Death By The Riverside Part 20

"Talk," was all I said.

"Oh, G.o.d, I'm so ashamed," and he started crying. I stood and watched him for a moment, then looked for some Kleenex. I finally found some paper towels in the kitchen and handed him one.

"It's not the police," he repeated. "It's my family. If they ever found out..." He trailed off into a sob.

I grabbed him by the lapels and gave him a jerk.

"Grow up, little boy. There's a kind, gentle woman with two kids lying in a coma. The men who did that to her are going to jail. I don't care if you b.u.t.tf.u.c.k aardvarks. Whatever it is, I'll find out and I'll tell your family. Now, you going to help me?"

I shook him again for good measure. I would feel sorry for this boy when and if Barbara ever got out of the coma. In the meantime, I would do what I had to do.

"Please don't hurt me."

I let go of him and backed away to give him some room to speak.

He got up, unlocked his desk drawer and took out a key. With that key, he unlocked a chifforobe in the far corner of the room.

"Take a look," he said, "and you'll think I'm sick, too."

I looked.

"So you wear dresses," I commented. I had expected to see piles of kiddie p.o.r.n, considering the way he had been acting.

"I'm sick," he said, still shaking.

"If everyone who wore a dress was sick, this country would be in trouble. What do you think the president's wife wears at a White House dinner?"

"But women are supposed to."

"Women are required to."

"You're not disgusted?" he asked. He seemed to find the idea that anyone might not be revolted by him impossible to believe.

* 137 *

"No, of course not," I answered. "Is this what they have on you?"

"Yes, I used to work for the legit part of Jambalaya. Like you, like..."

"Barbara," I supplied.

"Yeah. I'm real sorry about her. She was always very nice to me.

Jambalaya was my first job; I'd just gotten out of school. I have a law degree and an accounting degree, so I'm pretty useful to someone like..."

"Milo."

"Yeah. He found a...a you know...bra in my desk. but I didn't put it there, I swear. I don't know how it got there."

"He set you up."

"I guess. He seemed nice at first. Said it wasn't a problem if I didn't make it one. All I needed to do was help him out occasionally and he'd forget about it. But...uh...he never forgot. Every time I wanted to stop helping him, he'd tell me how sorry my parents were going to be when they found out I was a...a..." He stopped.

"Transvest.i.te," I said.

"Sissy f.a.ggot," he finished, taking a deep breath.

"Milo never minces words, does he?" I said.

He seemed to think that was the lessor crime. "My parents would never forgive me. You see, I'm the oldest of three sons. My other two brothers played every single kind of sport there was. My dad was a Marine and after that coached football. He once said that he was so disappointed in me that he had to get my mother pregnant again twice just to be sure he had one real son."

Just the sort of real man you have to admire. He should have bought a bunch of G.I. Joe dolls instead of having children.

"And that was because I didn't want to play football in fifth grade.

I don't think I've ever done anything right in his eyes. He said one of his sons had to be an accountant and one a lawyer, so I did them both. But I don't guess it ever made up for not being the quarterback." Hesitant at first, the words were now coming out in a jumble. I wondered if any sympathetic ears had ever heard his story. "My dad couldn't stand it if he found out I like to wear women's clothes. And it would kill my mother."

"Your dad is an a.s.shole," I had to say.

* 138 *

"No, you've got it wrong. He really loves me and he wants what's best for me."

"No, he wants you to be a robot replica of himself," I answered.

"He doesn't always do the best thing, but he wanted to make me a real man, not the pathetic sissy that I am."

"What's your name?" I asked. I couldn't call him sissy f.a.ggot.

"Franklin Fitzsimmons. Frankie."

"Okay, Frankie." This guy had problems, but they were going to take a long time to solve. I wondered if the witness protection program could relocate him to San Francisco. He needed to get as far as possible from his warped family and to meet the thousands of other men who could help him with eyeliner. "Will you help me?"

"I can't. If Milo doesn't tell my dad, then he'll probably kill me if he finds out I've told anyone."

"He'll do that anyway," I said, giving Frankie a dose of reality.

"As soon as he has no further use for you, you're dead. Or did you plan to work for Milo and Company until you retired? Retirement usually means floating downstream."

He looked stricken, like it was something he'd never thought of.

He probably hadn't.

"How many more murders are you going to be accomplice to until it's time for yours? You think Milo's goons wouldn't jump at the chance to kill a sissy f.a.ggot? He probably planted that bra in your desk and is still laughing about it."

Frankie was crying again. I handed him a paper towel. "What do I do?" he finally said. "I want out of this, I want out of this so badly."

"Get me the evidence on Milo. And whoever's behind him."

"But they'll know. They would know I took the books."

"Can you make copies?"

"No, I'm only there during business hours when Milo is there."

"But could you put some of the books in your briefcase and walk out?"

"Milo checks the drawer every day when he arrives and when he leaves."

"How about lunch?"

"Yes," he said hesitantly. "But he'd know in a couple of hours and they would come and get me here."

"By which time you won't be here. I'll get you safely into police * 139 *

custody and into their witness protection program. They'll change your name and ident.i.ty and relocate you to a place where Milo can't get you."

"The police aren't even safe. There's an informant there who'll tell them what I'm going to do."

"Who is it?" I asked, putting my hand on his shoulder to shake the defeat out of him.

"I don't know. And Milo's not the real leader."

"Who?"

Frankie shook his head sadly, as if wanting very much to please me, but unable to.

"Can you find out?"

"I don't know," he said slowly. "Someone big. I've never seen him. Only talked to him once or twice on the phone. He only talks to people on the phone, like he doesn't want to see their faces. You'd think the police would have gotten someone like us, like Milo a long time ago, but..."

"But?" I prompted.

"Like when you broke into Jambalaya. All the real books were gone a long time before the police showed up. Like they knew the second the search warrant was issued. They get away with so many things they shouldn't be able to."

"Like what?"

Frankie just shook his head for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry, I can't go to the police."

"You won't. I will," I a.s.sured him. "The police won't know until you've got the records, okay? I won't tell them anything until after it's happened."

"Do you really think there's a chance?" he asked.

"It's the only chance you've got," I answered, telling the truth.

He was to spend the weekend as usual and go in on Monday as usual. I would be outside watching and waiting. If he couldn't get the books, he would go into the deli and get a sandwich as usual. If he got the books, he would keep on walking to the bank. I would follow him and take him to safety. Then I would contact Ranson and make a deal.

I wrote my first name and phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to him. I told him to call me only if it was very important. He agreed and I left, taking a circuitous route back to my apartment to make sure * 140 *

no one was following me. I had been pretty careful coming over here, but I couldn't afford any more mistakes. I wanted Frankie to have a chance to work out his problems. Besides, he probably looked better in a dress than I did.

Outside my door was a package from MacKenzie's Bakery and a note from Ms. Clavish. She said she had been given three king cakes in the last two days and would I please take one? If I didn't want it, could I at least throw it out for her so she wouldn't feel guilty about letting good food go to waste.

My kitchen could use any food that it could get. I penned a thank-you note and put it under her door.

Being hungry, I cut a chunk out of the king cake and poured myself some Scotch. They don't really go together very well, but it was all I had. I bit into the doll in the first bit. That supposedly meant luck. The only other time I'd gotten the piece of cake with the doll in it, I had been twelve and Bayard had grabbed it away, saying I couldn't have it since I was really a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. No wonder I despised him. I continued drinking my Scotch.

Somehow Sat.u.r.day happened. I was still in my rumpled clothes.

A cat was dangerously close to my face with a desperate, starved look in her eyes. I picked up Hepplewhite and deposited her on the floor, keeping her slashing claws away from my delicate cheek. She meowed.

I found half a can of cat food in the refrigerator. She didn't seem very fond of the flavor, but at least now if she starved it would be her choice, not mine.

I turned on the shower, letting the water run. I took my clothes off and threw them in a pile in the corner. The water wouldn't get hot, just sporadically lukewarm. Just as well, it would wake me up. I got in. Why is the water that hits your body always twenty degrees colder than the water that hits your hands? I shuddered, then quickly soaped and shampooed myself. It was a quick shower. The cold water hadn't helped the fog that I was in.

I thought about going to karate cla.s.s to work out, but didn't want to risk meeting Ranson there. I thought about driving out to the shipyard, but realized that I didn't want to be out there with nothing to do but think. I looked at the clock. It was seven-thirty in the morning.

I got dressed and walked purposefully to the French Quarter, bought a paper, found an out-of-the-way table, and ordered chicory * 141 *

coffee. The paper was the usual boring list of scandals and intrigues this city is famous for. The only thing vaguely interesting was a picture of the distinguished older man I had seen with Ignatious Holloway. He was standing with some smiling policeman holding a certificate. He had probably donated money to the Crippled Widows and Children of Officers Slain While Protecting Little Old Ladies in Wheelchairs Foundation. I forced myself to read the society column because I had nothing better to do. Distinguished gentleman was Alphonse Korby and he owned the Julia Street Telecommunications Company. He was donating money to the Patrolman's Save Our Children Anti-drug Fund.

How perfectly acceptable. Holloway's picture was also there, Karen standing beside him like the perfect granddaughter she wasn't. They were flanked by two more men, also rich and powerful from the looks of them. Holloway, in his anti-crime zeal, was donating seed money and the equipment for a drug hotline, a "hey, kids, call up and turn in your parents for smoking dope" kind of telephone service. The man beside Holloway looked familiar. Why is it that corpulent white men all look alike to me? Judge Aldus Raymond was his name. "Send 'em upriver" Raymond. Had I heard that from Danny? What did it matter anyway? I turned the page to the comics.

When I couldn't find anything more to read in the paper, I left and walked to my car. Maybe it just needed some fast highway driving, I rationalized. I drove, taking Highway 90 instead of I-10. I didn't turn around until I crossed the Biloxi Bay bridge, some two hours east. Then I drove back without stopping. It was evening when I got back to the city. My car was still making funny sounds. I parked it and decided not to worry about it tonight. What could I do on a Sat.u.r.day night anyway? I stopped by the liquor store and picked up two bottles of cheap, but marginally decent Scotch. It was late enough in the day to start drinking. I did.

I woke up Sunday with a hangover. I looked at the Scotch bottle and saw how much I had had to drink. No wonder. A lot of dead brain cells.

There was a light on my answering machine that I was sure hadn't been there last night. I ran the tape back. Ranson asking me to call her.

When I can hand you Milo's head on a plate, Joanne, baby. Until then, I work best alone.

I went out, got the Sunday paper, a half dozen eggs and some * 142 *

English m.u.f.fins for my breakfast, and a couple of cans of cat food for Hepplewhite. She appreciated my efforts by wolfing down her food, then throwing it up on some dirty socks that I had thrown on the floor.

Danny had called while I was out, but I ignored that message, too.

I cleaned up after my adorable little kitty cat, then settled in with the paper and scrambled eggs. After I had finished the serious sections, I made myself a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary with the dregs of a vodka bottle and a can of tomato juice that had been sitting in my refrigerator for at least six months.

I had just sat down with my third drink when my buzzer rang.

Probably Baptists to save me from eternal h.e.l.lfire. I ignored them. I want a warm afterlife. It buzzed again, insistently. I didn't answer, but curiosity did prompt me to peek out the window. I saw Ranson. I also saw the gesturing hand of the person buzzing me. It was Danny's, and she had a key. Ranson and the hand disappeared. They were coming inside.

I thought about the closet, but there weren't enough clothes hanging in it to hide Hepplewhite, let alone me. As I wasn't about to confront an a.s.sistant D.A. and an experienced detective sergeant, that left the ledge or the couch. Since I was both hungover and a bit drunk, the five-inch ledge didn't seem like a good idea. That left the couch. I hastily made an even greater mess of the newspapers and dirty clothes in front of it-though the dust b.a.l.l.s alone would hide a herd of elephants-then rolled underneath it just as I heard Danny's key in the lock. From where I was hidden, I could see the door, or at least the lower part of it. Two pairs of feet entered, one in running shoes that I recognized as Danny's and the other in black and gray boots. Ranson had fashionable feet off duty, I noted. I suddenly wondered what it would be like to be her lover, not to just sleep with her, but to be with her and listen to her say what she really felt about things. I felt a stab of envy for Alexandra Sayers.

"Not here," Ranson commented.

Oh, good, I'd fooled them.