Inside Sam Lerner

Chapter 2

Chapter 2Sam drove at an easy pace, allowing the lull of the Shelby engine to ease his agitation. He had purchased the car after saving enough money working summers and after school with Leon Duval at St. Tammany's mortuary, which had proven to be good preparation for their future careers. Perhaps it had been more than coincidence that both Sam and Duval had become homicide detectives, for both had long ago learned to disassociate themselves from the macabre parade of deads they administered to on a daily basis.

After college, Duval made a somewhat dubious name for himself in the New Orleans Police Department while Sam headed for Los Angeles with dreams of fishing, surfing, and sun-tanned blondes. Instead Sam encountered race riots, quakes, and graft. Nonetheless he made it to the top of the detective pile, gathering a fistful of commendations along the way. Sam was one of the best L.A.P.D. had to offer, and he put his job ahead of all else in his life, until he met Kira.

Sam instinctively shoved his wife's image from his memory. It was still too painful to imagine her smile. After nine years of a great marriage, she was now gone. Just like that–gone forever. Now California was dead to him, too.

Only one week had passed since he had finally decided to bail out of L.A. and not look back…not that he could see too straight these days anyway. Since Kira's death, he had discovered that inebriation was quite underrated as a form of therapy.

Sam gave the Shelby a bit more gas just to feel her respond–an assurance to himself that something still could. Over the years he had brought the car back to cherry condition. He knew it was time to do the same for himself.

Maybe tomorrow, he silently thought as he watched Beatrice muster up the energy to climb into the front seat to beg for a sip of Dixie. “Easy girl,” Sam cautioned, “I'll need to see some I.D.”

He was never sure if his conversations with his dog were for her benefit or his. Either way, his own voice helped fill the void Kira's death had left in his life.

Beatrice licked his hand, belched, then hung her head out the window. “Couldn't have said it better myself, girl,” Sam grinned.

As Sam appraised the scenery, he recalled how St. Tammany had been another ending. And he was tired of endings. The house he had once lived in had been nothing more than a four room clapboard bungalow, but he and his father and Mammy Jem had lived there until he was a teen. It was home, as much as any place had ever been. Now the house was a memory, just like the old man, whose gin-marinated corpse lay in a crypt somewhere near the French Quarter. Jem had not written to him for two years, her old eyes a bit too thick with cataracts to relish correspondence.

Ah, Jem…she was someone Sam could smell if he put his mind to it–sweat mixed with exotic spices, rum, and wood smoke. Her strong Creole hands had consoled him as a boy, stroking his head until he could allow himself to fall asleep.

Sleep had never come easily for Sam, not since the hurricane had roared through town with its high winds hurling debris like exploding railroad cars. He mostly remembered the noise and the echo of his father's screams as he pulled Sam's mother out from beneath the heavy religious triptych that had hung over their bed.

Sam soon came to understand the bitter irony of that night. In his young mind, his mother had been murdered by Jesus. Yep, Jesus was the perp, he had told himself, and the heavy crucifix was the weapon. Now Sam c****d a brow as he recalled his first great detective work.

Jem had stayed on as his mammy; and she was truly the only mother he remembered. Sam took another swig as he tried to recall Jem's real name. He couldn't. He had nicknamed her Jemima when he was four years old, enthralled by her resemblance to the mammy on the pancake box with the same name. Now he shook his head at his youthful lack of political correctness, but Jem had always professed to love the name. That's because she loved Sam.

The memories of Jem allowed him to ease back into his seat even more. Perhaps he would see her tomorrow. Tonight, however, he was going to enjoy the comfort of a different kind of woman. Sam smiled as he goosed the Shelby. At last he was returning to the city he loved. And to the one other person in his life that was still there for him.

* * *

Sam's heart was racing faster than the Shelby as he crossed Lake Ponchartrain into New Orleans. He grinned unconsciously as he sucked in the familiar scent of lake water mingled with the dense fragrance of the Mississippi River. In the distance, the wail of a river boat horn seeped out from under the oppressive humidity.

He took in the lights of the beckoning town and studied her undulating skyline. The old city still excited him. Even Beatrice was alert, somehow sensing the change in his mood. The sun was creeping down over the smoldering town as the night began to come to life.

Sam headed straight for the French Quarter, already teaming with revelers despite the lingering summer heat. As he settled into the familiarity of his surroundings, he switched on the radio and heard the vibrant sounds of Chubby Carrier's Zydeco Junkie. He had missed the Creole music reminiscent of his childhood. The Cajun dialect and fast tempo always infused him with an excitement he had never been able to describe to his friends back in Los Angeles who had grown up with surfing and the Beach Boys.

A grin spread across his tan face he passed a sidewalk sandwich board that advertised “Beer So Cold You Will Slap Your Mama.” Weaving through the Quarter, he passed rows of gable-sided Creole cottages, his focus lingering on a colorful pink cottage sporting lime shutters and displaying a For Sale sign in the courtyard. The rider on the sign proudly announced, 'Haunted.' Jem had always said New Orleans was a town that did everything with a flourish and a wink. The ol' girl was right.

When he arrived at the corner of St. Claude and Ursulines, Sam parked on the street and stared at a stately guest house known as Maire's Gentlemen's Club. A soft pink glow backlit the windows, and the sound of Fats Waller clung to the thick air like the smell of s*x. “Christ,” he whispered, “I'm back.” He briefly looked away, knowing if he took it all in at once he'd have to deal with emotions better left undisturbed.

After letting Beatrice sniff around long enough to make her mark in the Quarter, he left her in the Shelby and tentatively approached the door of the guest house. He had to ring several times before someone finally answered.

The carved door opened so quietly it hardly displaced the fragrant air that covered Sam like a familiar old sweater. His senses were so weighted with anticipation it seemed the world had gone into slow motion.

Suddenly she was there, all six feet of her, as elegant as she had always been, and draped in pink silk. Maire Girod was a unique combination of green eyes, tawny skin and close-cropped blond hair that was nappy and coarse–a result of her African, French and Canadian heritage. She was as beautiful to him now as she was the first moment they had met when he was only sixteen. “Maire,” he whispered.

Maire stared for a moment, and then she wrapped herself around him, enveloping him in a warm cloud of jasmine. He held her tightly while his breath slowly found an escape.

“Chere,” she whispered in soft Cajun tones, “we've been waiting for you. It's been a long time.”

“It has been a long time,” he smiled as he kissed her cheek. Sam then pulled back to stare at her angular face and creamy skin which was nearly flawless, except for the light lines etched by time at the corners of her eyes. “And you're still breathtaking.”

“And you are still my handsome cowboy,” she smiled as she led him by the hand into the parlor, which was full of fresh flowers from the courtyard garden.

Sam noticed with pleasure that all of the furniture was the same. The antique rose brocade chaises and sofas and the silk lamp shades were barely faded. Gold framed mirrors reflected the soft parlor light. He had long ago committed the details to memory.

As Maire sat on the sofa and pulled him down next to her, he was overwhelmed once more. He cleared his throat while she reached for the bottle of cognac on the coffee table. “Drink this, love,” she said as she poured the amber liquid into a glass. “This is indeed a moment worth toasting.”

“Thanks, Maire. So how did you know I was coming?”

Her sly grin revealed a perfect set of teeth. “Someone who runs an honorable establishment like mine always knows when a man is 'coming.' It's simply good business.”

Sam laughed and sipped his drink. As he leaned back into the couch, he was aware that it had been too long since he had felt safe enough to let down his guard.

Maire studied his face like a painting as she answered his question. “Leon Duval was here last night.”

“I should have known. I ran into him over near the old place in St Tammany on my way here. He's still annoying, and I suspect he's still as crooked as they come.”

“I can't deny that. But he means well, chere. He's just a bit overbearing. He still looks up to you like he did back in school.”

“Well now I feel guilty as hell.”

Maire laughed and intertwined her long fingers in his. “Don't feel guilty. Leon Duval is annoying. He told me what happened back in Los Angeles–to Kira I mean. I'm truly sorry, chere. I'm glad you decided to come back home awhile though. Oh, Antoine wants you to drop by Tujagues while you're in town. He has been expecting you.”

“Antoine's expecting me, too? Christ, did Duval take up skywriting or something?”

“Never mind about Duval. Are you okay, Sam?”

“Not really. But I'm feeling better by the second.”

“You need some sleep,” she soothed as she reached out to rub his temples. When she rang a bell on the coffee table, a young blonde in her late twenties with a full, sensuous body stepped into the room. After she eyed Sam, she flashed a seductive smile.

Maire held up a hand in warning. “Sorry, Celeste, but this one is off-limits. Please offer hors d'oeuvres to the gentlemen in the garden, and then send in Madsen.”

Celeste shot them a look of disappointment. As she dutifully opened the door to the courtyard and stepped out, Sam got a glimpse of several male callers laughing near the fountain. Celeste eyed Sam hungrily before she closed the door and disappeared into the warm evening.

“We seldom have guests as ruggedly appealing as you are, Sam,” Maire smiled, explaining Celeste's disappointment.

“You still know how to make a man feel special. No wonder business is good.”

“You are special. I want you to take the room in the back. Coffee and beignets at sun-up. We'll catch up then.”

“Are you coming up with me?”

“You know a hostess never leaves the party. But, darlin,' you sure make a girl think twice.”

“I've been waiting since I was sixteen,” he teased.

“That's back when I was an old lady of twenty-one. I'm ancient now, so I'm only being merciful. I'll send in Madsen. I told her to expect you.”

“Apparently everybody has been awaiting my arrival. I get more press than the Pope.”

“You're more important, so no charge for you. He'd have to pay.”

“That's why you're a successful businesswoman. Speaking of charge, Maire. I have another girl in my charge. She's in the car. May I bring her in?”

“You getting kinky in your old age?”

“I'm not getting anything in my old age.”

She shook her head as she traced his square jaw with a delicate finger. “Such a loss. Show her in, chere.”

When Sam opened the door and whistled, Beatrice sat up, jumped out the car window, and ran for the veranda. Maire let out a sultry chuckle before leading Sam and Beatrice up the curved staircase to the one place where he could still find comfort.

* * *

Sam stepped out of the shower off Madsen's room, grateful to be somewhere familiar. Beatrice, who had crawled under an altar set with religious offerings, was eyeing a voodoo rattle-doll somewhat suspiciously. Sam remembered only enough of Mammy Jem's teachings to recognize a veve symbol that was painted on the wall, and a small table with divination cards that was set up in one corner. As accustomed as he was to Jem's voodoo practices while growing up, Sam still found the various objects and idols very foreign. But tonight he was too exhausted to give them a second glance.

The full length shuttered windows were open, allowing bits of conversation, blues rifts and laughter to drift his way from the garden below. On the ceiling above his head, a fan turned slowly, folding the sounds and fragrances into the night air.

When Sam peered down into the courtyard below, one patron, obscured by fingers of shade from a large magnolia tree, looked up at him and nodded. Blonde Celeste, who was now outstretched seductively on a wrought iron lounge, followed the man's gaze. When she spotted Sam, she languorously adjusted her pose then stroked her pale legs, pausing to circle the fleur de lis tattoo on her calf with a red long fingernail. The patron cordially lifted a glass to Sam before continuing his social call with Celeste.

Sam closed the shutters and glanced around. He was already forming a profile of the young woman who inhabited the comfortable room. After years of detective work, he was the master of the fifteen-second profile. This Madsen was a loner he figured–no family photos or memorabilia. On her vanity there were several scarves, various ropes of plastic carnival beads, and a plastic baby Jesus from a Mardi Gras King Cake.

She also owned several hair brushes, including a brush with a bone handle that had been repaired with glue. Next to the brush was a bottle of fragrance–Dolce & Gabbana Velvet Desire, which he recognized as an expensive designer brand. A wooden fruit bowl with a lone fruit fly feasting on a bruised peach completed the arrangement.

It was the tiny stuffed canaries in the room, however, that held Sam's eye. Madsen had strategically placed lifelike pairs of yellow canaries everywhere. The birds stared at Sam curiously as he walked about. One pair was perched next to a little plate of sesame seeds, and several were nestled in plants. Sam figured the girl was either superstitious, or perhaps very lonely. However, his experiences in homicide had revealed more peculiar interests than a collection of stuffed canaries.

Reminding himself that he was no longer a detective, Sam finally crawled between the sheets and reached for the chime. A few moments later he heard the knock.

“Come in, chere,” he said, unconsciously slipping back into the Cajun dialect he had worked so long to lose.

Madsen stepped into the room. She was young–twenty-two at most he'd guess. Her skin reminded him of buttered toast, and her eyes tilted upward in a small face accented by full lips. A fuchsia and yellow colored chiffon scarf was tied at the waistline of her strapless black dress; and she had chosen lipstick to match the pink of the scarf. Sam smiled with pleasure. He loved to look at beautiful things; and to him, all women were beautiful.

“Sam Lerner?” she said softly. As he nodded his head, her tentative smile grew larger. “Would you like to talk for a while. Maybe about California?” The expectant look on her face was almost childlike.

“I don't think so, thank you. I'm exhausted–I've been on the road a long while.”

“You've had plenty to eat?”

“No appetite.”

“Would you enjoy a libation?” she offered.

“I've had a libation, thank you, Madsen.” Sam smiled at the word, which she had mispronounced. She was delightful, and very small town–just the way he had been on his first solo trip into New Orleans as a sixteen-year-old looking to become a man. In some respects, he figured, he was still trying to become one.

“Would you like me to join you for a libation, Madsen?” he asked, remembering his manners.

“No, thank you, I don't drink. Is your dog friendly?”

“If she were any sweeter she'd need insulin.”

Madsen giggled before she methodically began to undress, humming unconsciously as she hung each garment. The only thing Madsen did not remove was an oblong silver pendant, which was hanging from a long chain around her neck. She slipped into a chenille robe and tied it at her waist, still humming.

Sam closed his eyes and listened. Her voice was so damn sweet it made him ache. When she moved closer, he noticed that her scent was sweet also, like wet flowers.

“Maire told me what you need,” she whispered as she crawled into bed, keeping her robe wrapped around her. “You're sure this is all you want, Mr. Lerner?”

“I'm sure, darling.” Sam's breathing grew deep and steady. The notes of Louis Armstrong's version of La Vie En Rose drifted up from the garden, slowing forcing his pain to loosen its tenacious grip from his chest.

Madsen lifted her hand to stroke Sam's forehead. “You have pretty blue eyes.”

“Thank you, Madsen.”

“I like blue eyes with black hair. I wish I had that.”

“You're perfect just the way you are,” he assured her.

“That's very kind of you.”

Sam made an unsuccessful attempt to continue the conversation, but his exhaustion was pressing him deeper into the soft down pillow.

“Shhh.” Madsen traced her fingers down his face and caressed his lips with the back of her hand. Using her finger tips, she gently applied pressure above Sam's brow, pausing occasionally to smooth the hair back from his forehead. Her hands were soft and nurturing, allowing him to drift to some safe place from long ago.

As his body sunk into a long-forgotten state of calm, he felt her fingertips brush away the moisture from his cheek. He had allowed his long-suppressed sadness to surface, but he was too tired to give a damn. He just wanted someone near him so he could finally sleep.

Unfortunately, it would be the last good sleep Sam Lerner would have for a long time.