*** No One Left To Burn ***
Chapter 1
6
Our merry-making couldn’t interfere with business, however, so on the
phone’s third ring she got up and answered it.
While she was informing someone that they had gotten the wrong number, I
pulled myself up and brushed off my pants. I
didn’t actually brush them off. I
still had them on. Let’s
just say that I flicked off a few pieces of lint and let it go at that.
I stepped from behind the
counter just as she hung up the phone. I
smiled at her and said, “My name is Rick.
Rick Stevens. But you can
call me Rick.” Honey, I thought,
you can call me anything, anytime. I
had almost forgotten why I was there.
Then she smiled and said, “Yes, Mr. Stev... uh, Rick.
I spoke with you earlier. Your car is ready now.
That’s what caused me to upset my perfume.
Reaching for the phone that is. They
called from the garage just before you came in.”
“You’re the one I talked to when I called earlier this morning,” I
said. “Who was that other woman I
just did battle with trying to find and fill out those rental papers?”
Her smile was beautiful when she answered, “That was Mrs. Morgenstern.
She’s our bookkeeper and the wife of one of our servicemen.
The person who usually handles reservations is out today so Mrs.
Morgenstern was helping out. I sat
in for her earlier when she had to leave for a while.
That must have been when you called.
Now she’s gone to lunch, so I guess you’ll have to deal with me
again.”
I licked my lips while I looked at her and thought bad things.
Then I smiled and said, “I can do that.”
“Where are you going, Rick, on a scorcher of a day like this?”
She asked with that same fluid tone that I’d heard earlier on the
phone. “This is a day that should
be spent in a swimming pool.”
Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at the phone cord. It was straight.
I wondered about that as I said, “I have to drive down to Pont-Rouge
this morning. Have to see a client
about some business. Say, I have a
great idea. How would you like to
ride along and keep me company?” I
paused and thought to myself Rick,
sometimes you’re really a dumb shit.
“Gee,” she said with a grin. “That
does sound like fun. Pont-Rouge is such a beautiful city. And it would really be
nice to get away from here for awhile.”
Hot damn! Rick, sometimes you
exhibit moments of pure genius.
“But I couldn’t leave now,” she said, shrugging her shoulders with
her arms out to her sides, palms up. The
gesture tightened the fabric of her blouse across the front even more.
I tried not to ogle more than a little, then I looked back at her face
when she added, “I do have to work for a living you know.”
I’m not an easy quitter, and countered with, “Why don’t you have
Mrs. What’s-her-name sit in for you? I
think she did a stupendous job managing the office earlier.”
“You mean Mrs. Morgenstern?” She snickered, a charming sound that
crinkled the corners of her bright, green eyes.
“She’s a sweet lady, but she couldn’t handle this madhouse alone
for that long. I’ll just have to take a rain check on your offer, I guess.”
“Okay, then. Rain check it
is. Tell you what, Sweets; let’s
say
“My, my,” she said with a smile that could launch a thousand ships.
“You do move fast don’t you? Are
you this enthusiastic all the time?”
I gave her a mischievous smile. Remember
to make the dimples show, Rick. They’re
killers.
“Well…” she said, cocking her head.
The slight nod caused the sunlight bouncing off the walls to make
flashing highlights in her golden hair. Beautiful.
“Why don’t you give me a call when you get back in town, Rick, and
we’ll see about your moonlight dinner?”
“Great,” I said, feeling the tingling excitement of a first date.
“You got it.” I had my pencil
out but had to fish through three pockets to find a piece of scratch paper.
“What’s your number?”
She watched me in amazement, and when she thought I was ready, she gave
me the number. She spoke softly,
slowly and sensually; sounding like the distant voice of an invisible face that
was talking to me as a phone sex client. I
wrote it down, but I looked up at her face when she said each number.
It was pleasing for me to see and hear so many round, red-lipped twos.
Doggies.
I glanced at my watch. It was
a struggle. It said ten ‘til
twelve. I had to get a move on.
It was a long trip to Pont-Rouge. “I gotta run,” I said.
“I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”
“Fine,” she said with a wave. “I’ll
be waiting. Have a nice trip.”
Then she shot me with her thumb and forefinger and said, “Make that a
safe trip.” Her eyes were dancing
again. This time, I believe, it was
a tango.
We both smiled, and although I hated to do it, I said good-bye, turned
and walked toward the door, which led to the parking garage in the rear of the
building. I was thinking all the way
to the back that for a guy to make a living he must sometimes give up the finer
things in life.
On the other side of the door was a hallway about twenty-five feet long
leading to several rows of parked cars in the brightly-lit garage.
I had covered about half the distance down the hall when I stopped short,
turned and slightly trotted back to the door leading to the front office.
I opened the door, poked my head around it and asked, “Hey, Snookums,
what do I call you?”
She gave me another one of those big smiles.
“My name is Jeanette Reynolds, but my friends call me Jan.” Then she
said, and I kid you not, “People who are not my friends, and the number...”
“Uh, yeah. Right,” I
said. I didn’t know what else she
was going to say, but Jan was what I needed.
I gave her a wink, and she surprised me by winking back.
“Bye, Jan,” I said. “Stay
cool.” Then I waved and ducked out
again.
Southern Limousine was a car rental agency unlike any other I’d ever
used. It was a first rate operation
that only offered luxury vehicles of unequaled riding comfort and driving
enjoyment. A cross-country excursion
can be pleasantly realized from behind the wheel of a car supported by a softly
cushioned under carriage with an exceptionally feathery suspension system.
All of the cars were parked under cover to preserve the integrity of
their gleaming waxy coats. The
service was top notch and highly personalized.
I saw other people being waited on while I was there, and every one of
them was treated like the customer was numero uno.
I gave the card that Mrs. Morgenstern had given me to the service
attendant. He looked at it and then led me past the rows of Cadillacs and
Mercedes to the Lincoln Town Cars. He
climbed into a silver blue Signature Series with a dark blue landau top and
pulled it out onto the ramp for me. I
felt like a two-star general when he gave me a snappy salute as I eased the big
car forward. I smiled back at him
and noticed, just before he turned away, the monogram on his shirt.
Morgenstern. Jesus, I
thought, things are really tough all over.
It took me twenty minutes to finally get to US90 West where I could make
some decent time. I pushed the
car to the speed limit as much as I could, but through the suburbs I had to
cruise along at thirty-five.
About five miles west of Houma, Louisiana, I stopped at a small diner.
A large hand painted sign boasted that it was a truck stop.
Generally it’s those small places that put out the best food; however,
this one looked more like a truck garage. Appearances
didn’t matter though. I only
wanted to use the john.
When I stepped out of the diner I noticed the sky starting to darken in
the west. It looked like rain.
Before I got back onto the highway, it was beginning to sprinkle.
I drove about two miles and hit a solid sheet of water.
I came to Pont-Rouge city
limits and it was still pouring. I
knew I’d have a hell of a time finding Burton’s place in the downpour.
I needed directions. I pulled
off the road and parked at a 7-11 Mini-Mart.
I killed the engine and waited to see if the rain would let up.
Ten minutes passed and it started to taper off.
I got out of the car and looked up at the very dark gray sky as I trotted
to the mini-mart. The clouds
weren’t moving which was a good sign that the rain would be around for awhile.
I noticed that the foliage was much denser than around the outskirts of
large cities like New Orleans. Here
in the country it was lush and green and came right up to the edge of the
drainage ditch running on each side of the road.
The wet vegetation gave the light breeze rustling past, a faint pungent
aroma. The just recently washed air
smelled clean and sweetly fresh.
I was third in line at the counter. The
person who was enjoying the service of the clerk was a young girl whose
pregnancy was just starting to show. She
couldn’t have been a day over sixteen. There
were several reasons why she shouldn’t have been doing what she was.
There was a state law that said that she couldn’t buy cigarettes
because she was too young. There are
numerous reports by the American Pediatric Association that beg expectant
mothers not to smoke, and the American Heart Association has put a number to the
hours a life is shortened from the smoke of each cigarette that’s sucked in.
I guess she hadn’t read any of that or maybe she just didn’t give a
shit. She plunked down a five-dollar
bill for two packs of cigarettes, and I watched with some puzzlement when she
scooped up her quarter and nickel change. Jesus,
I thought. That has to be another
damn good reason. It looked to me
like she’d just spent more money on smokes than the cost of her meager
wardrobe.
My gaze followed her when she walked past me and out the door.
I had a quirky thought about the fetus within, soon to be born, and
wondered if the baby would have a preference for low tar.
The lady in front of me wasn’t in the same condition as the young girl.
She paid two fifty for a box of Tampax supers and looked more than happy
to do so. Another good month.
In the far right corner of the store I saw an older, heavyset man digging
through a pile of fishing lures. He
was wearing baggy cut-off blue jeans and a light blue, collarless tee shirt with
the sleeves cut off. On his beefy
left upper arm I could see a dark blue tattoo with a little red scroll under it.
Mother. How touching,
I thought. I’ll bet his mommy was
real proud of her little fella.
A short, skinny woman was next to him sitting on top of two cases of
Miller High Life beer. She held a
rod and reel combo in her hands. The
rig still had the price tag on it. It
looked like they were getting outfitted for a go at the Sacalait.
That’s a type of perch that abound in the brackish waters of the lower
bayous.
“Would you please hurry up, Fred?” She asked with a tone of
impatience. “Frankly, I
don’t think you need all that shit.” She
spoke around a cigarette she held clamped between her glossless lips.
It scattered ashes in her lap when it bobbed up and down as she talked.
Fred turned and spoke to her. “Helen, goddamn it.
Be quiet, would you please? I
know what I’m doing. Jesus.
Give me a break.”
“I’m not too sure you do, Fred,” was her reply.
“We used to buy worms for bait and caught plenty.
Now you wanta try that rubber shit.”
Fred rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, making a statement of
exasperation. “I told you, I’m
going to catch some fucking fish today and you’re going to cook ‘em up for
supper tonight just like we said.” He
continued sorting through the colorful lures looking for the perfect one.
Helen spit out the cigarette butt and stepped on it.
Then she leaned the rod she’d been holding against the wall and stood
up. Walking around Fred she opened
the glass door to a large freezer and took out a box of Cap’n Bobs breaded
fish sticks.
“What the hell you doing, Helen?”
“Getting dinner,” she answered.
Soon they were both behind me in line.
He with the rod and reel and the box of fish sticks.
He had discarded all the lures and held instead a container of Canadian
night crawler worms. Good choice, I
thought. She stood, struggling to
hold a case of Miller High Life beer under each arm.
Good thing for old Cap’n Bob.
I stepped up with a smile when it was my turn and asked for directions to
Bayou Drive. The smile wasn’t
returned but the clerk was a friendly sort and did try to give me directions to
where I wanted to go. His
instructions would have been fine if I’d wanted to go to the southwest edge of
Baton Rouge. He started, stopped,
and then changed his mind several times. It
didn’t take me long to realize that I’d asked the wrong person for guidance.
Fortunately, another employee who had been busy loading beer in the
cooler overheard our conversation. He
walked over and said, “Straight-ahead two miles to the first light then turn
right for five blocks. You can’t
miss it.” I told him thanks,
bought a lottery ticket from the tour guide because you never know.
I was soon out the door and once more on my way.
The traffic was starting to
pick up now that I was closer to Pont-Rouge, and I had a little trouble getting
back onto the highway. Finally I had
to scare the hell out of an old woman driving a beat-up Plymouth to get the job
done. She had a crabby demeanor and
looked like she’d done her share of scaring hell out of people.
When she died she’d probably go straight to heaven for doing such a
fine job of performing the Lord’s work.
I was back on the highway
again when my attention was caught and held briefly by the exhibition of a pair
of very young lovers who were carrying on in the back of a pickup truck in front
of me. They were wet from the rain
but their uninhibited, adolescent exuberance was undampened.
Watching their unschooled, experimental fondling brought back distant
memories of my own youth. Memories
long asleep in a corner of my mind awakened as I recalled the heart pounding
thrill and excitement that I, too, experienced during my early and often clumsy
attempts at sexual discovery. The
scene held me captivated and I almost missed my turn.
I rounded the corner and left
the traffic, and the moment I did, I saw a drastic change in my surroundings.
From the speedily traveled, noisy highway I found myself on a quiet
two-lane street mostly shaded by overhanging oak trees.
The street was lined on each side with large, expensive homes.
The houses got more and more upscale as the five blocks quickly passed.
I came to a sign that read Bayou Drive, and I understood what the 7-11
clerk meant when he’d said that I couldn’t miss it.
The street I was on came to a dead end.
I had to turn one of two ways, both of which were Bayou Drive.
I wasn’t sure which way to turn, so I guessed left.
I passed three houses and according to their addresses, I had guessed
right - that’s left.
All the houses I passed were on the left side of the road.
This showed good planning because the right side of the road sloped down
into a marshy bayou. The road became
very winding. It continued its
course of zigs and zags for maybe two blocks, and then, as suddenly as it had
begun its meandering path, the road straightened out.
John Burton said that he wasn’t really a wealthy man, so I was
surprised when I saw his house. I
wondered what he considered real wealth. The
house was sitting back from the road about one hundred yards on the left, almost
hidden from view by a mass of large live oak and flowering magnolia trees.
The house was a white, two and a half story structure with painted brick
below and wood above. A balcony
extended the entire width of the second level, and a wide porch ran the length
of the first floor. A parade of six,
round, Doric columns typical of Greek revival style architecture stretched
across the front. Three dormers
stuck out from the gray slate-covered gable roof. All the windows that I could
see had shutters of hunter green hanging open at their sides.
Although it appeared antebellum, I could tell that it was newer than
pre-civil war because of some of the materials that had been used.
The layout looked like the house had enough rooms to pass for a small
hotel. I turned onto a circular
gravel drive, guarded at the entrance by two natural stone pillars.
The gravel under the tires of my car made a grating noise like the small
stones were talking back to me for disturbing them.
In front of the house was a very large and beautiful formal garden.
The grounds were spotted here and there with an assortment of trees and
bushes and an occasional palm. The
driveway was lined on each side with five-foot-tall lugustrum hedge, which was
cut immaculately flat on the top and sides.
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