I didn’t sleep well, which wasn’t much of a surprise.
I thought getting stoned and having a few more drinks would take the edge off my anxiety and sufficiently anaesthetize me, but I was wrong. All it did was put me into an obnoxious kind of unrestful half-sleep. My body was asleep but my mind was racing. When the alarm went off at seven, I groaned and hit the snooze button, I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to lie there all day. With my eyes closed, I argued with myself about getting up. I could stay in bed until Loren called me with the bail amount. I wouldn’t have to shower to go see a bail bondsman or to go down to Central Lock-up—they’d seen much worse down there than an unshaved and unshowered gay man. In one of life’s hateful little ironies, my mind was finally tired and begging for sleep. I let myself lie there for another half hour before I dragged my ass out of bed and put on coffee to brew while I showered.
I was just getting out of the shower when someone rang my doorbell. As this was computing in my foggy brain, whoever it was gave up on the bell and started pounding on the door frame hard enough to rattle my windows.
The hot shower hadn’t worked. I still had a bit of a pot hangover. I shook my head to clear the fog but it didn’t work. I stumbled as I put my robe on, still dripping wet. Not cool. Maybe the coffee will help, I thought as I opened the front door.
“And just when were you planning on telling me Paul was arrested?” Paige demanded, puffing on a cigarette. She was tapping her foot, one hand on her hip, her huge black purse slung over one shoulder. She pushed past me into my apartment.
Paige Tourneur was my best friend. We met in college at my fraternity, Beta Kappa, where she was my little sister. She now worked as a reporter for the Times-Picayune, a job she truly hates. She really wants to write romance novels, and has been working on one for about three years.
Her reddish hair was disheveled, and her eyes were bleary from lack of sleep. She wore a tight short black skirt under a cream-colored silk blouse. She wore heels that put her a little over five feet. The most striking thing about Paige was her eyes. The left was blue and the right was green. She always joked that if she got fired, she could always tell fortunes in Jackson Square.
“What are you doing up so early?” I asked. Paige hated mornings almost as much as she hated her job.
She held up a box of Dunkin Donuts. “I brought breakfast, so you’d better fucking have coffee ready.” She looked me up and down. “Oh, for God’s sake, go dry off and put some clothes on.” She plopped down on the couch, opened the box, and revealed a dozen donuts, all glazed. It’s the only kind she’d eat. She grabbed one and looked at me. “Get me some coffee first, honey.”
I walked into the kitchen and poured us both a cup. I brought it in to her and grabbed a donut. Donuts weren’t on my diet either, but what the hell. I’d already blown the diet completely to hell already anyway. I walked back into my bedroom and pulled on underwear and sweatpants. I joined her in the living room.and lit a cigarette.
Both of her expertly plucked eyebrows went up. “Smoking again? And donuts? What’s going on?”
I blew the smoke into the ceiling fan. “Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “I had a hell of a day yesterday.”
“So I gathered.” She picked up her third donut. “So what the hell is going on? At about five this morning I got a call from the city editor telling me Paul’s been arrested and charged with murder. What the fuck, Chanse?” The city editor was a friend of hers. Paul and I had met him at a party in the summer. Nice guy—intelligent and a little on the sloppy side because he was always thinking and not paying attention to little details like tucking in his shirt and making sure he got every errant hair when he was shaving.
“I don’t know, Paige.” I grabbed another donut and took a bite. Glazed donuts are heavenly. Why is it that everything really bad for you tastes so good?
`She sighed. “Come on, Chanse—this is Paige here. Remember me? And this is not for publication, okay? Just tell me. Paul’s my friend, too, remember?”
“Look, I’d never even heard of Mark Williams until yesterday.” I said. It hadn’t been 24 hours yet. Jesus H. Christ. “Yesterday morning Paul and I got up, went to the gym, and had breakfast at the Bluebird. Then he said he had some errands to run, and I had an appointment with a client in the Quarter.” I sighed. “The day really went to shit from there.”
“Yeah, well.” She tossed her head. “I think Paul’s day ended up a lot worse than yours. Go on.”
“Back off. “ I said evenly. “That’s not what I meant.” I lit another cigarette. It was like I’d never quit in the first place. I’d completely forgotten about the delightful little buzz. “So, I was hired yesterday by Dominique DuPre—you know her?”
“She’s that singer opening a club on Bourbon Street.” She sat back, crossed her legs and pulled her skirt down. “So what for?”
“Well, she hired me to find out who’s causing trouble for her.” I went on to explain, without a lot of details, what was going on at Domino’s. “And who’s coming out the front door of Attitude? Paul.”
“So, you didn’t know Paul knew Mark Williams till then?”
“I’d never fucking heard of him.” The righteous indignation from yesterday began to burn back through the fog. “So, Paul tells me this Williams guy wants him to pose for the magazine cover, and we had a bit of an argument.”
She stared at me. “About what?”
It was my turn to stare at her. “I didn’t want him to pose for the cover.”
She waved her hands. “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” She leaned forward. “You’re telling me you two argued about him posing for the cover?” When I nodded, she rolled her eyes, using her whole head and started laughing. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Chanse, that’s priceless.”
I don’t like being laughed at. “I don’t think it’s crazy not to want my boyfriend half naked on a magazine cover.” I said in a cold voice.
“I’m sorry.” She reached over and patted my hand. “I shouldn’t have laughed, but honey, it doesn’t matter. I mean, really.” She clicked her tongue. “Did you stop to wonder why Paul would want to do it?”
“He likes the attention.” I said. I realized my lower lip was jutting out.
“Oh, honey.” She shook her head. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe he needs the money?”
“He doesn’t need the money!” I said. If Paul needed money, I’d know. She was really in outer space this time.
“You—“ she paused, took a few deep breaths, then went on. “Chanse, do you remember what it was to be poor?”
“I’m not rich.” I wasn’t, by a long shot. What the hell was she talking about?
“When was the last time you had to worry about making your rent? How you were gonna buy groceries? Where your next pack of cigarettes was coming from?” She lit one and exhaled through her nose.
“Paul’s not broke, Paige. I’d know.”
“Do you know how much he makes?” She scratched her head.
“No, I don’t.” We never talked about money.
“Some detective you are.” She shook her head. “Look, honey, I’m sorry if this seems harsh, but you need to know some things. Paul only makes about ten dollars an hour. That works out to about $400 a week before taxes. So, every two weeks he brings home maybe about $600 or so. He took a huge pay cut to transfer to ground crew. He has to pay his rent, his utilities, his car payment, his insurance and buy food out of that. He’s broke, Chanse.”
“I—“ I stopped myself and thought back. Come to think of it, I’d never seen Paul with cash. If we went out to dinner, he always paid with a credit card. When we went to bars, I always paid for our drinks and cover charges. That kind of thing never really bothered me; I just assumed that because Paul was so good-looking he was used to having someone buy his drinks, so I just always did. But come to think of it, every time we went to the clubs, Paul always hung back and let me go first when paying cover. Once we were inside, he would say, “Can you get me a drink, honey?”
It never occurred to me he might need money. Or that he’d taken a pay cut so he could be in my bed every night.
“Basically, he’s been living on his credit cards.” Paige got up and refilled her coffee cup without offering to do the same for me. She sat back down. “So, I’m sure if they offered him money, he jumped at it.”
“How come you know so much about Paul’s financial situation?” And I don’t?
“Because, honey, I talk to him. About what’s going on in his life.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Paul’s my friend.”
I didn’t like where this was going. “And just what is he to me?”
“Chanse, I know you love him—I’m not saying you don’t.” She shrugged. “What do you guys talk about?”
“I don’t know. Just stuff.”
“But apparently, never anything important.”
“Why didn’t he ever say anything to me about this?” I didn’t understand. I was his boyfriend, for God’s sake.
“Maybe he was embarrassed, I don’t know.” Paige stubbed out the cigarette, dug into her purse and produced her compact. She stared into the mirror for a bit, then freshened her lipstick. “For whatever reason, he didn’t feel comfortable sharing it with you. Maybe he was afraid you’d be judgmental, or something.”
My mind was reeling. “I mean, if he was having trouble with the rent or something, he could have just—“ I stopped for a moment, then went on. “He could have moved in here.”
She started laughing. “Oh, that’s rich, Chanse, it really is.”
She was really starting to get on my nerves. “I’m serious!” I protested.
Paige reached over and patted me on the hand. “I know you are, honey, and I think it’s great. But do you really think you’re ready to live with him? I mean, come on, you didn’t know about his money problems, you didn’t know he’d modeled—“
“I didn’t know he’d made wrestling porn videos.” I folded my arms and gave her a satisfied smile. I’m sure he hadn’t told her about that.
“Paul made wrestling videos?” She said after a few beats. She frowned, “Are these videos like a form of fetish porn?” I could see her mind working. “But what’s wrong with that?”
Now it was my turn to stare at her. I’d heard her go off on numerous rampages against the porn industry and how it degrades women. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, I’m serious.” Paige tilted her head to one side. “It does make sense in a kind of way—if he was really desperate of course he would turn to his looks to make some money. Just be glad he didn’t become an escort or something.”
“How do I know he didn’t?” I snapped.
She inhaled with a hiss. “I guess you should ask him. But these videos—I mean, was it just wrestling, like the WWF stuff, or was it actually wrestling sex?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know—I haven’t seen one.” I didn’t tell her I’d ordered some. “But the website described Paul, or Cody Dallas, as one of the ‘superstars of the industry.’”
She whistled. “No surprise there.” She laughed. “Paul’s a hot guy, Chanse. If he made videos, people would buy them.”
“What I don’t understand is why I am just finding all this out NOW.” I stubbed out my cigarette. “Would he have ever told me about this secret life of his? It’s like I don’t even know him, Paige.”
“Relax, Chanse.” Paige closed the box of donuts and pushed it away from her. “The most important thing right now is Paul beating this murder rap—we can sort all this other shit out later.”
“Easier said than done.” I said.
“I know it’s hard, but try not to be a complete jackass here, okay?” She leaned forward. “I know you’re in shock—who wouldn’t be? Do you really think Paul killed this Mark Williams guy? I mean, put aside your own feelings. I get it—you’ve found out some things about Paul you didn’t know. But just because he kept some things from you—and be fair, have you told him about your past completely?—now you think he might be a killer? Christ, Chanse, are you that big of an asshole?”
“Hey!” That was a bit unfair, I thought.
“Remove yourself from this situation—pretend that you didn’t know Paul from Adam, this was a case Loren dropped into your lap. What would your initial impression be?”
I thought for a minute. “His story stinks, Paige. It’s kind of hard to believe.”
“Truth is stranger than fiction.”
“If I didn’t know Paul at all, after hearing his story, I’d think he’s an idiot.”
“Chanse—“ she took a deep breath. “Hello? People are stupid. You were a cop. How many times have you seen people do stupid things? Mess up crime scenes? Isn’t it entirely possible it could have happened the way Paul says it did?”
“I guess.”
“Don’t convict him because your feelings are hurt.” She stood up. “I’ve got to get to work—I’ll see what I can find out. What are you going to do today?”
“Well, his arraignment is this morning. Loren’s pretty sure he can get him out on bail.” I sighed.
“His arraignment is this morning?” Her eyes narrowed. “My God in heaven, Chanse. Why the hell aren’t you down there?”
“There’s nothing I can do until they set his bail.”
“Chanse MacLeod!” She stood up. Her hands were trembling. “You are blowing this big time, bud. Paul’s just spent the night in jail—not a pleasant experience under any circumstance—and he’s going in front of a judge today. It might have been nice for him to see you in the courtroom.”
“Court doesn’t even open until 9:30.” I looked at the clock on the VCR. It was just past 8:00.
“Okay.” She reached over and took my hands. “Look, Chanse, you know as well as I do Paul couldn’t have killed this guy. Get your butt down there—be there for him.”
“I am going to post his bail.” I replied.
“Well, of course you are.” She dropped my hands and together we walked over to the door. “I guess I’d better get to work. You give him my love, okay? And tell him to call me, day or night, if he needs anything.” She paused at the door, and reached up to kiss my cheek. “And remember—innocent until proven guilty, ok?”
I nodded. She smiled and walked down my front steps.
I walked back into the kitchen and got another cup of coffee before I got dressed. The whole time, everything Paige said kept running through my mind. Paul was broke. Paul needed money. And I’d been completely oblivious to what was going on with my boyfriend. I imagined Paul being led into the courtroom, looking around for my face and not finding it and wondering if I’d written him off. We’d had an argument, after all, and now he was accused of murder. Considering the kind of boyfriend I’d been so far, it wasn’t a reach for him to imagine I’d abandoned him. Man oh man oh man, this so sucked.
Yeah, I was a complete failure as a boyfriend. Paul probably hated me.
I was checking my email after I got dressed when my phone rang. It was Loren. “Chanse, bail’s been set. Can you come up with the cash for the bond?”
“How much it it?” I closed my eyes, thinking about the money in my savings account. There was almost seventy grand in there.
“The judge set it at two hundred thousand, so you need to come up with twenty.”
I closed my eyes. Twenty grand was a lot of money, and you don’t get it back. You pay it to a bail bondsman, they put up a bond for the full amount, and you kiss your cash goodbye. Of course, the bondsman is taking a big risk. They have to come up with the full amount if the accused jumps bail, and they are dealing with accused criminals.
It was a little past ten when I walked out to my car. I climbed in and started it. “Come on, baby, run right today.” I wasn’t completely sure what was wrong with it, but I knew the problem was transmission related, and it usually started when I was out on the highway. Whenever I slowed down to exit; when the car got down to about 20 miles per hour— the gears wouldn’t downshift and it would start lurching. Sometimes I could slip it into neutral and it wouldn’t stall. Sometimes that didn’t work, and I’d have to restart the car, gun the engine for a while, then shift into drive and hope it wouldn’t stall again. Today wasn’t a day I needed to deal with that. Fortunately, I wasn’t going to have to drive very far or very fast.
The courthouse was on Broad Street, so the easiest way for me to get there was to head up Poydras. There was a Whitney Bank on St. Charles only a couple of blocks from my house. I parked, waited in line for a teller, and withdrew the money from my savings account. Hang on, Paul, I’m coming, I thought to myself as I pulled back into traffic and headed down St. Charles to Poydras..
Broad Street is an area most tourists only see if they’re really unlucky. It’s not New Orleans at its finest. The area around the courthouse is a curious mixture of convenience stores, gas stations, fast food restaurants, pawn shops, and bail bondsmen. There are very few trees or bushes— just unrelenting concrete. The gutters are full of trash—Quarter Pounder wrappers, empty beer cans, cigarette butts. I pulled into a small parking lot just past Loyola Street. There was a huge yellow sign outlined in yellow light bulbs with those black letters that come on clear plastic squares: LEGUME AND MERCEREAUX—BAIL BONDS. The building looked like a Quonset hut on stilts with an unfinished wood staircase leading to the door. All the windows had bars on them. The only car in the parking lot was a battered blue Toyota Celica that had seen better days, nevertheless it had a Club attached to its steering wheel.
A bell rang when I opened the door. A black woman in her early 40s, wearing a pair of jeans and a yellow cardigan, looked up at me from a file she was glancing through. She was seated at one of five desks, all of which overflowed with file folders and papers. There was a water cooler in a corner, almost empty, and the sleeve for paper cups was empty. “What can I do for you?” she asked. A nameplate on her desk read MAXI LEGUME.
I sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair in front of her desk. “I, um, need to bail someone out.”
She closed the folder. “How much is bail?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
She whistled. “I can write that bond. What’s the charge, murder?”
I nodded. She opened a drawer and passed me a form with a clipboard and a pen. I started filling it out. It was like a credit card application, with requests for six character references as well. “What’s the name of the accused?” She started typing on her computer.
“Paul Maxwell.” I said.
“Arraigned this morning?”
“Yes.” I went back to my form while she typed away at her keyboard.
She stopped, and looked at me as I tried to remember addresses and phone numbers for my references. “You know I can’t take a check for the ten percent, right? Cash or credit card.”
I put down the clipboard and balanced it on the edge of her desk while I pulled my wallet out of my pocket. I counted out the money and handed it over to her. She didn’t recount it, she simply took it and walked into the next room.
I was finished with the form when she came back to hand me a receipt. “Okay, I’ve called over there. They should be bringing him down in a bit. Do you know where to go meet him—you are going to go meet him, right?” She took the form from me, and began typing again.
“Yes.”
“Get back on Broad and go back to the courthouse. There’s a little frontage road right off Broad—you can’t miss it, there are police cars parked everywhere—and then you’re going to have to go right. You can’t do anything else—but after you make that right turn, keep going straight. You can also go to the left, but that’ll take you back to Poydras. The street you want is Perdido.” She laughed. “Kind of appropriate, actually. Perdido means ‘lost’ in Spanish. Anyway, there’s a parking lot right there— park there, and it’s the building right behind the parking lot. Just go in the front door and you’ll be in a waiting area—there’s a place where there’s a window, and you go tell the person there who you’re coming for, and at some point, they’ll bring him down.”
“At some point?” I didn’t like the sound of that.
“The best advice I can give you Mr. MacLeod, is not to piss off the person at the window.” She leaned back in her chair. “They are in no hurry to let people out, and if you do or say anything to rile them, they’ll make you wait all day.”
“Can they do that?” This was outrageous.
“They can do whatever the fuck they want to.” She gave me a sad look. “I hope you brought a book or something to do.”
“Well, no.”
She shrugged. “Best of luck to you then.”
Her directions were perfect—to a point. I found the parking lot on Perdido all right, but then I got a little confused. There was a building right behind the parking lot, but there was no entrance to it right there. I walked up Perdido Street, and finally found it. Two uniforms were sharing a cigarette outside, and I asked if this was where you went to bail someone out. Both nodded. I walked inside, and there was the waiting room. There were hard wood benches and plastic chairs from the 1950’s—everything was orange, yellow and red. There were several people sitting at various places throughout the waiting room. The Sharon Osbourne Show played on an old television set sitting on a ledge just below the ceiling. The lighting was all yellow fluorescent and gave everything a sickly look. The floor was a green tile with white streaks in it. I walked over to the window.
The woman sitting on the other side wore a police uniform. She had to weigh 300 pounds. She was paging through a tired-looking copy of People magazine. An open can of Coke sat next to a partially eaten bag of barbecue potato chips. Her gray-streaked brown hair looked greasy, and was pulled back from her moon face. I stood there for a moment, watching her read about Brad and Jennifer, and finally cleared my throat.
She didn’t respond.
“Um, excuse me?” I asked.
With a very deliberate, slow motion she closed the magazine and turned her head to look up at me. The expression on her face was sullen hostility. She said nothing— just stared at me for a few seconds, then she reached over and pulled a chip out of the bag, put it into her mouth and chewed it at the same slow, deliberate pace.
“Um, I just posted bail for someone.” I said.
She kept looking at me in silence..
Remembering Maxi Legume’s advice, I suppressed my rising anger. Don’t piss her off, Chanse, she’s already got a serious attitude problem, she’s just looking for someone to take it out on, don’t let it be Paul.
“Can you help me?” I injected a note of pleading in my voice.
“Name?” She reached for a clipboard.
“His name is Paul Maxwell.”
She made a great show of looking at the list. “Name’s not on here.”
“Well, I just posted bail, so—“
“Have a seat and wait.” She put away the clipboard, and went back to the chips.
I swallowed my anger and forced myself to walk away. But I didn’t have a seat. I went back outside and lit a cigarette. At this point, I seriously doubted Paul would give a rat’s ass about my smoking.
I checked back again in an hour, but Paul’s name still wasn’t on the list. I sat down and watched television. I was hungry, but I was afraid to leave in case they released him while I was gone. The morning ticked away. The Young and the Restless, All My Children, One Life to Live. Every half hour I went back outside and smoked. Every hour I went back and checked to see if Paul’s name was on the magic list.
General Hospital was starting when I went back to check again. At this point, I was ready to blow up at the fat bitch, so I was a little taken aback to see a pretty young black woman sitting there instead.
“Oh, Paul Maxwell?” She checked the list and smiled at me. “He’s on his way down. Shouldn’t be more than two minutes.”
I almost collapsed in relief. Finally.