Men of the Mean Streets

by Greg Herren

  I picked him up, administering consoling cuddles. “This is Barkus. Say hello, Barkus.”

  On cue, Barkus barked once, and I popped a tiny treat in his mouth. He is without doubt the cutest dog in the Marigny.

  “I’m, like, a cat person,” said Wendy, confusing me with someone who’d care.

  All righty, then. Miss Thing was a cat person. Once she got over confusing a long-haired chihuahua with a pit bull, she unspooled her sad little yarn.

  The gist? One filthy-ass missing boyfriend. It happens, my baby. Boyfriends come and boyfriends go, and most of them aren’t worth tracking down. God knows Diva knows about that noise. I figured I’d give her a shoulder and a vodka and cranberry and send her on her sorry way. But this lost boyfriend story had a little twist to it.

  “See,” she said, “the guy my boyfriend worked for…”

  I interrupted. Just couldn’t help it. “That kid worked?” I’d been seeing him panhandling for at least a year, white kid with dreads. And it wouldn’t take a PI of Diva’s caliber to spot a clear aversion to soap and water. God, what a wreck. Why anyone would miss him I had no idea.

  Wendy said, “You don’t have to be so judgmental. We’re not criminals, you know. Geo worked for an artist. A metal sculptor. He helped him…you know…haul stuff. And, like, make, you know…art.”

  “And?”

  “The sculptor was Ramsay Erickson. You know who I mean?”

  Sure I knew. Everyone did. “The guy’s who’s doing that sculpture for Armstrong Park. The one of the giant musical instruments. Real handsome dude.”

  “Geo was around Erickson’s place a lot. He saw things he shouldn’t have—if you know what I mean. One day he went to work and just…never came back. I’m just so afraid he…”

  Her skinny little face collapsed. I handed over the requisite box of tissues, as much a standard-issue item in a PI’s office as a shrink’s. Though if you are Diva Delish, yours is encased in a spiffy red holder, with tiny plastic revolvers glued to it.

  Between embarrassing displays of emotion, the client finally managed to explain that she thought her boyfriend Knew Too Much. Oh, yeah! Dum de dum dum! Knew Too Much. The most popular murder motive on the third planet from the sun. And the best, babycakes. Hands down the best…but what was there to know about a guy like Ramsay Erickson? Ramsay had it all—fame, looks, money…what could he be hiding? ’Course, there’s always somethin’—look at Diva.

  Miss Thing’s story was so not ringing true. She’d lived with this guy, God help her! “All right, my baby,” I said. “Geo told you he saw things. Who leaves that lyin’ in the middle of the road? Please do not try and tell Miss Diva Delish you didn’t ask him what he saw, or she will have you drummed out of the International Sisterhood of Females Able to Breathe.”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  Right. “So what could he know? You think Ramsay was casting bodies in the sculptures?”

  She actually looked shocked. “You are a sick and twisted person!”

  “I try, my baby. You got a little bitty advance for Diva?”

  She said the secret word.

  All righty then. She might have been a fashion tragedy, but her money was as good as Kate Moss’s. So the next morning found me armed with a picture of Geo and risking my Jimmy Choos over at the big ol’ compound in the Bywater where Ramsay Erickson had his studio. Only it was more of a factory than a studio. He even had his own fab shop, which, to Diva’s deep disappointment, did not mean what it sounded like.

  I found Erickson taking a break. He was a lanky dude with shoulder-length brown hair, handsome in all his pictures, but up close he had a layer of “I love me” around him that just wasn’t my idea of adorable. He was sitting on a plastic chair in the middle of his dusty outdoor welding area, wearing dirty khaki shorts, caressing a Starbucks cup, and rockin’ a half-smile. Evidently admiring his handiwork. At least he was looking at what passed for a sculpture, I guess. Anyhow, it was a giant pile of metal.

  I stuck out a hand and prepared to lie. “Mr. Erickson? Diva Delish. This is…ummm…a totally fab set-up.”

  The half-smile turned self-satisfied. “Isn’t it? I never even have to go off the block—I can fabricate everything right here. And I can do casting, too. What can I do for you, Miss Delish?”

  Barkus chose that moment to let me know he was tired of riding.

  “Excuse me,” Erickson said, “but your purse is barking.”

  “Oh. That’s Barkus.” I lifted him out. “Come on, my baby, let’s get you out of there and on solid ground.”

  But I guess the barking was about more than being tired of purse-riding. The minute I set him down, my baby set off on a little mission of his own, heading straight for the pile of scrap metal that I had a terrible fear was the sacred Armstrong Park piece.

  “Uh-oh! Barkus! Barkus, darlin’!”

  Too late. He was giving it the major sniff treatment, which usually preceded something else.

  “What’s that…ragmop…doing?” Erickson actually hauled his skinny butt out of the plastic chair and headed right toward Barkus, like he was going to kick him.

  “He’s just investigating the, uh…” And then, just as I feared, one tiny rear leg lifted ever so delicately. Erickson stopped in his tracks, no doubt to avoid getting his kicking foot wet.

  “Omigawd. I am so sorry!”

  “You have got to be kidding. He just peed on the clarinet!”

  “That’s the clarinet? I never saw a six-foot clarinet before. With, uh, pointy things sticking all…uh…”

  “It’s a stylized clarinet.”

  I could have died. I pride myself on a beautifully behaved dog, a dog you can take anywhere, and this was supremely bad form.

  But Barkus was anything but penitent. He’d now taken to barking fiercely at his makeshift fire hydrant, as if…well, as if he thought it was simply too ugly to exist.

  Erickson was so not amused. “Get that rodent the hell away from my art!”

  I couldn’t help it if he was a critic, I was still embarrassed. “Back in the purse, short stuff.”

  As you might imagine, that got us off on the wrong foot. But eventually I’d gushed enough about Erickson’s stylized musical instruments, which actually looked more like stalagmites—that I managed to turn the conversation around to his missing employee. “Know this guy?” I stuck the photo in his face.

  Erickson didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I know him. That’s the kid I had to fire. Lied, came to work loaded, stole money, you name it. He was strong, I’ll give him that, but enough was enough.”

  “You fired him?”

  “I just told you I did. I even gave him a few bucks and a ride home.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where does he live?”

  “How’m I supposed to remember that? Somewhere around here. Mazant Street, I think.”

  “I’ll try that neighborhood, then. Thanks for your time.”

  As it happened, the Mistress of Detection had taken the precaution of getting the client’s phone number and address. So I knew Wendy and Geo lived on Dauphine, not Mazant. In the Marigny, not the Bywater. It was starting to look like Miss Thing was onto something. Maybe Geo did Know Too Much. But the question remained, what did he know?

  A PI’s best friend is always the neighborhood mixologist and, as luck would have it, there was a cozy little bar down the block. I walked in, surveyed the joint like Bette Davis in her “what a dump” mode (because that’s what I always do), but ended up giving an approving nod. Yeah, baby, it might have been a dump, but it was my kind of dump, a great little Bywater dump with six or eight bar stools and five or six tables. Cozy as ya grandma’s kitchen.

  The bartender looked like he’d just arrived from Itawamba county, Mississippi, to follow in Tennessee Williams’s footsteps. By that, I mean he was pale like he never went outside and he had that look of dazzlement that people from away always wear when they come here to Write. He was short and slightly plump, possessed of ancient acne scars, and
way too serious-looking. But he was still cute as a Catahoula. Must have been the adoring looks he was giving me. Like we’d been an item in another life. And come to think of it, he did seem slightly familiar.

  Well, given our common calling, maybe he’d extend a little professional courtesy.

  “Hi, there, handsome,” I said. “I’m Diva. From the Marigny Palace? And this is Barkus.”

  On cue, Barkus barked. This was going much better than that debacle at the fab shop.

  But the cute little bartender wouldn’t have noticed if my baby had bitten him. He was too busy giving Miss Diva her due. “Oh. My. God. This is such an honor! Miss Diva Delish at the humble Tavern of Memories. Are you kidding me? Everybody knows Miss Diva! You wouldn’t remember me, but you’ve made me so many drinks I bleed tequila some days. I can’t even touch your margaritas, you have got the magic touch, but, hey, my mojitos aren’t bad. Let me rustle one up for you. I’m Freddie Boudreaux, by the way.”

  It was coming back to me. He always wore a fedora and smelled of spicy aftershave. “You are the sweetest thing. Of course I remember you. You’re the guy always proposes when you get drunk, right?”

  “Are you kidding? I don’t have to be drunk. Marry me, Diva Delish. I can’t even believe you’re in my bar. Marry me now!”

  Well, he was cute. “Next time, bring me a ring and I’ll give it some thought, my baby. And remember, darlin’, size doesn’t just matter, size is everything.”

  “I’ll do that. So tell me something. How does it happen that of all the gin joints in all the world, Diva Delish walks into mine?”

  “Thought you’d never ask, my baby. Fabulous mojito, by the way. Well. I was just visiting your neighbor, Ramsay Erickson.

  “Oh. The neighborhood pond scum.”

  Every cell in my body went on info alert. Because in every case there’s a moment when you know Lady Luck has just smiled. And this was it in Wendy’s. Ever so casually, I asked, “Why would you say that, my baby?”

  “You know what, Miss Diva? That guy’s got the nicest wife in New Orleans. Not to mention one of the richest—he’d be nobody if it weren’t for Mimi Dupuy. Who do you think gets him all those fancy commissions? Have you seen his stuff?”

  “Looks like stalagmites,” I said automatically, and Freddie said it with me. Maybe we were kindred spirits.

  “Ha! Jinx. Anyway, he’d be nothing without her—and he treats her like dirt. I see it all, Miss Diva! My nose gets rubbed in it every day of my life.”

  “Meaning?”

  “In here three times a week with a different little hottie every time—lately. For a while—and this is where it really got bad—it was the same chick all the time. Are you ready for this? It was Miss Mimi’s assistant. And so beneath Miss Mimi! Skinny little skanky trailer-trash blonde.”

  “You might want to take it easy on that blond thing, baby.”

  “Oh, Miss Diva, you aren’t even blond—I think of you more as a flash of silver platinum…uh…” He stopped and searched for the right word.

  “Silver platinum what, darlin’? The suspense is killing me.”

  “Silver platinum kryptonite. Able to turn strong men into pathetic weaklings.”

  I winked at him. “Well, I usually do win in a fight. But that’s another story. What else about blondie?”

  Freddie winced. “Miss Diva. She had a purple flower tattooed on her face! Come on, who has a tattoo on her face? Right on her left cheek.”

  “Really? What’s her name?”

  “Violet. What else, darlin’? Never knew her last name.”

  “And Mimi Dupuy is Ramsay’s wife? Would that be Mimi Dupuy from the shipping family Dupuys? The Serious Bucks Dupuys?”

  “Yeah, that’d be Miss Mimi. She founded a nonprofit for artists. Guess who’s the chief beneficiary?”

  “Stalagmite Man?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  So that was Freddie’s story. Quite a bit more intel than I bargained for—and I hadn’t even showed him the picture yet. I figured Geo worked down the block, he was bound to frequent the neighborhood oasis. I pulled out the photo and asked Freddie if he’d seen the kid. Predictably, he had. Only, one thing wasn’t so predictable.

  “Sure, I’ve seen him. He said he worked for Ramsay, but the funny thing is, I never seen him in here with Ramsay. He was always with Mimi.”

  Oh, boy. Why hadn’t this come up yet? I wagged my red-tipped finger at him. “Freddie, you bad boy. Have you been wasting Diva’s time? So Ramsay was doing the Big Bone with Mimi’s assistant? And now it turns out Mimi was on his assistant’s shaggin’ wagon?”

  But, appearances to the contrary, that wasn’t Freddie’s idea at all. In fact, his response was downright puzzling. “Miss Mimi? No way. Not happening. Funny you’d think that. I never thought about it even once. They were always sitting in the corner, talking kind of low.”

  I was getting impatient. “Hellllooo! And what did that tell you?”

  “No, there’d be these big fat sparks flyin’ between them.”

  “Uh, Freddie? Sparks flyin’? You feel okay?”

  “No, you don’t get it. They were always fighting.”

  I sang him a little song. “‘You always hurt the one you love…’”

  “It wasn’t like that. She treated him like…a kid.”

  Oh. Well, why was that so hard? I gave him a big fat kiss on the cheek. “Diva thanks you, my baby. Come see me at the Palace, I’ll buy you a drink. And don’t forget that big ol’ ring.”

  So Erickson’s wife had a relationship with Geo. Now that was worth pursuing. By all accounts, Miss Mimi was the second nicest lady in New Orleans (after Miss Diva her ownself), so I was sure she’d give me a big ol’ welcome. I got in my ancient Jaguar (found online and bought for a pittance) and drove to the Ericksons’ elegant Garden District home.

  The first thing I noticed was this: Any welcome here would have to be big, to match the house. It had to be the Dupuy family mansion. At any rate, it was definitely a mansion, with practically a city block’s worth of land around it, enclosed by a fine old wrought iron fence. They didn’t call this the Garden District for nothing.

  The house itself was what they call Greek Revival style, the most notable feature of which, in this town, is two regal balconies, one atop the other (if that doesn’t sound too naughty). I expected a maid in a starched uniform and cute little hat, but I was pretty sure the person who answered the door was Miss Mimi herself—unless the maid had a thing for Chanel suits.

  Because that’s what Mimi was wearing, my baby! A pink Chanel suit, pantyhose, and heels at 11 a.m., not a highlighted hair out of place. She looked like somebody about to go to a business meeting, but something told me she was the type that always looked like that.

  “Mrs. Erickson?” I said.

  “Mimi,” she answered. “Just Mimi, please. What can I do for you?” Well, that was quick. Two seconds and we’re BFFs. I could see why Freddie liked her. But I also noted a faint whiff of Maker’s Mark. It’s soooo easy to be nice with Mama’s Little Helper. I pulled out the picture, which put an unsightly frown on the lovely puss. “Mimi, I’m a PI looking for a young man named Geo. I understand he might be an acquaintance of yours.”

  She laughed, but the frown stayed. “Acquaintance? That’s no acquaintance. That’s George, aka my deadbeat gutter punk little brother. What’s he done now?”

  “Actually, we’re a little worried about him, darlin’. His girlfriend says he’s gone missing.”

  “Girlfriend? George couldn’t possibly have a girlfriend! He smells too bad. Look, I haven’t seen him in a while either—ever since my husband fired him. Sure, he could be missing, but no one in the Dupuy family would know if he was. Or care. He’s been dead to Mother and Daddy after the first fifty thousand they ‘lent’ him. Daddy’s so mad about that he’s spent the last five years trying to bust the trust Pa-Pere set up for him. To no avail, I might add. Tell you what, Miss…”

  “Delish.”

  “Tel
l you what, Miss Delish. Wait another year or so, till George’s twenty-eighth birthday, and you’ll find George, all right. He’ll be strolling into the offices of the family lawyers to sign the papers that will make him a very rich young man. Temporarily.”

  “Why only temporarily, darlin’?”

  “Because George could go through any amount of money before you can say Stone Pigman Walther Wittmann.”

  The law firm, I presumed. “Well. I don’t mean to pry, my baby, but it is kind of my job…”

  “Believe me, I have no secrets about Baby Brother.”

  “You were seen arguing with him.”

  This time when she laughed, the notes were high and tinny. “Ha! Recently or when he was in junior high? We’ve always argued; we’re siblings.”

  “Recently. At the Tavern of Memories. I was wondering what you were upset about.”

  She smirked. “You seem like a smart professional. What would be your guess?”

  “Oh, let’s see. He needed money and you didn’t want to give him any?”

  “Bingo. Remind me to hire you if I ever need a PI.”

  So far so good. On to the rest of Freddie’s intel. “Tell me something, my baby. You ever work with a young lady named Violet?”

  “Oh, Violet! My former assistant. She volunteered to help with Dollars for Art, and then one day she just didn’t come in. No phone call, no forwarding address, no nothing—and the Dollar Ball two weeks away!”

  The Dollar Ball was her foundation’s big fund-raiser. No one in New Orleans hadn’t read about it, in all its glittering glory. “That was about a week ago, right? So she’s been gone about three weeks. Well then. Tell me something else—did she quit about the time your husband fired George?”

  Maker’s Mark or not, Mimi was a fast one, on top of the answers almost before I could fire the questions. But on this one her eyes widened. Her jaw even dropped slightly, but she caught it before it became unattractive. And she was quiet for a moment. “Let me think. Yes, as a matter of fact, I think she did. They both started at the same time, too. I remember because George asked me about ‘the weird chick.’ That was what he called her. Can you imagine that? George! Calling somebody else weird. Why? Do you happen to know where Violet is?”