The Girl on the Edge of Summer Page 9

  I am so not a grief counselor. Facing Eddie had been easier than this. Taking a breath, I plunged ahead, hoping I was helping more than I was harming. “That’s okay. Do something else for you and your family. Don’t confuse revenge with healing.”

  She again looked at me, a stray tear sliding down her face. “I guess it was stupid of me to call his work and think they would even care.”

  “Not stupid”—well, yes, it kind of was, but I didn’t need to rub that in—“you have a right to be furious. It’s understandable. No one wants to wait for justice. But you have to be smarter and better than he is.”

  Another sniffle. “Yes, I guess.”

  “Your son clearly cares about you. You need each other now.” I’d learned a few things from listening to Cordelia deal with patients—remind them of others around them, help them identify support. Who knew it would come in handy? “Be strong enough to help him get through it.”

  She sat up and finished the water. “You’re right. I need to think about those of us still here. I really appreciate you coming out here. I was so scared, I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “It’s not legal for him to harass you. If he shows up again, you can call the police.”

  “Just not you?”

  “You can call me, but I’m just one person, and at the end of the day, don’t have the authority they have. I can’t arrest him. And I’m a woman. He hates women, doesn’t see them as people. Next time if it’s just you and me—two women—he might let his anger make decisions and get violent. He’s more likely to think twice about that with a big guy in a uniform.”

  She nodded, although I doubted Mrs. Stevens was much into feminism. Maybe this and the divorce would give her a nudge. “You’re right. It might be a good idea for me to go away for a while. Alan urged me to come up to Baton Rouge with him, that we could see the sights.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” I said, not that I could think of any sights worth seeing in Red Stick, but then I’m a biased New Orleanian.

  She stood up. “I promise not to do anything that will bring him here again.”

  I also stood, trying not to be too hasty about it. I didn’t want her to know how much I wanted to get out of here and leave her to the social workers.

  “Another good plan.”

  “Thank you for everything you’ve done.” The polite Southern lady was back as she walked me to the door.

  I didn’t quite trot down her lawn, but I was tempted. And while it was unlikely, I couldn’t be sure Eddie wasn’t still lurking. My money was on him being in his favorite watering hole on the third beer by now and mouthing off to anyone listening how much he’d been taken advantage of by women and how much he hated them.

  No sign of his truck or him. Dusk was just coming, the lingering light from the lengthening days. A favorite watering hole sounded like a good idea, although mine would not be anything like the ones Eddie favored.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Brandon looked at the text message again, as if it would disappear. “Need hlp with the comp. Cum ov, stay 4 party.” He considered deleting it or pretending he’d left his phone somewhere and hadn’t gotten the message until later. That would save him making a decision.

  His mother wouldn’t approve. If she found out, he’d be in trouble. But like Kevin said, he was getting too old to worry about his mother’s approval. He knew it was probably mostly for the computer help, but it was cool to be invited.

  His mother would approve of him trying to keep his grades up; he would tell her he was doing a study project with Kevin. She was working late tonight anyway.

  He was smart enough to hide his computer stuff in his school backpack with a couple of textbooks thrown in. It was heavy, but that was okay. It wasn’t like he was carrying it around school all day.

  He was even clever enough to do the dishes, just a few bowls and spoons left over from breakfast. That would help convince her he really was being good.

  The dishes done, the note to his mother written, Brandon headed out the door, texting as he walked to the bus stop. “On my way. C U soon.”

  He was happy they included him, and he wouldn’t be so stupid this time. Kevin had egged him on, had probably been as stupid the first time he’d gone to one of the parties, without anyone handing him a beer, then vodka, then that awful-tasting whiskey like Kevin had done to him. Kevin wanted to make Brandon look as stupid as he had looked.

  He’d gotten sick, hustled outside to throw up on the lawn since both bathrooms were being used. It wasn’t his fault he’d landed in dog shit; gotten it all over his jeans, the ones he’d tried to hide from his mother. He wouldn’t have been so scared if he hadn’t still been a little bit drunk, worried she would be able to tell what he’d been up to just by the dog shit on his jeans. Okay, maybe worried some of the throw-up got on them, too. But he’d been drunk when he stuffed them behind the dryer. And then had forgotten.

  But the guys were probably used to this kind of stuff. Brandon was sure that Kevin had been worse because even though they were friends, Kevin wasn’t as smart as Brandon. Kevin was the one who had lit the firecracker and held it to show how tough he was, only to mess up and not get rid of it quick enough. Kevin claimed he had thrown it, but it went off too soon. Yeah, right, he still had a big burned spot on his hand, one his mother had to take him to the doctor for. He got grounded for a month after that.

  Brandon had never been grounded. He’d never been stupid enough to risk burning his hands off like Kevin had.

  And he knew how to set up computers and do cool stuff with them because his dad had taught him before being sent to Afghanistan. He was pretty sure he could fix whatever they needed him to.

  He wouldn’t drink as much this time, wouldn’t be so stupid, wouldn’t listen to Kevin. He’d stick to beer, saying he preferred that. Brandon was almost grown up, after all, and he needed to act like it.

  As he got on the bus, another text came in. “U on ur way?”

  “On the bus,” he texted back.

  “Good. Will pik u up at stop.”

  “Thks!” he started to write, then took the exclamation point off. Too girly. “thks,” he sent. Men were to the point, no wasted time or emotion.

  A ding told him another text had come in. But he quickly closed it before it fully loaded. It was a picture, and not one he could look at on the bus with people around him. Brandon smiled. This was another way they treated him like he was one of them, including him in seeing the pics they sent around.

  His phone dinged again, but he didn’t open it. An old lady was sitting next to him. He wasn’t stupid enough to risk her seeing anything.

  He waited until the bus let him off. He took a quick look at the picture. Nice, he thought, trying to keep his smile to himself. He didn’t want anyone to see his expression. He looked up, but no truck yet.

  The next text wasn’t another picture. Just words. “We need to tlk about Tif.”

  He looked up again to see the black truck pulling up next to him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I doubted the kind of bar Fast Eddie would go to would have good Scotch. And mostly gay men. I had strongly considered staying at home, popcorn and mindless TV, but the confrontation with him was unsettling. Even though I knew it wasn’t rational, if he could show up at Mrs. Stevens’ with no warning, he could show up at my house. I wouldn’t very well be able to call myself to solve the situation. And I’d had the advantage of surprise; Eddie would be prepared this time. No, not rational. Unless he’d speed-read my license when I’d flipped it in front of him, he had no idea of who I was. Even if he did, my name would only lead him back to my office. He’d have to get through hordes of chai latte–swilling customers—such a rough bunch—to be able to get to me.

  Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to sit at the far end of the bar, drink a well-aged single malt, and contemplate life with people and music around me, so I could pretend I had a social life.

  As I had predicted / feared, Douglas To
wnson had left a message on my voice mail asking for progress. I’d phone him tomorrow—after I spent a few hours at the New Orleans Public Library. I’d call later in the afternoon and hope he didn’t work weekends and I’d only have to leave a voice mail.

  I hoped Mrs. Stevens was ensconced in a nice hotel in Baton Rouge, maybe at dinner with her son.

  We learn—slowly—to carry our losses. We never get over them. When I was a teenager, just coming out, struggling for a place I could belong, I was tall enough to get into the bars, the gay bars of the Quarter and Marigny. No, not ideal, but they were the one place I could feel safe from being hated. I couldn’t afford much more than a beer or two, but some of the bartenders and patrons became familiar faces, a welcoming smile, a few even friends. But a plague came, and the plague wasn’t kind to those kind men. A cough, a spot that looked like a bruise, then we visited them in the hospice and then went to their funerals. These were the mostly men, a few women, who told me I would be okay; I’d find a place or make my own, but I could do it. By a few kind words, a laugh, a hug, they saved me. So many of them gone too early.

  We carry our losses.

  I didn’t know how Mrs. Stevens would ever be able to carry the loss of her daughter. I’d tried the best I could with my words, but they were small and frail against the torn hole in her heart. Maybe her son would be her anchor, a heavy load for a college boy. Tragedy doesn’t respect age—he would grow up quickly.

  I signed the bartender for another. Now I could buy the good stuff and tip decently as if paying back for those days when I couldn’t. None of the bartenders were the same, but a few patrons were occasionally around. We’d smile, chat briefly, happy we were still here, a shared history that survived.

  The case of Fast Eddie was over. I wondered if I’d ever find out what happened next, what the husband—ex, whose name I didn’t even know, would do with his lawyers.

  I took a sip of my new drink, the familiar burn welcome. I didn’t need to know. It wasn’t my loss to carry. I let the music beat catch me, watching the strangers take over my thoughts, a few sips every song, after song. But even the music can’t last all night.

  I finished the last dregs of my drink, left a nice tip, and gave my bar stool to someone else. Time to go home to the home that often didn’t feel like a home. Torbin kept telling me if I couldn’t get a girlfriend, I should at least get a cat.

  I probably should. A living thing to welcome me. Maybe next weekend I’d check out the shelter. But getting a new cat would mean I’d never get back the cats I’d lost in the breakup. It was hard to take that step. I’m not good at the emotional, moving on, taking care of myself kind of stuff. Single malt was the best I could do.

  It was a boisterous evening in the French Quarter, people enjoying the mild temperatures, wandering around with their drinks in hand. I wasn’t part of them, walking home, leaving the party I wasn’t invited to behind.

  I kept glimpsing big, stumbling men who looked like Fast Eddie until I looked closely and saw only tourists or college boys out for a good time.

  My unease increased as I left the crowds behind, walking the quieter residential streets of the lower Quarter, the ones that would take me home. Mostly I liked being able to walk from my house to restaurants and bars. It saved me from worrying about my sobriety level.

  But I couldn’t get rid of the look on his face, the cold, naked hate. Fast Eddie didn’t seem like a forgive-and-forget kind of guy. I had to assume that if we ever crossed paths again—something I hoped would never come to pass—that he would have a stew of resentment goading him on. The last thing I wanted was a random encounter on a deserted street.

  I hurried my steps.

  Most of what I do as a private investigator is boring and mundane, trolling through databases and records, waiting for a call back, having a polite conversation with someone about a minor detail. I go to the shooting range once a month because if I’m going to carry a gun, I damn well need to know how to use it. And to understand why it’s so much better to never have to use a gun.

  I heard footsteps behind me.

  I quickly turned the corner, heading up Ursulines, varying my zigzag route home. If the footsteps also turned the corner, it would be time to truly let my paranoia run free.

  The street was quiet. I turned again onto Dauphine. It, too, was a quiet residential street in this part of the Quarter. I considered going up to Rampart, but it was a mess of road construction and had only a trickle of its usual busy traffic.

  Four more blocks and I’d be home.

  I turned onto Barracks. Just as I was passing the small park, I heard running footsteps behind me. I glanced back only long enough to see two figures running my way. I took off. They were either running from something, in which case I might want to run from it as well, or they were running to catch up with me, and since they hadn’t called my name and offered to buy me a drink, they didn’t seem on the friendly side.

  Barely looking for cars at the intersection of Barracks and Burgundy, I sprinted across it. More time at the gym, I thought as I pounded up the block. After this, I’d spend more time doing cardio workouts.

  The footsteps were gaining on me. I chanced a glimpse back and it wasn’t a pretty sight; two figures in hoodies, far too close to me. They were probably both sober and younger. The downside to looking back was that it took my eyes off what was in front of me long enough for my toe to hit a patch of the sidewalk that had bulged up.

  I stumbled.

  A hand caught my arm. Another one caught my shoulder.

  “Hey, don’t fall.”

  “You will”—I gasped for breath—“die for this.”

  My cousin Torbin and his partner Andy.

  “We couldn’t resist. We spotted you, then you picked up your pace, so we ran up here to cut you off,” Andy said, laughing between—I was gratified to note—heavy breaths.

  “A slow death,” I panted out. “Left in a swamp with the snakes and mosquitoes.”

  “Not a chance,” Torbin replied. “The cousins once got me to go hunting frog legs at night. Never again will I darken the door of anything with that many bugs.”

  “I’m at the age when I might have a heart attack from being scared like this.”

  “Any day now you’ll be sitting on the porch barely able to get out of your rocking chair and shouting to the urchins to stay off your lawn.”

  “I don’t have a porch or a lawn.”

  “Metaphorically speaking.”

  We started walking again. They lived just down the block from me.

  To change the subject—and to make them talk so I could catch my breath—I asked, “What have you been up to?”

  “The usual French Quarter frolic, dinner with some friends,” Torbin answered.

  “Anyone I know?”

  “Nope, I doubt it,” Torbin said quickly enough for me to know he was probably having dinner with someone I did know well enough to give him hell for being in their company. “And you? What were you up to?”

  “Just stretching my legs. Spent most of the day behind my desk.” If he wasn’t going to be honest with me, I saw no reason to be honest with him. Plus I was still mulling over what had happened today and wasn’t sure I was up to talking about it.

  We crossed Rampart holding hands because the road was so torn up, no one wanted to disappear into a pothole and never be heard from again.

  “Just a walk after dark?” Torbin queried. “No stopping along the way?”

  Andy was either smart or rude enough to be engrossed in his phone.

  We’re the lavender sheep, bonded by being queer in a family that wasn’t welcoming. He had earned the right to worry about me. But that didn’t mean I appreciated it.

  “Only stopped at the gay bars.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. He didn’t specify when. “And only two drinks. Total.”

  “Sixty-four-ounce daiquiris could count as one drink.”

  “Not in
this case,” I said. “Two slowly sipped single malts.”

  He nodded. My speech and gait were steady enough to back me up.

  “And if you’re so worried about me, maybe you should dump your friends that I probably don’t know and spend some time with your favorite cousin. I actually can behave when out in public.”

  Torbin was quiet for a moment—a rarity for him—which told me my guess about the friends was correct. Then he said, “Soon, I promise. This time of year is always busy. We should make plans. I keep thinking because we live half a block away, we’ll see each other all the time.”

  We stopped in front of my house.

  We used to see each other all the time. But it had slipped away when my routine changed from being with someone to being by myself. Torbin and Cordelia had often made the plans to come over after work or meet for drinks after a hard day.

  That was gone.

  “Seems we should,” I agreed. “Maybe we need to start sharing calendars.”

  “I’ll call you in the next few days and we’ll set something up.”

  “Maybe every second Tuesday we should meet halfway between your house and mine,” I suggested.

  “Good idea. Something to make sure we get together more often.” He gave me a hug.

  “That would be good,” Andy agreed, his phone put away. We also hugged. They waited long enough to see me in my door.

  Then I watched them as they walked the half block to their house, holding hands. It’s easy to go out when you have someone to go out with.

  The rest of the evening was something thrown in the microwave for dinner, mindless TV. And one more single malt before calling it a night.

  The next day was an exciting one of having to take my car out to the ’burbs (again!) for the usual routine maintenance. I chose to wait in hopes it would speed things up. My other option was to rent a car, and there was nothing pressing enough to require me to risk driving an automatic in the insanity of the NOLA ’burbs instead of my manual car.

  It took about three hours. I spent most of it in the waiting room on my phone trying to look like I was taking care of important business. Like checking the weather. Deleting spam email. I waited until lunch on East Coast time and called Douglas Townson back. He was out of the office and I had to—(yes!)—settle for leaving a message.