an audience. When he pulls back she brushes the hair from his eyes.

  “She’s not a stray cat.” Linda’s voice is soft, no malice about the young woman and Beau remembers the look Donna Elena gave him, like Stella, when he took her in.

  “She’s a police officer’s daughter. She can stay with the Cajuns. They know what it’s like to be nomads.”

  “Now you’re being melodramatic.”

  “Comes with being kicked around by the Bloody British.”

  Linda gives him a teasing smile. “A long time ago.”

  “Not for us it isn’t.” He pulls her close, nice feeling her body against his. “I’m not surprised you don’t understand. Felicity understands. He’s the son of slaves. The British kicked us out of Canada. My mother’s tribe was run to ground by the white eyes, put on a reservation. You may never understand. But don’t fret about it. You got a bigger problem.”

  “What problem.”

  “Me.”

  They both smile and kiss again and he leaves her there.

  •

  Just as he drifts to sleep and sees Stella sleeping already, twitching slightly as she sleeps, he wonders if she’s chasing ghost mice or maybe running from wolves. He pets her gently and she stops twitching.

  He knows it’s a dream because his papa’s face comes to him, grinning, Calixte Beau, an ever-present cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His thick wavy hair is blown by a brisk wind off Vermilion Bay. They are in a pirogue near the shoreline, both holding fishing poles, long bamboo poles with a strong nylon line in the murky water, red and white bobber floating over a deep fishing hole. They rest beneath a huge water cypresses which provides some shade in the late afternoon. Beau is five years old and lands his first big catfish. It is a struggle and Calixte laughs, urges him on but does not help. It takes every ounce of the boy’s strength to land the ten pound yellow cat and he looks back at his papa who throws back his head and laughs loudly.

  “Mais, dat is some good eatin’, yeah!”

  The scene morphs to the marsh prairie and a stand of huge live oaks, Beau twelve now and carrying a .22 rifle. His papa walks next to him with a shotgun. They are tracking wild pigs, razorbacks, a dangerous animal. Papa shows the boy the tracks are not from a big pig. If they were, they would have to back away. Even a leopard does not attack a water buffalo. Razorbacks could grow over two hundred pounds and a sow with offspring will not hesitate to attack a human.

  A big red swamp squirrel races up a tree twenty yards from Beau who takes careful aim as the squirrel goes around a branch. Clever. Hiding. Beau keeps his rifle aimed as Calixte moves to circle the tree. The first shell in papa’s twelve gauge is bird shot. Good for squirrel hunting. The next shells are buckshot, in case the pig is large. It happens fast, Calixte swinging the shotgun around and firing twice. The razorback was not full grown but big enough at fifty pounds. When Beau looked back the red squirrel is scrambling up the oak, moving fast and low between the huge branches.

  He sees his mama’s face now, surrounded by long, jet-black hair. She is in her late twenties, a young woman who sang with the USO when she met Calixte at an army base, fell in love, married the smiling Cajun and left the great plains for the Cajun prairie of marshy, south Louisiana. Laurie Raven Beau is a patient mother who teaches her son lessons every day. Not from books, but from life. Lessons handed down for centuries. The most important lesson she taught her son was – kindness.

  They dressed out the razorback and used all of it, coat, meat, innards for bait, bones sharpened for tips for spear fishing. He remembers roasting that pig, slowly over a fire pit, a cochon de lait delight. Beau and his mama and papa alone together beneath a darkening sky, sitting at the table and eating the succulent, highly seasoned pork they brought to the table themselves.

  •

  Beau does not remain as stationery the second night, opting for changing position ever
y hour to keep the muscles from tightening up. A pair of coons comes down the dock not long after sunset, heading for the cat food Beau had laid out. Noisy eaters, the coons scatter when the tomcat comes at them. One tries sneaking back and hissing and snarling lead to the coon’s retreat.

  Beau had filled two cat dishes and watches the tomcat and striped gray cat eat from them, then spots a kitten, probably one of Stella’s litter mates, this one’s gray and white and wary as it eats and scrambled away. He does not spot the black cat until it has finished cleaning out the other dish. Sneaking out to the landing, Beau checks the parking lot, memorizing the location of the abandoned cars.

  Another night and no attack, which supports what Beau suspects. This Carlos isn’t as sharp as Donna Elena Palma.

  “One more night,” Beau tells Stella as bright, morning light creeps into Sad Lisa. “Then I’ll have to hit the streets. Go find them. Maybe lure them back here.”

  Time for breakfast. Turkey sausage tastes more like cardboard than andouille, but it is filling. Stella decides climbing up Beau’s bare leg is the fastest way up to the table.

  “Ow. Ow.” Beau scoops her. Puts her on the chair next to his and gives her a slice of sausage. Probably a bad idea, but what the hell. Beau might be dead tomorrow and when Ann adopts Stella the kitty will probably never get any sausage. Ann seems the type to make the cat eat what it supposed to eat. After all, the label on the Purina package warns not to give cats table scraps. Their meal is perfectly balanced for a cat’s digestive system.

  “If Carlos is smart, he’d attack at noon, when it’s not expected. But I don’t think he’s that smart.”

  Then again, maybe Carlos realizes, if Beau shot as well as he did at night, he might shoot even better when he could see everything.

  “Naw,” he tells Stella as he puts fresh food in her dish. “These are nocturnal rats. Daylight will only confuse them.”

  He’s not as tired after eating, but knows he needs to sleep. Stella is in no mood to sleep and decides Beau’s toes need to be stalked and attacked.

  “Ow. Ow.” He pulls the little tyke up and lets her fight with his hand. When she nibbles too hard, he bops her nose. She learns quickly and as she slaps his fingers with two paws with no claws barred, he keeps playing with her. Ticking her gets a loud mewing and when he pulls back, she jumps away, turns and leaps back at his fingers. Just when he thinks she’ll never run out of energy, she moves to the top of the bed, to the other pillow and stretches out.

  Later, as he’s just drifting, Stella jumps on his head from the other pillow.

  He puts her next to him and holds her there. She wiggles but he just holds her. She squirms. She meows. She growls and he pulls her closer. When he lets go, she’s got the idea. She goes back to the other pillow and licks her coat. A little later, she stretched out again and purrs. He reaches over and pets her gently and she goes, “Arrrl.” Purrs again.

  That’s how he likes to leave his females. Purring.

  •

  Beau decides removing the paint from a clean-shaved face is easier and shaves today, Stella watching of course. He hears footfalls as he steps from the bathroom. Before he can pick up his Glock a voice calls out.

  “Ahoy! Beau. Don’t shoot! It’s me.”

  Beau peeks out a porthole to see Felicity Jones holding up a six pack of beer.

  “It’s cold,” Fel says as he steps into the cabin.

  “What kind is that?”

  “Beck’s Light. German beer. Please tell me she’s here.”

  Beau loses the smile. “What?”

  “Donna Elena. Her father won’t pay for her airfare.” Fel opens the fridge, puts the six pack inside, brings out two. “You got bottle opener?”

  “What do you mean won’t pay?”

  “He doesn’t ever want to see her again.”

  “Fuck!”

  “I left her for about a half hour. I went and got more than enough money to buy her a ticket from just about everyone pitching in, but she disappeared.”

  “When?”

  “Ten o’clock this morning.” It’s almost four now. Fel finds a church key and opens a bottle. Beau snatches the second bottle Fel brought to the table, puts it back in the fridge.

  “You look for her?”

  “Searched the entire airport. She just walked into the crowd I guess. Can be anywhere.”

  Beau moves to the coffee pot. There’s a cup left. He fills a mug, sits at the table with Fel.

  “She’ll come here,” Beau says. “Maybe not right away, but she’ll come here.”

  Fel nods. “I know you didn’t put a move on her.”

  “She’ll come here because she knows I’ll protect her. Won’t put a move on her.”

  Fel takes a hit of beer, almost spits it out when Stella decides climbing up the back of his chair, all the way to his neck, is a pretty cool maneuver.

  “We’re sending back-up tonight. Should be here around six.”

  “Linda?”

  “She went to Baton Rouge this morning. ATF meeting. I’m sending real cops. NOPD. Straight from the ships.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “Street cops. Veterans. You’ll know all of them. Linda might be back as well.”

  A high voice calls out from the pier, “Beau, Baby. You still alive?”

  They go out to see Ann tap down a pair of dark sunglasses, gleek them over the top of the glasses and smile.

  “Hi, Fel.”

  She wears what appears to be a long vest and a pair of those plastic high heels, not very high. The vest is like a very short mini-dress. She’s left the bottom two buttons undone so her pink panties are visible when she walks past.

  “Got to pick up some things. I’ll come visit Stella in a minute.”

  Fel stays around to get a peek. Ann Treadway proves once again the old adage that it must be something in the steam, in the humidity, in the aura of New Orleans that brings out the lust, even if it’s just visual.

  It runs through Beau’s mind as Ann comes in, bends over to scoop Stella, flashing the rear of her panties, sitting with the kitten and showing the front of her panties. Women baring breasts for Mardi Gras beads. Come on. It’s the thrill, voyeuristic naughtiness. New Orleans is so much more than a city – it’s an obsession.

  •

  Axel Smith pulls a cold can of Bud Lite from the fridge, rubs it against his face and goes back out into the living room, pops the can as he steps in. He’d come in the back door, through the kitchen. Carlos, Terez and Oscar are in the living room, Oscar in the easy chair, Carlos and Terez on the sofa.

  “That dude Ace knows was right!”

  Axel flops on the stuffed chair and takes a long pull of beer. His tee-shirt is drenched and his eyes ache from too much time in bright sunlight.

  “The fuckin’ big cop is staying on a boat. I seen him. It’s the second to last boat on the right side of the dock at the marina. You know, the harbor.” He smiles, proud of himself. “Where’s Ace, anyway?”

  Oscar answers, “Out getting trim. Found a woman he knows about six blocks away.”

  “Where the white boys?”

  “Out in the Hummer. Getting food and shit.”

  “Hope they don’t get lost.”

  Carlos, pretends he’s bored for a minute, finally acknowledges Axel and growls, “What the fuck you sayin’?”

  “I found where the big cop stays, man. A fuckin’ boat, dude.”

  Oscar cuts in, “Ace got word from the street. We told you this morning.”

  Carlos was too coked up this morning but Oscar sees the recognition in Terez’s mean eyes. The woman should try more loose fitting clothes. She’s too pudgy for tight jeans and a tank top.

  “You sure it was him?”

  “Yep. I seen him good.”

  “The Escalade parked there?”

  “No. He’s got it stashed. There was a black cop there in a rumpled suit.” Axel bounces on the chair. “I’m tellin’ you. It’s him.”

  When Ac
e comes in a hour and two Bud Lites later, Axel can’t wait to tell him and Ace slaps his hands together.

  “I knew it!”

  “How’d you know it?” Carlos grumbles.

  “The big cop is some kinda Indian. None of the other cops even like him. He don’t run with them, don’t drink with them. They all talk about him.”

  “Whaddya mean, some kinda Indian? From fuckin’ India?”

  “No. An Apache. Only he’s tall.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ain’t you seen the movies? John Wayne and shit. Apaches are short dudes.”

  “That’s just the actors who play them.”

  “Then he’s one of them Mohicans or Mohawk or something. That’s why he shoots so fuckin’ straight and even scalps people. Man he’s a fuckin’ word with NOPD. But they don’t like him much. Shit they gave him up to my homegirl in a heartbeat.”

  Axel says, “I thought it was a homeboy.”

  “No, man. You want information, get a woman. They slicker and can weasel shit from anyone.”

  “Fuck you!” Terez snarls.

  Oscar and Ace laugh and Carlos sits up, thinking these homeboys need some educating. Why didn’t L.A. send real Ravens to help him instead of country-ass Alabama rednecks in a Hummer.

  “Where the fuck are the white boys, anyway?” Carlos stands, moves to the front window.

  “So,” Ace says. “We gotta get a plan about this Indian cop.”

  “Plan?” Carlos turns around, pulls up his pants. “We go in blasting away, shoot up the whole fuckin’ harbor.”

  Ace gets up, tells Axel, “Let’s get some paper and a pen in the kitchen and draw up a plan. Draw up the marina, harbor, whatever fuckin’ place it is and we all go get him, like Carlos says.”

  But they can’t go in blasting away. They got to go in like the army. Like a platoon of soldiers with a point man and set up a plan of attack. They step into the kitchen just as Dillard, Bubba and Billy come in with boxes of Popeye’s chicken, Cokes, beer and bags of burgers from Wendy’s.