*** No One Left To Burn ***
Chapter 1
4
A tap and release on the phone button with my index finger cleared the
line and gave me a dial tone. I
dialed the number of Consumer’s Garage, which is located about three blocks
from my office building, just around the corner on Rampart Street.
It’s services are used mostly by people working in the Central Business
District, and by some of the shoppers who want to have work done on their cars
while they’re downtown bargain hunting, having lunch, or whatever.
I’ve had my car serviced at Consumer’s over a period of years, and
Jim, the owner, and I have become reasonably good friends.
Nothing like my friendship with Dan, of course.
It wasn’t an “I’ll-give-you-a- key to my place” type.
It was more a down to earth, good-natured, amicable association with Jim.
On the third ring I got an answer. “Consumer’s
Garage. Jim speaking.”
His voice sounded kind of greasy, if that’s possible.
Yeah, greasy. That’s the
word. Like his overalls always
looked.
“Hi, Jim. Rick Stevens,”
I said.
“Rick, my man! How
the fuck you been? I haven’t
talked to you since, well now let me think, yesterday.
And I bet I know why you called.”
“I’m okay, Jim, and you’re right on about why I called.
I’m tired of riding around town in taxis.
How do you stand with my car? Have
you finished the tune-up yet?” I
only dropped it off yesterday afternoon, so I was pretty sure I knew what his
answer to my question would be.
“Jesus, Rick. We’ve
really been swamped down here. We
haven’t even had a chance to start on it.
I can slip your tune-up ahead of a couple of others, but even then, the
best I can do is around two o’clock this afternoon.”
That’s just great, I thought. Two
o’clock this afternoon? I’d have
to drive like a son of a bitch, if I didn’t leave New Orleans until two
o’clock and I still got to Pont-Rouge this morning.
Warp speed. Beam me up
Scotty.
“I’m really sorry as hell, Rick.
But I also don’t want to knock business; it’s been great, but it
looks like two o’clock is about the best I can do for you.
Will that help?”
“No, it won’t, Jim. That’s
a little too late. I need rubber
now. You go ahead and work your
customers through like you have them scheduled.”
I said it, trying to keep my voice calm.
I knew that Jim was doing his best under the circumstances.
Also I saw no reason for a long, drawn out conversation about it that
didn’t mean shit. Nothing was
going to change. But still, I was
also just a little pissed off. I
knew that if a young, good-looking dolly brought her car in for service that
should take three hours, he’d bust his ass to get it out in one if he thought
he might set up a future connection.
“I guess I need to rent a car, Jim,” I said.
“What’s a good rental outfit, without going all the way out to the
fucking airport? Something close
by.”
“Depends on what kind you want, Rick.
There’s a Hertz at the Marriott on Canal and an Avis at the Hilton on
Poydras. But personally, I like
Southern Limousine; it’s an independent agency that’s not that far away and
charges about the same as the others and for what I think are better cars.”
I thanked Jim, told him I’d talk to him later, and hung up.
I pulled the yellow pages from my center desk drawer.
I thumbed through the directory until I found the page I wanted.
The listing for Southern Limousine was at the bottom right-hand side.
It was a fair sized spread. I
jotted down the number and address and replaced the book.
My first try at the number got a busy signal.
While I waited for the line to clear, I shuffled through the stack of
yesterday’s mail. There were a few
bills which I tossed unopened into the bill drawer, some trash ads, which I
tossed into the trash can, and a request for some information on a robbery
suspect from an agency in Shreveport. On
the bottom of the heap was a letter from Mr. Philip Murray.
It was a short note thanking me for the report I’d sent him letting him
know that his wife was sleeping around. The
job took four days, included four guys, and was very interesting, to say the
least. Enjoyable is another word
that might be used to describe it if you’re into that sort of thing.
He had very generously enclosed a check for three thousand dollars with
the note. It was considerably more
than the fee should have been. He
must have been well pleased with my dossier.
Weird, huh? But then it
takes all kinds of people to make up this Old World.
And hey, they can’t all be as sound in mind and body as most of us
think we are.
My second try at the Southern Limousine number got results.
Brother, what results! The
voice that came at me through the phone wire was out of a dream.
Out of one of those hazy, lazy dreams that have a puffy, pink smoke cloud
floating over the ground and a gentle breeze that makes the wispy cloth of a
beautiful girl’s dress flutter as she dances through your mind.
It was a dream scene you might have seen in an old Fred Astair movie.
“Good morning. Southern
Limousine,” she purred. “May I
help you?”
My mind instantly projected pictures in true living color.
I visualized a tall, voluptuous blonde with a fantastic body.
I knew she would flip over me at first sight of course, and perhaps beg
me to do who knows what. My
mind does that sometimes when my thought process becomes contaminated with scads
of superfluous ideas that act as an impediment to truly important and needed
brainwork. Fortunately, the need for
immediate and meaningful intellectualizing was not a top priority at present.
When you think about it, it’s pretty stupid to think that a guy, even a
skilled detective like myself, can tell a girl is tall and blonde, let alone
voluptuous, and will plead with him to do who knows what, just by listening to
the sound of her voice on the phone. I
have, however, come very close a time or two.
Since I’d been unprepared for such a provocative intonation, I was
momentarily rendered mute. Several
seconds passed while I regained my thoughts and speech.
I scrunched my eyes closed and rubbed my hand over my face before I
spoke. “This is Rick
Stevens," I said. “I’d like
to make arrangements to rent a car for the rest of the day.”
“Certainly, Mr. Stevens,” she said.
“What kind of car would you like?”
Her voice continued to ooze at me, like thick, heavy cream.
.
“Do you have any Town Cars,” I asked.
I wanted a heavy car for my cross-country trip.
That’s the kind I drive, when it’s running, maybe not as new as a
rental, but I like it fine. A
well-tuned Lincoln will literally float over the flat, pancake terrain of
Southern Louisiana.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Stevens. We
certainly do. Our cars have been
going out pretty fast this morning. Weekend
you know. Would you like me to
reserve one for you?”
“Yes, I’d like that,” I said, thinking that what I’d also like to
do would be whip that thick, heavy cream. “I’ll
be down to pick it up in about thirty minutes.”
“That will be just fine, Mr. Stevens.
I’ll have the papers ready when you get here.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, and regretfully hung up the phone.
I leaned back in my chair with my eyes closed and briefly speculated on
what physical attributes would go with a voice that could almost straighten out
the little twists in the phone cord. I
even wondered if maybe she’d like to take the rest of the day off, get away
from the daily humdrum, and ride along with me to Pont-Rouge.
I toyed with the feeble idea for a moment, then gave it up as so much
folly, stupidity actually, and pulled myself up from the swivel chair.
I had expected this to be a slow day, just wrapping up a few items, so
I’d left my gun and hip holster at my apartment.
I didn’t really believe that I needed to be armed to drive to
Pont-Rouge, but one never knows. Always
on the safe side, I fished a spare 38 Colt revolver and shoulder holster from a
side drawer of the desk and slipped it on. I
removed the gun and checked the cylinder.
I saw that it was full, and then slipped the gun back into the holster.
It felt a little heavy, but you get used to the weight like you get used
to the idea of carrying a gun. I
slipped my coat on, buttoned it, and checked myself in the mirror.
You look good, Rick, I thought to myself.
I unbuttoned the double-breasted sport jacket that was so very well
tailored the bulge of the gun didn’t show.
But I knew it was there, and that’s what counts.
I flipped the lock on the office door and stepped out into the hall.
As I pulled the door shut I thought again of Phil Murray.
I wondered perhaps if I shouldn’t send some of the money back.
Hell! For what I’d seen I
should have been paying him. Not!
Getting a cab to stop for a fare in front of my building is virtually
impossible, so with alertness and agility, I walked to the corner of Basin and
Canal, stood by the light, and remembered to be constantly on guard.
New Orleans cabbies seem a little reluctant to stop in the middle of
downtown at this time of day. Most
everyone is at work by now and the majority of fares come from the suburban
areas or from the airport or from downtown hotels. And that’s where the
cabbies want to be.
The light at the corner was green when I got there, and two empty cabs
roared past me without even slowing slightly for my wave.
When the light changed to red, cars started lining up.
Two lanes out and four cars back was an empty yellow top.
Swivel hips took off! I
went straight out to the second lane and cut hard right toward the cab.
Took me back to my touchdown days. When
the driver saw me, he scowled and I thought at first he was going to lock his
doors. I opened the door and flopped
into the back seat. The blast of a
horn signaled that the light had changed to green.
I felt my head snap back and my neck popped as we shot off.
I gave the address of Southern Limousine to the driver.
He grunted; I sighed; he frowned; and I settled back and relaxed.
Cab driver, once more ‘round the block.
Traffic was congested, which wasn’t unusual for the time of day.
But we made most of the green lights; we sped up for three yellows, and
whizzed through one, which was very red. Ten
harrowing minutes after I got in, I got out of the cab in front of Southern
Limousine.
I gave the driver a ten spot, which was way too much, then reluctantly
told him to keep it when it began to look like he was going to spend the rest of
the morning fumbling for my change. A
rehearsed smile momentarily crossed his face.
He mumbled something that might have been muted thanks as he sped off
back into the traffic. It seems that
you just can’t please some people, no matter what.
The car rental company was one of many other businesses in a new strip
shopping center on Gravier. It
looked like half of the businesses were in white, wood-sided, single-story
structures. About every fourth or
fifth one was housed in a two-story brick unit.
These buildings had tall, square columns that were fluted and painted
white, which lent a colonial twang to their motif.
Southern Limousine was a single-story unit on the north end near LaSalle
Street.
In the window of a tavern next door was a lighted blue and yellow Miller
High Life sign. I looked through the
glass when I walked past and saw that business was already booming.
Locals getting the jump on the lunch rush hour, I supposed.
Before I went in to Southern Limousine, I stood for a moment and looked
up and down the strip at the various establishments.
The place looked faintly familiar to me and it seemed like I’d been
there sometime before. I continued
to survey the storefronts, and then it came to me.
A few months back I’d had dinner at a nearby Mexican bar and grill and
had come down with a really, really bad case of Montezuma’s revenge.
Then I saw the bright neon sombrero above the name El Charro Cantina at
the far end of the center. The sight
of the sign caused a rush of memories of that miserable night of intestinal
cramping to shoot through my mind, and I quickly turned away from the
discomforting flashback.
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