by Corey Brown
Laci exhaled, fast and sharp, felt another stab of….what? Resignation. Laci sighed again. Somehow, after leaving Nebraska twenty-two years ago, she had managed to step on all the wrong stones.
And where was God in all of this? What about some kind of help? Laci shook her head. No, the truth of it was she had been abandoned, left to drown in the black water of living with Remy Malveaux.
Backing away from the stairs, Laci bumped into the wall, the heel of her pale pink canvas sneaker kicking the white woodwork. For a moment, she worried about scuffing the painted Colonial baseboard then her legs gave out and she sank to the carpet.
“Please forgive me, Lord,” Laci whispered, tipping forward. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I just don’t know what to do.”
Squat on the floor, Laci tipped her head down between her knees. And wept.
«»
Pushing the car’s shifter into park, Russell Laroche sat in his driveway, thinking about his lead, thinking about the crime. His lead, the so-called witness, was positive he could identify the perpetrator. This guy had seen a young male, medium height and weight. Maybe Caucasian or Hispanic. The hair might be brown or dirty blonde. Yeah, that was helpful. Okay, thanks, and by the way, the perp could be half the men in New Orleans. Much appreciated.
Russell climbed out of his nineteen sixty-eight Olds Cutlass Supreme. The door closed with a satisfying thud. This car was a beauty. Midnight blue on white, air conditioning, custom wheels; it had all the goodies. The car was a gift to himself for making detective.
Crossing the small piece of yard he claimed as his own, Laroche’s mind wandered back to the squad room. He had argued with his captain, Remy Malveaux, about tracking down a lead instead of calling maintenance to fix the air conditioning. What was that all about? What police captain wanted his detectives to call maintenance instead of doing police work, instead of investigating? Who did that?
Well, a backwater, redneck New Orleans police captain, for starters.
Russell Laroche had tracked down that lead, all right. And it had been completely useless. That lead had usurped his other duties, his call-maintenance-duties; his nigger duties. No doubt, Malveaux would blow a gasket when he found out the witness had nothing to offer. Hell, Malveaux blew a gasket when he found out about every useless thing.
It was obvious Remy did not like him. Okay, so what? Laroche thought. Malveaux could screw himself, but what about the other detectives? Clarence Conboy seemed all right but there were six detectives assigned to District Eight, how did they feel about Negroes? Making detective just a few weeks ago, Russell didn’t know any of these guys, did not know what they thought about blacks.
“Hi honey.”
Caught off guard, Russell looked up, surprised, he struggled to reset his thoughts. Russell smiled at his wife and said, “Hey, you sweet thing.”
A glass of iced tea in one hand, a cloth to dab perspiration in the other, Denise Laroche sat on the gallery, surrounded by Scarlet Sage, Louisiana Irises and Plumbagos.
Denise gave him a tenuous look, her smile fading a little. “What’s wrong, Russell?”
Russell stopped walking, stared at her. There she sat, their two-story shotgun house decaying all around her, but Denise was like a shimmering mirage in the heart of a scorching desert; a respite from life’s burdens. Russell found himself lingering, holding back, taking in the sight of her. He blinked, half expecting something to change. But the view remained the same: his tired old house stood in bleak contrast to the simple beauty of flowers and his lovely wife.
Denise frowned. “Russell?”
He climbed sagging wooden steps, bent forward and kissed her. The kiss was light and he pulled away just enough for their lips to part, then he kissed her hard.
Kahlua. Her kiss was like that new, Mexican liqueur. Denise was creamy and smooth, like a splash of Kahlua over ice, the sweet aroma reaching your nose just before you taste her.
Dropping onto a dirty, white wicker chair, Russell placed his briefcase on the floorboards. He laughed softly and shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong, baby,” he said. “I’m just tired.”
Denise scowled. “Please, Russell. You don’t fool me. Now, what’s on your mind?”
Russell shook his head again. “It’s that obvious?”
Denise reached over and touched his hand. She shrugged, smiled weakly. “Not really. I just know you.”
He picked up her glass of iced tea and took a long swallow. Holding the tumbler mid-air, Russell’s face split into a wide grin. “Yeah, that you do.” He took another swallow of tea and said, “No one knows me like you.”
“So what is it, Mr. Detective?” Denise said. “Something happen at work?”
Russell shook his head, his smile fading. “Ain’t nothing, forget it. Hey now, what’s for dinner?”
“Uh-uh,” Denise said, her voice sounding sing-song. “Not until you tell me what happened.”
Russell laughed, took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. Running his fingertips across her cheek, Russell brought her mouth close, touched her lips with his own. His hand drifted down, coming to rest on her swollen belly.
Even now, seven months into her pregnancy, Denise looked as fresh and radiant as the day he’d first seen her in the grocery store five years ago.
“How’s little Russell today?” Russell whispered, caressing her stomach. “He been behaving?”
“Little Denise is just fine, thank you.” Her eyes darkened. “C’mon, no more fooling around, is everything all right?”
Russell nodded, his expression telling all. He was proud of his beautiful wife. “Yeah,” Russell said. “Everything is just fine. Do you know how much I love you?”
“Only half as much as I love you. Now shut your mouth and talk to me.”
Russell looked away, his shoulders fell and he exhaled sharply. “Ain’t nothin’ new,” he said, shaking his head. “I wasted half my day chasing down a worthless lead and, of course, Malveaux is being.…well, being Malveaux.” He shrugged. “Sometimes it just gets to me.”
Denise’s face grew into a mixture of understanding and kindness and frustration. “I thought so.” She sighed and Russell knew what was coming next.
“Honey,” Denise said. “You don’t have to work for him. My cousin can get you on up in Chicago. All you----”
“I’m not leaving, Denise,” Russell said, cutting her off. “I worked hard to get here. I won’t run from some inbred bigot just because he doesn’t like Negroes.”
“Hates Negroes,” Denise corrected. She raised her hands then slapped them down on her thighs. “This makes me so angry,” she said. “We are not Negroes, we are not blacks. Damn it, we are just people. I’m so tired of designation by skin color.”
Denise folded her arms and shook her head, she looked at Russell.
“We are not blacks,” she said, quietly. “We are not Negroes or coloreds or anything else. For Godsakes, we are just people. And I think that man hates you, Russell. I think Malveaux hates everyone.”
Russell shrugged. “Maybe he does, I don’t care. I won’t run from him. And I don’t need to leave, you know what’s happening, things are changing.”
“Changing? Changing how?”
“C’mon, the President signed the Act, things will get better.”
Denise looked away, bit her lower lip. “That was four years ago,” she said, her voice taking on an edge. “Some of us still have to ride the back of the bus and now Reverend King is dead. How is that change? Tell me exactly what is better.”
Russell grimaced, took a deep breath. “Honey,” he said, “I know things are still hard but----”
“But what?” Denise said, her eyes growing moist. “Things are more than hard, Russell. We still have to use separate toilets. You believe that? Whites think their shit is better than ours. That’s wrong, that’s just wrong and stupid. But tell me what you want. You want to work for some backward son-of-a-bitch? You go right ahead but hear me, Russell, that man will hurt you. Darlin
’, he is gonna hurt you bad.”
Russell stiffened and Denise felt the change in his body.
“I’m not running,” Russell said.
Denise shook her head. “Honey, I don’t want you to run. I want you to leave for a better life. And who cares where you work? You can be a cop anywhere. Why does it matter if you’re a cop in New Orleans or Chicago?”
“I care where I work,” Russell said. “This is my home, our home. New Orleans is our home, we live here. And I’m not just a cop, I’m a detective. I am the only black detective in all of New Orleans. That means something, that’s important. I will not run.
Denise sighed and put her head on his shoulder. “This won’t get better,” she said. “You know that, don’t you? This will only turn bad. And what about little Russell, you want him growing up this way?”
“What way?”
She lifted her head, gave him a look. “You know. With his father working for a Klansman.”
«»
“Laci?”
Remy Malveaux stood just inside the front door. A brass table lamp was on, illuminating the new furniture. The house was silent, unusually quiet. Without taking another step, he knew it was empty.
For some reason, Malveaux looked down. Then he saw it. He stared at the carpet. How had he missed that? How long had it been there?
“Son of a bitch,” Malveaux said.
The goddamned carpet was puke green, just like that piece of shit phone lying on his office floor. With all the money he gave her, Laci had to choose this color? For a moment, Malveaux thought about tearing up the carpet right then, for a moment he thought Laci had done it on purpose.
“Laci,” Malveaux said, louder, more intensely. “Where you at?”
Malveaux stepped into the kitchen, looked around. Saw nothing, no one. He checked the garage. The Maverick was gone, which meant Laci was gone. Malveaux glanced at his watch. He assumed Laci had called from home, but there was no mistaking the Ford, that red piece of shit, was not in the garage. So if she was not home, where was she?
Harrison or no Harrison, Malveaux thought, the goddamned Bible study would have been over a long time ago. Remy smirked. Tonight it was no Harrison. Tonight, that asshole was spending a few hours behind bars over in District Five. Maybe that would teach him to put the moves on Laci. And just what was it he saw in her? She had a decent pair of headlights, for sure, but she was dumb as a stump. Was that it, was that what Harrison saw in Laci, her forty-six year old tits?
Next time it would be more than a few hours in a jail cell. Next time, if that Bible-thumping weasel didn’t get it, bones would be broken.
Making his way upstairs, Malveaux passed Celine’s bedroom and stopped at his own bedroom.
“What the…?” Malveaux said, stubbing the door open with his toe. He stared, hardly comprehending what he was seeing. Bed covers were strewn across the floor, a lampshade cocked at an odd angle, a pillow was jammed down between the mattress and the headboard. The bottom drawer of the tall dresser was pulled out, half lying on the floor.
What the hell was wrong with Laci? That bitch knew he wanted the house kept in order. So now there was more to talk about. Tonight, after the meeting, Remy would talk about bothering him at work and keeping the house.
Walking to the head of the stairs, Malveaux stopped, turned back, considered what he’d seen. Returning to his bedroom, crossed over to the closet. The door was not quite shut. He opened it, looked left then right. Something was wrong but what, what was it?
Slowly, Malveaux began to assimilate what he was seeing, what he was sensing. His side of the closet was the way it should be; neat and clean, his shirts, pants, and suits were hanging smartly. But Laci’s side was in disarray. Some of her clothes were still on hangers, some were on the floor, others were somewhere in between. But there was no doubt many were missing. A puzzled look came over Remy’s face, then he realized what else was missing: it was Laci.
He turned away from the closet. And what was that? His senses caught a flat, tangy odor. The smell of sex.
Chapter 2
Charlie Sag’s was a grimy little bar in the middle of Orleans Street, a block off Bourbon and pinched between two other miserable watering holes. Charlie’s was held together with dirt brown brick, painted wood trim and rusting steel. A wrought iron balcony hung over the main entrance, drooping in the center while four questionable metal posts kept it aloft.
Like dozens of other skin bazaars in the Vieux Carre, Charlie Sag’s paraded its merchandise before large windows offering unobstructed views of the dancers inside. But the ladies grinding away in Charlie’s seemed to be a reflection of the bar’s name and few people glanced, fewer still bothered to stop in; knowing they would find younger, firmer women on the next block.
Although it was still early, the street was dark, lit only by storefronts. Jamming his foot down on the brake pedal, Remy Malveaux wrenched the car into park before it had completely stopped, making the tires squeak and rear end jerk upward.
Remy slammed the car door and started across the street. Jacket unbuttoned, his right hand strangling a blue tie, Malveaux looked like an unwillingly accomplice; as if someone had used brute force to shove his bulk into a formal police captain’s uniform.
The young man outside Charlie Sag’s watched Remy coming toward the bar. He squared his shoulders, adjusted his collar.
“Captain Savoy’s waiting, Sir,” the man said. “He---”
Remy stepped on to the sidewalk and shook his tie at the man. “You ever talk to me again,” he said, “I’ll put your nuts in a vise. Got it?”
“Yes, but Captain Savoy---”
“What? You got shit for brains? I just told you--”
“Remy, what’s the problem?”
Malveaux looked over at Henri Savoy who was standing, casual, in Charlie’s doorway, an empty beer glass in his hand. Remy’s anger boiled over. He was mad at his wife—how could that sleazy bitch just leave? Finding the house empty and seeing the puke green carpet had sent Malveaux’s disposition from irritated to seriously pissed off. And here was Savoy interfering with disciplining a street cop, it made Malveaux furious, he could see red spots popping behind his eyes.
Savoy chewed his unlit cigar, shifted it to the other side of his mouth and said, “The guy was just trying to tell you something.”
Malveaux glared at the cop, looked at Savoy. “I didn’t like his tone,” Malveaux said. “This prick needs to learn his place.”
Savoy raised his eyebrows. “Watch it, Remy, this prick is one of my boys. I heard him, and his tone was fine.”
“Fuck you, Henri. I know exactly who he is and I tell you he’s a prick, so take care of it.”
Savoy stared at Malveaux, he thought about sending Malveaux’s front teeth south, decided to keep his cool. Savoy stepped onto the sidewalk, moved closer to Malveaux, close enough to nudge Remy with his empty glass.
“Come on,” Savoy said, leaning in. “We’ve got time for a beer. Joleen is on stage, she’s your favorite.”
The front door was propped open by a tin can wedged under the sweep. Now Remy heard the music, Al Hirt’s rendition of ‘Love Potion Number Nine’. He became aware of the dank, stale beer smell that seemed to permeate the French Quarter at night. Savoy put his hand on Malveaux’s shoulder.
“Come on, Remy. I’ll buy.”
Malveaux glanced at Savoy then at the open door. He wanted to kick the shit out of Savoy’s cop, he wanted to kick the shit out of anybody, everybody. Jesus, he was so mad every inch of his body was aching for a fight. But the sound of Al Hirt’s saucy trumpet floated down the street, carried on by the dank night air.
Malveaux swallowed, started to speak, swallowed again, then said, “Fuck it, let’s go.”
They took a table at the rear of the tavern and sat facing the stage, their backs to a staircase that lead to the second floor. Savoy held up his glass and signaled for two more. Pushing up one sleeve, the heavy-set bartender nodded. The room smelled of sweat
and testosterone and yesterday’s beer. On stage, Joleen swayed to the music, carefully positioning herself to give the two police captains a good look.
“You know,” Malveaux said. “Charlie needs to get some new furniture. Just look at this shit.”
Savoy looked at Malveaux, glanced at the tabletop, made a quick appraisal of its condition and said, “What’s wrong? You seem distracted.”
“Nothin’. Ain’t nothin’ wrong.”
A topless barmaid delivered two frosted mugs of PBR. Overhead, a ceiling fan squeaked, the sound an insult to Charlie’s patrons as it did nothing to cool the air or disperse the smell of body odor and stale beer.
“What about Laci?” Savoy said, swiping at the sweat leaking down his temple. “Everything okay at home?”
“Goddamn it. She gone and run off.”
Taking a swallow of beer, Savoy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He shrugged and said, “So what? I thought you were tired of her.”
“Laci ain’t the problem, good riddance as far as she goes. It’s Celine, Laci took her along.”
“Oh hell,” Savoy said. “Why’d she do a fool thing like that? Any idea where she went?”
