The second display is even more elaborate. No cavalry but the layout of the Battle of New Orleans seems meticulously detailed with Andrew Jackson standing at the center of his breastwork with a telescope to his eye and the American line at the Rodriguez canal lined with men in multi-color garb, a real rag-tag army, while the British, resplendent in scarlet jackets, come marching in two columns, one column of men in plaid trousers and bonnets atop their heads. Scotsmen, no doubt. General Pakenham has his arm raised as he urges his troops forward. A lot of British are already down.
Claire steps close and he points to miniatures on a shelf.
Beau goes, “Custer and Sitting Bull. And that’s Crazy Horse.” Atop a black and white pony, Crazy Horse holds a lance high as he rides.
“How do you know it’s Crazy Horse?”
“Face paint. Lightning bolt on the left side of his face and the white dots on his body are hailstones. When Crazy Horse attacked, he came as a storm.”
He looks closer at the miniature, at the fine details of the overo – large pinto pony.
“My grandfather claims we are descended from Crazy Horse’s brother, Little Hawk.”
“Chief Féroce said you were part Sioux.”
Mirrors line the walls and there are racks of old clothes at the back of the shop with a small dressing room next to the back door that opens to a patio with a red English phone booth (no phone inside) next to an oak tree.
The art is upstairs, lining the walls to the ceiling, paintings and fine prints in nice frames. Beau is amazed – not a picture needs straightening.
“No Picasso or Da Vinci?”
She points to a set of three framed prints. “I’ll have to check these Audubons in case they’re original prints from Havell’s engravings.”
Claire looks carefully at each painting and print. Beau moves up front to three windows overlooking Magazine Street. The coffee shop he’d been sitting at when he first spied Jessie crossing the street in a black minidress is just down the block. He inches over to see the table he’d been sitting at and bumps against a wooden crate. Two crates, one open and empty, both about 4’ square, nice teakwood crates with brass screws.
“Wonder what’s in here?” Beau takes out a folding knife from a side pocket, opens the other end of the knife to bring out the flathead screwdriver tool. “Should I open it?”
Claire steps over.
“Sure.”
It takes fifteen minutes to unscrew the sixteen long screws. Beau maneuvers the heavy crate to a table Claire cleans off and she pulls the box open to find white wrapping paper and sheets of aged tissue paper before she sees the painting. She carefully exposes the entire painting and takes a step back.
It’s a 24 inch by 36 inch oil painting of four people standing next to the trunk of a tree – little girl, two men and a woman who is the focus of the piece as she stands on a low swing. More people hover in the background of the impressionist painting. Claire gasps, tells Beau she’ll be right back up and hurries to the stairs.
It’s a pretty painting, lot of blues and tans and sunlight filtering through the trees to dance on the figures. At least it looks that way to Beau who leans close to see the name in the lower right corner. Renoir.
Beau pulls out his iPhone and takes a close-up picture of the signature, then photographs the painting. This could be an historic moment.
Claire rushes back with an iPad in hand. Obviously from her big purse. She puts it next to the painting and gets online. It takes a couple minutes before she pulls up an image matching the painting. Well, not exactly. The colors are slightly different in the paintings.
“It’s called The Swing.” Claire shows Beau the online image. “The original at the Musée d'Orsay in Paris.”
In the painting on the table the men wear light gray hats instead of yellowish straw hats. The little girl’s hat is blue instead of yellow. Standing out more are the red bows on the woman’s dress instead of blue in the painting at the museum.
“Obviously a variation of the painting,” Claire says.
“Even to the signature?”
She leans over the signature and says no.
“I was thinking maybe one of his students painted this. It’s obviously old.” She lifts the painting to look at the backside, at the wooden frame and blank canvas. There are pencil markings, could be words or notes but so faint they can’t be made out by the naked eye.
“I need an expert. If this is a lost Renoir, an earlier version of The Swing.” She takes in a deep breath, lets it out. “If Pierre-August Renoir painted this – ”
Beau steps over to the both crates, the one this just opened and the empty crate, looks inside both. No markings. No writing. He looks at the paintings up on the walls. Claire’s too busy with the Renoir but he thinks – a painting this carefully packed won’t leave this place unpacked. He looks for something old.
“Impressionist art from one of the masters,” Claire says, “is worth millions. Art by Van Gogh, who’s a post-impressionist, sells for 30 to 40 million.”
“Yeah, but that’s Van Gogh.”
“What does that mean?”
“Wasn’t he the best? The best known? So you think it’s a Renoir?”
She pulls her hair from her face as she leans over the painting. “More likely from a student but it’s 19th Century Impressionist.”
“Would a student sign the painting ‘Renoir’?”
She shrugs. “Certainly not an attempt at a forgery. The colors are different.”
Beau suggests she take a closer look at all the paintings. She’s reluctant to step away from the Renoir but finally does so and takes a slow, careful look at the paintings on the walls, shaking her head moving down one side and back up the other. She takes pictures of some.
He follows her downstairs as she goes to take pictures of the jewelry.
“We can’t leave the Renoir here,” she tells Beau when she returns to the crate. “Can you put this in the police evidence room?”
Beau chuckles. “Don’t follow the news, do ya’? Shit goes missing from the NOPD evidence room all the time.” He thinks, maybe his office in police headquarters with its special lock, then has a better idea. He pulls out his iPhone and touches the first name on his favorite’s list.
She answers after the first ring with a, “Hey, Babe.”
“That safe in your office, does it work?”
“It’s a vault. Of course it works. It’s a real safe.”
“Can we lock something in it for a little while?”
THE OLD U.S. Bank of Louisiana building at the corner of Saint Charles and Phillip Street is a three story, red brick Greek Revival with pink marble columns out front. Built in 1830, according to Jessie, it stopped functioning as a bank when the bank took over the first floor of the Monlezun Building in the CBD in 1900.
Beau goes inside and gets the two security guards to help put the crate on a cart and follow him and Claire across the hardwood floor of what once was a bank lobby, past a long marble counter of teller’s windows with their ornate brass gates. Tall windows on their right reach most of the way to the twenty foot ceiling.
“It’s like a bank museum now,” Beau explains. “The big safes down here are open so you can peek in as you pass.”
One of the guards unlocks the elevator they take to the third floor penthouse level where the corporate directors, including the CFO sit in offices with their own tall windows and plush carpets.
The sign next to the last door reads:
J. B. Carini
President
Louvier Holdings, LLC
Mrs. Soffon, who married Father Time and outlived him, sits behind her wide desk, with her IBM Selectric typewriter.
Computer? You fuckin’ kiddin’?
She sees it’s Beau and pushes a button to announce him. Before they reach the inner door, it opens and Jessie holds the door for them. She wears a white blouse and a slim cranberry colored skirt, longer than her usual skirts. This one reaches down to mid-
thigh. Beau spots the matching cranberry jacket of Jessie’s skirt-suit hanging on the coat rack to his left as he moves straight to the open bank vault.
The guards take the crate in, put it next to the rear wall while Beau steps to one of the empty shelves to lay the box of jewelry Claire collected from the antique shop up on a shelf, along with the Claudel statue they’d picked up on the way over. There are stainless steel boxes on some of the shelves. They step out, thank the guards who go back downstairs and Beau helps Jessie close the vault and she locks it, spins the dial. She turns and brushes her lips across Beau’s.
“Who has the combination besides you?”
“The CFO and Alexandre Louvier.”
Beau introduces the women. Claire brushes hair from her face again, thanks Jessie as she backs away. The skeptical look on Claire’s face when he’d first suggested the vault in his girlfriend’s office is gone now.
Jessie points at the large wet spot on Beau’s shirt. “What happened?”
“Oh,” Clarie says. “My dog slobbered all over Inspector Beau. I’ve never seen her act like that.”
Jessie bumps Beau’s hip with hers. “He has that effect on females.”
“Big dog, huh?”
“Scottish wolfhound,” Beau says. “Almost three feet tall on all fours.”
“Scottish deerhound.” Claire explains.
“Looks like a greyhound with shaggy hair.”
Jessie brushes dark hairs from Beau’s shoulder.
“Red fur?”
“Same color as her hair.” Beau nods to Claire, sees Jessie’s eyes narrow.
“I have calls to make,” Claire says, thanks Beau again and starts backing away. “I’ll call you when the expert arrives.” She leaves.
“She didn’t ride with you?”
“Brought her own car.”
Jessie moves behind her desk, sits in the captain’s chair, punches her phone.
“No interruptions,” she tells Mrs. Soffon when the old lady goes, “Eeeh.”
Jessie takes off her high heels, pulls her feet up on her desk. He can see up her skirt now. Pantyhose but no panties.
“OK, big boy. You wanna tell me what’s in the crate?”
“Could be a Renoir.”
He looked up her skirt again goes and sits in one of the chairs in front of her desk, has to adjust his dick as he sits.
“Which Renoir?
“The Swing, I think.”
“A painting or film?”
“Painting.”
“You said ‘Renoir’. Pierre-Auguste Renoir was a painter. His son, Jean, a filmmaker. He did Grand Illusion.”
“Must be the first guy.” Obviously.
He gives her the gist of the story and watches those light green eyes go from curious to mischievous, a naughty smile comes to her pretty face. Her cranberry lipstick matches her skirt.
“Come over here and kiss me, you fool. Maybe feel me up a little.”
Beau leans his head back, closes his eyes, goes, “I’m just a sex object, aren’t I?”
“Shut up and get over here.”
JESSIE SHAKES HIM and Beau comes out of the nightmare, tries to swallow but his throat is parched, sits up.
“You all right, Babe?”
He nods slowly and climbs out of bed, goes downstairs for a bottle of icy water from the fridge. He twists open the cap and starts to drink and the water dribbles down the side of his face. He puts the bottle on the counter and grabs the counter top as his hands clench-up . He shuts his eyes, feels Stella rub against his leg.
Beau strains to stop his arms from stiffening and looks at the clock. 3:10 a.m. He tries to let go of the counter but his hands are frozen, squeezing the granite. He closes his eyes again and tries deep breathing. At least he no longer sees the bloody brains when his eyes are closed. The long seconds tick by and he tries again to let go of the counter. When he can, he painfully opens his fingers, looks at the clock. 3:22. His arms ache as if he’s power-lifted weights for an hour. He wraps both hands around the bottle of water, lifts it to his mouth, spilling only a little now and finishes the bottle.
Stella moves between his legs, rubbing them and he reaches down to pet her.
He slowly climbs the stairs. His leg muscles burning, they must have clenched up as well. He goes to the bathroom before climbing back into bed.
Jessie rubs his back. “You kept saying ‘No. No’.”
He grunts, whispers, “I don’t remember.”
It occurs to Beau, as he tries to fall asleep now, this is the first time he’s lied to Jessie. Of course he remembers the dream. Every bloody movement.
THE NEW OFFICES for NOPD’s CIU are down the hall from the Superintendent’s Office, a corner suite of Police Headquarters.
“With the redesign of the department,” Curtis Edwards explains as he leads Beau to his new digs, “several of the assistant superintendent positions have merged and we have a three-office suite for you guys.”
The first office is wide with one desk, a line of chairs against a wall, a long glass cabinet along the other wall. The carpet looks and smells new, the walls freshly painted. The young woman sitting at the desk turns away from her iMac desktop computer and looks at them.
“Aileen Bowers, this is Chief Inspector John Raven Beau, your new boss.”
Aileen is African-American, has short brown hair and wears a polo shirt the same sky blue color as NOPD uniform shirts. She stands and she’s maybe 5’2”, and thin and tells Beau she’s married to the Sam Bowers who worked with him at the Second District.
“I remember Sam. He was rookie back then.”
“He looked up to you.”
“Only because I’m taller.” Beau shakes her hand.
Excellent. A cop’s wife. That’ll keep everyone from hitting on her.
Edwards explains how Aileen has the keys and combinations to their door locks. He points to two doors, leads Beau to the office on the right. It’s dominated by a conference table and a dozen chairs. Two smaller doors open to storage closets.
They go back though the front office to the other door which opens to an even larger office with a row of windows overlooking the elevated I-10 Pontchartrain Expressway. A man in a blue suit turns from the windows. He’s 5’8” and stocky with curly dark brown hair and brown eyes. Looks a few years younger than Beau and comes over and extends his hand to shake.
“Special Agent Hillel Jordan, ATF. In case you’re wondering, I’m half-Jewish, half-black.” He takes Beau’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “I thought you’d be taller.”
“Something wrong with six-two?”
“No. But I thought you’d be like six-seven with long black hair past your shoulders with a feather in it. Not your shoulders, but your hair. They told me you were Indian.”
Beau pulls his hand back and gives him the stone face.
“Now you look mean.”
“I’m not Indian. We were never Indians. Ignorant white men thought we were Indians. I am Lakota. Sioux. Calling me Indian is a racial epithet.”
Jordan slaps his forehead. “I hate racial epithets. Call me a Jew but don’t call me a kike and fuck the ass-hole who calls me the ‘N’ word.”
He pulls out his a notebook from an interior jacket pocket and starts writing, mumbling to himself. “Don’t call Beau an Indian.” He looks up. “Sioux, right?”
“That’s right, Kemo Sabe.”
“Ah. Tonto. Was he Sioux?”
“Potawatomi.”
“Now that’s a mouthful.” Jordan puts his pen back to write in his notebook. “How do you spell that?”
“Remind me not to call you Kemo Sabe again.”
Curtis Edwards starts to back out of the room, catches Beau’s eye, waves and leaves.
Jordan goes, “Why? What does Kemo Sabe mean? It’s doesn’t mean damn kike, does it?”
Beau shakes he head. “It means, ‘One who knows more’.”
Jordan jots in his notebook. “Maybe I should call you Kemo Sabe.”
/> “Call me Chief Inspector.”
“Seriously?”
Beau sees the two desks to the left. Wood. Not the standard issue government metal desks. He points to the desk away from the windows.
“You get that desk.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Oh, that’s the way it’s gonna be.”
“Inspector Juanita Cruz is second in command and she’ll want the window seat. Capiche?”
“Wait. That’s Italian.” Jordan nods, his eyes still lively.
“Besides if someone comes in here with a gun, he’ll engage you first. I don’t want you behind me shooting at anything.”
“They told you, huh?”
“That you killed your car twice. Yeah.”
Jordan changes the subject. “Can I make up a nickname to call you?
“No.” Beau thinks about it a second, smiles now and says, “Just call me Beau, OK?”
“You got it.” Jordan jots in his notebook again.
Beau turns to the third desk, a larger wood desk with its back to the far wall, sees his MacBook Pro already atop, heads to it. There’s a nice large reddish-brown leather captain’s chair behind the desk.
“You can call me Jordan. I don’t like my first name.”
“What’s wrong with Hilda?”
“See! It’s Hillel. Too Jewish and I don’t like my middle name either.”
The office is laid out with a long glass and wood case lining one of the free walls, the other blank, as is the wall behind Beau’s desk. He steps behind the desk, pulls back the large leather captain’s chair.
“My middle name’s Tyrone. It’s a boog name.”
Jesus. “Like Tyrone Power?”
Jordan sits in one of the cushioned chairs in front of Beau’s desk, says, “Only white man I ever heard of named Tyrone.”
“Where are you from?” Beau’s been trying to locate the man’s accent.
“Watertown, New York. Upstate.”
A commotion in the outer office catches Beau’s attention as a janitor steps in with a prison trustee with a filing cabinet on a dolly.
The Great Beau Page 4
