Not Dead Enough

by J. M. Redmann

  “I’m not in a place to meet. Your house?”

  “In public,” I stated. Curious as I was, I wasn’t stupid curious.

  “I’m trying to not be seen. It’s not safe.”

  “One of the hotel bars on Canal Street? They are full of tourists and conventioneers,” I said.

  “No, that’s too risky.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll tell you when we meet, can’t talk much over the phone,” she said.

  “Okay, where should we meet?”

  “I don’t know,” she said sounding exasperated. “I don’t know the city. Someplace out of the way.”

  I did a quick inventory of the bars I knew. Damn, I knew a lot of them. “How about a local place in the Garden District?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Away from the French Quarter and Canal Street, but not too far to get to. Connie’s Alligator and Bait Bar, on Felicity near St. Charles.” I gave her the address. “It is a local place, no tourists around. It’ll be safe.”

  She reluctantly agreed.

  I shoved my shoes back on. Thought of calling Joanne, but Connie was a country girl who used to be a marine biologist in the swamps of Florida. She kept at least two loaded guns behind the bar. And knew how to use them.

  I got my car out of the valet parking. Another generous tip to the expense, but if you can’t afford the tip, you can’t afford the place.

  I wanted to get there before…Aimee? Salve? Sally? Maybe I could get her real name.

  Connie’s was well off St. Charles, on the less trendy side, although more gentrified day by day. Alligator and Bait Bar was both a joke and a signal this wasn’t a place for craft cocktails. Yes, there was a stuffed ten-foot-long alligator hanging from the ceiling.

  “Well, well, stranger, long time no see,” Connie greeted me as I entered.

  “Ms. Jarvis, you’re too far uptown,” I bantered. “Gotta cross Canal Street.”

  “What can I get you?”

  “You’re behind the bar? Where’s Greg the Red?”

  “Cat rescue.” Greg was a muscled, tattooed, big motorcycle kind of guy. She elaborated. “About six months ago, he found three kittens hiding from the rain. Took them in. Now he and his bruiser friends climb trees to rescue cats on their days off.”

  “Wow, who knew Mr. Greg, Mr. Red the Man, would be a cat dude.”

  “Strange world,” she agreed.

  “Whatever local brew you have on tap.”

  She nodded and poured me a beer, a nice wheat one. I gave her ten for a tab and a tip and found a table in the back. It was a slow night and pretty empty, after-work people gone home and not the trendy place where the glamour kids showed up around ten.

  About fifteen minutes later, Aimee arrived. The same woman who was in my office, but different. A mask had been removed. Or added. This woman was wary, looking around, scanning the room the way one does when looking for danger, not friends. I waved her over.

  “Would you like anything?” I asked, a skein of politeness.

  She glanced at my beer. “They have any decent liquor in this place?” With another glance up at the alligator.

  “Depends on what you mean by decent,” I said. “The usual brands. Probably no single malt Scotch or small batch vodka.”

  “Dewar’s on the rocks,” she said.

  I went to the bar, bantered with Connie for long enough to remind Aimee I wasn’t her waitress, then returned with her drink and another beer for me.

  “How did you find out—what you found out?” she asked.

  “Who are you?” I countered. “You didn’t give me your real name when you hired me and did your best to send me on a wild goose chase.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She shrugged and took a sip.

  “Let me narrow it down. Are you Andrea Brande, Salve Smyth, Sabrina Jordon, or Hannah Foster?”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “How do you know those names?” she asked in a harsh whisper as if worried about being overheard in this empty bar.

  “I’m good at what I do. You used me, tried to set me up for your crime family to find, lied to me, wasted my time. None of that makes me happy.”

  She looked down, swirled her drink. Another mask slipped in place. Or another one came off. “Look, I’m sorry. This is complicated.”

  “How?”

  “It’s hard to explain.”

  “Ellis and the purse strings?”

  Again the look of surprise, well hidden, a slight widening of her eyes, straightening of the lips. “How do you know this?”

  “Like I said, I’m good at my job. Who’s the woman in the morgue?”

  “What…what woman in the morgue?”

  She was good. Believable if I didn’t know better. “The woman who had on the same jewelry, except the really nice piece, and clothes you wore to my office. The same ones you wore to put money down on the house. Or are you going to tell me some strangers mugged you, stole all your clothes and most of your jewels—except the really good ones—and they were wearing masks so you can’t even tell if they’re men or women.”

  “It is complicated.”

  “Start explaining it to me, or I go to the police. I have several cop friends on speed dial.”

  She looked down again, then at me. She made a decision; I just didn’t know which one. “You know about my family?”

  “Some.”

  “You said Ellis Brande, so you know. They are not…well, women are supposed to be barefoot and pregnant. Or sex toys. Get a little older…and we’re less useful.”

  “Got it. But that doesn’t explain you showing up in my office.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It’s not…easy to get away. Ellis doesn’t let anyone out of his grasp, not without his permission.”

  “But you—or Salve—managed to run a store in Biloxi for years.”

  “Yes, I did. But only because it was useful to them. You were right; it was a money-laundering business. I had to report weekly, turn over all but enough to keep me fed and clothed.”

  “You’re Salve—Sally Brande—Smyth?”

  “Yes, yes, I am. I never thought…you’d find me. I hired you to make sure I could no longer be traced by that name.”

  “But you can be, although I have to admit it wasn’t easy. You’d get by with all but the most thorough search.”

  “It got worse.”

  “Your husband got out of jail.”

  She looked at me, not bothering to hide her surprise this time. But she continued, “Yes. I had hoped that would never happen. As long as he was in jail, I was in a safe limbo—properly married as Brande women are supposed to be, but no husband to throw me around when he felt like it. Or beat up our daughter.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, I do, he seemed strong and confident, could protect me from the Brande men. But there was no one to protect me from him. Jail was the best thing that happened to me. When he got out, he wanted things to be the way they were. Me always available to him, cooking his meals, wanting sex when he wanted it, taking his blows and insults without complaint. But I couldn’t be nineteen again.”

  “How convenient he overdosed so soon after he got out.”

  “I didn’t do that. Women don’t touch the drugs. Not ladylike. He might have started using in prison. Or…he wanted his place back and other Brande men had taken it.”

  “You’re suggesting that one of your family members killed him?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. Inconvenient people have a habit of disappearing. Rumor is there’s Brande property in the hills of Georgia, kept only as a place to dump bodies where no one would look.”

  “Really? Do you know where it is?”

  “No clue. Not even sure if it’s real or not. But we came from the hills and hollers, and sometimes justice is given the old-fashioned way.”

  It didn’t matter. There would be property records, and the police could search for them.

  “So, your husband con
veniently gone again, this time for good. You had nothing to do with it. Why run now?”

  “I’m no longer married. Ellis was suggesting I ‘take care’ of Uncle Donnie.” She made a face.

  “Isn’t he already married?”

  “Of course. But marriage doesn’t bind men the way it binds women. Brande women must be faithful—even to jailed husbands. But Brande men—and their buddies—can wander as much as they like. Donnie was bored with his wife and assumed since I was now free, available, I should be available to him.”

  She made a face and took a sip of her Scotch.

  “So rather than wait a few months for Donnie to get bored with you, you decided to start a civil war in your family?” I was deliberately pushing her. I wanted her off-balance—and to let her know I wasn’t playing by her rules.

  “He’s an ugly man. Oh, he plays nice, but sucking up to Ellis has a price, and he makes sure those below him pay it. And once he was done, it would be some other old fart Ellis owed favors to—a seventy-year-old who isn’t rich enough to get a twentysomething woman, so has to settle for those of us in our forties. Women are bargaining chips in this family. Some of us got tired of it.”

  “So what’s your end game? Ellis knows about the account you used to pay me and put a payment on the house. I presume that’s part of the play. How does that break you free?”

  “Are you sure?” Then, “It’s complicated,” she said. Another sip of her drink.

  “You involved me in your ‘complicated’ scheme. I need to know the truth.”

  “The truth?” She looked up at me, set her drink down. “The truth is this is a brutal family, we’re held in gilded cages—yes, nice clothes, a big house. But only if we submit. And do it with a smile. I can’t do that anymore. I can’t stand to watch younger generations of women seduced into it, seeing the pretty things, the money things, and not the ugly, violent underside until they’re trapped, no easy way out.”

  “You want to escape, but only if you can get enough money to continue the comfort,” I challenged. “Nothing like ‘get on a bus for as long as you can ride, then clean rooms or serve burgers’ for the Brande women.”

  “So easy for you to judge. They would hunt us down. You can’t escape from the Brandes on a minimum wage job a hundred miles away. Ellis is getting…increasingly desperate to hold on to power. Upping the consequences for displeasing him. It was now—or I’d conveniently overdose. If I was lucky.”

  “What if you went to the police? Witness protection?”

  “Please, I’ve been part of this family since I was a baby. Drugs put in my stroller to smuggle them. Not interested in going to jail for a decade or so.”

  “What are you intending to do?”

  “I can’t tell you. Really, I can’t.”

  I guessed, “Ellis is moving the accounts, all the paperwork to access them. He says no one will ever find them again. But he’s too old and infirm to manage it all on his own.”

  She stared at me. But then she said, “It’ll be soon and then this will all be over. But I can’t tell you more. I’m taking too much of a risk just talking to you.” Again, the look around the room, hard wariness in her eyes.

  “One of you is dead, lying in the morgue as they search for her ID. What happened?”

  “A lesson in disobeying the Brandes.”

  “Witnesses said they saw two women dump her body.”

  Her face closed down, to hide the emotions. Or contain them. “No, it wasn’t us! We’re not killers. We’re trying to escape the killers.”

  “But she was killed here in New Orleans. Not Atlanta.”

  “We think they traced her here. Ellis monitors our phones. A grandson is down here, setting up a drug operation. Maybe he found her. She might have slipped up and answered her phone, forgetting he would trace it. I don’t know. I just know…I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish…we’d been able to save her. But now you see they will kill us. Even if we stop now and go back, we’ll pay. We have to escape.”

  “What role am I playing?”

  “It’s done. To see if you could find me.” She said it too quickly.

  “Except you used an account that Ellis was monitoring and it led them to me. And Karen Holloway. They want to know where you are. A polite no doesn’t deter them. I’ve had to leave my house and hide out. Doesn’t seem done to me.”

  “That wasn’t intended,” she said. “We had timed it so he wouldn’t reconcile the accounts until, well, until it wouldn’t matter.”

  “But he did. Why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe someone got scared and tipped him off.”

  “Which means he knows what’s going on.”

  “No, we’ve been careful. Kept the entire plan to only a few. Others had a task or two to complete but didn’t know how it fit in.”

  “You’re stabbing him in the back and someone is doing the same to you?”

  “We’ve been taught to survive. Look, it’s almost over. Keep hiding out for the next few days. You’ll be safe. Once I’m free, I’ll send another check to pay you. I just need you to keep this between us for the next few days—a week at most. It’s to free the Brande women—at least some of us. We can’t do this any other way.”

  She reached out and put her hand over mine, her expression beseeching. Begging.

  I wondered if it was the begging she had learned to survive in the Brande family.

  “You have to make sure no harm comes to either Karen or me.”

  “I’ll do my best. I can’t control them, their violence. Do your part to stay as safe as you can. Speak to no one. Please help us get away.” She let go of my hand.

  “Let me call Karen and warn her.” I started to pull out my phone.

  “No.” She again reached for my hand, this time to keep it away from using my phone. “The less she knows, the safer she is.” She quickly added, “We can give them misleading information, let them think the house deal is a blind alley.” She kept her hand blocking me from my phone. “We should have done this already. It’ll be taken care of in the morning. The last thing we want is more people to be hurt.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, moving my hand away from my phone and her hand.

  “Please don’t tell anyone,” she said. “That’s the best way you can help us.”

  “How will I know when it’s safe?”

  “I’ll call you,” she said. “You deserve to know. As soon as it’s safe I’ll call you.”

  She stood up to go.

  I did as well.

  “I need to get a ride,” she said as she headed for the door.

  “I’ll wait until you’re picked up,” I offered.

  She smiled and nodded. The habits of someone doing this for her were hard to break.

  I gave Connie another ten to cover both our drinks on the way out.

  Salve was on the curb, looking at her phone. “Car should be here in a minute.” She looked down the street, then said, “That was a nice place. I’m glad you suggested it. Kind of place it’s pleasant to stop by. No pretensions.”

  “Like I said, for us locals. Comfortable. Plenty of places to get fancy cocktails.”

  We were just making conversation, strangers forced to spend a brief time of transition together.

  A large SUV pulled around the corner and slowed as it got closer.

  My hand traveled into my messenger bag.

  But Salve smiled and said, “This should be it.” She opened the rear door as it stopped. “Please tell no one until I’ve called you,” she said, then closed the door.

  The windows were tinted; I couldn’t see the driver, but she seemed okay. I waved them off, then headed to my car, at a pace appropriate to the heat still lingering in the day.

  Once they turned the corner and could no longer see me, I ran, jumped into my car, and pulled a quick U-turn, thankful for a small car with a tight turning circle, then sped after them.

  I only managed to get my seat belt on at the next corner, just in time to see them turn upto
wn on St. Charles.

  Had she told me the truth?

  Yes.

  Had she lied?

  Yes.

  I knew from what Anmar told me about the rancid misogyny of the Brandes that her tale of the violent men and the way they treated the women—and the acquiescence of the women to spare themselves—was true. Certainly enough to cause a desperate plan to escape. But Salve was a survivor, and she had so learned the tricks of surviving in that family, she couldn’t unlearn them in a lifetime.

  Were Karen and I really safe now? Maybe. But I couldn’t assume Salve could make it so. Maybe she thought she could—and could be wrong. Or maybe she was saying it to avoid the truth. She had used Karen and me, and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t protect us now.

  The SUV continued up St. Charles for about ten blocks, then turned right, into a residential block.

  I slowed, then turned to follow. It was dark and I didn’t want to lose them.

  The SUV was stopped at the end of the block.

  I pulled over and turned off my lights as if coming home. I quickly scrabbled in my bag for my good camera.

  I took as many pictures as I could of her as she got out of the SUV and went into the house on the corner. I got a couple of shots of the license plate as well. Probably just one of the rideshare drivers, but better too much info than not enough.

  I gave her a good five minutes, saw a light go on in an upstairs room, then I drove down the block, making a note of the address. Something else for the computer grannies to run down for me. Again, probably innocent, but better to know.

  Then I drove back to my hotel. Of course, Canal Street was a jam of traffic and the usual drunk tourists trying to make it across all those lanes of insanity. Plus cabs stopped to pick up the drunk tourists. All this added an extra fifteen minutes of sitting in traffic before I got to the hotel.

  Another tip to the valet, and I was back at my home away from home.

  I stopped in the hotel bar—scanning it just in case Junior Boy was there—to get a drink, asking for it in a go-cup to take to my room. A vodka and tonic, shelf brand. Good Scotch would cost about half a bottle of even better Scotch here. I had some limits on my spendthrift ways.