Death by the Riverside

by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

  I didn’t want to hear the things that they had said. I wanted…I didn’t know what I wanted. Not to have hurt Danny the way I had. I was too young and callow, too worried about all the mud that had been tracked across my heart to notice that I had feet, too. And I walked on Danny. All she had done was want to love me. I remembered my dad loving me and he had died. I couldn’t trust love to hold, to be there for me the next time.

  My dad told me that my mother loved me, but she still left. Then he abandoned me in death. My Great-Aunt Harriet fell asleep one evening and never woke up. Even Smoky, my mongrel dog, left me under the wheels of a pickup that was going too fast.

  Danny’s still here. Still my friend. Would have loved me if she could have gotten past my terror.

  What am I saying? I wasn’t afraid of her. We just weren’t right for each other. What happened wasn’t something I had brought on.

  But I had made sure that Danny would stop loving me. I knew that. I’d had such good lessons from Aunt Greta in being unlovable that it was easy. And if I had made Danny leave me… I stopped the thought. It didn’t matter.

  I would think about tomorrow. I would think about getting Frankie Fitzsimmons out of the clutches of those gangsters and maybe to some place where a man could wear a dress if he felt like it. To make sure that there was some justice for Barbara Selby, no matter how slight.

  I finished the bottle of Scotch that Danny and Ranson had started.

  Chapter 16

  I woke up early, before the two alarm clocks that I had set. Liquor sometimes does that to me. I got dressed, nice enough for the part of town that I was going to be in, but not so dressy that I couldn’t move if I had to. I carried my gun, just in case.

  My first stop was Frankie’s apartment. I entered with the key he had given me. In the middle of the room were the two suitcases he had packed. I glanced at the chifforobe that had held the dresses. The door was open and it was empty. Were they packed or had he thrown them out, I wondered. I left, carrying the suitcases with me.

  I had to lean on Torbin’s buzzer for a long time before he finally answered in a sleepy voice. He was expecting me and buzzed me in when I announced myself. He lived on the first floor and had his head stuck out the door, waiting for me.

  “You look like a sleepy raccoon, Tor,” I greeted.

  “Oh, dear, I guess I forgot to take off my mascara before I went to bed,” he said as he ushered me in.

  I kissed him on a smeared cheek. Torbin was the cousin that I got along with the best. The main reason being that he preferred to wear dresses and I preferred pants. We were also about the same size and could exchange clothes. When Torbin had been younger and less brazen, I would go shopping with him to try on the bras and underwear that he wanted to buy. If it fit me, it would fit him. We always used to kid that we weren’t the black sheep of the family, but the lavender ones.

  Torbin was now one of the biggest drag stars in the Quarter. I liked to think that I played my small part in those days of covert bras and lipstick. I couldn’t think of a better place to leave Frankie.

  We sat and drank coffee while I gave Torbin all the details, including that this caper just might be dangerous.

  “Oh, honey, danger was Charlie finding those red, fuck-me pumps in my closet when I was fifteen.”

  Uncle Charlie was Torbin’s dad and had threatened to disown Torbin so many times that Torbin had started calling him Charlie because he couldn’t keep track of whether or not to call him Dad.

  “And me with my little smart mouth. I had to tell him I wouldn’t try out for football because I didn’t want to develop thick ankles. There was hell to pay, with interest. I finally convinced him that I was doing it to some girl. Ugh! And that those shoes were hers. Size 10EE, no less. Don’t worry about danger, dear, darling, Micky. I’ll get to see a lot of you in the next few days, and I do so hunger for the company of a real woman.”

  I laughed and told him I wasn’t sure if I qualified. He assured me I fit his definition of real and besides I was his favorite cousin to kiss. Which says something about the rest of the cousins. Then I left, telling him I would see him later.

  I headed uptown toward Jambalaya. I needed to get there for Frankie’s lunch break.

  I saw Milo leave, but he was headed in the opposite direction, at a fast pace. I didn’t like the urgency in his walk. Where was Frankie? I kept looking at my watch, the image of an impatient secretary waiting for her lunch date as I watched the people go by, a hurrying lunchtime crowd.

  Frankie came out looking nervously around, then almost ran down the street. I hurried, walking as fast as I could without drawing attention to myself. He wasn’t in sight when I turned the corner. I kept moving toward the bank; he should be there.

  He was, just finishing withdrawing money from the machine. He caught sight of me and I gave him the barest of nods. He walked by me. I ambled behind, letting him get a block or so ahead of me. I followed, trying to make sure no one was following us. I caught up to him several blocks later at a bus stop. We ignored each other, sitting in different parts of the bus when it arrived. I got up first and “accidentally” bumped into him on my way out. He tagged after me. He looked like some poor puppy following me home. I led him the roundabout way to Torbin’s. A few blocks away, I let him catch up to me.

  “No one’s following us,” I said.

  He relaxed slightly.

  “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” he said, still reminding me of a puppy, one leading its owner to some very chewed up slippers.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “I couldn’t get the books. I mean, they weren’t there to take. Milo removed them before lunch, told me to wait for him, and left. I didn’t know what to do. I knew you were waiting. Should we try again tomorrow?”

  “No,” I said quickly.

  “Should I have waited for Milo? He might have brought them back.” he said, trying to repair the damaged slipper.

  “No. The only thing Milo was coming back for was you.”

  “Oh, my God,” he said, understanding me. He visibly paled. I took his arm and led him across the street.

  “Jambalaya’s way too hot. Those books would have been moved a long time ago if Milo’s boss didn’t have so many important friends.” I led the way into the building. Torbin had left me his keys and admonished me to make ourselves at home. He wasn’t in the apartment when we arrived, but there was a “Be back soon” note stuck on the middle of his couch.

  “You mean, if I hadn’t left at lunch, Milo would have…” He trailed off.

  “Right. Early retirement.”

  Frankie put his head in his hands. He seemed quite shaken. I sat down beside him and put my arm around his shoulder.

  “At least we’ve got good timing,” I started. “Look, we still outsmarted them. You’re out and you’re alive.”

  “Yes,” he said, sitting up and lifting his head. “I wish I could see the look on Milo’s face when he realizes that I disobeyed his orders. A sissy faggot like me.”

  “Let’s hear it for sissy faggots,” announced Torbin, making an entrance. He was carrying a sack of groceries and a bag of video cassettes. “You know, Micky, I do like you daring dykes, but my heart belongs to sissy faggots.”

  I made introductions. Torbin explained his plans for the next few days. Good food, great movies, and perhaps a few lessons on makeup. I didn’t ask whether he meant Frankie or me.

  Torbin insisted on having a slumber party, so I spent the night. I also thought Frankie would feel more comfortable with me around. Torbin was telling him that he could be all the things that he had been told he was sick for wanting. That can be very scary. But, after the second Bette Davis movie, Frankie started loosening up, like a kid being let into a toy store for the first time in his life. He started asking Torbin all sorts of questions, which Torbin, with his love of an audience, delighted in answering. Possibilities opened up for Frankie. I would have sat through ten Joan Crawford flicks just to see the change that
came over him that night. Well, at least out of this jumble of ashes, one phoenix has risen, I thought as I finally laid down to sleep.

  After a late breakfast the next day and a stern warning to Torbin not to even let Frankie out of his apartment, let alone try and take him to one of his drag shows, I left. I spent about an hour wandering around the neighborhood, checking it out, and finding nothing even remotely suspicious. Then I headed off to do business. I stopped at a pay phone to call Ranson, but she was out. I kept walking. It was one of those gray and chilly February days. Mardi Gras was in a few weeks. Soon the parades and parties would start. I came to another pay phone and called Ranson again. This time she answered.

  “Where the hell have—” she started, but I cut her off.

  “How about a nice little romantic saunter on the levee? Half an hour by Jackson Square? Bye.” I hung up and started walking toward the square.

  Five minutes after I arrived, Ranson showed up.

  “A punctual public servant, I like that,” I said.

  “Twenty-five minutes, not thirty. I’m early,” she responded. “Couldn’t you have waited until I was off duty?”

  “But this is about duty, my dear Sergeant Ranson. A poor young boy who wants to forsake his life of crime.”

  “This had better be good, Micky.”

  “The best. Milo and company. Maybe Da Boss himself.”

  “I told you to stay out of it,” was Ranson’s thanks.

  “But dear Officer Ranson, it was an accident, I do declare. I just bumped into this young fellow on the street and he, instantly recognizing me as the great private investigator M. Knight, begged me to help him.”

  “Bullshit. Who do you have?”

  “The boy that’s been doing their books for the last three years.”

  Ranson let out a low whistle. It was the only hint that she was somewhat impressed by my coup.

  “And,” I added, “we almost got the books, too, but Milo walked out with them for parts unknown.”

  “Shit, Micky, you’re playing a dangerous game. That accountant would have gotten killed if they’d caught him,” Ranson lectured me.

  “He would have gotten killed anyway,” I shot back. “Milo or somebody was coming back for him and it wasn’t to give the poor guy a golden watch for his retirement.”

  “Okay, so you’re a wonderful humanitarian. When do I meet him?”

  “When we’ve arranged a deal that’s satisfactory,” I said.

  “I’ll do what I can, but Micky, remember that I’m just a police sergeant.”

  “Right. I understand you’ve got a few friends in the D.A.’s office. Get them to help you,” I replied. I almost said drinking buddies, but I caught myself. “We want protection and relocation. Call me when you’ve got something worked out.” I started to leave.

  “Damn it, Mick, you’ve got a lot of people worried about you.”

  “Sorry, Ranson, places to go, people to see.” I took a step, but she grabbed my arm.

  “Danny, Cordelia, and I have a standing agreement to call each other if any of us should hear from you.”

  “Well, say hi for me and tell them that I’m fine.”

  She shook her head, not letting go of my arm. “We went searching for you on Sunday. Danny used her keys to get into your apartment.”

  “I’m glad it was you. I thought my cat was becoming alcoholic. There was a lot of liquor gone for a little kitty body to consume.”

  “Just leave old Micky tomcat alone. She’ll come back when she feels like it. Is that it?”

  “Essentially.”

  “Even if you end up floating in the river?”

  “I know the risks. I’m a big girl.”

  “What about the people who care about you?” Ranson demanded. “Or do we not matter?” I shrugged. Ranson held on to my arm. “You’ve got to grow up sometime,” she finished.

  “Will you leave me the fuck alone?” I exploded. “I’m not out to hurt anyone or bother anyone. If I did, tough. And I’ll grow up when I feel like it.”

  “It’s not fair, is it, Micky, to get kicked out of childhood when you’re only ten?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Bullshit. The most unfair part is that once you’re out, you can never go back. You can spend your whole life trying.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  “You tell me,” Ranson answered.

  “Well, thanks, Sergeant Freud. How much do I owe you for your therapeutic insights?” I jerked my arm away from her and started walking. She caught up and spun me around to face her.

  “You could have had me. You had Danny. But you walked away. How many others? You got hurt bad and hurt young, so that excuses everything, doesn’t it? If we get too close and get burned, it’s not your fault, is it, because—”

  “Stop it. Just stop it,” I yelled at her. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “No, you don’t. And God help anyone who wants anything from you, because they’ll never get it. What’d you do, stop feeling when you were ten?”

  “No. Leave me alone,” I replied. I tried to turn away from her, but she had her hands on my shoulders and wouldn’t let me. I saw a few tourists heading rapidly away from us. I turned my head to the river, so I wouldn’t have to face Ranson’s piercing gray eyes.

  “I tried for a while…things didn’t work out that way,” I finished in a whisper. I couldn’t say anything more. I stared at the ships on the river, dull and bleak under the gray sky.

  Ranson finally broke the moment. She took me by the arm, saying, “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

  We walked in silence back to my apartment. Ranson came up the stairs with me.

  “Do you want me to stay?” she asked.

  “No, I think I need to be alone. You need to get back to work anyway.”

  “True. I’ll call you later. Will you answer the phone?”

  “I’ll try. Old habits, you know.”

  “Try hard,” she answered.

  “Okay.”

  She turned to go.

  “Oh, and Joanne?” I said. “Tell Danny and…and…”

  “Cordelia.”

  “Yeah, her. Tell them I’m okay, just busy in the never-ending search for truth, beauty, and the American way.”

  Ranson walked back to me and kissed me on the lips. She held it for a moment, then turned and left.

  Chapter 17

  Ranson called me early in the day, but it was strictly business. She outlined the deal she was working on for Frankie. I told her I would get in touch with him and get back to her.

  I had to wait a couple of hours before I called Torbin. He worked late and it was bad enough saddling him with naïve young men just coming out; I didn’t need to interrupt his beauty sleep, too. I called from a pay phone, just in case.

  Frankie was beginning to sound like Torbin, which I took as a good sign. He agreed to everything, except turning himself in at the police station. That he absolutely refused to do. “No, no, no,” he said. “They get people killed in jail all the time. Their informant is well connected and knows everything they need to know. It has to be someplace public and well populated with law officers of all kinds, everywhere. I’m sorry to be a pain, but it’s my life.”

  I couldn’t disagree with him. I spent another hard-earned quarter calling Ranson. She said she’d do what she could.

  I left messages on both Danny’s and Cordelia’s answering machines, saying hi and that I was fine. Cliched, but adequate. Then I called the hospital. Still no change.

  The next day a messenger brought me a package from Ranson. It contained an invitation to the Krewe of Nemesis Ball for M. Knight and escort. Ranson had enclosed a note saying, “Will this do?” It would be a private affair, but there would be too many diverse law enforcement officials there for even a rabid rat like Milo to try anything. It would mean going out to One Hundred Oaks Plantation one more time and seeing my bosom buddy Karen Holloway, but it see
med a good idea for Frankie.

  I found a pay phone and called Frankie and told him to get his dancing shoes ready for Saturday. He agreed. We discussed his wearing the dress and me the tails, but decided that it would have to wait for another ball. Torbin agreed to lend me a suitable dress, but warned me to find my own shoes. I got Frankie’s measurements to rent a set of tails for him.

  I wasn’t going to go over to Torbin’s until Saturday, much as I would have liked to. Torbin is a great way to pass time, but I didn’t want the risk, however small, of someone following me there.

  I prowled my way through the week taking care of the other case that had shown up on my doorstep—tracking down a missing eight-foot dragon’s rump from a Mardi Gras float. Why is it that I get the tail end of everything?

  Finally, on Thursday, I decided to do something boring and practical and all too necessary. Get my car fixed. There was a garage here in town that my car was inordinately fond of visiting, but I decided, for financial reasons, to avoid the high overhead of city rents and taxes.

  Azalea Decheaux’s oldest son had a garage out in Bayou St. Jack’s. It seemed reasonable and practical to go out there and get him to fix my car.

  These were the reasons I kept repeating to myself as I drove out of the city. Also, I told myself, I might try to find out where Ben was and how he was doing. And to visit my ghosts, but I didn’t let myself dwell on that.

  I drove down the narrow road through the browns and muted green leaves of winter. The trees had always come to the edge of the pavement, but now they seemed smaller, less dense than in my memories. They were the same, but I had grown taller, tall enough to peer over the jumble of grass and weeds that had met the face of the child.

  The sign for Bayou St. Jack’s appeared. It had only been put up in the last five years, but looked much older, bitten and buffeted by salt winds from the Gulf and the boredom of small boys with BB guns.

  My dad had told me that no one was sure how Bayou St. Jack’s got its name. He’d wink and say, “Us Cajuns know it’s supposed to be Bayou St. Jacques, but the damned Americans can’t speak French, so they ended up calling it Jack’s. Of course,” he would continue, “they say we were just so friendly that we wouldn’t stand for any formality, so we nicknamed St. John, St. Jack.” I wondered if there was any truth in either version.