by Chris Wiltz
Richard said, “Yes, I’ve decided to run against Callahan next fall.”
“Are we having the same conversation?” I asked. “Maybe I’m being dense. Are you telling me that I’ve been following Paula because you want to run for D.A.?”
He was moving around in his chair again, not meeting my eyes. “I was jealous, too.”
Like heck he was. He sat forward. “Look, if she’s seeing another man, it’s my own fault. Paula wants to have children, and I’m not sure I do—I mean, I want to eventually, just not yet.”
“But she’s not seeing another man, Richard. She went to Acapulco with you, right?”
“Yes. Well, I followed her down there.”
“I know.”
It was supposed to get a laugh, but he just got more fidgety. “When she called me the other day and said she was going to think things over, I knew that if I let her go alone, it was the end of our marriage. I really don’t want that to happen, but between the law practice and planning campaign strategy, I haven’t had any time for her. I’m embarrassed to tell you this—it was truly thoughtless—but she found out I was going to run for D.A. when I announced it at a dinner party we had one night. Anyway, I told her to go on to Mexico City, and that after I’d taken care of a few things I’d fly down in our plane and we’d go to Acapulco together. We talked everything over. She’s with me all the way on the D.A.’s race. And she’s trying to get pregnant.”
Well, I didn’t have to be psychic to get the feeling that there were plenty of problems with Richard and Paula’s marriage, and who was running around on who probably wasn’t the biggest one. More like a symptom of the disease. It was a shame. He had looks and money, a good name, a gorgeous wife, he was ambitious, and he was smart. He probably had inherited enough money that he would never have to work again. Instead, he’d worked hard, first as a prosecutor, then, sometime around when Callahan took over, he’d struck out on his own, started all over, and was building a successful law firm. The reputation he had as a lawyer was well deserved. He’d achieved a lot for his age, but from the look he had on his handsome face now, I wouldn’t have given a dime that any of it had made him happy. I also wouldn’t have given a dime that his thoughts at the moment had anything to do with his marital problems.
It wasn’t my business, but for the first time since I’d known Richard Cotton, I was seeing him as a troubled man. “So you wanted to make sure Paula wasn’t running around on you. You want to be a squeaky-clean politician, a family man. I don’t get it. You’re not running for President. I mean, this is New Orleans, Richard. You can hardly live here and be clean.”
He simply wasn’t reacting to my jokes today. “I’m talking about a very dirty campaign, Neal. If you knew even some of the things I know about Chance Callahan, you’d understand.”
“Like what?”
“Like some big-time drug and vice operations going on in this town and Callahan’s getting rich off them.”
“The same stuff Angelesi was into?”
Now he laughed. “Oh, sure, there’re the bribes, the extortion, the blackmail, all the petty racketeering. You know as well as I do that Callahan was spoonfed his experience by Angelesi, but he’s gone on to things that Angelesi wouldn’t have even thought about, much bigger things.”
“And you are talking Big Trouble, Richard.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want him to be able to fling one little speck of dirt at me.”
“There’s always a little speck of dirt. For instance, what happened at your house the other night would qualify as being pretty unsavory.” I told him what I’d found out about Raven from Lee Diamond. He turned a little pale under that Acapulco tan. “If you’re planning on making any accusations, I’d think twice.”
Then he got angry. “If Callahan was doing his job right, this town wouldn’t be on the top ten list for crime in the country. I was just another victim. People all over uptown are screaming for better police protection.”
“Oh, come on. That’s great political rhetoric, but you don’t have to impress me. White people all over uptown have been screaming for protection against blacks ever since the project killings. That man in your house wasn’t black, not before he fell into the fireplace, anyway. What are you going to say, that Christopher Raven was breaking and entering to support his drug habit?”
“Well, what the hell else was he doing?”
“I don’t know, but he didn’t break in. Besides, who went to the trouble to make such a nice, cozy fire? No one else was around except Lee Diamond, and she was in her car most of the time.”
“Who is this Lee Diamond?” he asked. “What was she doing there?”
“Rankin didn’t tell you?” He said Rankin hadn’t. “She followed you for two weeks, Richard. Paula hired her.”
I think the word I’m looking for now is “blanched"—he blanched under his wonderful tan. I could see he was going to make a fine politician, though, because he recovered fast. All he had to learn how to do was control the blood entering and leaving his face.
“Well, Paula and I have gotten things straight now. All that is over with.”
We sat there a few moments not saying anything. I could see he was thinking hard. So was I: Since when did Uncle Roddy get so discreet, I wondered.
“Maybe I can get to the bottom of this thing for you, Richard. Is it possible Quiro made the fire?”
At first I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. Then he said, “No. Quiro was across the lake.”
“What about keys to your house? Does anyone have any, neighbors, workmen, maids?”
“No. No one except Quiro, and I grew up with him. His mother and father were employed by my father since before I was born. Quiro and I are like brothers. I trust him implicitly.”
“But are you sure Quiro didn’t let Raven in?”
“He couldn’t have. He was across the lake.”
“How do you know for sure?” I asked. “You were on your way to Acapulco. I’m not trying to put any blame on Quiro, but if you don’t know who Raven was, is it possible that Quiro does?”
“No. The police have already asked him. He’d never seen him.”
“Who knew you were going to be out of town?”
He thought about it. “A few people. Not too many. If it will make you feel better, I’ll make a list of them.”
“Don’t do it for me, Richard, do it for yourself. Try in any way you can to help figure out how Raven got into your house and what he was doing there. Could he have overheard you tell anyone you were leaving town, say, in a restaurant? Try to remember anyone who might have had access to your keys—valet parking, a car wash attendant. Or Quiro’s keys. What about Paula? Think about it. I’d hate for this incident to ruin anything for you.”
“I will, I’ll think about it. If I can think of anything at all, I’ll let Rankin know. And, thanks, Neal, for everything. Thanks for boarding up the window for me.” He stood up. We shook hands.
Maurice was right: He needed to get rid of me and he did.
6
* * *
Detective Without a Case
Later on that night I was discussing Cotton’s new persona with Lee. “He’s already acting like a district attorney. He let me know very neatly that he’d rather work with the police getting a line on Christopher Raven.”
We were in the kitchen at her place. She was fixing us some kind of Oriental meal. When I tried to repeat the names of the dishes, she laughed and said it sounded like a bad imitation of baby talk. There were little bowls of chopped vegetables, fish and shrimp on the counter. She’d put on the rice, and was taking a large wok out of one of the cabinets.
Lee’s apartment reflected her fascination with the Orient. It was done in the Japanese style, sparsely furnished, everything low to the floor. A lot of the things had been sent to her by her father when he was on a tour of duty in the Far East. The only chair in the place was one at a small desk in the living room. When we ate, we sat on cushions around a black-lacque
red table. The sofa was a folded futon. The first night I spent with her, I told her it was going to be hard for me to get used to these sitting positions—my knees somehow didn’t feel right being so close to my chin. She told me I’d get used to it if I wanted to. In the bedroom was another futon, large and unfolded. She told me the next morning that I had a great future with futons.
When I wasn’t with Lee, I was at the office. The only time I’d been home during those days was to get some clothes. The Euclid was fading from my memory, which felt good. I hadn’t even bothered to make my usual daily complaint about the heat, or lack of it. For all I knew it was fixed. I really didn’t care.
Lee oiled the wok. “If he wants to be the next D.A.,” she said about Richard, “he’ll do well to make friends with the police.”
“I wish him all the luck in the world with Roderick Rankin,” I said.
Lee turned away from her culinary creation long enough to ask, “Do I detect some bitterness toward Richard Cotton that he took you off this case?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You’re a friend of his, aren’t you? He did confide in you, didn’t he?”
“So that makes me bitter?” I never did like that word unless it was plural and went into a mixed drink.
“Okay, Neal, you’re not bitter. I sense that something about what he said to you didn’t go down quite right. Or maybe you didn’t feel he was being completely straight with you. I don’t know because I don’t know exactly what he said. Would mixed emotions be a better choice of words?”
Actually, she was getting pretty close to the truth. There had been something about my conversation with Richard that hadn’t gone down right, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I said, “Let’s just say I’m disappointed. This Christopher Raven was the most interesting thing I had going, but Richard wants me out of it, so as far as I’m concerned now, it’s the cops’ headache. After all, a detective without a client is a detective without a case.” Lee was frying the vegetables, taking them one at a time in order of their lineup. “That’s not true,” I said. “Raven was not the most interesting thing I had going.”
I went up behind her and put my arms around her waist. I kissed the side of her neck that wasn’t bruised.
She said, “Do you want me to ruin dinner? I’ll make you take me to the most expensive restaurant in town if this isn’t any good.” When I didn’t move right away, she said, “Beat it. This kitchen isn’t big enough for the two of us.” I stood in the doorway and lit a cigarette. She went on. “It’s the one thing I don’t like about this apartment. I feel like I’m in a matchbox when I’m in here.” She paused. “I wouldn’t mind an extra room to work out in either.” There were weights and other equipment in both the living room and the bedroom. “But it’s on the park. And it doesn’t flood here.”
“That’s the only good thing I can say about the Euclid,” I remarked.
The spring floods in New Orleans occurred regularly each year, and each year they seemed to get worse. In parts of uptown, as well as some suburbs, if you happened to be out when the rains came, you could find yourself waist deep, even chest deep, in water. The problem uptown is caused by the overflow of the Seventeenth Street Canal, which runs through the city all the way out to Lake Pontchartrain. Apparently the pumping station near the end of the canal can’t get the water out of the canal and into the lake fast enough. As far as I understood it, this is because of an inadequate number of pumps, the fact that the existing pumps are antiques, and that a place called Bucktown is in the way of the water. Bucktown is between the pumps and the lake, and the people uptown whose houses flood say Bucktown has to go. The fishermen who live on this small waterway and keep their boats there say this is a bunch of bunk.
So far, the area where Lee lived on Audubon Park had never flooded, which was a good thing since she was on the ground floor of a large old house that had been converted into apartments. That was why the kitchen was so small—it was a part of the living room that had been walled in when the house got cut up.
“So what about your client?” I asked.
“Paula Cotton? What about her?”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Sure. This morning.” Lee was moving fast now. Everything seemed to be getting ready at once.
“Does she know her husband had her followed?”
She shot a glance at me. “Does her husband know she had him followed?”
She handed me a bowl of rice. I put it on the lacquered table and came back to the doorway. “I guess we should be glad we’re out of the Cottons’ lives. I would hate it if our work caused any conflict between us, and under the circumstances, it might be hard for us not to talk about it.”
Lee handed me another dish. “I’m still on retainer, Neal.”
That took me aback. I stood there holding one course of the meal, and Lee stood facing me holding the other. “Why?” I asked. “What does she want you to do?”
“Nothing. Yet.” She made a motion with her eyes toward the next room. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
Of course, we did talk about the Cottons some more that night. Lee didn’t know why Paula Cotton wanted her on retainer. When she hired Lee initially, she said it was because she thought Richard was fooling around on her. Paula Cotton could afford to keep Lee on retainer indefinitely, and Richard wouldn’t necessarily have to know about it. Paula had her own money; she was from a wealthy family in Baton Rouge who had acres and acres, more acres than I knew existed, of soybean fields in northern Louisiana.
The whole thing puzzled me even if I wasn’t being paid to be puzzled anymore. I wondered if Paula wanted a divorce in spite of telling Richard she was behind him in the D. A.’s race, in spite of trying to get pregnant.
I also wondered if anyone had ever bothered to question Paula Cotton about Christopher Raven.
7
* * *
Breakfast with the Old Man
When Lee woke up the next morning, she was hurting. The muscles in her neck and shoulder, besides being sore, were cramped and wouldn’t relax. Her left arm was shaking. I couldn’t help by massaging the muscles because the contusion, though turning yellow and healing, was still too sensitive. Her cooking great Oriental meals and all of our lovemaking during the past few days were, I was afraid, largely at fault. I told her to take a muscle relaxer and stay home. She said most of what she had to do that day could be handled over the phone, but there was some legwork she couldn’t put off. I said I’d do it for her. I liked that I could help her out like this.
The fact that we shared the same profession added a dimension to our relationship that I’d never experienced before. The idea that the woman I slept with was also a woman I could work with excited me. Even though I’d spoken of the possibility, I didn’t really think that our work would cause a conflict between us. I thought it would make us that much closer, and that somewhere down the line we would work on cases together. I let my imagination take off—I saw us eventually combining our agencies. Would it be Diamond and Rafferty, or Rafferty and Diamond?
I told her I’d either bring dinner to her, or if she felt better take her out, but for the next couple of days I’d leave her alone and stay at the Euclid. When I left she was in the bathtub, chin deep in hot water, the smell of some kind of Chinese incense rapidly filling the bathroom. I got one nice long kiss before I said I had to go or the scent of the stuff would strangle me.
On the way downtown, I dropped in on my parents. It had been about two weeks since I’d seen them. Also, I was hungry, and my mother usually has enough breakfast for a dozen people.
My parents live in the Irish Channel, in the same house they lived in when I was born. The Channel is an old New Orleans neighborhood that stretches from Magazine Street, which used to be the big, busy street through uptown New Orleans before there was a St. Charles Avenue, and goes all the way to the Mississippi River.
It has a bad reputation, and I don’t mean bad in its current sense of good. I m
ean it’s tough and dangerous. People don’t walk through the Channel at night. They don’t even walk through parts of it during the day. But it’s full of people who were born there, are proud to be from there, and wouldn’t live anywhere else. Like my old man.
But then the Garden District is full of people who have lived there all their lives and wouldn’t live in any other part of town, either. But who can blame them? The Garden District is directly on the opposite side of Magazine Street across from the Channel, but the two places are like the flip sides of a coin. And the Channel comes up tails. It doesn’t have all the old oak trees, the big, gorgeous houses; in short, the money. It’s got something else, though. I guess it’s spirit, fighting spirit. To tell you the truth, I’m proud to be from the Channel.
Since I’ve gotten disgusted with the Euclid, I’ve thought many times that I’d move back. But something keeps me from doing that. I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it’s a sense that now that I’ve gotten out, I’d better stay out, that if I go back now, I’ll never leave again. I’d end up living on the same side of the double that my parents live in after they are gone, with my sister and her family on the other side. I’d be like the old man, like I was living out his life all over again, with his same cop interests, going to the same places he’s gone to all his life, seeing the same people day after day, knowing that a different kind of life went on right on the other side of Magazine Street, after a while not caring. Nothing would ever change.
The old man and I have had our ups and downs through the years. During the past few years, it’s been mostly downs. Just when I think he’s going to get over the fact that I had to resign from the NOPD, something will happen to get him all riled up again. But this morning I could tell he was glad to see me: He actually got up from the kitchen table and poured me a cup of coffee. He must have told me to sit down three times, and when I did, he threw the early morning edition of the Times-Picayune on the table in front of me.
