The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  “Bottled water,” Albert said. “And then, if possible, Ricardo, a few minutes of your time.”

  The waiter grimaced and fell back a step. “Hey, man, I’m clean. Have been for years.”

  Albert just looked at him, resisting the urge to draw out his dark glasses.

  “All right, months,” Rick amended. “Don’t you cops ever give up and leave a guy alone? I’m a law-abiding citizen these days, mostly.”

  “We’ve been through this before,” Albert informed him. “You are outside my jurisdiction and I am, in any case, off-duty.”

  “Before? Do I know you?”

  “Sit down, Ricardo.” When the younger man reluctantly slid onto the seat opposite, Albert said, “I don’t expect you to remember me. My name is Albert. We met one evening some years ago. October 1971, to be exact. We spent a few hours together.”

  “You were one of my clients?”

  “Yes.”

  “Albert. That was a long time ago, you know.” Rick frowned at him, and reached into his apron pocket for his cigarettes and a lighter. Then recognition dawned. Grinning he said, “I remember, all right, G-man. You were so damned rude! I mean, no one treats a hooker well, but you had a hard line in insults. But then you said - Well, you remember what you said.”

  I love you. “Yes.”

  “That was weird enough.” The grin returned, turned into genuine amusement. “And I’ll tell you what else I remember. You were a virgin.”

  “Yes,” Albert said again, the syllable clipped short.

  “Despite which, you were good.” Rick considered him, lit a cigarette. “We had some fun together, right? Before you started insulting me again.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, I remember. You were so rude, you really pissed me off, but I liked you, too. It’s usually one or the other, but you managed both.” A long moment. “So what are you doing here, Albert? And how did you find me?”

  “I have access to various forms of information.”

  Rick shrugged. “Well, that don’t surprise me. Big brother, and all that. The cops here have everyone in their books.”

  “On their databases,” Albert corrected him.

  “So why are you here, if you’re not going to bust me?”

  “What time do you finish work?”

  “I could probably get away by twelve, if it stays this quiet. Why? Do you want to wait for me?”

  Albert nodded once.

  Rick smiled. “Sure, all right.” He stood. “Bottled water, you want? Anything else? Anything to eat? It’ll be a while.”

  “Water will be fine.” Refusing to return the young man’s smile, Albert settled in to wait. He hadn’t brought any work with him, so he took the newspaper that had been left on the next table and read that, tawdry though it was, rather than think about the question of Rick’s that Albert hadn’t answered. What are you doing here?

  Apparently checking about leaving early, Ricardo was also glancing back at Albert rather more than necessary. The cook and the other waiter were developing speculative expressions. Albert attempted to ignore the lot of them.

  Ricardo had been born only a year after Fletcher, Albert reflected, but Rick seemed much younger. Albert was walking down the midnight-quiet streets, with Rick beside him chattering away about New Orleans as if Albert were a tourist. Not long ago, Fletcher had been this irrepressible, this full of good-humored energy. The serial killer case had worn Ash down - while Rick’s circumstances, surely difficult, had left their mark but hadn’t seemed to harm him irretrievably.

  Having spent some time framing a question about Ricardo’s life now, Albert found he needn’t ask. Rick soon began telling him, unfazed by Albert’s silence. “I got in off the streets about nine years ago. I had a couple of regulars, which was fine, but other than that I was losing business to the young kids. Tough little things, these days. Bitter, you know.”

  Albert asked, “How did you escape bitterness, Ricardo?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t have to be like that. Maybe that’s all it is - realizing you don’t have to be unhappy about the things life does to you. Does that seem simple to you?” Not earning a response, Rick continued, “Anyway, I’ve survived this long. I’m thirty-two now, for God’s sake. Old age.”

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,” Albert said. “This should be the prime of your life.”

  Rick laughed, shifted his backpack to the other shoulder. “So here I am, in the prime of my life, waiting tables at a diner. It’s all right, though. I like the people there, I’ve made friends, and the boss is pretty cool. He treats us well, pays us a bit over the award rate. He helped me quit the hard stuff, too, though I still smoke some grass every now and then. But you’re not going to bust me for that, are you, Albert?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll show you what I really love doing.” Rick was watching him with a mischievous smile. “Is that all right? Do you have the time?”

  Albert nodded, and did not deign to ask what the mystery was.

  They walked a further two blocks, turned onto a smaller street, and Rick came to a halt. “Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

  Following Ricardo’s grand gesture, Albert cast his gaze over the side of a brick wall that was covered with a busy mural. “I assume you painted that.”

  “Yeah.” Rick was grinning. “Do you like it?”

  Frowning, Albert considered the abstract shapes. At first they appeared bold and simple but on further inspection, there were subtleties and patterns capable of different and surprising interpretations. Faces and leaves appeared out of randomness. Words scattered throughout in different styles declared ‘Things are seldom what they seem’. Albert said, “It is cleverly done. Perhaps it is best seen in daylight, to receive the full benefit of the colors.”

  “You’re right, you know. The colors are my favorite part, I mix them back at home to get them right and use brushes. I only bring two or three paints at a time, so it’s a long process. Sometimes I don’t get a mural finished before someone defaces it, either the owner or some kid. The worst was when the local council covered one up in grey. Mostly people who do this use spray cans, which is quicker and easier, but you only get a limited number of shades that way. Do you like colors, too?”

  “I have noticed that you do. Both times we’ve met, your clothes have been harmonious in color and texture. Not many people would have managed to successfully combine the blues and greens you are currently wearing.”

  Rick’s grin broadened. “You’ll do anything to avoid answering a question, won’t you? You’ll even pay me a compliment.”

  Albert sighed. “What is the question I am supposedly avoiding?”

  “Do you like colors, too?”

  “I believe I have answered that, at least indirectly.”

  “Yeah, okay, I guess,” Rick said, nodding. “Hey, would you mind if I worked some more on this? I’m almost done, you see, and I like to make a little progress each night. Do you have the spare time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thanks.” Rick began taking jars out of his backpack, and lining them up on the sidewalk. Then his mischievous expression returned in full measure. “You could stand look-out for me. The cops don’t like this sort of thing. Neither do the good citizens. Defacing public property, or whatever. You must know the law better than me.”

  “That is not an area of the criminal code I have any dealings with,” Albert said. He took a couple of paces back to the street corner, in order to watch for passers-by. “It seems unlikely there will be any witnesses,” Albert commented. He hadn’t seen anyone else since they’d left the diner behind.

  “That’s partly why I chose this place. Plenty of people during the day to see this, but not much disturbance at night. The crowds are mostly over on Bourbon Street.”

  Albert watched Rick more than he did the street. The young man was still too slim, though he wasn’t as gaunt and undernourished as he had been fourteen years ago. It now seemed far more likely that
Ricardo would survive for at least the foreseeable future.

  “There’s enough light to work by,” Ricardo was continuing, concentrating on adding a bright yellow to various shapes. A tangle of flowers was revealed; they were vibrant one moment and about to decay the next. “This place has been abandoned for years, so it’s not gonna annoy the owner or any tenants.”

  “A logical choice,” Albert said.

  “There’s three of my paintings still around.” Rick glanced at him. “It’d be great to show them to you.”

  “I doubt that will be possible.”

  Rick nodded. He seemed a little disappointed - but Albert dismissed this notion as improbable. Rick said, “How come you’re here? In New Orleans, I mean. Are you working on a case?”

  “Yes.” Albert left a pause, then walked closer. “Do you know a man named John Garrett? I have a photograph of him.”

  Rick stood, looked at the photo, returned to his paints, began working with a lighter shade of yellow. “Don’t think so. What do you want him for?”

  “We believe he’s a murderer. His victims are all young men.”

  “And you’re concerned for my safety? I’m flattered.”

  “You may consider yourself warned,” Albert said flatly, “though you are somewhat older than his victims. Are you aware of any assaults or rapes, missing persons or murders that have gone unreported? From the police records, it seems that this man hasn’t committed any crimes while he’s lived in New Orleans, though I find that unlikely.”

  Rick sighed. “Of course I’ve heard stories of violence. Happens every day to the street kids. If it’s not the clients, it’s the pimps or the cops. I can’t help you there.”

  “If you think of anything, you could contact me through the FBI state office. They are in the phone book.”

  “You know all about me, don’t you, from your databases. And I don’t even know your last name.”

  A long moment, and then Albert took one of his business cards out of his wallet. “Albert Sterne,” he said. “That’s my phone number at headquarters in Washington.”

  Taking the card, Rick frowned at him. “Is that why you went to the trouble of finding me? To ask me about this murderer?”

  “It took little trouble. I knew your first name, your racial background, an approximate age, and what type of criminal record you might have. That was more than enough to enable a search of the databases. Details of your hair and eye color, and estimations of your height and weight confirmed your identity.”

  “Answer my question, Albert. Was this just about your murder case?”

  Again, Albert resisted sliding on his dark glasses. At last he said, “No.”

  “Good.” Rick began packing up his paints and brushes. “Come on. Walk me home.”

  Apparently assuming Albert would agree to this, Rick headed back down the street. After only the smallest hesitation, Albert followed him.

  They walked in silence for a few blocks, before Rick asked, “Do you have someone now, or do you still pay for it?”

  “I have someone,” Albert said flatly. He added, “I no longer pay for it in cash.”

  Rick shouted a laugh, apparently both surprised and amused. “So what does he cost you? Freedom? Or something more expensive?”

  Albert didn’t bother to argue with the assumption that the someone was male. “I pay for it in peace of mind. He creates a constant state of disruption.”

  Apparently this was amusing as well. “But you love him anyway, right?”

  “That is not a word I would use.”

  “It’s an emotion you feel, Albert.”

  “Really.”

  Rick shook his head. “You’ve changed in some ways but you’re still stubborn, aren’t you? Frustrating, too.”

  Not deigning to reply, Albert walked on beside the young man. He was relieved when Rick again lapsed into silence.

  They soon reached their destination, an old wooden house that had been divided up into apartments. Rick jogged up the three steps to the front door and began searching his pockets for his keys. He cast a glance down at Albert, who remained at street level, and said, “Come on up. I have a couple of canvases I’ve been working on, a whole new direction for me. Maybe you can be rude about them. Relive old times, right?”

  Albert felt infinitely wary of this situation, but he hadn’t yet achieved what he’d set out to do, so he nodded once, and followed Rick through the door and up to the second floor. The house would have been rich and attractive in its prime. Now, though battered and neglected, it retained a certain dignity. Rick led Albert into his apartment, which was one of the old rooms, converted by the simple expedient of placing a sink and a hot plate in one corner.

  “This place isn’t much,” Rick was saying, “but I like it and it’s cheap.” He was dumping his bag, returning his jars of paint and his brushes to his other supplies.

  “It is pleasant,” Albert said. The room was well proportioned, with a high ceiling, and was square, which Albert preferred to rectangles or less regular shapes. Double glass doors appeared to lead out onto the shared rear balcony.

  Rick said, “Here,” and backed away from two canvases that he’d propped against a wall. “What do you think?” He was frowning down at them, apparently critical of these efforts. “I love doing walls, you know? Walls are big and sort of … common, home-grown. By the people, for the people. This is new for me, and I don’t know if it works.”

  Both canvases were covered in vital color, and both were as full of surprises as the mural, though on a smaller scale. One appeared to be an African-American man dancing and the other was lush jungle. Each canvas was square, which added to the illusion of seeing into a different self-contained world that wanted to burst into this one. “They are very effective,” Albert said.

  “You know, I’ve always loved painting, but at school they told me I had no talent. I gave it up for years because of that. Now I think maybe I was just doing things that they thought were too simple, or they didn’t understand what the complexities were, or something. One of them told me this was no better than graffiti. But even graffiti is still art, you know, or the best of it, anyway. What do you think? About my stuff, I mean.”

  “I believe it has merit,” Albert offered. “Your work is full of energy. Your teachers were wrong to discourage you.”

  “Really? I don’t show this to everyone, you know. I mean, I haven’t showed these canvases to anyone, and I’ve only shown the wall paintings to my boss and my friends at the diner.”

  “I appreciate that you are willing to show them to me.”

  “Good,” Rick nodded, dividing his attention between his work and his companion.

  After a moment’s consideration, Albert said, “I purchase compact discs of classical music. Most of the covers feature a work of art. Maybe there are varieties of music that your work would suit. In fact, it would even suit some classical music.”

  “Album covers?” Rick asked, staring wholly at Albert now. “You really think these are good enough?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus. That’s wonderful.”

  “This one,” Albert added, nodding towards the canvas of the dancer, “reminds me of the zydeco music I have heard.”

  Apparently Rick was spoilt for reactions. At last he asked, “You like zydeco?”

  “No; a friend of mine does. I believe he would like that painting, too.”

  “Really?” Then Rick frowned. “You think this might sell. But where do I start?”

  “I don’t know, I have no experience in these matters. But I have noticed a number of street stalls in the French Quarter, where art is sold to the tourists.”

  “Yeah, of course. If you think this is good enough. Maybe I could put them up at the diner, too. The tourists would want something with a New Orleans flavor, that’s fine, I can do that. I could do walls, still, like in a restaurant or a club or something.” Rick surfaced from his thoughts, looked at Albert, and the frown turned into a smile. “You’r
e wonderful, you know that?”

  “I’m merely telling you the obvious. I’m surprised this person you work for hasn’t done the same.”

  Albert was watching Rick but didn’t feel alarmed when the younger man drew near - probably because he hadn’t expected Rick to move in smoothly and kiss Albert on the mouth.