Death by the Riverside

by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

  “I just couldn’t understand those Yankee accents,” I added.

  “But don’t you find that people down here are, well, kind of slow?” Thoreau persisted.

  “No, I think they’re the right speed,” Alex defended. “I have a great affection for this city and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.”

  “I guess each to his own,” he said. “But as soon as Cordelia finishes up, we’re moving north, though I haven’t convinced her of it yet,” he added after seeing the look she gave him.

  “All right, it’s college time,” Elly said. “Where did everyone go? I went to Mississippi University for Women, because it had a good nursing program and an interesting reputation.” She was being a good host and changing the subject.

  “LSU,” Ranson said.

  “State University of New York at New Paltz,” Thoreau answered. “I got my master’s there, too. I had to turn down NYU because I couldn’t afford it.”

  “Vassar,” Alex answered. “Cordelia?”

  “Duke and Tulane Medical,” she answered.

  “My, aren’t we an educated group,” I commented.

  “Yes, we are,” Alex said. “It’s why we’re friends. We’re all, with one exception,” and she nodded at Thoreau, “very untraditional Southern women.”

  “Yes, I’m the only one here with a traditional woman’s job, being a nurse,” said Elly.

  “You and Thoreau,” I said, unable to resist baiting him.

  “I disagree,” he said. “I think that social work is a very androgynous field. A man can do it just as well as a woman. Sometimes you even need the strength that a man can bring to it. A teenaged boy is more likely to listen to me than, say, Elly,” he defended.

  Want to step outside and say that, fellow? One roundhouse kick and he wouldn’t be feeling so strong. Instead of saying anything, I started eating my oysters. That, after all, was what I was here for. Ranson was right, she did make a great sauce. It was probably what she used to seduce Alex. I didn’t intend to look at Cordelia, but she was sitting opposite me and it was hard to continually avoid seeing her. She was cracking open her last crab, but she caught my eye. Maybe she didn’t mean to, but she gave a small shrug.

  “I think I need another beer,” she said. I obliged, since her hands were covered with crab muck. I came back and set it in front of her in time to hear Thoreau say, “But there are so many weirdoes here. Now, that place where you grew up,” this to Danny, “has some weird people in it.”

  I sat down and opened the beer that I had gotten for myself. How many feet was this guy going to get into his mouth tonight? Between the beers and the champagne, I was starting to get a good buzz, which seemed the best way to pass this party.

  “For example, that guy getting out of prison is from Bayou St. Jack’s. The one who threatened Cordelia’s grandfather and maybe even killed her father. Mr. Holloway has blocked his parole twice, but it doesn’t look like he can do it again,” Thoreau continued with his vendetta. I decided to ignore him and hope he would go away. However, a quick look around the table told me that mine was a minority opinion. Danny particularly looked interested. At least she had provided good beer. I took a long swallow.

  “Let’s not talk about this,” Cordelia broke in.

  “Why not?” Thoreau said, pouring himself some more champagne. He didn’t look terribly sober himself. “We’ve got a cop, a lawyer, and a politician here. Not to mention a private eye. Maybe they can help us. We’re all friends here, right? How do we keep this guy from hurting Cordelia or her grandfather when he gets out?” he addressed Ranson.

  “It was twenty years ago and I’m not going to worry about it,” Cordelia said emphatically.

  “Wait a second,” said Danny. “From Bayou St. Jack’s? I don’t remember any murders there.”

  “Okay, let me see,” Thoreau started. “The man about to be paroled is called something Beaugez, he wasn’t in jail for the murder, there was never enough proof. Mr. Holloway, for some reason, wanted people to think his son died in a car wreck instead of from a gunshot wound. But this Beaugez guy seems to think the Holloways did him wrong.”

  Ben… That sobered me up very quickly. I had a horrible idea that I knew exactly what he was talking about—my past. I hadn’t expected to run into it here, of all places. It’s not possible, I told myself. It’s not. Something changed, firm ground becoming cracked and treacherous.

  “I don’t remember,” Cordelia replied shortly. “Let’s get off—”

  “Oh, yeah,” Thoreau overrode her. “His wife was killed in a car crash. Which is too bad, but for some bizarre reason he’s blaming the Holloways.”

  I didn’t do or say anything, but I wasn’t calm. Rather cold, numb. I had learned, at an early age, at ten, to avoid answers, to avoid letting anyone know who I really was and where I came from. I told the innocent stories or the funny ones, about seeing six-foot alligators or selling saltwater catfish to the tourists who didn’t know you could only eat freshwater ones. Never the whole truth. When Danny started asking questions I didn’t want to answer, I would say I was only ten when I left and that I couldn’t remember. All she knew about my past was that my parents had died in a car wreck and I ended up living with my Aunt Greta and Uncle Claude in Metairie.

  “I’m worried about this guy coming after Cordelia after he gets out,” I heard Thoreau say.

  Ranson glanced quickly at me, then away. “He’s paid his debt to society. You can’t keep a man in jail because you think he might commit a crime,” she answered him. “Besides, if you want to know a real crime, it’s the way the Saints play football.”

  “It’s not a joke,” Thoreau said, obviously not a Saints fan. “I don’t want anything to happen to Cordelia.”

  “I’m still trying to get this straight,” Danny said. “Micky, do you remember anything like that happening?”

  “Me? No, not really,” I said in a toneless voice.

  “I thought I could get away from work on a Saturday night,” Ranson said.

  “But—” Thoreau started.

  “Drop it. I don’t want to hear any more,” Cordelia broke him off.

  “Anyone seen any good movies lately?” Elly asked, trying to get rid of the tension in the room.

  I don’t remember much else that went on. I felt numb, too detached to care or pay any attention. I suppose they talked and had a good time. I avoided looking at Cordelia.

  When Elly and Danny went into the kitchen to get the pecan pie, I followed them.

  “I know us swinging singles are supposed to be the life of the party, but I’ve got to beg off,” I said. “I’m more tired than I realized.” I held my side for effect.

  Danny and Elly offered to let me stay there. But I declined and they said they understood. At least the beating I had gotten was useful for something. I wanted to get out of here.

  I went back into the living room, said a quick goodbye, and started for the door as fast as I gracefully could.

  “I’ll drive you,” both Ranson and Cordelia said at the same time.

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll catch a cab,” I protested, wanting out and to be by myself.

  “Not in this neighborhood,” Ranson said. She moved quickly, taking me by the arm and leading me out.

  I didn’t say anything. There had been enough talking for the evening.

  We were back in my part of town before Ranson spoke. “I’m sorry, Micky. I didn’t know this would come up.”

  “What? Never mind.”

  “I’m a cop. I know your name wasn’t always Knight.”

  “So? No, don’t. I’ve had enough of this.”

  “Lemoyne Robedeaux was your father, wasn’t he?” she asked.

  I shrugged.

  “It’s past. Leave it alone,” I finally said.

  “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  “Ranson, you’re a cop, not a shrink.”

  “I’m trying to be a friend, Micky.”

  We pulled up in front of my b
uilding. “Then, for God’s sake, leave the dead buried in the graves they’ve rotted in for the last twenty years,” I said with a savage intensity I didn’t know I had. “All that’s left is…there’s nothing. Leave it alone.”

  “I found the old police reports, not the ones Holloway got to. Who pulled the trigger?” Ranson wouldn’t let go.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Beaugez?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know?”

  I didn’t move.

  “Your father?”

  “No.” I turned to Ranson, looking directly at her. “I did.”

  “Micky! How…?” she began.

  I got out, and with my key already in hand, opened my door. Ranson didn’t have a chance to follow me. She said something, but I didn’t hear it. I ran up the stairs, finally alone with all my ghosts.

  I went into my apartment. I didn’t turn on the main light, but walked over to my desk and turned on the small lamp over it. Then I found my bottle of Scotch and started drinking.

  I woke up on the floor sometime Sunday morning. There was a light on my answering machine. I ignored it. I called the hospital about Barbara. The same. I poured myself a drink. I passed out again sometime Sunday afternoon.

  Chapter 15

  I woke early Monday morning with my head throbbing. I took a long hot shower, both cleaning and waking myself up. I had an idea for getting to Milo and the man behind him, but I couldn’t tell Ranson or she’d muck it up with the heavy feet of the police.

  I made a pot of coffee and started drinking it, until it was a decent enough hour to call my theatrical makeup artist friend Richard. I would have to be disguised for this one.

  He answered and told me to come on over, that he could accommodate me.

  Two hours later I was staking out Jambalaya Import and Export, looking like a middle-aged male wino. A few passersby even gave me coins. Well, at least this job paid something. I stayed there until around seven o’clock but didn’t see who I wanted to see.

  I was back there again early the next morning. This time I did see who I wanted—the young man who had always looked out of place. If he followed his pattern he would come in several times a week. He probably wouldn’t leave until five or so, but I stayed on my bench, just in case. He came out around lunch time, but only went across the street to get a sandwich, then went back in.

  Around five o’clock, he came out. I tailed him back to his apartment. He stopped to have supper at a coffee shop on the corner before going into his apartment. I waited outside until midnight, but he didn’t leave again.

  I did the same thing for the next few days until I had his routine down fairly well. Usually after work, he stopped at the little greasy coffee shop for dinner. That’s where I would get him.

  On Friday I didn’t stake out Jambalaya, but instead dressed in my normal clothes and went to the coffee shop late in the afternoon. If he stuck to his pattern, he would arrive in about fifteen minutes to half an hour. If not, I would do this again and again until he showed.

  Twenty-four minutes later he arrived and sat in a back corner booth as usual. I waited until he had ordered, then I walked over to his booth and slid in opposite him.

  “Funny, you don’t look like a Mafia boy,” I said.

  He jumped and almost spilled coffee down his shirt front. He looked very scared, and, from this close, very young. This was the young man I had seen at Jambalaya who had always looked out of place. I wanted to know why.

  “What do they have on you?” I asked. “Don’t worry, I’m not police.”

  “I thought you were dead,” he replied, still shaken. This was supposed to be his neighborhood, his safe ground.

  “‘The rumors of my death have been somewhat exaggerated,’” I quoted. “Tell me about your friend Mr. Milo.”

  “What do you want?” he asked. He was looking around the room at everything but me.

  “I have a friend lying in the hospital. I want her to get better. And when she’s better, I want to tell her that the men who put her there are in prison and won’t ever be able to hurt her again.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” he defended.

  “You cook the books, right?” I demanded. “You just help earn the money that they’ll kill people to keep. Your hands don’t look very clean to me.”

  “I’m not very happy about this, but I’m stuck,” he said.

  “What does Milo have on you? Did you commit a crime? Help me and I’ll go between you and the police. They won’t get what they want until you get what you want.”

  “No, it’s not the police.” His voice was shaking. He looked like he might be close to tears. “I can’t talk about it here.”

  “Let’s go across the street to your apartment,” I suggested.

  “How did you…oh, dear,” he finished.

  “I have my ways. Put some money on the table for the food you ordered.”

  He did and we started out. I linked my arm through his to help steady him and to make it very hard for him to run away, should the idea enter his head. The waitress arrived with his food.

  “Sorry, he’s not feeling well,” I said as we passed the hamburger-laden tray. “Money’s on the table.”

  We left the coffee shop and went to his apartment. I let go of his arm as we entered, then I unplugged his phone and closed the drapes. Only then did I turn on a light.

  “Talk,” was all I said.

  “Oh, God, I’m so ashamed,” and he started crying. I stood and watched him for a moment, then looked for some Kleenex. I finally found some paper towels in the kitchen and handed him one.

  “It’s not the police,” he repeated. “It’s my family. If they ever found out…” He trailed off into a sob.

  I grabbed him by the lapels and gave him a jerk.

  “Grow up, little boy. There’s a kind, gentle woman with two kids lying in a coma. The men who did that to her are going to jail. I don’t care if you buttfuck aardvarks. Whatever it is, I’ll find out and I’ll tell your family. Now, you going to help me?”

  I shook him again for good measure. I would feel sorry for this boy when and if Barbara ever got out of the coma. In the meantime, I would do what I had to do.

  “Please don’t hurt me.”

  I let go of him and backed away to give him some room to speak. He got up, unlocked his desk drawer and took out a key. With that key, he unlocked a chifforobe in the far corner of the room.

  “Take a look,” he said, “and you’ll think I’m sick, too.”

  I looked.

  “So you wear dresses,” I commented. I had expected to see piles of kiddie porn, considering the way he had been acting.

  “I’m sick,” he said, still shaking.

  “If everyone who wore a dress was sick, this country would be in trouble. What do you think the president’s wife wears at a White House dinner?”

  “But women are supposed to.”

  “Women are required to.”

  “You’re not disgusted?” he asked. He seemed to find the idea that anyone might not be revolted by him impossible to believe.

  “No, of course not,” I answered. “Is this what they have on you?”

  “Yes, I used to work for the legit part of Jambalaya. Like you, like…”

  “Barbara,” I supplied.

  “Yeah. I’m real sorry about her. She was always very nice to me. Jambalaya was my first job; I’d just gotten out of school. I have a law degree and an accounting degree, so I’m pretty useful to someone like…”

  “Milo.”

  “Yeah. He found a…a you know…bra in my desk. but I didn’t put it there, I swear. I don’t know how it got there.”

  “He set you up.”

  “I guess. He seemed nice at first. Said it wasn’t a problem if I didn’t make it one. All I needed to do was help him out occasionally and he’d forget about it. But…uh…he never forgot. Every time I wanted to stop helping him, he’d tell me how sorry my parents were going to be when the
y found out I was a…a…” He stopped.

  “Transvestite,” I said.

  “Sissy faggot,” he finished, taking a deep breath.

  “Milo never minces words, does he?” I said.

  He seemed to think that was the lessor crime. “My parents would never forgive me. You see, I’m the oldest of three sons. My other two brothers played every single kind of sport there was. My dad was a Marine and after that coached football. He once said that he was so disappointed in me that he had to get my mother pregnant again twice just to be sure he had one real son.”

  Just the sort of real man you have to admire. He should have bought a bunch of G.I. Joe dolls instead of having children.

  “And that was because I didn’t want to play football in fifth grade. I don’t think I’ve ever done anything right in his eyes. He said one of his sons had to be an accountant and one a lawyer, so I did them both. But I don’t guess it ever made up for not being the quarterback.” Hesitant at first, the words were now coming out in a jumble. I wondered if any sympathetic ears had ever heard his story. “My dad couldn’t stand it if he found out I like to wear women’s clothes. And it would kill my mother.”

  “Your dad is an asshole,” I had to say.

  “No, you’ve got it wrong. He really loves me and he wants what’s best for me.”

  “No, he wants you to be a robot replica of himself,” I answered.

  “He doesn’t always do the best thing, but he wanted to make me a real man, not the pathetic sissy that I am.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked. I couldn’t call him sissy faggot.

  “Franklin Fitzsimmons. Frankie.”

  “Okay, Frankie.” This guy had problems, but they were going to take a long time to solve. I wondered if the witness protection program could relocate him to San Francisco. He needed to get as far as possible from his warped family and to meet the thousands of other men who could help him with eyeliner. “Will you help me?”

  “I can’t. If Milo doesn’t tell my dad, then he’ll probably kill me if he finds out I’ve told anyone.”

  “He’ll do that anyway,” I said, giving Frankie a dose of reality. “As soon as he has no further use for you, you’re dead. Or did you plan to work for Milo and Company until you retired? Retirement usually means floating downstream.”