Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) by Chris Wiltz
Authors: Chris Wiltz
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was standing at the sink. I hoped her peripheral vision wasn't too good and started up the stairs. I waited a moment in front of Lucy's door. I heard nothing.
I tried the door. It was locked. A thin strip of metal was peeling away from the side of the slated window high on the opposite wall. I pulled it off and went to work on the lock.
Lucy hadn't bothered to clear the trash out of her apartment. Clothes were heaped in one corner and a few pairs of chewed shoes were scattered about. In the kitchen there were empty Jim Beam bottles, some pots and utensils. I opened the refrigerator. There was nothing in it but half a bottle of soda water. In the second room the bed had been stripped down to a stained mattress. There were more discards and empty bottles. I looked in the clothes closet. Coat hangers and a wad of crumpled newspaper were on the floor. I picked up the newspaper and looked through it. It was a few pages from the society section dated August 17, the day before Lucy had left. There was an article about a tea given by Mrs. Mathilde Fleming. It described who had been there and what they had worn. I wondered if it was a clue.
I went into the bathroom, which was right off the bedroom. On top of the toilet tank was a plastic brush with some reddish hairs tangled in it and a can of shaving cream. That was all. In the third small room behind the bedroom was an empty bookcase with an old Underwood on top of it.
I was making my way back to the front door poking around once more in case I had missed something when I heard the heavy tread on the stairs. It reached Lucy's door and then a pounding started that jarred the walls of the apartment so hard that the pots rattled around the drain-board.
A man's voice called out, “Lucy, open up,” in a demanding tenor. He kept banging. “Come on, Lucy,” he whined, “it's me.” He started kicking the door.
I opened up for him. He stared stupidly at me, swaying slightly. True to Mrs. Parry's description he was big, but his muscles had gone to flab. I looked at his brown hair that was too short for his big face and the tiny, half-inch bangs that edged his forehead. He was the Boy Scout I had played pool with at Curly's. Big boy, still stinking of bourbon, had been playing with more firewater and was not too steady on his feet.
“Where's Lucy?” he yelled and looked past me into the room. His lower lip stuck out in a snarling pout as he took in the abandoned apartment. He more or less stumbled inside and went to take a look at the bedroon. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, turning back to me.
“Looks like we both missed her,” I said.
“Who are you?” He came over for a closer look. “Yeah, I thought so. You're that pip-squeak Zeringue's friend. That son of a bitch pickpocketed me and I don't plan to forget it.”
“You better watch who you call a pickpocket.”
“You watch, asshole. I'm gonna get him for it.”
“Don't fool with Zeringue, pal.”
He stepped closer, putting up a menacing fist. “What are you doing here, asshole?” I looked hard at him, feeling the anger rise into my throat. “Tell me where she is.”
I shouldn't have, but I baited him. “I wouldn't tell you even if she wanted you to know.”
“Why you son of a lousy . . .” he trailed off to concentrate on his big arm that was coming around in a mighty swing meant for my head. I ducked. He must have been too drunk to pull his punch because it kept going. It was forceful enough that it took him with it. He fell flat on the floor and his face hit with such a smack that it gave me sympathy pains. I heard soft flip-flops coming up the stairs. Mrs. Parry arrived securing her glasses to her face. She looked at the collapsed Boy Scout.
“Did you kill him, Rafferty?” she asked. He began to snore.
“Is that Louie?”
“That's him alright.”
I took her by the arm. “Well, I think he's going to be here for a while.” She resisted my effort to lead her away. “I
I tried the door. It was locked. A thin strip of metal was peeling away from the side of the slated window high on the opposite wall. I pulled it off and went to work on the lock.
Lucy hadn't bothered to clear the trash out of her apartment. Clothes were heaped in one corner and a few pairs of chewed shoes were scattered about. In the kitchen there were empty Jim Beam bottles, some pots and utensils. I opened the refrigerator. There was nothing in it but half a bottle of soda water. In the second room the bed had been stripped down to a stained mattress. There were more discards and empty bottles. I looked in the clothes closet. Coat hangers and a wad of crumpled newspaper were on the floor. I picked up the newspaper and looked through it. It was a few pages from the society section dated August 17, the day before Lucy had left. There was an article about a tea given by Mrs. Mathilde Fleming. It described who had been there and what they had worn. I wondered if it was a clue.
I went into the bathroom, which was right off the bedroom. On top of the toilet tank was a plastic brush with some reddish hairs tangled in it and a can of shaving cream. That was all. In the third small room behind the bedroom was an empty bookcase with an old Underwood on top of it.
I was making my way back to the front door poking around once more in case I had missed something when I heard the heavy tread on the stairs. It reached Lucy's door and then a pounding started that jarred the walls of the apartment so hard that the pots rattled around the drain-board.
A man's voice called out, “Lucy, open up,” in a demanding tenor. He kept banging. “Come on, Lucy,” he whined, “it's me.” He started kicking the door.
I opened up for him. He stared stupidly at me, swaying slightly. True to Mrs. Parry's description he was big, but his muscles had gone to flab. I looked at his brown hair that was too short for his big face and the tiny, half-inch bangs that edged his forehead. He was the Boy Scout I had played pool with at Curly's. Big boy, still stinking of bourbon, had been playing with more firewater and was not too steady on his feet.
“Where's Lucy?” he yelled and looked past me into the room. His lower lip stuck out in a snarling pout as he took in the abandoned apartment. He more or less stumbled inside and went to take a look at the bedroon. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, turning back to me.
“Looks like we both missed her,” I said.
“Who are you?” He came over for a closer look. “Yeah, I thought so. You're that pip-squeak Zeringue's friend. That son of a bitch pickpocketed me and I don't plan to forget it.”
“You better watch who you call a pickpocket.”
“You watch, asshole. I'm gonna get him for it.”
“Don't fool with Zeringue, pal.”
He stepped closer, putting up a menacing fist. “What are you doing here, asshole?” I looked hard at him, feeling the anger rise into my throat. “Tell me where she is.”
I shouldn't have, but I baited him. “I wouldn't tell you even if she wanted you to know.”
“Why you son of a lousy . . .” he trailed off to concentrate on his big arm that was coming around in a mighty swing meant for my head. I ducked. He must have been too drunk to pull his punch because it kept going. It was forceful enough that it took him with it. He fell flat on the floor and his face hit with such a smack that it gave me sympathy pains. I heard soft flip-flops coming up the stairs. Mrs. Parry arrived securing her glasses to her face. She looked at the collapsed Boy Scout.
“Did you kill him, Rafferty?” she asked. He began to snore.
“Is that Louie?”
“That's him alright.”
I took her by the arm. “Well, I think he's going to be here for a while.” She resisted my effort to lead her away. “I
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