Cold Blood

Chapter 10

Lorraine had expected a small twin-engined plane but Robert Caley owned a 1993 Citation Jet which made her Russian cab-driver whistle with open admiration. As she picked up her suitcase a tanned blond man jumped down the steps of the plane.

‘Mrs Page?’ His wide smile seemed over-bright. ‘I’m Edward Hardy, Mr Caley’s pilot. Let me take your case. Mr Caley has been delayed but he called in to say he would be here shortly. As it turns out it’s not a problem as we haven’t yet got clearance for take-off.’

Lorraine stepped inside and Edward moved ahead of her to indicate a plush leather easy-chair. He stowed her case away in a compartment at the rear of the plane, keeping up a friendly conversation.

‘If you need the bathroom it’s right here, and the bedroom is just beyond.’

She flicked him a glance but the remark was innocent.

‘If you need to wash, or do whatever ladies do. In the meantime, can I offer you a drink? We have champagne, chilled Chardonnay or a nice Merlot, if you prefer. There’s gin, whisky, Martini, or I can make up a cocktail... anything you want.’

Lorraine felt so self-conscious as she sat stiffly in the leather easy-chair. ‘Just iced water, please.’

A diminutive Chinese man appeared, carrying a deep basket and a large silver foil-covered tray.

‘Hi there, how you doing? Yung Sin, this is Mrs Page.’

She smiled as the little man began to lay out his many different covered dishes.

‘You like lobster, Mrs Page?’ he enquired.

‘Yes.’

‘Flown in from Maine.’ He opened a table, deftly placing on it white linen cloth and napkins, flower bowls, cutlery and cut-crystal glasses.

Lorraine drew a Vogue magazine towards her and flicked through the glossy pages. Had Anna Louise Caley sat in the same chair and read a similar magazine?’

‘Did you know Anna Louise?’ she asked as Edward refilled her glass.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You were flying the plane on February fifteenth last year?’

‘Yes, I was.’

Lorraine smiled, sipping her water. ‘Anna Louise called home?’

‘She did. We have a phone, do you need to make a call?’

‘No, thanks. How was she on the flight?’

‘I was in the cockpit.’

‘But you must have welcomed her aboard.’

‘Yeah, she was like usual, you know, cute kid, always real friendly.’

‘You’ve worked a long time for the Caleys?’

‘About eight years.’

‘So you knew Anna Louise quite well?’

Edward hesitated and then put his hands on his hips. ‘She was my employer’s daughter, ma’am, she was a nice kid but I never knew her, I never saw her outside business if that is what you mean.’

‘You are a nice-looking young man, Edward.’

‘I’m also married, Mrs Page, with a two-year-old boy. No way would I start up anything that’d jeopardize my job, my marriage, or show disrespect to Mr Caley.’

‘How did you get on with Mrs Caley?’

Edward was beginning to show his irritation at her questions. ‘Mrs Caley is one of the nicest women I know, always friendly. I know she has a few problems but that isn’t my business. When she’s aboard she’s real quiet, she’s nervous about flying. You nervous at all, Mrs Page?’

‘No.’

‘No, I didn’t think you would be.’

He was about to walk away when she slapped the magazine down.

‘Edward, a second. Don’t get lippy with me. I’m hired by the Caleys to find their daughter so I have to ask you a few questions, be they personal or not. I don’t mean to insult you but I’ve had a lot of people tell me what a cute, sweet kid Anna Louise was, when I know she was not quite so cute, not quite so innocent, and liked to be fucked.’

‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Edward walked to the exit door.

Lorraine sighed, surprised by her own brusqueness. She looked out from the window as Caley’s limo drew up close to the plane. Edward was waiting to take Caley’s suitcase. The two men smiled warmly at one another.

Caley appeared, waved at Lorraine, and slipped his arm around Edward’s shoulders. ‘Sorry about the delay. Will we have problems with take-off?’

‘Nope, just got clearance, we can go any time.’

‘Right, let’s get going.’

Caley started for the cockpit, then turned. ‘Will you put your belt on, Mrs Page, just a precaution. I’ll be right out.’

Take-off was smooth, hardly disturbing the cutlery neatly laid out on the dining table. It was a few moments more before the plane began to climb, and Caley returned. He fixed himself a whisky, checking his watch.

‘Flight’s just over three hours. We’ll eat in about an hour, is that all right for you?’

‘Fine, thank you.’

‘I hope you like lobster?’

‘I do.’

‘Good.’ He smiled and picked up his briefcase. He sat opposite her and selected some papers from his case. Lorraine continued to flick through the magazines, aware of his presence, aware of him seemingly paying her no attention. It unnerved her.

‘You can smoke if you want,’ he said quietly.

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, I just need to read through these, sorry.’

‘Don’t apologize, I’m grateful for the ride. Thank you.’

He didn’t answer, becoming intent on his papers. As he worked, he eased off his jacket, tossing it aside. He then unbuttoned his collarless shirt, one, two, three buttons, still intent on reading, and undid first one cuff, then the other, rolling the sleeves midway up his forearm.

Caley fixed himself two more drinks, checked in with Edward, then sat in another area of the plane and used the telephone for almost three-quarters of an hour, his back to Lorraine. She listened, even though he kept his voice low. The calls were to business partners, Phyllis, the hospital to discuss Elizabeth’s condition, his staff in New Orleans, and a lengthy conversation with Mark, his assistant, and Margaret. He listened, swore under his breath, sighed a lot, and then got up to refill his glass. He paused at her side.

‘Do you want a refill?’

‘Nope, I’m fine.’

He smiled, but she could see his mind was elsewhere so she continued to look at another magazine. By now they all seemed to have the same model wearing similar dresses. She didn’t look up when he sat opposite her again.

‘I like your suit.’

She looked up and blushed. ‘It’s new.’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Only if you are. If you have to continue working, please, go ahead.’

He didn’t. Instead he offered her his hand and led her to the table, drew out a thick padded leather seat for her and lit the candles.

During the meal, they hardly spoke. When they finished, he prepared coffee as she returned to her seat. She didn’t know if it was the air in the cabin or the churning of her stomach, but she was finding it hard to breathe because she wanted him to touch her. It was driving her crazy, it was all she could think about, and it physically hurt, the wanting.

‘I need to use the bathroom.’

He pointed to the end of the cabin, a cigar clenched in his teeth as he poured their coffee and then opened a bottle of brandy for himself. Lorraine pressed the door closed and gasped. Not until she had run some water and patted her face did she feel calmer. Her hands were shaking and she felt like a sixteen-year-old, scared to walk out and see him, scared he’d know what she was feeling.

She knew the bedroom was next door, even had a moment of fantasy that she would walk out and he would be waiting for her. What would she do if he was? It was madness. She flushed the toilet, telling herself to get it together. She caught her reflection in the vanity mirror above the small washbasin — her cheeks were flushed from the cold water, and her mascara had smudged. She spat on a tissue and wiped beneath her eyes. ‘Suit might look good but you look a mess,’ she told her reflection, forcing herself to open the door and walk out.

Her coffee was on the table, but there was no Robert Caley. She looked towards the closed bedroom door: had he gone in there? Was he, as she had just fantasized, waiting for her?

Edward opened the cockpit door. ‘Will you put your belt on, Mrs Page, we’ll be landing in ten minutes.’

She nodded, pulling up the seat-belt strap as Edward popped his head round the door again. ‘Just so you won’t panic, Mr Caley is not landing the plane, says he’s had too much to drink. He’s finishing up some work, be out when we land.’

Lorraine noticed the briefcase had gone and she shut her eyes with relief; just not having him close made her calmer.

Caley was lying on the bed, the cigar in his hand. He’d had too much to drink, he knew it, but he couldn’t handle the fact that he wanted Lorraine; it was making him feel like an inadequate teenager. He imagined her walking in and, without needing to say a word, lying down beside him. He could feel the slow downward spiral of the plane matching the churning in the pit of his stomach. He had to force himself to straighten out. He checked his watch, got up and shaved, then put on a clean shirt.

Caley rejoined Lorraine as the undercarriage lowered. He snapped on his safety belt, placing the briefcase he hadn’t opened at his side. Lorraine stared out of the dark window.

‘I put the candles out.’

‘Oh, thank you.’

He straightened a magazine on the table between them as the plane made a good smooth landing. ‘Good pilot,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said, but neither of them looked at the other.

The stretch limo was waiting outside the private Lakefront airport, and beyond the tarmac the dark waters of the huge salt lake stretched as far as Lorraine could see. As Caley helped her into the car, he asked her where she was staying. She sat as far away from him as possible, opening her purse to check Rosie’s notes. The St Marie Guest House. The chauffeur waited until Caley gave him instructions to drive directly to his hotel.

‘It is the hotel we stayed at the night Anna Louise went missing. I’ve booked both suites again as I thought perhaps you would want to question the staff.’

Lorraine nodded, and Caley turned towards the window, seemingly staring at the bulk of an old, garishly painted paddle-steamer, now refitted as a floating gaming palace, brilliantly lit and emblazoned with a huge casino sign. The competition? Lorraine wondered.

‘If you want you can use Anna’s suite...’

Lorraine told herself she was being insane, one minute afraid to be close to him, the next wanting to accept a suite in the same hotel. He stared out of the window, asking himself what the fuck he thought he was playing at, one moment avoiding her, the next asking her to sleep in the adjoining suite. If Elizabeth knew she would scream blue murder, always wary about any scandal that might smudge her fame in her home town.

‘Maybe not,’ he said softly. ‘Sorry, I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, it’s just...’

‘Just what, Mr Caley?’

He turned and faced her as the chauffeur swung on to the Interstate to cross town; the houses, all with their Southern shutters and verandas and many already sporting Carnival decorations, seemed small and huddled together in the darkness, and the city cramped, spaceless after the sprawl of LA.

‘It’s a connecting suite,’ he said with embarrassment.

‘Yes, you said.’ Her heart was thudding and she knew she should refuse the offer. Instead she gave a tiny laugh, trying to make a joke of it. ‘You afraid I’ll sneak up on you in the middle of the night?’

There was a long, strained pause and he never took his eyes off her. ‘I am not afraid of what you would do, Mrs Page, it’s what I would do, or might not be able to stop myself doing.’

There was another strained pause. She inched her hand across the seat towards him. She couldn’t speak, and when she felt the touch of his hand on hers she felt as if she would explode. They had left the highway now and were approaching the old French Quarter, and Lorraine was glad of the excuse to look away, pretending to be absorbed in observing the historic streets. Only a few blocks away were the high, modern towers of a business district like any in America, but here was an atmosphere unlike anything Lorraine had encountered before, half village, half cosmopolitan, Babylonian city.

The buildings at first seemed low and unimpressive, flat-roofed, two-storey town houses for the most part, their plaster fronts painted within a narrow range of muted shades that had once been bright — ochre, putty, ashes-of-roses, mustard. All had long, elegant shuttered windows and door frames, often picked out in a contrasting deep green, but most distinctive was the iron-work, as fantastically wrought as spun sugar, with which balconies, galleries, walks and window-boxes were all lavishly decorated. In its heyday the place must have been something to see, Lorraine thought, but now the fading paint, peeling woodwork and untended hanging baskets and jardinières were noticeable even at night.

Caley grimaced slightly as the crowds became thicker and the buildings more and more festooned with the purple, gold and green of Carnival flags, masks and streamers, and they slowed almost to walking pace to avoid the pedestrians of every age and nationality who thronged the streets. ‘Sorry. There’s only a couple of blocks of this — it’s tourist gulch down here, I’m afraid.’

Lorraine knew he too was making small-talk to try to conceal the tension between them, and glanced up at the street sign as they took a left: Bourbon. Farther down the block she could see the neon naked girls and triple X signs of the strip clubs, and every store front they passed seemed to be a jazz bar, a restaurant, or a gift emporium full of tacky T-shirts, mugs, figurines, Carnival masks and Cajun cowboy hats by the score. Music and the smell of spiced food were everywhere, spilling from doorways and sometimes from broad galleries above; everywhere people were eating, drinking, singing, begging, the young guys staring and calling after the girls, tourist ladies in their seventies holding tight to their purses and their companions’ arms. But all were out in the night and the Quarter: the raw life of the place hit Lorraine like a shot of liquor, and suddenly it didn’t seem quite so fading and unimpressive. On the sidewalk a young black kid of ten or twelve tap-danced effortlessly, expertly in a pair of trainers with metalled heels and toes. He had a wide, ingratiating smile pasted to the lower half of his face, but Lorraine caught the age and the knowing in his eyes, and suddenly she felt the power of the past. This place had seen a lot of human foibles, she reckoned: there was nothing that couldn’t happen here.

They picked up speed again as they drove on and the streets became quieter and the goods for sale changed to jewellery, art and antiques, displayed in smarter shops closed at this hour of the evening.

‘We’re almost at the hotel, Mr Caley,’ the chauffeur said as they turned into a block as perfectly preserved as a museum, and Lorraine moved her hand away. They pulled up outside an exquisite three-storey town house with broad galleries and iron-work as delicate and elaborate as the lace of a ball-gown: there was nothing to indicate that this was a hotel, but when the chauffeur rang at a pair of high double doors, a smartly suited young man appeared and greeted Caley warmly by name.

He led them through an arched porte cochère into a lantern-lit, paved courtyard, and Lorraine knew she was entering a world apart from the tacky burlesque of the tourist traps, one where every aspect of her surroundings had been carefully designed to leave no sense unsoothed, unrefreshed. The trees exhaled an intense, herb-sweet scent, strange at first, then delicious, revivifying, while in the background the sound of two fountains was just audible, and an array of ferns, palms, citrus trees and vines grew lushly and seemingly at will around the courtyard’s borders and balconies. Lorraine knew at a glance, however, that this sweet neglect was an effect achieved at considerable cost in terms of both time and money: the balance of wildness and cultivation was as perfect as a note in music.

The young man ushered them into a small, graciously appointed office and an interminable time seemed to pass while Caley exchanged pleasantries first with him, then with the still more courteous and urbane general manager before their bags were taken by the bell-boy. Lorraine noted wryly that the South, though perhaps in slightly reduced circumstances, still moved at her own grand old lady’s pace.

‘Lieutenant Page will want to ask your staff a few questions,’ Caley said as the manager at last motioned them towards the elevator.

‘Anything myself and my staff can do to assist in any way, you only have to ask.’

The bell-boy was waiting at the elevator, a dainty cage of mirrors and gilding. Despite the confined space, Lorraine and Robert Caley remained well apart and said nothing to one another. When they reached the third floor, Caley took his keys from the boy, walking ahead.

‘Show Lieutenant Page to her suite, if you would,’ he said without a backward glance.

‘Yes, sir. You follow me, ma’am?’ Lorraine was shown to a plain white door: the hotel was clearly too exclusive for room numbers, or even names. Further along the corridor Caley’s suite door closed.

‘Enjoy your stay, ma’am.’

‘Thank you.’

Alone, Lorraine glanced around the suite: the sitting room was large and airy, lit by a heavy crystal chandelier, and again Lorraine knew that the day-bed, the magnificent fireplace and mirrors, and the figured rugs, as soft and fine to the touch as a cat’s ear, were genuine antiques, not the ostentatious reproductions favoured by anything approaching an expensive hotel she had encountered in the past.

Beyond was the bedroom; an embroidered half-canopy hung from a corona above the double bed, and a separate bathing and dressing area was screened from the balcony by muslin-draped French doors. Lorraine opened them and stepped out, noting a narrow spiral staircase, presumably the fire-escape, trailing vines and plumbago, which gave access to the balcony below and then the ground. She wondered half-heartedly if Anna Louise Caley had left that way. If she had, no one would have seen her leave unless they’d been in the courtyard.

She unpacked, hung up her new clothes, wondering if she should contact Rosie and the others now, but then knew that if she did she might have some explaining to do. She went into the bathroom, set her few cosmetics out on the imposing marble washstand and ran herself a hot, deep bath.

Nick Bartello knocked on Rosie’s door as Rooney appeared at the end of the corridor. ‘I got five beds in my room, how many you got, Nick?’

‘Oh, just a double, a single and a cot!’

Rooney shrugged. ‘Well, we ain’t payin’ for it.’

Rosie opened her door and beamed. ‘Hi, come on in. I got a huge room and my own bathroom, it’s so cute.’

‘Any word from Lorraine?’ Nick asked as he sat down on a boxy foam-filled sofa, upholstered in the same Dralon and fringes as the drapes. An old TV was perched high on a repro tall-boy; the oversized nylon lampshades were full of dust and the room smelt of cigarettes and air-freshener.

‘Not yet, no, but I called home and the office and got no reply, so maybe she’s on her way.’

‘I’m hungry,’ Rooney said flatly, and Rosie beamed again.

‘Why don’t we go eat, see a few sights, maybe wander round the French Quarter? I mean, as it’s our first night we can kind of relax, right?’

‘Let’s go,’ Rooney said, gasping for a beer.

Nick hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Okay by me, but you got to get on to the cop shop here, Bill, find someone we can get some inside information from.’

‘Way I hear it, any one of the cops’ll do anythin’ for a few extra bucks.’

‘Hey, we can pick up the streetcar, take a ride, have a look at the riverboat casinos.’

Nick looked at Rooney as Rosie headed out. ‘Dumb broad thinks we’re on holiday.’

Rooney shrugged. ‘For tonight we can be... why the hell not?’

‘Okay, man, why the hell not?’ Nick strolled after Rooney as Rosie locked her room, clutching tourist guides and leaflets in her hand. ‘But we’re already five days down. That leaves us nine to break this case.’

‘I’ve been looking forward to this,’ Rosie said as they trooped down the stairs, passing four old ladies with crimped perms protruding from their straw sun hats with ‘Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler’ printed on them.

‘Hell, Rosie, this is zimmer-frame location,’ Nick said.

‘Now don’t start, Nick Bartello. Like I said, we’re lucky to get into some place as central as this, it’s coming up to Carnival.’

‘Sure is,’ Nick said as a group of yet more chattering women met their tour guide in the reception area.

‘Ladies, are we all set? Tonight we are going to the historic Voodoo Museum, please all have your special party tickets ready,’ their slick black-haired guide bellowed.

Rosie slipped her hand into Rooney’s arm. ‘I want to go there, to the Voodoo Museum.’

‘Let’s eat first, huh?’ Rooney said, that beer calling him.

Lorraine wrapped the hotel courtesy robe around herself as she dried her hair, conscious of the door to the adjoining room that had remained closed. In his suite, Caley, a towel around his waist, made some calls, the first to Saffron Dulay’s father to arrange a meeting.

It was almost 10.30 but he still continued to call each one of his partners to say he was in town and needed a meeting. Normally, he would have waited until first thing in the morning but he needed to occupy his mind. The door that connected the two suites drew him like a magnet.

Had he said it? she asked herself, or had she misheard? Hadn’t he said he was afraid of what he might do?

‘Shit,’ she muttered, knowing it was ridiculous. ‘Go repack your things and get out before you do something you’ll regret.’ But she did nothing, telling herself that she should go down to the front desk and start asking a few questions. This was the room Anna Louise Caley disappeared from; the dress she was going to wear had been laid out in readiness, and Caley had said he saw her purse in the sitting room. By which door had he entered the suite — the connecting door? Had he said it was unlocked? She couldn’t remember. She finished drying her hair and decided she would go to bed and ask questions the following morning.

Lorraine had closed the doors to the balcony and was pulling back the bedspread when there was a tap on the main door. Her heart lurched as she heard the key turning.

The maid peeked round. ‘Oh, sorry, do you want your bed turned down, ma’am?’

‘No, thank you, er... one second. Come in.’

The maid hovered at the door. She had two foil-wrapped mints in her hand, and she curtsied to Lorraine as she scuttled to the bed.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ Lorraine smiled sweetly.

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Do you recall Anna Louise Caley at all?’

‘Yes, ma’am, she often stayed here.’

Lorraine came closer. ‘Were you on duty the night she disappeared? It was February fifteenth last year.’

‘Oh yes, I was, ma’am.’

Lorraine looked at her watch. It was 10.45. ‘Did you turn back her bed?’

‘I did not, I knocked but received no reply.’

‘But you just unlocked my door so you obviously have keys, and as I didn’t reply, you walked in.’

‘But you didn’t have a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, ma’am.’

‘Did Anna Louise Caley?’

‘Yes, ma’am, but I came by earlier than tonight. We had a lot of new guests check in this evenin’ so I am late on my round.’

‘So what time did you try to turn down Miss Caley’s bed on the fifteenth?’

The maid looked to the ceiling. ‘Be about eight to half past.’

‘Did you come back to try again?’

‘No, ma’am, I did not, because when I finished my round there was still the sign on the door. That was about ten-thirty.’

‘Thank you. Er, what’s your name?’

‘Ellie, ma’am, Ellie Paton.’

Lorraine slipped her a couple of dollars and sat on the bed. If Anna Louise Caley had stayed here often then she would know the routine of the night staff, so she obviously intended not to be disturbed or found out.

‘Goodnight, ma’am, enjoy your stay.’

Ellie closed the door silently and Lorraine listened, wondering if she would also turn down Robert Caley’s bed. She could hear nothing so she inched open the door and stepped into the corridor. She could see the Do Not Disturb sign on Caley’s suite door.

Lorraine eased off the robe and slipped between the cool sheets. The two mints had been left by the telephone at her bedside. It was now almost eleven and she used the dimmer switch to lower her bedside lamp. Distant voices echoed from the streets outside the courtyard: music, someone singing. She lay there waiting, wondering what he was doing. No way could she sleep.

Nick was tired out. He’d had too much to drink and the hot spicy food had given him one hell of a thirst. He was also feeling the buzz between Rosie and Rooney. Hard to believe, but they were acting like a pair of teenagers, tasting each other’s food, ordering more and more ridiculous dishes. The Cajun restaurant had been as big as a barn, but hot and crammed to capacity, full of tourists being ‘sold’ the atmosphere by over-expansive waiters, all out-of-towners eager to eat their blackened shrimp and jambalaya off greasy check oilcloth and add their business cards to the thousands stuck on the posts that supported the roof. A band played rapid, lurching Zydeco while the singer yelped about his Cajun queen, and middle-aged couples shuffled round the dance floor as though it was the first time they had touched one another in years. The place irritated the hell out of him.

‘You two mind if I split? I’m kind of tired out.’

‘Ah, no, don’t you want a streetcar ride to the riverboats?’ Rosie asked.

‘Another time. I’ll just get some shut eye.’ Nick delved into his tight jeans but Rosie put her hand out. ‘It’s okay, Nick, all on the agency, remember?’

Nick grinned and eased out of his chair. ‘See y’all in the morning for grits Creole-style. G’night.’ He sauntered out, ready to hit some of the strip joints in the real city; the tourist section was all show, all done to hit the wallet, and judging by the packed restaurant a lot would end up well and truly creamed, unaware maybe they’d seen nothing of what really went on just a few streets deeper down.

Lorraine tossed her sheet aside and, stark naked, reached for her robe. She knew if she stopped moving she’d back out but just as she got to the adjoining suite door, it opened. They didn’t say a word. He slipped his hands beneath her open robe and drew her close. She rested her head against the nape of his neck, inhaling his clean smell, like fresh scented soap, and she could feel his heart thudding alongside her own as she curled her legs around him. He lifted her higher and closer, carrying her towards his bed, then eased her down so her back lay flat against the sheets, her legs still entwined round his waist. He slowly stroked her legs as he knelt down until they opened wide for him to kiss her thighs, her belly. She felt herself opening to him totally as he licked her, kissed her cunt until she was moaning, feeling the rush of heat flood through her as she tilted her hips upwards. Not until she came with another soft purring moan did he begin to strip off his towel. Then he gently moved her so her head lay on the pillow and he lay beside her, stroking her, kissing her body, gentle, sweet kisses. He eased his body over hers and nuzzled her neck until his lips searched out her mouth and his tongue traced hers. Not until she drew his head closer, not until he felt her hungry passion, did he move her hand down to his erect penis as if wanting her permission to fuck her and she murmured, ‘Yes... yes...’

Caley was the most experienced lover she had ever known. He never at any time seemed to be just screwing her; he was caring and in turn rough, but she began to feel that he was only wanting to give her pleasure, wanting her to orgasm, asking softly what she liked, what she wanted him to do. Without embarrassment she told him; it made her feel as if she was in control and yet she knew she wasn’t. And not until she began to make love to him, caressing him in turn, did she feel him withdraw slightly, and she pulled away from him.

‘Let me love you now...’

He closed his eyes as she eased on top of him, looking down into his face. She bent her head close. ‘Look at me, open your eyes... I want you to see me, know me.’

Slowly he opened his eyes. Gone was the experienced lover, instead she saw a raw innocence, almost a fear, and she stroked his face. ‘What are you scared of?’

‘You,’ he said softly, because the countless women he had fucked, women like Saffron Dulay, had never touched him so deeply as Lorraine. He was not used to accepting sexual pleasure, only to giving it, and there wasn’t a trick he didn’t know. But tonight there were no games, just two people with the same physical passion for each other, and the more she aroused him the more at ease he became with allowing himself to be desired, until they were equal. His first orgasm left him gasping for breath. Their bodies glistening with sweat, they remained clinging to each other as they drifted into an exhausted sleep. They woke alternately, arousing and waking the other. The night felt long and the dawn was still to come, and they could not get enough of each other.

‘I am loving you, Lorraine Page,’ Caley whispered.

‘And I you, Mr Robert Caley,’ she smiled, leaning up on her elbow, looking down into his handsome face. ‘It’s been a long time for me.’

He laughed softly. ‘Much longer for me, my love, I never believed I could feel this way again.’

‘Again?’ she mocked.

Caley drew her close. ‘It’s as if this is the first time I have ever been with a woman who doesn’t play games because...’ He kissed her lips. ‘We don’t need to, more importantly I don’t want to. That said, what was the last position?’

She laughed, tracing his face in the dim light, feeling his rough chin, liking the fact that it had been so smooth when they had first kissed. ‘Remind me.’

Rooney looked at the big riverboat casino, gaudy as a Christmas tree with its rows of gold lanterns and golden illuminated crown encircling the funnel, the lights dancing on the wide Mississippi.

‘Maybe whilst we’re here we’ll treat ourselves to a few chips one night,’ Rosie suggested.

‘That’d be nice, I’ve never been inside a casino.’

They walked on, Rosie now totally at ease about them linking arms. ‘You know, according to the papers two of these riverboat casinos have gone bankrupt. In fact—’

Rooney stopped and looked around. ‘We can’t be far from Caley’s site for his proposed casino.’

Rosie was about to get out her street maps when he took her hand and tucked it under his arm. ‘We’ll start work tomorrow. Maybe we should think about getting back to the hotel.’

‘Okay, fine by me.’

He grinned. ‘You’re good company, Rosie, I’ve enjoyed tonight, good choice of restaurant, real authentic atmosphere. I dunno why Nick dived off the way he did, anti-social bastard.’

‘I’m glad he did,’ Rosie said as they continued walking.

‘Me too,’ Rooney said gruffly, and his big arm tightened on hers. ‘So you were married, right?’

‘Yes, and I got a son, but that part of my life is best forgotten. Not my boy, but you know, Bill, I was a lousy mother. I had this drink problem, and now they’ve moved to Florida, my husband remarried, like Lorraine and her ex, he remarried and her daughters are settled, so is my boy. But one day, well, I hope one day he’ll come to me so I have a chance to explain that no matter what I did I never stopped loving him.’

‘I’d have liked a son,’ Rooney said gloomily.

‘Maybe walk back towards the big hotels, people bound to be getting cabs there,’ Rosie said as if reading his mind.

They turned back and continued walking at a slow, unhurried pace.

‘You ever think about it?’ Rooney asked.

‘Think about what?’ Rosie said.

‘Starting up another family?’

Rosie stopped, looking up into his big round face. ‘I think about it all the time, Bill, but I’m forty-two now...’

An empty cab passed and Rooney interrupted her as he stepped out on to the cobbled road to flag it down.

‘What’s the name of our hotel, Rosie?’ Rooney bellowed.

‘The St Marie,’ she said as Rooney opened the passenger door.

The cab driver nodded, about to do a U-turn when Rooney leaned forward. ‘We far from the old Convention Centre?’

‘No, sah, two-minute ride.’

Rooney looked at Rosie. ‘Might as well just drive past, huh?’

‘Sure, Bill.’

‘You know anything about a new casino complex near here?’ Rooney asked the cabbie.

‘I heard they bin thinkin’ about it. These rich guys keep on sayin’ they are creatin’ work for the locals but it’s a load of hogwash. They bring in outsiders, don’t hire locals, not classy enough, so they say, not intelligent enough to deal a pack o’ cards. Good enough to spend their money there though. They is corrupt, this whole city is corrupt, an’ I know it, my cousin is a cop.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Rooney, leaning forward.

Nick had walked a little further than he meant: he’d followed Dauphine quite a way, glad to get away from the bright lights, and then taken a left somewhere. He was bored now with the cheap bar; it must once have been a strip joint, and still had the pink light to make grey-fleshed and jaded girls look younger, and the stage surrounded by sheets of DIY mirror tiles. Old electric cable and piping now hung off the walls, which were covered in tacky seventies posters, and even the red light couldn’t conceal the dirt and neglect. Some young guys played the video poker machines, while an elderly jazz four-piece played with surprising verve and expression under the old glitter ball.

The guys were good, but Nick had had enough, so he signalled the waitress to get his check and she sauntered over. Two kids started screaming at an old black dude who had been sitting on a bar stool for almost as long as Nick had been in the bar. The old guy had played a set and he was a real good horn player. When he had been on, the place had been jumping. One of the kids pushed at the old man who rocked dangerously on his stool. Nick kept one eye on them as he flicked out his wallet, paying the lazy waitress who seemed more interested in her tip than in the fracas.

The two boys, both black, were really yelling now.

‘We paid you, man, we want the goods, man, you owe us.’

The barman was easing down to the bar phone, his eyes out on stalks. The kids got louder.

Nick was almost at the door when the gun came out. There was a hushed silence. No one seemed to want to make a move.

‘Gonna blow your fuckin’ head off.’ The muzzle of the gun was rammed into the old boy’s face.

Everything in Nick was telling him to walk away. But there was something about the old dude and his beat-up trombone.

‘Hey, take it easy, kid.’

The boy turned, waving his Magnum, and close up Nick could see he was well spaced out.

‘Who you tellin’ to take it easy, motherfucker? Stay out of this, none o’ your concern.’

Nick came even closer. ‘You threatening me?’

‘You want your head blown off, man?’

Nick eased into position just behind the old man, who was shaking badly.

‘Sonny, I suggest you put that big Mama away and cool down because you are kind of making this whole place jumpy.’

‘You a cop?’

‘Nope, just a guy enjoyin’ an evening out.’ Nick smiled, then made his move. He was fast, jabbing the kid hard in the groin and at the same time twisting his arm hard up behind his back. ‘Drop it...’ The gun clattered to the floor. Nick kicked it away but not one person reached for it. ‘Get the fucking gun, man,’ Nick said to the old boy, who eased off his stool, placed the trombone on the bar and picked up the gun.

‘Okay, now everything’s cool. You two walk out and chill out.’

Nick pushed the stoned kid off him. He fell on to his backside and as his friend hauled him up on to his feet his mouth was frothing with fury. ‘I’ll get you, motherfucker.’

They ran out, still shouting abuse as Nick helped the old man back on to his stool.

‘You okay?’

‘Sure, brother. You wanna beer?’

Nick didn’t, but he nodded his head. The barman removed the weapon and placed a chilled beer on the counter.

The old boy turned to the band. ‘You guys lost your wind?’

The band started up and the bar buzzed as the old boy gave the barman orders to serve drinks on the house. He then turned his lined face to Nick, and when he smiled he displayed four gold teeth, two top, two bottom.

‘This is my place, my bar, who the fuck are you?’

‘Nick, Nick Bartello.’

The gnarled hand gripped Nick’s. ‘Name’s Fryer Jones. That was a real nice move you just performed, you a cop?’

‘Was, long time ago.’

‘Ah,’ Fryer said as he slurped his beer.

‘What was that about?’

The old man fingered his trombone. ‘Nothin’ much. Happens most nights, they get high. I got to pay a pot of protection and you can see the place ain’t a gold mine. We call the cops an’ they ask for even more dough. Sometimes we just let ’em shoot up the place a bit, don’t bother me, why should it, I had my day.’

Nick drank his beer and another bottle was placed down in readiness.

‘So you deal on the side, huh?’

The old guy chuckled. ‘For somebody that ain’t no cop y’all sure ask a lot of questions. What the fuck you do in’ in this area anyway?’

‘I’ve been hired to trace Anna Louise Caley.’

Fryer kissed his teeth. ‘Ah, little Caley gal, been a lot ’bout her in print.’

‘So you know who I’m talking about.’ Nick hadn’t really anticipated such a direct reply.

‘Know her mama, everyone knows Eeelizabeth Caley, man. And if you want some advice—’

‘Take any you’ve got,’ Nick said, liking the old man.

‘Git your ass outta here or you’ll get burned real bad, man.’

‘Why?’

‘Just like I said, lotta people been here before you.’

‘What, to this bar?’

Fryer chuckled, shaking his head. ‘Nah, man, the city is jumpin’ right now, afloat with millions of bucks, and just a handful gettin’ the pickin’s... it creates a deep murky pond. Dig up some of the slime and like I said, you’ll git yo’self in bad trouble, might have even got yourself into some tonight. Those two kids...’ Fryer fingered his trombone. ‘They got heavy connections.’

‘Didn’t look too heavy to me.’ Nick drained his beer.

‘Nothin’ is how it looks, man, some got connections to gangsters, some got deep roots, and I’m just givin’ you some friendly advice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got my second set comin’ up, I like to keep my wheels oiled.’

Nick got off his stool as Fryer unwound from his neck what looked like small animal bones bound with a leather strip. ‘Here, brother, wear this, and go easy now. Help ward off evil, they’re the real thing. Go easy now.’

Fryer watched Nick walk out, then turned to his barman with a half-raised eyebrow. ‘Crazy fucker.’ He signalled to a young guy drinking solo at the far end of the dark bar and he took off after Nick.

The barman stashed Nick’s empty beer bottles in a crate beneath the bar. Right by the side of the crate was a double-barrelled shotgun: if Nick Bartello hadn’t stepped in to help Fryer, the kids were within inches of getting their heads blown off. But he was not to know, Fryer Jones was old and he hadn’t survived this long without taking good precautions. There were a number of dudes quietly drinking that were ready to step in, but Fryer usually took care of things his own way and unless they got a nod from him they left him to it.

‘Lookin’ for that little Caley girl,’ Fryer said as he sucked at his trombone piece, wiping it down on his dirty shirt front. The barman washed out some glasses, gave a dead-eyed stare around as the place was filling up. Nothing really kicked off until after midnight when a lot of the regulars would come in from their work at other clubs and restaurants. Some of the musicians, having trotted golden oldies all night, needed to jam, and played at Fryer Jones’s bar. These sessions were almost a nightly ritual, and a lot of hookers would drift in at dawn to have a few beers and a dance before crashing out to sleep the day away.

Fryer made his way to the small raised platform with the old beat-up plastic chairs, a microphone and soundbox circa 1956. He patted a few shoulders, then stopped by a young black girl with her hair plaited and decorated with metal beads. She was fanning herself with a folded-up newspaper, eyes closed, her cheap synthetic version of a satin slip dress clinging to her young pubescent body, showing off rather than hiding her small tits with their large brown nipples.

‘Hi, Sugar May, your mama know you’re out this late?’

‘Yeah, she knows. I wanna be a singer, Fryer, she knows I hang out here, she don’t care either way.’

‘Mmm, you said you were gonna stay with your aunty in LA, said you needed two hundred bucks, so how come you’re not singing at one of them Hollywood clubs?’

Sugar May shrugged her pretty little shoulders. ‘Mah brother took mah money, Fryer, Raoul’d take mah cherry if I didn’t keep my legs crossed. He’s been gone a few weeks now. So you gonna let me sing?’

Fryer looked around, then bent really close to Sugar May, gripping her braids so he drew her head back. ‘You tell that mama of yours if she send any mo’ your relatives squeezin’ me for protection I’ll shove my trombone right up her ass. That was dumb, hear me, girl?’

‘I didn’t know my brothers was comin’, Fryer, they’re just stoned.’

‘They shoot their mouths off, threaten me with an old pistol in front of my cli-hon-telle, Sugar May, an’ one of ’em was an outsider.’

‘I’ll tell her, Fryer, I will truly, and I wasn’t lyin’ about going to stay with Aunt Juda, honest I wasn’t.’

Fryer released his hold on her braids. ‘You also tell her the guy was looking into Anna Louise Caley and this one don’t look like he’ll be bought off. He was here, right? So maybe he knows somethin’. And now get your tight little ass home.’

Sugar May eased away from him, scared, her big brown eyes wide as the old man creaked up on to the platform. She didn’t dare push for singing tonight but she’d push those two dumb bastards that made a show of themselves. She’d most certainly tell on them.

Nick Bartello crashed out on one of the many beds in his hotel room, without even undressing or removing Fryer’s leather thong with the animal bones from around his neck. He liked it, it reminded him of his hippie days. He hadn’t noticed he’d had a tail on him from the moment he left Fryer’s bar.

Edith Corbello, Juda Salina’s sister and weighing two hundred pounds, was asleep in front of the TV set. The house was one of a run-down, one-storey row, with a sagging felt roof and maybe ten feet of battered frontage facing the street. There was a veranda all right, tiny, the front railing missing half its posts, but even on fine evenings Edith rarely sat out — there wasn’t much enjoyment in looking across a vacant lot full of weeds at the raised section of the IlO’s concrete underparts, or the trash stuck on the barbed wire round a disused warehouse, or the slack utility cables slung right in front of the house: she just stayed put and dreamed. Edith woke with a start when Sugar May nudged her.

‘Fryer is blazin’, Mama. Willy and Jesse went into the bar tonight threatenin’ him and waving a gun around. He also said there was some guy asking questions about Anna Louise Caley an’ he said this one didn’t look like he’d go away easy.’

Edith Corbello eased herself on to her big flat feet, her swollen ankles spilling over on to her heels. She was wearing dirty old slippers, about the only thing her bloated feet could get into.

‘I swear, I’m gonna teach them both a lesson. I’m gonna scare the fuck out of them both.’

‘They were stoned, Mama,’ Sugar May added, almost gleefully, and received a swipe to her head from Edith.

‘An’ you should be in bed, go on, git out. Out?

Edith shuffled to the door and into the dark hallway. She passed the closed door to her ‘company’ parlour, making her way down to the back of the stifling hot kitchen. She looked in. The place was filthy, grease on the walls and floors, littered with old takeaway cartons and empty beer bottles and stinking of decaying food and cigarettes. She pulled the cord of a rickety ceiling fan and pushed open the screen door to the yard. Willy and Jesse were flat out, one on a hammock and the other on the back seat of an old wrecked car. For her size she moved fast, picking up a broom, and with one swing she brought it down first on Jesse’s head and then side-swiped Willy so that he fell out of the hammock with a scream.

‘I’m gonna fix you both good, I warned you. What’s this about you going down Fryer’s place, shooting more’n your yapping mouths off?’

The broom swished again, catching Jesse in the eye. He howled as Willy tried to dodge it, but she clipped him hard on the top of his head, and he sank to his knees, holding on to his head with the flat of his hands. Her breath heaved in her chest, her eyes bulged and the sweat streamed off her body.

‘Pair o’ you git in that kitchen and make it presentable, then you come see me in the front parlour. You’re gonna have to make good with Fryer or so help me God I’ll put a snake in your guts, an’ you know I don’t make empty threats. Move?

She sank on to the old car seat, tossing the broom aside. Since Raoul had left she’d had her hands full with those two and sometimes she just got so angry with Juda. All that money she was making and she still living in a pile of ramshackle rooms with four kids. She wished she had never set eyes on that rich bitch Elizabeth Caley.