They didn’t get to Cherry’s until after ten the next morning. LaStanza had trouble getting up and Jodie wanted to wait until Margaret Leake’s driver’s license photo arrived from Baton Rouge. Actually, Margaret had a state I.D. card, which looked just like a driver’s license, except she couldn’t drive with it. State I.D. cards were used for cashing checks.
Cherry answered the door without her wig. When she saw who it was, she wrinkled her nose, sighed and then let them in. “I was just going out,” she said, putting an impatient hand on her hip. She wore a red halter top that barely covered her large breasts and an extra tight pair of acid washed jeans and the kind of shoes LaStanza’s mother called pumps.
“Yeah? We’re ya’ going ?” LaStanza asked as he examined a statue of Napoleon sitting atop the lone end table in Cherry’s front room. It was a statue of Napoleon crossing the Alps. Lizette had a copy of the painting hanging in their study. Cherry’s statue was made of some sort of heavy plastic. Instead of a broken cannon beneath the horse, there was a gigantic penis.
“I was going to eat.”
“Then come on,” he said, turning back to the door. “Lunch is on me.”
He took them to Delmonico’s Restaurant on St. Charles. It was a very nice place. He asked for a table in the corner and watched Cherry’s reactions to the waiters pampering them with warm bread and fresh rolls and melted butter and fine wine.
Jodie looked perplexed. Sitting quietly across from LaStanza in her prim, executive, two-piece cream colored suit, she buttered her bread and sipped her wine but left the conversation to him.
Cherry downed four rolls in quick succession. Licking her long finger tips after the fourth, she grinned at LaStanza and then started in on her third glass of wine.
He grinned back and pulled out Margaret’s photo. “Ever see this woman around?”
Cherry gave the photo a bored look. “Nope,” she said and passed it right back. He was about to take it, when she pulled it back and took a longer look at it. Then she nodded.
“Yeah. She a barmaid on Magazine. I seen her around.”
“Tell me about her.”
A waiter arrived with Cherry’s baked chicken and Jodie’s broiled trout. His fried shrimp came last. He picked at it while Cherry dug into her half of chicken and told him what she knew of Margaret Leake. It wasn’t much.
LaStanza was more interested in what she didn’t know of the woman. Margaret, as he figured, was exactly what she appeared to be, a lonely woman who ran on the wild side occasionally. Margaret didn’t run with whores or dope fiends and Cherry knew of no connection between the dead barmaid and the two Pams.
“Did you ever see her with a black man?”
“No,” Cherry answered and then answered smugly, “not like I seen your friend with black with black boys.”
“What friend?”
“The President of the Garden District.”
“Mrs. Goebbels? I mean Gerrols?” He had a mouthful of shrimp and had trouble chewing and talking at the same time.
“Whatever her name is. That white broad with the dyed blond hair and the little rat dog. Lives on Urania Street by Coliseum.”
“Don’t tell me.” LaStanza managed to swallow the shrimp.
Cherry added smugly. “She likes young bucks. Lets them in her back door. Little boy who lives on the other side of my house, he’s fifteen. He and his sixteen year old cousin go there to do odd jobs. They do jobs on her. She takes them both at the same time.” Cherry turned to Jodie and added in a lower voice, “You know one in the mouth and the other doggie style. Then she kicks them out.”
“How much she pay them?” LaStanza asked.
“Ten apiece. She cheap.”
“Yeah,” he had to laugh.
“But I hear she sucks a mean dick.”
Jodie was trying her best to give no reaction but he could see her squirming.
•
After the meal, as they were climbing back into the Maserati, LaStanza reached over and pulled off one of Cherry’s pumps. He looked inside and saw that it was a size seven. He took a closer look at her foot and handed the shoe back. She had smaller feet than he had and he wore man’s size eight. His feet were exactly nine and a half inches long. He’d measured. That made Cherry’s feet more than a few inches too short for the batture.
He looked up and saw Jodie giving him the eye. “You look like you’ve got a foot fetish,” she said.
He tossed the pump to Cherry and answered his partner, “Hell, I even went back and checked out ole Shelby.”
Jodie was shaking her head.
“What was that all about?” Cherry asked as they drove off.
“It’s for my diary.”
“I sure like you, white boy.” Cherry added, pulling open her blouse to let her breasts out.
LaStanza grimaced, “Put those fuckin’ things away. I just ate!”
Cherry cackled. LaStanza interrupted her revelry by asking about the two bars where Cherry had said Pam Dillards used to hang out. “What about George’s Love-In and the Fade-Out? Did you come up with anything there?”
“I went there but nobody knew nothing.”
•
Jodie waited until they dropped Cherry back off before stammering, “That no-good Goebbels bitch!”
“I don’t know,” he said. His opinion of Mrs. Goebbels was changing. Somehow, her getting banged by the young bucks made her almost human.
“Bitch raises hell about NEEgroes in the fountain and then sucks and fucks two at a time,” Jodie was getting pissed.
Goebbels was certainly a two faced bitch, LaStanza agreed, but her having sex, no matter how disgusting the picture seemed, made her almost sad. He turned up Pink Floyd and told himself he must be getting soft. Goebbels, all fat and naked with two black dicks in her, made a helluva sickening vision.
“I wonder if she swallows it?” he added, which made Jodie retch. He started laughing, so she slugged him in the shoulder. Pink Floyd followed immediately with a little ditty called Careful With That Axe, Eugene.
•
LaStanza went through his usual routine with Freddie up at the Blue Note. He showed the old man the photo of Margaret Leake and then called back. Margaret had never been in the Blue Note. Freddie had not useful information on the two Pams either, except he was getting word on the street about a bad dude named Sam. Freddie said he’d been checking on this Sam, but was beginning to think the name was an alias.
“I got both ears to the ground on this one,” Freddie assured him.
“Thanks again,” LaStanza told him.
“No problem.”
It was time for a break. Later that night, they would canvass the bars on Prytania Street.
•
At ten o’clock, LaStanza picked up his partner and headed for Prytania. Four hours later, hours spent meandering in and out of seven predominately black bars on Prytania from Josephine to Erato, LaStanza and Jodie strolled into George’s Love-In Bar. Occupying the first floor of a wooden building painted bright blue at the corner of Prytania and Euterpe, George’s was the only local bar that featured dancers. It was always crowded.
A long bar ran along the right wall of the place with tables along the left wall. The dance floor was in a rear corner. Behind, there was a lighted stage with mirrors along two walls. A white girl was dancing when they entered. She looked about seven months pregnant. She had long hair and wore a black cape over her black Danskin as she gyrated to Prince’s Little Red Corvette. When she tuned to face the mirrors, she would flop out a tit and rub the nipple.
LaStanza leaned against the bar and watched his partner in action. Jodie had changed clothes after their delightful lunch with Cherry. She was now wearing a light weight, fitted sweater dress with buttons that ran down the entire front. Much to his surprise, she had left several of the buttons undone to actually show she had a cleavage and to show a surprising amount of leg.
There was a remarkable difference in the men talking to Jodie than the earlier attempts they had made in canvassing. Everyone talked to her and many of them actually looked at the picture of Margaret Leake and the pictures of the two Pams, when they weren’t staring at Jodie’s chest.
When the pregnant broad finished dancing, she was replaced by an thick black girl in a purple Danskin. At least she could dance, even with her large breasts hanging out. LaStanza watched the pregnant girl head straight for the bar and down a stiff belt of bourbon.
Jesus, he thought, the poor fetus.
Under the sporadic lights, Jodie’s billowy blond hair stood out. She looked damned good and he kept a close eye on her as she bent over the tables and asked her questions.
The black girl finished her dance and was replaced by a tall, thin, big breasted white girl with long brown hair. The crowd cheered as the girl opened her wraparound skirt to show off her red panties. There was something wrong with her, LaStanza thought. Her shoulders were too large, her breasts too firm, and her Adam’s apple was the size of a golf ball. She did have nice legs but she had a skinny, male ass. She was also a bad dancer, which didn’t seem to matter to the crowd.
He caught sight of the black dancer making her way through the crowd toward him. Her boobs were still hanging out as she leaned over to him and said, “You wanna tip me for my dancing?”
“No.”
“I saw you watchin’ me. You got a tip for me?” she pressed close.
“Put your tits back in,” he told her. He wanted to give her a real tip, to tell her to get fuckin’ lost but decided that giving her a five would be better.
“You ain’t Vice,” she said, tucking the five into her crotch.
“No. I’m the real police. Homicide.” He handed her his card and asked her to step outside with him.
“Why not?” she responded.
He signaled for Jodie to follow. Outside, under the street light, the whore looked much worse. She took a look at the picture of all three victims but said she’d never seen any of them. He thanked her anyway and led his partner down the street to the worse bar in the Sixth District.
He had already warned Jodie about the Fade-Out, which rested on the uptown corner of Prytania and Melpomene. He had to watch himself in this place. LaStanza and his old partner, Stan Smith, were well known in the Fade-Out. He went in first and remained just in the doorway. When he didn’t recognize any overly hostile faces, he eased to the side and sipped on a pair of gangster sunglasses. He took them off a second later. He couldn’t see a damn thing. He turned around and waved his partner in.
Jodie waltzed in like she belonged and he liked that. She caught every eye and went right to work with her pictures. He stayed in the background, still wondering how those guys in the movies wear dark sunglasses in bars at night.
LaStanza watched one large black guy hover over Jodie. The man began rubbing his crotch as soon as she turned away but that was all he did, so LaStanza let out a small sigh of relief. All he needed was to get into more shit at the Fade-Out.
There were no dancers in this bar, but there were two pool tables. Jodie broke up each game when she approached. A couple of the men asked her to join in as they ogled her. She declined and passed out her card before leaving them gaping.
Outside the bar, the usual amount of street people were hanging out. Jodie approached some. LaStanza stayed out of the way. A second later he caught sight of a girl leaning against the street sign on the corner. The girl was staring at him, real hard.
She had long brown hair that looked reddish under the amber light. Her hair looked natural. It wasn’t a wig. She was black, but her skin was as light as LaStanza’s. She had a high forehead and classic, sensual African lips and light eyes. She wore a hot dress, a fire red, strapless mini dress that was way too short. It was also snug fitting, revealing a well shaped body. She looked about twenty, give or take a few years. LaStanza always had trouble aging whores.
After a minute, she shot him a haughty look, turned and walked across Prytania. His eyes followed as she continued down toward Thalia Street.
“You ready to go?” Jodie asked.
“Yeah,” he answered, glancing at his partner. When he looked back down the street, the girl in the red dress was gone.
He had parked the Maserati on St. Charles, so they turned up Melpomene after leaving the Fade-Out. They walked along a block of half empty parking lots and ragged-out cars on a street named for the Greek muse of tragedy. The lots serviced the businesses on St. Charles. After midnight, they were a gathering place for winos, dope dealers and other creatures of the night. There was no one out on the street, except a woman in a white dress walking about twenty yards in front of the detectives.
A few steps later, a burly looking man stepped out from behind a parked car and moved up behind the woman. A second later, the man leaned over and said something to her. LaStanza couldn’t make out what it was but it couldn’t have been anything nice because the woman turned quickly and slapped the piss out of the man.
LaStanza was already moving forward. The man was retreating almost as quickly, as the woman continued pummeling him and shouting in Spanish. Two slaps later the man crashed into LaStanza who shoved the big bastard against the fence of the parking log on their left and then started pushing the angry Hispanic woman away. Jodie took control of the woman, pulling the shouting woman out toward the street.
LaStanza wheeled as the man came off the fence. He pointed a threatening finger at the man and shouted, “POLICE! Don’t move, Ass-hole!”
“Good. Then bust the bitch. She hit me.”
“Shut the fuck up! And stay up against the fence!”
Them man’s eyes began to bulge as he took a step forward. He was bigger than LaStanza and much more solid. His fits were already clenched.
LaStanza raised a defiant fist and said, coldly, “You don’t want any part of me, pal.”
“You gonna stop me, little man?”
LaStanza’s eyes answered for him. He braced himself and waited. When the man hesitated, he knew he’d won. He waited another three seconds before saying, “Just back up against the fence.”
The man didn’t move. Unclenching his fists, the man crossed his arms and started nodding his head, like he was cool now, man.
LaStanza took a step back to keep a cushion between him and the man. He glanced at his partner. Jodie had the woman calmed now. Turning back to the man, LaStanza caught sight of the girl in the fire red dress. She was walking along Prytania. She was eyeballing him again.
The man started to move. LaStanza wheeled like a tornado and screamed “One more step and I’ll kick you fuckin’ ass!”
The man clenched his fists again.
“Come in,” LaStanza challenged.
When the man didn’t, LaStanza added, “I ought to let that woman finish you off, you Fuck!”
LaStanza was mad now. And he was ready. Obviously, the man wasn’t and stepped back against the fence.
“Now,” LaStanza was still yelling, “ask her if she wants to press charges!”
“She doesn’t,” his partner answered.
“Then run her up the street!”
He was still leering at the man against the fence and said, “You, put your hands against the fence!”
The man shook his head.
LaStanza kicked the man in the chest. It was a straight kick, a karate kick as taught by Bob Kay. Right in the solar plexus. It sent the big man tumbling against the fence.
LaStanza told his partner to take our her gun. “If he moves, blow his fuckin’ brains out.”
He stepped up to the man, grabbed his shoulder and wheeled the man around to face the fence. The man automatically put his hands against the fence. LaStanza kicked his feet out and frisked, him.
He game up with a pack of pills, a half lid of marijuana and the man’s driver’s license. Stepping back, he called the Bureau on the radio and ran the man on the computer.
“I just got out of parish prison,” the man said before the results came back. “I been out two days.”
He hadn’t lied. He’d served a month in the Orleans Parish Prison for aggravated assault. There were no outstanding warrants.
LaStanza dumped his pills and pot into a nearby drain and then gave the man his license and told him to get lost. Without another word, the man turned and walked off toward Prytania.
The girl in the fire red dress was no where to be seen.
“You sure know how to use your temper,” Jodie told him as they started back up Melpomene.
“Temper?” What temper?”
•
After climbing into the Maserati, they took another drive down Prytania. He was looking for fire red, but stopped when they were flagged down by a skinny black man outside the Fade-Out. The man stepped around to Jodie’s side of the car and asked to see those pictures again. Jodie dug them out and handed them to him. LaStanza watched the man carefully but they guy was more interested in Jodie’s chest and legs than anything else.
When seated, Jodie’s dress opened almost all the way to her panties. The guy was probably getting a view. After a minute, LaStanza started to race the engine. The man handed the pictures back and thanked Jodie.
He popped la Boheme in the tape player and headed straight for Milan Street.
“Well,” Jodie said a minute later, “I guess Felicity was right. He told me to show a little cleavage and leg. They’ll talk to cleavage and leg before they’ll talk to a cop.”
So that’s where the white girl had gotten the bright idea. Part of LaStanza didn’t blame her for using every tool she had available. Another part told him a good homicide man didn’t need a cleavage to solve murders.
He could see her looking at him for a reaction so he pointed to her legs and said, “Unbutton that one more button and they’ll start confessing to crimes that never occurred.”
“Yeah, I am sure.”
“You’d be surprised what the flash of a little panty will do to a man.” When she didn’t react he added, “Well, you asked my opinion.”
She looked away quickly and closed her dress. “What makes you think I’m wearing panties?” She was being cute again.
“That dress is awfully tight. You can see the panty lines along your rear end.”
“You can?” she started to roll over to look but stopped herself. “Even through pantyhose?”
He had to laugh, “There isn’t anything you can’t see through pantyhose. Didn’t your K-9er ever look up your dress, tell you these things?”
“I don’t wanna talk about him.” That frosted her.
“You want advice on flashing, ask my wife. Lizette’s an expert.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jodie’s voice was icy.
Oh shit, he thought. He was misreading her again. So he explained his remark.
“You’ve seen the way she dresses. Believe me, when she climbs out of a car in a miniskirt, bends over and flashes, it’s no accident.”
“Oh? Does that bother you?”
“Why should it? I’m the one she flashes.”
“But what if a spectator sees?”
“Let ‘em eat their hearts out. I carry a .357 magnum, don’t I?”
That seemed to defrost her a little.
Surprisingly, even to him, it didn’t bother him when Lizette dressed sexy, flashed a hint of panty when they were out in public. It should, he thought, only secretly, deep down, it excited him.
“Look, you did a good job tonight,” he told his partner. “Everybody talked to you. Even if we didn’t’ come up with anything, at least they talked to you.”
Jodie was looking at her watch. “How about we take tomorrow off,” she said, “after all, it’s Saturday.”
“Why not?”
“The next day too.”
“Refresh the gray cells,” he added a Hercule Poirot line.
“What?” She hadn’t seen the movie, obviously.
“Never mind.”
As soon as he pulled up on Milan, she jumped out and waved, “See you Monday.”
“Ciao.”
He watched her go in before leaving. He turned up the volume and gunned the Maserati. He started thinking about the girl in the fire red dress again. He wondered about that haughty look. Then he wondered just how much Jodie knew she was showing with her buttons undone.
Then he thought about Lizette strolling naked across a beach in front of those black boys who had stood stunned, their eyes glued to her breasts and between her legs. Lizette had been in no hurry with her towel to cover up. She’d made sure the boys got a good look.
“I always wanted to do something like that,” she admitted later.
That night they had the best sex of their honeymoon up in the wicker bed of their weather beaten, airy French hotel room on the beautiful isle of Guadaloupe.
Still later, she whispered another fantasy in his ear, a fantasy about suntan oil.
•
Lizette was asleep when he got home. It was so dark in their bedroom, he couldn’t even see her. He slipped into bed and managed to find her face in the darkness and kissed her cheek. Then he rolled over and closed his eyes. Stretching, he realized how tired he was. He ran the image of Lizette on the beach through his mind again, in slow motion. The sun reflected off her body as she moved. She smiled at him and winked as dark eyes glared at her.
He dreamed and in his dream, a young boy about eight years old, stood out on Garfield Street, looking up at Lizette’s balcony. It was at night and there was a light in her window. Then the French doors opened and Lizette came out on the balcony. She was naked. She stood on the balcony and brushed her long hair, her figure bathed in the bright light from her room.
He could see her through the little boy’s eyes. In fact, they were Dino’s eyes. He was eight years old and she was the first naked woman he had ever seen. She was gorgeous. His eyes examined her breasts, the rosy area around each nipple, the full swell of her breasts when her arms moved as she brushed her hair. Then his eyes moved between her legs, to the soft, black pubic hair and the hint of pink within.
Dino’s hands were on Lizette. He could feel her. When she sighed, he woke up. His hand was in her panties, rubbing her ass. She sighed again and rolled to face him and kissed him. He pulled her panties down and moved over her and kissed her flat belly and then down to her silky pubic hair. He opened her legs and kissed between them, slipping his tongue inside her. She curled her back and began to breath heavy. He reached under her pajama top to her breasts and kneaded them, running his finger over her erect nipples.
“Oh,” she cried as she began to gyrate her hips with the movements of his tongue. He licked her again and started working his way up her body to her nipples and then to her open mouth.
She reached down and guided his erection into her and after the initial flash of pleasure of the insertion, they both moved in rhythm. It was a hot one that rose to a crescendo of pleasure quickly before Lizette climaxed in short, quick spurts, crying in pleasure and struggling to catch her breath. He came immediately in long bucking jerks that left them both exhausted.
“Jesus,” Lizette gasped.
“Yeah, wow,” he said.
She ran her fingers over his back and added, “Hey, you’d better get up before my husband comes home.”