University Hospital was now the default public hospital since Katrina devastated Charity to the point it had not reopened and didn’t look like it would. The woman left jabbering away something incoherent and waving her arms over her head.
The man in front of me was looking back over his shoulder at the excitement. We made eye contact so I said, “Boy, she must be some jealous type if she got that angry over her man talking to someone.”
“Talking is slang for sleeping with that other woman,” he answered.
I didn’t make any more comments or even eye contact with anyone else for fear of getting into an altercation over the local lingo and provoking the two deputies to reappear and escort me to the exit.
Next up was another situation regarding similar indiscreet communication. The woman stated this was her fifth time at the window and her persistence to learn her husband’s exact release time made me wonder why there wasn’t a metal detector where we had to walk through to get in here. We all knew he was better off inside the big house because the little woman found out he was fooling around with her sister.
No one was spared or given the slightest shred of discretion. Forty-seven minutes later I stepped up to the glass and asked about Julia’s release time. The speaker stuttered that there was no information on Julia Richard at this time and to check back later. Did they think we all had nothing to do but stand—not sit—in this hellhole and wait for another opportunity to get back in line for the same stimulating conversation over the airways?
When it was my turn again, I advised the officer on duty that I was there to pick up Julia Richard or Julia Sawyer. She was back to using her maiden name of Richard. He informed me she was still in booking. To take a break from the redundant nature of Central Lockup’s waiting room, I walked across the street to gulp air not laden with disinfectant fumes, and bought a coffee at the Latte Da Coffee House. I took my time drinking it while sitting in the luxury of what looked like a federal reserve café with bars on the windows and enough bullet proof glass across the counter reinforced with wire mesh to stop an assault with an automatic weapon.
Like the waiting room of Central Lockup, this coffee shop had a two-way speaker to place your order through, and then you’d put your money on a Lazy Susan type revolving plate. The plate spun around with the money and at no time did a sliver of an opening from the inside allow infiltration from the outside. After they had your money, you got your order, with any change, on the plate turned back to you. I requested additional napkins and the turn style spun back into action sending out one more paper napkin.
After I got my order, I wiped off a chair to sit and sip my coffee. Unlike Central Lockup, a comforting smell of coffee and baked bread wafted in the air.
I remembered Dante told me once, “Someone, most likely in a bar during happy hour said, eating hot and spicy food in hot climates is supposed to make you feel the heat less.” The idea is supposed to force the body to open its pores thereby allowing your internal temperature to equalize with external and fool yourself into thinking you weren’t melting. Not me. The coffee had the same effect the kiss from Dante had on me. My internal thermostat felt like it was pushing steamy mercury up my spine from my toes to my head. I sipped the hot coffee, closed my eyes and I was back against that wall in the hallway with Dante pressed all over me. I felt his mouth all over my face and I closed my eyes swallowing the hot liquid, feeling it spiral down, then shoot a heat wave right back up my spine. I was going over every detail of that encounter with him in my mind, adrift in an erotic, sensual moment…when a voice that sounded like the fingernails on a chalkboard kicked me out of my warm and fuzzy state.
“BRANDY ALEXANDER! Why as I live and breathe, is it really you? What are you doing here?” screeched the voice I knew to be my cousin Pootie in that nanosecond before opening my eyes and seeing her round, sweaty face in front of mine. Pootie was my annoying childhood nemesis and goofy cousin. When my eyes popped open I was back in one hundred per cent humidity sweating instead of feeling the glowing heat of my Dante moment.
When we were kids, Pootie got everything she wanted because she was the only child, and adopted. I’m sure my mother believed I was the reason Pootie was an orphan in the first place and she never missed an opportunity to remind my sister and I of it, “Poor Pootie, she’s adopted. Be nice to Poor Pootie, share your toys with her…she’s adopted. Poor Pootie, give the bigger piece of the candy bar…she’s adopted. Poor Pootie, blah, blah, blah, Poor Pootie.” The facts were Poor Pootie got to wear a bra first (even though she didn’t need it to this very day), Poor Pootie got to drive first, Poor Pootie got her own car first, demanding a brand new convertible, not the second hand clunker I was happy to receive. Poor Pootie got to date first, and on and on. Poor Pootie and her sense of entitlement always made me want to slap her by way of saying hello. My sister felt the same way.
Now, I had let her covertly sneak up on me while I had been distracted in my hot zone. As kids, when our mothers took us all shopping on Canal Street at D. H. Holmes, we were forced to hold hands with Pootie so she wouldn’t get lost. No one worried if my sister and I got lost. My sister and I would run away from her and hide inside one of the long winter coats hanging on the wall in the men’s department. My mother would have our names called out over the department store loudspeaker as lost children. Some well meaning sales clerk would find us and return us to her.
The second my eyes snapped open I imagined myself saying “No, Pootie, you think you see me. This is your imagination. I’m not really here. Are you on medication?”
Instead, I refrained from an eye roll and kept my face void of all expression as I stood up saying, “Nice to see you, but gotta run. I’ve got to get back to my office.”
“Your office? Where are you working? Is it close to here, maybe we can have lunch? I work right across the street. Wait up, I want to talk to you,” Pootie huffed and puffed as she tried to keep up with my giant strides out the door as fast as her short fat legs could propel her, following me down the steps and to my parked car.
I didn’t want her to follow me back across the street into Central Lockup asking a million of her mindless questions only to run to the nearest phone to call my mother and tell her where she’d seen me. That was probably going to happen anyway. I didn’t want to give her more ammo to use against me, so I walked to where I’d parked my car, got in and locked the door. I looked at her through the driver’s side window and tapped my watch with the other hand mouthing the words, ‘gotta go.’ I waved goodbye, drove around the block and parked in a different lot. You can’t be too careful when trying to avoid Pootie. I remembered she worked somewhere in the area either at the police station or a bail bondsman office, so waiting in Central Lockup was not the safest place to avoid seeing anymore of Pootie. I would need to be more covert.
It was late, around 11:00 at night when Julia was finally released. I had been there waiting since 10:00 a.m. A loud buzzer sounded over a Klaxon horn and doors grinding metal against metal could be heard. Then the massive barrier keeping us from them, opened and Julia drifted out.
I grabbed her arm and headed for the door. “My God, Julia, is that you that smells like that?”
“Brandy, this place is a cesspool.”
“OK, Julia, let’s wait until we’re outside.”
“You won’t believe what it’s like in there. I need to find a hose to rinse myself off, I don’t want to get in your car like this,” she said. I escorted her out as fast as I could.
“What is it? What smells like that?” I made a face trying to keep the smell from invading my nasal cavity. It was worse than the waiting area smell.
“It’s me. The inmates in there throw urine or feces on everyone new who comes into the general holding cell.”
“Oh, that is rank. What do you mean--they throw urine on you? Why don’t the guards stop them?”
“The guards…” her voice sounded tired and defeated, “the guards make a big deal of announcing the new t
arget when they lock up a new guest of the city.”
Chapter Five
I stopped by Julia’s bed and breakfast after work a couple of days after I sprung her from lockup to find a handyman doing odd jobs at her guest house.
“Who’s that?” I nodded toward the front of the house, where a man in overalls was working in the flowerbeds.
“Oh, that’s Frank. I met him on the inside during my first, and hopefully last, incarceration. He kept some of the guys from pelting me with urine and feces.”
“They put men and women in the same holding cell?” I asked, outraged.
“No, but they might as well have. The cells are on either side of a narrow hallway. They don’t reach for you when you pass because the guards will hit their arms outside the bars with their nightsticks. So, they pee at you through the bars.”
“So, you hired someone who peed on you? Did someone hit you on the head in there? That would explain why you have suddenly gone out of your mind. What do you know about this guy? He could be dangerous.”
“What? No, not Frank. He kept the others away from me. He’s a nice guy.” Julia was preoccupied looking for something in a drawer.
“Do you know what he was arrested for?” I asked.
“When it was relatively quiet for about five minutes we chatted. He said he was booked for sexual harassment when he approached a woman, a little too closely according to her. He said he just wanted to admire her broach.”
“You could have a sexual predator here, did you think of that?”
“Some drunken tourist made the complaint. She thought he was coming on to her. He’s harmless, and hasn’t made any untoward advances with me except to admire my jewelry. I could use a handyman and he says he’s done all sorts of odd jobs.”
“Julia, think. What if he’s a thief? He might be casing your guest house.” I couldn’t believe she would just pick up with someone she just met in prison and hire him as a handyman.
“Miss Julia?” The man we were discussing approached, wearing a gray work jumpsuit with his name, FRANK, written in script with a purple Sharpie above the chest pocket. He was about a head shorter than Julia who stood 5’10 in stocking feet, wore four inch heels and had “big hair” that added at least 6 more inches to her height. In his pocket he carried several colored markers inside a vinyl pocket protector. For a handyman, he sure was tidy about his person and dress. “Excuse me for interrupting you, but I finished hanging the curtain rods and cleaning the flower beds. Is there anything else you need me to do?” he asked.
“I have some towel racks and hooks I’d like you to install in the bathrooms.” Julia walked off and returned with a box of items, handed them to Frank and gave him the room numbers where they needed to go.
I stayed and was about to make small talk about the weather with Frank when he grabbed my hands and asked, “Where do you get your nails done?” He started to scrutinize my manicure before I could say the weather was Africa hot.
“Oh, I’ve been going to the same manicurist now for awhile. She’s in the Fairmont salon where I get my hair done.”
“Tell me you don’t go to Blaze’s Salon!” He all but squealed as he placed both hands on either side of his face. He had long manicured nails for a handyman. “I worked there forever as a shampoo girl, and I love the way that little Asian girl did nails. Then, Blaze promoted me to his assistant.”
Shampoo girl? Did I hear him right? Instead I asked, “His assistant? At the salon?” I made a mental note to ask Blaze about him at my next appointment.
“Oh, no, my job was to be his assistant in his antique shop on Magazine Street.”
Blaze’s salon was upscale, expensive, and catered to the wives of New Orleans’ captains of industry. He had a waiting foyer that looked like the hotel lobby where his manservant brought complimentary champagne, gourmet coffee or mineral water (plain or sparkling) to his waiting patrons. He updated the salon regularly with antiques from his shop on Magazine. The grand dames of the Garden District were his clients, both for the hair salon and they would also buy the antiques and collectibles he had on display. There was a never-ending parade of something new being ushered in and out. Then I realized I had seen Blaze directing Frank, dressed as an elf at Christmas, decorating a fourteen-foot tree in the foyer of the salon.
“Yes, I think I do remember you there. Weren’t you an elf decorating the tree at the salon?”
“More like a slave elf. Blaze had us moving all that heavy furniture in and out of the shop, which was bad enough, but then he had us deliver it to all those old biddies uptown. They could never make up their mind on where they wanted it so they made me keep moving it around until they decided where they liked it best. All of them lived in two or three story houses and they never moved it around on the same floor. No, it was always, ‘Frank, see what it will look like in the bedroom on three,’ or ‘Frank, move it back down to the first floor in the breakfast room’. I didn’t make enough tip money to buy all the Ben Gay I needed every night after furniture deliveries. I asked Blaze for a raise or to go back to being the shampoo girl”—there, he said it again—“and he fired me.”
I was just about to ask him when he left working at the salon since I had been going to Blaze for at least two years and only remembered seeing him once, in an elf suit around the holidays more than a year ago, when Julia returned with the box of towel rods and instructions on where to hang them. Frank scampered off to finish up the bathrooms.
“Julia, did you notice anything unusual about Frank?” I asked after he went off with his new assignment.
“Like what?”
“Well for starters, I think he’s wearing mascara. I just noticed it while you went to get the towel bars,” I said. “And his eyebrows look funny, like maybe he plucks them.” I was about to add the fact that he said he worked as the shampoo girl where I get my hair done when she cut me off.
“Don’t you think I know he’s a metrosexual? Don’t you think I know a metrosexual if I see one? If I didn’t know, I would have guessed soon enough. I’ve caught him in my private office using my makeup and trying on my clothes. I told him if he touches the Elizabeth Arden face cream that I paid two hundred dollars for I would kill him. If you have something you want to talk to me about, follow me. I need to start the afternoon snacks for the guests.”
Julia didn’t take kindly when you pointed out anything she overlooked or didn’t know. The fact she thought a metrosexual was the new term for transgender wasn’t as big a deal as her saying she would kill Frank. That might not bode well given her circumstances with the recent arrest.
I just let it go.
“Yes, I did stop by to see how you were doing, and to tell you I called Stan to see if he could handle your case.”
“Stan? Stan hates me.”
“I don’t think Stan hates you, but his workload is such that he couldn’t take the case.” Ok, that was a white lie but it’s forgivable if you tell it so you don’t hurt someone’s feelings. “He referred me to Jiff and his dad’s firm. I wanted to see if one of the attorneys in his firm made any contact with you to help you with this, this, uh, situation.”
“With the arrest. Go on, you can say it. Yes, I did and some investigator is coming by here this evening to get everything I know, I saw, I said, I heard, blah, blah, blah. In fact, you should be here too. He mentioned if anyone else was here at the time of the murder—yes, that’s what they are calling it, a murder—then it might be helpful since you might remember something I don’t.”
“Sure, I’ll be here. What time?”
“About 6:30 is when he said he’d drop by. I told him by that time my guests should all be out to dinner or the French Quarter. Excuse me. Frank, please bring us a Sazerac on the veranda.”
Sitting on the front porch just outside the floor to ceiling windows of the double parlor, we waited for the investigator. The garden in the front of the house had mature oak trees, their lichen crusted limbs draped with moss reaching for the sky over the r
oof and shading the house. The fragrance of the sweet olives strategically placed in front of the home’s floor to ceiling windows, keeping disgusting street smells of horses and garbage from an earlier time to a minimum inside the home.
Frank appeared with two drinks on a silver tray. He had changed into black palazzo pants and a ruffled tuxedo shirt complete with bow tie. Julia didn’t seem to notice the change in his ensemble but when he left, she asked, “Do you think the ruffled tuxedo shirt is too much? Don’t you think a pleated one would look better?”
“Well, you have the better eye for putting outfits together, but yes, I think a pleated tux shirt would look more elegant and a lot less like a prom tuxedo from the 1980s disco era,” I said. She looked pleased with her decision and went to advise Frank of the wardrobe change. When she returned, we sat and enjoyed the fragrance of the sweet olives with our Sazerac while we waited.
A convertible BMW pulled up and a tall, lanky twenty-something year old guy got out holding a scuffed, brown leather covered notebook. His peach colored rumpled slacks needed a date with an iron, as did the green striped button down shirt, open at the collar that he wore with loafers, no tie and no socks. His full head of wavy blonde hair had a tossed, uncombed surfer dude look. His Yuppie-ness appeared to be fresh out of a Tulane frat house.
“How y’all doing, ladies?” A casual smile sprawled across his baby face when he loped up the steps, to where we waited on the porch swing. His arms and body swung in rhythm opposite his casual stride. He had to lean forward and down a bit to extend his hand to shake Julia’s, and then mine. “I’m Ernest Devereaux and I’m here on behalf of the Heinkel Law Firm to ask you some questions. Are you Miz Richard?” He pronounced Julia’s name correctly, just drawn out, like Reeeeeeeee charrrrrrrrrrd, so I knew he was a local boy.
Dead and Breakfast (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 2) Page 4
