82 Desire (29 page)

Twenty-seven

IT WAS MONDAY night by the time Skip and Steve got home.

Russell and Dina were fine, getting better by the minute, but they hadn’t come around right away. Because they were so obviously drunk—and because of the evidence of so many glasses and bottles—they had been admitted to a hospital, where they had their stomachs pumped and didn’t even seem to notice.

The doctors said they’d probably keep sleeping heavily, at least through the night.

Skip had been the one to call Bebe, a good news/bad news proposition.
Oh, well
, she thought,
surely Bebe could handle news of a girlfriend.
It wasn’t like she was a model of fidelity herself.

As it happened, she kept saying, “Thank God,” and crying, and then saying it again.

After Bebe, Skip called Kelly McGuire and ran the whole thing down.

“Let me get this straight,” said McGuire, and there was menace in her voice. “You went to Florida on your own hook and did police business?”

“My friend and I went for the weekend, and I thought while I was here, I’d just… you know… make a cursory search.”

McGuire laughed so hard Skip had to hold the phone away from her ear. “You’re a sketch, Langdon, you know that? What the hell am I going to do with you?”

“Well, Lieutenant, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“I’ll just bet you have. Look, you’ve got to question Fortier—he’s not accused of any crime, is he?”

“We couldn’t think of one.”

“So the Fort Lauderdale police have no reason to hold him. He could just take off the minute he wakes up.”

“My thought exactly.”

“So just work your regular shift in Florida. You can pay for the plane ticket yourself.”

She hung up before Skip could either thank her or protest.

By the time she and Steve got back to the hotel it was well after midnight, but she was up early, and over at the hospital by nine o’clock.

Russell was being discharged. He seemed groggy, in fact had no idea who she was. The woman, Dina Wolf, came in with Rudolfo. She looked pretty shaky as well.

“I’m taking them to Ms. Wolf’s apartment,” Rudolfo said, and gave Skip the address. “We’re putting a guard on them till we find out what this is all about. Let me give you a number.”

It was a perfect day in Florida, and Skip could do nothing but chew her nails. Every hour she called the guard’s cell phone and each time she was told both Fortier and Wolf were sleeping. At two o’clock, she was told Russell had awakened and eaten some soup. He was sleeping again. Ms. Wolf hadn’t stirred.

At three he was also sleeping.

At three forty-five, the guard called her.

She and Rudolfo arrived almost at the same time, to find Russell pale, shaking, and rubbing his head, dressed in a T-shirt that must have been Wolf’s, and the same rumpled khakis he’d had on the night before.

“How’s Ms. Wolf?”

“She says a truck hit her, call her in a month.” He grinned. “A train hit me, I think.”

Rudolfo said, “I’ve got a friend who swears big, greasy burgers are the best thing for a hangover. Maybe we could go get one.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think…”

“Tell you what. Mick needs a break—let’s see if he’ll do it.”

While Mick was gone, Russell rubbed his head almost nonstop and told the story of the night before … haltingly, and with lots of pauses, as if he’d forgotten things. Having been at Holser’s, Skip knew most of it, but there was one piece she didn’t—Russell had no idea who the two thugs were.

“They sound like pros,” she said.

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“Any idea who hired them?”

“Yeah. Oh, yeah.
Goddam,
I was stupid! Dina could have been killed.”

Mick came back with a hamburger and a sack of greasy fries, and Russell began to change almost with the first bite. “Hey, this is good.” He started to attack the thing with so much enthusiasm, further conversation was momentarily impossible. Skip could have sworn she saw color come back to his face even as he chowed down.

When he had polished off the burger, he touched a napkin to his mouth and looked the officers in the eye, suddenly a man who’d been an executive at an oil company and still had a few of his marbles.

“I’m a new man,” he said, and Skip believed it. “Did anyone call my wife?”

“I did, but I didn’t have a number to give her. I told her you were fine.”

He nodded, that out of the way. “Okay, you were wondering who wanted to kill me.”

Skip and Rudolfo nodded in unison. “Two guys I used to work with—or one of them, maybe. Seaberry and Favret. I talked to Beau about this whole thing the other night. The short version is this—the four of us did some things we shouldn’t have. Beau wanted to come clean about it. He didn’t exactly say it, but it was obvious he thought one of the other guys killed some PI who’d found out about it.”

Skip nodded, not about to give away Allred’s name.

“He said they were about to have a meeting about it.”

Fortier paused, donning an appropriately sober face for what he said next. “And then I read about Beau in the paper. Guess they got him, too.”

Rudolfo said, “I think we need to Mirandize you.”

“Yeah, I guess maybe you do.”

Skip thought she had never seen a person so completely at peace with the mess he’d made of his life. Rudolfo delivered the warning, and then said, “Do you want to waive any of these rights?”

He thought about it. “I’m going to have to call a lawyer at some point, but let’s finish up the easy stuff. I want to give you enough information to move on these guys.”

Rudolfo seized the moment. “I still don’t get why they were trying to kill you.”

“Because if I tell what I know, their lives fall apart. And that’s not including the two murders—those kind of up the ante.”

“How’d these guys know where you are?”

“Beau could have told them, I guess.” He looked at Skip. “How’d you find me? “

She shrugged. “Few lucky guesses.”

“Yeah, well. Everybody knew I’d spent time here. Everybody knows I sail. I guess they just looked in the obvious places.”

Skip let Rudolfo ask the biggie. “What exactly are these big secrets that people would kill to conceal?”

“We defrauded people out of oil leases. Lots of them.” He stood. “And now, I guess I really do have to call a lawyer.”

In the end, they all wound up back at the Fort Lauderdale police station—Skip and Rudolfo and Fortier and the lawyer. And late that night, Steve and Skip flew home. As they checked out of the hotel, the clerk handed Skip a fax, which she tucked into her purse to read on the plane.

Jane’s story blew her out of the water. There wasn’t a second to waste. She called Abasolo from the plane. “Look, I’m on my way back, and something’s come up. Can you meet me at the airport? We might get ourselves a murderer tonight.”

“How could something have come up? You just called me before you got on the plane.”

“I read something Jane Storey faxed me—the story that’s running on Page One tomorrow. Trust me—we’ve got to get to this dude tonight, before he goes behind a wall of lawyers.”

“Could you just tell me one thing? Who is it?”

“I’m getting it narrowed down.”

She kissed Steve good-bye at the other end, and got in the car with Abasolo. On the drive back to town, she filled him in.

“So which one is it?” he said. “Favret or Seaberry?”

“Let’s flip a coin.” She produced a quarter. “Heads, it’s Seaberry; tails, Favret.”

It came up tails.

The Favret house was dark, but a light came on after about ten minutes of leaning on the bell. A woman’s voice spoke through the intercom: “Who is it?”

“Police.”

“Oh.” And then silence.

In a moment, a woman tying a robe answered the door. “We’re looking for Edward Favret.”

She looked at her watch. “He, uh, went out about half an hour ago. Is everything all right, officers? I mean—he hasn’t been in an accident or anything?”

Skip said, “Nothing like that. Can you tell us where he went?”

She shrugged, clearly not knowing what to make of all this. “He went to see a business associate. Douglas Seaberry.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Sorry to disturb you.” As they turned away, Skip and Abasolo rolled their eyes at each other, acknowledging their sympathy with the woman.

Abasolo said, “Guess we’re getting both of them at once. How do you want to play it?”

“By ear,” she answered, and he gave her a thumbs-up. That was what they both liked.

Unlike the Favret residence, the Seaberry house was well lit; almost festive-looking. The two officers marched up the front walk and mounted the steps before they heard the yelling.

“Goddammit, you can’t do that,” was the first thing they heard. “I’m your goddamn boss, goddammit.”

The two men were evidently standing in the foyer having an argument.

“I don’t have any choice.” The second man spoke in a lower voice.

“
Goddamn
you!”

And then a child said, “Daddy? What’s wrong?”

“Get the hell out of here! Megan, get that kid the fuck out of here.”

Abasolo raised an eyebrow. Skip shrugged and rang the doorbell. Within, all went silent.

Skip rang the bell again, and almost as quickly as the silence came, the door opened a crack, and then closed quickly. Seaberry shouted, “You little idiot. You little idiot.”

The woman spoke in a calm, authoritative voice. “Douglas. Douglas! Step back now. You may not touch that child.”

And then there was the sound of one human being hitting another, followed by a loud, female moan. Skip gave the police knock.

“Mr. Seaberry! Open up.”

The boy opened the door again, eyes like shiny brown quarters, face reflecting the end of the world. Favret was holding the woman, trying to lower her to the floor, or perhaps keep her from falling, and Seaberry was halfway up the stairs.

Skip said, “I’ve got him,” and followed. “Better call for backup.” Let Abasolo deal with the three below—she’d come too far to let anyone else do this.

Seaberry reached the second floor and kept going. He had a big head start, and he was in good shape. He reached a third floor and sprinted to the end of a long hallway, where there was a room set up as an office. She heard steps pounding behind her.

Seaberry said, “I’ve got a gun.”

He didn’t, yet, not that Skip could see. But he picked up something from the top of a desk, and she had no choice but to dive for him. She had him on the floor, but she still couldn’t tell whether he really had a gun. She was wrestling him, grabbing for his arm, when someone entered the room. Adam.
Thank you
, she thought, and Seaberry fired. A body crashed to the floor.

Shocked, furious, she tried to knock the gun out of his hand, but he rolled her over, getting her on the bottom. He stood up in one graceful movement and she heard him say, “Omigod, what have I done?”

“Adam?” she said, terrified, unwilling to take her eyes off Seaberry. And Abasolo answered, “It’s okay. Take it easy now. Just give me the gun.”

Seaberry was pointing it at him. Favret was on the floor, gut-shot.

Seaberry backed away from Abasolo. “Stand back. Just stand back away from me.” He was backing toward the far wall of the house, where Skip saw an open window. Abasolo took a step toward him, and he fired again. Glass shattered—he’d hit a picture on the wall—and the moment of confusion was enough for him to swing himself up on the ledge.

Abasolo leaped toward him, but he didn’t fire again. Skip scrambled up and ran, arms open, to the window, grabbing at whatever she could catch.

The man’s weight dropped, but her grip held, and so did Adam’s. They had him, but he was dangling. Skip’s arm felt as if it were coming out of the socket.

Oh, shit,
she thought,
I don’t know if I can do this.

She heard a sound behind them, and Seaberry’s wife screamed, “Douglas. Oh, Douglas, hold on.”

You’re telling the wrong guy
, Skip thought.
Oh, God, I can’t handle this.

Abasolo said, “Breathe, Skip. Keep breathing. Mrs. Seaberry, go back downstairs and take care of your child.”

“Edward… ?”

“Call 911 again. Ask for an ambulance. Tell them the situation.”

Skip thought she was going to pass out. “Adam. My hand’s slipping.”

“Breathe, baby. Just breathe. Don’t think about holding on. Think about breathing.”

When the car came, sometime in another millennium, she thought:
It’s too late. I can’t make it till they climb two flights of stairs. No way in hell.

She kept breathing. She breathed till two guys got there, and among the four of them, they hauled Seaberry in the window.

When they brought him down, the kid was clinging to his mom like panty hose. “Daddy?” he said. “Did you kill Uncle Beau?”

Douglas tried to lunge at him. “You little shit! You goddamned ungrateful little shit!”

Twenty-eight

“DO YOU SUPPOSE,” Skip said to Steve later, “he actually thought he was doing it for the kid?”

“Naaah. He’s just got to justify it to himself now that it’s over. What I think, he’s just an arrogant asshole who’s always had things his own way.”

“Amen. All the Skinners were, even Beau. But it doesn’t really explain murder.”

“Ah, who cares? Leave it to the DA to figure out.”

Instead, she ran it by Cindy Lou. “As it happens,” her friend said, “I had occasion to do a psychological evaluation of the gentleman, and one thing is abundantly obvious. He thinks he’s right. He’s just one of those guys who has to be right all the time. People like that scare me to death. Something else, too—he’s very image-conscious. If he hadn’t been the big exec, he would have had no identity.”

“Uh-huh. Like Steve said.”

“What did Steve say?”

“Arrogant asshole who feels entitled.”

“Sounds right.”

Skip went through all these machinations because she was never going to get a chance to hear it from Seaberry. He had most assuredly not waived his rights, had had a lawyer on the scene within minutes, and had clammed up and stayed clammed.

Favret had survived, but he wasn’t up to talking for a while.

And Russell, who turned himself in for fraud, had his own opinion. “He had no soul. None of us did.”

“What does that mean? Everybody’s got a soul.”

“Douglas became the job, the socialite, the high-achiever. There was no Douglas, only words that described him.”

“And you?” she said.

“I was the same.”

It didn’t matter much that Seaberry wasn’t talking: the gun he shot Favret with was the same one he’d used on Allred.

As well as she could piece it together, Jane’s story had precipitated the confrontation between Seaberry and Favret. Jane called them both for reaction, thereby sounding the alarm. Favret went over to Seaberry’s to discuss strategy, and they got into it. Favret wanted to come clean; Seaberry, by this time having a lot more to lose, wanted to stop him.

***

Coming out of his near-coma, Russell had felt more like Rip Van Winkle than a man who’d been gone less than twenty-four hours. It was like being upside down on the damn boat again. His whole life had once again shifted. Or maybe it had just settled; maybe this was an aftershock of an aftershock—the original quake being the one caused by the boat accident, and the next upheaval the crazy, cowardly flight to Fort Lauderdale.

The man who woke up that Monday and was brought back to life by two cops with a burger and fries was as different from the one who’d fled New Orleans as from the original man who’d been a Skinner.

When he went to sleep that night, after long and arduous talks with cops and calls to lawyers, he couldn’t imagine not going home; not being Bebe’s husband; not living in Lake Vista; not turning himself in for his crimes and serving his time. Simply couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t think what had come over him.

Dina had kept sleeping, waking briefly now and again to go to the bathroom or murmur or even nibble something, and then going right back to sleep. He watched her and he thought about her, and he felt warm, bittersweet surges of love for her, but he knew she wasn’t his mate. In some kind of cosmic, preordained thing, Bebe was. Or maybe he was just so used to her he’d miss her forever if they weren’t together.

“Russell Fortier,” she had said when he phoned, “you get your butt home before you get in any more trouble.” And a lovely thing like an electric current, except nice and soft and cozy, started at the top of his head and spread through his body.

He wanted to leave it at that. But he had to say what had to be said. “Bebe, there’s a whole lot of stuff you don’t know. I’m probably going to jail.”

“You didn’t kill anyone, did you?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, then, maybe I can handle it.”

“What about your career?”

“This is Lousisiana, baby. If it’s bad enough, I might end up governor.”

Something had happened. “Uh, Bebe, what’s going on? You’re taking this way too lightly.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll beat you up later. I’m saving my best shots for face-to-face. I just sound calm because I already know about the Skinners. I had a courtesy call from Jane Storey—you know, the reporter. Somehow she found out about you, baby; the story’s running tomorrow.”

“Oh, shit.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I love you, Bebe.”

“I missed you,” she said. “I really did miss you.”

He wondered if she really could handle what was going to come down.

Later, Dina woke up and squeezed his hand. “You alive?”

“Uh-huh. You?”

“I must be,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

He did the burger trick with her, and found it worked a second time. After she’d eaten, she smiled and said, “Well, I can’t say it hasn’t been fun.”

“You sound like you’re going somewhere.”

“Not me. But you were, even before there were cops in your life. Now you really are.”

His throat felt all tight and scratchy. Just to prolong the connection, he said something he didn’t mean. “I’ll write you from the Big House.”

She touched his face on the pretext of brushing hair out of his eyes. “I don’t think so. I think this is the end of the line for Dean and Dina.”

“I’m going to miss you.”

“True. True. Who’ll go skinny-dipping with you?”

And he had the strangest notion. Maybe Bebe would. Maybe she was different, too. Or maybe she would be after everything that was about to happen. But maybe not. He’d made it this far with a wife who didn’t skinny-dip; one who’d stand by him while he went to jail was a lot better than he deserved.

***

“What do you think of this?” Talba had on fuchsia harem pants with a magenta leotard. She had draped a purple and gold sari over her head, and the thing was so long it dragged on the floor.

Her mama said, “You think Miz Clara goin’ out in public with somebody dress like that, you got another think comin’. I didn’t send my only daughter to college so she can dress like Whoopi Goldberg.”

Darryl Boucree, who happened to be waiting for both of them, asked, “What on earth’s wrong with Whoopi Goldberg?”

“That does it,” Talba countered, and changed into a long black dress.

“Even better,” said Darryl.

“Needs somethin’, though.” Talba draped the sari again and waited for the expected tirade from Miz Clara.

But her mother said, “Now that’s nice.”

“Well, I can’t wear it if you like it.”

She might have changed again, but Darryl hustled her butt out the door. “Come on, we got to get over there.”

On the heels of Jane Storey’s much-solicited article about her, which had finally materialized, Talba was presenting the program at Le Petit Theatre’s Sunday Salon. This was a fund-raiser held once a month and attended mostly by those in the neighborhood, which was the French Quarter. It wasn’t a paying gig—in fact, she well knew she was doing them a favor—but, still, it was her biggest, best-publicized, and by far most mainstream reading ever.

She’d gotten a couple of warm-up acts—an African dance troupe and a kid from NOCCA who played trumpet like Kermit Ruffins—but The Baroness was the main event, and she wondered if anyone would come.

When she walked in, the place was packed. Skip the cop was there, with three guys and the same two kids from last time, one of whom had a shaved head, and the other of whom had a boyfriend who’d look better with one. Cindy Lou the shrink was there, and Talba’s client, Ray, and his wife. Aha—even Bebe and Russell Fortier. The famous and the infamous, all in one family.

She started to get stage fright.

And then she was reading. She read her perennial crowd-pleaser, “I Am Like a Cat,” aware of Miz Clara’s discomfort, and Darryl’s pride, and the shock she always evoked from the white people, and quite a few guilty expressions as well.

When she had finished, she said, “Something happened to me since the last time I read that poem. My whole life changed, but I don’t quite know what it all means. So you know what I do when that happens? I write a poem about it. I did that this week and I’m about to read y’all my new poem. Listen now, y’all. I’m like more things than a cat.”

I am like an athlete.

One of those brilliant child gymnasts, twelve-year-old prodigy swimmers,

Gold medal already and no sign of breasts.

Nothing else to do now.

I lived my life for one thing only.

Get that man was so mean to my mama.

Kill him maybe. Maybe just torture him a couple of

decades.

Tell all his friends and all his family.

Put it in the paper and cry it from the rooftops.

Humiliate that namedropper, namestopper,

namekiller,

namethug, nameperv, nameperp, nameHOOLIGAN Just the way he did my mama.

And I wrote y’all a poem said how mad I was.

And I learned a whoooole new profession, just so I could find me that Pill Man name me Exit for Excreta.

I was a private dick.

And when you think about where that old Urethra is,

And how The Baroness Myself is a poet of some renown,

Doesn’t that just make you want to elbow fate right in the ribs?

Private dickhead’s more like it, but you knew I was gon’ say that. So I won’t.

I was gon’ use my educated, middle-class, cuttin’-edge
electronic skills to catch me that elusive Pill Man.

To catch me that namedropper, namestopper, namekiller,
namethug, nameperv, nameperp, nameHOOLIGAN.

And I was gon’ use plain old-fashioned deception right along with all that high technology.

I was gon’ bust my butt right into Charity, that misnamed old hole. I was gon’ deceive my way in.

I was gon’ pretend to be a simple blue-skirted worker, and private-dick my way to justice.

But then the fates Or God

Or that funny-boy Legba—Or maybe The Baroness Myself-—

Pasted my aristocratic ass right square on the wrong damn page.

The Baroness Pontalba,

She of the dependable high drama and the desperate hand-wringin’ foot-stompin’, somehow became a mere supporting player in some upstart parallel drama.

Just like white folks to steal the spotlight.

(Here Talba paused and was rewarded with light tittering.)

Oh, DESPAIR.

Oh, MISERY.

Oh, suffering, oh pain.

Ancient secrets slimed to the sun

And none of ’em mine or my mama’s.

Marriages died.

And so did a couple of men.

For more or less no reason except some crime-boy’s made-up, silly-ass idea about himself. And guess what?

A Jane named Storey wrote one about little old me. That’s right— Me Me Me Me.

(Talba sang the “me’s” to make sure no one was sleeping.)

Finally.

At last.

Me Me Me Me.

(Once again, she made music of the “me’s.”)

I finally got to strut and fret my hour.

And then the fates

Or God

Or that funny-boy Legba

Or maybe The Baroness Myself

Elicited thirteen separate confessions from

Thirteen separate Pill Men

Who all named some little girl Exit for Excreta.

(Or said they did.)

And twenty-seven wives, nurses, girlfriends, boyfriends, assorted orderlies, and liars

Tattled on another twenty-seven Pill Men who also committed that unspeakable sin.

(It is alleged.) And eight other little Urethras called to express solidarity in piss.

And did The Baroness Myself get satisfaction?

Well, no, y’all.

Does anybody? Ever?

In case y’all haven’t heard, there ain’t no justice.

THE END