Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) by Chris Wiltz Page A
Authors: Chris Wiltz
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checked, Mrs. Parry. All the bottles are empty.” We went down to her landing. “Look,” I told her, “that fellow's likely to be mad when he gets up. If he tries to give you any trouble, call the police.”
“You don't have to worry about me.” She was annoyed. “What I want to know, Rafferty, is why did you sneak back up here and break into that apartment?”
“I hate for you to put it quite like that, Mrs. Parry. Let's just say I suspected possible foul play up there.”
“You know, I'm not so sure you're on the level, Rafferty.”
I ran out of bribes when I gave her my last pack of cigarettes.
It was ten-thirty when I got to the car. By now Rankin would have shaken Catherine down and be hot on Fleming's trail. That meant Fleming would be calling my apartment and office looking for me. He would have to wait. I had one more stop to make to satisfy my curiosity.
8
----
Rafferty on Location
I stopped at an all-night drugstore on Canal Street to look up André’s address. The usual array of Latin pimps was standing on the corner or leaning up against the building with their knees bent at forty-five-degree angles.
There were two Robert Andrés listed, one at 3201 Coliseum, a Garden District address, the other in Gentilly. I put my money on the first, and took Magazine Street uptown. To quiet the persistent rumblings of my stomach, I turned into the Channel on Third Street and grabbed a beer at Parasol's. And while it was still on my mind, I got a fifth of Jim Beam to keep in the car in case I visited Mrs. Parry again.
The 3200 block of Coliseum was shrouded with massive oak trees. Where I expected 3201 to be, a high ligustrum hedge obscured the house. Cattails had taken over the iron gate, making it hard to find in the dark. It gave a squeal of stress as I pushed it back.
The yard would have been a great location for an episode of Ramar of the Jungle. Grass was fast obliterating the brick walkway to the house, a large raised cottage. Even in the darkness I could see dark paint peeling away from the banisters and railing around the portico. Long French windows at the sides of the front door were shuttered but I could see light trying to seep through on the right side. As I stepped up to the door a board groaned at the nuisance of my late visit. I pushed the yellowed ivory bell anyway.
I heard ice tinkling before he opened the door. He stood with a drink and cigarette in one hand, eyeing me with an amused expression. The deep purple smoking jacket he was wearing tinged his white hair the same color. He took the cigarette out of the hand holding the drink and caressed it on the way to his lips. I opened my mouth to speak but he beat me to it.
“My dear fellow,” he said through a cloud of smoke in an accent I could have hung Yorkshire pudding on, “there aren't many who would venture through my gardens at night. You must be anxious to see me.”
“Anxious and brave.” I showed him my ID. “Neal Rafferty, investigator. Private.”
“How very interesting. I can't imagine what you would want to see me about.” His eyes crinkled playfully. “Well, maybe I do have one small idea. Does that alert your curiosity, M r . Rafferty?”
“Not much. I figure you know why I'm here.”
“Come now, Mr. Rafferty, you're taking all the fun out of it. Why don't you come in? Perhaps I can convince you to take a more sporting attitude.” He turned and walked back into the wide hallway separating the two sides of the house.
The exterior had about as much in common with the interior as the Desire project has with the Garden District. Deep blue carpeting ran the length of the hall and the walls were stark white. There was no furniture, only paintings hung as if they were being shown in a gallery. Above each in the high ceiling was a single spotlight. The effect was quite impressive. The paintings were varied: Some were portraits of rather singular faces done in muted pastels; others were abstracts in vivid, running
“You don't have to worry about me.” She was annoyed. “What I want to know, Rafferty, is why did you sneak back up here and break into that apartment?”
“I hate for you to put it quite like that, Mrs. Parry. Let's just say I suspected possible foul play up there.”
“You know, I'm not so sure you're on the level, Rafferty.”
I ran out of bribes when I gave her my last pack of cigarettes.
It was ten-thirty when I got to the car. By now Rankin would have shaken Catherine down and be hot on Fleming's trail. That meant Fleming would be calling my apartment and office looking for me. He would have to wait. I had one more stop to make to satisfy my curiosity.
8
----
Rafferty on Location
I stopped at an all-night drugstore on Canal Street to look up André’s address. The usual array of Latin pimps was standing on the corner or leaning up against the building with their knees bent at forty-five-degree angles.
There were two Robert Andrés listed, one at 3201 Coliseum, a Garden District address, the other in Gentilly. I put my money on the first, and took Magazine Street uptown. To quiet the persistent rumblings of my stomach, I turned into the Channel on Third Street and grabbed a beer at Parasol's. And while it was still on my mind, I got a fifth of Jim Beam to keep in the car in case I visited Mrs. Parry again.
The 3200 block of Coliseum was shrouded with massive oak trees. Where I expected 3201 to be, a high ligustrum hedge obscured the house. Cattails had taken over the iron gate, making it hard to find in the dark. It gave a squeal of stress as I pushed it back.
The yard would have been a great location for an episode of Ramar of the Jungle. Grass was fast obliterating the brick walkway to the house, a large raised cottage. Even in the darkness I could see dark paint peeling away from the banisters and railing around the portico. Long French windows at the sides of the front door were shuttered but I could see light trying to seep through on the right side. As I stepped up to the door a board groaned at the nuisance of my late visit. I pushed the yellowed ivory bell anyway.
I heard ice tinkling before he opened the door. He stood with a drink and cigarette in one hand, eyeing me with an amused expression. The deep purple smoking jacket he was wearing tinged his white hair the same color. He took the cigarette out of the hand holding the drink and caressed it on the way to his lips. I opened my mouth to speak but he beat me to it.
“My dear fellow,” he said through a cloud of smoke in an accent I could have hung Yorkshire pudding on, “there aren't many who would venture through my gardens at night. You must be anxious to see me.”
“Anxious and brave.” I showed him my ID. “Neal Rafferty, investigator. Private.”
“How very interesting. I can't imagine what you would want to see me about.” His eyes crinkled playfully. “Well, maybe I do have one small idea. Does that alert your curiosity, M r . Rafferty?”
“Not much. I figure you know why I'm here.”
“Come now, Mr. Rafferty, you're taking all the fun out of it. Why don't you come in? Perhaps I can convince you to take a more sporting attitude.” He turned and walked back into the wide hallway separating the two sides of the house.
The exterior had about as much in common with the interior as the Desire project has with the Garden District. Deep blue carpeting ran the length of the hall and the walls were stark white. There was no furniture, only paintings hung as if they were being shown in a gallery. Above each in the high ceiling was a single spotlight. The effect was quite impressive. The paintings were varied: Some were portraits of rather singular faces done in muted pastels; others were abstracts in vivid, running
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