A stream of sweat runs down the killer’s back as he walks toward the bar. He believes the club is kept warm on purpose, to add to the sexual tension that pulses through the crowd. He carries a canvas messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Inside are the simple tools he will need to complete his work.
The killer elbows his way to the bar and orders a Corona with lime. The bartender, a handsome young man with dark eyes and thick coal black hair, says something as he sets the beer down, but the killer can’t hear him over the din. He asks the bartender to repeat himself.
The dark-haired man holds up five fingers and blows him a kiss. The killer tosses a five-dollar bill onto the black lacquered bar. The bartender glances down at the bill, then shakes his head as he picks up the money.
Even if I gave you a tip, you wouldn’t get to spend it.
The killer turns around and leans against the bar. On the other side of the dance floor are a pair of side-by-side unisex bathrooms.
Only moments before, when he stepped into the bathroom on the right, he found two men in the same stall, pants around their ankles, one behind the other, grunting like pigs. He backed out quickly and peeked into the bathroom on the left. There was a line for the toilets but nothing vulgar going on. He urinated behind a locked stall door and got out as fast as he could.
Just to the right of the bathrooms is a short, narrow hallway, barely more than shoulder width, painted entirely black. At the end of the hallway is a single door, the only entrance to the Red Door Lounge. The inside surface of the door has been painted black to match the hallway, but the door’s outer surface is painted bright red. He assumes it is from that door that the club took its name.
The door opens onto a small wooden landing that stands at the top of a long, narrow flight of wooden stairs. The stairs are pressed between two walls, a wood-framed drywall on one side, and a brick firewall on the other side that separates this building from the building next door. Midway down the stairs is another wooden landing and a door that leads into the second floor. Past that landing, the stairs descend to a metal security door that opens onto Iberville Street.
The killer takes a sip of beer. The lime isn’t far enough down the neck of the bottle and his lips come away spackled with pulp.
To the left of the bathrooms is a steel door with a horizontal crash bar in the center and a lighted red sign above it that reads FIRE EXIT.
The killer has surveyed the fire escape from the outside. The steel door opens onto a small metal platform attached to the back of the building. A metal stairway leads down to an identical platform on the second floor. From there, a utility ladder embedded into the brick wall drops to the alley that runs behind the building.
As the killer stares out over the dance floor, he takes a long pull from his beer. In the heat of the club, the cool liquid feels refreshing as it slides down his throat. His tongue pushes the lime pulp around inside his mouth.
Beside the dance floor is a lounge area. Three sofas sit at right angles to each other, forming three-quarters of a square. In front of each sofa is a low-slung coffee table spread with glamour and fashion magazines. Next to the sofas are four short black wooden tables, each surrounded by a trio of matching chairs.
Every seat is taken. At the end of one sofa, two men, both dressed in tight-fitting black shirts and pants, are tonguing each other, one riding the other’s lap. The killer stares at the couple.
He finds their erotic public display… disgusting.
The killer’s right hand rests on the bar, his fingers wrapped around his beer bottle. He feels someone touch his hand. He looks over. A man, fifty-something at least, stands beside him, his left hand resting on the killer’s right.
“I’m Paul,” the man shouts over the music. A thin white line encircles the third finger of his left hand. A married man out for a homosexual fling. A walk on the wild side.
The killer pulls his hand away.
The man reaches over with his right hand. Between his fingers he holds an open matchbook. Scribbled on the inside cover is the name Paul and a telephone number.
The killer lets go of his beer and takes the matchbook. He flips the lid closed. The cover is black with red letters. It reads, RED DOOR LOUNGE* 604 IBERVILLE ST.* NEW ORLEANS.
“In case you want to get together later,” the chicken hawk says.
The killer shoves the matchbook into his pants pocket and stares straight ahead. A few minutes later, the man calling himself Paul walks away.
While he sips his beer, the killer watches the bar patrons enjoying themselves. His eyes keep wandering back to the two men kissing on the sofa. A bead of sweat runs down the side of his face.
By 11:30 he has seen enough. He squeezes the messenger bag against his right hip, then steps toward the dark hallway. On his way, he bumps into two men standing side by side with their arms around each other. One man is kissing the other’s neck. The killer pushes past them. He does not excuse himself. They are nothing but filthy sodomites.
At the end of the hallway, he pulls open the door and steps out onto the landing. For a moment he examines the door in the dim light from the stairwell. It’s solid wood but old, the exterior covered with a thick coating of bright red paint and fitted with a brass knob tarnished by years and thousands of hands. He pulls the door closed and starts down the stairs.
To the killer’s right, the interior wall is unfinished, just bare two-by-fours and unpainted drywall. Brushing past his left arm is the brick firewall. The dim stairway is lit by a pair of naked low-watt bulbs jutting from the interior wall, one midway between the third and second floors, the other between the second floor and the first.
The killer hurries down the stairs, his feet scraping on the worn wooden steps. At the second-floor landing he pauses to press his ear to the door. He hears nothing. He tries the doorknob. It’s locked. He moves on.
On the ground floor, three feet of concrete separate the last step from the steel door that opens onto the street. The killer pushes the crash bar and steps outside.
Standing on the sidewalk, he watches a thin line of cars thread its way along Iberville Street, a narrow, one-way avenue on the Canal Street end of the French Quarter. The walkways on either side of the street bear the usual combination of tourists, drunks, and locals.
The killer walks to his right a dozen steps and rounds the corner onto Chartres Street. He strolls half a block and turns into the alley behind the building. The alley smells of urine and beer.
After pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, he creeps forward. At the end of the narrow alley, he comes to the fire-escape ladder bolted to the wall. The bottom of the ladder is five feet above the ground. The killer grabs the highest rung he can reach and hauls himself up. His rubber-soled shoes scrape the rough brick surface of the wall as he struggles to crawl high enough up the ladder to step on the bottom rung. When he does fully mount the ladder, he pauses for breath. Above him the third-floor fire-escape landing is half hidden in shadow.
At the second floor, the killer steps off the ladder and onto the metal landing. By the time he hoists himself up the steep stairwell to the third floor, he is panting. He sits down to rest for a minute.
As he waits for his breathing to return to normal, the killer scans the alley below. He sees no indication that anyone has noticed him. And if he was noticed, no one stopped to investigate. Not without reason is New Orleans called the City That Care Forgot.
He grabs the metal rail and pulls himself to his feet. From inside his messenger bag, the killer pulls out a bicycle lock made from a four-foot length of rubberized steel cable. On one end of the cable is a three-number combination lock. On the other end is a ridged shackle.