by Owen Mullen
‘Cal! Give them up! Whoever they are! Whoever’s behind this thing!’
Those footsteps again.
‘Cal! Let’s talk!’
‘Who knows where the road goes? Sorry, Delaney. It’s gotta be!’
‘Fuck’s sake, Cal! Don’t! Let’s deal! Give me a name!’
In the moment of silence before Cal Moreland’s last word, I watched the transformation on the senior policeman’s face. Disbelief became horror.
‘Delaaauuuppp!’
And the strangest thing. For the first time, I was able to hear the faint splash as his body plunged into the murky water of the Mississippi. Two uniformed cops appeared at the door. A piece of perfect choreography. I brushed past them on my way out. Behind me, I heard Danny Fitzpatrick.
‘Anthony Delaup, I’m arresting you in connection with …’
I knew the rest. We all did.
I didn’t use the elevator. I headed for the stairs. People rarely used the stairs. I’d nothing to say to anyone.
Not hello. Not goodbye.
I was exaggerating. If push came to shove, I could probably manage a goodbye.
43
On Tuesday morning – surprise, surprise – things were just the same. The phones had gone quiet again. And it felt all right. I spent time catching up – reading the paper – because a man needed to know what was going on in the world, and messing with the Word Jumble. Today was a breeze and took me less than a minute.
LFROOITOP
PORTFOLIO. Sometimes, I’m good, or maybe sometimes, it’s easy.
When I was done, I took the harmonica from my coat pocket, put my feet up on the desk and began to blow, while Lowell lay in the corner; digging it.
Later in the afternoon, I had a visitor: Danny Fitzpatrick. My first thought was something must have gone wrong, but no, he’d just stopped by to update me on the case and talk about the gig on Saturday.
‘We found cash at Delaup’s house and bank accounts. A lot of money. There’s probably more. We’ll find it. Whether we can make the murder charges stick is less certain. Easy for him to admit to extortion. Claim Cal Moreland was acting by himself in the killings. It doesn’t matter. He’s finished.’
‘Have you interviewed the traders?’
‘Yes. Mrs Bartholomew and a few others. Your name got mentioned. By me, if that’s what you’re asking?’
I guessed it was.
‘What happened to the little girl, the one with Reba Roy?’
‘Katie Renaldi? She’s all right. I spoke with her father. Her grandmother collapsed; too much excitement. They thought she was going to die and took their eye off the ball. The old lady recovered. If you hadn’t come along, it would’ve been a different story.’
‘Who’s in charge down there?’
He hesitated. ‘I am. Temporarily, at least. You don’t want to stay on and work for me, do you?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Need time to think about it?’
‘No, but it gives me quite an edge on the opposition, doesn’t it?’
He leaned towards me, suddenly serious. ‘How many Chuck Berry songs do you know?’
‘Not sure. A couple. Two or three. Why?’
He made a that-could-be-a-problem face.
‘Tony di Marco’s got a big party in on Saturday night. They’ve asked if we can play Chuck Berry.’
‘So?’
‘It would be good if you could learn some more of his stuff.’
‘How many more?’
He took a deep breath. ‘Another twenty would be good.’
In the end, Stella did go to New York but for a good reason. Her brother called to tell her their dad had had a fall. He was all right; a bit shaken, though otherwise okay. She decided she had to see him, and I ran her out to the airport to catch an early-afternoon flight north. Part of her didn’t want to leave. She must have asked me a dozen times to be careful. I flippantly brushed her concern away.
‘Aren’t I always?’
That got the look it deserved.
Lowell stayed in the car, and at the departure gate, we kissed for a long time, like teenagers. I waited until her plane had disappeared into a blue sky and headed back to the city. The atmosphere in the car was subdued. We didn’t play the radio. Nobody was in the mood. Lowell lay on the front seat with his paws over his eyes, and I knew he was missing Stella already. He could join the club.
The last few days had been as traumatic as any I could remember in my fifteen years with the NOPD. The Reba and Peter Roy horror show had been brought to a close, but only after eight innocent kids had died. Of course, the credit went elsewhere. It usually did. That didn’t matter to me. I was glad to have been involved, even though I’d risked my relationship with my family.
Cal Moreland was a different story.
Most of my memories were of two young guys, well impressed with themselves and each other. Talking trash and dreaming big. Better days.
Then, the sad truths dragged me down: Moreland was a dirty cop who had sanctioned the hanging of Clyde Hays in his back shop and tried to kill me at the Algiers ferry terminal. In the end, it was just as he’d said: no quarter. All we’d had in common was the Saints.
I couldn’t face the office, so I went home. The afternoon would be filled with mundane tasks that had been left behind; boring stuff Lowell had no use for. He settled himself in a corner and stared across at the door. My dog still had the blues. I ran my hand through his coat and stroked his head. ‘She’s coming back, boy. Don’t worry, she’s coming back.’
I toyed with the Word Jumble, without making much progress, then went next door and asked Mrs Santini to look in on Lowell, though in his current mood, she wouldn’t get much of a welcome from him. Before leaving, I tuned the radio to Bayou 95.7 and cranked the volume up. If that didn’t lift him, nothing would. When I closed the door, he didn’t look at me.
My first stop was the tax assessor’s office on Perdido Street before they closed, and an interview with an inspector who was having difficulty believing my records. He was in his early sixties, grey-haired and serious. In his time, he had probably seen it all. I watched in silence while he reread the notes he’d made in my file. Once or twice, his eyes narrowed, and he glanced across – unable to credit what was on the page. Then, he fired questions at me for half an hour, while an overhead fan blew air around the room without making a difference to the temperature. The answers I gave tested his experience and puzzled him. Finally, he got to what he’d wanted to ask from the start.
‘Are you sure you’re in the right line of work? I mean, are you any good at this PI thing?’ He struggled to simplify his thinking. ‘Don’t make much money, do you, Mr Delaney?’
What could I say? ‘I try my best.’
‘Then, can I suggest you start behaving in a business-like manner, beginning with invoicing your clients? All your clients.’
‘What would be the point? Some of them can’t afford me.’
He shook his head. Tax, he understood, dealing with an idiot was beyond him. But his point hit home. I’d speak to Harry Love about putting my name around some of his colleagues.
Back on Dauphine, the office was as quiet as ever I remembered. With little else to do, I sorted through the pile of bills in the bottom desk drawer, then strolled to the nearest ATM and got a statement. The statement confirmed the tax inspector was onto something. Not for the first time, the cheque I was expecting from Harry Love for not doing very much was going to keep the wolves from the door.
Good old Harry.
Around seven o’clock, I grabbed a fried shrimp and oyster po’boy in Verti on Royal, not far from the office, and got a knowing nod and a smile from a Creole waiter with brilliant white teeth when I told him to ask the kitchen to go heavy on the wow sauce. By the time I made it home, the light was going out of the day. I opened the door and heard Willie Nelson singing about a good-hearted woman in love with a good-timing man. Country music.
Lowell hated
Country. Normally, he’d howl the place down.
It was dark in the lounge. When my eyes adjusted, I saw Lowell lying on his side. Earlier, he’d been morose: on a downer. Now, he whimpered as if he was injured. I moved across to him and took his head in my hands. He gazed up at me and over my shoulder with pain in his eyes. Even then, I didn’t get it. So much had happened in the last few days, maybe my senses had dulled, or maybe I was losing it, but seconds passed before I was able to put it together.
The smoky, sweet smell hanging in the air should’ve been enough. And Bayou 95.7 was a rock station; they didn’t play Country. Lowell whimpered and didn’t move.
Because someone had hurt him.
In that moment, the realisation of how stupid I’d been overwhelmed me. I turned, slowly, fighting the fear gathering in my stomach.
Julian Boutte was sitting on a chair against the far wall, grinning at me. A half-full bottle of Jack sat at his feet surrounded by cigarette butts and roaches. Juli had been waiting a while. The pen and the newspaper I’d left open at the Word Jumble lay in his lap.
I hadn’t seen him since the day he was sentenced. By then, Ellen was gone, and I’d left the NOPD. Seven years was a long time. I expected him to have changed. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t: he was older, though on balance, wearing as well as anyone who had spent twenty-three hours out of every twenty-four in a locked box away from the sun. His voice was thick with alcohol and pleasure.
‘Thought you weren’t coming. Thought we were gonna be ships that pass.’ He laughed. ‘Would’ve been a shame.’
Boutte stabbed a dirty finger at the newspaper. ‘Finished your puzzle for you. Hope you don’t mind. Did it every day, near enough, in Angola.’
My eyes were on Lowell, still on the ground.
‘Surprised you were having trouble with it. Smart guy like you.’ He read the letters out. ‘NADMDARIE. Wanna last guess?’
I ignored him.
‘What did you do to the dog?’
Boutte coughed and spat on the floor. ‘Feisty animal. Gotta give him that. Quieted down after I kicked him a couple of times. Probably cracked a rib or two. Won’t count. He’ll be dead, right after you.’
His words fell into the darkness between us. I didn’t hear them. I wanted to tear Boutte’s head from his shoulders: For Ellen; for Lowell; for the black woman he’d murdered. But most of all, for me.
He repeated the Word Jumble again and shook his head. ‘NADMDARIE. Took less than a minute. MARINADED. Easy. For a chef.’
Julian was high. In control. The gun in his hand said it was so.
‘You hurt my dog.’
The pages fell to the floor, and his expression hardened. ‘Dry your eyes, Detective. Givin’ you the same chance you gave my brother. Remember how that went down? You shot an unarmed man and didn’t serve a day for it. Take out your piece and roll it over here.’
I ran my hand gently over Lowell. Dogs weren’t like people. There were things they couldn’t deal with. He needed to see a vet.
Boutte took a slug from the bottle of Jack, set it back down and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He lit a Gitanes and added its acrid stench to the room. When he spoke, he sounded relaxed, almost mellow. This was panning exactly as he had planned. Juli was happy.
‘Won’t ask again,’ he said. ‘Do it. ‘Less you want me to smoke you right now.’
I opened my jacket, lifted my gun with two fingers from the holster and placed it on the floor.
‘Kick it away.’
The gun skidded across the floor and cracked against the skirting board. Beside me, Lowell growled and bared his teeth. His courage was admirable, but courage wouldn’t be enough. Julian was losing patience.
‘No sense stretching it, Detective. The cavalry won’t be coming. It is what it is.’ Boutte cocked the hammer. ‘This is fucking sweet. Ced would’ve loved it.’
‘You talk too much, Juli. Anybody ever tell you that?’
‘Yeah, maybe I do at that.’
He tossed the cigarette away. It landed over at the window. The flimsy net curtains caught fire, and for an instant, the flames distracted his attention. I dived at him and caught him in a tackle the Saints would’ve been proud of. We fell, pawing at each other and staggered to our feet, locked together, too near to each other to land any meaningful blows, until I slammed his back against the wall next to the burning nets and held him there. Our faces were inches apart. His breath was sour, and his eyes stared hatred.
Suddenly, he screamed as his hair caught fire, and his scalp blistered in the heat. Julian went crazy, shook himself free, lashed out and caught me. I stumbled and hit my head off something solid on my way down. Maybe I blacked out; it was impossible to know. But when I was able to focus, Boutte had managed to put out the flames on his head, although most of his hair was gone, and the pain must’ve been incredible. He towered over me and steadied himself, savouring the final moments of what it had been about for him from the beginning. He raised the gun. ‘Tell Cedric I said hello.’
Later, I couldn’t decide if Lowell had always intended to attack, or if the fire – by this time licking the ceiling – spooked him into action. Either way, it worked.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him race between us. Boutte saw him too though not in time. The dog caught the killer’s wrist and bit him, hard. Julian howled, dropped his weapon and aimed a kick at him, which missed.
Lowell ran to the opposite wall, picked up my gun in his teeth and brought it to me. Boutte was holding his piece when I fired, and by the look on his face, he was the most surprised guy in New Orleans when the bullet blew him away.
That is, if you didn’t count me.
Lowell’s trick with the harmonica saved my life. I had no doubts and no regrets: the world was a better place without the Boutte brothers. With Julian, like his brother Cedric, it had been him or me. Except I wouldn’t be carrying the can this time. Not for anybody.
Him or me? Same as before. When you got right down to it, not much to think about. And I hadn’t.
The neighbours came out to watch and got a good show. More excitement than the good folks were used to: two fire engines and a whole lot of water, as well as a couple of police cruisers with blue lights flashing, and a dozen uniforms waiting until it was safe to go into the building.
When the blaze was extinguished, the crowd fell silent and watched the black bag with the body inside being loaded into the coroner’s wagon. It drove away. I followed it with my eyes until it was gone.
Julian Boutte was finally out of my life.
A TV news helicopter hovered in the night sky. On the ground, a camera crew moved through the crowd photographing the scene from different angles and interviewing people who knew nothing about what had happened.
Nobody asked me anything. I tried not to take offence.
They were able to save the house, though it would be some time before it was fit to live in. The worst of the damage was the lounge – a blackened shell – and part of the roof had caved in. Strangely, I was unmoved; this had been Ellen’s home, never mine. Without her, I wouldn’t have been here. Now the man who’d caused her so much pain was dead, it was just a pile of bricks and mortar for the insurance company to sort through.
Me and Lowell were in the street when Danny arrived. He took one look at the smoking mess and whistled through his teeth. I half-expected him to mention Chuck Berry but he didn’t. Good decision, Fitzy.
I hadn’t noticed Rosa Santini behind me. ‘Yes sir,’ she said. ‘No shortage of excitement with you, Delaney.’ She eyed me up and down, satisfying herself I was all right. Lowell licked her hand. ‘Get a vet to take a swatch at this guy.’
Maybe he’d take a swatch at me while he was at it.
Technically, my dog and I were homeless. All I had were the clothes I was standing in, and it didn’t matter. Lowell, on the other hand, knew his priorities; he gripped the harp in his teeth. That made me smile.
I turned away from what was left of my house and
called Stella. ‘Remember we talked about where we should stay?’
‘Your place or mine. You wanted to think about it.’
‘Well, I’ve come to a decision.’
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Readers who enjoyed And So It Began will also enjoy
The PI Charlie Cameron series also by Owen Mullen
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank Betsy and Fred at Bloodhound Books for their faith and support. They understand writing and writers; a rare thing. John Hodgman deserves much credit for the many hours he spent bringing his skill to the editing of the manuscript, and for his comments and observations on the journey.
Heather Osbourne for her eagle -eyed proofreading and steering me right on more than one occasion .
Sumaira Wilson , who pulled the whole thing together painlessly - for me at least .
Sarah Hardy , for her tireless efforts to push this book out into the world.
Also, the people I met in New Orleans, so generous with their support. I am indebted to you and your wonderful city.
And my wife Christine, the real brains of the outfit, whose powers of imagination and invention stretch to the horizon and beyond. Without her this book would not have been.
