“That — and the second bug on Farnsworth’s phone.”
“But why New Orleans? Because a woman dances on tables when she’s a teenybopper—”
“It’s on the tape — didn’t you catch it?” His food had gotten cold while they listened to the recording. Maybe he wouldn’t have to eat it. “When Jimmy was asked where he was calling from, he voiced the letter ‘N’ before he caught himself. ‘N.’ New Orleans. The brokerage firm has a New Orleans office, Broussard’s first arrest was in New Orleans, it’s home territory for her. Plus her name — Broussard. That’s a Cajun name.”
“I suppose it fits.” Sherman was staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Have you ever considered what a very strange man you are, Dain?”
“I doubt Nielsen would choose you as a test viewer, Doug.”
Sherman chuckled and nodded. “Touché” He leaned forward across the table. “But even if by some strange event they should be there, how do you plan to—”
“She’s too smart to let Jimmy cash any of the bonds this soon, so she’ll be dancing in some topless joint in the Old Quarter to raise them a travel stake.”
Sherman hesitated, spoke as if with difficulty. “Dain, I have a bad feeling about this one because of that second bug...”
Dain stood up, scooping up the check and leaving a too-large tip in its place. “And I have a good feeling about it — because of that second bug.” He stuck out his hand; Sherman shook it. “I’ve got Shenzie in the car, I’ve got to drop him off at Randy Solomon’s place before I go to the airport.”
“I’m surprised you’d leave your cat with that Gestapo thug. Will there by anyplace I can reach you if—”
“I’ll reach you. If.” He grinned again, pointed at the Walkman with the Farnsworth tape still inside it. “Keep that for me until I get back. Just in case.”
He left his car in his rented parking place across the Embarcadero from the loft, caught the shuttle bus to the airport, and was in New Orleans in time to watch the sunset.
16
Here the Mississippi was the classical Mark Twain river — lazy brown water, green banks, a churning paddle wheeler angled upstream to fight the current. On the landing dock was insomniac Dain, one of the few early passengers waiting to catch the deliberately anachronistic paddle wheeler’s first trip of the day. His only lead was Vangie; he could only look for her at night. So he rode in a clopping horse-drawn carriage through genteel upper-crust neighborhoods, watched the Vieux Carré street life through wrought-iron filigreed balconies, listened to the music starting to strut from some of the clubs.
Dain went through the open passageway to the hotel court where the fountain burbled and brightly clad tourists sipped tall pastel drinks. From the courtyard, he went along Chartres to Conti, turned left toward the rising sounds of Bourbon Street. Wandered, pausing to look in windows, peering through open club doorways at the entertainment inside. Stood on a corner to watch black boys tap-dance for thrown coins.
A topless joint, the music not very good, leave without even making it to the bar for a drink. Stand on the sidewalk eating a po’boy and drinking beer from a paper cup. Then plunge back into the night world.
Better music, the hornman a Muggsy Spanier clone, nurse a beer through a whole round of floor shows, leave the bottle half-full behind him. Just another single male alone on his own in the big city. To bed at dawn, to not sleep worth a damn.
Another day to kill. He rode a streetcar named Desire out to the end of the line, rode it back in again, spent a half hour admiring the stations of the cross and the stained glass at St. Louis Cathedral, sat in a pew, feet on the kneeler... his eyelids drooped...
The black hole between Marie’s breasts blossomed red. Her eyes were wild, her hair was wild, from her mouth, strained impossibly wide, came a hoarse masculine SCREAM, quickly muffled
Dain jerked erect, mouth-breathing, looked around quickly. A nun in a habit was staring at him from across the aisle. A little child was crying, pointing a finger. He almost fled.
At the oyster bar of Houlihan’s, he watched a man commit murder on fresh dripping bivalves with great skill and a sharp knife. Couldn’t eat, found a karate dojo, exhausted himself with two hours of the basic “forms” of his second-degree black belt — two taikyoku drills, five pinans, and the other “open hand” drills — saifa, kanku, tensho and sanchin.
Back at his room he lay nude on the bed, tried to justify his life. Whatever he did was meaningless. Lassitude gripped him. He was surprised to realize that he hoped Broussard would outwit him, but he knew she wouldn’t. He was too good at the precise geometry of manhunting, she was a prey animal that
Between Marie’s beautiful breasts the black hole blossomed red. Her eyes were wild, her hair was wild
Dain woke with a yell, bathed in sweat. He was falling to pieces. He took another shower, when he emerged, wet hair slicked back, towel around his waist, another night had fallen and the old-fashioned streetlights glowed from their cast-iron poles. Music drifted up from Bourbon Street to his small outside balcony, along with the clip-clop of a horse-drawn buggy in Rue Chartres. He leaned on the filigreed railing. Jasmine and mock orange filled the air with heavy fragrance.
He had to find her soon or abandon the search.
Midnight again. Dain leaned in the doorway of yet another exotic dance club on one of the side streets of the Quarter — for the moment he had exhausted Bourbon Street. How many had he hit tonight, how many more would he have to hit before he scored or admitted that his logic had been faulty — or was driven away by his now incessant nightmares?
Another hour, another joint. Different faces, different voices, different music, all the same. The gyrating woman was past her prime, like pheasant hung so long that the skin had a greenish tinge and when you shook it all the feathers fell out. When he left the mostly empty joint, he set his untouched beer on an empty table in passing. Somebody was gulping it down from the bottle before he cleared the doorway.
Directly across the narrow street was something called Carnal Knowledge. For some reason it was jumping, blaring, spilling customers out the open doors. Raucous rebel yells, groans, screamed sexual obscenities. If the two scantily clad women sprawled spread-legged in chairs outside the joint were typical, its success was undeserved.
Dain slid inside. Very good music pounded a wicked beat for the topless girl writhing onstage. Being tall, he could just see her over the silhouetted heads of shouting, arm-waving tourists and drunks. The dancer was Vangie Broussard.
She was magnificent, of body, face, movement. He felt an irrational flash of sympathy for this bright wood duck among the mud hens as he turned away, edged back out of the crowd again. He felt an equally irrational flash of caution. Why? There was no reason anybody should be tailing him. But what reason had there been for that extra bug on Farnsworth’s phone?
One of the resting dancers blocked his way with a meaty white thigh. “Don’t like girls, baby? That one’s hot stuff.”
Dain patted her cheek. “So are you, darlin’, so are you.”
He went on, feeling the little momentary fierce joy he’d always felt the rare times he’d beaten Marie at chess. Nothing to do with winning: rather with the implacable beauty of
Marie, her eyes wild, her hair wild as her feet came up off the floor with the force of her death
Dain growled aloud, thrust the image away. No, goddammit, don’t rob yourself of this triumph, minuscule though it might be. Make it pay off. Then maybe Marie could stop haunting his dreaming and — now — even his waking hours.