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 felons did. They could’ve brought the dog snifters and done the job as effectively and legally. I sat for a few seconds wondering if I should follow him. I thought Slim might be headed for another bar, which sounded like a darn good idea.

I stood to leave. I was halfway to the side entrance when I espied Slim hurrying through the side entrance. Not wanting to encounter him, I ducked into the men's room. I waited just inside 'til I counted to ten, then I returned to the passenger's waiting room. Slim opened the door to the locker and my interest skyrocketed. He reached inside and removed a leather briefcase just big enough to hold a disassembled rifle.

A question flashed in my mind. Did Agnes fetch the rifle to him? All logic pointed to the possibility. Quite shrewd, I thought, having a sister as his confederate. No one suspects her, so she keeps the weapon. Atlanta flashed from an activated mind filled with deductive reasoning. I will ask Nip to check the police files to determine if homicide was committed in Atlanta during September of last year. An even more frightening thought came; a bloodletting was close, but whose blood would be spilled?

Slim closed the door and started walking for the front entrance. I rushed to the side entrance and walked around front. He entered the first cab in line. I hurried to the fifth and last cab. "Mister, you're supposed to take the next cab in line." The mellow-sweet sound came out of the mouth of an attractive blond woman who looked a life worn fifty.

"Yes, I know, but I have a good excuse. I'm a New Orleans detective doing close surveillance."

"Where to, Officer?" About that time, Slim's cab started moving toward the street out front.

"Follow that cab."

She chuckled. "You're kidding. I've been driving for ten years and I've never once had that request. Once a mean looking thug entered my cab and said stick 'em up. Buckle your seatbelt fuzzy." Inertia jerked the smile on my crawfish loving face.

We followed Slim to his refurbished antebellum house on St. Peter where Slim alighted and went inside. The cab waited. When he reappeared, after more than fifteen minutes inside, he wasn’t carrying the leather case. While we waited a block away, Mary's feminine curiosity overwhelmed her and she asked several pertinent questions. I told her the information was privileged, which probably only served to heighten her curiosity. I thought I'd acted rather stupidly. I should have told her some innocent and boring cock and bull story, which would have satisfied her curiosity. I thought, what if she should pick Slim up as a customer sometime in the future.

We followed Slim through streets that surely led to The Purple Dragon. The incessant clicking of the mileage meter had become unnerving and I thought I might come unglued. Wanting to relieve the anxiety, I dared to say something to Mary, but then I was afraid she’d be encouraged to ask more sensitive questions. The meter sounded like a time bomb when I asked Mary to drop me a block away from The Purple Dragon. Slim was leaving the cab when I asked, "How much?" My utterance had profound implications.

Chagrin animated my young face when Mary retorted equally profoundly, "twenty-six dollars and seventy-five cents." I found a twenty and a ten and placed it in rough hands. "Keep the change," brought a weary smile on her prematurely aged face. For a moment, I was in shock, and then I realized the fare would become a single entry on my expense report, which would be presented to Prince O'Boyle. But I thought a $30 cab fare might be difficult to explain. Yes, but easier than a $50 call girl, which I’d successfully defended another time. This thought plastered a big smile on my face. Of course, the fifty bucks was for vital information. Her vital statistics were not part of the deal. Even O’Boyle had believed it. But I'd never mentioned it to Sarah.

Later That Day

The Purple Dragon reeled from the influences of happy hour. Feelings of homophobia seized me, as I sat at the bar next to a delicate Black man with limp wrists. When my bones were settled on the barstool, I had another cursory glance at the man. His looks had striking resemblance of Sammy Davis, but he appeared a mite taller and had two perfect eyes. And he drank coffee. Chic, the flaky cross-dresser, was busy shooting-the-breeze and playing grab ass at the other end of the bar with another thing dressed in drag.

"Good afternoon, Brucie baby. The same?" I was vexed. I wanted to take a swing at her.

"Sure. Good afternoon, Chic." As Chic retreated to fix my Early Times and Soda, I glanced around. Slim had taken a seat in one of the cozy tables for two along the opposite wall. He had already been served a shot and beer chaser. He seemed to be showing guarded interest in Clay Appleton, one of Wynne Lee's gay friends. Clay sat nearby with a handsome young man wearing a LSU football sweater. Slim was within hearing distance and he appeared to be tuned in to Clay's conversation.

I began pondering about Slim's interest in Clay Appleton. Serious answers were developing when Chic arrived with my tongue grease. "I'll run you a tab if you like, Mister—Hole." He smiled flirtatiously. My guts rolled over three times and almost passed through my lower orifice.

I thought, a private dick's existence has its ups and downs, but hanging around gay bars is the ultimate downer. Then, I remembered that O'Boyle had promised a $5,000 bonus if I kept Althea Lee breathing. I rationalized. You have to go with the flow. I lit a smoke and blew the smoke at the purple atmosphere. I was certain a gay dragon hid in the men's room.

"Okay, darling." I couldn't believe how convincing I sounded.

"The place is a mad house. All these bitches are thirstier than dessert lizards. I've got to run, baby." The revelation that she was busy pleased me—immensely.

I took a generous swig and found change in my pocket. I proceeded standing up coins, but Slim was never out of my sight longer than a few seconds. I had stood up two nickels and one penny when the Black man, on the stool next to me, said, "You're really good at that. It takes a steady hand."

I didn't want to encourage his friendship, but I didn't want to be rude either. His voice wasn't sibilant, but he had a slight lisp. In fact, he sounded like he might sing bass at the First Baptist Church. Then I had a strong premonition that he might be a city detective. Why, is beyond me. I just did. Perhaps it was mental telepathy. I seemed to have the ability to sense things about people in my space.

I said effeminately, "Well, if you say so. I've certainly had enough practice—been doing it ever since I was a teenager." I was just as prissy and sibilant as I knew how, hoping he would back off.

It seemed to work. He left me alone to finish my cigarette, Early Times and cogitate. Thoughts spun around in my head like a run away Ferris wheel. Slim may not be interested in Althea at all. If Althea had observed Slim stalking her, she would have called me. Just to be sure, I'd better call her. Could Clay Appleton be the target? Slim's interest in Clay certainly isn't sexually orientated. His lust for the femme fatales of the world certainly suggests otherwise. If the interest is not sexually motivated, then what is it?

The likely answer suddenly flew off the periphery of my brain like a hubcap leaving the wheel of a speeding car. It had been there all the time, and now it was as plain as the nose on my face. Clay's blackmailing Wynne and Slim has been hired to put an end to it.

The place and the clientele repulsed me. The purple seemed to be infiltrated with purple people eaters. Slim had left his killing weapon at home and the sun would soon set. He killed around dusk, which was now. Slim would not kill anyone this day. I wasted my time. I thought an-hour-nap was well ordered. Sarah and I were going to the Pontchartrain Drive-in to see Laura, starring Clifton Webb and exotic Jean Tierney, a gorgeous, petite brunette with sparkling eyes. It was released in 1944, but I'd missed it somehow. Maybe I was busy with Intelligence School or basic training. I left three dollars on the bar and slipped out like the Tooth Fairy in the night.

Next Day - Office on Esplanade

I grabbed the phone and dialed. "Vieux Carré Precinct, Sergeant Murphy speaking.” It was a woman.

"May I speak to Detective Nip Murray?" My wait was just long enough for me to look over to see Angel asleep in her basket.

"Murray speaking." He sounded sleepy.

"Have you been sleeping at your desk, Nip?" I choked a laugh.

"This you, Monday? It's a tad slow now. All the murderers have gone deep sea fishing."

"Yelp. You know I only let my closest friends call me Monday. Somehow I think the nickname is demeaning." I was only half-serious. Nip had been calling me Monday since our high school years.

"Come on guy you know Monday is used by all with great affection."

"Keep it up, copper, and you'll get another invitation for lunch at The Napoleon House."

"What'd you call about, Mister McTrite?"

"I dropped by The Purple Dragon yesterday—"

"I didn't know you were of that persuasion."

"Come on—quit kidding around. I sat by a medium built Black man who had a deep-bass voice. For some strange reason I thought he might be a detective."

"You're very perceptive, Eagle Eyes. Or have you been hanging around the Gypsies in Jackson Square?"

"No! Way! And I don't have any friends in the Voodoo cult."

"His name is George O'Keefe, Monday."

"Is he Irish?" I wanted to be funny. I must have been. He laughed.

"Possibly. One generation removed. He's a regular guy, and he's one of our better detectives. Actually, he's a good friend of mine. We play tennis once a week and sometime we team for doubles tournaments."

"What was he doing at The Purple Dragon?"

"I can't say, but he was doing surveillance work."

"I think I know, Nip. He was shadowing Sloan Luebbermann."

"I can't say. Quit baiting me. I ain't going to tell you, lad."

"Do me a favor. Check the files for homicides in Atlanta during September of last year."

"What are you onto, Monday?"

"I think Sloan Luebbermann might have killed in Atlanta about that time."

"Why are you interested in Luebbermann, Monday?"

"I can't say. It involves confidentiality between client and attorney. But I'm working on your side of the street. I'll get in touch if anything hot comes along."

"I can say that we're beginning to sound like a broken record, Monday. Okay, I'll check and get back. When are we going to have lunch again, Monday?"

"One day next week. I'll let you know when you let me know. Thanks, old pal. Oh! Incidentally, I'm having lunch with Detective Collins tomorrow. I've got more question for him than a bank loan officer."

"Good luck. Have I ever told you that you're my favorite 'keyhole slime' in all of New Orleans?"

"No, not lately. Goodbye Nip."

The Dragon’s parking lot was packed, so I parked two blocks away and hoofed it. I was swearing after the first block, "The damn world's a 'bloody' thirsty place. Every drunk, hooker, homosexual, derelict, transvestite, priest, lonely sailor and the curious have beaten me here. Then, reverence decreed that I mentally delete priests from the indictment.

Raucous gaiety blew me away when I opened the portal. I hesitated for a moment to survey the party animals. Through the purple abyss, I saw Wynne Lee sitting with another featherweight, Clay Appleton. Chic ran around behind the bar like an Indian performing a war dance. And he was painted up appropriately. I didn't know anyone else. Then I noticed John Shuman, a City Councilman, sitting at the bar. He was reputed as being the most eligible bachelor in New Orleans. Now, I doubted it.

A barstool next to him beckoned, but I would take it only if nothing else became available, although he hardly knew me. On behalf of finding a place to plant my buttocks, I continued to peruse the joint. Then, a drag queen rose, from a strategically desirable location viewing wise, and headed my way. I moved quickly. We were on a collision course and the closer she came the uglier she got and the queasier I became. Unquestionably, it was an older man dressed in drag. He'd been drawing social security for at least five years. He might have been half way convincing had he shaved closer, stuffed his bra with cotton, and utilize a grayish-blue wig instead of a dirty blond wig. I looked away as we passed each other. If she'd spoken, I would have chucked up. I thought he ought to be ashamed of himself. He was too old to be playing these kind of fruity games.

I perched daintily on the barstool. I conditioned myself to sound sibilant and look effeminate. I was astonished at how good I was getting. Chic served a drink four stools away, then loped my way batting his eyelashes and foaming at the mouth. "Good afternoon, darling." Again, I was vexed. Again, I wanted to give him a Mohammed Ali uppercut and send him to the Moon—or Mars—which is farthest away? I would have preferred Mister Hole regardless of what prefixes or adjective accompanied it.

"The usual, Chic. " I'd almost said, darling. I wanted the five grand bonus pretty bad, but not that badly.

I lit a cigarette, blew smoke rings temperamentally at the ceiling, and reached my change. My emoting reeked of Lauren Bacall and Key Largo. I’d started standing loose change up when I felt a heavy hand gripping my right shoulder. The hand weighed a ton. It became heavier. I looked in the mirror behind the bar and my heart stopped. My lower orifice pinch at the seat. Slim Luebbermann stood behind me with an odious, sadistic expression on his defaced face.

I wanted to run.

I wanted to shrink inside a shell.

I wanted it to be a mirage.

I wanted to yell for help. I was over reacting. He killed at dusk. Dusk had passed.

"Mister McTrite, you're like my shadow. You seem to be following me everywhere." His cigarette-ravaged voice was harsh and cold as his eyes. The voice was even more intimidating. It was querulous, tremulous, and completely devoid of warmth. More simply, he was Boris Karloff playing Frankenstein.

"Do I know you?" I said trying to sound cool and unconcerned, but my small intestines had swapped place with my large intestines.

"I think so. Why else would I keep seeing you in my space?" No matter what he said I would play my hand as if I'd never seen hide or hair of him. He continued. "I get real nervous when private detectives keep popping up in my space."

I wasn't going to discredit my innocent approach by denying his last allegation. I was certain he'd done his homework. "Who are you, sir?"

"Why do you ask something you already know?" I thought, you flatter yourself.

"And what makes you so sure of that? I'm a PI just trying to make a living. It's not unusual to find my kind in places like this." He'd taken stock of my last statement. I thought he might be bluffing or baiting me.

"If I keep seeing your puss, I might be driven to do something heinous—comprehendi."

"Sir, if that was intended to intimidate me it's a flawed attempt." It was a brave speech, since I was actually trembling slightly, but I wasn't going to be pushed around. Showing fear might give away the fact that I knew he was an incorrigible, cold-blooded assassin.

I turned away. I sucked a deep drag of my cigarette, blew three smoke rings harem-scarem, and started standing up my loose change. He hesitated briefly, and then moved to a barstool at the other end of the bar, where he had a full view of Wynne the Pooh. I thought Slim had swallowed my hot air hook, line, and sinker; however, I made a mental note to stealth my presence in the future. If Nip turned up an Atlanta connection, Slim might be in the slammer shortly. I proceeded to wipe the confrontation from my mind and get on with my reason for coming.

But I figured Slim's presence precluded any further surveillance of Wynne Lee. I didn't want to let the cat out of the bag. I'd call Wynne at his office and arrange a meeting with him another time…like tomorrow. Finally, Chic Chase delivered my two drinks, quipped several raw quips, and went about his business. Everyone drank with both hands. I mimicked.

The transvestite next to me was looking more and more friendly as the alcohol permeated his bloodstream and rushed to his hands.

If one hand lands on my knee, I’ll floor his ass. I found two dollars, placed it on the bar, and walked out.

In the afternoon I went for a haircut. Afterwards, my pocket-watch offered time for a short nap before Sarah picked me up to go to the drive-in. We'd be seeing 'To Have and Have Not' starring Bogie and Bacall. They had it all in this flick, and marriage soon followed. The movie was based on Hemingway's novel of the same name.

I walked briskly along Chartres Street headed for my apartment. The sun had drowned in the Mississippi minutes earlier. Dusk crept towards darkness. I’d walked less than a block when I espied a red and black LSCW parked on the other side of Chartres. LSCW is my acronym for Leg Spread Cat Wagon like an Eldorado or Mercedes or BMW. I focused my eyes on the Eldorado. A tall man sat in the driver's seat. I suddenly became horrified.

Slim Luebbermann ricocheted inside my brain and moved like greased lightning to my feet. I'm sure the rifle's sight marks my heart. In a second, the pain of a bullet slicing through my chest to my heart will be felt. I darted inside a book and record shop thinking my timing was fortunate. Maaan, this private dick stuff has its moments.

A small middle-aged Jewish woman attended the shop. She was busy with a wealthy customer and ignored me, as I rushed to the backdoor. I walked behind three buildings to Conti Street. Now it was pitch dark. Since no streetlights existed in this area, I would feel comfortable walking up the opposite side of Chartres and surprising Slim. Peeking around the corner, my discovery was met with mixed emotions, relief, and disappointment. The Eldorado was gone. I was alive and safe, but knowing whom the tall man sitting behind the wheel was important. If Slim had been the one, I’d at least know to be careful in the future. A later thought relaxed me. I’ll ask Nip what kind of car Slim owns.

Lunch at The Napoleon House

When I reached The Napoleon House, Nip had arrived. He sat in Daisy’s section ogling every sexy move she flaunted, drinking a large draft beer, and playing with his pocket pal. He was a lover man according to the word around the precinct. Some said he’d screw a wart hog if someone would put a bag over its head and hold it. Ray, a detective friend of his, laughed when he said, “When Nip dies his fly will be enshrined at the Smithsonian Institute.” I thought his remark stemmed from jealousy.

I was sucking air like an over weight gorilla with asthma when I sat beside him. And I was sweaty, thirsty and not in the mood to take abuse from Daisy, which was a certainty. She was always kidding me, but at times, I thought she acted like she had the hots for me. My egomania over reacted often. “Hello, copper.” I said it with a smile.

I sat on his left and lit a cigarette shamefully. I wanted to quit. I looked around. Sweet Pea was busy talking to a tall-dark-and-handsome.

“It’s Mister Murray to you.” I ignored his uppity wisecrack.

“Would you like to sit at a table, Nip?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary. Our police business is short. Besides, I like the scenery here.”

“Yes, sir, Mister Murray.” I made a half-ass cat call. My mouth was dustier than a bag of flour, and a beer was needed to settle the dust. Daisy looked our way and continued talking. I was provoked. “Nip, what kind of car does Slim Luebbermann own?”

He swallowed a slug of beer and looked my way. “He doesn’t have a car registered in his name. When the need for a car arises, we think he goes out of town and steals one.”

I thought, I’d never know who the tall man in the LSCW had been and it worried me. “That’s really clever.”

“Yeah. The man is one shrewd operator. He doesn’t leave tracks. Why are you so worked up over Luebbermann?”

“I’ve answered that question already. And that brings me to—”

Sweet Pea, with a trace of sullenest around her mouth, appeared, prompting me to redirect my verbal efforts at her, before she did it to me. “What’s Rock Hudson got that we haven’t got?”

“Ha! Ha! Funnyman! Why don’t you go hunt a Maltese Falcon, Sam Spade?"

“I haven’t lost a Maltese Falcons. Would it be an imposition, Sweet Pea, to get two beers for two thirsty guys?”

Her grin slowly transitioned from a smile to a giggle. “Two guys? One guy and one—well, I hear you’ve been hanging out at The Purple Dragon.” Her laugh sounded profane. Actually, for a moment I thought she was serious. But Nip’s over animated grin chapped my lower cheeks.

“Strictly business, Sweet Pea. I don’t have a funny bone in my skeleton.” With that, she left for the beer tap.

Nip said, “Daisy’s a spicy dame, Monday.”

“Yeah. I can love and hate her in the same breath. As I was about to say when Tinker Belle interrupted, what’d you find out about Atlanta?”

“A general manager of several strip joints in Atlanta was shot down while entering one of his dens of iniquity. It happened the twenty-first day of September, and the case is still open. The Atlanta police are certain it’s Mob connected. They think Lucky Bacho skimmed money off the top. The killer’s MO was identical to Luebbermann's. Lucky Bacho was killed at dusk, by a high-powered 32-caliber rifle, fired from a parked car. Lab tests of the two bullets found in Lucky’s heart matched bullets taken from a number of other unsolved killings over the last few years.”

He was finished. My mouth now felt drier than a bag of unbuttered popcorn. Sweet Pea, shimming our way with two beers was orgasmic. I said, as she placed the overflowing mugs near, “Did you have to go to Trinidad to get the beer?” Her face was deadpan. I wondered if she was having her period.

“Today’s not one of my better days. You two sports having lunch?”

I answered. “Yes, Ma’am. After a couple of beers.” I grabbed the mug and before returning it to the bar, it was half-empty. I inhaled a deep breath of air. I rubbed out the butt and lit another. I looked seriously at Nip. “I’m going to level with you pal.”

Then I told him my connection to Luebbermann. I told him about his sister and the rifle case containing the killing weapon. I spilled my guts. Its time had come. Then, I suggested that they get a search warrant and go looking for the rifle at Luebbermann’s home.

We spent ninety minutes chewing the rag. He spread most of the blarney. He liked to brag about his conquests. I let him. I found it interesting just listening. If I were a cad and a womanizer, I would have taken notes. When we finished lunch and parted company, he’d drunk four beers. I hoped he wouldn’t get a DUI on his way back to the station. I laughed at the thought as I walked towards Esplanade, where my humble office was located.

The day was incredibly gorgeous, I noticed again for a third time, while turning on the banquette leading to my office building. Pristine blue skies smiled down at me. It made me feel clean and pure. My spirits were higher than the snows of Kilimanjaro.

Office on Esplanade - Ten Days Later

I was back from our honeymoon in Las Vegas. Sarah and I finally tied the knot. I wondered if Nip had made progress finding Luebbermann's rifle. I picked up the phone and dialed. "Vieux Carré Precinct, Lieutenant Murray speaking.

"Nip, Monday here. What’s happening with Slim?”

“You ain’t going to believe this—”

“Try me.”

“We obtained a search warrant and surprised Slim. He was sleeping off an earlier hangover when we rapped on his door. We searched high and low. We tapped every inch of the floors, walls, and ceiling. Then we combed the walls with metal detectors. We found nothing but walls and floors and ceilings, not one trace of a rifle. Then we dug out back in his garden. After that, we sent in Helga, our gunpowder sniffing German Shepherd. She didn’t even smell enough to stick her ears in the air.

“Nip, your revelation isn’t a heart warming development. It’s got to be there, maaan. How quick did you act after you got the search warrant?"

“We got it last Monday at two in the afternoon, and we went in at 2pm the next day.”

“Hell, that's twenty-four hours. Now don’t go getting all bent out of shape, Nip, when I say that he might have been informed.”

“It’s possible, but I can’t imagine who. Although we’ve had a few dirty cops.”

“If it’s not there, Nip, I guarantee you it’s stashed somewhere in New Orleans; unless his sister came and toted it away. But there wasn’t time enough for that. She lives somewhere between here and Las Vegas.”

“She lives in Vegas, Hackney, and she deals blackjack at The Flamingo Hotel under the pseudonym, Ava Gardner."

“Well, if you got to pick a name, you might as well go with a famous one. But she doesn’t resemble Ava even slightly. I’ve seen her. She looks like Olive Oil on a bad hair day. Hey, sport, how do you know all this?”

"Privileged info, Hackney, but I think you know we’ve been after Slim for a long time.”

“Nip, he’s stashed that rifle somewhere nearby. Put a tail on him and he’ll lead you to it. I think you’d better talk to Captain Bricker about my suspicion that there’s a mole in your midst. I’ll bet you a dollar to beignet you’ve got a dirty cop in the precinct. Check the boys driving big cars and taking vacations in Europe. That’s the place to start.”

“Okay, Monday, I think you’re right. I’ll put a shadow on Slim immediately. And I’ll personally look into the other matter. Isabel, in personnel, is a friend of mine. She knows all the scuttlebutt. See you later, old pal.”

“Click.”

I was disappointed. I’d hoped Slim was in jail by now. Wishful thinking has dulled my sensibilities. Hell, I’ve been grossly naïve, a damn fool. I should have known he was more slippery than Houdini and cleverer than General Douglas Macarthur. He’s eluded detection for thirty years. I’m back to a red alert status, especially during Slim's killing window, around dusk. I’ll be particularly alert for a red and black LSCW.

The Napoleon House

I wasn’t sure why they’d invited me. Maybe they wanted to thank me. Maybe they were angry about something. I knew it wasn't related to The Killing Machine. The excitement I felt spotting Detective Maxwell sashaying my way would compare to the excitement created by five balls simultaneously sweeping through a pinball field. I saw flashing lights. I heard bells. A covey of quail flew from my lower orifice.

My perusal started at her natural blond hair, which cascaded down her back like a rippling waterfall. Then my eyes descended sixty-six inches to black patent leather pumps. She was a perfect 96. The red two-piece suit, which was one size too small and two inches too short, hugged her 36-24-36 foundation with delight. The v-cut, plain white, cotton shirt allowed some relief.

I had arrived fifteen minutes ahead of them. My Early Times and soda, that daisy served with the usual tartly abuse, was mostly ice now. The smack was gone. My eyes made the return pilgrimage to an intelligent, happy, natural face that spoke her joys. The Master Sculptor with grace and preference had sculptured her petite nose and narrow, sultry, hazel eyes. I couldn’t believe she played the part of a prostitute. Then, with the imagination of an artist, I added red lipstick, rouge, eye shadow and mascara, and I wanted to ask her how much.

I stood to greet them. I pulled a friendly smile. She responded, but Chester offered his usual deadpan, I’m bored with the world face. Chester said efficiently, “Hackney, meet Sergeant Deborah Maxwell.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sergeant Maxwell.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mister McTrite.” She extended her hand and I shook it gently. It was as warm and soft as her voice, and I didn’t want to let go.

I said, “We’ll find more privacy at a table.”

Their chins moved up and down. I shouted at Daisy, who was drawing a beer, “We’re going to take a table, Sweet Pea.”

The motion of Sweet Pea’s chin said, okay.

I said, “Sergeant Maxwell have you a preference?”

“No, sir, not really.” I relished the respect, but I would have preferred she’d called me Hackney. We were about the same age.

Daisy alerted a waitress who motioned us to join her. First, she offered us a table in the center of the dining area prompting me to say, “May we have the table in the corner. We have business to discuss and it might provide more privacy.”

“Certainly, sir.”

I followed Sergeant Maxwell and Detective Collins. Chester’s six-foot frame deprived me of an opportunity to watch her slinky movements. Chester had played hooky the day they taught etiquette at the police academy and I was obliged to assists this gorgeous creature into her chair. Chester had denied himself a cheap thrill. It costs nothing to look.

I joined them. Now we were all on the same level. The place was slow. Seconds had passed when an attractive middle-aged waitress arrived with menus, water, and an engaging smile. “What are you folks having to drink?”

“Ice tea,” said Maxwell.

“Same,” said Collins. I knew he wanted a beer, but not after Sergeant Maxwell ordered tea.

I hesitated. My feelings were mixed. But I dared to be different. “Whiskey sour with Early Times.”

I was studying the menu when I looked toward the bar. I did a retake. I couldn’t believe the reflection in the pupils of my eye. “Chester, you may find my action strange, but I must go. There’s no time to explain. I’ll repay you for my expenditures later.” I rose and headed for the fire-exit, wondering who’d drink the Early Times. I was sorry I’d not brought it along in a cup. And I still wondered why they'd invited me. Outside, I walked to the Vieux Carré Police Station, a block away. I ran up the steps and entered the Dayroom.

An older cop manned the desk. I rushed over. The name on the nameplate said, Sergeant Shawn O’Rielly. He looked slightly Italian, but I didn’t have time to analyze it. I was pleased he wasn’t busy, but it was much too early for drunks and prostitutes to be dragged off the streets. “Sergeant O’Rielly,” I said, with a tone of urgency in my voice, “please ring Detective Nip Murray. My matter is of the gravest importance.”

He complied courteously.

His mother’s Italian and his daddy is Irish.

“Nip, there’s a gentleman down here who say’s he wants to talk to you.” He handed me the phone.

“Nip, it’s Monday. Slim Luebbermann is at The Napoleon House having drinks with his sister. I’m certain she’s come for the killing weapon. There’s little time to waste.”

“Calm down, Monday, I’ll engage Detective Pete Davis and we’ll get on it pronto.”

“I’d be glad to help, but Slim knows me.”

“This is a police matter, Monday, we’ll take care of it.”

“Nip, he’s probably stashed the rifle in a lockup at the train station. You might send Detective Davis over there and you could shadow him from The Napoleon House.”

“Thank you, Monday, we’re not idiots.”

“I know you’re not. Just half wits.” I chuckled into the mouthpiece to let him know I wasn’t serious.

“Okay, tiger, go somewhere and have a nice lunch. We’ll take it from here. Drink one for me.”

“Let me know what happens. I’ll feel a lot safer when this bloodthirsty killer is behind bars. I’ve thought a few times he might be after me.”

“You’re not alone, pal.”

“Click.”

It was the most foreboding click I’d ever heard. Did it predict that Slim had finally stumped his big toe? That he had made the fatal error? My thoughts were hopeful ones.

I heeded Nip’s suggestion.

Next Morning - Omelet Shack

I'd just finished a Deluxe Omelet and started reading the picayune. The article was headline news.

VIEUX CARRÉ PRECINCT DETECTIVE ARRESTED

Detective Sergeant Pete Davis was arrested last night for complicity and aiding a suspected hired killer. When apprehended, Detective Davis had in his possession a disassembled high-powered 32-caliber rifle alleged to be the weapon used by Mister Sloan Luebbermann in several killings for money. Mister Luebbermann, and his sister, Agnes Luebbermann, have been detained for questioning. She is suspected of harboring the weapon and delivering it upon demand. This reporter has been told by a reliable source that tests of the bullet barrel markings are being conducted as you read this. The police are hoping the markings will match the markings on other bullets dug out of other alleged victims of Mister Luebbermann.

I literally jumped out of my chair and yelled triple play. I felt like a knight of the Round Table. Slim and his cold-blooded sister has met their Waterloo. And the world has one less crooked cop.

I reached the phone and dialed trying to control my excitement.

“Loyola Elementary, Elaine speaking.”

“Hi, Elaine. Please let me speak to Sarah.”

“Congratulations, Mister McTrite. You captured yourself a fine little Philly.”

“For sure, Elaine. Thank you.”

“I’m ringing her now.”

“Mrs. McTrite speaking.” I liked the sound of it.

“Hi sweetie pie. I’ve got great news. The police have apprehended Slim Luebbermann the hired killer.” She sighed.

“That’s wonderful, Hun. That’s a feather in your cap.”

“Yes. And it may curry a few privileges in the future. Tonight we’re going to Broussard’s for dinner. We’ll be celebrating two marvelous events, moving into our new home and my success helping capture Luebbermann.”

“Sound divine. I have to go now. Goodbye, Hun.” After the click, I relished my success for a moment. I had no doubts the bullet markings would match.

After hanging up, I waited for a dial tone. Hearing it, I dialed again. On the sixth ring I heard, “Detective Nip Murray speaking.”

“Hello, old pal. You did it.” I was fishing for a compliment.

He obliged. “Monday, you know that should be, we did it.”

“Well, I might have helped some.”

“Hell, Monday, your contributions were monumental. We’d still be sitting on our dicks and depending on miracles.”

“Well, if you insist, Nip. How ‘bout lunch on Friday. I’ll let you kiss my ass then.”

“You got it, but it’s my treat. I might be getting a promotion out of this.”

“I’m very happy for you.”

“I’m going to give the story to the press and it’s going to give you the credit you deserve, but of course I’m going to save a little glory for myself. You understand don’t you?”

“Sureee. I wouldn’t want it any other way, Nip.”

“I owe pal. Come to me anytime you need help.”

Nip's press release finally ran in the Picayune.

MURDER INCORPORATED SUSPECT CHARGED

Today, Sloan ‘Slim’ Luebbermann, the alleged killer for pay, was charged with five counts of first-degree murder. Police were successful linking the rifle, found on Detective Pete Davis, to five murders, which had occurred in Atlanta, Miami, Las Vegas, Cincinnati, and Cleveland over the past three years. However, the investigation continues. Police think they may soon link Mister Luebbermann with as many as eight other killings. Mister Luebbermann is being held in lieu of a $400,000 bond.

Detective Davis has confessed that he acted as a confidant for Mister Luebbermann and has agreed to testify that the rifle belongs to Mister Luebbermann. He has agreed to confess to one count of complicity and aiding a felon. He is being held in lieu of a $200,000.

Agnes Luebbermann, Sloan’s sister, is being charged with one count of conspiracy and aiding a felon. An investigation into her involvement, with her brother, is on going. More indictments are highly probable. She is being held in lieu of a $300,000 bond.

The police credit Hackney McTrite, a local private investigator, with alerting Detective Nip Murray that Mister Luebbermann’s sister had brought the killing weapon to New Orleans for the alleged purpose of killing Mister Clay Appleton. McTrite was hired by Mrs. Althea Lee to investigate her husband's personal activities. McTrite’s investigation uncovered the fact that Mister Lee was having a homosexual affair with Mister Clay Appleton. Readers may be mindful of the recent divorce of the Lees. Since the divorce was settled out of court, this reporter was unable to determine from authoritative sources why Mister Luebbermann was allegedly hired to kill Mister Appleton. However, this reporter has done some independent snooping. I have determined that Mister Wynne Lee hired Mister Luebbermann because Mister Clayton was blackmailing him to prevent Mister Clayton from informing his wife that he was gay. This reporter knows for a fact that the two were often seen cavorting at The Purple Dragon.

Do you want to read more? For about $2, I'll download a PDF Ebook of Vieux Carrè Pillow Strangler. Check it out.

Review Walker Joe's Books