The Devil Always Collects Page 3

  The TV came to life long before I did and blared, “The tiny town of Bokoshe, Oklahoma, population 500, has had enough of the pollution that residents blame on power plants and fracking waste. Now, these citizens have filed a class-action suit against the companies they think are responsible.”

  I pushed the button on my Keurig v-cup coffee maker a second time, in a half-drunk, half-hungover robotic stab as I had done far too many times before. The caffeine infusion had begun the process of reviving me. I just needed more. I loved the sound that Keurig made and soon I was sipping my second cup.

  “In other news, authorities believe that the recent discovery of another body is the work of the serial killer dubbed the Quarter Killer. The half-clothed body of a female believed to be in her late twenties was discovered stuffed into a trash collection bin. Authorities believe the murder is connected to the string of killings plaguing New Orleans for the last five years.” “Today’s weather....Blah, blah, blah.” I tuned out the TV.

  Who wanted to hear about pollution, serial killers and bad weather? The voices faded and my mind focused on how the hell I would get through the day. Good ole caffeine was kicking in and making me feel better. Should I be feeling good right now? A serial killer loose in New Orleans, and I come home with a stranger from a bar? Good one, Alex. I called myself Alex. Everybody back home in Indiana called me Alex. Not here in New Orleans. I’m Alexandra except to Sarah. She loved to call me Alex. Every time she said it, my heart got that comforting feeling you can only get by sitting down to a home-cooked meal at your grandma’s kitchen table. In New Orleans I was Alexandra, the woman who was independent, drank and picked up strangers in bars. Oh shit. What would my mother think? My mother’s Midwestern values had been molded from the farm community she grew up in, that I grew up in and my all of my family as far back as I remembered grew up in. Those outdated farm values were what made me flee Indiana. Too boring. My mother had gone on ahead to heaven. I liked to think she watched over me. I hope she wasn’t watching last night. If she was, I’ll be in my room tonight without supper.

  Old-fashioned values and habits aren’t outdated if you listened to Zach. They kept us connected to the earth and were as real as you could get. I have time, I think, if I hurry, to go to the Cafe and get beignets. I’ll buy some for the office to surprise them. That way I can eat comfort food and get some Zach comfort talk too.

  Coffee downed, clothes thrown on, it’s off I went to the Cafe Du Monde. I purchased my beignets and cafe au lait and sat myself at a table close to the street. Right on cue Zach, with his blonde curly hair a bit tussled, spotted me and plopped down at my table. His shift had just ended and he cheerily, “Good morninged” me. I responded, feigning energy, clinging to my caffeine-laden life support system.

  “Good Morning and Happy Friday,” he said. “Off to work are you? Late night was it?” he asked.

  Even though I knew I was busted, I said, “Not really, just a little tired. Stress levels elevated with handling this Bayou thing at work.””Yep, I read about it. Morning paper said it wasn’t that bad and wasn’t their fault. How can they write that bullshit? Money bags Broussard bought his way out of another one.”

  “Really,” I said as I devoured my beignet. I played dumb. Zach knew our public relations firm handled Bayou Oil’s business. He didn’t know that I worked on the account. Worked on the account? Hell, I was responsible for the damn account. Sarah assigned it to me shortly after I joined the firm. She brought the account when she joined the Jenkins firm years ago after she left the newspaper business. I don’t know what her connection to Broussard was because she never talked about him—or any of her personal business as far as that went. She kept her world very private. I learned about her marriages from office gossip. I didn’t care. I loved her. I was flattered that she took me under her wing and trusted me with such an important account.

  “Did you decide whether you can go to the parade with me?” Zach asked, reminding me that he’d asked me to go to the Rex parade with him.

  “Don’t know yet,” I answered. What a lie. I knew I wasn’t going with him. “I’ve got to get to work. Gotta go.” I gulped down my last swallow of cafe au lait, grabbed my beignets and sped off to work.

  I hopped in my car and began the short journey to my office. I thought: why does he like me so much? He doesn’t smoke, eats healthy, works out, barely drinks and has a deep commitment to environmental matters. I do all of the wrong things. I eat crap, drink till I’m - I paused – am like this and I protect polluters. I’m a mess. Protect polluters? Do I really? I don’t think so. I just put the best face possible on the facts as they existed. That’s my job, and I’m good at my job. That’s why Sarah gave me the Bayou Oil account. My cloudy mind was working overtime trying to pierce the haze of alcohol and reassure myself that my life and my work were meaningful. Mercifully, I arrived at work and didn’t have to listen to my guilty thoughts anymore.

  I brought the beignets in the kitchen, and Sarah greeted me cordially. “There you are.” She didn’t seem pissed that I was late. In fact, she had a glowing smile on her face.

  “There is someone here to see you,” she said. She hooked her arm in my elbow and escorted me into Mr. Jenkins’ office. The old coot sat behind his desk with a Cheshire cat grin on his face wider than the Mississippi River herself. Square in the middle of his desk was the morning paper. I concluded from his grin that he liked what he read. I never was able to predict how he would react to anything. Sometimes he would get thoroughly pissed off at something and throw a two–year-old’s temper tantrum only to later in the same day agree with whatever it was that pissed him off earlier. I could never really relax around him.

  “Well, good morning, Alexandra!” he shouted. His exuberance alarmed me. His decibel level rattled my now aching head. “Have a seat, young lady.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins,” I said, seating myself in one of the chairs in front of his desk. Sarah sat on the couch to my right. That’s odd, I thought. I felt naked and exposed sitting in isolation, like a mothballed ship that the navy had decided to use for target practice.

  “Is this the bright, shining star of the PR world?” a voice from behind me asked. I turned and saw Dan Broussard himself walking in the room toward me. He sat in the chair beside me, never taking his eyes off me. I almost peed myself again.

  “That’s our girl,” Jenkins said.

  Sarah sat quietly on the couch. I could tell she was beaming with pride but did not want to enter the conversation.

  I turned toward Mr. Broussard. He said, “Alexandra, I am Dan Broussard and I — no we — at Bayou Oil are thankful for the great work you’ve done for us. You’ve gotten us out of a prickly situation. You know some of those do-gooder assholes at the Times don’t like me or Bayou Oil. They don’t understand business. Progress is good. Sometimes things go wrong, but that’s the price of progress. Shit happens. If they had their way, we’d all be back in the horse and buggy days.”

  I blushed. He was a handsome man with salt and pepper hair, about 6’2’’, with broad shoulders and a broad smile. He was dressed in a navy blue pinstriped suit with a red polka dot tie. He had a handkerchief strategically tucked in the exterior pocket of his expertly tailored suit.

  “Thank you, Mr. Broussard, just doing my job,” I said.

  “And a fine job you did too. You’ve got real talent!”

  I looked at Sarah, and she grinned at me. Jenkins sat there behind his desk with the same “more money for me” look on his face. It was as if his face was present, but his mind was off in another room counting the money he’d make from Broussard.

  Mr. Broussard continued, “I’d like you and your date to be my guest at the Rex Mardi Gras Ball. You will sit at my table as our guest of honor.”

  I went pale. What the fuck would I wear? Mardi Gras Balls are formal events. I don’t have $1,000 to drop on a dress. Then there were the shoes and jewelry
to worry about. Holy shit! I was so fucked!

  Before I had time to hyperventilate and pass out, Broussard added, “I’ve asked Sarah to take you shopping at Bayou Oil’s expense to properly thank you for helping us.”

  As the blood began to flow again, I looked at Sarah and gave her a relieved smile. I know she was the one behind all of this. She always thought of everything.

  “Thank you, Mr. Broussard, what an honor,” I said looking into Broussard’s eyes with my best Cinderella impression.

  With that, Sarah stood up, grabbed my arm and escorted me out of Jenkins’ office. We headed for Sarah’s office, a room with a door and walls. I could see she was happy for me. I was happy for me too. She hugged me and I excused myself to the bathroom before I really did pee myself. As I sat in the stall, I thought how wonderful life was and how far I’d come since my days on the farm in Indiana. My aching head reminded me that it wasn’t all good. Was I really happy? My life seemed to be one party after another. Now I was about to go to the biggest of them all, the king of Carnival, the Krewe of Rex Ball. Once I finished, I took some aspirin from my purse, cupped my hand to catch water from the faucet and swallowed them. Please, I begged them, rush to my head and stop that incessant throbbing.

  I made my wobbly way back to Sarah’s office. She was planning our shopping trip.

  “We are going to Neiman Marcus tomorrow to find you a gown,” she said.

  I managed to finish the day without dying or passing out, headed home, ordered pizza, and went to bed. Tomorrow was going to be a big day for Cinderella.

  Chapter Four:

  Shopping day

  First light was kinder this morning than yesterday. My head was back to normal, and there were no strangers in my bed. What had I been thinking? Serial killer terrorizing the city and I pulled shit like that. Today was going to be a better day.

  I got up from my warm, comfortable bed and pushed the button on my magic caffeine creation machine. I loved that familiar sound. Bring on the day. TV’s turned on and the day has begun. The news was still talking about the latest serial killer victim.

  “The woman found in the dumpster, believed to be the latest victim of the serial killer known as The Quarter Killer, has been identified as Janet Graham, an employee of a French Quarter boutique. She was last seen leaving a French Quarter bar Wednesday night. Authorities say that she was murdered sometime Wednesday night or early Thursday morning. She leaves two small children. In other news, the Coast Guard has reopened the Mississippi River to all traffic. Captain Richard Moore tells New Orleans Team 5 Live that the spill was a minor event. Now to sports...”

  The drone of the TV was interrupted by my phone’s ring tone. It was Sarah. “Good morning, Alex, how did you sleep? You looked like you had a rough time Thursday night. Been there. Don’t miss those days.”

  “Good morning, Sarah. You know me too well. I’m feeling wonderful today, just like Cinderella before the ball. What’s the plan for today?”

  “Well, Cinderella, I’ll pick you up at 9:30 and we can stop for coffee and then we’ll go to Neiman’s. Do you have any other plans today?”

  “No, I’m free all day.”

  I loved the thought of spending time with Sarah. She is the most caring and loving person I’ve ever known. She teaches me how to maneuver the twists and turns of the PR business. Sarah nurtures me as if I were her daughter. I don’t think I could have made it without her. Without her, I might have fallen flat on my face and had to return to the boring farm.

  “Great,” she said. “I’d like you to go somewhere with me after Neiman’s.”

  “Sure, I’d love to.”

  I wondered where she wanted to take me. Sarah is such a private person. I barely knew any of the details of her life. Maybe she had a secret boyfriend to whom she wanted to introduce me. It didn’t matter; we’d have fun no matter what we did. I drank my cup of freshly brewed coffee and headed off to the shower. I wasn’t sure how to dress. If we were going shopping, I was wearing fun clothes. Visions of scenes from Pretty Woman flashed through my mind. We were going to Neiman Marcus, New Orleans’ version of Rodeo Drive. I told myself not to stress over what to wear. After all, Sarah would be with me, and they couldn’t ignore her. Besides, we had Dan Broussard’s credit card, and I was Cinderella. I went for cute and comfortable and put on slacks, boots and a starched white blouse.

  Sarah beeped her horn, and I rushed outside. I thought: my glass carriage awaits. Actually, it was Sarah’s Mercedes. Seems like everyone in New Orleans drove a Mercedes or a Beemer. They were the “I’ve arrived” cars for the city. Back home pick-up trucks adorned with mud flaps and rider up bumper stickers ruled the road.

  “Don’t you look nice,” Sarah said as we maneuvered through the light early morning traffic. Something about the way she said things made you believe them immediately. I really did feel like I looked nice. Who needed a boob blouse anyway? I thought of Tom and his dazzling blue eyes and wondered if he felt the same stirrings I did. Why did he leave so abruptly when we were just getting to know each other and connecting on a deep level? Why didn’t he look at my boobs? Was I wrong? Did he not like me? Is that why he left?

  My obsessive thoughts were extinguished by Sarah. “There’s the mall. We can get a Starbucks inside. “We were early and had no trouble finding a parking place by Neiman Marcus. When Sarah exited her car I was reminded of how stunning she can look. She was dressed immaculately, wearing black slacks and a dark teal blouse, partially concealed by her black blazer, a business casual look. She wore the cutest two-inch closed-toe heels, a lighter shade of the same teal as her blouse. They looked so comfortable, as if she could run a marathon in them. We made our way to the Starbucks and got two tall coffees. Having conversations over coffee was part of life in the Big Easy. Coffee by day and booze by night, a life of ups and downs filled with sights and sounds, love and laughter, friends and family, I heard a Café Du Monde regular say one day. Sarah picked a table near the mall interior, and we sat. I tried to arrange myself in my chair so as not to wrinkle my starched white shirt.

  “So, what type of gown do you have in mind, Alex?”

  I blushed and must have looked like a deer in headlights because I had absolutely no idea. The last formal dress I wore was to my senior prom. It was a strapless affair, and my date couldn’t keep his eyes or his hands off my boobs. I had to draw the line at copping a feel that night. I wanted to keep my dress on as much as he wanted to take it off.

  “Sarah,” I said in a whisper, “I really have to rely on your expertise. I have never been to a Mardi Gras ball and don’t know what I should wear or even what goes on.”

  She reached over the table and patted my fidgeting hands and gave me that motherly look she’s so good at and said, “Alex, the ball is the pinnacle of the parade season. There are many Mardi Gras Krewes in New Orleans and Rex is the king of them all. When I worked at the Times as an independent journalist, Jess asked me to do an article on the history of Carnival in New Orleans. I had so much fun doing the research. I could have written a book instead of a three-part feature article. Mardi Gras parades were started in New Orleans in 1856, in secret, by a group of businessmen calling themselves the Mystique Krewe of Comus. The founders were the elite society of the city. They paraded through the streets carrying torches called flambeaus, rode horses, or sat in horse-drawn carriages in colorful costumes. They drank rum and whiskey as they celebrated the last day of partying before Lent. The tradition has been maintained even as the elite of the city has changed. Somewhere during the 1870s, participants added throws (beads and doubloons) to the events. The Rex Ball brings Mardi Gras to a glittering conclusion, combining music, traditional pageantry, processions, marches, and dancing. In recent years, the Rex Ball has been held at the Sheraton and the Comus Ball across Canal Street at the Marriott Hotel. The meeting of the two courts is the highlight of the evening. The dues to be a member of Rex are not comm
on knowledge but are thought to be tidy sums. Each year the Krewe elects a king, queen, and court to preside over Carnival. The king and queen have elaborate costumes made and don them for the Rex Ball. The members of the Krewe and their guests board the floats and make their way through the city on the Rex Parade route throwing beads to the cheering crowds. Many or even most riders start drinking by noon, long before they get on the float. They drink on the parade route as they wave to the crowd and dispense the beads. There are camouflaged portable potties on the floats to recycle all of that alcohol. The parade makes its way to the Sheraton Hotel to join the king, queen and the royal court. They are almost all completely wasted. Guests and members of the Krewe who did not ride the floats in the parade cheer the king, queen and court as they are presented and then the music, dancing and partying really starts. Some people go to party and others want to put on their finery and strut. Many do both. So, you see, Alex, there’s no reason to be nervous. The sober people only care how they look themselves, and the rest won’t remember anything anyway.”

  “Do people do anything in this city without drinking?” I asked.

  “Not if we can help it,” she said with her patented giggle.

  We arrived at Neiman’s with a mild caffeine buzz that only added to my excitement. Back home, we didn’t even have a mall. We had a Dollar Store and there was a Wal-mart in a neighboring town, not even a superstore. You don’t get much call for formal attire on a corn farm. Neiman’s was a truly gorgeous place to shop with its bright lighting, background music, colorful displays, and smiling staff. I felt like I was six years old and entering a toy store at Christmas.

  Before I could even take in half of the splendor, I heard, “Hi, Sarah, this must be Alexandra.” I was startled for a moment. How did this lady know my name? But I soon realized that Sarah had arranged everything. She was amazing.