John Raven Beau

by O'Neil De Noux

  “No,” Gonzales says as if she’s asking him.

  “What kind of shopping?” I ask.

  “Window shopping. Shopping for clothes. Shoes. Make-up.”

  I can see the confusion in her eyes.

  “Would you be modeling any lingerie for him?” Gonzales asks. “Or bathing suits?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Then he’s an idiot,” Gonzales declares.

  Staring at the aquamarines, I ask, “When you say friend, do you confide in him? Tell him what you’re feeling? Thinking?” She seems surprised at the question and tells me no, she doesn’t confide in him.

  “Then he’s an acquaintance. Not a friend.”

  “The man’s an idiot,” Gonzales repeats, then fills his mouth, thankfully, with a large bite.

  I take another bite and Angie looks over our heads, out the window.

  “Can men and women really be friends without a sexual relationship?” Her voice is dead-pan serious.

  “Nope,” Gonzales answers.

  “What about Jodie, you moron?” My voice is a little too high and the fishermen turn our way.

  Gonzales leans closer and says, “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought of going to bed with her. Ever?”

  Jesus. I feel a sudden flush on my neck and hope to God it’s not there on my face.

  “Who’s Jodie?”

  I fill my mouth with another bite and thankfully Gonzales answers Angie’s question.

  When I finally look at Angie, she asks, “Do you confide in Jodie? Tell her things?”

  I nod slowly and hear myself say, “She’s a friend. I look up to her. Trust her. Tell her just about everything. We’re friends. Padnas.”

  Gonzales raises a finger. “And if, one night, she looks you in the eye and starts unbuttoning her blouse, you’d tell her to stop, right?”

  This isn’t going well for me. I drink more Barq’s and decide again, the truth is the best way.

  “Of course I wouldn’t. But that’ll never happen. Ever.”

  “Touché.” Happy with the response, Gonzales takes another bite.

  I look at Angie and she’s still staring out the window.

  She speaks softly. “So, there’s always a sexual tension, isn’t there? Between men and women. Unless they’re related or one is completely gross.”

  “Some parts of Louisiana, being related is no deterrent.” Gonzales adds that pearl of wisdom, which we ignore.

  Angie turns her eyes to me and smiles shyly. “Thanks. Just curious.” And she leaves for her other customers.

  Gonzales waits until I look his way.

  “Jesus. She always this intense?”

  I nod and something clicks in my brain. Whoever this ex-boyfriend is, he’s going to have to go shopping with someone else.

  A hundred times down the road

  The following three evenings are carbon copies of one another. Checking dailies at the office, chasing Sandie down and then Felice, linking up with Gonzales to see if he’s come up with anything. End result is a big zero.

  On my way home after the third carbon copy evening, I remember it’s been exactly two months since Cochran was killed. Two weeks before, Stevens had been killed. The whole department is still on razor edge, wondering when the killer will strike again. I’m afraid, afraid all the heat’s scared the killer away and we’ll never catch him – or them.

  Arriving in Bucktown with the dawn light, I look out at the canal at the early morning fog hovering above the still water. As I pull the Caprice against the curb, I spot a figure, sitting on the wooden bench next to the gate of Sad Lisa. It’s a woman. She stands and puts a hand on her hip and a face from my past smiles at me. I climb out of the car and Buck yaps at me from the deck.

  “Cute puppy,” Sharon says.

  “How long have you been here?” I spot her yellow Toyota parked down the lane.

  “About an hour.”

  I walk slowly up to her. Sharon Merraid’s brown hair is much longer now, well past her shoulders. Still straight, still parted down the middle, she has matching gold barrettes on either side. Her face is just as pretty and I feel my heart tug when she coyly bites her lower lip. Those familiar green eyes blink at me. Hard to believe she’s standing here.

  “You look very nice,” I tell her.

  “I was hoping you’d be happy to see me.”

  I’ve never seen the light blue blouse she wears but her faded jeans look familiar. We’d dated for over two years when I was a patrolman, when I worked those easy eight hour shifts, when I was so much younger. She’s the one who gave me the Jekyll & Hyde shirt. Buck yaps louder now.

  “How about some breakfast?” I step over to the gate and unlock it.

  “It’s not what I came for, but breakfast sounds nice.”

  Buck bounces in a circle, yapping even louder. As I step on deck, he rolls on his back and flails his paws at me.

  “Watch out for the puddles,” I warn Sharon, pointing at a yellow stain.

  The houseboat’s stuffy. Turning on the AC and ceiling fans, I open the windows and a semi-cool breeze quickly fills the room. I move to the small kitchen area and pull out two frying pans. Standing in the living room area, Sharon looks around and says, “It’s like going back in time.”

  “What?”

  “You haven’t changed a thing.”

  “Buck’s new.”

  Hearing his name, Buck yaps and then tries to howl, losing it in the back of his undeveloped throat. Sharon smiles, goes down on her haunches and pets Buck, whose tail is wagging so hard I don’t know why it doesn’t fly off.

  “He’s so cute. What is he, a springer or a setter?”

  “Catahoula. It’s the state dog.”

  Buck is eating this up, on his back now, flailing his paws as she pets his belly.

  “Catahoula means clear water in Choctaw,” I tell her. “See his blue eyes.”

  Sharon stands and moves to the sink and washes her hands. Buck must have peed on her too. I start up the eggs and two thick chunks of andouille, or what passes for andouille in the big city. Authentic Cajun andouille is more peppery, but Winn Dixie’s version of this pork sausage isn’t bad. It smells just as rich and makes my empty stomach rumble.

  “Let me help.” Sharon drops her purse on my easy chair and elbows me out of the way. I pull a can of puppy chow out for Buck and feed him while she cooks our breakfast. Watching her standing here I can’t help notice the curve of her ass in those tight jeans. She looks at me and smiles.

  “So, what did you come for?”

  Her smile turns into a sad smile. She puts the spatula down and moves to me.

  “This,” she says as she wraps her arms around my neck, leans up and kisses me on the lips. A soft kiss, our lips barely touch but I know the familiar feel. Pressed against me for that brief moment jump-starts my body, like a charge of electricity. She pulls away and goes back to the stove.

  Eggs, sunny side up, andouille and thick coffee-and-chicory, two slices of toast, properly buttered, is an excellent breakfast. A salty lake breeze flows through the window next to my small kitchen table, attached to the wall so it can be folded out of the way.

  There’s small talk. Sharon telling me about her new job at the bank. She’s an officer now, promoted from teller. She still lives in the same apartment, half-a-house in old Metairie. She asks about Buck and about how Sad Lisa fared during the big flood.

  “Fine. It’s a boat.”

  She asks if I’m seeing anyone, but doesn’t ask about the job.

  We pick up the dishes and move to the sink where she kisses me again. Our tongues brush and a passion from long ago awakens in me. I pull her close and we kiss long and hard. Coming up for air, I take Sharon’s hand and lead her to the stairs and up to the loft to my unmade bed. She drapes her blouse over the end table on the far side of my bed as I turn the window fan on high. I pull out my Glock and put it on the other table, along with my dress shirt and tee-shirt. Sharon ooches out of her jeans, leaving the
m on the floor next to her sandals. She stretches, standing in her white bra and bikini panties, her creamy skin glowing in the early morning light.

  A thunder clap makes us both jump. I turn in time to see rain pelting the water outside. The sun beams through the rain water and I suddenly hear my Dad’s voice telling me – if it rains while the sun is shining, the devil is beating his wife.

  Sharon unsnaps her bra and drops it on her blouse. I stare at her round, perfectly symmetrical breasts, small pink areolas and tiny nipples, standing erect. I kick off my penny loafers and pull off my socks and jeans and black jockeys. I stand and stretch as a wave of windblown, rainy air flows through the window behind me. My dick is straight up like a flag pole.

  Sharon leers at it as she works her panties down and for a moment we stand staring at each other’s naked body. We climb on the bed, tossing the pillows on the floor. Sharon rolls on her back. I hover over her for a moment and kiss her throat lightly. I softly kiss my way down to her breasts, rolling my tongue over her nipples, sucking each for a moment. I kiss my way down to her belly, down to her silky pubic hair. I tongue her hair and part her legs with my hands. I circle her pussy with kisses, letting my breath fall on her pink slit. I kiss my way down her slender legs to the erogenous zones on the under side of her knees.

  Sharon gasps, her hips gyrating slowly now, as I lick my way back up her inner thighs. She spreads her legs and I move my face between them. I hold back a moment and she pushes herself down to me. My tongue slides across the outside of her pussy. She cries out and I sink my tongue into her.

  I reach up for her breasts and knead them as I work my tongue inside her. I pull back and start licking her in quick, smooth strokes. She humps against me and pulls at my hair. I continue licking, changing strokes to quick flicks, then back to long licks. I work her clit and she moans and pumps her hips to my licking.

  Grinding her hips, Sharon rides my tongue. Her sweet, familiar taste in my mouth, I continue working my tongue until she pulls harder at my hair. I increase the pace and she cries out and yanks my hair. I push her hands away and continue working my tongue.

  Her hips still gyrating, Sharon digs her heels into the mattress, trying to pull away from my tongue, but there’s nowhere to go. Her head reaches the head board and she cries out to me to pull up. She wants my dick in her – now. But I keep licking and she gasps loudly and explodes against me. Her hips bouncing, Sharon climaxes against my tongue.

  Her hips rise and I stay with her.

  She bucks up and down and I stay with her.

  She cries out and squeezes my head with her legs until my ears ache, and I stay with her.

  Finally, her ass falls back to the bed and I pull away.

  Gasping, she yanks me up to her mouth. We French kiss as Sharon reaches down to guide the tip of my dick to her pussy lips. I work my way in, through the hot wetness. She shudders at the penetration before we start a deep, grinding, hot fuck. Fast at first, I slow down and ride her in long, smooth strokes. Waves of cool air flow over us as we make love on my unmade bed. Sharon bites her lower lip, then opens her eyes to stare into mine as we fuck.

  “Oh, Babe,” she gasps.

  I smile and kiss her again. She wraps her arms and legs around me and we continue. I slow down again but she won’t have any of that, working her pussy against my dick. Her hands cup the top of my shoulders as I gasp and come in her in long, hot spurts. I feel my gushing and continue working my pelvis against her.

  Sharon cries out even louder and comes again. She calls this one an inside climax and I work with it. She continues crying out until I’m spent, until I collapse on top of her. It’s only then, when she quiets down, that I hear Buck down stairs, trying to howl again. I laugh and Sharon laughs and we lie there, with the cool breeze sliding over our hot bodies.

  I roll off and lie on my back next to her. Sharon closes her eyes and I look up at the ceiling. Buck stops trying to howl. Another thunderclap echoes and the rain increases. The sky darkens somewhat. I blink and close my weary eyes and try not to feel the sudden emptiness in my heart.

  •

  Sharon lies napping next to me, still on her back. I’m up on my elbow, four hours after we’d made love, watching her. My heart races again, but not from passion. It races from that sinking, deep, depressed feeling that we shouldn’t be here.

  What the hell is this? What were we thinking? Why have we rekindled this? Why have we just reached into the past for something lost long ago?

  Jesus.

  She sure took a long time coming back, after she walked away. The last words she said come back to me. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take that job of yours.”

  A patrolman then, I had started working twelve hour power-shifts in high-crime areas. She said all I ever talked about was the job. Criminals. Scum-bags. She said I told her the most horrendous stories. Jesus, I was only a patrolman then. You want horror stories? Try Homicide.

  Try walking into a tenement, across a blood-splattered floor to the body of a woman sliced to death by a jealous boyfriend with a filet knife; try walking into a restaurant freezer where three bodies lie in frozen blood, employees executed by robbers; try interviewing a man whose sudden rage at his crying infant caused him to stop his car on I-10, pull the baby from its seat and smash its little head against the concrete; try interviewing that man without reaching over the interview table and smashing the life out of him.

  Try missing Sharon Merraid so much my heart ached for months. Try turning around a hundred times down the road, hoping she’d be there. Sharon Merraid of the pretty green eyes and easy smile, she was another of my failures.

  And today we went back in time, reached back for something ... that’s gone.

  The rain has stopped. The only sound is the water gently lapping against the side of Sad Lisa. I feel myself drifting again and hope I won’t dream.

  •

  I feel her move on the bed before I feel her touch me, gently, her hand on my thigh. It reaches my dick and begins stroking it. A hard-on has no conscience. It rises nicely and Sharon kisses it, licks it, then starts sucking it. Her hair brushes my belly as her head moves up and down on my dick. My breathing increases and she caresses my balls as she sucks me.

  When my hips start moving, she pulls up, climbs on me and guides my dick to her pussy. She sinks on me and rides my dick. I crane my neck forward and suck her breasts, nibbling her nipples. It always takes longer the second time around. We dig for the passion and grind and take our time fucking. I grab her ass when I feel I’m coming and bounce her up and down as I come again in her.

  Sharon rolls off and says, “That was nice.”

  The fan cools our sweaty bodies. As soon as her breathing is back to normal, Sharon climbs out of bed for the shower. When she comes back, I’m still awake, but only barely. She dresses at the foot of the bed.

  “Hey,” she says softly.

  I lean up.

  “I know you’re in the middle of something big.” Her voice is deep and filled with emotion. “It’s all over the news. Maybe, when it’s over, you’ll call me.”

  “You really want me to?”

  She nods and bites that lower lip again. She dresses, leans over and kisses me softly on the lips and leaves. It’s only then I realize I don’t miss her anymore. I miss the way she was, the way we were together when her eyes were filled with love. There’s nothing wrong with the passion, there never was anything wrong with the physical part. I miss that too.

  Jesus, it’s so damn confusing. I can’t sleep. Not with the familiar smell of our sex on my bed. Who are we kidding? There’s no way we can bring it back. It’s gone. Couldn’t she feel it?

  Then again, maybe, just maybe we can start over, but we can’t bring it back, not the way it was, not with that deep, complete love. No way. It’s gone. Shattered like a porcelain vase dropped down a staircase.

  I hear Buck moving around downstairs. The clock says it’s three p.m. Time to walk him on the levee. Time to ho
se down the deck. Time to get started on a new fuckin’ day. Time to wash my bed sheets.

  •

  As I walk into the squad room, late for another mandatory Task Force Meeting, I can’t help thinking how hard it is to get Felice to open up. She’s like a shadow, a one-dimensional person who won’t let me know anything except on a need-to-know basis. I’d linked up with her an hour earlier. She’s still working the case, but I had to pull every sentence out of her.

  The squad room is full and I push my way to my desk where Tim Rothman sits, his feet up on my desk. He waves me to the chair next to my desk. I brush past a burly detective who glares at me.

  “Hey, Two-L,” Rothman calls out. “Lighten up and let him pass.”

  The burly detective growls back, “Mind you own business, fuzz-head. And my name ain’t Two-L.”

  “Yes, it is.” Rothman grins as I sit.

  The burly detective growls again and kicks a trash can out of his way as he rounds a desk to get away from us.

  “Who the fuck is that?”

  Rothman points to a skinny detective sitting ten feet away. “That’s Bob Wilson, spelled with one ‘L’. Nice guy. Works Burglary.”

  “So?” I feel I’m in the middle of a Fudd and Channard’s not even around.

  Rothman turns and points to the burly galoot. “That’s Bob Willson, spelled with two ‘Ls’. Also works Burglary.”

  “So?”

  “So, he’s Two-L and the skinny guy’s One-L.”

  I shake my head. “You gotta have better things to do with your life.”

  “Not really.”

  Bob Kay comes in and most of us settle down. For the next twenty minutes, he lambastes us about how fucked up this operation is. And it occurs to me, isn’t he in charge?

  “The FBI’s been trying to horn in on this operation from the start.” Kay lets that chilling prospect linger in the air for a moment. A loud fart sound echoes, from the talented mouth of Tony Dunn, no doubt.

  “They’ve been itching. Talking to the mayor. Sending us psychological profiles of our killer.”

  “What profiles?” Rothman asks.