Sex, Love and Murder

by Sandy Semerad

  examined his right hand. “That was quite a punch. Hope you didn’t hurt your hand?”

  “Oh, I don’t feel anything. Back when I was boxing, I busted all my knuckles at one time or another.” He held the van door wide enough for me to hop inside.

  I wondered why anyone who played the piano would want to box. Before I could say so, Jay touched my chin with the same hand he’d used to punch the masked intruder. His eyes changed from a deep blue to almost black.

  He turned my face toward his and seemed to be looking into my soul as his lips moved closer. I turned my head away, avoiding his kiss. With a questioning look, Jay stepped back. “See you Friday night,” he said, smiling and showing dazzling white teeth. “Be careful.” He pushed down the automatic lock.

  As I pulled out of the parking spot, I asked myself why Jay tried to kiss me; yet, didn’t grab Duffy’s suitcase. Perhaps he doesn’t know about the money. Or does he?

  The question lingered as I drove away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Blasey lives in what used to be one of them slave quarters about a quarter mile behind the big house,” officer Jerome Macon said. He was calling from a cell phone, his voice cutting in and out. Billy Joe strained to hear although he figured his old pal in La Place hadn’t had enough time to get a decent trace.

  Less than two hours ago Billy Joe had phoned Macon after Alice Faye Hebert, the computer guru at NOPD, tracked the plate number. It turned up registered to Mary Viella. With this information, Macon, who knows St. John The Baptist Parish like his eye color, had located the truck and questioned Barry Blasey, the driver.

  “Hope he ain’t a brother livin’ in a slave’s domicile,” Billy Joe quipped.

  “No. He ain’t a man of color and he ain’t staying in a dump, but it’s not nearly as nice as where some ex-pro football stars live,” Macon teased.

  “What else did you find out?” Billy Joe asked.

  “He’s a white male with dark-brown hair, a little gray at the temples, five-feet eleven, with hazel eyes. Been living forty-five years. From the looks of his face, he’s had a rough time of it. Puffy, broken-vein nose like Caucasians get when they drink too much. But he wasn’t drinking tonight. Blasey showed me a check from Ms. Viella, written to him. Said he’s her fix-it man; whatever needs doing around the place he does it. Said he didn’t see no need to introduce himself to your friend ‘cause he never ran into her. And besides, he thought Ms. Viella told her about him. I asked Blasey what he was doing yesterday afternoon from four to six, about when you said the accident happened. He said he don’t keep track of time ‘cause he don’t wear no watch. But he said he was rushin’ around, cleaning the Belle, and stopped off at Sly’s pool hall. Old Sly’s pretty good about rememberin’ people. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  “Call me after you talk with Sly, okay? Does Blasey have a record?”

  “I don’t know, man. It’s late and I’m beat. I’ll check him out tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, brother. I owe you one.”

  “Another thing,” Macon said before hanging up. “I noticed Blasey was mighty nervous when I mentioned the accident. I told him the lady and her daughter reported the truck looked like the one he drove. He asked me if I was plannin’ to arrest him. I told him ‘no’ and he seemed mighty relieved. Then he asked me about the guy in the accident.”

  ~ * ~

  Thinking of the information he’d uncovered since nine o’clock, Billy Joe walked outside into his fenced courtyard. The stars were beautiful but a distant drum cadence disrupted the quiet air like thunder.

  He sat in an iron garden chair and shifted his large frame, trying to find a comfortable position. Abandoning the unyielding seat, he stretched out on a grassy patch beside a gardenia bush, then interlocked his giant hands to cradle his head. Three hours before, Natasha had driven to Charity Hospital for the late-shift with the courage of a Martin Luther King at a KKK standoff.

  He was glad the weather was pleasant enough to be outside, so much better than any four walls. The sky was almost haunting. A gauzy cloud covered a crescent moon. Billy Joe watched a filmy haze slide around the star-filled heavens until Lilah drove up fifteen minutes after midnight.

  “I can’t keep carrying this money around,” I mumbled to myself as I pulled Duffy’s suitcase from under the back seat. A safe deposit box was the best place for it but at the moment I knew I’d have to think of a reasonable alternative.

  “Need any help there, Miss Lilah?”

  I almost jerked my head off my shoulders in the direction of Billy Joe’s resonant voice. He was standing ten feet away in the courtyard.

  “Billy Joe, you scared me. I’ve had a crazy evening. Let me put these things inside and I’ll come back and tell you about it.”

  Billy Joe opened the front door as he reached out for Duffy’s suitcase.

  “Thanks, but I can manage,” I said, then hurried upstairs to where Angela and I were spending the night.

  I decided to hide the luggage under the twin bed where I’d be sleeping. In the other twin, Angela was sawing logs, looking supremely innocent. I kissed her forehead before making my way back downstairs.

  Thirsty, I went into the kitchen for a drink of cold water, then grabbed a bottle of Irish Cream liqueur on the kitchen counter.

  Billy Joe was sitting in one of the two iron chairs positioned side-by-side in the courtyard near a fragrant gardenia bush. I flopped down next to him talking nonstop about my evening on Bourbon Street. Billy Joe listened, then shared what he’d learned. He said Ms. Viella owned the green truck Angela and I had seen, and Viella’s handyman, a man named Blasey, was thought to be driving it the afternoon of Duffy’s accident.

  “I’ll call Mary Viella in Sea Grove and make sure Blasey is telling the truth,” I said.

  “Not a bad idea. She should’ve told you about him.”

  I rested my head against the stiff, iron chair and admired the stars. “How did it go with Angela, Melissa and the Latin lovers?”

  “Don’t rub it in. I still think of Melissa as a baby. Can’t get used to her datin’. I’ve tried to put the fear of the Lord into that Fernando but I can’t seem to scare him away.”

  I laughed. “Oh, come on, Billy Joe, if you really wanted to frighten him, you could.”

  “Don’t think he understands English. I told him if he hurts Melissa he’s a dead man but he keeps coming back.”

  “I’m surprised he was brave enough to stay for dinner and watch a movie.” I unscrewed the top of the Irish Cream, then took a quick swig.

  “What you doin,’ girl? Didn’t your mother teach you manners? You’re not supposed to drink out of the bottle. My, my, my. Give me that.”

  I handed him the bottle. He took a sip and pointed at the sky. “See that cloud sliding over the moon? Looks like an eagle.”

  “I see Dracula rising from his coffin.”

  “Oh, girl, you got a sad mind.”

  “I know.” I stretched my arms out, palms facing upward. With one quick motion I swooshed my hands straight out and over her head.

  “You directin’ the cricket orchestra or somethin’?”

  “I’m swooshing.”

  “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

  “It’s what I do whenever I have a problem. I let go of it this way. I discovered swooshing when I was seven years old, the day my daddy died. He was the first person I ever swooshed.”

  “Was he alive at the time? ‘Cause if he was, don’t even think about swooshing me, girl.”

  I slapped Billy Joe’s arm. “Not very funny.” He seemed to catch my sadness.

  “You know, Billy Joe, Daddy died in his sleep just like Sam.”

  “I sure am sorry, honey.”

  “I woke up in Mama and Daddy’s bed,” I said, feeling like little girl. “Daddy hadn’t carried me to my own room like he usually did when I fell asleep between them. When I walked into the living room that morning all these people were gathered and Mother was crying. I asked her
, ‘Where’s Daddy?’ And she said, ‘He’s gone away.’ I didn’t really understand until we went to the funeral home. Mr. Andrews asked me if I’d like to see Daddy and I said, ‘Yes.’ He lifted me over the casket. Daddy was wearing his finest vested, gray suit. His coarse black hair was combed back. I touched his face. It was hard like stone. That night, I couldn’t sleep so I crept outside. I looked up at the stars and thought about Daddy. I decided to swoosh him up to heaven along with my fear of Mama dying. I figured if anything happened to Mama, I’d have to live with mean old Aunt Lil.”

  “What were you swooshing just now?” Billy Joe asked thoughtfully.

  “I can’t talk about it yet. When the swooshing’s done, I’ll be able to tell you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Thursday, February 9

  Donell Elementary School

  “I am concerned about the President’s proposal to legalize drugs. Is it true that your administration condones the use of drugs?” a young teacher asked John Gable during the question and answer segment. Billy Joe turned around to observe the attractive, raven-haired woman. He knew Marilyn Girod to be a gentle teacher, not at all controversial.

  After Girod asked her question a stillness fell on the school’s cramped auditorium of educators, students, parents, and reporters. Billy Joe hoped youngsters wouldn’t get the wrong idea. He wanted them to accept what he’d always preached: “Losers use drugs.”

  “President Wilson supports drug control not drug legalization.” Gable looked directly into Girod’s brown eyes. “As you know, drug abuse has become a cancer, destroying our communities along with its victims. And, believe me, we are all victims,” Gable paused to sip from a glass of water. He smoothed one side of his reddish-blonde hair before continuing. “Our proposed legislation will treat all drug addiction. At the same time, we’ll put more police officers on the streets. These new recruits will be compassionate and dedicated like Billy Joe Harris over there.” Gable motioned to Billy Joe who sat beside Lilah in the center front row.

  Billy Joe looked down at the floor and away from Gable’s gaze. He disliked being singled out as a public spectacle wearing a police uniform.

  “Police officers will identify problems and help find solutions other than jail.” Gable gripped the podium. “No longer will we lock up those caught carrying a little marijuana. Marijuana is not the problem. It’s the excessive need for marijuana and other drugs that we should be concerned about.”

  Kern McIntoch stepped up to the glob of microphones in front of Gable. “The Vice President has time for one more question.”

  Billy Joe figured the young man was trying to intercept another negative question from Girod or anyone else.

  Carrying a small microphone, McIntoch hopped down from the stage and walked over to the eight-year-old girl who raised her hand. He knelt down, positioning the mike close to her mouth.

  “My name is Sarena Jackson.” The little girl looked at McIntoch instead of Gable as she nervously fingered one of the barrettes in her pigtailed hair. “How can I be President?”

  The audience laughed. Sarena’s dark eyes grew wide and round.

  “I’ve asked myself the same question.” Gable flashed his famous dimpled grin and waited for the laughter to stop. “Sarena, President Wilson was probably your age when she first dreamed of becoming President, and she never gave up on that dream. She studied hard, kept too busy with school work to hang out and get into trouble.” Gable paused, looking around the room at his audience. “Some of her classmates even called her a nerd, she said, but she didn’t conform by dumbing down.” Gable raised his dark eyebrows while massaging the cleft in his chin. “In high school, she was elected President of her senior class and voted most likely to succeed. At Yale, she graduated summa cum laude which is the highest academic honor awarded. After law school, her hard work, talent and determination made her one of our most respected district attorneys. Later, she blazed quite a trail as Governor of New York, paving the way for smart young ladies like yourself to one day lead our nation. So, don’t give up on your dream, Sarena. And remember, the President claims it’s cool to study and do homework.” Gable smiled again, his sea-green eyes glistening.

  The audience applauded wildly.

  “Thank you for inviting me here today,” he said, stepping away from the podium and waving.

  ~ * ~

  Looking through my camera lens, I framed Gable’s face. It was tight and smooth until he smiled to reveal dimples and laugh lines.

  I’d snapped twelve frames, trying to capture the graceful way Gable waved and gestured. I thought of the many John Gable movies I’d seen. He’d played every kind of role, from bearded mountain man to southern army general, governor, even President.

  “Ms. Sanderford, I’m Kern McIntoch.” I turned to the voice interrupting my concentration. McIntoch was wearing a gray pinstripe suit, a red tie and blue shirt. His eyes were a penetrating blue. I thought he resembled a dressed-up college student.

  I said, “Hello,” then shook his hand before introducing Angela and Billy Joe.

  “Mr. Harris, I’m one of your biggest fans and the Vice President tells me you are a valued friend.” McIntoch shook Billy Joe’s hand, then shifted his focus to Angela. “You have a beautiful daughter, Ms. Sanderford. Obviously, she takes after her mother.”

  Angela smiled politely.

  “The Vice President has asked me to escort you to the teachers lounge. He’ll be along soon. Your interview shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, should it?”

  “Is he on a tight schedule?” Billy Joe asked McIntoch.

  “Always.”

  ~ * ~

  Angela and I sat on a black and white, plaid couch in the teacher’s lounge, waiting for McIntoch to return with the Vice President. I tested my pocket-size recorder, then placed it on a tattered, wicker table in front of us while Billy Joe talked with Jerome Macon on the telephone in the next room. “I may just wing it and follow my instincts,” I said, glancing over my notes.

  “Don’t get uptight, Mother. Everything will be fine.” Angela crossed her legs, twisted her loafer-clad, right foot, then twirled her pony tail. A tall man, identifying himself as a Secret Service agent, entered the room. He looked at us impersonally and inspected the premises.

  A moment later, Gable walked in, his arms and hands outstretched as if he were a magician presenting a disappearing act. I stood to greet him as McIntoch introduced us. Gable sandwiched my right hand in his and directed me to sit down on the couch.

  “Billy Joe said you and he grew up together in Lower Alabama.”

  “In a small town called Gerry. Blink your eyes while driving through and you’ll miss it.” I closed my eyes to make the point.

  “I love small towns, the heartland of America. I would have enjoyed growing up in a close-knit little town like Gerry.” Gable touched my shoulder.

  I pressed the record button on my tape machine. “Rather than Baltimore?” I was hoping he’d reveal something new for my Politics Today piece.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. It would be politically incorrect. Baltimore is an exciting, cultural and inspirational city.” He smiled broadly. “You know, of course, it’s where Francis Scott Key was inspired to write the Star Spangled Banner.”

  “Yet, when you were twenty-six you were inspired to leave for Hollywood.” I wanted to stop Gable’s small talk. He was beginning to sound like a Chamber of Commerce executive, rather than Vice President. “In reading reports on your life, I’m amazed at how often you’re referred to as a California native. Even the city of New Orleans has claimed you, simply because you own a home here.”

  “I would love it if every city and town across America would claim me.” He looked deeply into my eyes for an overly long moment.

  I felt somewhat off balance, but continued. “Tell me about your childhood in Baltimore.” I glanced down at my notes, wondering how I could unearth the real John Gable. “I’ve read that you were abused and sent to an orphanage. I
s that really true or the work of a skillful press agent?”

  “My mother, a beautiful woman, died after my birth, forty-eight years ago. My biological father, a hot-tempered Irishman, was an alcoholic. He blamed me for my mother’s death. He died when I was ten. I was placed in an orphanage in Hagerstown for a few weeks until my mother’s brother, my Uncle Stan and his wife, Rose, took me in and became my real parents. I lived to please them, especially Stan, whom I called father, for he was more of a father to me than my real one. He wanted me to become a lawyer so I worked odd jobs at night and between classes to graduate from Harvard...”

  I massaged the bridge of my nose to convey my boredom with his mechanical rhetoric. “I’m familiar with what’s been written about you, but for this piece I need something more. For example, tell me about the abuse you suffered as a child.”

  “Ms. Sanderford, if you’ll let me, I’ll be happy to answer all of your questions but please allow me to do so.” He smiled and lightly touched my shoulder again. “You were interested in why I was inspired to leave Baltimore, were you not?”

  I nodded in frustration. He was obviously trying to hide, typical politician.

  “When Stan was killed, I wanted to escape. So, I ran away to Hollywood. A month later I landed a job as an extra in the movie, Merlin’s Revenge. Miraculously, the president of Paraqua Studios saw me and signed me, a rookie, to a contract. And they insisted on changing my name to Gable in order to associate me with the late, great actor, Clark Gable, though for a long time after the name change I had to explain to the press and fans that we were not related.” Gable raised his eyebrows as if his good fortune still surprised him. “But getting back to your original question, the years I spent in Baltimore with Stan and Rose were the happiest of my life. I miss them every day.”

  “When did Rose Gambrini die?” I asked, hoping for a smooth transition into my next question about his Mafia ties.

  “Ten years ago. I wished we could have spent more time together. I invited her to live with me in California but she’d say, ‘Johnny, mi hogar is Little Italy in Baltimore.’ “