The Art of Sin (20 page)

     They walked on as their footfalls echoed around the tightly packed buildings on either side of the street.

     “If you hadn’t gotten involved with Beverly, would you have stayed in New Orleans?” Grady interrogated. “Or would you have moved on?”

     “I don’t think I’ll ever leave New Orleans,” Doug confessed while they ambled past St. Ann Street. “Never been anywhere like it. The people down here have such love for their city. They adore every dirty street, every broken water pipe, every cracked sidewalk, and every pothole. Didn’t know such love ever existed, but it’s alive and well, and living in New Orleans.”

     “That’s quite a testament.”

     “It’s quite a city.” Doug shrugged as he put his hands in his black trouser pockets. “It has its problems, too, don’t get me wrong, but somehow the problems seem to blend with the benefits. Besides, this place is more like home to me than where I came from.”

     “And where is that?”

     Just ahead, something caught Doug’s attention and his gait slowed. “Springfield, Missouri,” he mumbled.

     From out of the darkness, beneath one of the balconies, a man appeared. He was wearing dark clothes, white tennis shoes, and as Grady felt those hairs stand up on the back of his neck, he saw a flash of something in the man’s hand.

     “Doug?” Grady said under his breath, watching the man approach.

     Doug removed his hands from his pockets and moved closer to Grady. “I see him. Just be cool.”

     “Wallets!” the man snarled, holding up a .9 mm pistol to Doug’s face.

     Grady’s stomach shrank and the alcohol in his system sped through him, making him feel lightheaded. He stood frozen, staring at the gun and praying he survived to see Al once more.

     “Hey, man,” Doug slowly spoke up. “Just take it easy with that thing.”

     Grady saw the gun in the attacker’s hand and his eyes rose up the long sleeve of the dark hoodie jacket to the face of their assailant. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, Grady surmised. With round brown eyes, dark, coffee-colored skin and a boyish fullness to his face, Grady could tell by the boy’s trembling grip on the gun that this was not a seasoned criminal.

     “Wallets, now. Give ‘em here.” The young man held out his other hand as he kept the gun poised on Doug.              

     “All right.” Doug kept his voice soft and even. “It’s in my back pocket.” He nodded to Grady. “Give him your wallet.”

     “Real slow, man,” the kid barked.

     Doug slowly reached around to his back pocket and was pulling out his wallet when a flash of light from a door to their left distracted him. The diversion made the young man look away for a split second, but that was all Doug needed. He lunged at the mugger.

     Grady stumbled backward when the young boy and Doug fell to the ground.

     “What in the hell is goin’ on out there?” a man’s voice called.

     The stranger came out of the brightly lit doorway and saw Grady standing there while the young boy and Doug wrestled on the ground.

     Grady spun his eyes away from the man in the doorway and was about to go to Doug’s aid when a shot rang out. The gun clanked to the ground and Grady watched in shock as their assailant jumped to his feet and ran away.

     When Grady returned his eyes to Doug, his friend was lying on the sidewalk and holding his belly. A patch of blood was spreading on the front of his white shirt.   

     “Doug!” Grady shouted, and rushed to his side.

     He immediately saw the gunshot wound in his abdomen. The man from the doorway came up to Doug.

     Grady saw the fear in the baldheaded man’s brown eyes. “I’ll call 911,” the stranger shouted, and headed back inside the open doorway.

     “Shit, this hurts,” Doug whimpered as the blood from his shirt began to seep to the sidewalk.

     Grady put his arm under Doug’s shoulder and held him up from the cold cement. “Hold on, Doug. Help is coming.”

     Doug’s bloody hand grabbed ahold of Grady’s blue T-shirt collar. “I don’t want to die … not like this, not here.”

     Grady helplessly watched while the color ebbed from Doug’s face. His dark complexion was turning ash white, and the light in his eyes was quickly dimming.

     “You hold on, Doug,” Grady ordered.

     “Can you tell Beverly …?” His eyes closed and then popped open again, as if he were fighting to stay alert. “Tell her that I was thinking of her.” He winced and blinked his eyes. “This hurts, Grady. It really hurts.”

      Sirens erupted in the background. “You hear that, Doug? They’re coming. Don’t you stop fighting, they’re coming.”

     Doug’s blood began to pool around Grady’s blue jeans as he sat on the sidewalk, holding his friend up from the ground.

     “I can hear them,” Doug weakly voiced. He turned his eyes to Grady. His body relaxed in Grady’s arms and he seemed to calm a little. “Just like the cavalry.” Then, Doug went limp.

     “Doug?” Grady shouted, holding Doug’s motionless figure.

     
Please, God, no!

     Grady heard the sirens fast approaching. Within a minute, he could see the red lights coming down Royal Street. He tried to stay calm as a thousand regrets flooded his mind. The entire evening flew across his memory, and he yearned to find some logic as to why this had happened. He should have given Doug back his gun, he should have insisted they stick to the busy sidewalks of Bourbon Street, and if he would not have gone to Pat O’Brien’s to drink, Doug would not have walked home with him. Guilt, remorse, and terror seized Grady’s heart while the blood poured from Doug’s wound and his breathing became shallow. Grady feared that if he did not get help soon, he would never get the chance to tell Doug just how sorry he was for their being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Chapter
17

     The waiting area of the University Hospital Emergency Room was overflowing with people who were coughing, groaning, chatting, texting, and watching the early morning news on the television bolted into the wall next to the bright orange admitting desk.

     Grady was sitting in an orange chair with a bowl-shaped seat that was welded to a row of seven other chairs. Still wearing his bloodstained T-shirt and blue jeans, he anxiously awaited word on Doug’s status. When he had first entered the emergency room, the world outside of the glass doors had been cloaked in night, but trickles of sunlight were now sneaking their way across the drab, gray floor.

     He had replayed the entire incident in his head, desperate for some hint as to the identity of the mugger, and when things had gone terribly wrong.

     A pair of brown loafers came into focus in front of Grady’s chair. “Mr. Paulson?” 

     A short, fat man with bushy black eyebrows and sallow skin was standing over him.

     “Are you Grady Paulson?” he asked, checking a notepad in his hand.

     Grady stood from his chair and studied the man’s snug brown pants, protruding gut, and ketchup-stained yellow tie. “Yes, I’m Grady Paulson.”

     The man’s thick lips turned upward in a smile, making his small, hazel eyes disappear behind the round bags underneath. “I’m Detective Villere, NOPD. I need to ask you some questions about the shooting. You got a minute?”

     “Sure. Nobody has come out here and talked to me since Doug first arrived. That was hours ago and I’m still waiting for news.”

     The detective waved the notepad in his hand to the red double doors marked ER/Trauma Room. “From what I’ve been told, your friend was in real bad shape when he was brought in, and they had to take him up to surgery right away.”

     “Surgery?” Grady’s heart sank. “When did that happen?”

     “Sorry, Mr. Paulson, that’s all I know.”

     Grady searched the packed waiting area, figuring the sooner he got the detective out of his hair, the faster he could get back to Doug. “Where do you want to talk?”

     The detective crooked his finger at him. “Follow me.”

     Grady followed the heavyset man to a corner of the room with an unmarked orange door. The detective pushed the door open and hit a switch on the wall to his left.

     “Conference room,” he proclaimed, walking through the doorway.

     Grady noted the round table off to the side surrounded by heavy wooden chairs with brown upholstered seats. Despite the peaceful prints of ocean views on the walls, the buzzing fluorescent lights above made the room appear dingy and depressing.

     Detective Villere closed the door and went to the table. He waited for Grady to take a chair before he put his notepad down and had a seat across from him.

     Before he spoke, Detective Villere consulted his notepad. “I got some information from the officer who arrived at the scene and found you with the victim. There was also a Mr. Schneider at the scene. He called 911, is that right?”

     “The guy who walked out the door? I never got his name. He saw what happened, and after Doug was shot went and called for help.”

     “His name is Harold Schneider and he owns the building your friend was shot outside of,” Detective Villere explained. “There has been a rash of hold ups in the Quarter lately, and your description of the shooter matches several we’ve gotten from other victims.”

     “Are you sure?” Grady shook his head in disbelief. “The guy that held us up was just a kid, couldn’t have been more than sixteen. The way he was holding on to the gun made me think he had never done that before.”

     Detective Villere made a note on his pad with a pen that was slightly chewed at one end. “How was he holding the gun?”

     “He was shaking when he held it. He looked completely terrified.”

     “The officer who interviewed you at the scene says you got a good look at him. You gave a pretty detailed description. Do you think you could identify him in a line up?”

     “I think so. I mean, it was dark and he had a hood over his head, but I still got a good look at his face and his eyes.”

     “We’ll probably need you to come in to look over a line up later on.” He consulted his pad once more. “Now, I was told when Mr. Schneider opened his front door, your friend ….” He glanced down at his pad.

     “Doug Larson,” Grady inserted.

     “Mr. Larson jumped the suspect. Why did he do that? Were you two drinking prior to the hold up?”

     “I was, but Doug was sober. We were coming from Pat O’Brien’s, where he works. As for why he did it … I have no idea.” Grady combed his hand through his hair. “He told me to be cool and not try anything. I thought if we handed over our wallets, the kid would run off. I never expected Doug to jump him.”

     “The shooting happened during the struggle, correct?”

     Grady nodded. “Yes, that’s right.”

     “We collected the gun at the scene. It was reported stolen by a liquor store owner in the Quarter last week, during a robbery.”

     “Could it be the same kid?”

     Detective Villere shrugged. “Could be. Or it could be someone in his gang who gave him the gun, or in his family.”

     “His family?’

     “Oh, yeah.” Detective Villere rolled his eyes. “We get a lot of crime in this city, which should come as no surprise to you. New Orleans is a pretty dangerous town. Criminals here are born out of gangs, drugs, poverty, or a combination of all three. I’ve seen a mother stand next to her bullet-riddled sixteen-year-old son in an ER, take the cell phone from his dead body, and pass it on to her twelve-year-old son. Drugs can be a family affair down here, and sometimes that is the only income a family has. These kids are raised to believe they won’t live to see twenty-five. They become so numbed to killing, that after a while they’re like zombies, and kill anyone who crosses their path.”

     “I had no idea,” Grady muttered.

     “In case it was more than a simple robbery attempt, I need to know if Mr. Larson had any enemies that may have wanted him hurt or killed?”

     Grady sat very still for a moment, debating the necessity of telling the detective everything about Doug’s past with Matt Harrison. He knew if he said anything, Matt would know where it came from, but he also believed that if Matt would have wanted Doug out of the way, he would have done it by now.

     “No, I don’t believe Doug had any enemies,” Grady finally disclosed.

     “What about you? Is there anyone who would have wanted you out of the way?”

     “Me?”

     “Where do you work, Mr. Paulson?” 

     Grady sat back in his chair. “What has that got to do with the robbery?”

     “You told the officer at the scene that you were employed as a stripper at The Flesh Factory. Could this have been a hired hit man by a jealous husband or lover?”

     “No,” Grady barked. “I just dance there, nothing else.”

     “I want to make sure I cover every angle here. I know your club and the guy that runs it. Matt Harrison is friendly with a lot of the higher ups in the local mob. If he wants you gone, you’re gone.” Detective Villere sat back in his chair. “Now, do you want to tell me what you know about Harrison’s wife and Doug Larson?”

     Grady shook his head. “Well, if you already know about the two of them, why ask me?”

     “Did Mr. Larson tell you of any problems with Beverly Harrison or her husband lately?”

     “Only that Beverly was in the hospital recently for falling down the stairs. He blamed Matt and claimed she was covering up for him.”

     The detective dropped his eyes, checking his notebook. “Or she was covering up for one Colin Caffranelli, a dancer at your club, who turned up floating in a canal in City Park yesterday. He had been shot once in the back of the head.”

     Grady lowered his eyes to the table, trying to hide his shock from the detective.

     “Did you know Mr. Cafranelli?”

     Grady raised his eyes to the detective. “I knew him. I was told he was fired.”

     The detective’s small, hazel eyes coolly explored Grady’s face. “I’m not going to sit here and play games, Mr. Paulson. From what I have learned, you’re an upstanding guy who travels around the country making a living dancing in these clubs. You never get in trouble and have never been arrested. But this city is different from the others you’ve been in. Here, everyone is interconnected. When a man who is sleeping with a prominent nightclub owner’s wife gets killed, and then the next day another one gets shot in an apparent hold up, I’ve got to wonder if something else is going on.”

     “I’ve told you all I know,” Grady calmly attested.

     The detective sighed and then gleaned his notebook again. “You’re staying in the same house as Mr. Larson, correct?”

     “On Esplanade Avenue, yes.”

     “Al Wagner’s place, I know it well.”

     Grady frowned. “You do?”

     Detective Villere shrugged. “I’ve been there a few times. Not all of Ms. Wagner’s clients are as upstanding as yourself.”

     Grady smirked. “And not all cops are corrupt, right, Detective?”

     “Touché, Mr. Paulson.”

     Grady folded his arms over his chest, uncomfortable with the way the interview was beginning to feel more like an interrogation.

     “Do you have any contact information for Mr. Larson? Family, perhaps?” the detective persisted.

     Grady shook his head. “I got the impression he wasn’t very close with them. All I knew was that he was from Springfield, Missouri, and as for family there … I have no idea.”

     The detective nodded. “We’ve been in touch with Ms. Wagner already. She told us the same thing.”

     Grady thought of Al and what she was going through. He wished she was there with him. He wanted to hold her close and feel the warmth of her next to him.

     Detective Villere stood from his chair and reached into the back pocket of his pants. After pulling out a worn billfold, he removed a white business card and handed the card to Grady.

     “You can call me if you think of anything else. If anyone from Mr. Larson’s family happens to contact you, please have them give me a call.”

     Grady stood from the table, taking the business card. “Sure will, Detective.”

     “We have all your contact numbers in case we need to talk again.”

     “Do you really suspect Matt Harrison had something to do with this?” Grady pressed.

     The detective pensively let go a long breath, making his stout waistline bulge out slightly. “Honestly, no, but I had to ask. From what you described of the shooter, this sounds like a straight up robbery gone bad. Mafia types like Matt Harrison don’t hire young kids to pull the trigger for them. If it had been a hit, Mr. Paulson ….” The detective slowly grinned, making his small eyes disappear behind his pasty skin. “You wouldn’t be standing here, talking to me. Hit men don’t leave witnesses behind to testify against them.” He picked up his notepad from the table. “I’ll be in touch.”

     The round detective waddled to the conference room door. After he had stepped from the room, Grady’s body sagged with relief. He slumped back down in his chair, trying to digest all that he had been told.

     He put his elbows on the table and held his face in his hands.
How in the hell did everything turn to shit so quickly?

     He sat back and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, wanting to call Al, only to realize he did not know her cell phone number. In their short time together, he had forgotten to ask her for it. As he thought about their whirlwind romance, he came to grips with the fact there was a lot he did not know about her. Little things that lovers shared, they had not had the time to discuss, making Grady feel all the more ashamed of his behavior the night before. He should have been more patient with her, and understood, not belittled her fears.

     Standing from his chair, he was anxious to return to the waiting room, in case someone came looking for him with news on Doug. Just as he was about to open the conference room door, someone stepped inside.

     “Detective Villere told me you were in here,” Al softly said.

     She was wearing her jeans from the night before with a simple white T-shirt. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her eyes were red and slightly swollen.

     Without hesitation, Grady threw his arms around her and pulled her to him. “I wanted to call you, but I didn’t have your number.”

     She nodded and pulled back from him, eyeing his bloodstained clothes. “The police called me just as I was about to head to work this morning. They told me what happened and that they were looking for any information on Doug’s family. I got here as soon as I could.”

     “The detective told me he’s up in the operating room. That’s all I know. When I got here, they were asking me about his medical history, if he was allergic to anything, his blood type … hell, I didn’t even know his middle name.” Grady backed away from her and went to the table.