Authors: Anthony Bourdain
F
ranees, in a pastel green sundress and yellow Bakelite sunglasses, stood outside the gate of the big stone house on the hill and pressed the buzzer. With her hair up and her scabby knees exposed to the air, she looked like a tomboy forced to dress for relatives.
"Frances Denard," she announced. "Here to see Cheryl and Tommy."
Woody, on the other side of the gate, whispered into his radio. It took a long time for him to receive an answer through his earpiece. Finally, he swung the heavy iron gates open. The two weimaraners came bounding up and pounced playfully against her chest.
"Hey! Hey! Get down! Down!" Woody commanded in vain.
"That's okay," said Frances, bending over to pet the excited dogs. "Big babies," she cooed. "You're
nice
doggies . . . nice doggies."
Woody stood by impatiently as the guard dogs rolled onto their backs, Frances vigorously scratching their bellies, the dogs' legs pumping air in unison, tongues hanging out. When Frances started up the driveway, the dogs got to their feet and followed, pushing their heads into her hands.
"Nice dogs," said Frances.
Burke came out of the garage, looking worried. Frances showing up at the front gate had been a nasty surprise. He had just that moment sent off yet another fax to Washington, seeking any and all records of a Frances Denard. Now he stood there, unsure of what to do, what was going to happen next. How would she react when she turned her head and saw him standing there? Would she say anything?
He broke into a flopsweat, hating himself for his weakness. He should have just told Woody on the radio, "Forget it. No visitors." But then what would have happened? Would she have gotten pissed, filed a police report on the break-in? Complained to Woody about his boss? The damn woman was blackmailing him without doing a thing. Twisting his nuts. Walking right in here, pretty as you please, the supposedly vicious guard dogs greeting her like a long-lost friend.
Burke stood there waiting, his witness forgotten, more concerned now with what she would say when she saw him. Terrified that her first words would be "Hi, Don! Good to see you again!" That would be enough to incite real interest among the other marshals. The humiliating memory of lying on his belly, Frances holding him at bay with a Bic pen and his own gun, was making him queasy. There was something else, too. Mixed in with the fear and sweat was the tangible memory of that moment when he'd squeezed his hand down between her legs for his wallet and gun, and felt her pussy.
By the time Frances and Woody and the dogs reached him, Burke looked like he was suffering from heat stroke.
"It's okay?" asked Woody, concerned by Burke's appearance.
"It's okay," said Burke, his voice a little too high and strident. He held his breath as Frances's eyes met his. The green pupils drifted right by him, registering nothing. Woody led her out to the pool deck, the dogs yapping at her heels. At first, he felt relief, but almost instantly this was replaced by something else, anger and resentment that she'd said nothing, given him not the slightest sign that they had, after all, shared an intimate moment.
Burke stalked back to his room in the guesthouse, determined to send another fax.
"Frances!" cried Cheryl from the diving board. She'd been demonstrating her double gainer for Charlie and Tommy, both sitting at the poolside breakfast table. "Watch this." She leapt feet first into the pool, grasping one knee and hitting the water with a big splash, showering Charlie and Tommy.
"Hi," said Tommy, pushing out a chair with his foot.
"Hi," said Frances. Turning to Charlie, she said, loudly enough for Woody and the marshal on the roof to hear, "You must be Mister Pastou. Pleased to meet you. I'm Frances."
"Yeah, right," said Charlie. He leaned forward and kissed Frances's hand, holding it for a long time. "Sit here," he said, patting the empty chair next to him, in preference to the one Tommy had offered.
Woody retreated to the gazebo, signaling Burt on the roof to keep an eye on the new arrival. The dogs lay down to sun themselves on the warm tile deck.
"What happened to your knees?" asked Tommy.
"Oh! They're
terriblel"
said Cheryl, dripping from the pool, a towel around her shoulders. "What
happened?"
"We fell down," said Frances, eyes not leaving Charlie's, a look of great amusement fixed on his face. "Nothing serious. Scooter was a little banged up. It still runs, though."
"You should put something on them. Won't they get infected?" said Cheryl, sympathetically. "Bandages or something."
"They dry up quicker this way."
"But, the scars . . ."
"Forget it. I'm fine," said Frances. "Really." She moved her head one way, toward the building, saying, "What a nice house. And the gardens . . . beautiful," but her hand went another. She slid a driver's license with the name and photograph of a Peter Schiavone on it across the table and under the corner of Charlie's newspaper. He palmed it neatly, took a quick peek, and just as discreetly returned it under the table.
"Little Petey," said Charlie.
"Little?" said Frances.
"I know," said Charlie. "There's another one. Bigger. This person. You seen him lately? Round here?"
"He had to cut his vacation short," said Frances, breezily, her face becoming cold and expressionless in a way that made Tommy's blood chill.
Charlie was fighting a grin. Tommy started to say something, but he held up a hand, silencing him.
"We were wondering," said Frances, her expression growing cheerful again, "what firm he's with. He had to leave in a hurry, and we didn't have the time . . . we didn't exchange information. Henry might want to do business . . . with the, uh, parent company."
"I don't get it," said Cheryl.
"Shut up," said Tommy. "Please. Sorry."
"Make like we're havin' a nice talk about sports or somethin', okay?" said Charlie. "I'm talkin' here.
"So," said Charlie.
"So," said Frances.
"We got a problem."
"We were kind of wondering how bad a problem it is," said Frances, lighting a cigarette.
"Petey wasn't such a bad guy," said Charlie, sighing. "He was with bad people. That was his problem. Youse already got an idea what people I'm talkin' about, right?"
"Pretty much. I mean, Henry's made an educated guess. Who he was with and all."
"Well," said Charlie. "He'd be right. Funny thing is . . . Petey's not the guy you would think to send. I mean, you wouldn't think a' him first, you hadda have somethin' done."
"He wasn't very good," agreed Frances. "Henry . . . Henry thinks it was kind of a rush order."
Charlie sighed. "Things must really be goin' to hell up there . . ."
"Well," said Frances, "we thought you should know."
"That's really nice a' you," said Charlie, looking genuinely touched. "An' I appreciate it."
"So," said Frances, taking a sniff of air. It smelled of frangipani, jasmine, and wet earth from Charlie's garden. "What are you going to do?" She looked over Charlie's shoulder at a cluster of younger marshals playing grab-ass in the gazebo, weapons unslung.
"Me? I ain't gonna do nothin'. I mean . . . what? I'm gonna tell the fuckin' Osmond brothers over there? Go cryin' to
them?
You think I wanna live in fuckin' San Diego, or Tucson . . . some fuckin' retirement village somewheres? No way, Jose. I ain't sittin' on some boardwalk in my fuckin' diapers feedin' no pigeons. This my house. They want me, they can come and fuckin' get me."
"That's my attitude," said Frances, smiling. She reached over and took Charlie's hand. "Henry's of two minds on this subject."
"Well," said Charlie, shrugging, "he's got a point. Face it; anything could happen . . . Look at those idiots over there," he said, referring to the marshals. "They gotta have a fuckin' meeting, decide they gonna take a leak . . . You coulda emptied a clip inta me, they'd still be talkin' about it." He gave Frances's hand a squeeze before reluctantly putting it down. "You should prolly look like we havin' some fun here, 'fore they get nervous. Take a swim, let Cheryl show you around. I want you to come again."
"You want a drink?" offered Cheryl.
"No, thanks anyway," said Frances. She raised both arms above her head and stretched, yawned, and removed her sunglasses. She looked at the garden again, admiring the even flagstone paths, the little Japanese-style carp pond, bocce court, the bamboo, neatly laid out around a center hillock planted with bonsai trees.
"It's gorgeous here," she said.
"It is, ain't it?" said Charlie. "An' you . . . you look better than I ever seen you. Marriage is good for you."
"I'm happy."
"Oh . . . one thing," said Charlie, leaning forward, an amused look on his face. "Little Petey . . . was it Henry . . . or was it you?"
When Frances didn't answer, not even acknowledging the question, he just smiled contentedly and sank back in his chair. "That musta been a bad surprise for him," he said. "You, I mean."
D
id you see Burkie this morning?" asked Robbie, finishing a few stretching exercises against a telephone pole. "At the fax machine? He's talking to it now."
"I'm waiting for him to break it," said Woody. "He hits it, you know." They had reached the halfway point of their morning jog: two and a half miles from Charlie's house, on a hilltop in Orleans. Heavy black women in skirts and clean T-shirts trudged past them, crossed the street, and walked up the steps of the Baptist church. A sign in front of the church announced the day's sermon: HARD-SELF BUSINESSPERSON/GOOD CHRISTIAN, YOU CAN BE BOTH, WITH GOD'S HELP!
"I hope he takes early retirement," said Robbie, wiping his face with his terry-cloth sweatband. "The man is toast."
"He's what? Fifty-two, fifty-three?" asked Woody.
"Something like that. Old," said Robbie.
"What's he got going on with Justice is what I want to know," said Woody. "I mean, he asks for files, they send files. He gets all sulky and pissed off. Fie asks for more files. You ask me, he's losing it big time. Guy was crankin' out memos half the night last night."
"That chick set him off," said Robbie. "That guy Henry's wife. He wasn't getting anything about him; now he's on the wife's case."
"I saw some of the Henry stuff he was getting. Immigration, credit records, chamber of commerce filings. I don't know what he's got such a hard-on for the guy about. He's a fuckin' war hero. Bronze Star, did you know that?"
"Yeah. I knew that."
"Even the CI reports on this guy are good. Some douche bags the DEA got snitching for them down here . . . even they got nothing bad to say about the guy. And those guys have something bad to say about everybody. They didn't even bother to make anything up!"
"I know."
"Do you know about the Henry and Frances Denard Animal Rescue Center?"
"No."
"It's a little storefront over in French Quarter. They take care of cute little fuzzy animals. Mister Potential Organized Crime Associate put up all the money."
"The wife's good with animals. You see her with the dogs?"
"Yeah, I saw that."
"She oughta make dog food commercials. Like that guy whatsisname - the one from
Bonanza?"
"Lome Greene. He died."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"What about the other one - Little Joe?"
"He's dead too."
"Wow."
"The fat one, Hoss? He's dead too."
"Dude! That Ponderosa was some kind of dangerous place!"
"Yeah, the only one still alive is that Trapper John guy. He musta got out just in time."
"Maybe it was the MSG."
"What?"
"That Chinese cook they had. MSG."
"Stuff gives me a headache. Right here. You can feel it. I always tell them leave it out. But you know they still put it in."
Robbie peeled off his shirt. "Ready to head back?"
"Just a sec."
"Gettin' tan, man. I'm gonna look buff, time I get back home."
"See what Burkie's looking like these days?"
"The gut? Yeah . . . old school, man. You could get away with looking like that, the old days. He's eating the kid's food."
"Tommy's?"
"Shit'll kill you. I'd like to see what that kid's arteries are gonna look like a couple of years."
"Burkie doesn't like that they're friends. The kids and that Henry guy . . . his wife. The Denards."
"You know what I say? So what? I don't see what he's got such a bug up his ass for. I mean, she comes over. He doesn't want her on the premises, okay - so tell her to buzz off. No visitors. Mister Pastou and guests unavailable for medical reasons. Let the kids have fun on their own time."
"He's such a wuss. He wussed out, now he's like feeling bad about it."
"He got some old arrest records on the wife. That's what he was doing today. Old shit, her NYPD jacket from the seventies. The seventies! Misdemeanor shit. Soliciting, pandering, possession controlled substance . . . prosti shit."
"No lie!"
"No lie. I think the guy's fixated."
"He's fixated on his own dick, you ask me. I mean, who cares?"
"That's what I said. I mean, who cares? So she took dope in the seventies. You should see some of the pictures of my parents back then. And the other stuff . . . What? She was a ho'. What? Is she gonna storm the house? Fuck everybody to death? Get real. Get a life. That's what he should do."
Robbie took a few deep breaths and started back down the hill. "Come on," he called back. "I want to get back for a swim before Charlie wakes up. He's always needling me . . . It distracts me."