Women of the Mean Streets: Lesbian Noir

by Greg Herren

  The next to last one on the list was on the way back to the hotel, so I left the main artery to give it a pass. It was a new construction, but well landscaped so it didn’t look like all the trees had been mowed down to make way for a building. There was a fairly large swimming pool. No red car. But in the balcony of the end apartment there were several empty beer bottles left sitting on the small table. Abita beer, a local New Orleans brand. Bayard liked his beer and was too lazy to pick up after himself.

  But I was hungry and it was time to return to my old friend the computer and cease traveling for one day. And appease my grumbling stomach.

  Lunch was good, a grilled grouper sandwich, but the computer was not friendly. It had been barely a week at most since he’d left town, of course he hadn’t legally registered his car—I wondered if he even had insurance—or appeared on the voting roles or any other public record. Nothing for Dirk Westen or any of the other names he stole from graves. Bayard Robedeaux only appeared where it was likely to appear, back in New Orleans. The fruitless computer search took up the remainder of the waning afternoon.

  If I was smart I would have just read a book, gone to bed, and caught the next plane out. But what we think we want and need to heal old wounds can blind us. I’d left Bayard to fate, left him to find his own destruction for too long. It was time for me to give him a justified push.

  I left the hotel and drove back to the apartment complex with the empty beer bottles. The sun was setting, and darkness makes it easier to do a stakeout. I found a parking place on the road that was under a low-hanging branch, but gave me a decent view of the balcony and a sliver into the apartment.

  And then I waited.

  The TV shows only look glamorous because they edit out these parts, when the PI sits in her car for a couple of hours trying to not fall asleep.

  It was three hours into my vigil when I heard the sound of a vehicle that wanted people to notice it.

  A red sports car zoomed right by me. It was going too fast to notice me, sitting in my nondescript rental. It jerked to a halting stop at the turn into the apartment parking lot. Then lurched into a right turn.

  “Someone doesn’t know how to drive a stick shift very well,” I murmured to myself.

  Halting and jerking, the car pulled into the parking stop under the balcony with the beer bottles still reflecting the streetlight.

  My cousin got out.

  “You made it too easy,” I said softly, although I didn’t really mean it. He made it easy enough for me to win, and that was all that really counted.

  From the passenger side, a young girl—woman, I guess, I was hoping that she was over eighteen, but it was hard to tell in the darkness—got out. She took a heavy grocery bag from the backseat, while Bayard managed to heft a six-pack of beer. Guess they ran out of Abitas.

  “You got that, baby?” he said in his nasal voice. “Soon as my back is better, you know I’ll do the heavy stuff.”

  She followed him into the entrance door and a few seconds later, the lights in the upstairs apartment came on.

  No one came out to the balcony to clean off the beer bottles. Faintly in the background I heard a TV come on. They were probably in for the night.

  I had a nice comfortable hotel room waiting for me, and a decent, albeit late, dinner. I could come by in the morning and finish this.

  This is usually the point in the case when I relax, when I’ve found out what I need to know and it’s mostly a matter of a few more inevitable steps. But I was far from calm as I drove away from his hideout.

  “I’ve won,” I chortled, pumping my fist at a red light. “I’ve won, you bastard. I’m never going to be your younger cousin again.”

  I didn’t sleep well that night, imagining all the different ways this could end—he could fight back, but he wasn’t in good shape. I went to the gym and had done karate long enough to have made it to brown belt. It would be satisfying to punch him. Or he could just give up; whimper as the cops led him away.

  I woke early, at first light, and headed back his apartment. I had a few things I needed to check just to be sure. Highly unlikely, but maybe he had a different Porsche than the one stolen from his neighbor. If the VINs matched, I’d call the police and hand them a grand theft auto.

  The streetlights had just gone off when I got there. It was a silent, misty morning, almost fog. Appropriate weather to catch a crook. I pulled into the apartment driveway, taking an open space in the outer ring of the parking lot about fifty feet away from the dew-covered red car. He’d know I was here soon enough, but I still had a few things to do. And I wanted to savor the moment.

  I walked slowly, almost casually to where the alleged stolen car was parked. I glanced at the paperwork I was carrying in a folder. All the little string of facts that had brought me here. The idiot still had Louisiana license plates on it. It wasn’t the same tag as when it was stolen—I had that number written down—he had been smart enough to steal a license plate, but not smart enough to do it again once he got to Florida.

  The VIN matched.

  The outside door to the apartment opened.

  I couldn’t be sure, because I hadn’t seen her very well in the darkness, but it looked like Bayard’s latest girl toy.

  “Nice car, isn’t it?” she said, a slight Southern drawl in her voice.

  “Very nice. Is it yours?”

  “My boyfriend’s.”

  “You’re up early.”

  “The breakfast shift. You’re up early yourself. You a line cook or something?” She seemed to realize that she was talking to a stranger, someone she knew nothing about. “You live here? I haven’t seen you around.”

  “No, not a line cook, don’t live here.”

  “So what are you doing here?” She was starting to get suspicious. “Checking out cars?”

  She was young and she was about to learn one of life’s unkind lessons. I would have preferred that she toddle off to work, but she seemed to sense that I was not here to do her any favors. If she called the police that might not be a bad outcome, but she would probably first run upstairs to Bayard, and the last thing I wanted was for him to get a chance to squeal out before anyone with arresting powers arrived.

  “I don’t steal cars. Especially ones already stolen.”

  As intended, that rocked her world. Her eyes opened wide. “Wha…?” But she couldn’t think of a question to ask before I continued.

  “I’m a private investigator.” I pulled out my license and flashed it at her. “I was hired to find someone who vanished around the same time this car did.” Then I brandished the picture of Bayard. “Have you ever seen this person around here?” I asked.

  She gasped, the sputtered out, “That’s Dirk. My boyfriend.”

  “Dirk Westen?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Dirk Westen died in 2003.”

  “What?” She’s not the bad guy, I had to remind myself. She seemed so young, with a naïve openness that scoundrels like Bayard have been taking advantage of since we started walking upright.

  “Dirk Westen is a name he stole from a grave. They were born in the same year. This way he could get a social security number. His real name is Bayard Robedeaux, he left New Orleans about two weeks ago, using his neighbor’s fancy car as his ride. He left behind a not very happy former employer who was robbed, about three years of unpaid child support and—”

  “This can’t be real…is this one of them reality shows?”

  “No,” I said gently. “This is just real life. How did you meet him?”

  “Online. We met online. One of those dating services. I didn’t think anything would come of it. But he seemed so nice. He…wasn’t pushy, but very attentive. He said he wanted to settle down, find a good girl and make a life. It sounded so nice. He was so nice,” she repeated as if the word could make the ugliness go away. She bit her lip, her brow furrowed. Suddenly she said, “I got to go talk to him. He can explain this.”

  “Don’t,” I cautione
d as I surreptitiously took my cell phone from my pocket. “You’re okay now. You didn’t know you were aiding a criminal. If you go talk to him, help him in any way, you become accessory to the crime. Don’t go to jail over this.” That was probably pushing it, but at the moment I needed her worried and confused, not ready to fight to the end for her man.

  She bit her lip again.

  I dialed the police. I turned away from her, trying to keep my voice low, so she wouldn’t hear me turn her boyfriend into the authorities.

  “I’m calling about a stolen car. I’m a private investigator and I was hired to check out a stolen Porsche. I’ve located it and now it’s time to turn it over to you.” I gave them the address.

  When I turned back around, she was gone.

  A light came on in the upstairs apartment.

  I broke into a cold sweat—I wanted this too much, was caught between listening for the siren of the police and footsteps on the stairs. The silence was agonizing.

  I glanced at my watch. Then looked at it closely to make sure it was still working.

  Another minute ticked by and nothing happened.

  Then footsteps on the stairs.

  She came out first, still biting her lip, still looking worried.

  He followed her, his face haggard with sleep and a dawning disbelief. He had thrown on jeans and a ratty T-shirt and was wearing pink flip-flops that were an inch too short for his feet. Probably mixed up his and hers in the dark.

  First he looked at the car.

  Then at me.

  The seconds ticked before he finally spoke. “Micky? What are you doing here?”

  “Your mama was worried about you. She called me, asked for a favor—like I owed any of you any favors.”

  “This is a joke, isn’t it?”

  “Aunt Greta called me, she asked me to find you.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Oh, damn. Yeah, I’ll call her in a little bit. Just been too busy.” He started to head back into the apartment.

  “And there’s the matter of the stolen car, the break-in at Alpha Al’s, and the child support,” I shot at him.

  “What the hell are you talking about? None of that’s your business.”

  “I stumbled over them—and I do mean stumbled—since you did nothing to cover your tracks, trying to find you. As Aunt Greta requested.”

  “Okay, so you’ve found me. You’ve had your little fun, woke me up at the butt crack of dawn. It’s too early to call Mama now, I’ll do it later.” He again turned away.

  “Stolen car, looted workplace, child support. Those don’t just go away.”

  He sighed audibly, letting me know that I was wasting his time. “Todd told me I could borrow his car—”

  “Really? Wasn’t what he told me.”

  “He must’ve forgot. Besides, he was always revving that thing up at all hours; no one on the block could sleep. I’m doing everyone a favor. I’ll bring it back in a couple of days. I’ll call him right after I call Mama, okay?”

  “Child support?”

  He shook his head angrily. “Wasn’t my fault. Told her I didn’t want kids. Forked out twenty dollars a month for her to buy things to take care of it. She tricked me, didn’t take her pills and got pregnant. Thought I’d marry her. No way, José. I even offered to pay half the cost of getting rid of it. Next thing I know she’s callin’ sayin’ I’m a daddy and I owe her money.” He didn’t give me a chance to say anything, rushing on, “And as for Al, the bastard cheated us every day I worked there. He’d skim off our commissions, forget to do paperwork, so we didn’t get paid. I was just getting back the money he owed me.”

  “There’s always an excuse for everything, isn’t there?” I said.

  “I’m tellin’ the truth. I’m…” He was looking at something over my shoulder.

  I turned to see the police car pulling into the parking lot.

  He looked at me, then back at the cops, saying nothing as they parked right next to his stolen Porsche.

  “You called the cops?” he hissed at me.

  I saw fear in his eyes. Fear, uncertainty. And then desolation.

  I had won.

  “Yeah, I called the cops.” I twisted away. He was no longer my cousin, instead a trapped animal about to be put in a cage.

  I spoke briefly to the police officers, gave them the information about the stolen car. I didn’t bother with the child support or Alpha Al’s tale.

  They handcuffed him, paying no attention to his claim repeated over and over that he had permission to use the car, his jeans sliding down his flabby butt, the pink flip-flops almost funny if he hadn’t been so desperate.

  His girlfriend ran upstairs and came rushing down with his real pair, putting them on him just as the cops had him in the backseat of their car. Then they shut the door and left.

  She stood watching them leave, those ridiculous pink things in her hand, until there was nothing to see. Then she looked at me. “What am I gonna do?” She seemed bewildered, all alone in a parking lot in the early morning.

  I had no answers for her save the usual clichés. Get her stuff out of the apartment, the police might come back and search. Find a friend who can be with her for a while. Don’t get sucked into his mess.

  But she didn’t seem like she’d heard a word as she went back into the apartment, closing the door as quietly as she could.

  I returned to my hotel and checked out, heading for the airport. I flew to Atlanta, then had to wait hours before I could get a flight back to New Orleans. It was a long, dreary day.

  I’d won, hadn’t I? So, why did I feel so lost? Because I’d learned that revenge isn’t sweet; it’s bitter and sour, relentless because it can never be undone.

  Chasing Athena

  Diane Anderson-Minshall

  When you think mean streets, you imagine the slums of New York or maybe L.A.’s South Central, places where law and order ceded to drug cartels and urban gangs long ago. You don’t imagine the tree-lined boulevards of Portland, Oregon.

  I’ve been a cop in Baltimore and private dick in the Big Apple and the Big Easy and they got nothing on this backwater burg, which the mayor’s pitchmen like to call the City of Roses. I saw the lawlessness and corruption in post-Katrina New Orleans, a place where—for better or worse—everything goes, and still I was as surprised as anyone to discover that Portland had an even darker distinction. It has the dubious reputation of being a major port in the modern sex trade.

  I just fished a dead hooker out of a Dumpster behind the Pussy Palladium, one of Portland’s many strip clubs, and not a single patron seemed concerned. After gawking at the dead body, they disappeared back into the safety of the windowless club or fled to their SUVs and their banal suburban lives.

  Surprisingly, Portland has more strip clubs per capita than any other city in the country. There’s something for every taste. Like the chicks with the big balloons and blond ponies? Try Mary’s. Want to see a contortionist with pierced labia and body ink that’d make a circus freak blush? Check out Club Devi8. Last year, some wank even made headlines by starting a vegan strip club—which led to far too many jokes about how there’s no fur in that joint, if you know what I mean, heh heh heh. I’ve been to a shitload of titty bars, and I can tell you, none of the strippers have fur anymore. They’re all shaved clean, like porn stars and pre-pubescent girls.

  I’ve seen ’em all this year, so many palaces of pussy that I’ve started to feel like a gynecologist. You seen one hairless muff, you’ve seen ’em all. At this point, they mean nothing to me beyond professional curiosity. I’m just looking for one in particular.

  The deal is, this fleece-clad strip club–loving town has an even seedier underbelly. It’s the sex trafficking hot spot along the West Coast’s I-5, corridor and while some of the local feminists consider their city’s strip clubs are cool indicators of gender equality (at some of ’em you can find as many chicks throwing dollar bills on the stage as dudes), nobody likes the red light districts. A couple of years ag
o, the city tried to beautify the pros out of business by renaming one of their main thoroughfares, Eighty-second Street, the “Avenue of the Roses.” Somehow the name change didn’t drive business down, although locals now call the hookers “roses.”

  I’m looking for one of those roses now. One of the roses used to be my girl, and I’m determined to find her. I’ve already followed her trail across the country, and I won’t stop looking until I find her. I’ll look anywhere. Even in Dumpsters. Hence the reason I find myself fishing dead hookers out of Dumpsters and ditches and crack houses, even two thousand miles away from everything I know.

  Let me take you back a beat. This is the oldest story in the book. Girl falls for girl, girl loses girl, girl goes crazy trying to find girl again. Except with a twist. Look, I’m a die-hard dyke and I’m good at my job, but I don’t usually get the girl. I don’t look like the broads on television, even the girls on the lesbian shows. I’ve sported the same cropped mullet since I started playing softball in ninth grade (the same year I fell for Eileen Delvecchio) and I’ve worn my high school letterman’s jacket almost every day since I got it. I still strap my cell phone to my belt, and if I carry a bag at all, it’s filled with a note pad, binoculars, bottled water, and PowerBars, not lipstick and a mini vibrator. I’m just an ordinary dyke and I know it.

  But when I met Athena, she made me feel like the king of the fucking world. I guess that’s how I ended up being the rube in my own story. I was in New Orleans for this PI convention, which sounds a lot sexier than it was. Mostly, it was me and a bunch of stiffs all trading barbs and jostling to the get the attention of insurance industry blowhards who usually get shitfaced and then assign out their biggest cases to a small roster of private investigation companies at the annual affair. It’s hard to get those kind of gigs when you’re on your own. I’ve been in the game a few years, ever since I left Baltimore Narcotics in search of a career path where I wouldn’t have to fill out paperwork and get permission from my supervisors to so much as take a dump. Working for yourself is liberating. But it’s a lot harder to pay the bills. So there I was in New Orleans, trying to pimp myself to one of these insurance reps so I can pay my mortgage.