The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels (19 page)

Distantly blows are falling, something about freedom and government, but he is strolling in the garden with a teacher he once had, discussing the condition of humanity, which
keeps getting mixed up somehow with homonymity, such that each time his teacher issues a new lament it comes out like slapped laughter. He is about to remark on the generous swish and snap of a
morning glory that has sprung up in their path as though inspired (“Paradox, too, has its techniques,” his teacher is saying, “and so on . . .”), when it turns out to be a
woman he once knew on the civil surface.

“What?
WHAT?!
” But she only wants him to change his position, or perhaps his condition (“You see!” remarks his teacher sagely, unbuckling his belt,
“it’s like a kind of callipygomancy, speaking loosely – am I being unfair?”), he’s not sure, but anyway it doesn’t matter, for what she really wants is to get
him out of the sheets he’s wrapped in, turn him over (he seems to have imbibed an unhealthy kind of dampness), and give him a lecture (she says “elixir”) on method and fairies,
two dew-bejeweled habits you can roast chestnuts over. What more, really, does he want of her? (Perhaps his teacher asks him this, buzzing in and out of his ear like the sweet breath of solemnity:
whirr-
SMACK!
) His arm is rising and falling through great elastic spaces as though striving for something fundamental like a forgotten dream or lost drawers.

“I – I’m sorry, sir!” Is she testing him, perched there on his stout engine of duty like a cooked bird with the lingering bucket of night in her beak (see how it opens,
closes, opens), or is it only a dimpled fever of the mind? He doesn’t know, is almost afraid to ask.

“Something about a higher end,” he explains hoarsely, taking rueful refuge, “or hired end perhaps, and boiled flowers, hard parts – and another thing, what’s left
of it . . .” She screams. The garden groans, quivers, starts, its groves radiant and throbbing. His teacher, no longer threatening, has withdrawn discreetly to a far corner with diagonal
creases, where he is turning what lilacs remain into roses with his rumpled bull’s pizzle: it’s almost an act of magic! Still his arm rises and falls, rises and falls, that broad part
of Mother Nature destined for such inventions dancing and bobbing soft and easy under the indulgent sun: “It’s a beautiful day!”

“What?
WHAT?!
An answering back to a reproof?” he inquires gratefully, taunting her with that civility and kindness due to an inferior, as – hiss-
WHAP!
–
flicking lint off one shoulder and smoothing the ends of his moustache with involuntary vertical and horizontal motions, he floats helplessly backwards (“Thank you, sir!”), twitching
amicably yet authoritatively like a damp towel, down a bottomless hole, relieving himself noisily: “
Perhaps today then . . . at last!
”

LAIR OF THE RED WITCH

O’Neil De Noux

It’s always a good day when the client shows up.

On this bright, New Orleans autumn morning, my newest client opens the smoky-glass door of my office, peeks in and says, “Are you Mr Caye?”

“Come in.” I stand and wave her forward. Leaning my hands on my desk, I watch Mrs Truly Fortenberry cautiously step in. A big woman, Truly has mousy brown hair worn under one of
those turban hats, the kind Ann Sheridan made popular during the war. She wears a full brown skirt with a matching vest over a white blouse.

A typical-looking 1948 housewife, Truly glances around my office, at my tired sofa, at the hardwood floor in need of waxing, at the high ceiling with its water marks. She looks at the row of
windows facing Barracks Street. With the Venetian blinds open, the oaks and magnolias of Cabrini Playground give this section of the lower French Quarter a country feel in the middle of town.

Truly clears her throat, takes another step in and says, “I took the liberty of bringing a friend.” Turning, she waves at the shadow I see through the smoky-glass. “Uh,”
Truly says, stepping aside, “this is Diane Redfearn. My friend and neighbor.”

As the second woman steps in, Truly adds, “She wants to hire you, too.”

Diane Redfearn moves around Truly, stops and bats a pair of large brown eyes at me. Her blonde hair up in a bun, she wears a powder blue suit dress with sloping shoulders and a curving
waistline. I had ogled a model in that same outfit, an upcoming ’49 fashion. It was a D.H. Holmes ad in yesterday afternoon’s
Item
. I like ogling fashion models. So sue me.

Diane, a long, cool blonde, makes the model in the paper look like a chubby, over-fed boy. She follows Truly across my wide office to the matching wing chairs in front of my desk (I bought the
chairs at a furniture auction on Magazine Street. When was that, three years ago?). Diane slinks into the chair on the left and crosses her legs.

Truly sits in the other chair, filling the seat with her broad hips. I sit in my high-back captain’s chair.

“Any problem finding the place?” I ask as I notice the bevy of diamonds, two rubies and an emerald dotting their fingers.

“Oh no. Your directions were perfect.” Truly blinks her deep set eyes at me and leans forward. “I told Diane how nice you were on the phone, Mr Caye. And since she’s in a
similar position, I convinced her to come along.”

Diane bats her eyes at me.

“Lucien,” I tell them. “My first name’s Lucien.”

“Oh.” Truly leans back and digs something out of her oversized purse. She places a five-by-seven-inch photo on my desk. “This is my husband.”

I have to stand to reach the picture.

Diane opens her purse and pulls out a photo and leans forward, uncrossing her legs. Her breasts push nicely against the front of her dress. I smile and take the picture. She leans back and
recrosses her legs.

I catch a whiff of expensive perfume. Nice. Very nice.

Sitting back, I look at Truly’s picture first. It’s a studio shot with Truly standing next to a mohair chair where a man sits. His hands in his lap and his legs crossed, the man has
a Boston Blackie pencil-thin moustache and a goofy look on his wide face. His dark hair lies thick and curly on an oversized head.

We had a guy like that in our outfit back in Italy. Head too big for his helmet, so he never wore it. Never got hurt either. Just a big jolly fella: he even came to see me in the hospital after
that damn German sniper winged me back in ’44. Monte Cassino. But that’s another story.

Diane Redfearn’s husband is another sort completely. He’s alone in his photo, posing as he looks to his right, a cigarette in his raised right hand. He looks like Ronald Coleman,
without the moustache, a distinguished-looking gentleman wearing a cravat and what has to be a silk shirt. I hate cravats.

I put the photos down and pick up my fountain pen, holding my hand over my note pad. “So, what can I do for you ladies?”

Truly clears her throat and says, “Our husbands have left us. Mine two weeks ago. Diane’s last week.”

God, I hate domestic cases. But with the state of my bank account, I can’t afford to be choosy.

Truly looks at me as if I’m supposed to say something. Diane’s brown eyes remind me of a sad puppy dog.

“So, Mrs Redfearn. What can you tell me about your husband, besides he’s blind?”

The women look at one another momentarily before Diane tells me her husband isn’t blind.

Lord help me.

Truly clears her throat again and says, “They left us after visiting the red witch.”

It’s my turn to clear my throat.

“The red what?”

“The red witch.” Truly points to my windows. “You can see her place from here. She’s your neighbor.”

I look out the windows for a moment before reaching over to turn on the small, black revolving fan that sits on the corner of my desk. The air feels good on my freshly shaved face.

“Um,” I say as intelligently as I can.

They both speak.

“She always wears red,” Truly says.

“She’s not really a witch,” Diane says.

Truly turns to her friend. “We don’t know that. She calls herself a witch.”

They both look at me and Truly says, “We want to hire you to . . .”

“Investigate this woman.” Diane completes the sentence and brushes a loose strand of hair away from her eyes. She blows at it when it falls back, her lips pursed in a nice red kiss.
I try not to stare, but she’s hard to look away from. Thin and buxomy and married . . . my kinda woman.

“We tried talking to the police,” Truly says. “My uncle knows someone downtown.”

I nod as I pull my gaze from Diane’s lips.

“They sent someone to talk to the red witch’s neighbors,” Truly adds.

“But no one seems to know much about her,” Diane says.

“Except cats and dogs have disappeared.”

“Cats and dogs?” I put my pen down.

Both women nod. The strand of hair falls across Diane’s eyes again. If I could only reach it.

I pick up my pen and ask, “When do your husbands visit her?”

“Oh,” Truly bounces in her seat. “They don’t any more. My husband’s in Cleveland.”

I look at Diane, who tells me her husband is in Mexico.

“They moved out
after
visiting the red witch,” Diane explains.

“We want you to find out what she told them,” Truly says.

Diane looks down at her lap. “We want to know what happened . . .”

“When they visited this . . . sorceress.”

I stand and move to the windows and open one. A nice breeze floats in, bringing the scent of freshly cut grass. I spot a city worker pushing a mower across Cabrini Playground. Shiftless, his
brown skin shimmers with sweat under the bright sun.

“Where does she live?”

Truly clamors over and points up Barracks Street across the corner of the playground to a row of buildings on the lake side of Burgundy Street. Her elbow brushing mine, her perfume isn’t
the scent I’d caught earlier.

“See that second cottage from the end? The one painted yellow?”

I nod.

“That’s the place. Her cauldron.”

Cauldron? Isn’t that some sort of kettle? I don’t ask. I turn around and Diane is standing.

Truly notices and hurries back to pick up her purse. I move back to my desk.

“There’s nothing more we can add,” Truly says as she pulls a white envelope out of her purse and hands it to me. “If you need more money, just let me know.”

I place the envelope on the desk and shake Truly’s hand. It’s sweaty. Diane’s hand quivers when we touch and she smiles softly before pulling it back.

She brushes the loose strand of hair from her eyes again. “You’ll let us know as soon as you can?”

“Absolutely.” I reach for my pen and paper. “I have your number, Mrs Fortenberry, but . . .”

“Both numbers are in the envelope,” Truly says as both women move quickly to the door and leave without looking back. The door closes and I stretch and yawn, then pick up the
envelope. Inside, an ivory-colored sheet of paper is wrapped around a C-note. Ben Franklin never looked as good. On the paper are their names, and phone numbers: Fortenberry
Chestnut
-0719;
Redfearn
Chestnut
-0729. Cozy.

The electric wall clock reads ten-fifteen.

The red witch should be up, even on a Saturday.

I reach into my desk drawer and pull out my snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson, slipping it into its tan leather holster on my right hip. I pick up Fortenberry’s and Redfearn’s
pictures, my pen and pad and tuck them into my tan suit coat, which I don on my way out.

Stepping into the morning sunshine, I wait for my eyes to adjust. I never wear hats. They mess up my hair.

The warm autumn breeze feels almost cool, flowing through my damp hair. It’s wavy brown and in dire need of a haircut. I’m thirty, six feet tall and have standard-issue Mediterranean
brown eyes. I’m half-French and half-Spanish – old blood, pre-American occupation blood. No aristocracy, however. Both sides of my family have been laborers forever, even after
emigrating to Louisiana long before Washington and Jefferson started their little revolution.

Moving under the shade of the balcony, I stop next to one of the black, wrought iron railings that support the second story balcony running the length of the building – I rent the
apartment above my office – I check my pre-war 1940 DeSoto parked against the kerb. A trail of cat prints dot the hood, reminding me the car needs a good washing. Gray, the DeSoto provides
good cover on surveillances and hides most of the dirt, until a cat strolls across it.

I cross Barracks Street and walk next to the low brick wall, with its own black wrought iron railing, that surrounds the playground. The lower French Quarter has certainly seen better days,
before everyone around here started speaking harsh Yankee English.

Abutting the sidewalk, the houses across the street are connected by party walls. Masonry plastered over brick and cypress, and painted in muted pastels, the buildings look tired and
time-worn.

Rounding the corner, I look at the row of Creole cottages lining Burgundy Street. The second one, painted yellow, is a typical one-story brick cottage with a roofed dormer. In red, the numbers
1233 are prominent on the left cypress post that supports the gingerbread overhang above the small front gallery.

I take the three brick steps up to the small gallery and spot another sign, this one hand painted in black letters next to the bright red door,
SORCERESS EROS
, the sign
reads,
LOVE SORCERESS
.

“Yeah.” I chuckle as I ring the doorbell. “Right.”

I ring it a second time and the door opens.

She puts a hand up on the door frame and says, “Yes?” Her light green eyes stare at me so directly, it’s almost startling. Women don’t usually stare like that, unless
they’re a different sort. And she’s clearly not.

In her early twenties, she has a perfectly symmetrical face with a small, pointed chin and cupie-doll lips, painted a deep red. Her straight hair is long and dark brown, parted in the center.
She’s a looker, all right, even if she wasn’t wearing a tight, blood red dress and matching heels.

“Yes?” She repeats as I look back up at her big eyes.