But out of the horror, the queer community of New Orleans was born. The reaction of city and state officials—or their lack of reaction—made people angry. People started coming out. Activism began in an indolent city where most people couldn’t be bothered to get involved. Within a few years, New Orleans became a haven of tolerance for gays and lesbians throughout the South. And although homophobia was never completely eradicated, the city no longer tolerated it in an official capacity. New Orleans was one of the first cities in the country to recognize gay couples and offer partner benefits. And despite the heavily conservative beliefs of the rest of the state, New Orleans refused to give in. New Orleans welcomed gay tourism, encouraged gay businesses, and was proud of its open-minded reputation. Sure, every once in a while there might be a gay bashing, but it wasn’t locals committing hate crimes—there’s a live and let live mentality in the city. Those kinds of crimes were committed by homophobic thugs coming in from one of the outer parishes around the city. You know, the dopes who sit around drinking beer and then go hunting gays for sport, as if we were deer or ducks, not human beings.
“Oh my God,” I said in response to Blaine, lighting another cigarette. “Michael Mercereau could easily have been one of the unidentified bodies.” Despite the slight fog of the Xanax, my mind raced ahead. “Obviously, the Verlaines would have never claimed the body—let alone even admitted there was a possibility he could be there. And so Michael just vanished…”
“That’s a possibility,” Blaine said with a shudder, and ran a hand through his curls.
“I wonder…” Possibilities were whirling around in my head. “Maybe Percy hired someone to get rid of Michael, and…”
“But don’t you think that’s a bit of overkill? Are you thinking that Percy Verlaine hired an arsonist and killed all those people to get at his son-in-law? I mean, Percy’s a mean old bastard, but—”
“And what guarantee did he have that Michael would even be there that afternoon?” Venus finished for him. “No, Chanse, I don’t believe it. I can believe Michael Mercereau was one of the unidentified victims, but I don’t believe Percy Verlaine was behind the fire.” She shook her head. “It’s possible, of course, but it’s really a bit of a reach. You think the killer just walked around for weeks waiting for a chance, carrying a Molotov cocktail with him, in case Mercereau went into that bar? That doesn’t work for me…it seems like a really sloppy way for a hired killer to work. It would be much more likely he’d have shot Mercereau and dumped the body somewhere. And besides, there’s no physical evidence, for one thing—and it would be pretty damned hard to find any after all this time. And I seriously doubt that Percy would have his own grandchildren knocked off on the off chance that you’d find out their father died in that fire. You might have been able to prove Mercereau was one of the unidentified victims, but no offense, babe, but you’d never be able to connect Percy Verlaine to the arson.”
Put that way, my theory went down in flames. But I grasped at a straw. “Then why did they lock Catherine Hollis away all these years?”
“Chanse.” Venus patted my leg. “Maybe she is mentally unbalanced.”
There was nothing to say to that. All I had was my gut feeling, and I didn’t have a medical degree. Just because she seemed rational and in control to me didn’t mean she was.
*
The lab techs pulled up a few moments later, ending the conversation. It took them about an hour to photograph everything, dust for prints, and do all the things they had to do—which meant making a big mess even bigger. When they finally finished, both Venus and Blaine offered to help me clean up. I turned down the offer—I hate having other people go through my stuff—as well as an offer for a place to spend the night. I got them to help me push my loveseat over to block the door, and then sent them home. I put the rest of the furniture back where it belonged, picked up all the paper and made stacks on my desk, and wiped down every surface before giving in to exhaustion and going to bed.
I didn’t sleep well, not that I expected to. I kept waking up throughout the night, and never really went into a deep sleep. I tossed and turned, thinking maybe that if I found a really comfortable position I’d finally lose myself in sleep. It never happened. It seemed like I was looking at the clock every five minutes, and every so often I’d hear a noise in the front of the house that would make me sit bolt upright in bed, my ears cocked, listening. It was a mistake not to stay over at Blaine’s. My house had already been violated once, and without the ability to lock the front door, I didn’t feel safe. And considering how much death was hovering over this investigation, even having my gun on the nightstand didn’t make me feel safer.
Finally, at seven in the morning I gave up on sleep and got out of bed. I took a shower, drank some coffee, and went into the living room and started reorganizing all my files.
The Xanax had worn off during the night, but I didn’t feel the need to take another. I was a little foggy from lack of sleep and probably a residual drug hangover, so it was nice to have something to keep my mind occupied and off other things. Filing requires some focus and concentration, but not a great degree of analytical thinking. Well, that was the theory at least. I started sorting papers and refiling them into the folders they originally came from, and once everything was in its proper file, I organized each file before putting it back into the cabinet.
Nothing was missing, which I didn’t understand. Everything I had in my file for Iris was still there. What the hell had they been looking for?
What nerve had my investigation touched?
Venus had made a pretty convincing argument that Percy Verlaine had not been behind the Upstairs Lounge fire. I had no evidence—only a gut feeling based on nothing more than the fact that Catherine was certain the day Michael disappeared was also the day of the fire. It was just hard for me to believe a gay man could disappear so completely off the face of the earth on that very day and not have the two events be connected. Two plus two equals four. But I also had no proof that any of the Verlaines had known that Michael was even gay—other than Margot. Did it stand to reason that Margot would have confided the truth about her husband to her father—a man who obviously did not approve of her marriage? Venus was probably right; I was trying to connect Percy Verlaine to the fire because I didn’t like the wretched old homophobic bastard. And while it stood to reason Michael was one of the unidentified victims, it was unlikely I’d ever be able to prove it. And that was that.
But I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Call it instinct, gut feeling, whatever—I was certain I was right. Catherine Hollis was the key. I was also positive if I could just get her to open up to me, she’d be able to tell me the truth. She’d been locked up in that mental hospital for over thirty years— Venus was right, she wouldn’t make a credible witness unless I could somehow prove she had never belonged there, which again would be impossible. Surely, though, if there truly wasn’t anything wrong with her, why would they lock her up? It might have been embarrassing to the family to admit that Michael had been gay, but if anything, Margot would have been seen herself as a victim of a fortune hunter who’d lied to her.
Unless somehow Catherine knew Percy was behind the fire.
But that would be next to impossible to prove. She was under lock and key and watched; she certainly hadn’t been willing to tell me any of her secrets. Why would she tell anyone else?
*
I finished reorganizing the files and had just put the last one back into the cabinet when there was a knock on my front door. “Hang on a minute,” I shouted, “who’s there?”
“It’s me, Allen.”
I muscled the couch away from the front door. I glanced through the blinds, and opened the door.
“Hey.” Allen smiled weakly at me. He looked like he’d slept about as well as I had. He looked around. “Do you always keep your couch in front of the door?”
“I had a break-in yesterday. I was just straightening up. Whoever did it took out my deadbolt.” I shrugged. “So I put the couch there.”
“Oh man, that sucks.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Have a seat. You want anything to drink? I can make coffee or something.”
He plopped down on the couch, spreading his legs wide. “No, if I drink any more coffee I’ll turn into Juan Valdez. Thanks, though.”
An awkward silence fell over both of us. I didn’t know what to say to him. As the silence lengthened, I finally said, “Are you okay?”
“No.” He gave me a weak grin. “No, I’m not okay. I talked to Greg last night—oh, don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about the other night. No, Greg called to tell me that he’d made up his mind. He’s moving the business to Atlanta permanently.”
“I’m sorry,” I replied, feeling like an idiot. “Are you going to move?”
“I told Greg my business—and my life—were here, so no, I am not moving to Atlanta.” He buried his face in his hands. “We pretty much decided to, um, end things between us. So much for eighteen years together.”
I put my hand on his shoulder, and he took it with one of his. “Don’t worry,” he went on with a slight laugh. “I’m not going to start blubbering or anything like that. I mean, the truth is our relationship was pretty much over for a while now, and neither one of us wanted to admit it, you know what I mean? It was comfortable, but we weren’t getting what we needed from each other anymore.”
“Where are you going to live?”
“Well, Greg can’t sell the house—it’s a living trust. And he’d already talked to his sister; she doesn’t want it either. So, I get to keep living there.”
“That’s pretty nice of him.”
“He’s not an asshole, Chanse,” he replied sharply. “He’s not going to throw me out and leave me without a place to live.”
“I didn’t—”
“I’m sorry.” He interrupted me with a sigh. “I know you didn’t. I’m a little off this morning—it’s a bit much to take.”
“It’s okay.”
“I didn’t sleep well… Of course, with this new storm out there, it’s no wonder.” He ran his hands through his hair. “Is this fucking season ever going to end?”
I felt a knot forming in my stomach. “There’s another storm out there?”
He nodded. “Yeah, they’re saying it could be Katrina-sized. It’s going to turn into a hurricane in a day or two—Wilma. And she’s going to head into the Gulf most likely.”
“It won’t come here.” I said, my hands starting to tremble. Jesus fucking Christ. The levees were only patched, not repaired—and there was no way the patch job would hold if another major storm came onto the lake or, God forbid, up the river and overtopped those levees. If that happened, that would be it. The 10 percent of the city that didn’t flood was on the high ground along the river. If the river levees went— that would be it for New Orleans. “It can’t come here.”
“Yeah, well.” He stood up, wiping his palms on his knees. “I guess I’ll head back to the gym. I just wanted to stop by and let you know—about me and Greg.” He awkwardly reached out his hand. “I also wanted to let you know that I—um, I don’t have any expectations of anything from you. We can just go back to being friends, if that’s okay with you.”
I looked at him, then at his outstretched hand. His lower lip was quivering, just a bit, and his eyes were glistening. He looked like he was holding himself together with baling wire and duct tape. I stepped close to him and gave him a big hug. He stiffened for a moment, and then he put his arms around me and started to cry.
Sometimes it’s a good thing when you can’t think of anything to say. I just stood there and held him while his body shuddered with his sobs and his grief. I felt my own eyes starting to fill, as I thought about everything I too had lost over the last year. Even though I knew in my gut the city would recover, that New Orleans would again be the city it once was, it was hard sometimes when faced with the everyday horror that life in the city had become. And even if this Wilma went somewhere else, if the city continued to rebuild and find its way back to its former self, Paul was still gone.
After a few minutes, Allen pulled away from me and wiped at his face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to break down.”
I wiped at my own face and laughed. “Dude, it’s okay.”
“Well, thanks.” He stroked my arm. “Take it easy, okay?”
“Can I call you later?”
“Yeah.” He smiled at me. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
He walked out of the apartment and I watched him get into his car and drive away.
*
I went back inside and was just about to get on my computer and do a search for information on the Upstairs Lounge fire when my cell phone rang.
“Chanse!” It was Barbara. “I just heard. Are you all right, dear? Did they take anything?”
“I’m fine. And no, they didn’t steal anything. I don’t know what they were looking for.”
“Well, I have a locksmith coming over to put in a new deadbolt. He should be there in about an hour or so. But I have some good news for you.”
“I could use some.”
“I tracked down Eric Valmont.” She laughed.
“Who?”
“Chanse, really. You need to stop smoking pot. Your memory is atrocious. He was a friend of Michael’s, remember? I told you about him…he was an art critic.”
“Oh. Sorry about that.”