The Shoal of Time

by J. M. Redmann

  I took a slug of Scotch, finishing it.

  “No identification on them,” she said. “They were thrown in the river Uptown, probably the park on the river behind Audubon Zoo, which says they were meant to be found.”

  “Yes, it does,” I agreed. They would have been carried by the current through one of the busiest parts of the river, some major shipping docks, the Algiers ferry, the Quarter with its walk along the bank. That was a message, all right. “Do you know when it happened?”

  “Not many details yet. Sometime last night. They were found around four in the morning.”

  Ah, Emily’s phone call. I’d have to say I got the better part of the bargain. The details were horrific enough; actually seeing the women would be a searing memory.

  “The worst thing? One of them was still alive when they were found. She died just as they got her up the bank.” Madame Celeste also finished her Scotch, a long swallow that had to burn.

  I shuddered. The abstract lines in the cheap ledger. What if these two women had been in those sets of numbers? Had they fought back? Tried to escape? Been not pretty enough? Or randomly selected as a way to show all those other sets of numbers what would happen to them?

  Or I could be conflating things. This might have nothing to do with sex trafficking or prostitution. It could be a maniac who liked to lure women to a dress-up party, then brutally kill them.

  The only things I could be certain of were these women died a grisly death and that it was likely Emily’s phone call was about them.

  “But you said you didn’t come about them?” she said. She went back to the bar and lifted the Scotch bottle, pouring another drink for herself. She looked at me questioningly. I held out my glass and she filled it.

  “I didn’t think I had. There could be a link. But…I don’t want to see the wrong monster because it’s convenient.”

  “Tell me about your trafficking case.”

  I wanted to be honest with her. As honest as I could. “It’s rudimentary. I’m working as a local consultant with some Feds. They asked me about vice in the city. I’ve given them the tour. But we stumbled over something that makes it seem an organized group has moved in.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Just numbers. A ledger with odd numbers. It could be a weird code, but they corresponded with numbers used to describe a person, a woman. Height, measurements, weight.”

  “Were all the entries like that?”

  “I don’t know, I only had a glimpse.”

  “Can you get a closer look?”

  “Not likely. We weren’t strictly supposed to be there and the owners didn’t seem happy about it. The authorities might have it, but I doubt it stayed there long enough for a proper search to find it. Why, what do you know about this?”

  “Nothing, it’s just interesting,” Madame Celeste said as she turned back to the bar to top off her drink. “It’s not like we have conventions,” she said over her shoulder, “and can compare best practices. Always interesting to see how others do it.” Then she spat out, “Amateurs.”

  “Why do you think they’re amateurs?” I asked.

  “Numbers that can be deciphered at a glance. The violence. It’s too horrific for just control. It’s from someone who enjoys the torture. This is a business and they seem to have forgotten that. Coming back—coming here. New Orleans is not kind to outsiders who think they know us.”

  She covered well, but I caught it. She knew something, but I wouldn’t get any more from her tonight. If ever. I was a lone-wolf private dick and she had connections far more powerful than that.

  I took a long drink. It would be a shame to waste it. If I wasn’t sober enough to drive, I was close enough to walk home and could get my car tomorrow, although twenty-four hours of parking in this area wouldn’t be cheap.

  “Would you like me to keep you abreast of what I find out?” I asked. My hope was that I could learn more from her by revealing more myself.

  “That’s very kind of you.” She gave me a long, appraising look. “I have a better idea. Why don’t I hire you?”

  “Hire me? For what?”

  “Security. Or let’s be real, the theater of it. I can tell my staff that I have a PI checking up on us. Occasionally prowl the neighborhood, even if it’s just walking to meet friends or go out to dinner.”

  “What am I looking for?” Hoping for a hint.

  “Oh, the usual. Slobbering men in raincoats.”

  No, no hints. “I think they’re all on Bourbon Street.”

  She smiled. “Keep me abreast on what you and your team find out. Be available—within reason—to do security theater here.”

  “What would that entail?”

  “Nothing too difficult. Give my girls a briefing on security tips, make them feel something is being done. If some are especially nervous, escort them home or to their cars.” She smiled on the word “escort.” A very knowing smile.

  I did not want to be a security guard for a whorehouse. Madame Celeste knew that. She also knew she was driving a bargain I couldn’t refuse.

  “I’ve got a fairly full case load,” I hedged. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I can make it worth your while.” She crossed to me, standing close enough for me to smell her delicate perfume.

  “Money?” I said. But didn’t move away.

  She smiled. “Of course, money. What else would I mean?” She went back to the bar, took an envelope from a drawer. From it, she pulled a stack of cash. I watched as she counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills. I finished the last of my drink.

  “An advance,” she said as she held it out to me.

  I walked close enough to put my empty glass on the bar and take the money. It was green, it would spend the same. She watched as she handed it to me, making sure our hands touched. Was she flirting or just playing? It didn’t matter, it was all fire.

  I folded the money over and stuffed it in my pocket.

  “Oh, and a bonus.” She capped the Scotch, pulled a wine gift bag from behind the bar, put it in, and handed it to me.

  “A very nice bonus,” I said, taking it from her.

  “And this is mine.” She cupped her hand around my neck, pulled me to her, and kissed me, open mouth, tongue darting between my lips.

  Fuck my life. I kissed her back.

  Then we both pulled apart.

  “Nice,” she said with an impossible-to-read smile. Nice kiss? Nice that I let her? Nice that she’d gambled and won? “Roland will see you out.” She pressed a silent button behind the bar, summoning the help.

  He appeared as quickly as if he’d been standing at the door—which he probably was. Madame Celeste would not see outsiders unless she was well protected.

  “This way, miss,” he told me.

  “Thanks,” I said, holding up the bottle to indicate the Scotch. I smiled, too, trying to make mine as enigmatic as hers had been. Hoping my confusion would pass for it.

  I followed the tall man into the dark night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  What the hell had I gotten myself into, I thought as I sat in my car trying to decide if I was sober enough to drive. The cliché “when it rains, it pours” came to mind. The heavy flirting with promises of more from Ashley, the unexpected tryst with Emily, and now one of the top madams in the Quarter coming on to me. Whatever her game was, that was a major kiss and she seemed to have enjoyed it.

  Six months ago this would have been easy. Six months ago I was in a committed relationship. I would have politely refused Madame Celeste’s offer, knowing that Cordelia would not be at all happy to find out I was working for a house of ill repute. Especially this one.

  But she was gone, and the moral core I used to have seemed to go with her. If she was here, I wouldn’t be flirting with Ashley. Or have gotten myself involved enough in her affairs to want to help and therefore wouldn’t have knocked on Madame Celeste’s door. Nor would I have gone out to the bar just to get out of the house and run into Emily th
ere.

  I finally decided that I was sober enough to drive the twenty blocks home. Plus it was good Scotch; the good stuff doesn’t make you as stupid drunk as the bad stuff, right?

  I had just enough smaller bills in my wallet to get my car out of the garage. I couldn’t very well use the hundreds Madame Celeste had given me. Going to the bank was on my list of errands for tomorrow.

  It turned out that I was far more sober—or not as stupid—as other drivers on the road. One stayed stopped at a green light oblivious to the honks behind him until the light turned yellow and he finally moved. Two cars behind him ran the red. I was safely in the other lane, then got stuck behind someone who was either lost, stoned, or trolling for action in an all-too-obvious way. I puddled along behind, content to let his slowness force the crazy drivers to zoom past us. Guess they didn’t realize they were about to pass the police station on Rampart.

  When I got home, I grabbed the roast beef po-boy from the trunk—it was chilly enough that it should be okay. That would be my supper. Given the two drinks, I was glad I’d eaten a lunch of bread and grease. Nor did I forget the Scotch.

  Gym tomorrow as well as the bank.

  I stuck the po-boy in the microwave and then thought to look at my phone.

  Ashley had called twice.

  Had my life turned into a fucking Feydau farce, women behind every door?

  I needed to eat before I called her back. While I had been sober enough for a short drive on familiar streets, I didn’t think I was up for much else tonight. I also needed to sort out the events of the last few days before I met up with a woman I was…what? Seriously flirting with? Thinking about possibly getting involved with, assuming that she wanted the same thing? A passing fancy in my loneliness?

  Someone to distract me from the mess I’d made of my life?

  I brewed a pot of coffee, not that I needed the caffeine this late, but I did want to be awake and alert and was hoping that red meat and caffeine would do the trick.

  No confessions, I warned myself. Ashley didn’t need to know what I’d been doing these last few hours, at least the stuff not related to the case. We weren’t a couple, I wasn’t cheating on her. Maybe someday I’d tell her—years in the future. If we were together that long, if we weren’t, then it didn’t matter. Two years, at least two years before you tell her anything.

  A large cup of coffee and the entire roast beef po-boy later, I was ready to call her back.

  It went to voice mail. I’d wasted a cup of coffee and now would be up all night.

  Two minutes later my cell phone rang.

  I stared at it as if it were a strange creature. Then shook myself. You’re not an adolescent.

  I answered the phone. “Hello?”

  “Micky!” It was Ashley. She sounded happy to hear from me.

  “Yes, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to answer your earlier calls. Was out working on a case.”

  “Oh? Anything interesting?”

  “No,” I lied. “Boring records search. Had to turn the phone off in the archives.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  “That’s a scary thought.”

  “No, not really. I know it sounds strange, but I kind of miss not having you in my day, just hearing your take on things.”

  “We can find a way to fix that.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I’d like to see you…both professionally and personally.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  She laughed, a little seductive, a little happy. “Can we meet tomorrow, no, wait, can’t—as much as I’d like to—how about the day after—and talk about it? Can I take you to brunch?”

  “Brunch?”

  “For business. I still owe you a nice dinner.”

  “Brunch works. What time?”

  “How about around ten thirty? Can I really impose and ask you to pick me up at my hotel?”

  “Not a problem,” I offered. “Maybe we should go ahead and schedule that dinner. Before it gets away from us.”

  “A great idea. After we meet and sort out the business schedule, we can fit in an evening on the town. Work before play, after all.”

  “Of course. I do understand that.” A pause, then before we said good night, I said, “Can I ask what happened to the warehouse we were at?”

  “What about it?”

  “The police came in, right? What evidence did they find?”

  “They’re still processing it, but we’re following along. Don’t worry, we’re doing what we can.”

  “Did they find a red ledger? One with lines of numbers in it?”

  “They may have. I believe there was a lot of paperwork.”

  “This one was different from the others.”

  “Different? How? And how did it come to your attention?”

  “You showed me a ledger, remember? Then left to check up front. I looked at that one and then started looking through the file cabinet. I found a different color one and glanced at it. It had numbers that could correspond to height and measurements, like thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-two. It could be how they kept track of their human cargo.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it then?”

  “We didn’t have a chance, remember? That was after you left…after we were separated.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I’m so sorry, Micky. I don’t blame you for forgetting about it. I really wish that hadn’t happened.”

  “I think we can agree on that.”

  “I’ll check with the ones running the scene and see if they found it. You could be on to something. I’m glad you remembered to bring it up.”

  I had done my duty. Now I could get the red ledger out of my head. It was someone else’s problem.

  Almost. “Let me know what you find out.”

  “I will if I can. I’m in a business where we can’t always make promises. Except that I’ll see you soon and we’ll make a date for our night on the town.”

  I smiled at that, we said our good-byes and hung up.

  The caffeine hadn’t been wasted after all. I managed to do all the dishes—not many given my lack of recent cooking, but even cereal bowls can pile up—and sort through all the snail mail that had arrived, putting most of it, save for one bill, into the recycling.

  Then I decided the antidote to the caffeine was the very nice Scotch Madame Celeste gave me. As much as I was tempted to keep it only for special occasions, its presence in my house was hard to explain. I couldn’t claim to afford it on my own, especially now I was living off one income. And I couldn’t very well enlighten most people where and how I got it.

  I poured, limiting myself to two fingers.

  It tasted good. But the first sip, and even the second, couldn’t still my brain. It ran from the pleasant thought of seeing Ashley again to wondering what I’d gotten into with Madame Celeste. To remembering the feel of Emily’s body against mine—and being hit with a jolt of desire. Animal reaction, I decided. Touching a warm and willing body feels good, that was all. The third sip made me wonder what it would be like with Madame Celeste if we went beyond our kiss. How could I want a woman who had had so many others? But why did that number matter? She had to know more about sex and pleasing her partner than any other woman I’d been with.

  I shivered. From the cold, I decided. The chill of night was seeping through the floorboards.

  Another finger of Scotch defeated the caffeine.

  I woke in the middle of the night, clasped in sweaty sheets as if I’d been fighting demons.

  “Never mix coffee and good booze so late in the day,” I muttered as I stumbled to the bathroom. I walked carefully until I remembered the cats weren’t here.

  “Bitch,” I said as I flushed the toilet. I wasn’t sure who I meant. Cordelia, or Emily for the bum rush, or Madame Celeste for playing me. Or Ashley for making promises she might not keep.

  Hadn’t kept yet. You’ve barely known her a week, I reminded myself. I shuffled back to bed and didn’t wake a
gain until my alarm clock went off.

  Somehow time passed.

  Today I had set my alarm for earlier than usual. I wanted to be well awake for my date—my meeting with Ashley. In the bright of the morning, my confusion of the night was gone. Of the three women swirling around me, if I had to choose, it would be Ashley. Madame Celeste might be a thrill for one night, but that was all she could offer—all she could offer me; we would never be easy with each other’s world. Emily was both raw and hard, as if she had something to prove. Maybe after she did, she’d have time for another person. That might be a while. Ashley seemed the perfect blend of the two. More settled than Emily, but not as jaded and willing to do anything as Madame Celeste.

  I showered, giving myself a good scrub-down. Then another pot of coffee. At least this was the right time for caffeine.

  I did a quick check of email. Nothing demanding my immediate attention.

  I dressed carefully for our meeting: a decent pair of black pants, a gray turtleneck with a cobalt-blue sweater over it. If I bother with a mirror it’s mostly to see if I have spinach in my teeth or to make sure my hair isn’t too wild. Today I looked critically at myself. Nothing would erase the over forty years I’d been around. The hair was still mostly black, but strands of gray and silver were creeping in. It needed a cut—more a shaping given how curly it was. Genetics were on my side. My mother still has smooth skin, and mine was following her pattern. A few faint lines at the corners of the eyes. I also had her cheekbones, high, almost sharp, going into the strong chin of my father. Eyes dark brown, skin olive, also from her, tracking to her Greek heritage. Tall for a woman at five-ten. Some muscles from the two to three times a week I dragged myself to the gym. Maybe a little weight gain from my twenties, but it mostly went to my hips and bust, filling me out and giving me a bit more of a curve than I had in my skinny youth.

  “The mirror isn’t broken,” I said to my image. “You’re doing well.”

  The breakup with Cordelia, the messy, brutal breakup, one I had to acknowledge was mostly from my failures, had destroyed any sense that another woman could want me. Only now was I beginning to get it back, buoyed by the events of the last few days. As confusing as they were, it did my ego good to have three women interested.