Gator Aide (20 page)

“City?”

I nodded as she began her examination, homing in on every unseen injury. “You’re from the boroughs?”

She smiled, aware that I’d caught the difference in our accents. “Long Island. How long have you been down here?”

“Six months. You?”

“Three years.” She noticed me flinch as she touched a sore rib. “Fish and Wildlife, huh? What do you do?”

“I spend the majority of my time trudging through marshes and swamps.”

Taking out a large Ace bandage, Kushner wrapped it firmly around my rib cage. “Jewish girls from New York don’t do that sort of thing.”

I didn’t even ask how she could tell. Almost no one ever could. “No. They don’t work in hospitals in Louisiana, either.”

We smiled, both acknowledging the fact that we were either running from or in search of something neither of us could really define. I jumped as she touched the back of my head.

“Somebody did a nice job back here.”

“I’m glad you like the handiwork. I hate to think what he would have done if he’d really had the chance.”

“I think we can get away without shaving the area and putting in stitches. I’ll just clean around it and trust that you’ll rest, if that’s all right with you.”

I opted against the skinhead look as she moved on to my other wounds.

“You banged up your knee pretty well. Have a nice time at the parade?”

“Wrong place, wrong time. I wish I could say I’d been there by choice, but it was sheer accident.”

Brandishing tweezers, she swiftly pulled out the debris embedded in my palms and knees. As a reward for good behavior, I received a tetanus shot and one of cortisone to help bring down the swelling, along with an elastic knee brace to wear. My parting gift was a container of painkillers.

“Well, Porter, for someone who had no intention of being there, you ended up with assorted contusions, a bum knee, and quite a lump on your head. If I were you, I’d stay out of the way of neo-Nazis. You’ll live longer.”

My knee and head throbbed as I waited for the Percocet to kick in. “I came with a friend who was in pretty bad shape. Is there any way I can find out about him?”

Kushner glanced down at my chart. “Sure. Give me his name and I’ll check on him for you.”

With Kushner out of the room, I shed the hospital gown and slipped back into my tattered street clothes as I waited for word on Terri. The fact that I was no longer officially a patient helped to take my mind off my aches and pains, and focus it where it belonged—on the necklace of diamonds I’d left lying inside my purse at home.

It didn’t take long for Kushner to return with news on Terri.

“Your friend didn’t fare as well as you. We’re doing a battery of tests on him now, and it looks like he’ll be here at least another couple of days. Give me a call tomorrow, and I’ll find out what I can for you then.”

“I appreciate it.”

She made a note on her chart. “Just think of it as a favor for a fellow New Yorker.”

Halfway out the door, another thought struck me. “Do you ever perform autopsies in your spare time?”

Kushner gave me an odd look, unsure of whether or not to smile. “Any particular reason you want to know? Perhaps with a loved one in mind?”

I chuckled as I thought of Hickok. “No. Nothing like that. In fact, we’re not even talking human. Sorry. Stupid question.”

Putting the chart down, Kushner pulled herself up on the examining table. “No, not at all. Besides, now you’ve got my curiosity aroused. All I want to know is if it’s legal.”

I limped back into the room, the brace a vise around my knee. “That’s a hard one. I’d say it’s perfectly legal. My problem is a boss who’s hedging on having an autopsy done, out of sheer stubbornness and obstinate male ego.”

Kushner laughed as she drew small concentric circles in the air with her feet. “I’ve dealt with the same problem around here. Believe me, it’s not that unusual. But it sounds like the patient is. What kind of animal are you talking about?”

“Reptile. A large one.”

She rubbed a finger along the bridge of her nose as another patient was rushed down the hall on a gurney. “I wish I could help you, but…” Gesturing toward the commotion out in the hall, she smiled and then shrugged.

But I wasn’t ready to give up so easily. Not after Hickok’s abrupt dismissal of my work.

“Would you know someone else who might be willing to do it without legal authorization? I swear on the Empire State Building, it’s for a good cause.”

Kushner gazed off in the distance for a moment, then turned back with a look of sheer inspiration. “I just might have the guy for you. He’s a veterinarian and fellow New Yorker who’s heavy into animal rights, which means we’re constantly battling over medical experimentation. Sam’s one of these old sixties idealists who’s probably crazy enough to do just about anything, if you can provide him with a politically correct reason.”

“How would helping to solve a murder case involving a big-time wildlife poacher strike him?”

“I’d say you’ve got your man.”

The waiting room had pretty
much cleared out by the time Santou returned to get me. I’d spent the last half hour watching frightened people being shunted in and out, with injuries ranging from broken bones to bodies that looked as though they’d been put through a meat grinder—mostly victims of the riot. I was caught between two conflicting emotions. Though I wanted to thank Santou for his help, I also had the overwhelming urge to punch him out for being on a police force that didn’t seem to care.

I slid into Santou’s LeSabre, wanting nothing more than to sleep for a solid eight hours without any dreams of Valerie, Hickok, or the maniac who’d plowed a sign into my head.

“So, Porter, you want to tell me all about your day before, during, or after dinner?”

It hurt for me even to think. Having to deal with carrying on a conversation over dinner was another dimension altogether. “Listen, Santou, I appreciate the trouble you’ve gone to, taxiing me back and forth. But look at me. I feel like shit, and all I want to do is go home.” What I really wanted more than anything was another Percocet.

“Home is exactly where I’m taking you, Porter.”

This time we drove down Bourbon Street. Santou flashed his badge, and we were waved on through an area that had been blocked off to all other traffic. I had expected to find a scene out of war-torn Beirut. While torn clothing and splintered signs abounded here as well, what surprised me was the fact that most of the buildings and porno theatres remained relatively untouched, except for those that were explicitly gay. Terri’s club, Boy Toy, was one that had incurred skinhead wrath. The front window was shattered, and part of the building had been torched, but Terri’s publicity shot as Madonna in a lacy white bustierre, bikini panties, garter belt, stockings, and high heels still hung outside. “Kill All Fags” had been spray painted over it in large black letters.

As we drove down block after block, it became obvious that the riot on Bourbon had been carefully planned. It was as if someone had laid out which businesses were to be hit. Considering the amount of money generated on the strip, it wasn’t hard to imagine why. But it did make me curious. A few of the clubs had even had the foresight to board up their windows. I made a mental note as to which buildings they were, and decided to try and find out who the investors might be.

Santou parked in front of my apartment, placing his N.O.P.D. sign clearly on display. Opening the passenger door, he helped me out.

“You’ll have to make it upstairs on your own steam,
chère.
I’ve got packages to carry.”

I concentrated on the long flight of steps ahead, not bothering to ask Santou exactly what he was bringing in. All my energy was directed on keeping as much weight off my left leg as possible. The second-floor landing still reeked with the odor of urine, and my straw doormat was stained with Terri’s blood. Unlocking my door, I stepped inside and scanned the room for my purse. Spotting it on the floor where I’d left it, I limped over to my secondhand chair, removing the ice bag I’d carelessly left on its seat. A dark, wet puddle covered the pale green fabric. Too hot and tired to care, I plunked myself down as I watched Santou come through the door with an armload of groceries. The man rarely seemed carefree. Tonight he looked even less so.

“You picked a good day to get beat-up, Porter. We got us some fresh catfish, and I’m in the mood to cook.”

The mention of food set my stomach rumbling, and I realized I was starved. The last time I’d eaten was the cherry Danish before my expedition to Valerie’s. I was in no shape to get up and cook for myself, something I rarely did even under the best of circumstances. Instead, I watched Santou put the groceries away and generally check out my living conditions. I hadn’t cleaned the place in weeks, and, at the moment, my freezer was in worse shape than Valerie’s.

“I figured you wouldn’t have much here to cook with. Looks like I was right.”

Santou looked perfectly natural puttering about as he hummed to himself, but I didn’t appreciate the crack. I’d been made to feel that I wasn’t domestic by everyone from my mother to my former fiancé. They were right, of course. But it was still a sore spot. I believed in the philosophy of takeout: if you live by yourself, why bother cooking food that’s just going to go to waste? I considered myself a responsible adult by bringing my meals home in little aluminum containers.

The catfish sizzled and the collard greens smelled better than I had imagined they would. It was the most cooking that had been done in my kitchen since I’d moved here.

I was more aware of my mismatched plates and utensils than ever as we sat down to eat. I hated the thought of someone coming in and making assumptions about me as I’d done with Valerie, but it wasn’t hard to do. Santou poured himself a glass of red wine, quickly downing it in one gulp.

“What? No Mylanta chaser?”

His eyes narrowed as they focused in on me, and he was silent for a moment.

“Want to tell me what you found at Vaughn’s place this afternoon?”

I picked at the catfish, trying to figure out what it was about his question that bothered me. “Why don’t you tell me first why there were no cops around for today’s festivities? Or weren’t the police aware that a potentially explosive march would be taking place today?”

I reached for the wine bottle, having come to the decision that one glass along with a Percocet probably wouldn’t kill me.

“They were out there, Porter. There was no trouble on Canal where the march started, and that’s where everyone had been ordered to report.”

I pictured a long line of cops hanging out on Canal watching the march disappear off in the distance. “Why didn’t they move in when all hell broke loose?”

“That’s the million-dollar question. They were ordered back to the precinct to change into riot gear as soon as they got wind of trouble. Seems it took a long time to order them back out on the street again.”

“And who was the one giving the orders?”

Santou took a drink of his wine. “Captain Connie Kroll.”

“The same charmer I had the pleasure of not meeting early this morning.”

“The one and only.”

“Interesting guy. First he ropes off a murder investigation, and then sits back as all hell breaks loose in the Quarter. He wouldn’t happen to be tied in with Hillard Williams by any chance, would he?”

Santou frowned. The creases in his face cut deep through his flesh. “Everyone knows Hillard. You can’t hang a man for that.”

The words reverberated in a hollow cavity behind my eyes where a migraine was beginning to form. My daily quotient for civility was close to running out.

“Well, just what can you hang a man for down here? I know poaching doesn’t seem to matter. How about committing murder? Does that pose a problem? Or is it only the slashing of hookers that doesn’t count? I mean, what the hell is it that you guys are paid to do, anyway?”

Santou sat back and stared through me as though deciding my fate. When he spoke again, it was with an icy distance that let me know in no uncertain terms that I had overstepped my bounds.

“Listen, Porter. I work damn hard to do my job right, and that ain’t always easy around here. I’ve paid my dues and been put through the fire more than you’ll ever know. I’ve learned that sometimes you got to straddle both sides of the fence to get what you need. That’s why I’m good at what I do. It’s a trick you could do well to acquire. I put my ass on the line today by giving you that key to Vaughn’s apartment. Now you owe me some information. As for the march, I’ll dig around and find out what I can. Other than that, you want to press charges against the guy who bashed in your head? Sure, no problem. Describe him for me. Can Bo Peep identify who beat him up? I’ll be glad to do the paperwork. Otherwise, if you’ve got a problem just say so, and we’ll call whatever this is that we’ve started here quits.”

A combination of Percocet and wine had me dead tired and close to bursting into tears. Everything seemed hopeless at the moment—from taking the time to try and slap a poacher in jail, to attempting something as simple as having a conversation. In the past when I’d reached this point, I generally handled the problem by walking away and burning my bridges behind me—especially when it came to my relationships with men. This time I couldn’t figure out whether Santou was a bridge I couldn’t afford to burn, or just one I didn’t want to yet.

“I apologize. I’ve never been very good at getting beaten up in riots. It’s something I’m trying to work on. Mind if I start over?”

Santou drank another glass of wine, never taking his eyes off me. Exuding both a red-hot anger and white-hot lust that caused my pulse to race, his seductive mix of danger and sex was as irresistible as it was frightening. My face flushed as he continued to stare. Noticing it, the barest trace of a smile flitted across his lips. I took a deep breath and tried again.

“What happens to Connie Kroll if Hillard gets into office?”

“Same thing that happens to him no matter who gets in. The man stays. He’s rock solid. Kroll’s a lot like old J. Edgar Hoover was. He’s got dirt on everybody in town. Starts a file as soon as each new baby is born.” Santou leaned back in his chair, examining me more casually now. “It would take a bomb to dislodge that man. Problem is, nobody’s got one big enough to do it.”