by Don Bruns
They sobbed as a quartet. The salvation they’d been promised had come to an abrupt halt. A cold wind rustled leaves in the huge oaks towering above them, and they shivered in the thin white blouses and cotton skirts they had worn from Mexico.
The gruff man studied them, wondering how long each of them would last. How long each of them would be productive. He was paid on the delivery, he was paid on the placement. And, if they survived for any length of time, he was paid on the H. These girls needed something to keep them going, and H was the drug of choice.
The bearded man escorted them up the thirty steps to the plain building. Up close they could see the gray paint peeling from the stucco and brown stains twelve inches high from where homeless men urinated against the wall. Pointing to the doorway, he said, ‘Take off your clothes and enter. Now.’
The girls stood there, looking at each other, exchanging glances.
‘Now,’ he shouted.
First one, then another started unbuttoning her white top, realizing there was no other option.
‘On your right is a shower. Each of you will be scrubbed down, your pubic hair will be shaved, and you will be given a new wardrobe when you are finished. Disobey this command, and you and your family are dead. Finished.’
One girl collapsed on the crumbling concrete parking lot sobbing hysterically and the bearded man walked up to her and kicked her in the ribs. Then he yanked her to her feet, slapping her face repeatedly. He shook his head in disgust as the rest of the girls were herded off the bus, weeping. He gave them their marching orders, this time in Spanish. Never give the girls time to think. Let them know who’s the boss and rush them from assignment to assignment.
The shock value worked well and by tomorrow night they’d be working all across the city. In the Quarter, up on Gentilly at the massage parlors, in a couple of hotels, all twenty of them. He could report back to Delroy that the young girls had arrived safely. That they were assigned positions and by tomorrow would be gainfully employed. Revenue on the rise. The bearded man smiled. His worth would be noted.
Delroy Houston stood half a block away, leaning on a live oak tree watching the activity. He’d gotten through to Case Blount. The fat man was handing over the merchandise and if Nasta Mafia backed off, maybe there could be a little less bloodshed. Maybe. But there were always members of his organization like Dushane White who promoted gang war. White and his ilk lived off violence, tension. There was a place for him, but Houston hoped for a less hostile environment. There were deals to be made, and if things would quiet down, a hefty profit to be realized at the end. He rubbed a worn quarter between his fingers, a 1976 D Bicentennial, worth twenty-five hundred dollars in mint condition. The quarter had been minted twenty years before he was conceived and over the last several years Houston had rubbed half the value off of it.
The voice behind surprised him.
‘Don’t fuck with me, nigger. I’ve got a knife and I’ll run it up your back and leave you here to bleed to death. Nod if you understand.’
Houston spun around, his right foot kicking out, knocking the leg from under the slender man. The knife-wielding bandit stumbled, then crumpled to the ground, the instrument clattered to the sidewalk as his knife-holding hand was forced open. Immediately Houston’s size ten foot was on his throat slowly applying pressure.
‘I’m sorry friend, were you going to rob me? Was that your intention?’ He stared at the man beneath him. Even in the dim street light he noticed the shaved head, a tight beard and a red rag wrapped around his shiny skull.
‘I’m sorry, man,’ the man struggled, trying to roll out from under the foot. ‘I picked on the wrong guy. You—’
Houston applied more pressure with his steel-toed Dr Martens boot, choking the fucker.
The robber struggled, his heels beating the sidewalk, his hands reaching for Houston’s foot. Squealing, he said, ‘I am so sorry. It won’t happen …’ He gurgled, the pressure stronger and stronger, his trachea and larynx collapsing. He lost his ability to breathe and Houston could see his eyes bulging from their sockets. Whoever he was, he had ceased to exist. Houston applied his full weight, all 220 pounds, just to make sure.
He thought about adding a can of Chill, confusing the police even further, but that would be overkill. Overkill. Plus, he didn’t carry cans of Chill as a rule. That was for the rookies. Instead he reached into his pocket and dropped a quarter on the man’s body. At least the guy got something.
Ignoring the body, he smiled as he watched the girls entering the Sister Anne School of Divinity. Tomorrow he would pick up some nice cash. All in a day’s work.
SEVENTEEN
Archer couldn’t sleep. His mind skipped over segments of the case like a scratched vinyl record. The thrill kills were confusing, and there didn’t seem to be any clear reason for the murders. A gang initiation? Maybe. Was that all the Chill cans meant? Chill cans with hidden reservoirs of energy. He couldn’t ignore that he had feelings for the voodoo lady who introduced him to the idea of energy in even inanimate objects. She was absolutely nothing like anyone else he’d ever been attracted to. The two of them had nothing in common. And then there was the confusion about his reaction to Alexia Chantel’s kiss. Probably just a guy thing. Purely sexual. It had been a long time since he’d explored sexual energy with a different woman. It was almost like cheating on his dead wife.
Tossing, turning, he finally gave up and got out of bed at one a.m. He listened to the cacophony of sounds filtering into his small home. Brassy blues, the downbeat of a rap song from the karaoke bar, the faint roar of voices from the crowd on Bourbon Street. Archer heated water in a Pyrex pot on his hot plate and searched for some green tea. He’d have to put it on his shopping list. The problem was that he never had time for shopping. Denise had done the shopping. She knew exactly what to get.
Scrounging through his kitchen drawers he found a packet of instant powdered coffee and he poured it into the liquid. Walking out onto his small wooden porch in his T-shirt and boxers he felt the chill of the early morning air. Coffee at this hour of the morning enhanced his senses. A brisk morning breeze helped as well.
The framed photo of his wedding saddened him. He wished himself back in Detroit, confronting Bobby Mercer and his brothers. Helping prosecute the people responsible for his wife’s murder. There was no question they had planned and executed the killing. No question in his mind at all.
He took a long swallow of the hot beverage and ignored the bitter, acrid taste. He expected that. It was instant coffee for God’s sake. He just needed some caffeine. He also needed some answers. He needed to stop the serial killings that were adding up with cans of Chill. Over a third of his caseload was filled with the Chill thrill kills. Enough was enough.
He’d know tomorrow if the photo of the parade crowd would allow them to identify the killer. He’d know this week if the photo of the car thief in Detroit was clean enough to identify the man as Bobby Mercer. Everything came down to clear photos.
Archer sipped the dark coffee and shivered. One of his whys had been answered. If Mike’s information was to be believed, the Chill kills were part of an initiation into a violent gang. That was why the can of Chill was present at all the murders. It made sense. And yet it made no sense at all. The janitor? The engaged bank teller? Sanchez the gangbanger, the councilman, and the adoption attorney? Which of them was a thrill kill, which of them taken out to get rid of them?
He walked back into the old slave quarters that comprised his rental cottage and gazed at his bed. He wasn’t going to be able to sleep. He knew that. Pulling on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and his navy blue sport coat, Archer shoved his Glock into the holster. He had a standing invitation to visit a Bourbon Street club and he was ready to ask some questions.
Stepping through the door, he stretched a piece of tape across the door frame, then headed down the brick path to Bourbon Street. Woody’s was two blocks away, less than a minute’s walk. He bobbed and weaved, working his way t
hrough the crowds of drunken crazy people. Garbage bags were piled on the side of the street. Six feet high. A massive amount of waste each night disappeared by the early morning.
Archer considered the piles of drink cups and beer bottles, rotting cocktail fruit and the rancid remains of thousands of dinners. It was somebody’s job to clear the trash and garbage from the streets. It was his job to clear another sort of trash and garbage from the streets. He just wasn’t doing his job as well.
He thought about flashing the badge, making this call official. If Alexia was there, he could question her. But if she was there and the call took on official status, she would get called out by other strippers and perhaps by the owners as well. He might get her in all kinds of trouble. She didn’t need to be hassled by drug dealers, especially if they were members of Warhead Solja.
Walking past the chunky pitchman on the sidewalk, Archer stepped into the club. He pulled out a ten and handed it to the bored brunette behind the counter. She stamped his hand with a red circle and he rounded a corner, coming into full view of the stage. Red, purple and yellow lights played over the surface and a petite girl with a short bob lazily hung onto the stripper pole, swinging around and around. Her small breasts were bare and she wore a sequined G-string. Toplessness was all that was allowed in a town where just about everything else was legal.
A young olive-skinned girl in what appeared to be a short nightgown approached him, a dazzling phony smile on her face.
In broken English, she said, ‘Would you be interested in a private room?’
Archer shook his head. They were everywhere. Micro costumes that left little to the imagination.
Sitting down, he ordered a Jax beer from a plump, scantily clad waitress.
‘I was looking for a girl who goes by the name of Alexia Chantel? Is she working tonight?’
‘Ah, a cute little blonde? Tiny ass? I think I know who you mean. She actually goes by Sexy Lexy, honey.’
‘Is she here tonight?’
‘Over by the bar, talkin’ to the cowboy.’
He glanced in her direction and saw the tall man with the wide-brimmed hat. Like a saloon girl from the Wild West hustling a guy in from a long cattle drive, talking, working her thing, whatever that was. Gone were the sweats. She was dressed in a tiny aqua-blue bikini with a see-through cover-up and her golden hair was longer than last time. Extensions, he presumed.
‘If you get a chance, just mention that Quentin Archer is here. When she gets the time.’
‘Well,’ the pudgy girl smiled, ‘I don’t see any money changin’ hands over there. No bump and grind goin’ on so she’ll probably be anxious to move it along. We’re here for the money, honey.’ She plastered a silly smile on her face. ‘Private rooms are in the back, and upstairs … well, she’ll probably tell you all that.’
He watched her give Alexia the message and soon the petite blonde walked back to his table.
‘Hey, good looking, going to at least buy me a drink?’ She pointed over her shoulder. ‘The rodeo king kind of came up short.’
‘Sure. What are you having?’
‘Cheap overpriced sparkling lemon-flavored water. Probably worth about ten cents. I’ll tell you it’s champagne, you end up paying fifteen bucks for the glass, and I get a five-dollar cut. Something like that.’
Archer laughed. ‘So you’re telling a cop this?’
‘You’ve got bigger fish to fry, Detective.’ She grinned, showing a row of perfect white teeth. Those lips that had given him a full-mouth kiss were a brighter shade of red, and her makeup a little more pronounced. ‘Besides, a little deception in a bar is pretty much standard fare in New Orleans.’
Archer swallowed hard and nodded.
She stared into his eyes for a moment. ‘Am I making you uncomfortable, Detective Archer?’
‘Yeah. A little. I’m not used to talking to—’
‘I get it. The two times we met I had clothes on.’
Without it being ordered, the lemon water drink appeared and Archer put a twenty on the table.
‘So I just bought a little of your time?’
‘A lap dance would buy even more.’
‘I can’t even afford the drink, young lady.’
‘Write it off, Mr Archer.’
He didn’t happen to be a corporate, expense account big spender. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘You’ve been doing this, what you do …’
‘Stripping?’
‘Yeah.’ A little awkward. ‘You’ve been doing this for how long?’
‘I was in Miami for a year. But here? In the Quarter? Two years off and on. I tended bar at Rita’s Tequila House for a while during that time. They had a guitar player over there I had a thing for, but I make a lot more money doing this.’
‘Stripping.’
‘That’s the name of the game.’
‘You told me that there were sales going on in some of the clubs.’
She twisted around, surveying the establishment.
‘Softly, Detective. I don’t need anyone else hearing that.’
‘Look, when do you get off?’
‘After I get some of the customers off.’ Her mischievous eyes flirted with him. ‘Shift ends at three.’
‘Can we grab a coffee then?’
‘Sure. Meet me at Café du Monde on Decator. Three thirty. It won’t be too busy that time of the morning.’
‘I look forward to it.’
‘Aren’t you going to stick around and see me dance? A couple of singles in the G-string?’
He felt the blood rush to his face. ‘No, but I’ll see you at three thirty.’
‘Stick around,’ she said. ‘I put on a pretty good show, and even at my age, I don’t look too bad in the altogether.’
He nodded. Twenty-five? Twenty-six? She looked fabulous. ‘I’m sure you’re very entertaining but, really I …’
Alexia took a long swallow of the sparkling lemon water. ‘Mm, French champagne. Worth every penny of what you paid.’
Checking his watch he stood up.
‘Too bad,’ she said. ‘You’d be fun to fool around with.’
‘I can’t, you know.’
‘I get it, Detective. I get it.’
‘Three thirty?’
‘You’ll recognize me, Detective. I’ll be the one wearing sweats.’
EIGHTEEN
He wandered the streets, marveling at the drunken crowds and the piles and piles of waste. He wasn’t sure how people could throw garbage bags that high. He worked his way down to Decator, stopping into several doorways to listen to the blistering sounds coming from blues and jazz clubs. The music was amazing. Thumping bass, spot-on vocals and wailing guitars. Shrill brass sections that sent vibrations through your teeth. As spicy Creole dishes and seafood was to NOLA restaurants, New Orleans blues and jazz was to the clubs. If it wasn’t first class, top shelf, it would be gone in a day. New Orleans was nothing if it wasn’t great food, drink and music. If you had to be sleepless in a city, this place was better than most.
Invisible, alone and somewhat vulnerable, he wondered what the voodoo lady was doing. Now divorced, did she have a boyfriend? Did she spend her nights with some guy wrapped around her or did she sleep alone, feeling the same void that Archer felt? And then he felt guilty about having thoughts about someone other than Denise. She was still his wife. They were supposed to grow old together. That thought never left him.
He ended up at Café du Monde, recognizing it by the iconic green-and-white-striped awning. A twenty-four-hour coffee shop with beignets supposedly to die for. Probably overrated but still, a top-rated landmark in a city of landmarks.
Too chilly to sit outside, but there were several tables open inside. He sat down and ordered a café au lait, there being no tea option. The other patrons presented a stark contrast to what he’d experienced in Detroit. Maybe it was just his imagination, but Motown seemed uptight by comparison. There, revelers had an agenda. In New Orleans, even at three in the morning, partygoers had
a relaxed don’t-give-a damn-attitude, ready to kick back and continue till dawn. Or beyond.
He felt the hands massaging his shoulders and he looked up. Gone were the extensions, the heavy eye shadow and rouge, and the red lips. Sexy Lexy had disappeared and Alexia Chantel was smiling down at him.
‘What’s your real name?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No. What you can tell me matters.’
‘So what do you need to know?’
She sat down, motioning to a white-jacketed waiter.
‘You said someone was selling heroin in the club.’
‘I’m offered the drug on a weekly basis. And it’s not just heroin. I could have just about anything on the street.’
‘Nothing’s being done to stop it?’
She shook her head. ‘Several years ago some clubs got caught. They got their liquor licenses suspended but business went on as usual.’
It sounded like Detroit. Nobody seemed to be able to stop that drug flow either.
‘I’m not in Vice, and I wouldn’t know a liquor violation if I saw it, but I do have a major concern. It involves a gang called Warhead Solja.’
Her eyes got wider. ‘So you do have a handle on some of this.’
‘They’re selling, right?’
She nodded. The waiter asked for her order and she smiled at him, asking for café au lait. A little stronger than sparkling lemon water.
‘You know the gang?’
‘Of course. I’m not surprised you know them. I figured someone was aware of what they’re doing.’
‘I’m new to New Orleans,’ he said. ‘I may not know as much as you think I should. Give me some background.’
