“So, how’s it going, little buddy?”
The puppy rolls on its back and kicks its paws at me. I put the bag down, lean over and rub the puppy’s belly. It licks my hand furiously. I reach in the bag with my free hand and pull out a can.
“See what I bought you?” I show him the can of puppy chow. So excited, the puppy pees on my hand.
“Great!”
I get up and move to the outside sink and wash my hands. We go into the main cabin and fix the puppy’s supper, mixing dry food with a half can of puppy chow. I put it out on deck and the puppy attacks the food. After making sure the puppy has fresh water, I go back in and wash my hands thoroughly in the bathroom and check the answer machine. No messages.
Stepping back on deck, I catch a whiff of urine. I turn on the main lights and see yellow spots on deck, as well as a couple puppy turds. I pick up the puppy and his food dish and put them on a chair, then grab the hose and wash off the deck. Putting the puppy and dish back down, he doesn’t seem to notice he’s been moved. He keeps eating. I refill his water bowl.
“See ‘ya later,” I tell the dog on my way off the boat and remind myself I need a good name for the little sucker.
•
Flamingo’s Cafe is an old-fashioned diner with a long counter running from the register next to the front door to the bathrooms at the rear. A center aisle divides the counter’s stools from the five booths against the wall of windows that face the oyster shell parking lot and Orpheum Avenue. With pink walls and a turquoise Formica counter that matches the table-tops of the booths, Flamingo’s is straight out of the Fifties.
As usual, the cash register is manned by owner Cecilia Henderson, white female, fifty-five, five feet-five inches tall, weighing in at around two hundred. Cecilia wears her light brown hair up in a bun in back and the sleeves of her white waitress uniform rolled up her beefy arms. Her spectacles dangle around her neck on a silver chain. The grill, behind the counter, is manned by a short, wiry black man named Joe whose perpetual smile is as much a fixture as his great cooking.
When I enter, Cecilia looks up at me and her mouth makes a little ‘O’. She waves me to my usual booth at the rear of the diner and follows me with a short glass of water and a napkin wrapped around two spoons, a fork and a butter knife. The strong smell of fried burgers and onions causes my belly to rumble.
“How it’s going Joe?” I call out as I pass.
“OK, how you doing?” Joe waves a metal spatula at me.
“Fine.” I put my radio on the table and settle in my booth, my back against the rear wall so I can watch the front door like a good cop.
Cecilia puts the utensils and water in front of me, leans over and says, “Are you really OK?”
“Sure why not?”
It takes a second for me to realize she’s shook.
“What is it?”
“The paper said – ”
I let out a long breath, then tell her, as nicely as I can, that whatever the newspaper says is bullshit. “The paper has more fantasy in it than a Star Trek script.”
“Then you’re not in trouble?”
“No. Just hungry.”
I’m so glad I don’t read the paper.
The door of the storeroom between the bathrooms opens, and to my surprise, another waitress steps out and moves up the aisle to the only other customer in the place, a bald man wearing a green polo shirt.
Cecilia clears her throat and says, “She started the night of the flood and we all almost drowned trying to get out of here.”
“What’s her name?”
“That’s for you to find out,” Cecilia whispers. On her way back to the cash register, she taps the new waitress on the shoulder and points to me.
Turning my way, the new waitress pulls a pencil from the top pocket of her uniform. She’s very pretty and has a nice, petite shape that looks damn good in white. Her dark brown hair is cut in a long page boy. She looks like Marisa Tomei, a lot like Marisa Tomei.
She doesn’t look at me until she reaches my booth. When she does, she focuses a pair of large blue-green eyes at me – aquamarine eyes. I feel my chest tighten a moment, but it fades into a sinking feeling. She’s young, too young. Twenty maybe.
I look around her at the menu on the wall above the counter, as if I need to look at it. “I’d like a cheese-burger. Fries. And a Barq’s, please.”
Nodding, she writes my order on her pad then looks back at me.
“Anything else, officer?” The way she calls me “officer” makes me sound old. She has a nice mouth, a little too large for her small face. Her lips are delicate and sculptured. She is fuckin’ beautiful.
I shake my head and she pirouettes and walks away. I look out at the dark night. I’d don’t want to look at her backside again. When she came out of the supply room, I’d more than noticed how nice it was.
She returns with the Barq’s and smiles shyly at me. I reach for the icy bottle of root beer, expecting her to leave, only she doesn’t. I look up at the aquamarines. She tilts her head to the side, her hair falling away from her face on one side and across her neck on the other. She says, “Why is your houseboat called Sad Lisa?”
I sit back and smile slightly and tell her the previous owner named it. “Probably after the Cat Stevens song.”
“Who?”
Too young to know Cat Stevens. I feel old.
“Why didn’t you change the name?” Her voice is deep and sounds very sexy, like Lauren Bacall back when she was about twenty, spinning Bogie’s head around.
I shrug. “I had a cousin named Lisa who died a long time ago. Leukemia. So I figured, why change the name?”
“Oh.” She looks over her shoulder at the baldheaded man, then looks back at me and says, “What’s it like to kill someone?”
It’s like a stab in my belly. I narrow my eyes and look deep into the aquamarines. I want to say something cute, like asking if she’s writing a book or maybe working for the FBI, but I don’t feel cute, so I say, “It’s different each time.”
Her mouth makes an ‘O’.
Joe puts my plate on the counter and calls out, “Ready.”
She backs away and I look out at the night again.
When she returns with my burger and fries, she leaves a bottle of ketchup. I watch her go to the front and sit on the stool next to Cecilia at the register. She has an easy, smooth walk and her legs look extra nice when crossed.
I pick up the burger and take a bite and it’s spicy-delicious, just the way I like it. I wave to Joe who grins at me. I look out at the night once more as I eat the burger and the fries, washing them down with the cold Barq’s. Cecilia starts talking to the bald customer about the great flood, how Flamingo’s would have bought it if it wasn’t elevated several feet. The new waitress waits until I finish before bringing me a second Barq’s without me asking. I like that. I thank her and take a swig.
She puts her knee up on the bench on the other side of my booth and puts her right hand on her hip, the aquamarines staring at me again. I stare back for long seconds before she finally blinks and says, “What kind of accent is that?”
“Cajun, I guess.”
Her head tilts again. “Cecilia said you’re Sioux Indian.”
“My mother is Oglala Sioux, my father was pure Boogaleé.”
She looks over her shoulder at the front door, then looks back and says, “Boogaleé?”
“A polite term for Coon-Ass.” Which is slang for Cajun.
She looks at the front door again, then asks, “What happened to your face?” She points at my left cheek.
“Cut myself shaving.”
She looks back at the front door just as it opens. A burly man with curly salt-and-pepper hair steps in. Wearing a plaid shirt and jeans, he waves to the waitress, who turns back to me and pulls her note pad from her pocket. She puts my check next to my plate. She looks again at the burly man who’s leaning an elbow on the counter now.
I dig out a twenty and tell her to keep the c
hange.
“Thanks.” She smiles for the first time and her face brightens. She shoves the money and ticket into her pocket, grabs my dish and utensils in one scoop and moves away.
I get up and go to the bathroom. When I step back out, I see her leaving with the burly man. They climb into a Yellow Cab and drive off down Orpheum. I grab my radio and move to the front of the cafe and sit on the first stool next to Cecilia, who’s preparing to close the cafe at midnight.
“Coffee?” Cecilia asks.
“Sure.”
She pours me a mug and puts it in front of me.
I laugh at myself and say aloud, “Didn’t even get her name.”
“Angie,” Cecilia says. “Angie Calogne. She’s twenty-two. Goes to UNO. That was her daddy. He drops her off and picks her up. Pretty ain’t she?”
I take a sip of coffee. “Do you know anyone around here missing a puppy? A catahoula.”
Cecilia shakes her head the way the nuns used to when they wanted me to say something and I said something else instead. She folds her arms and says, “I saw a pregnant dog around here about a month ago. It looked wild.”
“Well, I found a Catahoula puppy the night of the flood. If anyone comes here looking for it, let me know, OK?”
Then I hear my call number on my radio. It sounds like Bob Kay. I pick up the radio and say, “3124 - go ahead.”
Kay asks me to return to the office. He sounds excited.
“We got something working?” I ask.
“10-4. We have a name.” His voice is more than excited.
I step off the stool, stretch and thank Joe for the burger.
Cecilia points to the radio and says, “What did that mean?”
“It means it’s time to go play shoot ‘em up.”
Her mouth makes that little ‘O’ again.
For the next six hours, Kay and I and the boys race around the streets like Keystone Cops, trying to locate a man whose name has been given as a hot tip to the Task Force, a man who shot and wounded a Jefferson Parish Deputy several years ago.
At exactly six a.m., Tim Rothman calls Kay on the radio to say the man we’ve been looking for has been in parish prison for the last four months. And again, I’m reminded of one of the first lessons Jodie taught me.
Use the damn police computer.
A good snitch is worth a hundred nights on the street
As soon as I enter the Magnolia Funeral Home, everyone looks as me as if my zipper’s down. The sickly-sweet aroma of chilled roses, mixed with cigar smoke, is almost nauseating. I move to the guest register and sign in. A small picture of Cassandra Smith wearing a pink dress sits in a frame next to the register. Before I’m finished signing, they descend on me, like vultures.
A couple guys from my old platoon in the Second District shake my hand. I remember when one of them once complained to my sergeant that I sometimes slept on the midnight watch. The next evening, I brought a pillow to roll call. Moving through the crowded parlor, I shake many hands and try, with no success, to blend in.
“That’s him,” somebody whispers behind me.
“The one who got him.”
“That’s Beau.”
I turn in time to see three young patrolmen staring at me with a reverence that is more than bothersome. It takes me a while to find Cassandra’s mother. Chief Kay points her out to me. Sitting in a small easy chair, half hidden behind the police honor guards next to the coffin, Mrs. Smith is about ninety pounds, with white hair and a sunken, almost cadaverous face.
I lean down in front of her to say, “Excuse me, Mrs. Smith. You don’t remember me, but I was in the academy with Cassandra.”
She blinks her large brown eyes at me. The white part of her eyes are yellow. “I remember you,” she says suddenly, “you gave a speech at the graduation.”
I nod. President of my academy class, I gave a brief, awkward speech at graduation. Mrs. Smith takes my hand and says, “You’re Beau, aren’t you?”
I nod again and she thanks me for getting the man who killed her daughter.
“You a hero,” the old woman says.
And suddenly, all the things I wanted to tell her go out of my head. I wanted to tell her how Cassandra tutored me as I struggled, trying to memorize the parts of the criminal code book. How I returned the favor at the pistol range, helping Cassandra become a marksman. I wanted to tell her how terrible I feel, but I know she feels worse. I realize I’m shaking my head.
“What is it?” she asks.
“Cassandra was a hero. I ... . I was just too late.”
A hand touches my back and I stand to face a tall, male version of Cassandra. He introduces himself as her brother and introduces his wife and two aunts. I move aside as the family gathers around Mrs. Smith.
The line to the casket is shorter now so I stand in it, with my head bowed. Cassandra is in uniform, a medal of valor pinned to her chest. I touch her cold hand and say an Our Father and turn away.
It takes me the next forty-five minutes to get back to the foyer. Shaking hands and greeting comrades in NOPD powder blue shirts, I meet cops from Kenner and Jefferson Parish and St. Bernard, St. Charles, St. John, St. James, Baton Rouge and a host of cities. Of course, there are also representatives of the Harbor Police, Levee Board Police and even cops from Mississippi.
Finally, I spot Merten standing next to the signing book and wave to him. He comes to my rescue by making a hole, a big hole in the crowd that I slip through. Stepping into the hot, early evening air, I take in a deep breath.
“You might want to skip the burial tomorrow,” Merten says. “It’s gonna be brutal.” Merten wears brown shoes with his black suit. He’s the only man I’d never tell it didn’t match. No fuckin’ way. I can’t wait to get out of my dark gray suit, get back home and slip into my usual black-out tee-shirt, jeans and dark dress shirt.
“I paid my respects to her mother,” I tell Merten. He’s right, I think I’ll pass on the procession tomorrow, with its hundreds of police cars and long blue line to the cemetery. I’ve heard Taps enough times recently.
Four plainclothesmen move toward us, Tim Rothman leading the way.
“Join us for a beer?” one of them says.
I shake my head as they pass, heading toward the bar across the street. In New Orleans, there’s always a bar across the street from a funeral home. Probably that way in every American city. I know I’m not imagining it, but I see the same look in their eyes as they pass, the curious stares, the attraction to someone, something dangerous.
“I’ve got work to do,” I tell Rothman when he grabs my sleeve. He lets go. And as I walk away, I know what they’re thinking. I’m a lone wolf, a misfit, not really one of the boys. Not a new feeling for me. When I think about it, it’s hard to remember a time in my life when I did fit in. OK, once, only once – when I was on the bayous with my daddy. But I was little boy then.
As I move to the Caprice, I loosen my tie and remember something Jodie Kintyre told me on my first case. “The solution to every murder is out there on the street. The hard part is finding it.”
•
There’s a message waiting for me when I arrive at the office. The pink slip taped on my desk is marked ‘urgent’ and reads: “A prisoner at the HOD named Felice called three times for you. She said it’s important.”
I sit at my desk, pick up the phone and call the House of Detention and learn Felice Marquee had been booked the previous night on nine counts of simple burglary.
“Who’s the arresting officer?”
“Matt Sinclair.”
“Thanks.” I hang up and walk across the squad room to the Burglary Division side and catch Matt Sinclair just as the red-headed detective is walking out.
“Matt!”
Sinclair turns around.
“I need a favor.”
•
I stand in the corner of a gray interview room, my back against a cinder block wall. Matt Sinclair sits behind a small green table to my left. He’s thumbing his fin
gers on the table top. I can’t recognize the smell in the tiny room, but it isn’t pleasant.
“So,” Sinclair says, “this Felice a good snitch?”
“She used to be when I worked the street.”
Sinclair looks at his watch and says, impatiently, “Well, she better have something good for you.”
The door finally opens and a matron appears with Felice Marquee. Felice, her corn-rowed hair frazzled, is decked out in an Orleans Parish Prison orange jumpsuit. She’s barefoot. The matron passes Felice in and locks the door from the outside.
Felice folds her arms across her chest, looks at me and says, “Why’d you bring him?”
“He brought me. It’s his case.”
Felice shakes her head “I don’t wanna talk to him. I wanna talk to you.” Light-skinned, Felice once told me she had Spanish blood way back, from the days of the Quadroon Balls.
Sinclair raises his hand and says, “You have something to sell, you have to go through me.”
Felice is street-wise enough to know the score, but has to play her hand. She tells me, “I never broke in no houses. It was my old man.”
Sinclair answers for our side. “You drove him. Waited for him in the car and drove him away with the loot. You’re as guilty as he is.”
She leans back against the door. “I’m an accessory.”
“You’re a principal to the crime,” Sinclair says. “You took part in every phase of nine burglaries and it looks like more. Come on.” His voice rises. “I didn’t come here to waste my time. You got something for us or what?”
She shoots me a pleading look with her light brown eyes.
I shrug. We both know the game, and know I have to play hardball with her. I wait.
“She also violated her parole.” It’s Sinclair again.
She takes in a deep breath, wipes a tear away from her left eye and says, “I can’t stay in jail.”
I like the tear. It’s a nice touch. I feel for her, but make sure it doesn’t show on my face. She stares at me for a time, then says, “Let me back on the street and I’ll get a line on those cop killers.”
“Yeah?” I say. “What have you heard about them?”
John Raven Beau Page 4
