The Lost Reflection Read online

  “I am sorry, Samantha, this is all there is. If circumstances were different, I would . . .”

  “Brian,” she began patronizingly.

  I flashed back to my childhood. “Brian,” Aunt Rena’s parental lectures always began in the same tone.

  “I like your straight-forward honesty, it is so refreshing. You have made me feel a bit adventurous, maybe even mischievous. But regardless of your reasons, please have dinner with me. I promise not to broach any topic you don’t want to discuss.”

  I started to shake my head, signaling a silent rejection. Samantha intercepted my response and placed her hand on my leg. She smiled devilishly. “I promise, I won’t try to kill you.”

  I flashed an awkward smile, but still found no words to respond. I had to turn her down, but did not want to. She turned to me once again, affording an excessive view of her legs, which I believe she did intentionally. She watched as my gaze returned to the objects of my weakness. I was on the ropes, and she damn well knew it. Unfortunately the inner boy had already left the plane and was headed for the nearest hotel room.

  Samantha waited for a reply. Her expression telegraphed the Ironclad was sinking. “If it would help ease your suspicions, I am willing to submit to a strip search before dinner, to ensure I am unarmed,” she whispered in my ear.

  The clicking of seat belts announced our arrival. As we stood to deplane, Samantha turned, our faces closer than they had been the entire flight. She took advantage of the moment and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Sorry, that’s just a girl thing, I didn’t mean anything by it,” she giggled. She turned, leaving me lockjawed and astonished.

  Samantha walked briskly up the jetway, her smile fading, not looking to see if I followed. “What in the hell did I just do?” she murmured.

  Spotting her sister, waving comically in the baggage claim area, Samantha picked up the pace. Hugging her sister, she handed the baggage claim stubs to Dana. “I have to pee, watch for my bags.” Practically running, Samantha bolted for the restroom.

  In the secluded safety of the restroom, she splashed her face with cold water. “To hell with the makeup,” she fussed loud enough to be heard.

  She dried her face and stared into the mirror. “Samantha Allen, what have you done?”

  CHAPTER 3

  SAMANTHA VANISHED LIKE a federal witness in a mafia investigation. At the end of the jetway I checked to the right and left. She was gone and I found myself completely dismayed. Justin, my personal assistant back home, shipped my clothes and personal effects to wherever work dictated. With no luggage arriving, I intentionally made a pass by the baggage carrousel in hopes of seeing Samantha. Disappointed, I turned toward the ground transportation doors.

  “Who left the freakin’ sauna on?” I protested once outside. Looking forward to an air-conditioned ride, I sadly discovered the AC in my yellow chariot was fried. The thirty-minute ride to the French Quarter was bumpy and smelly. Closing my eyes, it reminded me of those fond afternoons on the back roads of Colombia.

  “Best get used to it, boss, ain’t much AC in the Quarta,” the cabbie informed me. It was impossible to determine whether the odor was from Dujour, the hack, or residual man funk from previous passengers. My bet was all of the above. Beads, various trinkets of jewelry, and several voodoo dolls adorned Dujour’s cab. He was heavyset, black as night, and had a thick Creole accent. He maintained a perpetual smile no matter the conversation. Unattended bullets of perspiration sprinkled his smooth forehead.

  Needing a distraction, my thoughts turned to Samantha. Before dinner I could have a full background check through an illegal backdoor access I maintained in the CIA database. If she was dirty, it would prove quite entertaining to chop down the obvious skill and talents she possessed. Scenarios were racing through my mind. I had made a career of breaking opponents, but Samantha could prove to be the most enjoyable.

  “Looks like da rain be comin’ soon,” Dujour remarked, breaking the silence.

  “Yes, we flew through some of it on the way in, made for a bumpy ride,” I deadpanned. Not as bone-jarring as this cab ride, I thought. “You here to play or work, mon?” Dujour interrupted again.

  “All work.” I considered the possibility of Samantha’s self-imposed strip search.

  “Betta take time to enjoy Nawlens while you’s here mon. Da Big Easy don’t take kind to folks who work for da mon all da time.”

  “Thank you, Dujour. I will keep that in mind.”

  “Da Mon” would be Phillip Wilder. Anyone who knew Phillip knew his zest for life. Phillip made millions with the Baby Boomers, Generations X and Y, and just about anybody who could not resist the hottest news with an up-yours attitude in his Urban Legends Weekly, a spin-off publication from his old man’s tabloid empire. When he got a whiff of dirty laundry and conventional methods of investigation proved fruitless, I was called in.

  Intimidation, threats, and on occasion, more persuasive actions were all tools of my trade. I was good at my job, thanks to the CIA. More important to Phillip than the execution of assignments, I never left tracks. Was my work illegal? It depended on which side of the gun you were standing. That is how good old Uncle Sam explained it. People died back in the day, it was the nature of the business. Call me a cold-hearted killer, I would not disagree. The only people that seemed to mind were my targets, and they did not complain for long.

  After twenty-five years, I retired with a less than generous government pension. But then there was my discretionary retirement fund, somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen million dollars generously donated by dead Colombian druglords who no longer required liquid assets. What was I supposed to do with all of that cash? Our government could never confess to sanctioned assassinations, firebombing coke plants, or depositing large sums of illegally obtained funds. They never asked, I never told. Then one fine morning I woke up sweaty, dirt caked on my hands and face, mosquito bites abounding and said, “Fuck this.” I quit, moved back to New York City, where several years later I met Phillip and forged the friendship which led me here.

  “Here we are, mon. Welcome to da French Quarta,” Dujour announced. He wheeled onto Toulouse Street. Daydreaming, I had not paid attention to where we were going, which was completely out of character in a strange city. The cab skidded up to the Maison Dupuy. “Here you go mon, dis be your new home. It’s nice and quiet down this end of da Quarta. Not too loud at night, not too close to da spirit yard eida.”

  “Spirit yard?” I questioned my smelly friend.

  “Yeah, mon, spirit yard. You know da Quarta be filled wit ghost and all kind o’ unnatural tings. Tings dat come out at night. Evil tings. You watch yo back after da sun go down, don’t be walkin’ round da empty streets. Be wit friends, in da night.”

  To be certain, Dujour drank more than his fair share of the spirit water, so there was no telling what he experienced during his altered states of sobriety. “How much I owe you, Dujour?”

  “Seventeen-fifty.”

  Digging in my pocket, I extracted a couple of warm, damp twenties, the heat and humidity already working their magic. “Keep the change.” I figured he could use the extra money to buy some soap, although realistically it would wind up in the bottom of a glass. Dujour thanked me and sped off as if he had just completed a pit stop. Standing on pavement hot as a three-alarm bean-burrito fart, sweat rolled down my back. Welcome to the French Quarter indeed!

  CHAPTER 4

  IT WAS WELL past four, and the afternoon heat had successfully drained my energy to the point that a power nap was in order. However, this being my first trip to Nawlens as Dujour enunciated, why bother? Undoubtedly, Phillip would be ready for me to start right away. Any free time would be before dinner. Better to freshen up and scope out the town. The mere thought of dinner reminded me that I had not eaten all day, ushering a well-timed rumble in my stomach accentuating the notion.

  Étouffée, gumbo, or perhaps jambalaya. Where to start? I had seen the likes on menus in various cities around the world, but figured it would be better to enjoy it, prepared by the people who made it legendary. Why go to France and eat Italian? All things in proper order, first I needed to check in.

  I was cheerfully greeted at the front desk by Renaldo, a young man in his mid-twenties, most likely Cuban. He was clean-cut, pressed, well-manicured, and accented his style with tasteful jewelry. The front desk was clean and organized with every scrap of paper, pens, and paper clips put in their appropriate place. Renaldo was a man of detail.

  “Good afternoon, and welcome to the Maison Dupuy, Mr. . . . ?” he prompted, raising a tweezed eyebrow with a polished smile.

  “Denman. Brian Denman.”

  With swift strokes of the keyboard, Renaldo expeditiously found my reservation. “I see you will be staying with us for several weeks. Excellent. I have you booked with deluxe accommodations, balcony overlooking Toulouse Street,” he exclaimed, flashing a broad, pearly white smile as he continued stroking the keyboard. “What brings you to the Big Easy, Mr. Denman?”

  “Business. Research business.”

  “Excellent. And this is your first stay with us?”

  “First trip to New Orleans.”

  “Then we will do everything possible to ensure New Orleans becomes a favorite destination. If there is anything you desire, I or my staff will gladly provide assistance.” Renaldo swiped a blank keycard and extended his hand. “Will you be needing additional keys?” Renaldo sported the secret-man smirk insinuating female companionship.

  “No, thank you.” Leaning in close and speaking softly, I proceeded to elucidate my special needs. “Renaldo, there may be an instance where I would require special assistance. It may occur at odd hours or during inclement weather. It would not involve activities leading to incarceration, bu
t might require solicitation from other . . . less scrupulous individuals. I need a go-to guy, someone that I can count on. Know what I mean? If you know where I can find such a person, let’s just say the job pays well.” Extending a crisp, folded thousand dollar bill, no further clarification was needed. It was standard operation to get acquainted with a staffer at the hotel where I stayed. It came in rather handy more than once over the years. I paid well to ensure full attention.

  Renaldo’s eyes grew wide. “There’s no need to look far, Mr. Denman. I pride myself on the ability to cater to my guest’s needs, whatever they be.” Looking from side to side to ensure our privacy, his hand latched onto the bill, attempting to claim his gratuity. Refusing to release my control, his attempt to extract the bill met firm resistance.

  “Renaldo, our business is strictly confidential. If I call you at four in the morning, I have to know you can be counted on.”

  “In Havana, those born without anything learn how to take care of themselves at an early age. If you wanted a better life, you learned how to do . . . things,” Renaldo explained with a mischievous grin. “As I said, Mr. Denman, I am your man.”

  “Outstanding! For now, nobody knows I am here, so if anyone were to show up inquiring, notify me immediately. If I am expecting someone, you will know prior to their arrival. No visitors, no phone calls. I do not care if George fucking Bush shows up, you do not know me. Clear?”

  “As crystal.”

  “Should anyone inquire, send them away,” I instructed, handing a card with a cell number on it, “then call me, even if you have not seen me in several days, even if I have checked out. If you are not on duty, the other desk clerks are to alert you immediately. They will not know or attempt to contact me. It is imperative the staff understands the rules.”

  “Got it,” Renaldo responded quickly, removing the bill from my hand on cue as I released my grip.

  “If you see me in the lobby, please do not acknowledge my name in the presence of others. I prefer my face to not have a name attached to it. Now, if you will give me my key, I think we’re done.”

  “Absolutely, sir,” Renaldo snapped accentuating the sir. “Room 306. The elevators just down the hall, on the left.” Being part of a potentially mysterious, unscrupulous deed was a head trip for any willing participant, and Renaldo was a player. Most assuredly he would be up to a task or two. Hell, if nothing cropped up, I could contrive a job for the sake of his adventurous spirit.

  I headed through the quaint compact lobby, checking out the layout on the way to the vacant elevator. The elevator doors closed slowly. The old car creaked and groaned as it sluggishly lifted. Old elevators had a certain mystique to them you just did not find in the newer ones. I enjoyed watching people react to the creaks and moans or sudden jolts they often provided. The doors strained to open as slowly as they had closed. My room was three doors down to the right. I opened the door, slid my bag in, and took a quick tour of the third floor. Long hallways with intermittent left turns wrapped around a garden courtyard below. Eventually the hall led me back to my starting point. This would work out well in the event of an unexpected departure. There were several exits around the corridors, plus the elevator, and a balcony in my room. An abundance of escape routes was always welcomed. I spent the next thirty minutes going up and down the stairs, checking out all of the exits and secluded locations in the hotel. In years past, on occasions when the action got dicey with the local police or associates of governments I had pissed off, emergency exits were vital to my survival. Too many comrades without exit strategies had been killed over the years.

  CHAPTER 5

  I SET MY course for the door, out into the balmy afternoon sauna. Although the day had grown long, it did not feel as though it had cooled one degree. It was not difficult to plot my direction. A block to the right was the end of the Quarter. To the left was a seemingly endless stream of houses and buildings right out of the nineteenth century. Gas fumes wafted from lanterns burning in the late afternoon sun. Walking down the cobblestone sidewalk, this city felt vaguely familiar.

  I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and redialed the missed call. “You rang?”

  “I’m starving, you rat bastard! Where have you been?”

  “First time in the Big Easy, just beginning to feel my way around, you know? What is the word my brother?” I grabbed my shades and slid them on as the afternoon sun glared down Toulouse Street with the intensity of a halogen floodlight.

  “Other than starving? I have been taking care of business.”

  “Taking care of business? Indeed.” For Phillip that entailed women and booze. “Does this mean I am going to get pounded into submission by countless hours of bullshit tales of lustful fantasies that never happened?”

  “My realities, your fantasies. And when I am done chronicling my deviant adventures, you will be up all night praying to spend just one night in my shoes, buddy boy.”

  “Phillip, you are my idol. So tell me, Juan of the Dons, where do you want to meet?”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I am on Toulouse, just about to cross over Bourbon Street.”

  Bourbon Street. Talk about infamous tales. Every swinging dick I knew had at least one outrageous anecdote about this place. Why did it take me sixty years to get here? Music was streaming in from all directions as the aroma of piss and beer oozed through the doors of the numerous open-air bars. To the left I heard jazz on top of jazz, mixed in with some blues from the opposite side of the street. To my right a band was ripping “Walk This Way” loud enough for Steven Tyler to hear it all the way back in Beantown. The musical smorgasbord fused in a most unexpected yet pleasing disharmony.

  The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow on Bourbon Street, rendering a quaint inviting feeling. The sidewalks were crammed with a hodgepodge of shops, bars, and hotels. Weathered signs of every shape, color, and size hung over the distressed sidewalks, proudly proclaiming the establishments they adorned. And then there were the leaning balconies. No sober person would ever venture onto them. These platforms defied the laws of engineering when the clock strikes party time.

  “Keep coming up Toulouse. When you get to Chartres, take a left. Down on the right about a half a block, you’ll see a restaurant called The Alpine. I’ve already got us a table.”

  “Alpine? What the hell? I come all the way down here, with all of the legendary food, and the first place you take me is to a Euro dive!? I do not think so, Jack.”

  “Chill out, my friend. Don’t get your lederhosen in a wad. All things in the universe will be righteous. Just know there is a very cold brewski waiting with your name on it,” Phillip reassured.

  “It had better be cold. Otherwise I may have to cap you on the spot, run up a tab, pay with your platinum card, and leave your stiff ass behind.”

  “Well,” Phillip began, “except for the fact we are in New Orleans, that would be exactly like South Beach, if memory serves me right.”

  “Funny you could even remember. The last I saw of you in Miami I did not think you would survive the night, much less remember any of the little details.”

  “Little details? Like a five-thousand-dollar tab?”

  “Sucks being the drunken bitch.” I hung up the phone and stepped up my pace.

  The Alpine was hardly European cuisine at all. More like Cajun gone wild. I was all in. It would be good to see Phillip and turn my focus to business. Time to purge, cleanse, and not mention Samantha, not to Phillip, not to anyone.

  Phillip was sitting in the back on the left. The tables immediately around him were empty while the remainder of the restaurant was packed. The aroma of the food immediately set me salivating. There were two beers on the table, as promised. Phillip never disappointed.

  “Brian, it’s great to see you! How the hell are you?” A smile exploded across his face.

  “I feel like shit! You see . . . I met this woman . . . Samantha . . . on the plane”

  “Holy hell,” Phillip interrupted, “you waltz in here and the first words from your mouth are about some bimbo you met on a plane? She made you feel like shit? How in the hell does that happen on a three-hour flight? Did she bone you?” Phillip shook his head in disbelief as he slid the bottle of beer over. “It’s gonna take all night to work our way through this one. Sit down, drink up. The Love Doctor is in the house.”