Out of the Easy (14 page)

“Miss Moraine.”

Someone touched my elbow, and I turned. It was a police officer.

“Detective Langley would like to ask you a few questions. Come with me, please.”

TWENTY-ONE

I sat, humming, on a cold metal chair in the hallway of the police station, staring at the gray tile floor. It reminded me of the floors in my grade school. When I was bored, I used to stare at them, imagining they were a cloudy vat of water and with a secret password, the seam in the tile would open and suck my desk straight down into the abyss. I’d have to hold on, I’d be moving so fast, my thick hair blowing a tangled tempest behind me. I didn’t know what the abyss was, but I was sure that something better than New Orleans was under the school’s gray tile. The police station floors didn’t feel at all promising. Filmy residue from a dirty mop had painted circular shadows near the legs of each chair. Whoever cleaned the station was lazy. You always moved chairs to mop properly.

A clatter of hacking and high heels stopped in front of me.

“Well, hey there, Josie girl. Your momma’s not here, is she?”

Dora’s sister, Darleen, teetered in front of me, the left side of her neck speckled with either hickies or a beating.

I shook my head. “No, she’s not here.”

“Thanks for waiting, Miss Moraine.” A pudgy man with a receding hairline leaned out of a doorway nearby. Darleen raised her eyebrows and then quickly walked away, the exposed nails from her worn stilettos tapping against the tile. I walked into the office.

“Detective Langley,” he said, extending his arm for a handshake. His palm felt moist and fat. “Have a seat.”

The windowless office was nothing like John Lockwell’s. Stacked file boxes lined each wall nearly to the ceiling, and piles of folders rose up around the detective on his desk. The air was thick with hot breath and nicotine. No photographs. The detective pulled a file folder in front of him and took a swig from a coffee mug that hadn’t been washed in months. I could see a caffeine skin on the inside of the cup.

“We’re lucky we caught up with you. Your friend from the bookstore told us you were running errands on Gravier Street,” said the detective.

I nodded. I had seen Frankie and Willie have conversations with the police. They always listened intently and spoke very little. I intended to do the same. Willie used to have a police contact who covered for her in exchange for time with Dora. He was fired and Willie no longer had an inside cop.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, Miss Moraine, but a gentleman from Tennessee died of a heart attack at the Sans Souci on New Year’s Eve,” said the detective. He waited for a response.

“I read about it in the papers,” I told him.

He nodded and held up a picture of Forrest Hearne. Handsome, sophisticated, kind Forrest Hearne. He was smiling in the photo, his teeth perfectly aligned like squares of clean chalk.

“Mr. Hearne’s checkbook register shows that the afternoon prior to his death, he made a purchase in the bookstore where you are employed. Do you remember anything about him?”

I clasped my hands together so they wouldn’t tremble, thinking of Forrest Hearne’s check crisply folded in the cigar box under my bed. “He . . . said he was from Memphis and was down for the Bowl.”

The detective didn’t look at me. Instead, he stared down at the file, sparked a match, and lit a cigarette. He held up the pack, offering one.

“No, thank you.”

He stuffed the pack in his shirt pocket. “What did he buy?”

“Keats and Dickens,” I said.

He made a note on a dog-eared pad in front of him. “That’s the title of the book?”

“No, those are the names of two writers. He bought a book of poetry and a copy of
David Copperfield.
”

The detective continued writing and yawned. His tongue was stained the color of mustard. My shoulders relaxed slightly. This man was what Willie called a Paper Joe, not someone actively pursuing a case, just getting notes for the record. He certainly wasn’t the chess match John Lockwell had been.

“Okay, did you notice if he was wearing any jewelry? The widow reported that the deceased had an expensive watch.”

An icy rod shot through my nerves and into my throat. The watch. Of course she noticed that it was gone. Under the engraving
F. L. Hearne
on the back were also the words
With Love, Marion.
It was obviously a gift. An expensive gift. And now she wanted to know where it was.
Tick, tock, tick, tock—
the sound pulsed through my head.

“Did you notice a watch, Miss Moraine?” asked the detective.

“Yes. He was wearing a watch.”

“How do you know?” asked the detective.

“I noticed it when he was writing his check.”

The detective flipped the photo of Forrest Hearne up toward him. “This fella looks like a society guy. Nice watch?”

“Mmm-hmm. Gold.”

The chair groaned as he leaned back. He yawned again and ran his hand through the thin plumes of hair he had left. “Okay. So you can confirm that he had the watch when he bought the books?”

“Yes.”

“And what time was that?”

“I don’t recall the exact time. Late afternoon.”

“Anything else? Did he appear sick to you?”

“No, he didn’t appear sick.”

“Marty.” An equally disheveled man leaned in the doorway. “Shooting over in Metairie. The guys out there are saying it’s one of Marcello’s guys.”

Sleepy Detective Langley suddenly perked up. “Any witnesses?”

“Two. Both talkin’. How much longer ya gonna be?”

“I’m done. Just let me grab some coffee, and I’ll be down. Thank you, Miss Moraine. Sorry to interrupt your day, but the gentleman’s family is concerned about the watch and some cash that’s missing. They keep contacting us. I’ll show you out.”

“That’s not necessary. It sounds like you have pressing business. I’ll show myself out.” I gathered my purse and left his office and the station as quickly as possible.

The family’s concerned about the watch.
Of course they were concerned. How far would his wife go to find it? The strands of anxiety in my stomach were now firmly tied in knots. I felt like I might be sick. How did the watch end up in a man’s sock in my mother’s bedroom? I could have just told the detective I had found the watch and was happy to give it to him for Mrs. Hearne. But then he might have questioned why it ended up at Willie’s, he’d question Willie, and she would find out I had the watch and hadn’t told her. Besides, Willie was always saying she didn’t want any problems.

I knew what to do.

TWENTY-TWO

I ran my thumb over the letters etched in the gold. I saw it on his wrist and heard his deep voice.
Good luck at college, whichever one you choose,
and
Happy New Year. It’s gonna be a great one!
He had no idea. He seemed well, full of hope.
David Copperfield.
I barely knew him, yet something in me clung to the watch, and I wanted desperately to keep it. But I couldn’t.

I put on my sweater, dropped the watch in my purse, and left my apartment.

The cold air hung damp and a misty rain fell softly in the dark. I should have brought an umbrella, but I didn’t want to turn back. I knew if I did, I might lose my nerve. So I continued down the sidewalk on Royal toward St. Peter. The cloudy sky turned the streets into a wet black maze. Generally, I could watch for shadows behind me on the pavement, but tonight there weren’t any, just a slick of black. Doors slammed and voices echoed between the buildings. A man yelled at his son about the trash, and a soprano sang a beautiful aria from somewhere above me.

“Psst. Hey, girl.”

An old man in rags and carpet slippers peeked out from one of the doorways in front of me. I clutched my purse and stepped off the sidewalk into the street. He began to follow me, croaking nonsense.

“Hazel is under the table.” He giggled from a foot behind.

I quickened my pace and heard the sudden halt of his slippered footfall. It was replaced by an eerie singing.

“Thou art lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine,” he crooned.

Maybe I should have waited until daylight. My hair was wet and I began to shiver as I passed Dewey’s soda shop. It glowed warm and pink. I was nearly to the corner when I heard door hinges creak behind me.

“Jo!”

I turned. Jesse was jogging toward me.

“Hey, Jo. Where ya goin’?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Where was I going? What could I tell him? I looked down at Jesse’s denims, cuffed wide over his black motorcycle boots, and tried to think. “I’m . . . meeting a friend.”

“Kinda late, isn’t it?”

I nodded, wrapping my arms around my wet sweater.

“Wanna warm up for a second?” He motioned with his head toward the soda shop.

My eyes pulled to the happy pink glow on the corner. “Well . . .”

“Aw, come on, Motor City. It’ll be quick. You’re shivering.”

I looked down St. Peter into the darkness. “Okay, just real quick.”

I fixed my hair in the ladies’ room and tried to blot myself dry with the thin handkerchief from my purse. When I returned, a cup of hot cocoa sat on the counter next to Jesse. I slid onto the vinyl stool. Jesse’s soda glass was empty.

“Have you been here long?” I asked him.

“I was just about to leave and then I saw you. I had to get out of the house. My granny was driving me crazy. She’s tryin’ to plant a hex on our neighbors to make them move. They’re loud and keep her up at night.”

“Really? What’s the hex?”

He rolled his eyes and pushed the hot cocoa closer to me.

“Oh, come on, Jesse. Tell me. I don’t believe in that stuff anyway.”

I didn’t believe in it, but I did have a gris-gris bag in my purse that Willie’s witch doctor insisted I carry.

“Nah, it’s just crazy stuff,” he said, trying to wipe what looked like motor oil from his fingers with the napkin.

“Oh, and I don’t understand crazy?”

He smiled. “All right, then.” He spun toward me on his stool and planted his boots on opposite sides of my legs. He leaned in close. I smelled his shaving tonic and tried to steady my face, which seemed to be pulling toward the scent.

“She has this spell she swears works to get rid of people. She finds a dead rat, stuffs its mouth with a piece of lemon dipped in red wax. She pours a teaspoon of whiskey on the rat, wraps it in newspaper, and then puts it under the neighbor’s porch.” He raised his eyebrows.

“I haven’t heard that one.” Jesse was funny and surprisingly easy to talk to.

“She’s really superstitious, but that’s New Orleans.”

“Yeah, that’s New Orleans.” I shook my head.

He tipped his soda glass slightly, watching the last of the liquid crawl up the side. “But would you ever leave?”

I looked up. Jesse was staring at me. “I mean, do you ever think of leaving New Orleans?” he asked.

Did he know? I wanted to tell him yes, but it didn’t feel right. He already knew about Mother. Perhaps that was why he brought it up. I stared down at the counter. “So are you the first one in your family to go to college?” I asked.

“Yeah. My dad’s still in the pen. He talks about getting out, but I know that’s just talk.”

“What’s he in for?”

“Gambling . . . and other stuff. He’s never been out for more than a couple months before he gets arrested again,” said Jesse.

“Your dad isn’t tied with Carlos Marcello, is he?” I thought about Detective Langley saying one of Marcello’s men had been involved in the shooting out in Metairie. I wished it had been Cincinnati.

“Aw, heck no. Marcello’s the big time. If you’re tangled with him, you don’t end up in jail, you end up dead. My dad’s just your average Crescent City crook. This town will eat you up if you’re not careful. But I won’t be here forever. After all, do I really seem like a flower salesman?”

“Well, hello there, Jesse!” Two attractive blondes linked arm in arm approached us at the counter.

“Hey, Fran,” said Jesse over his shoulder, though still keeping his eyes on me. “Do you like flowers, Motor City?”

“My mom loved the roses she bought from you last week,” said the girl, nudging closer to Jesse.