The Shoal of Time

by J. M. Redmann

  “What kind of tattoos?”

  “Don’t know. Never got close enough to look. You want some apple pie?”

  I got it to go. More to be polite—and keep the chatter going—than any possibility it would end up in my stomach.

  Once I left there—after a long enough stop in the bathroom to ascertain the tar coffee and fried shrimp hadn’t decided on an exit strategy yet—I again drove Down the Bayou Road. It was a little after 11:30 a.m. If the morning was the appointed time, the boat should be back. But the docks were mostly empty and I didn’t see a white boat trimmed in black and red anywhere. Only the prowling dogs, watching my car as I slowly drove past.

  I headed back to New Orleans. I’d been noticed, but I was hoping only noticed in the way that any new face would be. Hanging around here until the late night would get me noticed in ways I’d prefer to avoid. Plus, I had a sneaking suspicion at some point I was going to want to spend uninterrupted time in a bathroom. I headed back the quick way, catching 310 at Boutte and then I-10 back to the city.

  If my reading of the cryptic message was right, then the delivery would be tonight. Nine? Women? Bundles of pot? Exotic reptiles?

  I had learned a few things. A boat named Eula May did exist and it docked in Des Allemands. It was owned by two brothers whose means of support wasn’t easily visible. At one point they’d certainly had wads of cash, enough to buy a boat. Shrimp boats aren’t luxury yachts, but they’re not a dinghy either. People out here didn’t have that kind of money. Like the man I’d encountered at the warehouse, they had tattoos. Maybe he was one of the Guidry brothers.

  Not a smoking gun, perhaps, but they all added a number of checks to the possible column.

  Once in town I headed to my office. The bathroom there is easier to clean.

  I called Ashley but only got her voice mail. I left a message asking her to call me. I wanted to talk to her about this instead of dumping data at her.

  I drank a lot of water and ate another two slices of bread. That seemed to help my roiling stomach.

  I spent most of the rest of the afternoon on a consult with a Dallas firm on a missing person case in this area. I think I was helpful, and they paid well.

  That, and waiting for Ashley to call me back.

  Which she did just as I was getting up to pee for the fourth time since I’d gotten here. Water in, water out.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “I have some more info for you.”

  “Really? What?”

  “I drove down to Des Allemandes this morning.”

  “You did what? Didn’t I tell you this is dangerous?”

  “Don’t worry, the only danger was roadside coffee that had been brewed to the essence of a tar pit.”

  She sighed. “Still, you really need to let us handle this.”

  “Which is what I’m doing. There is a boat named Eula May. It left several days ago even though the weather wasn’t great. It’s owned by two brothers who are known around town for their tattoos, not being friendly, and having no visible means of support. Gossip is they paid for the boat in cash but ran into money troubles.”

  She was silent for a second, then said, “Wow, you found out all that in a morning?” She sounded impressed.

  “I’m pretty good at what I do.”

  “How do you get that much info so quickly?”

  “I’m from out in the bayous. I know how to ask the right questions and fit in.”

  “That’s all interesting, but…we intercepted another message this morning.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. Just like we thought, coming in via the roadways.”

  “But could it be two different shipments? Two gangs? How do you know we’re both not right?”

  “Look…there are things I can’t talk about. Our intelligence is the human trafficking is via the roadways. What you’ve probably stumbled on is drugs. Yes, it’s important to stop, but we don’t have the manpower to bust everyone who brings in a kilo of marijuana.”

  I started to talk, but she cut me off.

  “However,” she said, “I’ll bring it up to them again. See if they want to do anything or at least kick it to the locals. It can’t hurt to have all bases covered. You’ve done a great job of information gathering. Maybe you should come work for us.”

  “Naw, I’m not good with rules.”

  She gave a throaty laugh. “I’ve noticed. I have a fond spot for women who don’t always play by the rules. Maybe we can break a few tomorrow night?”

  “Any rule you want.”

  “Alas, right now I have to think about playing within the rules and doing my job. Look, I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what happened.”

  Then she was gone.

  Let them take care of it, I told myself. Ashley sounded like she was willing to believe me, but others were less receptive. They had their intelligence and were sure they were right just like I was. They would ignore what I had found. I didn’t want to get Ashley caught in a pissing match between her superiors and me.

  But I didn’t want scared young women dumped into a brutal system, either.

  Joanne was out of town.

  And wasn’t speaking to me.

  Danny was here, but it would take too long to explain everything to her. Especially given how sporadic my contact with her had been lately. I knew her well enough to know she would not approve of my borderline-legal activities and to know she’d hound me with questions until she got the answers she wanted—which would reveal those activities.

  Take a walk. Talk to Madame Celeste and see if she could pass something along to her connections. That way I could keep my hands sort of clean. Or at least clear of questions I couldn’t really answer.

  I took the needed trip to the bathroom and headed home. It was time for another walk in the Quarter.

  This time I took Rampart. It was busier, but I was hoping this was not the route Emily would take to walk home.

  The bracing night air and the walk helped dislodge the last of the tar sands. I was finally beginning to feel normal as I turned down Madame Celeste’s street. To do part of the job she’d hired me to do, I walked around the block, looking for anything suspicious, but few people were out; the cold was doing a good job of keeping them in the bars.

  I again approached her place, watching to see who might be watching.

  I knocked on the door.

  Roland answered it. “Come in,” he told me, taking my arm to help me up the stairs. He, too, scanned the streets, as if looking for something.

  “If possible I’d like to speak to Madame Celeste. Briefly.”

  He bolted the door.

  “Has something happened?” I asked, but he was already leaving the room.

  He wasn’t gone long when he came back and beckoned me to follow him. He again led me to Madame Celeste’s private chambers.

  This time she was dressed in a silk robe of rich emerald green. It was cinched tight at her waist, showing her curves, the high, full breasts, the rounded hips tapering to voluptuous thighs. She smiled as I entered. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Has something happened?” I asked again.

  “You’re perceptive.”

  Roland quietly left, closing the door behind him.

  “It’s part of what you pay me for.”

  “Come, sit,” she said, motioning to an intimate arrangement of a love seat flanked by two chairs. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Water,” I replied. Good alcohol would be wasted on the tar in my stomach. I sat in one of the chairs.

  She brought two sparkling waters and put one in front of me. She sat near me on the love seat. “They are more clever than I thought.”

  I took a sip. “In what way?”

  “A nice gentleman came in this afternoon. We check, we have to. They must provide a credit card and name. We ran it. His came up clean. We provided the usual service. Once he was done he told the girl he was giving her a tip—if she didn’t want t
o end up like the women in the river, she needed to get out of town now.”

  “What? Was he just playing a sick game?”

  “He provided details. Ones not put in the paper, nor have I told them. It scared her.”

  “Understandably. Can I talk to her?”

  “She called from the airport.”

  “Ah, he scared her away.”

  “Yes, and he slipped by my guards.”

  “We can make it harder, we can’t make it perfect.”

  “He’s taunting me.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The one who came this afternoon? No one. Part of his operation. Someone who could deliver his message.”

  “What is his message?”

  “He’ll win this time.” She shook her head, looked close to crying. Then she took a drink of water and it passed. “I wanted it not to be true. Here in New Orleans, we’re not cutthroat. Oh, yes, we have our rivalries, like any businesses. About five years ago, someone from New York tried to move in. They undercut prices, advertised heavily—as much as one can and not have every vice cop in the vicinity on them. A few pimps died. They did well enough in the low-class end, but couldn’t crack us. Our customers are loyal and they pay for our discretion. I had to tip off the police a few times. They finally gave up. But I got a card in the mail saying it wasn’t over.”

  “Why do you think it’s them?”

  She looked down at her drink. “Because the card…described what would happen to me when they came back—a stake would be put in my vagina—not the word they used—and I’d be left to float downstream.”

  “They killed the women to send a message to you?”

  “To us. I’m not the only one they wish to take over.”

  “Who else?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Both. And it doesn’t matter.”

  “You’ve told your police contact?”

  “Yes. At the time, I showed him the card.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing, they were gone. We dismissed it as an empty threat.” She took a sip of water, her hand shaking faintly.

  “And now?”

  She shook her head, almost in despair. “Now…how much protection can the police give to a place they’re supposedly trying to shut down? I can’t very well ask them to do background checks on all my clients.”

  “Don’t take any new clients, let only the ones you know and trust in,” I suggested.

  “Mardi Gras, the Super Bowl? I’ll lose a lot of business.”

  “Isn’t that better than losing your life?”

  She shook her head again, this time as if clearing it. “I am down one girl. Maybe a few others will leave as well.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Anything can be broken down to business, can’t it?”

  “No, it can’t,” I retorted. “That’s what they’re doing. This is just business for them. Murder, rape, trafficking. Anything to make money. You care about your workers. You’ve given them a safe place, comfortable surroundings, pay them well, look out for them as best you can.”

  “You make me sound like a saint.”

  “No, you’re not. But you know that. I’m pointing out the difference between what you do and what they do. I don’t know that I approve of either, but if we can’t get to a world where women don’t have to sell themselves, I’d rather it by your way than theirs.”

  She reached out and took my hand. “Thank you, I think. Somewhere in your disapproval, there is a compliment.”

  “Somewhere. I’ve fallen too many times to judge others who also fall. I will do what I can to help you and save my disapproval for when we live in a perfect world.”

  She raised my hand to her lips, softly kissing my fingers, leaning slightly as she did, giving me a better view into cleavage that was already far too distracting.

  Holding my hand next to her lips, she said, “We are all human, aren’t we? With our messy needs and desires.”

  I shivered.

  She led my hand to her neck, pressing my palm against her throat.

  I said nothing.

  She slowly pulled my hand down, over her collarbone to the rising flesh.

  I shivered again.

  Then stopped my hand. “I have information I need you to pass to your contacts.”

  We were still, my hand warm against her soft skin, then she again brought my hand to her lips, another soft kiss, and she placed it back in my lap. “What information do you have?”

  “You can’t ask how I got it.”

  “I understand. No questions.”

  “I saw a message indicating a boat might be arriving in Des Allemandes at eleven tonight. It will be carrying nine of something, possibly women. The boat is named the Eula May. It’s white with red-and-black trim and owned by two brothers named Guidry.”

  She got up and crossed to the bar, got us both another bottle of water and herself a notebook. “Eleven tonight,” she said as she wrote, “Des Allemandes, Eula May. Guidry brothers. I’ll pass it on.”

  “Maybe getting busted will distract them.”

  “This is war. I welcome any weapon I can get.” She glanced at her watch. “I must call, make arrangements to serve only regular clients.” She stood up. “When will I see you again?”

  “Soon,” I hedged. “Let’s see what happens tonight.” I got up.

  She walked me to the door of her chamber. “Soon,” she said, and kissed me very briefly on the lips.

  I found my way to the front door. Roland first checked through the peephole before opening the door and letting me out.

  He stood in the doorway, watching me as I headed down the block.

  I strode home, as if the exertion could exorcise my jumbled desires. I wanted to be the kind of woman who clearly went for good-girl Ashley. She was the safest, sanest choice. But I had liked sex with Emily and I liked the idea of sex with Madame Celeste. I was all too aware that only fragile circumstances kept me from sleeping with each of them.

  Too dangerous, I repeatedly told myself. Too fucking dangerous. I was clueless how to safely navigate my jumbled and contradictory desires.

  The cold and exercise helped calm me down, but offered no answers.

  At home I was too agitated to eat. I finally forced myself to make a sandwich, using the dregs at the bottom of a jar of indeterminate jam, peanut butter hidden in the back of my cupboard, and hastily defrosted pita bread that was shoved in the back of the freezer, probably from last summer. I ate half of it.

  I started to pour the Scotch.

  Then put the glass away.

  I needed to know what happened tonight, if I was right. If the kinder, gentler prostitution would survive—at least for a few women, those with the looks and the charm to be kept in a safe cage. Chuck at the hooker hotel wasn’t going to run interference for Bianca. She’d be lucky if he’d call 911 if she was beat up and bleeding.

  Madame Celeste’s contacts were not a two-way street. Maybe she would find out and maybe she would tell me. If I slept with her.

  That’s a neat trick, convince yourself you’ll only get the information you want by sleeping with her so you can claim you weren’t doing it because you wanted to, but because you had to.

  It sucks to be self-aware enough to know what bullshit that was. I’d sleep with her because I wanted to. She’d give me the information if she knew it. All I’d have to do is ask.

  I looked at my watch. Almost eight o’clock.

  You can be a bystander. Watch and see what happens. As if I hadn’t been planning to do that in the back of my head all along.

  I changed into my standard “hang out and blend in” outfit: black jeans, charcoal-gray long-sleeved T-shirt, black hooded sweatshirt. This time I remembered a scarf. Deep blue was the darkest I had; I needed to buy a black scarf for nights like this. Plus heavy socks and black sneakers, an old pair in case I had to muck around docks. Also, my usual surveillance gear. And my gun.

  You’re
not going to do anything except watch, I told myself as I got in my car. No matter what happened, the most I’d get involved was to call 911 and hightail it out of there. My plan really was to find a reasonably hidden place and observe what happened. Even if I had to watch nine women being led in chains from the boat to a waiting truck, I would not get involved. Ashley was right, these were dangerous men. I needed to make sure no one would see me there.

  I was out my door around 8:30 p.m. I wanted to get there early enough to check things out well before anything suspicious took place, at a time on a night when people were out and about. I’d be someone living in the area visiting friends.

  I took the quick, mostly interstate, way and was there a little after nine.

  The town was quiet; not even being this close to the weekend livened up the streets much. It was dark this far out in the country, the few lights from curtained windows and an occasional porch light. Traffic was light, as most people were either home or where they planned to be this evening.

  The gods of surveillance were with me. Partway into Down the Bayou Road a party was taking place. I drove just far enough past to make my car look like I could be parked for their event. If I was lucky they would party until midnight and be the perfect cover for extra cars here.

  Plus this gave me an excuse to play with one of my toys, night vision goggles. They look like binoculars and can increase magnification. They give me about two hundred feet of view into the dark. Not perfect, but better than plain old eyesight. With them I could see the houses with the prowling dogs as well as the dock on the bayou near them. The dogs were still there, mostly still although occasionally pricking their ears at a burst of noise from the party.

  The dock was empty.

  I settled in to wait.

  I’d been smart enough—or experienced enough—to stop at a gas station at the last exit off the interstate and make a pit stop. I’d gotten a small bottle of water, which I would judiciously sip, and a bag of trail mix.

  I wasn’t hungry, but telling myself in ten minutes I could open the trail mix was a way to make the time pass.

  Which it did slowly.

  The party got louder, probably drunker, as the evening wore on, until a little after ten a neighbor from down the road drove up, honked his horn for a good loud pull, and shouted at them to quiet it down.