Story 5: HIT MAN: Taken from Vieux Carrè Pillow Strangler

 New Orleans

On the way to the office, I stopped by Aunt Mayme’s Creole Kitchen and engaged in America’s favorite pastime: pigging-out. I arrived at my office fifteen minutes passed nine-fifteen and found my pussy Angel looking like she’d cruised the alleys ‘til the wee hours of the morning: her favorite pastime. It was only a matter of time before she dropped another litter of kittens, and I thought the name Angel had been an inappropriate choice. I started thinking about renaming her. And I’d thought often about having her spayed many times.

After filling Angel’s food bowl and giving her fresh water, I went to my desk, lit a smoke, put my feet on the desk, pick up the phone and dialed.

 "Brrring!"

"Attorney O'Boyle's office."

“Good morning, Norma Jean. Hackney McTrite here. Is Roger in yet?”

“Please hold, Hackney.”

“Hackney! I thought you were going to call back yesterday,” he said his voice laced with a touch of sarcasm. Roger O’Boyle was an arrogant Irishman. You would presume, from his pseudo eloquence and silky line of malarkey, that he’d placed his wagging lips on the Blarney Stone no less than a dozen times.

“I fully intended getting back, but at lunch I ran into a cheating husband of another client of mine, and I shadowed them for awhile. Then I went home for a nap.”

“Have you made any progress on Althea Lee’s old man?”

“Some. He’s hanging out a few weeknights at the Purple Dragon on the south end of Bourbon.”

“Isn’t that a gay joint, Hackney?”

“About as pinko as they get.”

“Man, if we could prove he’s having homosexual encounters we’ll nail him to a cross. It’ll certainly go a long way proving incompatibility and neglect.”

“I’m working on it. One night he left with a younger man and I followed them to an apartment house on Burgundy. Later, I learned the young man rents an apartment there. His name’s Peter Kane. We might subpoena him to testify.”

“Or pay him so he’ll be cooperative. Whatever works.” O’Boyle’s face was a mask of deep, craftily scheming.

“Well, yes. I also saw Mister Lee talking to a known professional assassin at The Purple Dragon last week. I’d bet a beignet to a doughnut he’s hired him.”

Roger shifted the bulk of his weight onto his left cheek and the corners of his eyelashes quivered. “My God!  A hit man! That’s a serious development. I stand to make one hundred grand on this case if I bring it to fruition. I get nothing if Mrs. Lee dies.”

Hackney pulled his chin, then his nose. “On the other hand, they might have met quite by chance. I’ve heard New Orleans is this man’s home base.” Then I mused privately, why would he be hanging out in a gay bar since he’s obsessed with a Welshman’s libido and likes well-stacked, blue-eyed blondes. I didn’t want to share this thought with Roger. “And I’ve heard he’s a ruthless cold-blooded animal without so much as one redeeming attribute. We probably should advise Althea or the police or both.”

The voice was silent. I heard him breathing. He’s alive. Roger cogitates. I’ll soon smell the aroma of burning sawdust filling my nostrils. I smiled. The thought was funny to me. “Hackney, I want you to spend eighty percent of your time on this caper. I’ll pay your rate plus I’ll throw in all your expenses. If you are successful getting the evidence needed to get Althea a divorce and she’s alive, I’ll kick in an additional five-grand. Do what you think is necessary. Involve the police if, at some point, you think Althea’s life is in danger. The bottom line is Mrs. Lee’s safety. Can you give me eighty percent?”

“I’m yours heart and soul.”

“Hackney, I’d like a report every few days. Late afternoon is a good time. Any problem with that?"

“No sir.”

“Incidentally, Wednesday afternoon is my day for cheating.” He chuckled. “I can’t add one and one. And I can’t count above ninety. I play golf.” He chuckles unabashed. “Good hunting man. Keep your eyes peeled and your ears open.”

“Right. Goodbye, Roger.” I hate cheats, even golfers, but I understand having attempted to play the game in high school.

I dialed again.

…

“Detective Nip Murray, please."

…

“Nip, can you meet me for lunch?”

…

“How does The Napoleon House grab you.”

…

“Sure it does. All those skimpily dressed barmaids, right? How’s half-past noon?”

…

“Bully! Bring a big appetite, but leave your wallet. See you then. Goodbye, pal.”

Looking at my pocket-watch, I realized I had two hours and a half before lunch. I decided to catch up on my paperwork then go have a café at The Purple Dragon where I would keep my big ears and eyes open and my big mouth shut as Roger suggested. However, I doubted if a professional hit man would be up this early. And, if he were, the last place he’d spend his mornings would be in a queer joint. And Mister Wynne Lee would be playing golf. Peter Kane would be working. “You can’t win them all sweetheart,” I said to my alter ego, “some days are for marking time and getting hair cuts.”

The Purple Dragon - Later

My plans to have coffee at The Dragon were changed when Angel showed up looking sickly. I took her to the Vets. After returning her to The Old Village, I finished the day with lunch at The Napoleon House, movie, and a nap at home.

I arrived at The Purple Dragon at 9:15pm. I'd walked there from my Pontalba apartment. Out of my living room window, I could enjoy the great diversity of activities Jackson Square is known for. It was a great place for an artist to live. Hell, it was a great place for anyone who enjoyed watching life.

I wanted to appear to be a gay tourist who’d been gallivanting all over the Quarter partaking of the culture albeit seedy or wholesome, and I dropped in for a few drinks prior to returning to my hotel. Playing the role of a homosexual was new and I was worried; however, I’d be more worried if I came across convincingly. I opened the portal, stepped two steps inside, and waited for my eyes to adjust. The indirect lighting, if you could call it that, was outfitted with purple bulbs.

After my eyes adjusted, I could see a horseshoe bar, with the circle near the entrance. It was centered in the middle of this large square room. Ensconced in the rooms four corners, were round tables that sat six. Spaced down the walls several small, cozy rectangular tables for two were positioned that had customer friendly cushioned seats. An exit light marked a door in the rear, and I assumed the toilets were on either side of it. I couldn’t make out the decor on the walls, but I could smell the yellow tar of nicotine. It was a cozy, stinking, evil den of iniquity.

I felt my way to the bar. When I was within ten feet, I noticed only a few chairs were available. Then I noticed a bar chair on the circle. It was an ideal spot. From there, I had a panoramic view of the entire room, but visibility was limited due to the lighting. I’d be lucky to see fifteen feet away. I moved to the available chair and mounted it. I barely had time to dust the cushion when a thing dressed in drag slithered up. “Darling, what’s your fancy?” Its face had a ton of makeup on it, but it barely covered the dark beard.

“I’d fancy an Early Times and soda in a tall glass, easy on the ice,” I said, suppressing my tongue to sound sibilant. The thing smiled. Must have been the way the word ice sounded.

“Thanks, Butch.” The thing moved away to fix my drink. She moved like a hippopotamus—in season. I reached for my cigarettes, lipped one from the pack, lit it, and glanced around. My peepers came to rest upon Althea Lee’s husband, Wynne, sitting with a young, handsome man at one of the cozy tables for two. I scrutinized his acquaintance closely. He wasn’t Peter Kane or the hit man. What is the hit man’s name? I thought hard for a second and the name flew off the periphery of my brain like a chopped chip off a stump—Sloan Luebbermann. Some call him Slim, the iceman.

A quick panoramic sweep of the room resulted in a count of three women; however, considering the dimness and character of the place, they could be men dressed as drag queens. Then, I spotted two men kissing at a table nearby and I felt nauseated. I had seen this before but it always effected me the same way. I thought the Nat King Cole record spinning in the jukebox might have moved them. The lyrics suggested the song might be entitled ‘Nature Boy’, which was a big hit for him. If so, it was apropos. The joint was filled with nature boys.

The barmaid returned with my drink and sat it near. I grabbed it and imbibed a big swallow. She said, sounding like a deep alto with a chest cold and swollen sinuses, “Are you visiting the Crescent City, darling? I haven’t seen you in here before?” Her eyes widened and a spec of dry mascara flaked from her left eyebrow and almost fell into my drink.

I was taken aback. I thought carefully for a few seconds. She had perceived my appearance as I’d hoped, but now my motives had changed. I’d be coming in for the next few weeks. Since most tourist only visit New Orleans for a few days, I needed a reason for being around longer than that. “Nope. I moved here just recently. My name’s Bruce Hole.”

“As in asshole?” The grin on her face was exaggerated.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” I tried to keep my countenance serious, although inside my ribs tingled. I don’t know why I didn’t just simply smile. Maybe it was a question of not wanting to get to chummy with this drag queen. Yes, that was it.

“Very strange name, Bruce. One thing’s for sure. With a name like that, you’ve come to the right hole in the wall. No pun intended.” Her grin had broadened.

“What’s the price of the drink, eh—?”

“They call me, Chic Chase. And having said that I realize my name’s a trifle unusual. The drink is fifty cents. I’ll run you a tab if you like?”

“Thanks, but I rather pay as I go.” I found a dollar and passed it to Chic.

“Are you looking for company, Bruce?”

“Not tonight. At the moment, I have a steady Eddie.”

“Very good. Enjoy,” she said, and left to serve another.

I thought, so far, I’ve been convincing. Then, I was disturbed over the fact of the matter.

Time Passes

During the two hours, I sat at the bar sipping three tall Early Times and straining to look effeminate, voices became more and more sibilant. And behavior became more abnormal, perverted and disgusting. I didn’t care if the fags carried on like a bunch of cows in season, but when the small, middle-aged man, sitting next to me, put his hand on my leg, I became incensed. I told him flatly to get his slimy hand off my thigh or he’d be picking himself up off the floor. Afterwards, I realized I'd acted impulsively. I might have blown my cover save for the fact that Chic was at the other end of the bar making a play for a muscular, young man wearing a sweater adorned with a Tulane logo.

Around ten, Wynne Lee’s friend left. I followed him to an apartment on Perdido in the Garden District. After I saw the light flash in his second floor apartment, I walked to the mailbox and memorized his name, Clay Appleton. Then I made another mental note of the address. Only thirty minutes had expired when I entered The Purple Dragon a second time to discover Wynne Lee had flown the coup and in his place sat Slim, the hit man.

From my vantage point at the bar, I surmised, if he stood, he would tower several inches over six-feet-tall. He was thin, wiry, and his extremities seemed endless. He would remind you of a tall scarecrow with abnormally long arms and legs. I’d be surprised if he weighed more than one hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. Actually, he looked severely undernourished. His complexion was purple. But that didn’t mean much. Everyone looked sickly purple.

His thin face showed no sinister characteristics, but I couldn’t see his eyes, the windows to his soul. Quite honestly, he didn’t look like a killer, but then they never do. Once I’d observed a man sitting at the Café du Monde that I thought looked like a killer only to discover he was a visiting priest. And Slim appeared to be balding, which led me to guess he was fifty years plus a few. I chuckled inside thinking that he was old enough to get a legitimate job.

Suddenly, a frightening thought came whistling from my brain. Slim and Wynne Lee might have finalized the contract while I was away. Now, I thought my decision to shadow Clay Appleton was a mistake. Getting the low down on Slim seemed to be my number one priority. The loud, urgent message persistently echoed from my brain; keep Althea Lee alive; keep Althea Lee alive. Had this message been a product of greed? Keeping Althea Lee alive was worth five grand, and with a wedding and honeymoon on the horizon, the wampum could materialize about the right time. I wanted to take Sarah to Las Vegas for a ten-day honeymoon. I figured ten days would stretch my libido to its limit; that lying in the bed and by the pool for eight days would be more than sufficient.

“A tall Early Times, Bruce?” Chic’s voice was acutely sibilant. I suspected she’d been drinking her mistakes.

I’d been deep in thought and did not see Chic arrive. For a moment, the name Bruce didn’t register. I collected my senses quickly and said cheerfully, “Sure! Thanks, Chic.”

Chic returned quickly with the drink. The bar crowd was thinner now and those remaining had slowed their alcohol intake. Half of them were already pie-eyed and their actions were grossly obnoxious and obscene. I’ve never seen so much grabbing, hugging and kissing, and to see two men holding hands was repulsive. “I thought you left for the evening,” Chic said, with a friendly smile that irritated me.

“Well, I walked up the street to check out the action at the Funky Pirate.”

“And was the place jumping with joy?”

“Sort of, but the atmosphere was too heterosexual for my tastes.”

Chic smiled and returned to the other end of the bar where the student from Tulane sat. I figured he was Chic’s lover for the night. I swigged a slug of Early Times and glanced around. My eyes came to rest on Slim, who made notes in a small black book. I thought this was a stupid tactic, since notes in little black books can become incriminating evidence. And I thought I might have discovered his Achilles heel. Also, I notice he drank shots and chased with beer. I thought this habit might be a failing as well. Maybe he was simply trying to forget the look in his victim’s eyes when, in cold blood, he pulled the trigger. He was known to use a rifle with an infrared scope. And I wondered how he’d been so successful through the years. He’d been in the killing business for over twenty-five years.

I thought—maaan—I’d like to have a look at that notebook, but I surmised he kept it on his person at all times. Then I had two stupid ideas. I could search his home or I could stick him up. Yes, both ideas were illegal, but I doubted if he would blow a whistle if he identified me. The quake that came over me was caused by the thought that followed. He wouldn’t need to report me, just dump my body in the Mississippi River.

He lived at a redecorated nineteenth century home on St. Peter Street, and he mostly walked around the Quarter. And I knew of a vacant house with a courtyard located on the St. Peter Street side that he passed on his way home. The courtyard was landscaped with many trees, hedges, and flower bushes, offering excellent cover to hide oneself. Of course, I needed my German Luger automatic locked away in my apartment.

Robbing Slim will have to wait ‘til another time unless I leave straight away and collect the gun. Then, I can walk six blocks from my place to the vacant house, hide in the bushes near the banquette, and wait for Slim. I imbibed the rest of my drink quickly, sprang to my feet, and scurried from the place.

 St. Peter Street Later

 Luckily, the gate was unlocked. I left it open, so I could spring out immediately after Slim passed. I took cover behind a tall hedge that ran adjacent to the wrought-iron fence running along the banquette. The house had been vacant for more than two years. Some restaurateur had purchased it. Rumors had it that the owner waited for a liquor license before remodeling and redecorating it into a fine eating establishment.

I thought leaving a gate unlocked was poor management, but I was certain the house was secured, and nothing in the garden was easy or worth stealing. Uprooting trees and shrubbery takes sweat and is quite visual. If the take isn’t easy, most robbers won’t bother. Laziness is the reason they steal in the first place.

A horrible thought came to me shocking my complacency. Slim might be armed? If so, he might turn the table on me. But all the logic in the world pointed to the fact that Slim was in no danger. And he wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself by toting a heater. Then a complete reversal of my last thoughts hit me like a sting from a yellow jacket. Over his twenty-five-year career, Slim allegedly had been responsible for the death of more than thirty people, some of them good and some of them bad. Consequently, there had to be someone out there who knew of him and despised him.

While I waited in the cold and dampness of early morning, I felt tons of apprehension swelling inside me. My behavior was grossly bizarre. This was a completely new role for me. And what I was about to do was illegal, but I was certain it wasn’t immoral. What could be nobler than getting a hired killer off the streets? Then I thought what if the little black book proves nothing. I would have taken a chancy risk for naught, but at least Slim might be put on notice that someone was wise to his murderous plot.

More than twenty minutes passed and my immense apprehension was displaced by disappointment. I silently practiced my style. As soon as he passed the gate, I’d spring from the darkness and gruffly yell, “Take another step Slim and you’re dead.” He’d stop dead in his tracks. I’d yell, “Put your hands high above your head.” He’d hesitate, and I’d yell, “Do it now, Turkey. My trigger finger is getting itchy. And don’t look around, Turkey. One quick move will get you blown to kingdom come…make that hell.” Then I’d order him to drop the little black book, and I’d tell him this someone was wise to his plans and order him to start walking with his hands in the air.

Other thoughts came while I waited and shivered. The French Quarter is poorly illuminated at night. This has one bad point and one good point. I’ll be hard pressed to recognize Slim and vice versa. Then I realized that few six-foot-two beanpoles walked the street at one am. All of this ubiquitous apprehension faded when the sounds of footsteps reached my alert ears. I forgot to be afraid anymore. Whoever it was whistled and moved at a reasonable pace. I reached and pulled my automatic Luger.

The person came closer…closer…closer…closer. My heart pounded harder…harder…faster with every step I heard. Now, each step sounded like a pile driver. A totally awesome thought smacked me square between my eyes. What if I get into a scuffle with this ruthless murderer and kill him, or worse, Slim kills me. Man, that’s murder in the first degree or homicide out of self-defense. Neither alternative sounds appealing. And I don’t want to become a folk hero. Not too many heroes, folk or otherwise, live to walk terra firma. Stark realism struck me and my feet turned to blocks of ice and my nerves to mush.

The steps gradually became softer and softer, and soon diminished ‘til the only sound audible was my heavy breathing and a hard-up cricket chirping for a mate. I had ambivalent emotions returning the automatic to its holster. The strongest emotion told me I’d made the right decision. I could easily accomplish my motives, of putting him on notice, with a telephone call. Then a more ambitious goal loomed in my brain. To bring this man to justice would be a bright-red feather in my cap. You can’t get enough of fame and publicity when you’re in the investigative business. It’s a wonderful ingredient of life that often begets fortunes. Why not give it my best shot? After all, Roger O’Boyle will be paying for it. I might end up killing two birds with one stone: Slim and Wynne. I could even become famous. I can’t resist the challenge.

Leaving the scene, I noticed that the night was darker than a chunk of coal. Thick cloud cover hid the moon and stars, suggesting the heavens would be dumping buckets filled with water any moment. The cold was biting and I walked fast with my hands in my pocket thinking. I believe my restraint was the proper course. At least, I’ve stayed within the law. I’m gonna get him. He may have eluded the others, but he’ll not elude the invincible Hackney McTrite. I reached my apartment and straight to bed believing my last thoughts, but I knew the prayer I said just before falling asleep was the clincher.

 Omelet Shack Next Morning

 When I looked up from the paper, Sharon was placing the steaming omelet in front of me. Then she filled my cup and poured a glass of water. “Thanks, sweetheart. You’re awfully good to me,” I said, folding the paper and laying it aside.

“Nothing’s to good for my favorite sleuth.” It sounded corny, but she’d been sincere. The tinge of green showing in her hazel eyes said as much.

"I bet you tell all your male customers that."

“Only the big tippers. Enjoy Hackney! Duty calls.” And with that she turned her wonderfully arranged five-foot-five frame and traipsed to a table where four young ladies sat prattling enthusiastically about things in general, but mostly about the party at the frat house the night before. This was not a pure guess. Their monogrammed sweaters and giggling suggested as much.

I perused fervently more interesting feature of the cheerful foursome. Their abundantly filled sweaters flaunted identical Tulane Logos, a megaphone, and the year 1946. I pegged them for members of the 1946 cheerleading squad. Now, I had a fleeting notion that I might have missed out by not using my GI Bill for education. I thought—maaan—I’ve never seen such a lovely quartet. The day had become filled with delightful temptations. I whispered to my alter ego, “Get thee behind me Satan.”

While engorging the delicious omelet, I planned my day. Four investigations were underway. Getting evidence to support Althea Lee’s divorce and keeping her safe from Luebbermann was my hottest project. It offered the greatest material return, but I had an obligation to get evidence for Susan Smoot in support of her divorce. I thought with Arnie’s daring that would be a piece of cake. That I would keep bumping into him at fashionable watering holes around the Quarter and eventually catch him with his pants down. And last but not least in terms of commitments, there was Melba Dickinson’s cause that offered little in the way of monetary gains, but could result in great notoriety. Notwithstanding, the Lord might be pleased with my compassion and generosity and support my other endeavors.

My thoughts focused on Althea Lee and her conceivable perilous position. What do I know about Luebbermann's MO that would help me keep Susan alive? Law enforcement officials thought his victims were killed from a distance with a 32-caliber scoped rifle. Some thought he killed from a parked car and some thought he stalked his victims. If so, he probably used a rifle that could be assembled rapidly. And every killing had occurred near dusk. With his heavy drinking habit, he probably slept ‘til noon. This worked out well. His victims were probably more active in the afternoon. And the reduced visibility protected him against witnesses. These thoughts seemed to eliminate the stalking theory. Of course, all of this conjecture could be so much malarkey.

I thought, it’s very difficult to shoot a target that isn’t visual—egad Watson that’s elementary. But how can this be applied to Mrs. Lee? Well, she could stay away from windows. She could stay inside as much as possible, especially in the daylight hours. And if she went out in the afternoon, she could alternate between exits. She could even have someone deliver her needs, at least for a while, although this would alert her husband. Mrs. Lee’s invisibility would narrow Luebbermann’s window of action, requiring more surveillance on his part; valuable time would be gained. And I would have more time to watch his movements in hopes I might get evidence to support a conviction of an older killing.

The fact that he wrote notes fostered some hope that I might find an incriminating note linking him to a victim from the past. And he had to have a rifle stashed somewhere. If not, he’d have to buy one. I would have to search his place for this evidence, and I was up to it, eager in fact.

For a moment, I was optimistic and then sheer reality burst my bubble. This man has killed at least thirty people in the last twenty-five years and still walks the banquettes. It would be obvious, even to a stupid fool, that Slim has great stealth and cunning. Surely, other law enforcement people have been moved to action by similar thoughts that I just entertained.

I thought more about the rifle. If I could find where he kept it hid, I might alert the police. But of course, I was certain no fingerprints would be found on it. But linking Slim to it in some way might still be possible; like matching the barrel markings with the markings on bullets from victims. I had myself a can of worms, but I thrilled with a challenge so perplex and intriguing. One thing I knew for sure was where he lived, and he would certainly be easy to watch. This was a tremendous advantage. And even greater advantage was that Slim didn’t know I was onto him. Aware that he frequented bars was going to make my surveillance of him a genuine pleasure.

And I thought, with cockeyed optimism, about his heavy drinking habit. This might cause him to become careless at some point. If I shadowed him closely, my chances of catching him at a weak moment seem feasible in spite of his expertise. Another weakness dawned. Slim has aged. His senses and reactions have conceivably slowed. And he might have become forgetful.

I had one last thought before I consumed the last bite. I want to talk with Mrs. Lee as soon as possible. This is definitely my next move. While I waited for the check, the four cheerleaders’ short skirts took me as they crossed Peters. My eyes swayed in four directions. They entered an open Olds convertible and motored away. I glanced around briefly before I finished my second cup of mud. The Homo sapiens remaining left me cold.

 Angel wasn’t around when I reached my office. This was normal. She was probably in some alley flirting with Tomcats. I knew, as certain as grits were southern, she’d be blessing me with another litter of kittens soon. I had learned chastity belts for cats were not being produced. The thought of spaying her came for the one-hundredth time but vanished quickly. I wouldn’t do that to a dog. I went straight to the desk, sat, put my feet up, lit a smoke, sucked down a deep drag, blew a smoke ring at the overhead light, coughed, picked up the phone, and dialed Althea Lee.

"Yes."

“Althea, Hackney here. How are you?”

“Half asleep, Hackney.” I had surmised as much from her sleepy voice.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up, but my message is urgent. Are you alone? I mean is Wynne with you?”

“No Wynne’s playing golf—and yes I’m alone.”

I wondered briefly why she’d felt the need to answer both questions. The last thing I wanted was to suspect she played around. “Mrs. Lee, I’ve seen your husband talking to a known hired killer.” I heard her gasp.

“I wouldn’t put it beyond the bastard,” she said, with increasing asperity.

“I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but I saw him talking to him at The Purple Dragon recently—”

“Isn’t that a fag joint, Hackney? I always thought Wynne was a little peculiar.”

“Yelp, as pinko as they get. As I was saying, they talked at length. It sure looked like a business meeting to me. I think you may be in grave danger.”

“What do you suggest, Hackney?” Her voice was strained.

“Be on the lookout for a tall, slim drink-of-water, who looks to be about fifty-five years old. He’d be hard to overlook. He resembles a tall scarecrow with extra long extremities.”

“And what do I do if I should encounter this gangly scarecrow? Turn white with fear and wet my panties.”

I strained not to laugh. “Do nothing to alert him, but try to get a good look at him so you can describe him precisely to me. We don’t want to go off half cocked.” It sounded coarse and I corrected. “I mean, we need to be sure we’ve got the right man, and not just overreacting. You should be perfectly safe for a while. Slim—that’s his real nickname—will need to watch you for awhile to plan his best opportunity to take you out—”

Her interruption was hysterical. “I love the blunt way you put it, Hackney. I just soiled my panties.” I’d heard no laughter and I stifled a snicker.

“He generally kills his victim late in the afternoon and always with a high-powered rifle. The man’s an expert. He usually shoots his victim through the heart.”

“That’s also comforting. Maybe I should make reservations on the moon.”

The levity went over my serious head. “Try to be as random as possible and restrict your outside activities to mornings and evenings. And stay away from windows.”

“Have you been to the police, Hackney?”

“No! I don’t have concrete evidence yet. Besides, they might tell your husband. That would jeopardize the progress we’ve made obtaining divorce evidence.”

“Yeah—I suppose you’re right. Although, being married to Wynne is a much better alternative than death, I think. I get a liberal allowance, and I’m free to do as I please.”

“Sure, but keep it respectable. O’Boyle has asked me to follow your situation closely. Should we reach a point that I think it’s over my head we’ll go to the police. Your safety is paramount.”

“I think I’m starting to relax, but ever so slightly. Suppose I went out of town to visit my sister. I’ve discussed this with Wynne several times recently.”

“That’s a splendid idea. Let’s give Slim a few days to snoop around and then surprise him. Anything we can do to throw him off the track will give me more time. I’m hoping to get evidence of a past crime that’ll put him away for life or preferably in the electric chair.”

“I certainly wish you well in this regard, Mister McTrite.”

“Of course, he might just be a boy friend of Wynne’s.” Why did I say that? He likes bosomy blue-eyed blondes. “However, we must prepare for the worst imaginable scenario.”

“I’ll drink to that, Hackney.”

“I’ll get back in a few days. Or sooner, should something important come up, be careful. But if you decide to go to your sister’s, I’ll need her telephone number.” He hesitated. “You might give it to me now.”

“Nine, eight, seventy-five. “

“The city?”

“Miami, Florida.”

“Take care and keep a low profile Mrs. Lee.”

“Click.”

I felt relieved.

Next Day

The stroll to The Omelet Shack was delightful. The sky was cloudless. But the light windbreaker felt cozy. The six tables located on the banquette were empty. The lunch crowd had filled their guts and returned to work. Sharon Cooper, the beautiful waitress wasn’t visible, and I thought she might be absent today. Without her presence, a café au lait would not be very interesting. I slowed my approach and shortly a stranger came through the service door and started cleaning tables and placing settings around for dinner. I decided to head for the Pink Crocodile instead. I'd heard Sloan Luebbermann found his way through the portal occasionally. I thought, I just might get lucky.

I walked one block and turned right on Ursuline. After a short block, I passed the Ursuline Convent. I didn't see one nun roaming about, and I figured they were in the chapel praying. In the next block, I passed the gracious Beauregard Keyes House, which fronted on Chartres and was built in 1826. The colorful Confederate General P. G. T. Beauregard was reported as having slept here. I'd been inside this antebellum masterpiece recently, and the spacious, richly restored and furnished rooms were impressive, as well as the exquisite gardens and lush courtyard that reflected a bygone era. It had attracted a small group of tourist who'd arrived in a large four-wheeler buggy pulled by two lethargic mules, with bouquets of flowers strapped between their ears. New Orleans is like that.

I found the object of my pursuit one block farther. Entering, I checked my railroad pocket-watch. The time was a few minutes past 2pm. A long bar ran along the left wall. A quick estimate put the number of stools at fifteen of which only six were occupied. I headed for a stool in the corner. It offered privacy, for the moment, and positioned me for full surveillance of the bar. I hadn't come for companionship. If Slim didn't show within the hour, I was out of there like a rodeo bull coming out of a chute.

I had barely settled my hams when a middle-aged barmaid approached half smiling through two missing front teeth. Right away, I knew what she wanted for Christmas. She possessed about as much sex appeal as a wet noodle. What figure she had was owed to stiff stays and a tight dress. Every feature of her round face was average, except for flashing green eyes, which complimented her auburn hair. Like her figure, the color in her cheeks had been a product of phoniness. She looked like the red crocodile might have frightened her. "What can I get you, buckaroo?" Her brogue came straight out of Texas.

"Do you serve café au lait?" I strained a friendly smile.

"Sure. Had you figured for a shot and a beer."

"What about me gave you that impression?" I had a feeling I wasn't going to like the answer.

"I guess it was your big red nose." I hated it, but her smile lessened the insult.

"W.C. Fields did all right with his large proboscis, and what about old Rudolf? At least Mae West found something about Field's nose she liked. He could have been perverted." This wasn't the first time I'd been teased about my nose. But I always had a comeback. The great nose of Cyrano de Bergerac came to mind and I felt an inclination to add, “Furthermore, Cyrano de Bergerac said about his enormous proboscis, ‘A great nose is truly the sign of a genial, good, courteous, witty, generous and brave man.' And I am the personification of all he said.’”

"I was kidding, mister. I didn’t mean to make you mad. Besides, I rather like it." She turned and jiggled away, her compacted flesh struggling for freedom.

Future conversation with her will be contrived to project a more aloof personality. I've learned that it doesn't pay to get too friendly with barkeeps around the French Quarter. You always end up talking too much.

I reached my smokes, shook one out, and tossed the pack on the bar. I tapped it on the bar to firm it up and was about to light it when she set a steaming cup of café under my nose. I started searching for my lighter. Before I could find it, she shoved a lit lighter my way. I stared hard at her and said with a wink, "Try to miss my nose, sweetheart."

For a second, I thought the ice water running in her veins might have warmed, because she offered a thin smile. She acted as if she wanted to ask my name. Then a yell from down the bar distracted her and she left in a huff. I was glad. I inhaled a deep drag and fired three smoke rings in opposite direction. Looking around I didn't spot anyone or anything worthy of description. These rum-dum joints were like that. Well, I acted hastily. The huge red crocodile, hanging above the mirror behind the bar, would startle Tarzan out of his loincloth.

I lifted the café to my lips and blew gently. My lips felt the heat. I sipped delicately. I was surprised. The café tasted much better than I'd expected. For a moment, I thought I might be at Café du Monde. I smacked my lips. I loved the coffee bean as much as I loved my girl, Sarah. Well, nearly as much.

The café and the butt were half gone when Slim and a tall woman entered. My vital signs revved. I thought I might be about the luckiest person in the world. And when they came to the bar and sat ten feet away, I was certain God favored me for my clean living.

She looked to be three or four years younger than he is and four or five inches shorter. That put her at about five-feet-ten-inches. She was plain in every way. I thought the match up was strange, since I'd heard his libido demanded well-built sexy ladies. Miss Personality was upon them faster than a tumblebug on a plop of fresh cow merde. I swigged café, smoked, and tried to appear indifferent, but I listened intensely. Fortunately, Slim's voice projected. He ordered a shot of Jack Daniel and a draft beer. I could barely hear her, but I thought she'd ordered a gin and tonic.

"How are you doing, mister?" She looked my way. I assumed she was talking to me.

"Okay. I'd like another café au lait when you find a moment?"

"Gotcha covered, buckaroo." I still didn't find the title endearing.

I busied myself standing up loose change found in my pants pocket. Nickels and pennies were relatively easy, but the dimes and quarters were difficult. While fidgeting with change, I smoked, sipped café and listened.

"We have time for only a couple, Agnes. Your train leaves at 3:45pm. It was great seeing you again little sister."

"Yes. It's been a year since we met in Atlanta last September. I'm happy to see you're taking care of yourself. However, it wouldn't hurt if you tapered off a tad from your alcohol intake."

Ah! Ha! She's from Atlanta.

The ensuing conversation was more advice from little sister about big brother taking better care of himself, and chitchat about when they were young, growing up in Chicago. My thought amused my alter ego. How could that be? Slim's never been a child. Then, she brought up the fact that Slim had not visited her in Las Vegas since Christmas of eons and it was time he paid her a visit. That shot the hell out of my earlier theory that she lived in Atlanta. I had summary thoughts: What have I learned? Agnes is his sister. She could live in Atlanta or where ever her train’s going. She seems to love her cold-blooded brother. I scratched my chin. I'd learned very little, but you never know where small pieces might fit the big puzzle. One thing was a certainty. Agnes would have no trouble sleeping with a coral snake.

Slim’s restlessness alerted me. Since they were about finished with their second drink, I decided to start walking to the train station. I wanted to see what train she'd be catching and any other activity that might happen there. To pay the tab, I left the pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters I'd successfully stood up and departed for the train station.

Arriving, I positioned myself so I could see the public lockers and most of the trains sitting on the tracks. I bought an afternoon newspaper to hide behind and read later. Again, I wanted to keep a low profile. The waiting room was unpopulated. Most of the passengers were either on the boarding ramp saying goodbye to love ones or had already boarded trains. The loud speaker attracted my attention. “The Sunset Express on tract three will be leaving for Las Vegas sharply at 3:45pm.” I checked my watch, then looked around. Agnes and Slim were nowhere to be seen. She has ten minutes left to board if she’s going to Vegas.

Then I spotted them rushing through the side entrance. Slim carried her medium sized traveling bag, which suggested her visit had been short. They half ran through the waiting room and onto the boarding ramp. After passing three passenger cars, they stopped. Slim set her bag down and they embraced like you'd expect a loving brother and sister to embrace: chaste and subdued. She grabbed her bag and boarded. Seconds later the Las Vegas bound train left.

Noticing Slim heading for the waiting room, I dipped behind the paper. He made a beeline for the public lockers on the wall straight ahead. My curiosity flamed higher than a barn fire fanned by wind. Reaching a locker near the middle, Slim nervously found a key and opened a locker. I wasn’t close enough to see the locker's number, so I counted the lockers from left to right. Slim had opened a locker on the second row from the top. Counting from left to right, I counted five lockers. He took a quick look inside and quickly locked the door. He pulled once at the door, turned, and left for the side entrance.

I wondered if I'd paid close attention. If Slim had not placed something in the locker, he'd acted awful stupid telegraphing the locker's location, or he suffered from a high degree of paranoia. Sometimes the management, at the request of the police, searched lockers looking for narcotics. Of course this was an invasion of privacy, but N'Awlins was a tough venue and the cops played as dirty as the