by David Lyons
They beat the band, but just. Two musicians followed them in the door and set up on a small raised stage. Jock picked a table nearly touching the dance area.
“Is that the band?” Malika asked.
On the small stage was a black drummer, skinny as a snake, with a single snare drum. His wrists were not much thicker than the drumsticks he held in bony fingers. Sitting next to him was a short stocky white man with a several-day-old beard as counterpoint to a head as bald as an egg. He pulled an accordion from a battered carrying case, and plugged in a mike to a portable amplifier. Both men looked hungover.
“Just the two of them? That’s the band?” Malika asked.
“Usually guest musicians drop in and do a set for a beer, but the guys you’re looking at right now are enough, believe me.”
This was soon proven. Though the musicians sat with vacant stares for almost fifteen minutes, when folks started arriving and the tables closest to the dance floor were taken, the music began. The rhythm was largely a two-step beat on the snare. The accordion also played in staccato-like cadences. The lyrics were mostly single syllables, a few sounding remotely like French. But the audience was not here to critique. Nearly all in the room were on their feet with the first tune. When the song was finished, they stayed waiting for the next.
“We’d better get up there while there’s still room,” Jock said, and led Malika to the dance floor.
There was no routine, there were no steps to learn, and there was no way to imitate other dancers because no two in the room danced alike. Their moves were a combination of boogie, shuffle, bop, and polka. The only common element was pure enjoyment. When Malika’s eyes met those of others, the looks she got were of welcome and approval. She was warmed by more than just the rising temperature created by so many bodies in such a small place. There were a number of elderly people on the floor, their movements restricted by age, but not their enjoyment. And they were dressed as Jock said, suits and frocks out of the fifties. Finally breathless, Malika begged for a break. They returned to their table.
The pulse of the room diminished as the band played a slow number. There was more affection shown between the oldest couples than those three and four decades younger. An old man made his way to their table as the accordion player announced they would take a break after the next song. The man was bent over with age, but he bent over farther out of respect as he spoke to Jock. Malika thought she recognized the words petite amie. Jock bent over to Malika and whispered in her ear.
“This gentleman served with our Fifth Army in World War Two and was wounded at the Battle of Monte Cassino. Soldiers from the Fourth Indian Infantry saved his life. He recognizes where you’re from. He says it would be an honor to dance with you.”
The old man looked at Malika with eyes that watered with age. She had no such excuse for the moisture rimming her own as she stood to accept. They were given plenty of room on the dance floor for the final song of the set, and warm applause when the dance was finished. She kissed the old man on the cheek, and he nodded and walked away.
“He must be ninety years old,” she said, taking her seat.
“And he just danced with the prettiest girl in the place. That’s a Cajun for you. Live till you die.”
But fatigue soon hit. They still had to drive home. Two-lane blacktops built across swamps were challenging enough in the daylight.
“We’d better be going,” Jock said. He paid the bill and put a fifty in the musicians’ tip jar. It was easy access to the exit with most people on the dance floor. They made it to the door.
“Just a minute, mon ami.”
Jock turned around. A six-foot-five, three-hundred-pounder was walking toward him, followed by two slightly smaller goons.
“I didn’t get my dance,” the big one said.
No mistaking the intent here. Jock pushed Malika ahead of him through the door, handing her the keys to the pickup. “Get inside and lock the door.”
“Step outside,” Jock said. “But I’ll only dance with one of you at a time.”
“Guess I go first, then,” the big one said, to no one’s surprise.
The provocateur outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds. His knuckles, nearly dragging on the floor, evidenced a significant advantage in reach, and those paws, now clenched, would be decisive—if they landed. The bruiser stood with legs spread and long arms held out from his sides, as if preparing for a gunfight rather than a brawl. Jock stepped in close, holding his arms high like he was ready to take a partner in his arms for a waltz.
“Well,” he said, “let’s dance.”
“You stupid fu—” but the consonant never made it out.
Jock brought a knee to the man’s groin, which merely brought a muffled “Umph,” not the reaction he was hoping for. He tucked his chin into his neck, lowered his arms, then began his familiar routine. The hulk had almost the exact dimensions as his punching bag. Lightning-fast jabs struck the fellow’s ribs, kidneys, and flabby stomach. The thug had no room to swing, and most of his punches hit Jock’s upper back with little force. From a distance, with Jock’s punches landing almost too fast to see, it did resemble an awkward dance. For several minutes he pounded nonstop, while his opponent couldn’t land a punch. And there were several more knees to the groin too. After one that he knew had hit the mark, Jock took a step back as the man bent over in pain, then leaned back, the windup, the pitch. His fist landed square in the big man’s face, pulverizing a nose previously broken, sending blood spurting in all directions. Beaten, the man stepped back, screaming in pain, and fell to his knees. Because he was bending over at the waist, Boucher’s right cross didn’t have full force, but it had enough. He knocked the man out cold.
The second string of the goon squad now stepped forward, smiling.
“Ain’t gonna happen. Ça ne va pas arriver.” From the shadows a frail figure approached: the old man Malika had favored with a dance. Though his gait was unsteady, his hand did not shake. In his gnarled fist he held a switchblade.
The two men laughed. “Get out of the way, old man. You think you can stop us?”
“Me? No. I’m just infantry. But I brought the artillery.” With the sound of several pistols being cocked, four men lined up behind the old veteran, guns in hand.
Not another word was spoken. The attackers picked up their wounded member, retreated to their car, and peeled out of the parking lot, spewing gravel and dust behind them.
“They ain’t from around here,” one of the men said, clicking the safety back on his pistol. “Just wanted you to know that. The lady okay?”
“She’s fine,” Jock said. “Thank you. Thank all of you.” They shared handshakes and backslaps, then Boucher returned to his truck. “Au revoir,” he said. The rescue party waved him good-bye, then went back inside to their dancing.
“Did he hurt you?” Malika asked as they pulled away.
“Never touched me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I might have danced with them if they had asked me.”
“Dancing was not what they had on their minds,” Jock said. “They were looking for a fight. One of the other men said they weren’t from around here. I didn’t think so. They had New Orleans accents. Why would men come all the way out here from town just to start a fight? There are hundreds of bars closer. Unless . . .” He finished his sentence with an inner monologue: Unless they were looking for me.
Boucher drove through the bayous with care, and with an eye on his rearview mirror. Several times he thought he spotted a car tailing him, and with no place to turn off from the two-lane blacktop, there were some anxious moments. But there were no incidents and they reached the city’s outskirts. The main event of the evening was waiting for them at home.
CHAPTER 10
TWO PATROL CARS WERE parked in front of Boucher’s house, one blocking the driveway, both with lights flashing. There was a dark sedan parked in the drive. He parked bumper to bumper with the cop car denying him ac
cess to his driveway. People were ambling along the sidewalk in front of the house, but one of the officers kept them moving along.
“What’s going on?” Boucher asked.
“Who are you?” a cop asked.
“I’m Federal District Judge Jock Boucher. This is my house. What is this, a break-in?”
“No,” the cop said. “Who’s in the truck?”
“A personal friend.”
“Would you ask your personal friend to step out, please?”
Malika got out of the truck and walked to his side. The cop stared at her like he hadn’t seen a woman in recent memory. “Where y’all been?” he asked.
Jock Boucher had had his fill of insolent men for one evening.
“I want to know what you’re doing here at my house, and whose damn car is that in my driveway.”
“You know, Judge, that’s something we’d like to know too. Maybe you could step over here and help us out with that one. Better ask the lady to stay back, though.”
The cocky officer walked to the sedan and stood next to the driver’s door. The window was down. Boucher followed and looked inside.
“Oh, my God.”
“You know her?”
“I know who she is.”
“You have a name for us?”
“Her name is Ruth Kalin.”
The entry wound was a black hole in her left temple. A dark line of blood seeped down the side of her face, a coagulated drop hanging from her ear like a pear-shaped ruby.
“She a personal friend too?”
Jock Boucher’s fists were clenched so tight his nails dug into the flesh of his palms. At that moment a plainclothes officer arrived and approached the judge, bearing himself as if with a fatigue no amount of rest could cure.
“I’m Detective Fitch,” he said. The two shook hands. “I know who you are, Judge,” he said. “Why don’t we go inside while they get the body and the car out of here?”
They entered the house. Fitch stood just inside the doorway. He took a look around. “You were out this evening?” he asked.
“We were. I arrived home to find the police out front and that car in my driveway.”
Fitch looked at Malika and nodded his head. “Ma’am,” he said, as a courtesy. He was waiting for Boucher to introduce her.
“Malika Chopra’s a friend of mine from New York, visiting for the weekend,” Boucher said.
Fitch asked her several brief questions, which she answered with crisp, short sentences. Apparently satisfied with her answers, he concluded with, “I’m sorry this had to spoil your weekend.”
“I’m sorry for the poor person in that car,” Malika said.
Even with the hangdog look on his face, you could almost see Fitch’s mind at work as he stood there. He turned and looked out the window in the dining room. The patrol cars had left. The ambulance had removed the body, and the decedent’s car was being loaded onto a flatbed. Boucher invited the detective to sit. The invitation was refused. All three stood like each was waiting for the other to make a move, but it was Fitch who was in control.
“You know, Judge Boucher, I should have my men do a search of your house, but under the circumstances . . .”
“Detective, if you want to search my house, go right ahead. In fact, my friend and I could check into a hotel and you could have the entire night if you need it.”
Fitch reached around to the back of his head and scratched. “That’s very understanding of you. Tell you what. Could you meet me at the Eighth District station on Royal Street Sunday morning? Won’t be too many people around then. I’ll do what I need to do here, then lock up after myself. I don’t think we need to involve Ms. Chopra any further at this point.”
“May we get a few personal items from the bathroom?” Jock asked.
“Of course.”
He and Malika excused themselves and returned within minutes. Jock carried a small bag, which he opened for inspection. Fitch shook his head, not needing to look. Boucher led Malika to the doorway.
“We’ll be back around nine in the morning. Will that be enough time?”
Fitch nodded. They left.
“Was that the woman I saw the night I arrived?” Malika asked as they got into his truck.
“Yes.”
“My God, why? Why here?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” But he knew one thing. He had been foolish enough to be seen by hundreds of people with Ruth Kalin at the restaurant. Had he not been so careless, she might still be alive.
He drove the short distance to the Royal Orleans Hotel. It would have been easier to walk but Malika was upset. He asked her to sit in the lobby while he got a room. Aware of how it must have looked, checking in this time of night with no luggage and such a striking woman with him, he identified himself using his title, giving the excuse of a plumbing problem in his nearby home. He was given his key card and they went to their room. Malika walked in and sat rigid on the bed.
“How can you be so calm?” she asked. “That woman was murdered right in front of your house. And that fight earlier this evening; the two are connected, aren’t they?”
He closed the door, double-locked it, and fastened the chain. He walked to the bed and sat beside her, taking her hands in his.
“It’s too much of a coincidence for them not to be connected in some way. But I don’t know how and I don’t know why. If I seem calm, it’s because of what I do. I’ve sat in judgment of people for the last ten years of my life. I’ve determined civil disputes and I’ve sentenced men to jail. I’ve seen evidence of murders more brutal than this. I’ve learned to be dispassionate about—”
“Dispassionate? Dispassionate about a woman’s murder at your own home? I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this.”
He kissed her cheek, for an instant unsure if she would permit him. “I don’t understand it either. But I will be working with the police and we will do everything possible to find the killer.”
She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck, sobbing. “I don’t want to read about you,” she said.
He knew very well what she meant.
With the morning’s first light he woke to see her eyes wide open, staring at him.
“Did you get any sleep?” he asked.
“A little. When do you have to meet with that police detective?”
“Tomorrow. I think that was very decent of him.” He tried to read her face. It was a mask. “Would you like to do something today?”
“I know this sounds horrible,” she whispered, “but could we do something today to keep from thinking about yesterday?”
He sat up in bed. “Yes. Let’s get out of here. Are you ready to go back to my place?”
“I’m ready.”
“I’m sorry,” she said when they arrived at his house, “I didn’t know the hotel was so close. We could have walked. It would have been easier.”
“It’s all right. How are you feeling?”
“Groggy and tired,” she said. “Feels like a hangover.”
“Coffee will help. Let’s clean up and I’ll make some. Service in the courtyard in half an hour.”
She managed a wan smile but she stared at her feet as they walked up to the front porch, avoiding the chance of her eyes falling on any unpleasant surprises.
The morning was fresh, but not cold, the scent of blossoms heavy in the still and already humid air. With no breeze to stir them, the blooming plants in his courtyard created a mood of a very old funeral parlor. Jock sat in a wrought-iron garden chair. Malika joined him. She looked better, more in control of herself.
“I hope you like your coffee,” he said. “I make mine with chicory. Did you know the use of chicory goes back to the time of Cleopatra?”
She took a sip, then smiled. “In India, particularly southern India, it is almost impossible to find coffee without chicory. It is a staple.”
Her smile vanished. “You are involved in something very dangerous. You know
that, don’t you?”
“I thought we were not going to think about what happened yesterday.”
“Is that easy for you?”
“No. It is on my mind right now. It will stay on my mind. But I’ve told you everything I know about the woman and there’s nothing more to say. This is our—”
“Last day together,” she said, finishing his sentence. “I’m sorry. We won’t talk about it anymore. What shall we do today?”
“We’ll start at the Court of Two Sisters. They’ve got a great jazz brunch on weekends. We’ll do the Quarter like we’ve never done it before. That should keep our minds off unpleasant things.”
Secret recipes, magic potions: the French Quarter’s hospitality is a witch’s spell baked in beignets, soaked in Sazerac. Surrender to its beguiling charm, and fears are banished, worries forgotten. This is the promise the tiny kingdom offers, and on the last day of Malika’s visit, the promise was fulfilled. For the day, troubles were forgotten, or at least not mentioned again.
Next morning, Jock had wanted to see her off at the departure gate, but Malika had insisted otherwise and he dropped her off at the curbside check-in.
“See you soon,” he said.
“Very soon,” she said. This was their parting tradition. They were more into reunions.
From the airport he returned to the Quarter and his meeting with Detective Fitch. They’d not set a specific time, but Jock knew the detective would be waiting for him.
The Eighth District Police Station on Royal Street was another of the French Quarter’s most historic buildings. Built in 1826, it had been the old Bank of New Orleans. Its elegant façade disguised the activities now conducted within its walls, ranging from the mundane to the morbid. Judge Boucher was expected and was shown to Detective Fitch’s office, a mustard-yellow room with brown blotchy stains on the walls from bad plumbing. It was barely big enough for the three chairs and the desk behind which the detective sat. The judge stood in the doorway, his eyes drawn to the ashtray on Fitch’s desk. Swiped from the Old Absinthe House, it held six or seven cigarettes, all crushed soon after lighting.
