“So you just need to find a woman who may not want to be found, in a city you don’t know very well, in a short period of time,” he said.
That pretty well covered it.
“The only thing I can say is that I do think she wants to be found … by me. I’m not trying to let my ego get bigger than this bottle, but she did tell me exactly where she was going. She’s even meaner than I think, or she was hoping I would accept the challenge.”
Kent thought about that for a second, then saw how close I was getting to the bottom of my first whiskey and poured me another as he pondered. I told him he was a fine American and threw an extra five his way.
“What are you thinking? Bourbon Street? Don’t you think it would have to be in the French Quarter at least?”
“I chose this hotel because I didn’t think she’d expect me to check into a Holiday Inn,” I said. “Maybe something along those lines.”
Kent walked to the other end of the bar and crooked his finger at a woman who had the worn quality of someone with a dozen or more years in experience than on her face. She still looked good, all dyed blond hair and the glimmer of a sea-logged soul in her eyes. Kent started sketching out my story - less drunken poet, more evening newsman - and asking for suggestions.
She left three long kisses in her smile and let me know to come see her if my luck ran out.
“That is just about the sexiest thing I’ve heard all day,” she said, her voice filled with gravel and bad decisions, coming down to sit next to me. She stroked my arm, and talked like all of her actions were conducting a symphony. “Did she talk about any specific New Orleans places at all?”
Well, she mentioned a couple of restaurants. One of them had something to do with a landing, and the other was somewhat unpronounceable.”
“Well, the first one’s The Crash Landing. I doubt she’d be there this early. And the second. Did she tell you what type of food?”
My mystery woman kept gently stroking my forearm, moving her hand a little further up my arm each time. It was hard to concentrate, but oh-so intriguing,
“She said it wasn’t much to look at, but the po’boys and oysters were magnificent.”
She laughed. “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down. But my guess is …” She nodded at Kent, and let him take a stab.
“Uglesich’s”
I slapped my hand on the table. “That’s it.”
“For lunch, that’s where she’ll be. Looking for you and hoping you’re coming. Just like I am right now.” She squeezed my arm and winked at me.
I looked at her and allowed her to be the only woman in the world for a second. “Darling,” I said as I tipped my hat and gave her the tiniest bow, one that she couldn’t think was anything but real, kissing her hand and looking her direct in the eyes, “I guarantee you that if I don’t find her, I intend on coming straight back for you, and if I do find her, I may do that anyway.” I smiled and winked and let the sincerity sink in. Then I winked and turned back to the bar.
I motioned for Kent to bring me the tab, in a gesture big enough to let him know he would not quarrel with my tip, and I asked him if he could draw me a map.
****
I rubbed my eyes. “You did what?”
This whole trip was a surprise wrapped in a questionable enigma.
“I gave it to the dirtiest loan shark in New Orleans.”
“All of it?” I felt sick.
“I didn’t keep a five for myself. It wiped out my debts to certain sectors of this town.”
“What kind of debts? These don’t sound like charitable contributions.”
“They were not. I got in deep into cheap cocaine and believing I was a supernatural horse picker.”
“And I guess you’re not.”
“Not even close.”
I had run into her fifteen minutes earlier, sitting, like my friend had predicted, at the front of the bar, eyes peeled, looking for me. Her face blazed and blushed when she saw me, and it took me most of the time we had spent together just to get her calm. I wondered if her love of cheap cocaine continued.
“I talked my way out of a beating and told them I would come up with the money,” she said, looking at her diamond bracelet while she talked so she could avoid my eyes. I looked too. It was a delicate tennis bracelet, fancy enough to merit a good Frenchman’s salary. I began to wonder how many men this gal was playing all the way up and down the Mississippi.
“I am as gentle and caring a soul as has ever lain eyes on a woman,” I began, “But you used dear old Smitty’s money to make that happen. That ain’t close to right.”
“Smitty wouldn’t want to see me hurt,” she said, looking up with eyes not trying very hard to stop the tears about to come fast and furious.”
I spoke sternly. “Turn off the act. There ain’t none of them tears you’re feelin’.”
“How do you know that?”
“You’ve been working for five minutes to get ‘em here.”
She saw she was caught and sat up straight. She used her hands to straighten the green top and skirt she had changed into.
“What are you saying?”
“I want to spend a marvelous weekend with you, but I also want to get that money back.”
Her shoulders slumped. I watched close to see if she was playing an angle. I didn’t see one.
“If the money’s a requirement, I’m telling you the truth.”
Neither of us said anything for a minute. We were interrupted by the bartender bringing our food.
“How much of a factor is that money still?” she said, trying to move her chair onto my lap.
“I ain’t given up on it yet, if that’s what you mean.” That was not what she wanted to hear. I looked at her. “What can you tell me about this dirty loan shark? Where exactly might he swim?”
****
The answer, she said, was a house off of Robert E. Lee, not too far from Canal. It was a nice Southern Colonial, the requisite Spanish Moss tickling the roof in a couple of spots. I drove by slowly with Melissa in tow, and as we got close, she seemed to scare. She would have to be an award-winning actress to be that nuanced and convincing, but I wasn’t ruling that out.
There was a gardener walking around the back of the house, but otherwise, no signs of life. I sped up as we passed, wondering if I should take another drive by.
“It’s barely noon. They’re probably all asleep. I had to wake them up when I delivered it this morning.” She craned her head around like a owl, looking for something she thought was going to happen.
“Maybe we should wait a minute,” she said. I decided that might not be the best idea.
I looked over at Melissa. I still wasn’t comfortable with this woman. She was intriguing, but there was just something a little too pat about that last statement. I couldn’t put my finger on what was spookin’ me, but the trip to look for sharks was raising some red flags. She sensed my discomfort. But then a lightning bolt came over me. I smiled and said real quick:
“Why don’t we go over to your house?” Just seeing what her response would be.
“Your hotel is so much nicer,” she said, pulling me close and trying to engage in a kiss. She hadn’t seen the mistake she was making. I tried a little more.
“Darlin’, I’d like to see your abode. Is that a problem?”
She looked caught. Finally, she agreed. “Turn around. It’s in the opposite direction.” I was getting to the bottom of all this, or so I thought.
****
Of course, Melissa shouldn’t have had a house in New Orleans. She lived in Memphis, according to everything she had told Sully and me. The fact that she did and had forgotten the script let me know that nothing about this woman was real. We got to her house, not too far from the Quarter. It was a small ranch, probably 15 years old, a light brown the color of burlap, with shake shingles and trimmed with dark green, a place that felt unnatural and not a part of the real southern landscape, maybe just like its owner. As she got out of the
car, she started with the owl routine again. She was looking for someone or something, and I was beginning to think it was not for my general betterment and disposition.
I decided to call her on it. “You lookin’ for someone?”
She looked at me, then after half a second came up and punched me playfully.
“I’m not looking for anyone but you.” She kissed me and made me believe it.
She took my hand and led me inside, in a way that made me forget my concerns.
Just as we hit the threshold, I saw the look come back, not of bewilderment anymore, but of confirmation. It was a momentary look, but it confirmed what I was afraid was likely to happen. I felt him before I heard him. I fell to my knees and I do not know what happened next. I don’t know how many blows there were. All I know is, it didn’t matter. I am pretty sure I was out after the first one.
****
I don’t know how long I was out, and then I don’t know how long I wasn’t longer out but just couldn’t have done anything to help anyone if they would have needed help, and after that I don’t know how much longer it took me to compose myself. I’ve been dragged into a few bar fights over the years, but most of the times I have been hit it’s been more like a referee that walks into a stray punch than as an active participant. I’m a lover, not a fighter, and maybe I needed to get a bumper sticker that said it. But as I awoke from that painful haze and felt every single movement and heartbeat as I tried to come out of it, I was beyond mad. I was irrationally mad. At myself, at Smitty, and specially at this hussy, who drove my libido a day and a half just to bash in my head before I even got to enjoy her earthly delights. And while I took stock of everything, not moving and not acknowledging that I was back, I was going to make sure I got everything about the man who had done this to me.
They weren’t as hunky dory as you might have expected. It wasn’t some plan seemingly hatched out of a crime spree. What I got from the conversation was that much of what Melissa - if that was her name - had told me was true. She had big money troubles and was going to solve them by taking the money to the man who oversaw operations, but she hadn’t done it yet. In fact, I was pretty sure that the money was in the house. I was hoping that they would lead me to it.
The man sounded older, more fidgety and dumber. He spoke with a voice that screamed “three packs a day” and it also said that his education ended early and severely, and he didn’t seem to care if it came back around again. He was focused on one thing and one thing only: Had she slept with me. And he and I seemed to have one trait in common: Neither of us was sure if we could trust this woman.
But it was the next lines that chilled me, that left me in my catatonic state, unable to think of what trick could save the day. When three-pack started listing off the things they had found on me: cash, credit cards, Cadillac, and how utilitarian these items would be. I could live with that. Those items - every one - were replaceable. But it was the detail that he laid out for the plans for my swampy burial that left me unable to move. As he saw it, those alligators would love them some Soutee meat.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Writing this story has been an interesting adventure. Writing myfictional Soutee has brought more interest to the real person. In that light, I will be introducing a podcast based on the real Steve Soutee. Everything from interviews to court hearings to tell the story including some details that I never knew. You can visit www.dalewiley.com or www.soutee.net to subscribe and follow the story.
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