The intersection of law.., p.7
The Intersection of Law and Desire, page 7
“Michele Knight. She’s a financial advisor,” Karen answered.
“Financial advisor?” Joey turned to me. “When did you stop being a private eye?” He didn’t bother smiling.
“This is an unusual investment. Karen felt she needed an unusual type of advisor,” I replied. In the Sans Pareil Club, Joey’s tough act could only go so far.
“Unusual, yeah. A dyke dick from downtown,” Joey responded, giving me a hard look.
“Oh, Joey, don’t be parochial,” Karen cut in. “Anthony has no problem with her being here. You shouldn’t.” Anthony was Anthony Colombé. Joey had been put on notice that Karen was on first-name terms with one of the most powerful men in town. Whatever Karen’s involvement with him, she had no problem using it. With Karen hanging on his arm, Colombé projected the image of a virile man, able to satisfy young, attractive women. It was an impression that he obviously cared a great deal about. Karen, in turn, was treated as one of his inner circle, although I suspected that if she really were a true intimate of his instead of just someone he found very useful, she wouldn’t need my help in dealing with Joey and his unnamed friends.
“Sorry,” Joey answered. “No offense meant.”
“So what is it, Joey? Drugs?” I asked. “I’m not the cops. I just want to know what my client’s getting into.”
“Not drugs. I can promise you that,” he replied.
“Yeah? What else earns money like this?” I returned.
“Come on, Karen. Call off your attack dog,” he appealed to her. “I can’t really tell you what it is. I can promise you it’s not illegal drugs. Not even legal drugs. It’s just a real good and easy way for you to earn money.”
“How do you turn a profit so quickly?” I asked.
Joey didn’t answer my question. He continued speaking to Karen. “I’ll give you some more information next time, but I’m late for another meeting. Yes or no?” he finished with a nod at the briefcase.
“What if she says no?” I asked.
He faked a nonchalant shrug. “If the lady says no, the lady says no. It would, however, come at an inconvenient time. We would really appreciate your continued support.” Joey had his hand on the briefcase.
“I think I’d prefer not to—” Karen started.
“The lady says yes,” I cut in. It wasn’t much of a threat. It didn’t need to be. One person’s inconvenience is another person’s already dug grave.
Joey wasted no time in snatching up his briefcase and smiling ever so pleasantly as he said, “Thanks, ladies. I assume I’ll see you both next time.” Then he was gone.
Karen turned from the just closed door to me and said. “Micky, what the hell was that about? I thought you wanted me out of this?”
“I do,” I retorted. “I’d just prefer you get out of it alive rather than dead.”
“What? Oh, be serious. Joey’s not going to—”
“Karen, I am serious. Don’t let his smooth and pleasant exterior fool you. These are not men you inconvenience. Whatever you cost them, it will cost you more. Understand?”
“I guess. But I—”
We were interrupted by a discreet knock on the door.
“Come in,” Karen said, then, “Hello, Francois,” to the man who entered. He was tall, still handsome, but the long, late nights were beginning to show. His dark hair was receding, the bags under his eyes needed the soft light of evening to remain imperceptible. Their gray color matched his distant expression.
“Miss Holloway, Mr. Colombé wishes your company, if it is convenient for you.” Mr. Colombé wanted his façade in place.
“Of course,” she replied, then to me, “I’ll call you later.” Karen turned and followed Francois out of the room. I trailed behind.
As it was clear that I wasn’t included in the invitation (not that I wanted to be), I told Karen, “I’ll find my own way home.”
“That’s not necessary,” she replied, giving me a quick social kiss on the cheek. It wouldn’t do for our parting to be too businesslike in the Sans Pareil Club. “Francois, please see to Micky,” Karen instructed, then left us for Anthony Colombé.
“If you’ll follow me, Ms. Knight,” Francois said.
Impressive, I thought, as I followed Francois to the entryway, his smooth transition from Miss to Ms., knowing automatically which I would prefer. It was a skill a man like Anthony Colombé could afford.
“Charles,” Francois said softly. One of the doormen snapped to attention despite several other people vying for his services.
I noticed a black Porsche turning down the long drive of the club. Joey. Of course, he would have a Porsche. And, I noted, a vanity plate: ET OR B E10. “Eat or Be Eaten”—the perfect sentiment for a shark.
“Please bring one of Mr. Colombé’s cars for Ms. Knight,” Francois instructed the doorman. “The Mercedes, I think.”
“Thank you,” I told Francois. He nodded briefly and reentered the club.
The car was a vintage Mercedes driven by a strikingly good-looking woman. I gave her my address, then offered directions, which she declined. “That’s beyond Desire, isn’t it?” she asked, her smile full lipped and sensual. Anthony Colombé probably required his drivers to memorize the streets of the greater New Orleans area.
“Will there be anything else?” she asked as she pulled in front of my place.
I thought about asking her if she was flirting with me because she wanted to or if it was part of the job. I also thought of inviting her upstairs and pumping her about Anthony Colombé, but knew she was too well trained and well paid to divulge anything.
“No, nothing,” I replied. “Thanks for the ride.”
“My pleasure,” was her well-trained answer.
I got out of the Mercedes, which looked drastically out of place on my rundown block. The car disappeared, its engine a bare purr. I entered my building and climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment.
Cordelia had left a message. She was just going to bed when I returned her call; I had forgotten it was an hour later in Boston. We chatted for a bit, I agreed to pick her up at the airport, and then I let her go on to bed, as she had to give a presentation in the morning.
I prowled around my apartment for a while, doing a few necessary and neglected chores like dealing with Hepplewhite’s lovely litter box. I was trying to figure out the best approach to get Karen out of the deep shit she had done a swan dive into. Nothing elegant and easy came to mind.
I went to bed. But it wasn’t Karen and her troubles that drifted by as I began to fall asleep. Instead it was Cissy, with her downcast and hidden eyes.
Chapter 8
I had been awakened sometime past midnight by the lash of rain and the boom of close thunder. The storm had gone nowhere during the night and was still pouring rain with a vengeance when my alarm clock goaded me out of bed.
Already in an irritable mood, I decided to compound it by calling Karen. All I got was her answering machine. I left a message telling her to call me. I had a few questions I wanted answered.
Karen didn’t call back until late in the afternoon.
“About time,” I greeted her.
“I just got in,” she defended. “I spent the night at Anthony’s.”
“And, of course, cooed and aahed at breakfast as if you’d really had sex.”
“All right, Micky, what do you want?”
“Answers. Honest answers. How did you get involved with Joey?”
“I’ve already told you that. I met him at the Sans Pareil Club.”
“So you met this guy, he said, ‘Yo, babe, want to earn some money’ and you just coughed up, what? Fifty?”
“No. I met him several times. And I started out with five.”
“Five?” Another lie she had told me. “How long has this been going on?” I demanded.
“Uh, I guess about eight months.”
I let my disapproval hang in the silence for a long moment. “Eight months? And you’re just now wondering about it?”
“No, I tried to get out before. That’s when Joey mentioned the picture.”
“Oh, yes, the picture. Karen, what’s Joey’s last name?”
“Boudreaux.”
“Great, the Cajun version of ‘Smith.’ Do you have an address or phone number?”
“I have an address.” It was a post office box.
“Karen, there is a remote possibility that Joey and his cohorts are merely paranoid businessmen. The only other choice is that what they’re doing is illegal—drugs, dumping toxic waste, whatever. If that’s the case, there’s no nice way out for you. Be prepared to go to the police.”
“I guess,” she reluctantly agreed.
“And, Karen,” I added, “count yourself lucky if you get out of this one without getting hurt. If you hear from Joey again, call me. If you can get any information, great. But don’t push him. Don’t agree to meet him unless you tell me. All right?”
“All right,” she answered. “Micky? I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Pay my bill promptly when it arrives.” With that I hung up.
I rubbed my forehead. Between the incessant rain and Karen’s mess, I was getting a headache.
The phone rang. It was Barbara Selby. “Micky, I need a real big favor,” she said. “My Aunt Josselyn has fractured her hip and my mother is going to stay with her. The problem is that Aunt Joss lives in Jacksonville, Florida. I can drive Mom if I can find someone to sit with the kids for a day or two while I’m gone. They don’t really need babysitting, just someone adult and stable in the vicinity.”
It took me a second to realize that I qualified as “adult and stable.” “I’d be glad to,” I replied. “I’d love to have a day or two to corrupt, I mean, hang out with Patrick and Cissy.”
“I do have one request,” she said seriously. “No overnight guests.”
“Not to worry. She’s at some docs’ conference in Boston. I’ll behave,” I promised.
“Thanks, Micky. I really do appreciate this. I’m leaving tomorrow after work and I hope to be back Saturday.” After settling the logistics, she thanked me again, then we rang off.
I was glad to do the favor for Barbara. And with a few days together, Cissy might open up to me. Maybe I could bring the Case of the Boy to a happy ending. Which left the Case of the Blond Bitch. Perhaps my favorite gossip monger would have some tidbits, I thought as I dialed Torbin’s number.
“Robedeaux’s Pool Hall. Our motto is ‘Rack ’em, stack ’em, and shoot ’em hard,’” he greeted.
“But do you pick up the pieces in the morning?” I returned.
“Forget it, all my clothes are at the cleaners,” Torbin said.
“Nothing to wear,” I reassured him. “A gossip test. Do you know who Anthony Colombé is?”
“Do I know which general Lee Circle is named after? Next question, please.”
“Do you know he likes boys?”
Torbin was silent long enough to tell me that he didn’t know this. “Well, shut my mouth,” he finally exclaimed. “Me, a gossip test flunkout. Are you sure?”
“Reasonably. Short of being in his bedroom.”
“Holy shit, Batman. Anthony Colombé is a fag.”
“You’re no help,” I scolded him. “I need to be getting more information, not giving out what little I have.”
“How about if your devoted cousin Tor promises to keep his ears peeled, sliced, and diced for any juicy tales?”
“It’ll help.”
“But you must tell me how you unearthed this well-hidden detail.”
“Client confidentiality.”
“Remove all names and identifying data. Come on, I know you can do it.”
“Torbin…”
“I’ll lend you my colorized version of Madchen in Uniformwith explicit lesbian sex scenes spliced in at the appropriate moments.”
“Torbin…”
“What if I throw in a pale lavender dildo? Guaranteed to spice up any lesbo’s love life?”
“Pale lavender is too femme for me.”
“Okay, deep purple. With all the studs you could want.”
“Forget the studs. Girls don’t like studs. Add a harness of deep red leather and you’re in the ballpark.”
I finally gave Torbin a few of the details. In return, I got a promise from him that he would make a serious attempt to ferret out more about Anthony Colombé’s hidden life. If nothing else, how he had managed to keep so perfectly closeted in a city with long hot summers in which the only possible activity is the passing, and often embellishing, of rumor and scandal.
It was still raining when I went to bed.
Chapter 9
Barbara called me at a little after four. “Alex let me out early so I could pack and get going,” she told me.
“I’m ready to whisk out the door,” I answered. After dumping extra rations in Hepplewhite’s direction I headed over to Barbara’s.
She was putting a suitcase into the trunk of her car when I arrived.
“Anything I can do?” I asked as I approached.
“Not that I can think of,” she replied. “Keep pandemonium to a minimum.”
“‘Min. pan.’—will do.”
Barbara’s mother came out of the house. I tried to look as “adult and stable” as I possibly could, at least until Barbara’s mother was safely on her way. Barbara gave Cissy and Patrick one last hug, then they were gone.
I had been briefed on the household routine—TV, checking homework, bedtimes, and the like. Pizza for dinner instead of leftovers was my one concession to the disrupted routine. Homework, baths, and bedtime remained firmly on schedule. Ten p.m. was bedtime. By ten fifteen Patrick and Cissy were behind closed doors with the lights out. I might make a decent mom after all, I thought.
Using my phone card, I called Cordelia to let her know what I was up to and that I would pick her up Sunday evening at the airport. We didn’t talk long. Cordelia was going on rounds with her friend Lynn early in the morning, and my phone card wasn’t up to much long-distance usage.
After turning out all the lights but a small night-light in the hallway, I retreated to Barbara’s bedroom. I wasn’t very sleepy—I’m not an early to bed, early to rise type of gal. I sat cross-legged on Barbara’s bed, attending to my long neglected letter-writing duties. I don’t like writing, the irretrievable art of putting words on paper. Nonetheless, I had managed to eke out two letters and four postcards when I heard the soft opening of a bedroom door.
Patrick or Cissy on a bathroom run. I wouldn’t get concerned unless I heard the TV turn on or the liquor cabinet open. I finished another postcard—a picture of three hoop-skirted belles—to a radical lesbian living in a women-only commune in Oregon. I still hadn’t heard my nocturnal roamer return to bed. I gave it another postcard and finally decided to stick my head into the hallway. Very carefully opening the bedroom door (I didn’t want to be responsible for causing a trauma in Patrick’s life—nothing like a female guest catching you in your first sexual explorations), I peered into the dimly lit hallway.
Cissy was sitting on the floor next to the night-light, watching me. She looked down when she realized I had seen her.
“Cissy,” I said as I went over and knelt beside her. “Are you okay?”
“Can’t sleep,” she whispered in reply.
“Are you scared of something?”
“Maybe.” Then in a very soft voice that I could barely hear, “I heard something outside my window.”
“Do you want me to go check?” I asked. I had been awake, if it was anything other than a squirrel I would have heard it. “I’ll go outside and look around.”
“No, don’t.” She grabbed my hand. “They might hurt you.”
“Who? Who can hurt us?”
“I dunno,” she answered, her eyes again firmly focused on the floor. “Whatever’s out there.”
“What do you think it might be?” I tried again.
“I dunno. Monsters maybe.” She still didn’t look up at me.
“I didn’t hear any monsters, and I was listening.”
“Maybe…quiet monsters,” she answered softly. I doubted she literally meant monsters, like vampires and werewolves, but something or someone for which “monster” was the only word she could think of.
“They can’t hurt me,” I told her. The squirrels couldn’t, at any rate. “And I won’t let them hurt you.” I stood up. “You stay here. I’m going to check outside. I’ll be right back.”
I let myself out the front door, locking it after me. Barbara lived in a quiet block near the lake. A few blocks away a dog was barking, but all was silent here. I walked around the house, letting the light from the street guide me. My main worry was stepping in dog shit. If Cissy had heard anything, it was in her dreams. Sometimes, I thought, as I passed her window, that can be the most terrifying place.
There was nothing out here, save for wet, dewy grass. I wiped my feet thoroughly on the scratchy welcome mat before letting myself back into the house.
Cissy was still in the hallway, huddled next to the night-light.
“It’s all okay,” I told her. “Nothing’s out there.” I sat next to her on the floor. I didn’t want to just hustle her back to bed, because unless she told me what terrified her, my walking around the house would only keep the monsters away for a little while.
Cissy didn’t say anything. She leaned her head against my arm, then curled into me as I put my arm around her thin shoulders.
“What did you hear?” I asked.
“Nothin’, I guess. I guess I dreamed it.”
“What are you afraid it might have been?” I asked, then before she could shrug another denial, “I can help you if you tell me. Don’t fight your battles alone, Cissy.”
She didn’t reply. Instead she rubbed her face into my shirt like a kitten burrowing for warmth against a momma cat. Finally, she repeated, “I guess I must’ve dreamed it.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes until I realized that she was falling asleep in my arms. “Let’s go to bed,” I said, gently lifting her to her feet.
