I went back and spent a few minutes examining the distinctly non-Swedish aftermarket luggage rack in the driveway. Its face was a bruise, revealing nothing of its past but speaking volumes of his or her future. I set my wallet on the roof of the Volvo next to our unexpected houseguest, thinking that I wouldn’t need — or want — to show the police my ID right away after all. Then I wedged my hand under the roof just far enough to put the car in neutral and push it into the garage next to Bob’s antique Fiat, which, being both Italian and thirty years old, was wholly unsuitable for dependably moving corpses, mystery money, or itself. As I imagined my brother’s take on discovering a dead skydiver, most likely a drug smuggler, in his garage, the doorbell buzzed.
Looking through the peephole of the front door, I saw the brim of a state trooper’s hat and a black windbreaker.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the trooper, looking past me into the house as I opened the door.
“Hi.”
“Have you seen or heard anything unusual this evening? There was a plane crash nearby and we’re trying to piece together what happened.” His Louisiana Highway Patrol windbreaker was cracked and faded, with bright yellow block letters. A .45-caliber pistol hung at his side. He mumbled something into a radio and started moving room to room, shining his flashlight in each one, even though every light in the house was on. I followed, watching an enormous snake tattoo peek from under his jacket with every jab of the flashlight.
“No, sir. This is actually my brother’s house. I’m just house-sitting. I’m a writer.”
“A writer, huh? You didn’t write The Da Vinci Code, did you? That was the best book ever! It was so... so... human.”
“No. But I did write a mystery noveclass="underline" The Corn Killer of Council Bluffs. It’s part of the Detective Demitrez series. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Without knowing it, I lit the last cigarette of my existence.
“Uh, no.”
When he reached the bedroom, the sight of the duvet stopped him cold. He walked over to it and took out his nightstick, poking it. “Maid got the night off?” He grinned. Just then, the terrier came out of the closet and walked up to the stranger, grinning, tail wagging, and with a hundred dollar bill stuck to his foot.
“Well, lookie here.” He chuckled. “Is this a donation to the department?” He put his nightstick back in his holster, and my cigarette revved like a steamboat engine. The man held the bill up to the light and studied it carefully. I was forming a confession when a windbreaker-and-snake-wrapped elbow made my brain bounce against the inside of my coconut. Through the critical mass of pain radiating from my mouth, I remembered: Louisiana hadn’t had highway patrolmen since the ‘fifties. Today they’re called the Louisiana State Police, and they don’t wear hats like that. I tasted salt and was surprised to find the floor where it was, pressing my cheek into my nose. With my ear to the hardwood, the round he popped off with his .45 was that much louder.
The bullet lodged in the floor next to me as my cigarette landed squarely on the duvet and I smelled the unmistakable scent of burning feathers. I squinted so hard I could’ve cracked two pecans. With the gun pointed my way, the non-cop started trying to get a good bead on me, simultaneously unwrapping the duvet to pat out the flames. I was sort of rolling around, trying to make aiming that much harder, when I noticed the smoking corners of the duvet spreading out all over Bob’s makeshift bookcases. Then I remembered where I was. And what the bookcases really were. Without thinking and before he could react, I sprinted out of the room, hearing a shot and feeling the air near my left ear pulse. Once outside, I dove into the ditch in front of Bob’s house and did my best impersonation of a nesting crawfish.
Before I saw the explosion, I felt it — like a warm front jumping on my chest. The yard’s sprinkler system had been on earlier and the cold water in the ditch soaked my Hawaiian shirt, turning its cheery red into a dark burgundy. The cops were coming now, that was for sure. I figured it was just as well they find me in a ditch. And then I felt a wetness in my ear that was neither ditchwater nor the goodbye kiss of a killer. It was Bob’s silky terrier — a little singed around the edges but basically okay — dragging a singed orange jacket piled with hundred-dollar bills.
It wasn’t $775,000, but it was enough to pay off Big Winkie and get him to make me a fake passport to boot. With any luck, crime-scene investigators, coroners, creditors, editors, and antiques dealers wouldn’t know that I wasn’t Volvo Man for weeks — and by then it would be too late. I had a thirst for Sovobra, and the raw humanity of a good night’s sleep under the stars.
Copyright © 2006 William Dylan Powell
Sneaky Pete from Bourbon Street
by John Edward Ames
Michigan-born John Edward Ames has lived in New Orleans since 1986. Under his own name and several pen names he has written 61 novels, the latest of which (writing as USA Today bestseller Ralph Compton) is Deadwood Gulch, a frontier mystery from Signet (11/06). He returned to NOLA only seven weeks after Katrina to find that his apartment in the heart of town was mercifully spared most of the storm’s wrath.
I’ve gone to school on you, Mr. Sloan,” Justin Breaux assured his visitor, extending a welcoming hand across the bar. “I’m told you rate aces high.”
Reno Sloan gripped the bartender’s hand. It felt moist and gummy, and seemed to peel away when he let go of it. And no wonder — the August day was still, hot, and humid, the trees motionless as paintings, and only the dark half of the Ragin’ Cajun Club appeared to be properly air-conditioned.
“Spot of the giant killer?” Breaux added. “It’s on the house.”
“Vodka martini,” Reno decided. “I’d prefer beer, but once I hit forty it started going right to the waistline.”
He cast his eye around the French Quarter barroom while Breaux mixed the cocktail. The bon ton of New Orleans didn’t hang around here, mostly tourists and French Quarter habitués. The décor consisted mainly of regal purple and gold hangings, the official colors of Mardi Gras, and photos of local musicians who’d gone national.
Breaux set the drink in front of Reno on a napkin. “What I called you about, Mr. Sloan, is a homicide.”
Reno hesitated for the space of a few heartbeats. “Homicide? That can get tricky for a private investigator. If it’s still an open case, the D.A. can have my license pulled for obstruction.”
Breaux shook his head. “This one’s in the books, far as the police are concerned. My brother’s a cop in the Sixth District, he poked into it pretty good.”
“Who was killed?”
“Fellow named Peter D’Antoni.”
“I can’t place the name.”
Breaux crossed his arms over his chest. “No reason why you should. The first impression he gave was — well, have you ever known one of these whining sad sacks who’s been stood up by life? Poor guy had some mental problems, and he was antisocial in a big way. He earned a nickname on Bourbon Street — everybody called him Sneaky Pete.”