Out of the Easy(48)

“Yep, when you were in trouble, you went running, but not for your boyfriend. You came runnin’ for me.” Jesse backed away slowly, smiling. “You like me, Josie Moraine. You just don’t know it yet.”

I stood at the door, watching him step backward. He nodded and smiled his Jesse smile. He did have nice teeth.

“Oh, and Jo?” he called from halfway down the street. “You’re welcome for the flowers.”

Jesse turned and walked away, his laughter and toolbox fading into the darkness.





THIRTY-TWO


I was late. Two hours of sleep was worse than no sleep. I felt queasy, and the pressure behind my eyes from crying had turned into a headache. I had cried about Charlie and how my negligence nearly killed him. I cried about letting Patrick down. I cried about lying to Willie, manipulating Mr. Lockwell, not being forthright with Charlotte. I cried about Mr. Hearne’s death and the pathetic fact that I clung to a dead man’s watch because a respectable person had felt I was decent and not useless. I cried about lying. If I poured all the lies I had told into the Mississippi, the river would rise and flood the city. I cried about forgetting to thank Jesse for the flowers and cried even harder that he thought I liked him. Did I like him? Sometimes it felt as if I was trying really hard not to like him. It was all worse than wrong.

Fat Tuesday approached. Willie’s house would be a fat disaster. The thought of sweeping up sin made my head throb. I walked into the house and smelled it right away. Bourbon. Someone had spilled it. Not a glass, but a bottle. That would be a half hour. There was something else. Wine. I hoped it wasn’t red. That would be forty-five minutes, maybe more. I couldn’t be certain. I wasn’t certain of anything anymore, except that New Orleans was a faithless friend and I wanted to leave her.

Sadie wrenched my arm, yanking me into her wiry frame as soon I stepped into the kitchen. She sobbed, making groaning sounds into my shoulder and then began unbuttoning my blouse.

“Sadie, stop. What are you doing?” I pushed her away, hard.

She looked at me, her brows twisted in confusion, her face swollen with crying. She reached into the sink and held up my blouse from the night before.

I had forgotten my bloody clothes in Cokie’s car. He had left them for Sadie. The poor woman probably thought I was dead.

“Oh, Sadie, no. I’m fine. Really.” I opened the neckline of my blouse and held my arms in the air, showing her both sides. “I’m not hurt.”

Sadie collapsed into a chair and kissed the cross hanging from her neck.

I sat down at the table to try to calm her. She was in a pool of prayer so deep she didn’t even respond. That’s when I caught sight of the headline on the table.


MEMPHIS TOURIST’S DEATH

DECLARED MURDER

I grabbed the paper.


Tennessee state officials have declared that knockout drops given in the Sans Souci on Bourbon Street killed Memphis tourist and former football star Forrest Hearne. Jefferson Parish investigator Martin Langley confirmed to the New Orleans Times Picayune that an autopsy in Memphis confirmed the cause of death. Hearne, a beloved and successful Memphis resident, died in the Sans Souci during the early morning hours of New Year’s Day. The death was initially ruled a heart attack, but the victim’s wife became suspicious when she realized several items were missing from her husband’s person, including cash and an expensive wristwatch. Examinations of the body were performed in Tennessee by a Memphis coroner and later confirmed by a Louisiana state chemist. Both tests revealed unmistakable evidence of chloral hydrate. The drug, often referred to as a “Mickey Finn,” is tasteless, colorless, odorless, and fatal in large doses. The Memphis chief investigator bitterly assailed the city of New Orleans for the lack of diligence local administration showed in the initial ruling of cause of death. The Memphis Press-Scimitar further reported that administering knockout drops to tourists of visible affluence is a widespread practice in the French Quarter, where the nightclub is located. Evidence in the case will be turned over to the New Orleans city police department.

Forrest Hearne hadn’t died of a heart attack. Someone had slipped him a Mickey.

? ? ?

I knocked on Willie’s door, hoping she’d be in the bath or too tired to talk.

“Come in.”

Willie looked as tired as I felt. A pad of onionskin paper was balanced on her lap. She always recorded the night’s receipts on onionskin. It could be burned, swallowed, or flushed if the cops came by.

“God, I need that coffee. I feel like a bag of smashed assholes.”

It sounded like she had swallowed a handful of rusty nails. “I’m sorry. I was late this morning, Willie. I haven’t even been upstairs yet. But I’ll hurry.” I set the tray on the bed.

“Sit down, Jo.”

I turned Willie’s desk chair toward the bed and sat down.

“Cokie told me what happened last night. He was so proud of you, said you were great in the pocket. Really brave. Randolph told me the same thing, said it was practically a slaughterhouse scene, that Patrick was about as useful as a rubber crutch, but you took control. I saw the welt where you knocked Randolph across the face.” Willie laughed.

“He was drunk, said he needed to be slapped to sober up. And poor Charlie was just lying there covered in blood. I was so scared, Willie.”