by Red Hammond
He broke it off and wiped his lips and got up fast as he could, his knee banging the floor. Janice covered her heart with her hands and sank into the back of the couch. She ran her tongue over her lips and it seemed to be a Thank you.
Hopper coughed. “Please tell me what you know. I’ve got to go.”
Layla’s earlier sympathy was replaced with smugness. She could buy and sell Hopper’s ass after this. She had his number. Why the fuck did he kiss Janice? Wasn’t he a good enough detective to sleuth it all out on his own? For a moment, he thought the girls were messing with him, that they really didn’t know diddly squat.
Layla said, “She was a hottie mommy.”
“What the hell’s that?”
The girl shook her head. “Remember it. I can’t just tell you because it’s not fair. I made a promise.”
“If she’s dead, what good is the promise?” Hopper couldn’t help but raise his voice. “Are you protecting your own ass here?”
Footsteps in the hall. The parents coming to the rescue.
“Hottie mommy. Remember, okay?” Layla hissed it, and that’s when Hopper knew she wasn’t yanking his chain. If she spilled the story, Hopper would of course tell the parents, break the case, and then Layla herself would be under the gun.
The parents stood in the archway taking in Hopper as he stood over the girls, Layla sad and Janice dazed.
The dad in golf clothes said, “I think you had better leave or I’ll call my attorney.”
Hopper nodded. He was scared of attorneys.
Hopper left Janice’s home, stepped out into the bacon-sizzling heat, and was surprised as always by the quiet of New Orleans’ Garden District. The subdivision of stately homes for the city’s rich and powerful felt like an island because it was isolated from any of the hustling traffic noise and radios with the hip-hop on the streets, the zydeco and jazz in the souvenir shops run by Indians and Pakis, the WWL talk radio almost like Big Brother for the city—wherever you went, there it was. The Garden District absorbed sound like insulation, even three blocks off St. Charles and the streetcar line. He wasn’t exactly in the District proper. Janice’s parents lived on a fringe street, the opulence giving way to practicality. One thing Hopper always noticed here, though, was that the old trees and root systems had raised and broken the sidewalks, destroying the façade of perfection. But no one lived in New Orleans for perfection anyway.
He had parked a few blocks over, the only legal spot he could find. His fear of the girls telling on him began to dissipate by that false comforter called distance as he began his swim through the humidity, the sweat glaze on his face and back almost instantaneous. Hottie Mommy? Some club, some slang? The girl wasn’t joking, though. He’d see if the boyfriends knew about this.
When he turned the corner, his crappy Pontiac Firebird in sight, there was some guy attached to it. At least the shimmering heat made it look that way in the distance. The guy was wearing a suit the same gray/silver of the car, growing out of the driver’s side door he leaned against. Seeing Hopper, the man peeled himself off and buttoned his coat, waited with his hands behind his back until Hopper was a car length away. It was times like this he wished he carried a gun.
“Hopper Garland?” The man said it like he was Bob Barker. He was young, though, and the suit seemed too expensive and too old for him. He was built like a defensive lineman, not really a match for Hopper unless the kid had a gun or a wrench, and he smiled like a car salesman.
Hopper slowed. The kid crossed the distance, middle of the road, and held out his hand for a shake. Hopper took it on reflex. The kid said, “I’m Ernie Depp.”
“Depp?”
“Like Johnny. He’s a distant cousin or something.”
Hopper wondered if Depp was Johnny’s real name in the first place. He said, “Can we get off the street, Ernie?”
Still holding the shake, Ernie tugged at Hopper and they tracked over to the sidewalk as a huge SUV passed by. Ernie squeezed. Hopper flexed his knuckles a little, easily broke the grip. Still friendly like. The kid’s car was a BMW roadster, pulled tight in front of Hopper’s ride, nearly touching.
“How the hell are you doing, Hopper?”
“Do I know you?”
“Sorry, just my personality. I get overly familiar. Everybody’s friend, they call me.”
Hopper worried that Janice’s dad had already gotten the lawyers on him that quickly and Ernie was here to serve him papers. So sue me. She can have the car.
“Mr. Depp—”
“Please. Friends here. Call me Ernie.”
Hopper stared at the kid a long time.
Ernie finally kept on. “I’m being rude. Really. I’m here to talk with you, maybe come to an understanding.”
“About what? You seem to think I’m in on what you’re talking about, nudge and a wink.”
“You’re a smart guy.”
“Not psychic, though.”
Ernie let out a staged laugh and clapped his new buddy on the shoulder a couple times. “That’s true, true. I’ll cut the tape. You have a new case involving a missing girl. Her sister hired you. You just came from talking to a couple of her friends. Stop me if I get any of this wrong.”
“How about I stop you period and leave now? I don’t discuss my cases with strangers.”
Hopper started for the driver’s side of his car. Ernie stepped in his path. They bumped chests.
“That’s not true. You talk about your cases with girls in bars all the time. You talk about the intimate details with your whore of a secretary.”
“Excuse me,” Hopper said.
“Not that I blame you. Jesus, she’s fucking hot and I’d tell her my PIN code for a slice.”
Let it go, Hopper thought. It was too late for that. Ernie had made quick work of things, considering Hopper had only been on the case for less than a handful of hours. He could handle someone telling him to ease up. He’d even take a payoff and lie to Kristen if it was the better option. But Ernie talking shit about Divinity?
Hopper got in Ernie’s face. “You listen to me. You will not speak about her like that, understand. One more word, and I lay you out—”
Then Hopper was on the ground. His face hurt. He’d lost a few seconds, rewound and played them back—the fucker had karate kicked him! One of those spin moves. Faster than Hopper’s eyes could take in. He looked up. Ernie was doing his Bruce Lee, bouncing in place, shaking his fists.
“Black belt,” Ernie said. “You really deserve a few more. Or we can talk like men.”
Hopper remembered what his mentors told him to do when facing a black belt.
Shoot him, the old man had said.
We don’t have guns, Hopper had answered.
The younger man had said, Then hit him in the balls with a bat.
Hopper didn’t have his bat. He gritted his teeth and put a hand on his back, groaned. “Fine, we’ll talk. Help me up.”
Ernie, arrogant little puke, took Hopper’s offered hand and pulled. Right in the middle of the momentum, nothing Ernie could do to switch gears, Hopper landed a knee in the kid’s crotch. And he made it count, too, grinding away, thumping it a few more times.
Ernie couldn’t breathe. He coughed and sputtered, saliva drooling from his mouth. Hopper helped the kid to the pavement on his stomach, then yanked his arm behind his back, held it in place near the breaking point, then scanned the area for witnesses. No one on the sidewalk. Their cars hid them from traffic. It wouldn’t last long. Hopper leaned close to Ernie’s ear.
“What was it you wanted to talk about?”
Ernie was still gagging, the cough dry and painful. He finally whispered, “You need to lay off the case. Things are under control. Yasmin will be fine as long as you stop looking for her.”
“You know where she is?”
“No, I didn’t say that.” Wheeze. “You should forget the whole thing. Your track record should tell you the same thing.”
“It tells me I’m good at this. Your nuts sho
uld agree, right?”
Ernie tried to laugh. He sounded like a sick puppy. “Bravo. Yeah, you find the girls that don’t want to be found, and that makes their lives even worse. Here’s a chance to put it right again. Walking away can clean your conscience.”
Hopper glanced over his shoulder and saw a woman with a dog a few blocks off, closing fast. Hopefully she would veer left instead of blundering into a street fight. Then again, she might dial the cops on a cell first. Hopper pressed Ernie’s face to the sidewalk.
“That’s a nice car you’ve got. Always wanted one.” Hopper spun through possibilities of who this guy might be. Best guess: a goon for the kid who knocked up Yasmin. Or his father’s goon. A professional glitzy goon.
Ernie said, “Thanks,” as best he could.
“And this suit. You guys are in the money. I want to know where she is. I want to know who the hell you are.”
“No deal.”
“You think I won’t snap this arm?”
Ernie closed his eyes. “I hear the dog barking. You’re not going to go that far in front of a witness.”
Yeah, the dog was straining at the leash, the barks hard like a jackhammer in Hopper’s ears. The woman had moved closer, maybe five yards away. She made a show of dialing her cell and speaking loudly, “Yes, I’m calling to report an assault. No, I’m watching it right now.”
Hopper put pressure on Ernie’s arm. “You think you can handle her if I let you up?”
“Kick her?”
“No, you dildo. Talk her down. Use that charming voice. And when you’re done with that, tell your people that your boy is next on my list.”
“I thought you didn’t know who I was.”
He didn’t. How do you answer that? “A private eye has to play dumb sometimes. Don’t fool yourself, Ernie. I’m going to get up now and head for my car. No karate, got it?”
“Clear as a bell.”
Hopper was up and three steps away in a snap. He was shivering nervousness, trying to hide it. It had been a while since he’d won a fight, let alone with someone who, had he not landed the groin shot, could’ve eaten him for lunch. Ernie brushed himself off, started for the woman immediately. “No, no, it’s fine. He’s a friend, pissed over me dating his girl.”
Fine, whatever it takes. Hopper unlocked his door and plopped into the seat, blistering to the touch. After a few seconds of letting the AC cool his steering wheel, he was off. Ernie tossed a quick glance and a wave as he kept talking to the woman, a nice looker maybe in her forties, tanned and still hard except for the tits drooping a little. Ernie petted the dog’s head like he was trying to get a date or something. Smooth kid.
Hopper decided to save the frat boy “babydaddy” for later, let word get back to him through Ernie the Goon, if that’s who the goon was working for. If not, then Hopper was way off and he knew it. Had to be the rich kid’s family making “arrangements” or something, arranging a quiet adoption, an enormous check for hush money, and somehow keep Kristen out of the loop. The more he thought about it, the more Hopper could connect those dots. He needed a plan to make sure, but that could wait until after he spoke with Yasmin’s boyfriends.
As he drove out of the Garden District, the world turned bleak—the littered neutral ground on the boulevard, gas stations and drug stores beat to hell, potholes, bus stops graffitied an unreadable green, the people waiting numb to it all. That was New Orleans, the grand and famous neighborhoods right up against the ruined day-to-day working class (or lower) world of flooded and abandoned chain stores and tenement apartment blocks like those Hopper had seen on a trip to Prague, reminding everyone of the Soviets they had kicked out.
New Orleans wore plenty of masks—the Caribbean heat and feel of the Quarter along the river; the Southern grace of the Garden District; the typical middle-class neighborhoods of Metarie, all postage stamp yards and suburban housing; the converted lofts of the Warehouse District and tall mini-NYC feel of the Central Business District. But when those masks came off, you had the plain jane city no one wanted to look at, and that’s where most of the natives had lived, their homes now splinters and broken bricks. Hopper knew a few who had never owned a car. They walked or took the streetcar or bus everywhere. Most of those had never ventured outside the city until they were evacuated. Why should they? Their local neighborhoods had everything they needed.
The new boyfriend—the mulleted Republican—lived in an apartment complex that had been new and upscale fifteen years before. Now, the last paintjob turned it dark gray, as if trying to repel possible tenants, and the number of non-working cars in the parking lot told a story of indifference. Hopper was surprised someone living here had hooked up with Yasmin, from the good Methodist family who lived near the lakeshore. Venus and Jupiter. Worlds apart.
Hopper parked between an early nineties Grand Am and an old Chevy S-10 pickup that had lost most of the paint on the hood. The bed was full of plastic tennis ball tubes, at least twenty, all empty.
He knocked on the door number 112-L, heard a faint “Just a sec,” and then waited until the door was opened by a clean-cut middle-aged man with rimless glasses. He wore a white dress shirt, a red tie, and suit slacks. The clothes were discount store quality, the material course and the fit not quite there, but pressed and sharp.
Hopper didn’t expect to see a man here. He’d spoken to the boy’s mother. “Yes, I’m here to speak to Isaac?”
“The detective?” The man held out a hand. “Sure, yeah. I’m his father. Art Grant.”
They shook and Hopper said, “I spoke to your wife, then?”
“She told me about it, and I thought it best to stay, you understand. I was about to head out for a week.”
“Business?”
A grin. “You can say that. The Lord’s business. I’m an evangelist part-time.” He took a peek over Hopper’s shoulder. “Is that your Sunfire? A Pontiac man?”
Hopper nodded, turned his head. “Yeah, that’s mine.”
“I’ve got the Grand Am.” Art pointed. “What do you think of yours?”
“It’s pretty shitty.” Hopper cut off the word too late.
The preacher’s face froze into a postcard smile, trying not to show discomfort. He said, “I wouldn’t use that sort of language, but you’re right. Nothing but trouble, those things. I’ll be praying to make it to my next revival. Hey, come in, come in.”
Hopper stepped inside and Art guided him with a hand on his shoulder.
It was a clean apartment, but missing something. Hopper figured it out—the living room was quiet, no electronic noises or voices. The TV was topped with an old VCR, but no cable wires or antenna. Purely a monitor for “approved” viewing. The photo albums and family Bible on the coffee table, the family photo on the wall behind the couch—looked like Isaac had a sister, younger and blonde. The only blonde in the family. His mother was a thin woman, the kind that wasn’t quite anorexic but wasn’t quite natural.
Hopper turned, the preacher a few feet behind him waiting for a reaction. Probably made his money as an odd job man, carpenter or something. Barely able to keep his family afloat but definitely thought God was on his side as far as ministry. Hopper imagined he wasn’t thrilled about his wife working outside the home, but since that was the main source of income, he didn’t complain.
“Isaac, is he even here?”
Art nodded. “In his room, I suppose. I’d prefer to listen in on this, if you don’t mind.”
Hopper imagined the polite request might become a demand if he didn’t phrase his response right. “I understand, but I’m not here to cast any suspicion on your son. I want to find Yasmin. I don’t want him to feel he has to hide anything, you know.”
Art stared him down, waited for more. Hopper knew better. Finally the preacher said, “You can let me have a copy of the recording, though, right?”
“Absolutely, that won’t be a problem.” Hopper wasn’t going to record this anyway, so it wasn’t a lie.
Light knock on Isaac’
s door. A little rustling, and then it opened on a teenager who looked a little older than he was supposed to. The hair wasn’t a bad mullet either. More like eighties pop-rock, Richard Marx or something, but without the tease-n-spray. A good-looking if woefully outdated boy. Hopper imagined the kid had to rebel respectfully in order to keep in the family’s good graces. Maybe they could accept the hair as long as he was still an active churchgoer and Republican.
“The detective?” Isaac said. “Come on in.”
Small room, clean. Desk and bed, all natural woods, homemade. Checkmark on dad as carpenter..
Computer, a little old, a little slow. A boom box that gurgled Christian rock, dialed low. Check on acceptable edginess.
Isaac leaned out into the hall, “This okay, Pop?”
“No problem. Be quick. I’ve got to roll.”
The boy closed the door and pulled out his desk chair, offered it to Hopper, then took a seat on the bed. Hopper remained standing, trying to intimidate. Isaac seemed used to that, even broken by it, but then again a kid who’s been beaten down that way might learn to be pretty sly—appearing forthcoming, but actually a politician in the making. A Democrat, even.
Hopper said, “I’ll jump right to it. Why date a pregnant girl? Especially one carrying another guy’s kid?”
Isaac’s eyebrows rose. “Wow. I’m surprised the cops didn’t ask that.”
Quiet. Hopper waited.
“Okay, I knew her before, back in middle school. Always had a crush. Kissed her once at a football game, homecoming. The only game I go to every year, really. I was the nice guy, though. Never getting the girl.”
“You did eventually.”
He shrugged. “How many other guys would go after her like that? True love, like some sort of Bible story. She knew she’d made a mistake. I wanted to show her that she was still wonderful.”
Hopper got the impression Yasmin wasn’t so much a good Christian as she’d let on to Isaac. Still, a good guy who’ll help while you’re pregnant…okay.
