(II)
Detective Homer Heyman of the New Orleans Police Department stood outside Room
106 of the Stay-Awhile Motel on Airline Highway, waiting for the head of the
investigating unit of the Jefferson Parish Sheriff's Department to finish his
work. This was a Jefferson Parish matter, but Homer, a trim black man in a
conservative navy blue suit, had a role to play, too. After all, this tangled
mess evidently involved a Vietnamese stripper from Orleans Parish who reportedly
had been abducted by the three men who had been sharing the motel room for the
past few weeks.
The door to 106 was open, and Homer could see several sheriff's deputies and a
forensics expert milling about. He got a glimpse of one of the bodies, lying on
the floor. It was in pretty bad shape. The other was on the bed, a motel maid
had told him, but he hadn't yet seen it.
At last, the deputy in charge came out and wiped his face with a handkerchief.
He was a rumpled man with baggy eyes and a downturned mouth.
"Lieutenant Heyman, NOPD," said Homer.
"Dassin," said the other man. "Sgt. Jules Dassin."
"What you got in there?" Homer asked.
"Two white males, bludgeoned to death. Blood all over the fuckin' place. The TV
set ripped off of the wall stand. The guy who did this evidently hit one of the
victims with the set. Smashed his skull. Then the perp pulled the metal support
for the TV out of the wall and used that as a club on the other victim. He must
be one fuckin' strong son of a bitch. And a sick one, too. Both victims had
their dicks and balls ripped off. Matter of fact, their privates are missing
entirely. Not anywhere in the room."
"Jesus," said Homer. "And the girl? The maid told me the manager saw the men go
into the room with a young woman last night."
"Yeah," said Dassin. "That's what he told us, but there's no sign of her, and no
sign of the third guy, a big son of a bitch named Louis 'Loopy' Overton. From
North Carolina. One of the victims, Irv Moscow, was from North Carolina, too."
"And the other one?"
"Named Joe Joe Boudreaux. A coon-ass from around Opelousas. A record for a lot
of petty shit -- drunk and disorderly, drunk driving, resisting arrest, the
usual. But the two from North Carolina, Moscow and Overton, they've been in some
serious trouble. Long rap sheets, especially Overton's. Assault and battery,
rape, punching out an officer. Both of them were held for a while last year in a
murder case, but the charges were dropped. [See "The Girl Who Fell to Earth."]
The sheriff I talked to in North Carolina said they couldn't find the corpse.
Strange case. A head but no body."
"So what do you think happened here?" Homer asked.
"Well, I see it this way. This guy Overton goes out for a pizza -- the manager
says he saw him drive off. Then he comes back and his buddies are poking this
broad. He gets pissed that they started the party without him. A fight ensues.
He kills his buddies, grabs the girl and heads out. We've got a make and license
on the truck. It shouldn't take long to find them. I just hope he hasn't had
time to finish off the girl."
"You got a name on her?"
"Yeah. Elsie Genisse. The truck got stopped yesterday by a deputy in St.
Cannabis Parish. She was in the cab with two men, evidently Overton and Moscow.
Boudreaux and an unidentified, Mexican-looking guy were in back. The deputy asks
her if she's okay, if she wants to stay with these guys, and she says sure. In
fact, the deputy said she told him they were going to hump her. Just like that,
they were going to hump her. Damnedest thing I ever heard."
"Where'd they find her?"
"Her car had broken down. Some kind of little sports car. British, I think.
Anyway, the deputy returns to the car after he stops the pickup truck. Her purse
is in it. That's how he finds out her name. Also finds out she lives in Houston.
Twenty-two years old. He makes some calls, finds out she graduated from Tulane.
Active in amateur theater and opera. And into those Japanese martial arts. Kung
fu and all that shit."
"What about the Vietnamese girl?" Homer asked.
"Well, I don't have much, but listen to this. The manager first says he never
saw any Vietnamese girl. Then he says maybe they had her in the room night
before last, but he can't remember for sure. Then he remembers for sure. She
left with them yesterday morning. He saw them leave. So I ask him if there was
anything unusual, and he says no. Then he says, well, maybe one thing -- her
hands were tied behind her back when they put her into the truck. Think of that.
The bastard sees these punks drive off with this girl, and her hands are tied,
and he doesn't do a goddamn thing. What's this fuckin' world coming to?"
"And that's it? He didn't see her again?"
"That's it. When they came back yesterday evening, it was three guys, not four,
and this Elsie Genisse, not the Vietnamese girl. You think we'll find either one
of these women alive?"
"No," said Homer. "I've got a bad feeling about this one. I think those girls
are gone for good."
"Yeah, you're probably right. Now, I been giving you all I know. How about you
telling me something?"
"Fair enough," said Homer. "All I've got is a first name for the Vietnamese
girl. Lulu. She had been living the last few weeks in the Quarter with two other
women. I talked with them. They said they didn't know Lulu's last name. Never
asked, they said. Anyway, they were all dancers at a club called the Voodoo
Doll. The two I talked with got roughed up the other night. Two men -- I guess
they were two of the three we're dealing with now -- they broke into the
apartment, punched out one of the women and shot the other in the leg. Then they
grabbed this Lulu and scrammed."
A photographic flash went off inside Room 106.
"Should make quite an album," Dassin said.
"Yeah," said Homer. "Our gals Lulu and Elsie must be looking awful pretty by
now, too." He handed Dassin a card and said, "Keep in touch."
"Okay," said Dassin. "I'll be calling you. By the way, we found a videotape in
the room. It had a label that just said 'Gators.' We're going to the manager's
office. He's got a VCR. Want to watch?"
"No," said Homer. "I got to get back into town. It's probably just an old
Florida football game. Didn't they play Carolina in a bowl a few years ago?"
"Dunno," said Dassin. "Football ain't my sport. I'm into huntin' and fishin'. In
a few years, I'm goin' to retire and hunt and fish. I'm sick of this shit."
"Hunting and fishing, huh?" said Homer. "Where you can be the predator for a
change, instead of cleaning up messes like this. I can dig it."
He walked back to his car whistling a jazzy tune. He didn't want to hunt and
fish. He wanted to win the lottery and spend his days listening to Miles Davis
and his nights playing the trumpet at the Owl and the Pussy Cat. He wanted to
find a new wife. Wine, woman and song. Was it so much to ask for?
***
Loopy was behind the wheel, but it would be a stretch to say he was driving. His
right eye was swollen shut, and the left was filled with tears from the pain in
his leg. He could hardly see the road in front of him, so he was light on the
accelerator. It was a two-lane country road, and he wanted to make damn sure he
didn't have an accident.
Next to him, Elsie was singing softly, some Italian, operatic kind of song, as
best he could tell. He glanced over at her and could see, through his tears,
that she was smiling to herself.
The bitch.
She wore one of his sweatshirts to cover her bloodied tank top. The shirt was
like an oversize bathrobe on her. He couldn't believe someone so small had
beaten the shit out of him. No one had beaten him up since he was in the third
grade -- the first time. He was six-foot-six and weighed 270 pounds. This woman
-- if she that's what she really was -- weighed half that, at most. Yet, when he
had returned to the motel room the night before, she had humiliated him. First
she had hit him in the knee with a big chunk of metal when he came through the
door, then she had slammed him into the wall. He had fallen onto something wet.
It was the bloody body of either Irv or Joe Joe, he couldn't tell which. He
looked up just in time to take a punch in the eye. That was followed by a kick
in the side that knocked the breath out of him.
The fight continued to be pretty lopsided. He managed to land a good, solid
right to the side of her head, and it slowed her for a moment. But she recovered
quickly and was again on top of him, clawing his face and banging his head on
the floor. He had never encountered anyone, man or woman, so strong. Her only
disadvantage was her weight. She could punch and twist and use all kinds of
martial arts moves, but she was still only 130 pounds.
Thank God. He shuddered to think what would have happened to him if she were his
size.
So now he was her chauffeur.
"We must go to Arkansas," she had said, after he had regained his senses.
"Why Arkansas?" he had asked, lying on his back on the floor with her looking
down at him.
"There are life forms there that I am interested in," she had said. "Razorbacks.
I want to see what a razorback looks like. Besides, one of your presidents is
from Arkansas."
"One of MY presidents. What about your president? Where the fuck are you from?"
"Not from around here," she had said. "Not from anywhere around here."
***
So he was on some godforsaken back road in Louisiana, a state he wished he had
never heard of, driving some weird creature in the form of a very hot babe, a
babe who could probably beat the shit out of a pool hall full of drunken
rednecks, without even using a cue stick.
Of all the rotten goddam luck.
"I like sex," Elsie said, matter-of-factly. "I like blow jobs and fucking. I
didn't think I'd like it so much, but I do."
"Yeah, well, I'm sure every man in America is happy to hear that," said Loopy.
"But I'm not sure they'll be happy to hear what comes after. What do girls in
your galaxy do after mating -- eat the males like some kind of goddamn black
widows?"
Elsie didn't answer right away. Finally, she said, "Black widows? Spiders. Yes,
and praying mantises. Yes, now I see." What the Visitor saw was Elsie's sketchy
education in the natural sciences, mostly composed of bits and pieces of
programs on the Discovery Channel.
Loopy swerved to miss a sickly looking brown and white dog that had strayed into
the road.
"You change course to avoid such creatures?" Elsie asked.
"Sure," said Loopy, with the wounded tone of one offended. "Do you think we'd
kill a dog if we could avoid it?"
"But each other -- you kill each other?"
"Yeah, I guess so. But usually for good reason, like in a war or in self-defense
or if they totally piss you off. We don't just kill for no reason at all, like
you did to Irv and Joe Joe."
"Ah, but I had a reason," said Elsie. "The one you call Joe Joe pissed me off.
He struck me, twice."
Loopy was quiet for a while. Then he said, "So you were telling the truth when
you said you killed Carlos?"
"Yes, I killed him too. It was quite easy."
"And me, why didn't you kill me?"
"I need someone to drive me. And to fuck me. You did the best job fucking."
"Thanks," said Loopy grimly. "Usually Big Tom has gotten me into trouble. Looks
like this time he saved my life."
"Do all males of your species name their sex organs?" asked Elsie.
"Yeah, I guess so. I don't know for sure. Do women name their pussies? Shit, you
wouldn't know. You're not from around here, and you're probably not even a
woman."
They drove on in silence. Loopy felt guilty, an unusual sentiment for him. He
had lied when he told Elsie that humans killed only for good reason. He had
broken the neck of the bitch that Jake had shot out of the sky back in Carolina,
and he had been an enthusiastic participant in turning Lulu into a gator feast.
Neither one had done anything to piss him off; he just enjoyed killing the one
and watching the other get eaten. But he couldn't tell Elsie that. She might get
ideas. Hell, she might turn him into a meal.
[To be continued.]
