Natalie's Revenge (21 page)

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4:30 p.m.  New Orleans

“What do you mean, just a scratch? Jesus, Frank! You could be dead!”

“Yeah, but I’m not.” Rather than call Kelly from his office, he’d gone out to the cruiser and used his cell. Booking the robber had taken a while and he'd promised to call so she wouldn't worry. But when he told her what happened, she'd pitched a major hissy fit.  To lighten things up, he said, “Can you believe it? This old guy pedals a
stolen bike
to a Walgreen’s drive-up window and tries to rob the place. You can’t make this stuff up.”

“Don’t joke, Frank. He had a gun didn’t he? He shot at you, didn’t he?”

So much for humor. “Yeah, well, I was scared shitless for a second, but he only got off one shot, a wild one at that. The slug ricocheted off the building and a piece of brick hit me in the face.” He peered into the rearview at the Band-Aid on his cheek. “It’s fine, no stitches, nothing. Hell, by the time I see you, there won’t even be a scab.”

“Well,” she said, somewhat mollified, “if you say so. Damn, I am sick of this hurricane shit. Sick of working the overnights, too. I can’t sleep in the daytime.”

“I can't either. It screws up your body clock. When I get off at midnight I’m too wired to sleep." Like a lot of cops, he often had trouble sleeping. Working homicide he'd get calls in the middle of the night, work twenty hours, nap for three and go back to work. He slept fine at Kelly's house though.

"Damn, I miss you.”

“I miss you too. Now that I know you're okay I better catch a few winks before I go to work.”

“Where are you patrolling tonight?”

“Gentilly and the St. Bernard Housing Project area.”

A tough neighborhood. He rubbed the jagged scar on his chin, a habitual gesture when he was worried. “Be careful. All the gangbangers come out after midnight. That’s when they do their dirty deeds.”

“I know, but I’m riding with Ben Washburn. He’s tough. We’ll be fine.”

A rugged black man with plenty of street smarts, Ben was an experienced cop, fifteen years with NOPD. But that wouldn't protect Ben or Kelly, from the ‘bangers. The drug dealers carried heavy fire power.

“Be careful,” he said again. By now this was their ritual term of endearment, meaning
I love you and I don’t want anything to happen to you.

“I will, Frank. You be careful too.”

NATALIE

199
8
2000  Paris

Living in Paris was scary at first, but like Mr. Carlson said, I'm a fast learner. New Yorkers think they live in the greatest city in the world, but Paris has many cultural attractions too, and people seemed to appreciate them more. They weren't gaga over sports and TV shows and pop stars, and most of the women wore stylish outfits with chic accessories and high-heels. 

The day I arrived Lin picked me up at the airport and drove me to a flat they'd rented for me on the Left Bank. "Near the Sorbonne where many students live," Lin said. We passed dozens of outdoor cafes and bistros and clothing stores. I couldn't wait to explore them. Lin said I could take a nap if I was jet-lagged, but I was too wired to sleep, so he gave me a Metro map and showed me the nearest stop: St-Michel.

Then we drove to the 16
th
Arrondissement. The Service had a gorgeous office there, a suite of rooms on the fifth floor of a high-rise. The National Theatre of Paris was only blocks away. I couldn't wait to see a performance, but I first had to finish my training. They said my French needed work.

It sure did. People in Paris spoke so fast I could barely understand them. A tall elegant-looking Frenchwoman named Monique took me to Yves St. Laurent to buy clothes. Monique paid. That surprised me, but I didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t let me speak English, only French. Then we went to Vera Wang and bought four silk scarves, a pair of sunglasses and two fancy purses, one silver, one with black sequins.

“You can buy more when you start working,” Monique said.

My pay was in US dollars, which they wired into the bank account they'd set up for Laura Lin Hawthorn in Switzerland. They gave me French francs for spending money. When I got back to my apartment I fell into bed, exhausted. Even so I tossed and turned most of the night.

In the morning I went to a cafe and had a Café Grande (a large coffee with milk) and two croissants. Then I walked to Shakespeare’s Bookstore, the famous shop that sells books in English. It smelled musty, and I had to squeeze through aisles packed floor-to-ceiling with books.

I bought two paperback thrillers and kept walking to Odeon, a big square with many movie theaters. Some films were French, but most of them were American. I missed seeing movies with Gabe and Darren. But I was too tired to watch a movie. That night I slept like the dead.

The next day Monique asked me what I wanted my specialty to be. I figured she meant sex. My disgust must have showed because Monique smiled and said, "The Service has a high-class reputation. All of our girls are cultured and well educated." Then she asked what my special interests were.

This reminded me of Mom's calendar with the Vermeer paintings. One for every month.
The Girl With the Pearl Earring
was on the calendar when Mom was murdered. I decided this was a sign. Mom loved art and Paris had a zillion art museums, so I said art.

For the next week a little Frenchman with a pencil-thin mustache taught me about art history. He was a great teacher and very patient when I asked him to repeat things (because he spoke French so fast). I learned a lot.

Monique took me to museums to test my comprehension. We went to the Musee d’Orsay, the Rodin and Picasso museums, the Pompidou Center, the Modern Art Museum and the L’Orangerie for the Impressionists. The Monet murals on the curved walls downstairs were unbelievable. Monique said if I liked them, I should take a train to Giverny to see Monet's flower gardens and the arched bridges over the lily pads.

Early in March, Monique said I was ready for my first client. That scared me. When she said he was from Uganda, I freaked out. For my high school social studies class I had written a paper on Uganda. What I remembered most: Idi Amin had been Uganda's military-dictator president. He was big and fat and rumored to be a cannibal. He wasn’t president of Uganda anymore, but that didn’t make me feel any less terrified.

My client was a diplomat, a huge black man, and fat like Idi Amin, but he seemed pleased with me. When we met, he took my hand and said, “So happy to meet you, Laura Lin.” In English.

He had an unpronounceable name, so I called him
Honey
. When he asked what my interests were, I said art, but that was the end of that conversation. He went on about politics in his country and how difficult his job was. I smiled and said I understood. This was while we had dinner at L’Arpege, a ritzy restaurant. The food was fantastic and so was the wine, but I could barely eat. I was too worried about what would happen when we went to his hotel.

We didn’t get there until midnight. Right away, he asked if I’d mind taking off my clothes. I smiled and said, "
Of course not, honey," and took off every stitch.

He gazed at my body but didn’t take off his clothes.

“Come here,” he said. When I stepped closer he said, “Would you mind if I touch your breasts?”

I said, "Of course not, honey."
Be what they want you to be.

That’s what Madame taught me. But I was thinking: If this 300-pound giant jumps on top of me, he’ll crush me.

Then I remembered what Ann Bancroft told Bridget Fonda in
Point of No Return
: If you run into a problem, just smile and say:
The little things never bother me.
That’s what Bridget did when Harvey Keitel killed her helper. She smiled and said:
The little things never bother me
. And Harvey didn’t kill her.

Little things? No problem, but men built like Idi Amin?

But then the strangest thing happened. He petted my breasts and ground himself against my crotch and came right away. Sort of like a standup lap dance. “You are so beautiful, Laura Lin. When I come back to Paris next month, I would like to take you out for dinner again.”

I said I would love that and told him to arrange it with The Service. Then I went home. The girlfriends never handled money. Clients paid The Service directly. I don’t know how much my Uganda client paid for five hours of my time, but they said he added a $500 tip to show his appreciation. All together I made $2,500. They wired $1,500 into my bank account and gave me the rest in francs. They also said I would now be responsible for buying my own clothes and paying the rent on my apartment.

The next day I signed up for lessons at a taekwondo studio. I couldn't believe how rusty my skills were. The teacher must have been disgusted, but he made a polite face the way Asians do. Even so, I knew how out of shape I was. From then on I went there three times a week to work out. 

All my clients weren't as easy to please as the diplomat from Uganda, but every time I got home from a "date" I added up the numbers in my bank account and reminded myself why I was doing this. To avenge Mom.

But first I needed to find out who killed her. I knew it would cost a lot, thousands of dollars, according to the PI in New York. And after I found out the killer's name, I would have to figure out a way to punish him. That would cost money too. A lot, probably.

I accumulated several regulars—generous tippers—who saw me three or four times a month. In my spare time I went to movies. Parisians were gaga over Hollywood movies and my French clients loved to discuss them. I used
Pariscope,
a weekly magazine that lists what's happening each week, to choose which films to see. Early on I figured out that
vo
in the listing meant
Version Original,
meaning it was in English with French subtitles. I always saw the
vo
version. Most of the subtitles were idiotic.

To celebrate my twentieth birthday on April 15th, I sent Gabe a coded email:
P is fantastic. E-tower is great. I love you, IRS.
I was sure Gabe would figure it out. I missed him a lot, but I didn't miss Pecos. I wondered how Ellen was doing now that Randy wasn’t around to make her give him blowjobs.

One day in the office I met a girl and we got talking. Her name was Amanda Lin. None of us ever revealed our last name. Amanda was tiny, only five-two, but she had a gorgeous face and big boobs. We went to a café and chatted in English over a Café Grande. We didn't talk about our previous life, so I don't know where she's from.

I hoped she’d be my girlfriend like Val in New York, but Amanda spent her free time with her boyfriend. Now and then we went out for lunch. Her specialty was jazz. When I said mine was art, we swapped information. Being
au courant
in two areas was better than one. Some clients just wanted a pretty girl to talk to at dinner and have sex with afterwards, but many of my clients were wild about jazz.

I started going to jazz clubs and fell in love with the music. It made me feel free, the way I used to feel when I was in New York, dancing in the dark.

Every day I watched the news on TV to keep up with current events. That's how I found out about the Columbine shootings. It happened April 20, 1999, five days after my twenty-first birthday. Two high school kids brought guns to school and killed several of their classmates; then they killed themselves. It reminded me of Randy and his football-player friends in Pecos.

I wished I could talk to Gabe about it, but I didn't dare call him.

When I felt lonely, I'd go to an upscale bar just to be around people. I liked hearing their murmured conversations. Sometimes I'd fantasize that I was with a man, but then I’d give myself a dope-slap.

Forget romance. I had to avenge Mom’s murder.
I shall be a champion of freedom and justice
. Justice for Mom, then freedom for me. Freedom to live my life however I wanted. Which didn't include working for The Service.

One day I went to the Pompidou Center. The modern art collection is fantastic. Afterwards I went to the gift shop and stopped at a tall carrousel that displayed many postcards. I spun it around. When it stopped, my heart jumped into my throat and my hands got cold as ice.

Facing me at eye level was a photograph of the gargoyles perched on the facade high above Notre Dame Cathedral. They were hideous, gaping mouths, angry eyes, long sharp talons gripping the cement facade.

This was what I imagined the angry Ancestor spirits looked like.

A violent shudder wracked me. I was certain this was no accident.

Mom's ancestor spirits had sent me a message. Tears filled my eyes.

Mom had been waiting for me to avenge her for 11 years and I had done nothing. I felt so ashamed. I went home, took out her photograph, lit some incense and chanted:
I shall be a champion of freedom and justice
.

By the end of August 1999 I had saved $6,000. I figured that was enough to hire a detective. On the Internet I found a directory for private investigators in the United States. I didn't want to use anyone in Louisiana so I called a man in Tennessee. Closer than New York, but not too close.

He answered in a southern drawl. "Nicolas Hart Investigations, how can I help y'all today?"

"I need information about a murder in New Orleans. October 1988."

"Waahl, that's a while back. I take it the cops didn't solve the case?"

"No, but they had some suspects and I want to know who they were."

"Why don't y'all call the New Orleans police and ask them?"

"If I wanted to do that, why would I call you?"

He laughed. "Ya got me there. Call me Nick. What's your name?"

This time I was ready with my fake name. "Virginia Smith."

"Smith, huh." He paused and I heard him light a cigarette. "Okay, Virginia. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll tell you if I can do it."

So I gave him Mom's name and the date of the murder. Jane Fontenot had said her prime suspect’s wife had given him an alibi. I couldn't imagine why. Didn’t she know he was a monster? But I didn't say this. I gave him Jane's name and said I wanted a copy of the file to see who her suspects were.

Another pause. "Is your name on the list of suspects, Virginia?"

I had to pinch myself to keep from laughing. "I wasn't even old enough to drive in 1988."

"Okay, Virginia, but it's gonna cost you. I gotta drive down to N'Awlins and find a friendly cop without too many scruples. Probably have to pay him a bundle to copy the file."

"No problem. How much do you think you'll need?"

"To bribe the cop? A grand, maybe two. I'll do the best I can for ya."

"And how much will your services cost?"

"I need three grand up front as a retainer. Hard to say about the rest. Depends how long it takes me."

"Okay, but how do I know you'll get me the file?"

"Don't you worry 'bout that, Virginia. Might take me a while, but I'll get it. Once I do, I'll give you an itemized account of my expenses and send you a bill for the balance."

So I agreed to wire $3,000 into his bank account.

What choice did I have? Jane wouldn't give me the names of her suspects and I needed them to find Mom's killer. I gave Nick my cell number and said I was in Paris so he'd know how to reach me. He gave me his bank information so I could wire the money and said he'd call me when he verified that it was in his account, and that was it.