John Miller - Upside Down

The mention of a gun had Styer paying closer attention. He hadn't imagined that Trammel would be armed, and he figured the old guy must have had the weapon in his stowed bags. Styer would have to take that into consideration. He knew that Hank was a highly decorated Green Beret veteran who spent two tours in Vietnam. Styer was prepared for whatever opportunity presented itself that evening. He wore a double-edged dagger in an ankle holster, a. 40-caliber Glock under his left armpit, and he carried a shortened, quick-snap noise suppressor in his jacket pocket.

Nicky continued, “Well, strictly speaking, toting a hog leg isn't legal. You're not badged up anymore, and I doubt you have a Louisiana concealed-carry permit. How'd you get it past security?”

“I had it in pieces in two suitcases. Let me worry about that. You've got a P.I. license. Tell the cops I'm your gun caddy.”

“You don't need it. You know what I can do with this cane, and I don't have to dig under my clothes for it. Hell, I could knock a mugger out before he could stick out his tongue. This here cane's got a lead core and the knob's solid brass. I'd sooner explain konking some jerk upside the noggin than blowing a hole through him.”

“If I need to shoot my gun, I won't mind explaining that to a cop, prosecutor, judge, or jury.”

“Better judged by twelve peers than carried by six friends,” Nicky pitched in. It took Styer a second to understand the reference to six friends. Pallbearers.

Millie stepped out onto the porch. “Hank, you need to come rest a little while before dinner.”

“I'll meet you at the bar across from the restaurant at seven-thirty sharp for a pre-dinner cocktail.” Nicky stood and he leaned over and spit into the flower bed. “I have a client coming by my hotel for a short meeting and I'll call a cab and meet you at the bar. We'll have a drink and go over to the restaurant, where I have us reserved up for eight sharp.”

For most of the time before the Trammels left for their evening out, Hank's Stetson had been placed too near the room's television set for Styer to hear anything much but the programs and, when they were close to the cabinet, the sounds of them talking as they dressed. Styer had perfected his plan for the evening. He knew exactly how he would attain the prize beyond that-another checkmate.

He watched the Trammels get inside the black and white taxicab, which because it was headed the wrong way on St. Charles, would turn around to head uptown. Styer had the Rover started, the lights on, and was watching the cab in his side mirror. As the cab made the U and came back up the street, he pulled out into traffic to lead the way. Styer caught a flash of yellow in his headlights, and he had to brake hard to keep from hitting a young boy in a rain slicker who had come off the sidewalk and was riding his bike, hell-bent for leather, across St. Charles. The taxi bearing his targets shot past him. Lifting his cell phone, Styer called his helpers to tell them the time had come for them to earn their fee. One of them was in the Lexus, the other was playing taxicab driver.

Faith Ann had pedaled from the drugstore to an isolated gazebo in Audubon Park. Sitting on a concrete table, she went over the torn-out pages, calling the guesthouses she thought might be on a street near the vast city park.

After making thirteen calls without finding the Trammels registered, she read through the list again and one name struck her. The guesthouse was on St. Charles. She called it and asked the clerk if the Trammels were registered there. To her excitement, they were. She asked for the location and it was less than a mile away, so she pocketed the phone, jumped on her bike, and took off.

Within sight of the Park View, she barely missed getting hit by a dark SUV as she left the sidewalk to cross St. Charles. She swallowed the surge of fear the near-collision gave her. Dropping the bike in the grass, she ran inside.

Faith Ann's legs and feet were soaked from the rain, and inside the poncho she was perspiring. A skinny young clerk was on the phone and Faith Ann waited, feeling like she would scream. He finally completed the call and looked down at her. “Yes?”

“I just called to see if the Trammels were here.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what room they're in?”

“They're staying here, but you just missed them. Do you want to leave a message?”

Faith Ann felt her heart drop into her shoes and her lip quiver as she fought back tears. “No I guess not… Do you know where they went? How long they'll be?”

“I heard them say they were eating at Dot's Steakhouse. It's on-”

Faith Ann knew where it was, and she didn't wait for the address before running back down the hall and out the door.

The Trammels remained silent while the cabdriver complained about the bad condition of the streets, the rain, the Friday-night traffic, and the price of gasoline, which, since we “owned” Iraq, didn't make sense.

The cab's tires hit numerous potholes because in the rain they had become standing pools, indistinguishable from the pavement. Despite the weather, the restaurants and bars on the street were busy. Hank was pleased they had decided to use cabs so they wouldn't have to worry about parking or navigating.

“I tried to call Kimberly to see why Faith Ann called,” Millie told him. “Maybe she called to tell us that they wouldn't be at home this evening or something.”

“We'll see her first thing in the morning. I'm pretty sure she's just excited about us coming,” Hank said as the cab pulled to the curb outside the bar.

“If it was important, Kimberly would have called the guesthouse.”

Hank climbed from the cab and he waited on the sidewalk for Millie to pay and exit into the protection of his open umbrella.

Together, they entered into the bar. Hank hadn't been there in four years, when he and Nicky Green had last been in New Orleans together. It seemed to him the crowd had been vastly different then-certainly much older.

“Reckon any of these people are legal age?” He had to raise his voice for Millie to hear him over the music and general din of socializing youth. “Times like this I can see how old I am without a mirror.”

“We used to be this age,” Millie said.

“I'll make a fast swing through the place to see if there's a table,” he told her. “You stay here and feel free to stick your fingers in your ears if you need to.”

Millie's expression was as unreadable as weathered-down hieroglyphs on limestone when Hank returned.

“There's one in the back, but it's in the line of fire, right near the speakers.” He looked at his watch. “Nicky's running late.”

“Can we go outside?” Millie asked.

When they went out under the awning, they saw that the rain had intensified.

“We could go across to the restaurant and wait there.”

“You think? The reservation isn't for twenty minutes yet.”

“Don't you imagine Nicky's a good enough investigator to figure out where we went? Surely he's smart enough to cross the street… to get in out of the rain.” She laughed.

Hank frowned at her. “He's a good P.I.”

“I'm sure a man ingenious enough to have a skunk on hand, then go about tossing it into a window, ought to be able to cross a street. A chicken can do that.”

Hank had to laugh. “I suppose you're right.”

A rain-drenched couple ran up to the doors laughing. They embraced and kissed before they entered the bar.

“Once we were like those kids,” Millie said cheerfully. “In love in a bright fresh world.”

“I remember.” Hank put his arm around his wife, and she leaned against him. “That hasn't changed.”