Gator Aide (17 page)

A side drawer contained Polaroids of a woman who was nude but for black spike heels and a Mardi Gras mask festooned with feathers and sequins. A whip slithered down her leg like a long, black snake. Chained to the table behind lay Hook. With her long, curly black hair and hazel eyes, the shots were of Valerie in a variety of erotic poses.

Lodged behind the snapshots was a small black address book, its pebbly texture rough in my hands. It seemed inconceivable that someone would have bypassed such evidence. It was. Page after page was torn out so that the book resembled my high-school diary. Planning for the day my mother might find it, I’d torn out all the juicy bits, hiding them someplace else. I held little hope that Valerie’s missing pages would be found.

Gathering my courage, I moved toward the bedroom. Streaks still decorated the walls, but they were no longer bright red. A dark crimson stain on the carpet took the form of Valerie’s body as a wave of nausea came over me, and the room swayed from side to side. I started to head into the bathroom but stopped dead in my tracks. Hook’s chain was still attached to the bathtub. So was part of his leg. Swallowing hard, I leaned against the doorway, closing my eyes and bending over so that I wouldn’t fall.

“It’s a role. It’s a role. It’s a role.”

As soon as the queasiness passed, I stood up and turned to face Valerie’s room.

Get busy. Start looking somewhere, anywhere. Don’t think. Just move.

Opening the closet door, I examined her clothes. Trash and flash dominated her choice of wardrobe. It’s what I would have chosen if I had been given the role of a stripper. Thrown haphazardly on the floor in a heap were dozens of spike heels in a rainbow of colors, the kind we’d referred to in college as “fuck me” shoes. A variety of low-cut blouses in leopard spots and tiger stripes hung bunched together, while a black jumpsuit with a fishnet midriff and sheer panels dangled close by. I could smell her body’s aroma, faintly pungent, with the scent of musk oil sprinkled on a few of her items. At the end of the rack hung a garment bag. Pushing everything else to one side, I unzipped it to reveal a full-length mink coat. Running my hands over it, I shivered, feeling the skins that were as dead as Valerie was. It was lined in satin, and the label near the collar read “Louis Furs, Key Biscayne, Florida.” Monogrammed on the inside pocket were the initials D. W. I wondered if Dolores had ever sobered up enough to realize that, besides her jewelry, she was missing a coat. I wondered if Valerie had minded the fact that Hillard couldn’t be bothered buying her one of her own.

Going over to her dresser, I opened the drawers, careful not to look at the spot where Valerie had died, just behind me. One drawer held a collection of crotchless panties and G-strings, along with her Mardi Gras mask, carefully wrapped in thin tissue paper. An assortment of spandex pants and satin short shorts filled a second drawer. Rooting through her things, I felt like one more voyeur peeking inside Valerie’s disjointed life. With no idea of what I hoped to find, I had little choice but to keep going just as others had before me, ready to rip through whatever secrets I could find.

It’s only research. There’s no other way to learn who she was without searching through everything. It’s homework. Nothing more
. My thoughts felt hollow inside me.

The third drawer revealed a vibrator and batteries, along with a blue velvet box which contained silver Chinese balls and a cock ring. Behind her erotic toys lay a black leather whip curled on top of a Bible. Taking the book out, I opened it to where an inscription on the inside cover read, “To my darling daughter. Always follow His way.” It was signed, “Love, Mother.” Returning the Bible to its spot, my fingers touched a pile of condoms and French ticklers that had been shoved all the way to the back. The last drawer held an assortment of scarves in different lengths and colors, covering hundreds of strands of bright, gaudy Mardi Gras beads. Pushing them aside, I caught a glimpse of two boxes, each nestled in a far corner. I picked up the smaller one, made of smooth oak. Its lid slid easily off. I hoped to find love letters or a diary, but instead it was filled with a dime-store variety of tiny plastic reptiles and fish handed out as lagniappe, or favors, during festival time. Bright red crawfish with claws outstretched were mixed in with translucent squid and tiny green gators, jaws open wide to reveal rubber teeth and red tongues. Replacing the lid, I pulled out the second box. Larger in size, it was covered in a pretty blue satin. As I lifted the lid, a tiny ballerina in her tutu of pink mesh sprang to life, circling round and round in a silent pirouette. I had owned a jewelry box exactly like it as a child. On a bed of blue lay a tiny charm bracelet, from which dangled an alligator, a heart, and a miniature replica of a Mardi Gras mask. I thought of my own jewelry box, and of how much I had taken for granted as a child. I had believed every dream I had would come true. When I came to Louisiana, it was as a disillusioned adult trying to run away from unrealistic expectations and heartbreaking failures. But I hadn’t been able to lose my demons on the way. Only temporarily in hiding, they were biding their time, ready to spring out again on some dark night. Then where would I run? I wondered if Valerie had felt the same way.

As I was about to close the lid, I remembered what I had loved best about my jewelry box. Reaching beneath the ballerina’s wooden pedestal, I felt the same smooth button that had always assured me my treasures were safe. Pressing it, I lifted the figurine to reveal the hidden compartment beneath. Just as I had, Valerie used this hideaway for her own prized possessions. Neatly folded up inside were a few newspaper clippings. They weren’t the treasures I had hoped to find, but they must have been important to Valerie. Straightening one of the clips, I saw that it was an article on the neo-Nazi movement in Germany. The report could have been written during Hitler’s reign. Instead, it was of riots and fire bombings today. Just as in the U.S., Germany was struggling to deal with a liberal asylum program as its own economy continued to decline, with unemployment the only figure steadily on the rise. So far, there had been two thousand right-wing attacks in the past year, leaving twenty-five people dead. Gypsies and Turks had been the main targets, but Jews were once again leaving the country. A government report had conservatively placed the number of right-wing extremists in Germany at forty thousand, with four thousand of those considered violent skinheads. A country of passionate extremes, Germany had swung 180 degrees since the left-wing terrorism of the seventies. In the hard-pressed nineties, the Red Guard had been replaced by a different fanatical face.

The second clipping concerned a right-wing terrorist group, the Nationalistic Front. Led by Meinolf Schoenborn, the group had come under intense scrutiny by the German police. This had led to a raid, in which forty of its 130 members were arrested. The photo that accompanied the article was of a neo-Nazi rally in Bayreuth. The motley mob could have been any rowdy gang after a rock concert, except for the placards spewing hate and the sneers on their faces. On closer look, one face in the crowd stood out, catching my attention. Peering over Schoenborn’s shoulder was a face startling in its elegance. But it was the eyes, nearly translucent and coldly detached as they calmly gazed through time, space, and newsprint, that held me. The face belonged to none other than Hillard’s liaison, Gunter Schuess.

The last article Valerie had kept was about a fledgling terrorist group that replaced the now-defunct Nationalistic Front. Like a cancer out of control, National Unity had erupted in small pockets throughout Germany, ritualistically torturing immigrants, Jews, and gays. The group was best described as a tightly organized death squad. Financed by the international drug trade, they had been supplied with Uzis, AK-47s, and other high-powered weaponry. But four months ago, the German police had accidentally stumbled upon their headquarters. In the ensuing shootout, thirteen members of the group had been killed. Their leader, Heinrich Breslau, had managed to escape, along with seven others, vowing that their fight wasn’t over.

I gathered that Gunter had been involved with the Nationalistic Front and possibly even the splinter group that followed. The question was, what was he doing in Louisiana now, working for Hillard Williams? I had considered Hillard a small-time Nazi, goose-stepping out in a bayou. But this brought events into an entirely different league—one that had been important enough for Valerie to have hidden articles on. Folding the clippings, I placed them in my pocket. Two other items remained buried away at the bottom of the box. The first was a matchbook from a restaurant. I searched inside the cover for a hidden message, but none was there. Simply a book of matches; perhaps it had been a memento from a romantic evening or a meeting place for business. Except that the restaurant was a long distance from New Orleans. Located along Bayou Teche on the other side of Morgan City, it was close to Marie, not far from Trenton, and a long way from the Doll House. Sliding my fingers along the bottom of the box, I pulled out one last secret that Valerie had hidden away—a strand of rosary beads. Curious as to what she might have asked for in her prayers, I tucked it into my pocket along with the matchbook and news clippings.

Replacing the boxes, scarves, and Mardi Gras beads, I closed the drawers, wondering what items people would scavenge through one day in an attempt to decipher who I had been. Turning to face the room, I flashed on Valerie and the sounds of a struggle. I walked out of the bedroom, closing the door hard behind me. But the cries passed through the walls, refusing to let me escape. Reining in my vivid imagination, I didn’t have a clue where to look next.

If I were Valerie, what would I do? Where would I hide what I didn’t want found?

I had managed to discover one of her hiding places. It was more than likely that Kroll had already uncovered the others. I wandered into her kitchen, a shiver going through me as I poked around. I no longer had to do character work. The kitchen could have been my own. Opening the cupboards, I saw mismatched plates from a variety of secondhand collections. No two glasses were the same. A casserole dish was chipped and discolored with burn marks. In the drawers, her knives, forks, and spoons were pot luck, just like mine. Maybe I knew Valerie better than I had thought.

Her refrigerator verified it. It’s strange how you can tell if a refrigerator is kept full and has just been cleaned. It has a different feel to it than one that is generally empty. Valerie and I both kept the latter kind. Inside were a few cans of beer and diet soda. A half-empty bottle of cheap white wine, minus the cork, sat lodged on the inner shelf of the door. A container of cottage cheese held large green curds instead of white. Checking the freezer, I guessed it hadn’t been defrosted in years. I usually solved that problem with a hammer and chisel. Valerie had never gotten around to it. A box of fried chicken and a quart of chocolate ice cream lay wedged between two thick layers of ice. The only things that could fit, they depressed me. It reminded me too much of my own life.

“What would Valerie do? What would Valerie do?”

Wandering back out, I glanced at my body in the full-length mirror in her hall, imagining myself in her clothes. At one time, I might have looked great. But along with acting, I had given up my daily routine of working out. In no time at all, an almost-perfect figure had changed into a body I could get by with if I didn’t wear anything tight, and made it a practice to take off as few clothes as possible in any given situation. And then I knew what I had been looking for.

As a stripper, Valerie had made her living with her body. That meant she had been conscious of her weight. She also kept a large container of ice cream in her freezer. I had, too, when I lived in New York. I’d been told by someone in the know that it was the best place to hide anything small and of value. Going back into her kitchen, I removed the container from her freezer, pulled off the lid, and checked inside. Sure enough, its contents had been removed, then carefully repacked and patted back down into place. Having worked cash jobs off the books to support an acting career, I’d been taught how to hide a wad of carefully wrapped bills. Valerie must have learned the same trick.

I began to dig, dumping the ice cream into her sink, until the spoon hit the plastic bag buried near the bottom. I grabbed it by the knot at its top and ran it under hot water, the chocolate running off in muddy streams. Finally, it became clear enough to see a white cloth carefully folded inside. Ripping the bag open, I pulled back one corner of the cloth at a time, revealing perfectly shaped stones the color of ice that reflected the light from the bare bulb above—a necklace formed from dozens of diamonds. Creating an intricate choker of swirls, the stones led down to one enormous pear-shaped diamond. Along with the necklace was a business card for Global Corporation, located on Mulberry Street in New York, in the heart of Little Italy. I had the feeling it was no jewelry store.

I stashed the card in my pocket along with Valerie’s clippings, and placed the necklace back into its shroud. While Hillard might have covered Valerie in Dolores’s old fur and a few of her baubles, I doubted that this had been one of them. Carrying such a fortune outside was more than I wanted to deal with—New Orleans easily matched New York when it came to muggers working the streets. But I couldn’t leave the diamonds here. I had little choice, other than to move quickly and pray. I buried the necklace at the bottom of my bag, one more thief stealing pieces of Valerie’s life. Having gotten what I came for, I closed her door behind me.

The streets of New Orleans are never quiet. This is the land of jazz and zydeco. There’s always the fanfare of tourists and the hullabaloo of Bourbon Street, with its never-ending party. That’s part of its charm. It’s why I chose to live in the city. I like its street hustlers, its tap-dancing kids, the carnival characters, the barkers for girlie shows. I’m a sucker for the French Market with its beignets and café au lait, for lining up for abuse and oysters at the Acme Restaurant, and paying through the nose for a hurricane at Pat O’Brien’s. I love the music that pours out into the street in a spicy gumbo of Dixieland-meets-the-blues. It’s the pulse that runs through this town twenty-four hours a day that in bad times lets me know I’m alive. I’ve always found the idea of being surrounded by people I don’t know appealing. Some might call it passive participation, requiring no active form of commitment. I call it reassuring.