***   No One Left To Burn  ***

Chapter 1

15

                The strong, invigorating aroma of fresh brewing coffee awakened me.  The appetizing smell of the morning wake-me-up caused my salivary glands to open the floodgates. Nothing is more appealing to the nasal senses than almost-ready-to-drink java, Columbian, Turkish or French Roast.  Drip or percolated.  Doesn’t make a shit.  It’s all good.  I glanced at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed.  It was seven thirty .

                I flipped the covers back and tumbled out of bed.  If sleeping in a cool room were good for you, Jan would live to a ripe old age.  The bedroom was like a fucking refrigerator.  I could use the old cliche¢, it’s cold enough to hang meat, but I did that last night.  And what a splendid performance I might add.

                I grabbed up my scattered clothes and hurriedly padded down the hall into the bathroom.  I was trolling a little ditty while I showered, a little sharp on some notes and a few just slightly flat, but overall not too bad.  Then I remembered I had to go back to Pont-Rouge.  Not just go back to Pont-Rouge but go back to Pont-Rouge and bear the tragic news to John Burton that his daughter, Lila, was dead.  I suddenly didn’t feel like singing anymore and cut my tune abruptly short.  I stepped out of the shower, rubbed down briskly and slipped quickly into my dainties.

                Jan was already dressed and making the bed when I returned to the bedroom.  I walked up behind her and placed my hands on her shoulders.

                “Good morning, Sexy,” I said.

                “Good morning yourself, Athlete,” she said with a smile.  Then she blew me a kiss.

                “Hey!  I know from experience that you can do better than that.”

                “Not at this hour of the day I can’t.  Remember that I’m a working girl.  I do have to go to work you know.”

                She was right again, goddamn it.

                Jan finished making the bed, and I completed dressing.  She brushed out the spread and tossed a couple of pillows at the headboard.  I liked her unrushed casualness.

                In the shade it was still early morning cool, so I took my coffee to the terrace.  I was deep in thought about Lila Burton and the upcoming drive back to Pont-Rouge.  My mind was preoccupied, developing the approach I’d use to inform John Burton that his daughter had been found dead.  I realized that I was staring out across the pool but not really seeing anything when Jan broke the silent calm.

                “What you have to do today is going to be rough, isn’t it.  Telling a man his daughter is, well... that something happened to his daughter.  That has to be hard to do.  I know how I felt when they told me about my father dying in the plane crash.  I know how your friend will feel.  A lot of people will tell you that they know how you feel when you lose someone close, but they don’t know.  It has to happen to them first.”

                “Yeah, I know.  I wish it were over now,” I said.    “However, I won’t be leaving until I get the results of Lila’s autopsy, and that won’t be until later this morning.  In the meantime I want to get my car out of hock.  It’s been in the shop for some minor work.  Then I’ll stop by Central Lockup and see Bill Brass.  Incidentally, speaking of cars, I’m sorry as hell about what happened to your Town Car.  Hate to do that to you.”

                Hate to do that to you?  I couldn’t believe I said it.  The fucking car was brand new.  It only had fifty-five miles on it when I picked it up.  Now it’s almost totaled.  And I say “hate to do that to you.”  Schmuck.  Stevens, I thought, you’re an asshole.

                She mutely nodded in total agreement, and I began to wonder if she’d read my thoughts.

                I drained the last of my coffee with just a little flourish.  Then I got up and headed for the front door.  Jan followed and retrieved my jacket and clamshell from the guest closet.  I slipped on the jacket after I had the holster where I wanted it.  In easy reach.

                Jan had been eyeing me with some scrutiny as I adjusted my ordnance.  “Do you always wear that, Rick?  I mean, do you have to carry a gun?”

                She said it with some degree of anxiety in her voice.  I appreciated her concern, but quite frankly, I’d heard that shit before.  She sounded just like my mother, for Chrissake.  I thought about last night when my nose was jammed into the turf in front of my apartment and that son of a bitch Redford was trying to blow my goddamn brains out, when I answered her question.  “Yeah.”

                About twenty silent minutes later, Jan dropped me off in front of the Consumer’s Garage.  “Be careful, Rick,” she said, and blew me a kiss.  “Give me a call when you get back.”

                “I won’t be back until later this evening,” I said, “but I’ll do it.  I’ll give you a call.”   I thought of Jan’s concern about the gun and the way I acted.  It made me feel like shit.  “And yes, I’ll be careful,” I added.  But I still felt like shit.  Jan was absolutely nothing like my mother. 
                                                                         16

                The business I had to transact to redeem my car took less than ten minutes.  I was glad that Jim had taken the day off.  He’s a hell of a nice guy, but he is truly the world’s most loquacious bastard.  I’m amazed they ever got any work done at the garage.  He talks constantly.  You can’t shut him up.  Yes - Jim had taken the day off to go to the New Orleans Open at English Turn Golf Club.  And yes - the garage would probably double its output today.

                My first stop after leaving Consumer’s Garage was Central Lockup.  I lucked out and found a parking spot a half a block away around the corner.  I got out and locked the car, and then I leaned against it with my palms flat on top and my chest resting against the door.  I looked up at the clear blue sky, and a light wind rustled my hair while I paused to think about Lila Burton and how she’d looked when I’d seen her last night.  I felt keenly disgruntled when I turned and walked with little dispatch back around the corner and into the police building.

                I was told that Bill was in a staff meeting and wouldn’t be back for another thirty minutes. So while I was waiting, I decided to use the down time to contact Charlie Whitney.  I fished the Chardon Seafood business card out of my wallet and punched in the number on a pay phone in the front hall of the police building.  A female voice answered.  “Chardon Seafood.”

                “Is Charlie there?”

                “No, he’s out of the office.  May I help you?”

                “Perhaps,” I said.  “This is Walter Bird.  I am chef and owner of the newly opened Bird’s Nest restaurant.  I was hoping to discuss a new account with your company to supply my establishment with shrimp, oysters, crawfish, fish and clams if available.  It would be quite a sizeable account.”

                A sizeable account?  About as sizeable as the fucking lie I was telling.  But I figure I have to lie once in awhile just to retain my proficiency.   A problem I have when I start talking shit like that is it seems to snowball the longer I talk, and pretty soon it starts to sound like the truth to me.  I actually start to believe the crap.  “Well, maybe not clams,” I reneged.  “That market might be too limited.”

                See what I mean.

                The words sizable account apparently touched a nerve at the other end of the phone line, because her voice perked right up.  “Yes sir, Mr. Bird,” she said.  “ Mr. Whitney had to go to Madisonville this morning.  He won’t be back until late this afternoon.  I’d be happy to tell him you called.  And perhaps you’d like for me to set up an appointment for you with Mr. Whitney.  Say, tomorrow?”

                “I’ll be out of town myself for a day or so.  I think it would be best if I just call again when I return.”

                I thanked her and she thanked me.  Everyone was cordial and I hung up.  I hung up thinking that maybe clams might still be okay.

                  I had just popped the tab on a diet coke when I saw Bill walk into his office.  He was already on the phone when I stepped in, and he motioned for me to sit.  Where to sit was an easy decision.  There was only one chair in the room.

                Bill was on the phone another three or four minutes, and then he cradled the receiver.

                “Hey,” he said.

                “Hey yourself,” I replied.

                “You’re around early today.”

                “Thought you might have something on the Burton case.”

                “You’re timing is just right, Rick.”

                “You found something?”

                “Yeah, that was the M.E.’s office.”

                “And?”

                “Remember the needle mark?”

                “Yes.”

                “Heroin O.D.”

                “Shit.”

                “She’d had an abortion a day or two before her death, but that didn’t cause it, her death that is.  The M.E. said that it was a good job.  The abortion.   Clinics have that procedure down pat.  They should have.  They do enough of them.”

                “Huh?” 

                “Weren’t you listening to me?  I said cause of death was an O.D. on heroin.”

                “Shit.”

                “Well, I guess we’ve gone full circle.”

                “Everything else was normal?” I asked, without commenting on his comment.

                “Yeah, Rick.  Normal.”

                They’re sure?”

                “Goddamn it, Rick.  The M.E.’s office is pro.  They can tell when a person took their last shit.  They can tell not only what the deceased had for dinner but also if he liked it.  Their reports go into infinite detail.  For example, in the case of your young lady, it was also recorded in the M.E.’s report that her left breast was three centimeters larger at the base than her right breast, and her right nipple was proportionally smaller than her left.  Now that, my friend, is detail.”

                I hesitate to mention this, and do so now only because Bill brought it up, but I also noticed those same two characteristics of Lila’s last night at the morgue.  But I had been trying very hard to repress thoughts of the observation.  Lord, I thought, only a ghoulish asshole would notice such things.

                Hey, fucker - nobody’s perfect.

                “Okay,” I conceded and stood up.  “ I’m out of here.”

                “Going back to Pont-Rouge today?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Stay out of trouble.  If anything turns up, I’ll give you a call.  You do the same.  Okay, Rick?”

                “Yeah, Bill.  I’ll keep in touch.”

                I eased my freshly tuned Town Car up the westbound ramp onto the Interstate.  The car ran like a son of a bitch.  Jim had done a great job.  Maybe working slowly did have its merits.

                I worked my way into the left lane and put the petal down.  I could tell I was going to make good time to Pont-Rouge.  Just lean back and steer, Rick, I told myself.  That’s just what I did, for about a half a mile.  Then brake lights started coming on in all four westbound lanes.

                Up ahead I could see the flashing blue and red lights of several emergency vehicles, police, fire and ambulance.  All were there for one hell of a messy pile up.  At the same time I saw the flashing lights signaling trouble ahead, I also saw the quickly approaching Clearview Parkway exit.

                The fastest route out of town, to get where I was headed, was the Interstate past the exit to the New Orleans International Airport .  Then exit south on I-3l0, cross the Mississippi River at Destrahan and pick up I-90 just west of Boutte.  From there on, it’s cruise control through Des Allemands and Raceland, pit stop in Houma and then an easy fifty miles on in to Pont-Rouge.  That’s the fastest route, if a ball busting traffic jam doesn’t bottleneck it.  But it looked like that’s what I was in for, if all of those flashing blue lights, red brake lights and fishtailing cars ahead were any measure.

                I was in the left lane when I saw the green and white sign announcing that the Clearview Parkway exit was one-quarter mile ahead.  I flipped on the right turn signal and made my move.  I got into the right lane and then onto exit 226 south with a minimum of irate honking, squealing brakes, fist waving and dirty glares.  Although, one blue -haired old lady did very angrily and with a shout of rage, flip me the bird.

                Now I was on the second fastest route to where I wanted to go.  In this case there’s a big difference between first and second.  Clearview Parkway had a lot more traffic, but at least it was moving.

                The pace slowed up considerably as I started up the ramp of the Huey P. Long Bridge.  The Huey P. Long is one of only three bridges in the greater New Orleans area to cross the mighty Mississippi .  It was planned during Governor Huey P. Long’s governorship, l928-l932.  Needless to say, it’s pretty fucking old.  And it looked pretty fucking old.  I have been told that most of the rust is kept covered by multiple coats of thick, gray paint, and cars tend to slow when they start the ascent, like the drivers were pausing to calculate just how much steel still actually remained under all of that paint.

                The bridge is one of the highest points in the southeast Louisiana landscape.  Looking down from the very top, large boats appear to be miniatures and smaller boats appear only as little dots with wakes.  The bridge was built when cars were much narrower than they are now.  Consequently, the narrow width of the traffic lanes makes the bridge very tightly cramped, and frankly, a lot of people find the journey over the Huey P. Long - a hairy, scary ride.

                The higher I got on the arched span, the slower the cars moved.  Just before reaching the apex of the trestle, forward movement ceased altogether.  I knew the lull was only temporary because I could see the traffic far ahead flowing at breakneck speed as the cars shot off the overpass at the bottom.    That’s the way traffic moves in New Orleans .  When driving over high overpasses, like an elevated bridge, the stop, start, stop, creep progress, brings to mind the possibility that the delay is most likely a vehicle breakdown or a wreck that is blocking the lanes somewhere up ahead.  When you finally creep, stop, start to the top, the traffic you find is shooting down the other side completely unimpeded.  No obstruction.  No wreck.  No breakdown.  That’s the way they drive in New Orleans .  I don’t know why.  It just be’s that way.

                Most of the drivers that I could see ahead of me and behind me through my rear view mirror, were staring straight ahead with their white knuckled hands clamped tightly onto their steering wheels.  Not venturing the slightest sideward or downward glance.

                It’s like when you’re on a Ferris wheel and it stops at the very top while someone is let on or off and the chair you’re in just slowly swings back and forth.  Only this is a lot fucking higher.  Like I said, a lot of people find the journey over the Huey P. Long a hairy, scary, ride.

                I, on the other hand, took the detainment as an opportunity to scan the water and ground far below. My casual contempt for fear in the face of impending death by falling from the soon to crumble Huey P. Long bridge was no doubt the result of playing too many pad -less quarters of scrimmage football without a helmet.

                Looking to the west across the constantly level topographical features of southern Louisiana , the eye can perceive and the mind can conceive what surely must be the borders of the great state of Texas .

                Somewhere between my point of view, which was from the top of the Huey P. Long bridge, and the Longhorn State, I could see what I thought was the skyline of the City of Lake Charles off to the very far west; closer, the town of Lafayette was about midway across the state, and then, much closer, the town of Houma, a scant sixty miles away.  I could not, however, see the towering Fiddler’s Inn motel in Pont-Rouge, which was, sad to say, my high-rise target for today.

                Directly below me, as I sat patiently waiting for the traffic to begin moving again and start its downward wild surge, I could see several tug boats slowly moving across the water.   Some were large and some were small, but all were belching out massive clouds of black diesel smoke as they maneuvered barges up and down the turbulent waters.  The rusty looking barges were piled high with cargoes.  Some were rolled steel; some were bales of cotton.  Other barges carried mounds of coal, and there were several stacked high with rock and gravel.

                Off to the left my gaze was drawn down to the meandering Harvey Canal as it lazily provided north and south passage between the Intercoastal Waterway and the Mississippi River .

                The Intercoastal Waterway runs east and west from the middle of Sabine Lake at Port Arthur, Texas on the west, all the way east across the lower inland delta of Louisiana, to the Mississippi State line and eventually across Florida to the Atlantic Ocean.

                I could see several boats coming up the Harvey Canal , and it was interesting to consider which ports along the route of the Intercoastal Waterway they might be from.

                There was one lavish looking private yacht of considerable length that, although I couldn’t see them, I’m sure had its deck laden with numerous scantily clad, voluptuous sunbathers sipping champagne and basking in the warm sunbeams.

                I could see several smaller fishing craft moving slowly across the canal’s glassy surface.  Some were heading north toward the churning currents of the river, with great expectations of a prosperous and rewarding day of fishing.

                Drink a beer.   Catch a fish. Drink a beer.            Catch a fish. Drink a beer.            Catch a fish.         Etc.

                And, even though it was still somewhat early in the day, several small boats were seen going south; going south like their great expectations of a grandiose and profitable day of angling.

                Catch a log.     Drink a beer.            Catch a tire. Drink a beer.            Drink a beer.                Drink a beer.   Etc.

                I continued to watch below and saw a good-sized shrimp trawler just entering the mouth at the junction between the canal and the river moving on a northward course.  It was moving slowly and had its large wing nets vertical in the stowed position.  After it entered the river it slowly turned to the right, which was downstream.  I wondered where it might be going, since they don’t shrimp the river because the tons of debris in the water would quickly destroy the nets.

                The sound of horns from behind brought my head back around and I saw the line of cars starting to move.  As I began to close the gap with the car in front of me, I glanced back with one last fleeting peek at the trawler.  There, visually screaming at me from across the boat’s stern, was painted, Chardon Seafood, and below that, Pont-Rouge , Louisiana .

Page Seventeen

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