“Hey, Micky,” Mary greeted me. “What’s your poison?” I petted Miss M, the bar cat, sitting regally on the bar at the end nearest the door to guarantee anyone who entered would give her the attention she deserved.
I ordered an Abita draft and told her to add a burger when it came time for a refill. Then I found my preferred booth in the far front corner, where I could see who came and went but still be enough away that there was no to and fro traffic. My plan was to do some people watching to get me through the burger, enough beer to mellow the evening. And then probably go home and read. Exciting no, distracting, yes.
The burger, when it came, was hot and juicy, perfect with another cold beer and thick cut fries, in my air-conditioned bubble away from the sticky humidity outside. Back when Cordelia and I were together we’d occasionally do what we’d called fancy date night and go out, sometimes to the grand old places like Commander’s Palace, Dooky Chase, or Antoine’s. Sometimes the newer ones with the hot chefs. Sometimes we’d do not so fancy and come to, well, someplace like this, or one of the neighborhood po-boy places.
I missed the ease of it, coming home saying “I don’t want to cook, do you?” and then heading out. Now plans had to be made, dates set. No spontaneous outings. The friends I went out with weren’t in the same place, didn’t eat in the same kitchen, didn’t live in the same part of town. It became easier to go out on my own, find a place like R&F, where I fit in as much as I fit in anywhere.
I noticed an older man standing by the bar—well, closer to my age, but older for the usual crowd that came here, those just barely able to drink (legally) searching for the excitement of the night, not yet coupled, first job or maybe second, or still chasing degrees, adult life had just begun, the seeming freedom of it before being weighed down by the responsibility that came with freedom. They were seeking the connections of the night, new people, new possibilities, so many directions to travel because their journey had barely begun. I watched him as he poured a glass of Chardonnay from a bottle beside him. Sometimes older people came here to seek the young, maybe for an ego boost at best, but to prey on them with the differences in power between someone with three roommates and a bike for transportation and someone with a newer car, a home not shared other than by choice. Predators. I watched him, but he seemed content to top up his wineglass, pet Miss M, and chat with Mary.
Maybe he was here for the same reasons I was, to be someplace besides the same walls staring back at me.
Maybe Karen was right, my profession had jaded me, made me look for the suspicious, constantly calculating the dangers. Older guy in a bar had to be here for picking up the barely old enough to vote. Seeing that as the first reason, slowly finding others, mainly by looking at my face in the mirror, an older woman, could be here for the same reasons.
Except I knew I wasn’t here specifically to pick up someone twenty years younger.
But what if one of those young women came over here, started talking, seemed interested, consenting? Would I really turn her down if she was appealing? Blind myself to the ways our ages changed who we were and could be? My house, job, car, money in the bank, not enough, but a reasonable enough pile to get me through a few slow months, earned through years of saving. She wouldn’t have the years to save that kind of money, the years to pay off a car note, a mortgage, to pay for the meal or bar tab without having to worry it would come from next month’s rent. Even a little power can be alluring. Buying someone a beer could be that little power. If I wanted someone to go home with, the fission and allure of attraction, would I turn it down?
I finished the last fry. The point of coming here was to distract myself, stop thinking about my problems and enjoy the fun of watching how many people were wearing purple or beer T-shirts. Have a good burger with enough beer to smooth the evening out and then go home to sleep. Not to sit here contemplating the ways I judged others for the same flaws I had, to wonder if my rationalizations were any better than theirs were.
I got up, leaving my half-finished beer to mark my place, taking the hamburger plate back to the bar.
Right next to where the older man was standing. It was still early, the bar wasn’t crowded.
“Hi,” I said as I handed the plate to Mary. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” I said to him. To Mary, “Great burger as always. How do you do it?”
“Oh, we just let the cat lick the plate. Adds the extra flavor,” she replied.
I smiled at her, then turned back to him, wanting to see if he’d reply. Maybe he was a nice guy, or maybe I was right the first time. I wanted him to realize he’d been noticed.
“Nope,” he said easily, “haven’t been here in far too long.” Not a local accent, my guess was Northeast.
“Why this bar?” I asked.
“I own it.”
“Ah.” Then, “Are you going to renovate it?” Be part of the gentrification taking over Rampart Street. Give the young and not so well off one less place to be.
But he said, “Why? Is there something wrong with it the way it is?”
“No, I love it just the way it is, a place that scares the tourists away.”
“Something wrong with tourists?”
“No, some of my best friends and all that—but I live around here and I like being able to stop by for a good burger and beer without being overrun by straight tourists looking for the ‘authentic’ New Orleans.”
He held up his hand for a high five. After we completed the ritual, he said, “I live in New York but love New Orleans. Since I like my vino,” he raised his glass, “why not own a bar? Last owner is a friend, but he’s getting older and wanted out. I was crazy enough to say sure, why not? He gave me a good price. I just had to agree to keep it the way it is, pay decent wages, and always bow to the bar cat.”
“Is he a suitable new owner?” I said, turning to Mary, although I pretty much knew the answer.
She gave him an appraising look, then said, “He’s okay, but no one will ever be like Catfish.”
“I could take that as a compliment or an insult,” he said. “Either goes well with wine.”
“So, new owner, what’s your name?”
“Byrnes, Rob Byrnes.”
“Hey, Rob,” Mary said, “Micky is a private eye. She might be able to help you.”
“Really?” Rob said. He picked up his bottle and glass and motioned us back to my corner table. He also signaled Mary to bring another beer for me.
Yeah, it was after hours, but I never turn down work, not in the summer when it’s slow.
Once we were seated, he glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “Okay, Mary vouches for you, I’m good,” he started. “We had two overdoses right around here last week. Yeah, we keep naloxone here at the bar just in case.”
“Sad but true for a lot of places around here.”
“Except I think someone is dealing out of the bar. Hot stuff, laced with fentanyl.”
I shook my head. It was too easy to slip up. A bad job, bad breakup, bad luck in life, and you get caught in a trap. Then I got professional. “What kind of security do you have here?”
“That’s the balancing act. I don’t really want cameras all over the place. A lot of the people that come here aren’t out to their families. This is the one safe space for them. A camera could take that away.”
“What about outside?”
“I don’t know. Some don’t even want to be seen coming in the door. Maybe I could have two entrances, open the back door.”
“Then you’d have to control two different entrances, your staff would have to watch both. Better to stick with just one. Why do you think it’s out of your place?”
“One of the ODs was a regular here. She’s okay—wouldn’t have been if Ali, the night manager, hadn’t been quick with the naloxone—and smart enough to use a second dose to overcome the fentanyl.”
“Ali Cook?” I asked, noting her name down in the notes app on my phone. This was a case and I was working.
> “Yep, that’s her.”
I’d met Ali a couple of times. A grad student in public health. The overdose victim had been lucky. Not everyone knew to do a second dose of naloxone if the first didn’t work, a more common occurrence with fentanyl. “Would it be okay if I talked to your staff?”
“Yeah, sure. But how will that help? I don’t want drugs here in the bar—it’s illegal for me and the staff, could lose our license. Also don’t want people using my space to prey on these kids—we can call them that, right? But at the same time, I don’t want a big mess, police in here busting people. I’m making it difficult, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re being real. Too many of us aren’t safe in the so-called safe world. Bullied at school, catcalled dyke in the suburbs, kicked out of bathrooms in shopping malls because we don’t tick off all the right gender markers. It can be hard to find space where you feel okay to be yourself. Law and order too often means protecting the right people from the wrong people. You don’t want this to be anything goes to the point of everyone for themselves. But you also recognize the usual security measures might mean making it not feel safe for the people that desperately need a safe space.”
“So, what do we do?”
“Would you consider outside cameras that face down the block, so they can keep track of who’s coming and going, but not directly cover the door? Also, the back area, where you have the garbage cans. No customers should be there. You get to decide if you want to turn the tapes over to the cops. Some straight guy hassles a transwoman and she kicks back—no tape, no one saw anything.”
“You’re telling me to not fully cooperate with the police?”
“I’m private. I’m not bound by the rules cops are. Plus I’m queer. I’ve been stopped for no other reason than I was leaving a dyke bar.”
We talked over a few other things, adding some outside lights. “It doesn’t have to be bright white, but enough to light the area so it doesn’t invite shooting up.” Training the bar staff in what to look out for. Having Ali make sure they were all trained on using naloxone. I agreed to hang around and watch, not much more than my usual, but I’d be more vigilant. I told him I’d look up prices on cameras and lights for him tomorrow and get back to him.
We chatted at the bar for another beer’s worth of time. Mostly about the differences between New York and New Orleans. “Be careful. Forty degrees may sound not so cold, but the high humidity here makes it feel like cold, dead fingers are everywhere.”
I watched as we talked but didn’t see anything that looked suspicious. The usual crowd was filtering in, waiters off the afternoon shift, a group of young lesbians in softball shirts, all matching, a team or they didn’t like having to think about what to wear.
But no quick hand movements that might indicate a drug deal. No one who came in scanning the crowd with a hungry look. Friends who knew friends, transwomen, transmen, some with makeup and bulging biceps, or skinny wrists and beards. Pink hair, blue hair, shaved heads. Black, white, mixed race, mixed couples and groups.
After what was probably one beer too many—Rob insisted they were on the house—I headed home.
There wasn’t much more I could do tonight on my new case. I’d get going on the camera and security lights tomorrow. I could hang out at the bar but might better spend my time skimming through the camera footage, see who I pegged as a likely dealer and the times they were around.
It was a hot, muggy night, the long hours of summer leaving the final faded pinks and purple of sunset in the sky. And therefore a hot, muggy walk home.
Chapter Five
I’d emailed Rob several possible packages of security cameras and lights—most basic bottom line to super deluxe and two options between them—before noon.
Last night had been a take another shower and go to bed night, so I was up bright and early. After I sent the information to him, I busied myself with drinking more coffee and dreaded filing and billing. Paperwork is so not my favorite task. I became a private eye, my own one-person business, to get away from people telling me what to do. The problem with a one-person business was there was no one to delegate to. And if the odious tasks didn’t get done, it was my bottom line they came out of.
It had been a struggle in the early years. My current office had also been my living space and there were times it took eating rice and beans four days out of five to scrape up that one monthly rent. It always seemed to be a balancing act. I couldn’t count on a steady paycheck, and clients were sometimes slow to pay their bills. I’d learned, not always the easy way, to plan for the worst case, to save when I could. I’d worked hard, not been too picky about cases. Of course it had been easier when I was with Cordelia, two incomes, her steady doctor paychecks. I turned down the real rat-ass cases—divorces, always messy; bosses paying minimum wage to catch employees stealing a bag of French fries—forgo the private eye and pay them enough not to go hungry.
But now it was just me again. A house mortgage and now the building mortgage. Two big bills that had to be paid every month. The coffee shop (“specialty coffees and teas shoppe”) on the first floor covered most of the mortgage, the computer grannies on the second floor, the rest. But that didn’t cover repairs or maintenance. Do you know how much it costs to replace the air-conditioning units in a three-story building? I do. Hello and good-bye home equity loan. Termite contract? Forget the new computer.
I was happy to have Rob’s case but liked his cause enough not to charge full freight, something I really couldn’t afford to do. But this was what I had saved for.
While waiting for him to get back to me, I continued my search for Sally Brand and Aimee Smyth, suspecting both were futile. I wanted to check out the hotel where she had putatively been staying, but Joanne had that information as well, and she would not thank me if I dropped by.
Not your case anymore, Micky, I told myself. Except the check had cleared. If it was what it seemed, some con game, why throw real money into it? Maybe they hadn’t intended me to keep it, but something interfered.
Like a real murder in the midst of a con game? You don’t make people happy when you cheat and steal from them.
I re-did every internet search I’d done before, this time looking for a liar and grifter, not just a client.
Lunch, a barely remembered to be eaten turkey sandwich, came and went and I kept searching. Different spellings of the names, different locations, broad and wide searches that yielded too much information and narrow targeted ones that gave too little.
Then something. The Brande family of Atlanta. Not the biggest, but not the smallest either, of crime families. Four brothers from a small town in Georgia moved there in the fifties. Started with illegal alcohol sales—get your hooch on the way to church. Most places aren’t as liberal as New Orleans in where and when you can get booze—grocery stores, gas stations, lemonade stands, elves in potholes.
The Brandes didn’t seem to be the brightest of lights. The four brothers, then their sons did time in jail. Then the sons of the sons. Big-time enough to go to jail, but small-time enough to not stay there too long. Drugs and gambling got added to the booze. More male children went to jail, then back out to the family business. But business was good enough to buy several houses in the Buckhead area—they called it the family compound, but pictures showed a few strung-together houses of the mini-mansion variety with a high wall around them. A wall the neighbors fought as an eyesore. They won their case, but in true scofflaw style, the Brandes didn’t take it down.
Ah, domestic violence charges started popping up. Walls had multiple reasons to keep prying eyes away.
About ten years ago, there seemed to be a family split, a bitter one, from the escalating reports of bar fights and violence. A fire at the Buckhead place—cause listed as unknown, possibly arson, but the authorities got little cooperation from the Brandes. No charges were filed.
Eight years ago one of the older Brande men was shot, a drive-by. Ended up in a wheelchair. No arrests were made. But four
months later, another shooting, this time in a parking lot of one of their favored watering holes. Two cars were destroyed, but only minor injuries. After that about every year there was at least one shooting, rarely causing more damage than minor injuries. The usual arrests for bootlegging, drugs, and bookmaking continued.
As did the domestic violence.
About three years ago it stopped. Truce? Or had one side won?
This was all fascinating, and had eaten most of my day. But in the scant mentions of the women, there was no Sally or Aimee of any spelling. Women, usually blond and big busted, showed up mostly in wedding photos. These were mostly the posed newspaper announcements, so they only told me what the male Brandes looked like. They didn’t rule out Aimee as being related, but no clear family trait like the same nose or eyes. But I did stumble on a few photos—ah, the age of the ever-present camera phone—that showed what the Brande women looked like—some taking after their blond mothers, but some had the darker hair and wide brown eyes of the fathers. Could that have produced Aimee? Not a no, but not a yes.
Sally Brand might have been just a coincidence, a similar name. Even Sally and Atlanta didn’t prove anything. Maybe they were connected. And maybe I had wasted an entire day, and the petty criminal Brande family had nothing to do with this.
I debated calling Joanne and letting her know of this possible connection.
But the day was late and I left the debate for the morning.
Rob had texted asking if I could bring a printout of my suggested security plans to his bar. Customer service is not my middle name, but I’d make an exception in this case. Especially since it so neatly met my wishes—an excuse to leave the office before the proverbial office hours ended. (Yes, I’m my own boss, but I try to impose reasonable work standards on myself.) And an excuse to have another beer or two and still call it doing my job. Win-win. And it would ease me into the weekend. Yeah, sometimes I worked the days most people were off, but if I could I tried to take a break. Slow summer gave me breaks.
Not Dead Enough Page 6
