And she had. Long before she’d entered the White House as Commander In Chief, she’d learned to compete by studying those who played the game best: George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison, Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, Woodrow Wilson--a distant relative, Franklin Roosevelt, Harry Truman, John Kennedy, Bill Clinton...
The intercom sounded from her secretary, announcing a call. “It’s the Vice President,” she said. Wilson took her feet from the desk and pushed back her auburn hair.
“Well done, John. You were calm and articulate, as always, in spite of the angry mob.” A poor choice of words, mob, Wilson thought in light of John’s parentage.
He laughed. “I’ve been dealing with angry mobs all my life.”
“Quick come back.”
“Speaking of which, have you given any thought to our conversation yesterday.”
Wilson wondered exactly what he meant. Typical of John, not being specific. He must be referring to himself, rather than healthcare legislation, or the new drug program. She knew he suffered insecurities over his Vice Presidential role. He was accustomed to being the star, not the token male of her administration, knowing full well the only reason she picked a former actor and California governor as her running mate was to win the election.
Chapter Eight
Audubon Zoo
While Angela modeled sad and happy clown masks for an attentive baboon, I watched from a nearby park bench.
I couldn’t help but laugh when he mooned her with his bright red behind after Angela stuck her jean-clad butt in his face.
I didn’t give a thought to Duffy’s accident until I looked inside my tote for sunglasses, finding instead Dan’s letters, address book and journal.
The first letter on top of the rubber band stack intrigued me. It was from Jay Cascio, according to the envelope, with a La Place address. I wondered if he might live near The Belle as I tucked a few strands of my windblown hair behind my ears, then flipped through Duffy’s address book. Under Jay’s name were two numbers: His home phone and another for the Green Door club.
I punched in the first number on my cell phone, then hesitated, thinking I should read Jay’s letter before talking to him.
Dear Duff,
Mighty strange note you sent my way last month. Sounds like you need a break from the ice-glazed streets of our home stomping grounds. If so, you have an open invitation to visit me in “Sin City.” I would have written earlier but I’ve been busier than usual, one gig after another as well as moving. I don’t live in the city anymore. I got fed up after my Kurzweil keyboard and speakers were stolen, so, I finally broke down and bought a Creole townhome with a carriage house in back, a lot of room for me. I kind of rattle around in it. But I like the area. (See enclosed map for location. It’s in La Place, close to the airport.)
I don’t have any big news, but things are looking up. I’ve got a steady gig at The Green Door on Bourbon and with Mardi Gras, the parades, festivals and parties, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. Not complaining, music is what I thrive on.
Sorry to make it short but I’ve got to get to the club. When you visit, you can sit in and rock the crowd with your southpaw licks.
I’ve been working on the music for your lyrics, “Longing for my Leavenworth Prison Home,” a kick. Catch you later, bro. Jaybird.
Chapter Nine
Charity Hospital
“Are you a family member?” a pretty Creole nurse asked Jay.
He inhaled the strong antiseptic smell, thinking alcohol and ether couldn’t erase disease and death. “Closest family he has. His father died when he was sixteen and his mother passed away a year ago. He lived down the street from me, growing up in Baltimore.”
“We allow only family into ICU.”
“He and I are like brothers.” Jay pulled up his long-sleeve flannel shirt, then pointed to a white scar on his right wrist. “When Duff and I were kids we saw this western flick. Two Indians cut their wrists and became blood brothers. We decided to try it. I guess you think that’s pretty stupid.”
The nurse placed her hand on his elbow and directed him into Dan’s room. “Under the circumstances, I suppose it’ll be okay for you to visit him,” she said. “You do know he’s in a coma, don’t you?”
Jay nodded.
Her brown eyes softened. “But if anyone asks, say you’re family.”
The Jaybird, as he was known around New Orleans, could swim sixty laps in the Olympic-sized pool at the Athletic Club on Rampart. Yet, he felt weak and sick when he saw Dan just lying there, expressionless. His face looked blue and swollen. The familiar hazel eyes were hidden under inflamed lids. Oxygen tubes filled his nose. Glucose liquid dripped through a vein in his left arm. A heart monitor beeped monotonously, the only noise in the otherwise quiet room.
“Good God, Duff, how the hell did this happen?” Jay slumped in the chair near Dan’s bed. “I read one time when somebody goes into a coma, the body is resting, trying to repair itself. Maybe that’s what you’re doing. We got a lot of unfinished business, a lot of songs to write, great times coming up.” Jay waited, no response.
“The lady in the accident called and told me what happened. What gives, man? Did you think you were superman or something?” Jay took several deep breaths. “Well, anyway, the lady whose car you tried to fly through, her name is Lilah something, Lilah Sanderford. Some fancy name, huh?” Jay smiled, hoping Dan might smile back. “She says she has your luggage and stuff, and she told me about the asshole driver who drove off before she could get a license number. Why the hell would you want to ride in the back of a truck? We’re not kids anymore.”
Jay paused, leaned back in the chair and stared at the sound-proof ceiling tile. “It’s kind of like that time you flew up to visit me at Notre Dame, the Saturday before Thanksgiving, remember? We watched the Fighting Irish whip Air Force twenty-three to seven, then jumped on my old Honda bike and headed to Baltimore. God, it was cold. My bike died on the Ohio turnpike near Sandusky. I don’t know what we would’ve done if that guy hadn’t stopped and let us load it in the back of his pickup. Too bad we didn’t have anything to tie it down with. Otherwise, we could have ridden up front, but you and me, like idiots, rode in the back, holding on to that damn bike for 300 more miles. We were ice blocks when we finally made it to my house. My Dad had a fire going and Mom made hot buttered rum. You said it was the best cocoa you ever tasted.”
Jay thought Dan would laugh or at least smile, but instead, he looked dead.
“What happened to all those years, Duff? We couldn’t wait till tomorrow. Time crawled like a snail. Now it comes and goes like lightning. There’s so much we haven’t done. We promised we’d write a song that would ring around the world.” Jay wiped the tears away with the back of his hand.
“Man, do you know how talented you are?” He waited for an answer that never came. “Most people are lucky if they can do one thing well.” He swallowed warm saliva while choking on his words. “I still have your sketch of Sister Mary Louise yelling, ‘Pray or get out.’ And I can’t forget the no-hitter you pitched against Parkview. You’re something else.”
No movement, nothing.
Jay hoped his friend might be able to hear him regardless. “You’re like that crystal star my mother used to put on our Christmas tree...”
He lost his train of thought when the nurse came to the door. “I must ask you to leave now.”
Jay stood and walked closer to Dan. “Have to go, Duff, but I’ll be back later. Sorry I didn’t pick you up at the airport.”
Leaving the hospital, Jay recalled the last time he’d talked with his friend. Dan had called to say he was flying to New Orleans to get the guy who’d murdered his dad.
Chapter Ten
Belle Plantation
Barry Blasey, the handyman and housekeeper for the Belle Viella Plantation, wiped perspiration from his aching head as he fluffed the gold, satin-covered pillows in the Napoleon room.
He was propping the pil
lows against the rosewood headboard when a black film slipped over his blood-shot eyes, a sure sign he was about to faint.
He reeled next door to the boudoir, then dropped down in the gooseneck rocker and let his head hang between his legs. His baseball cap--with the Tabasco bottle embroidered on the front--dropped to the Velvet Brussels carpet. “God, help me,” he prayed. “And I’ll never take another drink,” He’d made that same promise countless times before but this afternoon he was sure he meant it.
Boy, he was sick. The blood vessels in his head pulsated with pin pricks of hot pain. He lifted his lanky, trembling body from the rocker and stretched out on the daybed. The blue taffeta spread felt cool to his clammy skin.
Staring up at the ceiling, he focused on the cherub centerpiece and tried to remember what he did yesterday. Barry couldn’t recall going to the Winn Dixie but the fridge was full like Ms. Viella wanted. He must have picked up the groceries after he’d stopped off at Sly’s joint where “Mack the Knife” Boudreaux had hustled him in pool.
Why did he have to be one of them drunks who don’t know shit? When Ms. Viella hired him six months ago, she’d told him he’d have to stop drinking and go to AA.
“Hell, I mostly drink beer,” he’d told her, just like he’d told Martha, his first wife and later, Janice, his second. Eventually, Janice threw his clothes on the street and changed the locks after he was arrested for peeping in a neighbor’s window.
Barry hauled himself from the daybed and wobbled downstairs to the kitchen, clinging to the hand rail to keep from stumbling. He leaned over the sink, then turned on the cold water and splashed his face. He kept thinking of the guitar case and man’s duffel bag he’d found. He wondered who the hell they belonged to.
Barry heard the sound of crunching gravel, a car pulling up. He looked out the front window and saw Lilah Sanderford’s white mini-van. Barry tried to remember if he’d talked to her. She looked familiar. Had she seen him drunk? It was possible, but he wasn’t about to stick around to find out.
He stumbled upstairs to the Napoleon room and quickly pushed a lever behind the gold-leaf mirror. The mirror slid into the wall revealing a hidden passageway, built by the original owner, Capt. Mullette, to store his stolen goods.
Barry walked into the hiding space and repositioned the mirror until it clicked securely in place. Crouching in the dark, he waited and listened behind the glass, confident no one could see him there. To anyone who didn’t know, the mirror looked like an exquisite piece of furniture crafted in the eighteen hundreds. To Barry, it was far more valuable as the ideal perch for a peeping Tom.
~ * ~
When I spotted the old truck parked near the Belle, I drove around for a closer look. The truck was almost hidden between two huge oak trees, but I felt certain it was the same one that had tossed Dan Duffy on the hood of my van. Mud covered the license plate as before. But this afternoon, the plate numbers were visible. In silence, Angela and I stared at each other.
“It’s too weird to think what you’re thinking,” she said, as if she could read my mind.
“Stranger things have happened,” I offered, feeling increasingly uneasy about the suitcase filled with money which I’d carried around all day in my van. “Let’s forget about picking up our makeup and clothes right now. Maybe, Natasha has something I can wear for my interview with John Gable tomorrow.” I circled the driveway, getting ready to exit.
“No way, Mama. If we spend the night I need my things.”
“All right, I’ll go in. You stay here and keep the doors locked.”
Angela jumped out of the van. “I’m not staying here. I’m going with you.” I grabbed the car keys, then set the automatic lock before going inside.
As quickly as possible, we ran up the stairs to the Belle. Inside, we rushed toward the Napoleon room to get our luggage. I smelled the odor of whiskey and sensed we weren’t alone in the house, but I didn’t share my fears with Angela.
On the way out, I noticed a baseball cap, lying on the floor in one of the boudoirs. I grabbed it, thinking the hat might be connected to Duffy’s accident in some way.
Chapter Eleven
Garden District
Billy Joe’s Home
As I turned into Billy Joe’s red-brick driveway on Prytania Street Angela was doubtful. “Are you sure this is the right house? It’s huge,”
“Sure, I’m sure. Billy Joe and Natasha bought it when he was making big bucks with the New Orleans Saints. He said, the architecture is Greek Revival.”
We admired the white Ionic columns fronting the upstairs and downstairs galleries before walking along the lacy, wrought-iron fence lined with Magnolia trees. I had a sense of déjà vu from the smell of gardenias planted in a side garden.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Billy Joe said, as he came out to greet us. He was casually dressed in a blue knit polo and khaki slacks. “What’s with the sad-sack frowns?”
We told him about the truck parked at the Belle and Angela gave him the license number we’d copied down.
“Mother thought someone was hiding in the house.”
I handed him the hat and almost mentioned the money in Dan Duffy’s suitcase, but didn’t. I hated to put Billy Joe in the middle of a mess, and that’s what this was, a mess, especially since I was dumb enough to count the money and put my fingerprints all over everything.
“I’ll check the tag out and ask some patrol officers in La Place to put up a surveillance,” Billy Joe said. “Whoever was driving that truck better have a darn good reason for being at the Belle Viella.”
I wanted to change the subject. “You have a beautiful place. The gardenias remind me of Gerry.”
“When we got this house our Realtor said the gardenias and jasmine were first planted two hundred years ago to cover the stink of what used to be a slaughterhouse over there.” Billy Joe pointed down the street. “And you know somethin’? The Gerry County Stockyard is probably why folks planted so many gardenias there. Remember, Lilah, when we’d call everyone we didn’t like and say, ‘Is this the Gerry Stockyard? It sure smells like it.’” Billy Joe laughed. I laughed with him as he led us through the long center hall which stretched from the front of the house to the back.
“Smells wonderful,” I said of the aroma of food rafting from the kitchen where Natasha was pouring a rich butter sauce over pan-fried filet of trout.
I slipped my arm around Natasha, a petite, light-skinned, black woman. “You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
She put down her large serving spoon and gave me a hug. “Wonderful to see you, Lilah. It’s our pleasure.”
“Can we help?” I offered.
“Sure. Set the table if you like. Melissa has asked two of her friends and Mama Sis will be joining us.” Natasha took eight gold-rim plates out of the china cabinet. “I must tell you Lilah, I’ve never prepared this fish dish before. Billy Joe told me it’s your favorite.”
“He did? What is it called?”
“Baby, you’ve outdone yourself.” Billy Joe blurted out, wearing his lie like a birthmark.
Natasha’s ebony eyes glared at him. “Oh, I understand now. William wanted the trout.” When angry with Billy Joe, Natasha calls him William. “I don’t know if y’all know this but William is on a diet and shouldn’t have any fattening foods.” Her small nostrils flared as she batted her black lashes and locked her lips, nonverbally chastising him.
“Oh, Baby, come on. Haven’t I been trying to help you in the kitchen ever since I got home?”
Natasha turned to me and Angela. “He doesn’t help, he samples, gobbling up everything in sight.”
Billy Joe looked sheepishly at the floor.
I tried not to snicker at him as I placed the china plates on the white crocheted cloth atop an oak dining table. It was anchored against a tall burgundy wall. I heard the familiar acoustic guitar, The Rolling Stones, “As Tears Go By.” Mick Jagger’s voice sounded particularly plaintive.
Following the music, I found Mama Sis
sitting in a velvet, mahogany chair, her rich skin the same color as the wood. Her right hand rested on an old phonograph. Deep furrows between her eyebrows made Sis appear worried and sad. She wore a pale blue gingham dress, her black and gray hair in braids as she stared into an indefinable space, unaware of my presence.
“Mama loves that song, plays it over and over,” Billy Joe whispered in my ear. “Don’t be surprised if she doesn’t remember you. She hasn’t been herself since the mugging.”
I turned to look at him. “You’ve never really told me what happened, Billy Joe.”
He massaged his eyelids. I knew he was trying not to cry. “Mama was walking to Cafe du Monde for beignets. Calls them her doughnut without the hole.”
I nodded.
“Two punks, damn junkies, hit her over the head with a two-by-four and stole the little bit of money in her purse.” Billy Joe wiped the tears from his eyes and winced.
I walked up to Sis and kissed her on the cheek before kneeling down to take her hand. “Hello, Mama.”
“It’s been a while but you remember Lilah, don’t you?” Billy Joe prompted.
Sis’s eyes, cloudy and yellowish, searched my face. “You grown.”
I almost cried. I wanted to bring back the past, and summon Sis’s sage advice, but there was no hope of that as I looked at her in silence, realizing the once clear window of recognition had closed. Above her head, I noticed a framed photograph on the wall. In it, Billy Joe held a giant amberjack by the gills. Standing beside him was Vice President John Gable with his Cheshire cat grin.
Chapter Twelve
Gable’s St. Charles’ Townhouse
Kern McIntoch
Out of Curiosity, Kern McIntoch, the Vice President’s special assistant, counted the clocks in Gable’s townhouse: Sixty-five in all. Definitely an obsession with time. Why else would anyone want this many clocks?
Sex, Love and Murder Page 4
