Deadly Pedigree

21



Zola lived near Freret University in one of those whimsical turreted Victorian-era houses, a fine and lovingly kept example of the style known as Queen Anne.

The glow of the dashboard cast freakish shadows on her lovely face; each inquisitorial streetlight exposed her in white flashes of raw vulnerability. He thought that finally, after many fruitless years of trying, he could see what the Cubists had meant about form and perception.

More likely, his sudden insight was just a reaction to wine better than he was used to drinking. He and Zola had enjoyed a long and vinous meal at an excellent new restaurant in the Riverbend area, where St. Charles meets Carrollton.

“I promised you dessert. We’ll have…”

“You,” Nick said, completing her sentence mischievously.

“I mean before that.” She turned her head briefly toward him; her smile radiated through the shadows. “We’ll have some wonderful chocolate thingies from the French bakery on Maple.”

He reached over and brushed her dark hair over her right shoulder. “I’ll have to jog an extra mile tomorrow.”

She turned right from St. Charles and onto her street, where big pampered houses slept behind wrought-iron, stucco, or brick fences festooned with alarm-company shields.

Students of Freret and Fortescue get beautiful Uptown in their blood and yearn to abandon their cold northern native lands for the seductive dank decadence of this wealthy section.

Zola had graduated from Fortescue, and from Freret’s M.B.A. program. A double dose of the Uptown drug. But she was in a sense inoculated, having grown up in her parents’ home, another landmark known as the Fulke-Bruine Mansion, a few blocks away across St. Charles.

“Nick, have you ever considered going back into teaching?”

“Never.”

“I’ve heard that fair-minded people think there was something fishy about your case. We could get your name cleared, if we try. And Mother could certainly land you a post somewhere. Somewhere close, I hope.”

“Zola, I’m off that hamster wheel for good. It’s not as if I’m unemployed, you know. I guess because it’s so popular, just behind stamp and coin collecting, people see genealogy as an exercise in social climbing for the unexceptional masses, not really a reputable or worthy pursuit. Hey, anybody can do this, right? But isn’t the field of education crowded, too? Aren’t most students and teachers boring and insignificant? But oh, no! Teaching is perceived as a noble vocation, a calling that’s on a plane with holy orders. I say, bullshit! You’ve never seen backbiting, jealous, petty, untalented, muddled, lying egomaniacs until you’ve spent a day in a college English department!”

She’d driven into her driveway and killed the engine. Now she laughed at his rage of self-justification.

“Yes, professor. And after I’ve done my homework, will you make love to me all night?”

“Well…I suppose that can be arranged.”

“I think I hit a nerve. I never really meant to put down genealogy. I just hate to see someone as brilliant as you wasting–”

“You’re doing it again. Who’s wasting? What about the guy who teaches for thirty years and realizes he hated every repetitious moment, every know-it-all spoiled brat trying to show-off, every kiss-ass faculty meeting…hasn’t he wasted his life?”

“I see what you mean,” she said, reasonably. “Do what you like, and don’t accept just liking what you do. Not something everyone can accomplish, but it’s nice to remember.” She was silent a few moments. “Nick, I’d like to know more about my own family.”

“Well, uh, sure, one of these days, maybe we’ll look into that.”

“That’s just about what you say every time I ask you,” she said.

“It’s just that you’re so busy, and you have such little leisure time. I don’t want to share any of it with anyone or anything.”

He pulled her close and kissed her until they both simultaneously pushed each other away so they could breathe.

“That settles it,” he said. “We’re saving the chocolate and proceeding directly to you.”

Zola removed from her purse a gizmo that looked to Nick like a television channel changer. She pressed a succession of buttons. Lights came on in the house. “There. Pretty neat, huh? I just deactivated the alarm, switched the coffee maker and the stereo on, even turned down the bed. Come on, lazy. This remote can’t do everything for you.”

She was out of her door and crossing the timed headlight beams before Nick realized she was probably kidding about the bed.

“Be right in,” he said, as she opened the front door of her house. “Forgot something in my car.”

The air was softly humid and warm, the fragrance of sweet olive tinged with the usual New Orleans hint of rot and age. He saw a silver convulsion in the sky and soon heard distant thunder and the deep thrumming of tugs pushing barges up and down the nearby river. Wishing he smoked, he strolled down the sidewalk toward his car; he’d brought along a former student’s novel, which he intended to enjoy in bed the next morning after Zola left for work. He was adapting quite well to being the lover of a very rich woman.

A gray Ford sedan silently lurched to a stop in the street, wedging his car in–not that he had the wits about him at the moment to attempt a vehicular escape. Two very large men in West Coast-hip clothes flowed gracefully out of the car in a hurry that somehow didn’t seem rushed.

They grabbed Nick and threw him back hard against the neighbors’ tall stucco-over-brick fence topped with broken bottles set in cement.

Have I lived for years in the scuzzy Quarter only to get snuffed in the dignified Garden District? That’s not fair!

“Listen, a*shole, she wants to know what’s taking so f*ckin’ long.” He had an outdoorsy tan and cold blue eyes; his jaws and neck rippled with thick cords of muscle; his buzz-cut yellow-blond hair bristled straight up as if he’d just looked in a mirror and scared the hell out of himself. The man was so close Nick could smell dinner on his breath: burger, fries, and beer. The other man, standing back a few steps, had short black hair, toasted skin, and a black mustache.

Nick’s observational powers had suddenly become very keen, even in the anemic light.

“She says she hopes you’re not trying to do something stupid, like the old man,” the yellow-haired guy continued. “She wants to see you. Tomorrow morning, ten o’clock.” He told Nick where to go. “You got that? Be there, a*shole.”

“Couldn’t she have just called?” Nick asked.

“She likes the personal touch.” The guy carefully straightened Nick’s tie, and slapped him on either side of his face, forehand, then backhand. He grinned ferociously as if this were the high point of his day.

“Say, you’ve done that before, haven’t you?” Nick said, wiping blood from his lips and checking his teeth with his tongue.

“F*ckin’ smartass,” said the blond over his shoulder to his partner.

Nick heard a single snort of amusement.

“What do you think you’re doing!” Zola shrieked from her front walkway. She was still too far away to see exactly what was happening, but she’d obviously realized Nick was in trouble. “Leave him alone, you bastards! I’ve got pepper mace. Stand back!”

Nick’s messenger released him.

The dark-featured guy moved toward Zola. He spoke to her with what seemed to Nick like practiced composure: “Hey, lady, you gonna hurt somebody with that, okay.”

“Nuh-uh,” said the blond guy, in warning to his partner. “Let’s go. Now.”

The dark-featured guy swiftly retreated. The two men flowed back into their car and roared off without a backward glance.

Zola was next to him suddenly. “Oh my God! Nick, are you okay? Oh my God. Somebody call the police. I’ll call the police,” she said, as reason replaced shock. In the hand that wasn’t clutching the mace canister, she held a cordless phone.

“No, don’t,” Nick said. “I’m all right. Nothing broken…I don’t think.” He moved his shoulders around just to be sure.

“What was that all about, Nick? Those terrible men. I thought…oh, I thought they were going to kill you. Did you get the license number?”

Must not be Artemis Holdings regulars, Nick figured, or she probably would have recognized them. Boy, that Armiger sure does have a knack for keeping secrets, especially from her daughter! Zola was his bulletproof vest; as long as she was near, he was safe, he thought, cursing himself for the ignoble realization.

“No, I didn’t get the number,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. Just a slight financial misunderstanding, that’s all. I guess I’m a bit behind in my rent.” He put his arm around her, and they turned toward her house. Both of them trembled from fear, relief, and anger. “So, is your bed really turned down?”





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