The Shoal of Time

by J. M. Redmann

  She wasn’t going to flirt in front of her coworkers and it was a good bet that there would be at least a few of them along for this.

  I left a little after 12:30. It should be plenty of time, but even on a cold Monday, parking in that part of town can be challenging.

  The parking gods were the typical bitches I expected. A few circles of the block made me give up on free parking and plant myself at a meter. I consoled myself that it was a business expense and I could write it off.

  I shook off my parking annoyance as I saw her standing at the corner. Alone.

  Maybe the rest of her crew was already in the restaurant.

  She smiled when she spied me. Even waved.

  I smiled back. The sun was shining.

  “Hey,” she said as I approached. “Glad you could make it on such short notice.”

  “Mondays aren’t my busy days. The miscreants like to sleep late from their weekend debauchery.” Safe behind my sunglasses, I gave her a good look over. The bright sun was more revealing than the evening light. Definitely mid to late thirties, maybe even early forties. There were hints of laugh lines at her eyes, a slight crease to her brow. Old enough to know the nuances of how to drop hints of interest—if she was flirting it was because she intended to. She was medium height, several inches shorter than me, probably about five-six. Short hair, cut in a stylish bob to just below her ears. The sun brought out the shine in her thick reddish hair. Fair skin, the freckles highlighted by the sun, a splash across her nose. A great smile. All together interesting more than strikingly good-looking. That was my preference. Too often beautiful women—and men—think that’s all they need to be.

  “Then I must appreciate their laziness.” The bright light brought out hints of yellow-gold in her green eyes. “What’s good along here?”

  “What’s your pleasure?” I asked. It was a beautiful day; a little flirting couldn’t hurt.

  “It’s New Orleans. What are my options?”

  “Are we meeting the rest of your crew?”

  “No, just us. They did a little partying last night and are easing into Monday.”

  “How come you survived?”

  “Better constitution, I guess. And not so foolish in mixing my drinks.”

  “Smart move.” I gave her a list of the possible food places. She hadn’t had an oyster po-boy yet, so that decided us.

  As she looked at the menu she said, “Would you think I’m decadent if I have a beer with lunch?”

  “No. This is a city with twenty-four-hour bars. Even the nuns have beer with lunch.” It would give me an excuse to have one as well.

  She didn’t seem to be in a hurry to get down to business; we meandered through talking about what to do and see in New Orleans, the surface details of our lives. Yes, I grew up around here. She was from New York state, but grew up all over, military family.

  After we’d been served the food—oyster po-boys and Abita Amber all around—and eaten a good chunk of it, I asked, “So how do you think I could help you?”

  “There are a lot of ways you could help me,” she said, punctuating with a sip of beer, “but I suppose we should start with the professional.” She reached into her bag and took out a picture. Saying nothing, she handed it to me.

  It was small, black and white, of a young girl. She looked happy, smiling, on the edge between childhood and putting away her jump rope to grow up. I said nothing, asking a question with my face.

  “Kimmie Fremont. Last seen by her mother when she was thirteen. She should be around seventeen by now.” Another sip of beer. “If she’s still alive.”

  “You never found her?” It wasn’t really a question, more to move the conversation.

  “No. Not yet. But…even when the years pass and you know it’s probably hopeless, I keep her picture around to remind myself to keep looking.”

  “Any chance she’s here?” I asked.

  “No, no reason to think so. Was from around where I was born. A few towns over. Guess that makes it more personal. I recognized the streets she walked on. She could be anywhere by now, but most likely she was trafficked to one of the big cities up there—New York, Boston.”

  I handed the picture back to her. “So, who are you with?”

  “Who am I with?”

  “What agency?”

  “Ah, thought you were asking who I was dating.”

  “Bit personal for lunch and only one beer.”

  “Should we get another beer?” she asked. Then continued, “Multidisciplinary team. We’re with several different agencies.”

  “Which one are you?”

  “You do like to focus on business, don’t you?” She gave me a crooked smile.

  I smiled back. “Get the boring stuff out of the way.”

  “I like a woman who can stay focused. I’m with ICE—U.S. Immigrations and Customs Enforcement. Some other team members are FBI, Secret Service, DEA, and ATF.”

  “Secret Service?”

  “Fraud and money crimes. They were originally started to deal with counterfeit money. We’re dragging a pretty big net, mainly human trafficking, but contraband often follows the same path, so we’re likely to stumble over alcohol, drugs, illegal guns, and fake hundred-dollar bills.”

  “Sounds like a big operation. Why involve a small-fish private eye like me?”

  “Like I hinted before, we’re not sure how up-and-up the locals are.”

  “I’ve got some friends in law enforcement, I can vouch for them and if you’d like—”

  “No,” she cut me off. “This needs to be kept as quiet as possible. I’d really appreciate you not talking to anyone besides me or my team.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Explain to me why you’ll let me in—a stranger you met in a bar—but not the local cops?”

  She looked at me sharply, like she wasn’t used to being questioned. Asking less-than-polite questions is my bread and butter, so if she wanted me around she’d have to get used to it.

  “Trust me, you were thoroughly vetted before I arranged this meeting. You’re what we’re looking for. A good, smart PI, someone who’s been working here for a while and knows the city, independent and tough-minded enough to do the right thing, not enmeshed in the local scene.”

  “And can deflect bullets with my bracelets.” To her confused look I said, “Wonder Woman. One of her super powers.”

  “Ah. Been a while since I’ve done comics. Would be a good power to have.”

  “So, what do you want from me?”

  She gave me a long appraising look, one that said she had more than a professional interest. “Mostly background. Show us the side of the city the tourists don’t see. Where are the likely places to find what we’re looking for?” She covered my hand with hers. “Don’t worry, we won’t put you in any danger.”

  “I’m not worried about that. I can take care of myself.”

  She pulled her hand back, took a sip of beer, and said, “Good to know. Still, you get to leave the dirty work to us.”

  “Sounds like a good deal.”

  We finished our beers and worked out the details—how much time they might need, how much I’d get paid and when to start.

  Tomorrow.

  Lunch was over. She had places she had to go.

  We waved good-bye. I watched her for a moment as she walked away, the sun still glinting in her hair.

  This one should be easy, I thought as I returned to my car. A little sightseeing of the less seen sights. The money was decent. I had no other cases needing undivided attention.

  And maybe it was time to break out of my bitter, cynical, love-is-just-a-four-letter-word shell. I vowed I’d never fall in love again, never get involved with someone, never, never allow life to rip my heart out.

  I wasn’t planning—if a few disentangled threads of thought could be called planning—to go back on that vow. She wasn’t local. We could have a pleasant little affair and then she’d go her way and I’d go mine.

  Yeah, right. Cynica
l wasn’t far away. For all I knew, her seeming flirting was just another way to get my cooperation, just part of her job and something she put away when she went home. She’d been vague about her personal life. Maybe there were two screaming kids and a husband in the background.

  This is just a job, I decided. It would be her move if it became more than that.

  I got in my car. At least the sun was still shining.

  Chapter Five

  The sun didn’t hang around. Mostly winter here is what we call smug season. But there are times when the clouds come and the temperature hovers in the forties. Today was such a day. My northern friends laugh and call us wimps, but the pervasive high humidity puts a biting chill in the air and houses designed to keep you cool in the summer aren’t good at keeping the cold out. Which means that you can’t get warm inside or outside. Maybe in the car, after the heat kicks on.

  I’d had to force myself out of bed, closing the door to the bathroom while I showered to keep the meager heat in.

  Not an auspicious day to lead people on a tour of the underside of the town, I thought as I hurriedly dressed.

  I dashed through the spitting rain to my car. Money was an issue. She’d left me the house—and the mortgage. Taken half of our joint account—and the cats. But I ended up in the same place, wanting desperately to be angry, and knowing at best, neither of us could have changed anything. At worst, I was the one who failed.

  It was easier to concentrate on driving in the rain.

  I had a job to do and people to distract me.

  We had agreed to meet Uptown in Audubon Park. I didn’t ask. It was their tour. Maybe someone wanted to go jogging in the rain.

  I got there first. Guess the jogging had been canceled due to inclement weather.

  Or maybe they had gotten lost. New Orleans is a city hewed and twisted by the Mississippi River, and its contours show in our streets.

  I glanced at my watch. It was 10:15. Our meeting time had been ten, late enough in the morning that it should have counted as sleeping in for most federal agents. Or maybe they were taking advantage of being in the field, and—in the line of duty, no doubt—checking out places where sex traffickers might hawk their wares, like Bourbon Street. As far as I was concerned, I was on the clock, and sitting and waiting was earning me money.

  At 10:25, a black SUV pulled up beside my car. The passenger side window rolled down and Ashley appeared. The windows were tinted and I couldn’t make out the others in the car.

  I lowered my window.

  “Sorry we’re late,” she said. “Got caught in traffic.”

  “That’s okay, I’ve been sitting here enjoying the weather.” I summoned up a smile.

  “Why don’t I join you in your car and we can follow you around?”

  “Whatever best suits you.”

  She hopped out and one of the men took her place in the front passenger seat. The older woman I’d seen at the restaurant stayed in the backseat. No introductions were made. Either it was the weather or they were impolite Yankees.

  “Damn, it’s chilly,” Ashley said as she slid into my car.

  “Drop the temperature and a wet city gets cold.” She was an outsider; I decided to let her in on our secrets. “We’re surrounded by water. The river on one side, the lake to the north, swamps to the east and west. Humidity is a constant. Makes it hotter in the summers and puts the chill into cold days in the winter.”

  She shivered. “It does blow through you,” she said as she buckled her seat belt.

  “What are you interested in seeing?” I asked.

  “What do you think we should see?” she countered.

  “Give me a clue as to what you’d like. Do you want a general city tour with my cynical commentary, or is there something you’d like to focus on?” I smiled as I said it, but sitting in my car in the cold wasn’t a great start to the day.

  “Fair enough,” she said, smiling back with enough of a hint of apology to wipe the slate clean. And she had a nice smile. “How about the lowlights of the city? The boring, seemingly normal parts.”

  “That would be the suburbs.”

  “Ah, no interest there. How about a general cynical tour with a swing by known sex-traffic sites?”

  “Do you want to include the suburban residence of one of our senators? Although the rumors are that he prefers the French Quarter brothels.”

  “Skip the ’burbs. Let’s stick with the city for today. Be polite, they’re listening in.” She took her cell phone out of her purse, put it on speaker, and called someone in the other car.

  Time to be a tour guide. Since we were already Uptown, I started with a swing around Tulane and Loyola, going past the frat houses on Broadway (yes, New Orleans has a Broadway). From there up Oak Street for all the restaurants. Yeah, they wanted to see the sex-traffic areas, but they had to eat, too. Plus I wanted them to see the good things about New Orleans; it’s easy to see the seamy side of the city—any city—if that’s all you’re shown.

  “This is more a drug area,” I said as we turned off Oak Street and drove through Holly Grove, a poor enclave between Carrolton Ave. and the parish line.

  “Wow, some of these houses are tiny,” Ashley said. She was looking at a narrow house, maybe twelve feet wide at most.

  “A single. At one time property tax was based on how big the front of the house was. So houses became long and narrow. Many of them are doubles—two separate houses built as one. My current house used to be ten feet by eighty feet before we converted it to a single.”

  “We? You have a partner?”

  “Had. Over on your left is where we get our drinking water. It comes from the Mississippi.”

  “Should I drink it?”

  “You can.”

  “Do you?”

  “For the most part no. It has more to do with Katrina than the Mississippi. There was so much damage to the pipes that they have to keep the pressure high enough to prevent any backflow from coming in through the broken parts.”

  “That sounds not good.”

  “I got into the habit of not drinking tap water after the storm. It’s probably okay now. But…anyway, back to the tour. We’re just crossing Claiborne, and in a block or two it turns into Jefferson Highway at the parish line.”

  “Parish?”

  “You’d call it a county. We go our Napoleonic Code way, so they’re parishes here. This side is Orleans, that side is Jefferson.”

  “AKA the ’burbs.”

  “Yep. But don’t worry, we’re not going there.” I cut through the back streets to give them an idea of the neighborhood.

  “Lot of boarded-up houses. Wow, that one’s held up by the vines,” she said, pointing to a leaning house with green covering most of the roof. “Did it flood here?”

  “It flooded most places. Only the area close to the river didn’t flood. Neighborhoods with money came back. Ones without are still struggling.”

  We rode in silence for a few minutes, letting her look at the small houses, some neat and tidy, flowers in the garden. Others were falling apart, yards overgrown, paint faded and blistering. What right do we have to observe and judge lives we’ll never live, I wondered as we drove by.

  “A lot of people couldn’t come back,” I said quietly. “A place they lived all their lives, thrown out by the levee failures, landed someplace else, Houston, Atlanta. Found themselves barely standing there and not enough time and money or hope to get back here. If you have a job in Houston and can barely pay the rent there, the house here gets left behind.”

  She touched my hand. Briefly, a brush of fingertips, then switched the cell phone into that hand, as if reminding both of us the other car was still listening.

  “Earhart Boulevard. It’s one of the main ways through the city,” I said as we came out of the side street onto a wide road. From there I hooked a left onto Carrollton, another of the main drags, being careful to go slow enough to not lose the SUV.

  I pointed out the main interests, Xavier Univers
ity, one of the few Catholic historically black colleges, the I-10 mess, which maps labeled an on-ramp.

  I took a right onto Tulane Avenue.

  “We are now officially in a sex-work location. The area is changing, mind you,” I said loud enough for the folks on the cell phone to hear. “It’s a development area and there are a number of new buildings, including residences, going up, but it’s long been known for cheap hotels and ladies of the night plying their avocation.” I pointed my finger at one as we drove past. There was too much drizzle and daylight for there to be much action.

  Near Tulane and Broad I pointed out the Orleans Parish Prison and the court buildings.

  “I think I’ve counted at least five motels,” Ashley said.

  “As you can see, this is not a scenic part of New Orleans.”

  “And I’m guessing not anywhere near the French Quarter.”

  “Not that far, actually. It’s a bit of a hike, about two miles, but you could walk from here to there. Most of the rest of Tulane has turned into a construction site; they’re building two major medical facilities here, the new VA hospital and the replacement for Charity Hospital,” I explained as we continued toward the river. The low-class motels were on their way out.

  Tulane Avenue is also known as Highway 61, famously built by Huey Long as a direct route from the capitol in Baton Rouge to his favorite watering hole in New Orleans. It literally ends half a block from the Roosevelt Hotel and its well-known bar.

  I took a swing through the CBD, aka Central Business District, going down Poydras with its tall buildings, then turning right on Convention Center Boulevard so we could get a good look at the casino. Conventions and casinos probably touched on the sex trade, less so when the librarians were in town, more so for the Baptists—go figure. Then a quick U-turn to go back to the adjacent Warehouse District, closer to the river and a section of old, you guessed it, warehouses that had been converted to condos, trendy restaurants, and bars.

  The back car had been fairly quiet—enough that I was beginning to suspect they’d turned off the phone and were talking amongst themselves—but after we passed the World War II Museum they piped up, inquiring about lunch.