12 Bullets

by O'Neil De Noux

  “You think?”

  THE WIND DIES down in the early afternoon but by the time Jessie leaves for the garage on Phillip Street at four p.m., the wind returns, pushing her down the banquette, her heels clattering, her skirt whipping above her waist.

  The man in the old-fashioned suit leans against the wall of the building across the avenue, derby in hand, eyes following Jessie as she rounds the corner. She is nearly stopped by the wind and leans into it to reach the garage where two of the attendants watch her approach. Both grin as her skirt is bunched above her waist, their bright teeth against dark faces. She shrugs and asks for her car, a dark blue Volvo.

  “Yes, Miss Carini,” says the younger of the two.

  She waits with the older man, Reginald – from his name tag. Jessie feel the turn-on now. She takes a step back toward the opening to wait for her car and the wind whips up her skirt three times before the car arrives. Someone across the street gives her a wolf-whistle and Reginald says, “He’s just appreciating the view.”

  Her car arrives and she climbs in thinking how she almost didn’t wear panties today.

  BEAU’S iPHONE STARTS up its drum beating, men chanting Sioux war song. Stella jumps off the foot of the bed. Not a war song fan. Beau recognizes the phone number. Headquarters calling.

  “Inspector Beau? First District supervisor requests CIU at Saint Louis Cathedral. A 56.”

  Criminal Damage. Vandalism.

  “10-4. I’m in route.”

  Jessie stirs, rolls on her back, moonlight through the windows falling on her body. They sleep atop the sheets on warm spring nights and he looks down her body, her full breasts, narrow waist and fluffy bush, long slim legs. They both like the natural bush, like a woman rather than the 21st century shaved-crotch-little-girl-look.

  One eye peeks at him.

  “Gotta go.” He leans over and kisses her lips. Stella jumps back on the bed and Beau calls Juanita, asks her to pick up Jordan and meet him at the cathedral.

  “Which cathedral?”

  He chuckles and hangs up, goes into the bathroom for a quick shower. He doesn’t shave.

  CLOCK ATOP THE cathedral tolls four times. Lieutenant Dusty Heaton stands next to the drainage gutter running down the center of Pirate Alley along the uptown side of Saint Louis Cathedral, his flashlight trained on the cathedral wall where someone spray painted:

  $5,000 to stop

  GC

  A pair of pointy cat ears runs along the top of the ‘C’.

  Dusty stands a couple inches taller than Beau, wipes his brow, says, “Same thing painted on the other side of the cathedral. Same red paint.”

  Footsteps turn Beau to see Monsignor Gannon approaching from the front of the cathedral.

  “Who found it?”

  Dusty points over his shoulder.

  “Baker going to work at The French Bakery. Cabildo Alley.” The alley running from Pirate Alley to Saint Peter Street behind the old Cabildo. The alleys are wide enough for a horse-and-buggy to pass but permanently blocked off to traffic now with wrought iron posts.

  The monsignor arrives and Beau asks if they got inside.

  “It does not appear so.” The monsignor makes the sign of the cross.

  Beau pulls his LFR out of its canvas pouch on his gunbelt – he wears black 511 trousers with his off-duty gun belt, light gray polo shirt with charcoal gray NOPD star-and-crescent badge emblem – and summons his crew.

  Beau works it like this – he’ll view the video from the cathedral’s cameras at the corners of the building. Juanita and Jordan – interview the baker, canvass and locate what videos are available from businesses along Chartres, Saint Ann, Saint Peter, Royal Street two blocks in every direction.

  “The city has cameras set up along the Jackson Square fence,” Dusty adds.

  Bishop Andrew Eskinde arrives, takes Beau around the front of the cathedral, goes in to view the surveillance tapes. Beau asks if the archbishop has made up his mind about contacting the emailer, setting up payment.

  “Not yet.”

  “Maybe this will prod him.”

  IT’S DAWN BY the time Beau views the last of the cathedral’s surveillance tapes. This one from a camera at the rear corner overlooking Pirate Alley where a figure in all-black, wearing a ski-mask and gloves, leans a bicycle against the black wrought iron fence of Saint Anthony’s Garden, moves to the cathedral wall and pulls a can of spray paint from his jacket pocket and spray paints the cathedral wall.

  The spray painter hurries back to his bike, shoving the can back into his jacket. He reaches into a saddle-bag and draws out a rope with a dark object tied to it and tosses it over the fence into the garden. He climbs on his bike and rides out of the ally, turning up Royal Street.

  “Looks like he has a limp,” the bishop says.

  “I noticed.”

  They view the footage three times.

  “We need copies of all the videos,” Beau tells the monsignor who leads him through a rear door of the cathedral into St. Anthony’s Garden with its magnolia trees, camellia bushes, azalea bushes lining the fence, a white marble Egyptian obelisk near the rear gate of the garden, memorial to French sailors who died in one of the city’s yellow fever epidemics.

  Beau spots the dark object next to a camellia and goes down on his haunches to study a dead black cat, his heart beginning to race now. A skinny cat, stiff in death, tongue protruding, eyes half open, traces of blood around its mouth. The cat’s tail is coated with thick grease. The rope around its neck is tied in a simple knot.

  He calls for the crime lab technician to come photograph the cat.

  “And bring a large paper bag.”

  Beau dons rubber gloves after the photos are taken of the cat. He puts the cat into the bag.

  “Vacuum around here.” Beau points to the grass where the cat had lain.

  Crime Lab Tech Eddie Habor pushes his glasses back.

  “Vacuum? For what?”

  “The usual. Hair. Fibers. Don’t you watch CSI?”

  “Fuck no. Do you?”

  “Fuck no.” Beau pats Habor’s shoulder. “Give it a shot, OK?”

  CASUAL FRIDAY AND Jessie wears a dark blue T-shirt with a 2-inch gold NOPD star-and-crescent badge patch over her left breast with LOVER embossed under the patch. Her hair in a long ponytail, she’s in faded jeans and white Skechers running shoes. She takes off her sunglasses as she enters her building, turns to voices on her right, spots one of the security guards talking to – oh, no, it’s the man with the derby and old-fashioned suit.

  The man spots Jessie, takes off his derby and moves a step away from the guard who stands a half-foot taller and is thick-chested, arms like a weight lifter, the guard saying, “It’s not even the U.S. National Bank of Louisiana anymore. It’s called LA Bank now.”

  The guard sees Jessie, shrugs.

  “Good morning, Miss Carini.”

  Jessie sees the name tag on the guard’s chest. Is this the one played linebacker for the Saints? All the guards are African-American, this one in damn good shape.

  “Morning Mr. Jefferson.”

  The man with the derby goes, “Oh,” his light blue eyes going wide. “Oh, my. You wore a blue skirt yesterday.” A British accent.

  “And you wore this suit yesterday.”

  The man looks at his suit.

  “It is the only one I possess at the moment.” He tugs on the coat’s lapels. “I am Emerson Lake, Lord Palmer, 5th Earl of Fulking.”

  “Earl of what?”

  “Fu … F…U…L…K…I…N…G.”

  “I thought you said –.”

  “Quite,” he cuts Jessie off. “A common error. Fulking and Fulking Hill lie in Sussex, in the south of England.”

  Wait – Jessie thinks. Emerson, Lake and Palmer. My parents have record albums by that band.

  “Miss Carini is president of our company, she may be able help you.” Jefferson smiles at Jessie.

  “President?”

  “She’s the HWIC. The hea
d woman in charge.” Jefferson is enjoying this too much.

  Lord Palmer tugs on his lapels again. “I am in urgent need of the funds we deposited before my departure. Funds in the U.S. National Bank of Louisiana. I have not eaten in two days.”

  Jefferson goes, “Man says he has an account with the bank, I’ve tried explaining the bank relocated to the Monlezun Building over on Gravier. And it’s LA Bank now.”

  “Why don’t you walk him over?”

  “Leave my post.”

  Jessie’s turn to smile. “Since I’m in charge. We can survive with one lobby guard for a short while.”

  Her 9mm Glock model 26X is tucked in her purse. Semi-automatic, twelve rounds. Jessie Bella Carini is still a licensed private eye. She opens her purse, pulls out a twenty, passes it to Jefferson. “Buy him and yourself breakfast.”

  “I thankee,” says the Englishman. “If you can keep a secret for me.”

  Jessie’s already backing away.

  “I am a time traveler.” The voice lowers. “From the year 1920. Come to the future to help prevent a second world war.” He taps his temple with a finger. “I have military secrets in my brain. I need to speak to your Secretary of War. Immediately.”

  Prevent a second world war?

  Jessie stops, sees the serious look on the man’s face.

  “Mr. Jefferson, he’s all yours.”

  BEAU LAYS OUT the dead cat on a large sheet of brown wrapping paper on the conference room table. Habor takes more photos before vacuuming the body for fibers, hair, anything. He swabs the blood around the cat’s mouth and examines the cat’s claws discovering debris – could be human flesh – and blood on the rear claws.

  “Grease on the cat’s tail,” goes Habor as he collects some of the goo. “Thick. Looks like automotive grease.”

  Juanita and Jordon step in behind Beau.

  Habor says, “It fought back. Gouged someone.” He collects the grease, debris and blood.

  Beau gently pats the cat’s head. “Good girl. Collected evidence in your death throws.”

  Jordan, “How you know it’s female?”

  Beau gives him the cold expressionless look of the plains warrior.

  “Oh, you peeked.”

  Juanita closes her eyes, shakes her head.

  Jordan isn’t finished. “They in BFT now.”

  Habor looks at him. “BFT?”

  “Big Fuckin’ Trouble. See the look on Crazy Horse’s face. Spray painting a cathedral is one thing. Stupid fucks done killed a cat.” Jordan puts a hand on Beau’s shoulder. “They gonna get scalped.”

  “Go fix us come coffee,” Beau’s voice comes low.

  Juanita turns. “I better. Remember that see-through shit he made last time.”

  Coffee looked like tea.

  THE RAIN COMES just as Beau and Jessie sit at the kitchen table each with a po-boy from Tootie’s Sandwiches on Freret Street, each with a pile of crispy steak-fries seasoned with cayenne and sea salt. Sheets of rain wash against the French doors behind them as lightning flashes and thunder booms.

  “The vet confirms the cause of death as strangulation. About four hours before we found the cat.”

  Stella’s ears stick over the top of the small table. She sits on a spare chair. She already ate and got treats. Maybe she’s listening to the horror story of a murdered feline. Most likely hoping for a morsel of human food.

  Beau takes a bite of his pane’d meat po-boy – breaded veal cutlet dressed with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, mayonnaise and mustard. Jessie’s shrimp po-boy is dressed similarly except for ketchup instead of mustard. Both on French bread.

  “What’d you do with the dead cat?”

  “I put it in our freezer.”

  Another flash and thunderclap.

  Jessie stops chewing, tries to see if he’s joking. Waits.

  He finishes chewing, picks up a fry and she snatches it out of his hand, eats it.

  “The vet’s keeping the body until we decide what to do with it. I want to bury her in the backyard.”

  Jessie nods, still chewing the thick steak fry.

  “Put a little flagstone over it. Keep the raccoons from digging her up.”

  “What raccoons?”

  He takes another bite, chews – “You don’t go into the backyard in the middle of the night much. A coon’s been living under the deck out back. A male. He won’t stay long. He’ll go looking for a female soon.”

  “How big?”

  “Not a foot and half, eight pounds maybe. A swamp coon can grow to nearly three feet, weigh eighteen pounds. This one is named Melbourne. He likes Cocoa Puffs.”

  “You named him?”

  “Everything has a name.”

  The lights flicker and each takes a bite.

  “The city has an infestation since Katrina, probably before. Coons, possums, armadillos, coyotes in City Park and Bayou Sauvage. They found a 6-foot alligator in the Palmetto canal last week.”

  Another bite of po-boy washed down by icy Barq’s root beer.

  “Hope your day was laid-back.”

  “Met a time traveler from 1920. He came to warn us about a second world war.”

  “You mean like World War II?”

  She nods, take another bite of po-boy. A loud thunderclap shivers the house.

  “Englishman. Emerson Lake, Lord Palmer, opened an account with the Louvier’s old bank, U.S. Bank of Louisiana, on January 8, 1920, depositing $2,000. The account took a hit during the depression but since the bank never went under, well this 5th Earl of Fulking has $112,000 dollars in LA Bank.”

  A lightning flash fills the room, a second later the thunderclap rattles the glasses and Stella is nowhere to be seen.

  “Did you say Earl of Fucking?”

  “Fulking. A common error. He wants to talk with the U.S. Secretary of War.”

  “We have a Secretary of War?”

  “Not since World War II.”

  “What’d you do with this guy?”

  “Invited him to stay here. Not a bad looking bloke.”

  Beau nods. “I could fit him in the freezer.”

  She snickers. “Says Mister I’m-not-a-jealous-man.”

  “I’m not. I’ve just never eaten an Englishman.” He smiles. “You know. A Cajun will eat anything.”

  She explains she had Mr. Jefferson put him up at The Crimson Clock Inn. She explains who Mr. Jefferson is – the big NFL looking guard.

  “So, what do wanna watch tonight?”

  They settle on a World War I movie about the Battle of Passchendaele, which wasn’t about the British as they thought, but the story of a horrific battle between German and Canadian troops.

  “Well,” Beau says as they go upstairs after. “If anyone says Canada doesn’t have a military tradition, that Canadians aren’t tough like Americans, I got one word for them – Passchendaele.”

  Another night of cuddling. He realizes Jessie’s not in the mood.

  “No. I’m in the mood.” She slips a leg between his, runs fingers over his erection. “I’m just saving it until tomorrow night.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He runs his finger across her nipples and she lets out a hot breath.

  “It’ll be worth it.”

  IT RAINS SATURDAY, a steady light rain and the pumps seem to be handling it as the streets aren’t flooded.

  Just as Beau stretches out on the sofa for a nap after lunch with his little girl Stella, the war song starts up on his iPhone. It’s ATF Special Agent Hillel Jordan.

  “You’re probably gonna get a complaint against me Monday morning.”

  Stella rubs her snout against Beau’s cheek. He moves so they can rub noses.

  “What happened?”

  “Juanita and I got nineteen flash drives with video footage from a shitloada businesses in the Quarter. On my way home, it IS Saturday, I drove past City Hall and decided to see if anyone was in at the city’s video camera office. It’s part of Technical Services and I ran
into a midget named Timothy Wonder who told me we needed a warrant for any video footage.

  “I told him OK, we’ll be back and yawned cause I haven’t got much sleep. Remind me to tell you about Adolpha Danz. Says she’s a mannesser. That’s German. Gotta look that word up. Well, this Mister Wonder starts in on me for breathing down at him because he’s a midget. Man’s about 4-feet tall.

  “I mentioned that and he got all politically-correct on me. Said he wasn’t a midget, he was a short person and I said that’s what I said – a midget is a person of unusually short stature but he should know that and he said midget was a disparaging term like calling me a negro. The man called me a negro and I told him I was only half negro while he was completely a midget. His face got red and he reminded me of his exalted status as chief of Technical Services. He used those words ‘exalted status’ and I laughed said exalted meant lofty and he was too short to be lofty.

  “Well, he demanded the name of my supervisor at the ATF and I told him you were my supervisor so I gave him your name and he said he would be in Monday to file a formal complaint.

  Stella won’t let Beau turn his head. When he does, she reaches a paw to pull his nose back to rub hers against.

  “OK. That’s it?”

  “Yeah, you having a quiet Saturday? Snuggling with Jessie?”

  “No. Stella.”

  “Uhhh.”

  “My cat.”

  “And you think I’m strange.”

  “Good work on the videos. We’ll talk Monday. Go look up that German word.”

  “Roger Dodger. Over and out.”

  Stella unsheathes her claws and pulls Beau’s face back. The little girl can be demanding. When he’s had enough, Beau picks her up and snuggles with her. After two seconds she begins to squirm. He holds her tighter and she goes, “Rrrroooollll.”

  He runs a hand across her back, the wrong way, ruffling her long coat.

  “Awrooool.”

  He waits five seconds and lets her go and she’s off the sofa, runs to the loveseat and jumps on and begins to put her coat back into place.

  THE DOORBELL WAKES Beau who looks at the wall clock. Almost four p.m. Nice 3-hour nap. The doorbell rings again before he gets to the door, peeks out the peep hole, sees Stefi folding a pink umbrella. He opens the door for Jessie’s 14-year old sister who hands him the wet umbrella as she steps in, takes off her blue backpack. She wears a black T-shirt and denim miniskirt, white running shoes.