A/N Wee Boat… Gondolier… authoress of the incredible Fraternité is a spanktacular beta. Thank you so much for all you do… beta-ing and just being rockin' awesome.
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown;
The Lotos-Eaters, Alfred, Lord Tennyson
It made the fourth page of the "New Orleans" section in the Times-Picayune three days later. "Body found in FQ, police at a loss." The short article gave little of the more salacious details, and the impression that the NOPD had no leads.
Around the Vieux Carré, the rumor mill was churning like a paddle wheel.
By early morning on the very day of the body's discovery, everyone knew about the killing, and more importantly, about the nature of the crime. It spread from the shopkeepers on Decatur over to the street washers on Bourbon. Hushed whispers elaborated on the slaying, most dancing around the truth, but everyone agreed that this was unlike anything that had happened in the French Quarter in almost a century.
That night, Erik had returned back the condominium just after he'd placed Charlie on the ground, and used the rest of the antiseptic to wash off the last of the blood. Finally, he stripped off his shirt and wiped the tub down. He checked to make sure he'd gotten the bit off the floor, and stuffed the ruined shirt in one of the garbage bags. Grabbing a candle, Erik walked softly into the main living area to sit and reflect.
A satisfying kill. A new face. A beautiful place to stay. He leaned his head back on the wall and breathed deeply. I must find a way to settle myself so that my music can be given its proper due.
Erik wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his forehead on them. He was tired, but not able to rest properly. Letting his eyes close, he drifted off into a fitful and dreamless sleep.
Around 4 a.m., he lifted his head and noted the silence. His candle had burnt down to a puddle on the floor, and he used his knife to scrap up the pile of wax. These little reminders of his stay gave him a smug satisfaction: He was marking his territory. The details of securing this new home hovered on his consciousness, but he knew he would have time to think.
The Devil always granted such small mercies to him.
Making sure the French doors were unlatched, he crept down the stairs quietly and fled the courtyard. The body was still in its place, but it was now lying on the ground, facing the wall. The back pockets had been rifled through, Erik noticed, seeing the white liner pulled up through the pockets. He lowered his head, and made his way back to his corner on Bourbon Street.
Here and there, his sensitive hearing picked up the muted waves of hysteria as locals passed him by.
"…body on St. Peter…"
"….no, not a random mugging…"
"….well, shit like that happens here all the time…."
"…fucking gang shit, I swear…"
"….not like this…. Not since…"
Erik played a bit of Bach's Concerto in D minor for Two Violins and enjoyed the tremulous waves of fear. He waited to see some tangible source of the neurosis he felt, but none came. Not that day, nor the following. No flyers, no warnings, nothing.
A city that lived and breathed on tourism could certainly not afford the scrutiny or the scandal of a murder and flaying.
On the third day, Erik happened to find that small story ran in the local paper as he breakfasted on scrambled eggs with Tabasco (as the old waitress suggested) and several cups of coffee with chicory. He'd found the diner at the north end of Bourbon, a quaint shop that catered to locals by not charging tourist inflation. He always chose the most secluded booth, and kept his fedora low over his face.
"Hon, you want more coffee?"
He placed a hand over his cup.
"No, thank you. This will suffice."
She paused, silent. Erik turned his head slightly towards her, but did not look up.
"You shouldn't read that while you eat, hon."
"I'll be fine. Thank you very much; the meal was lovely, as always. As was the service."
Walking back to his spot, Erik propped the case open and began to play again.
Around noon, that man who stood in front of the Blue Orchid every day appeared on schedule, this time nursing a dark drink from a plastic cup.
Erik had never made eye contact, but was skilled enough to track this person's movements. He knew how to see and not be seen. This person, however, seemed intent on seeing him every day.
Today marked a change in their strange camaraderie.
Waiting for one of the tourist carriages to pass, the man tugged at his electric blue spandex dress and hobbled across the street awkwardly in platform shoes. He stepped up onto the banquet and looked shyly at Erik.
"I…I'm sorry."
Erik stopped playing and shifted his scarf again. The wind was biting; he wondered how the man could stand to be so flimsily covered. Judging by the size of the drink in his hand, Erik could surmise at least one tactic.
"You are sorry for what?" Erik responded slowly, a mixture of menace and anxiety in his voice.
The man put a hand to his wig and smoothed it repeatedly. "I watched you. Listened to you play for days now, and I've never paid you. I'm sorry. I was waiting for just a couple more tips, but it really was rude."
The man fished a few bills out of his top and bent over gracelessly to put them in the case.
"I've enjoyed you so much. It's… a blessing to hear."
"A blessing, is it?"
The man fluttered his eyes and turned his head. "I haven't heard music like that since I was a child. And here I am, rude again. I'm Henny."
Erik nodded quickly. "Henny."
"I dance over there, at the Blue Orchid. My stage name is Honey Angelle. But I'm Henny," he said.
"Yes, of course," said Erik. "Do you have a request, for your money?"
"Oh no. Well," Henny pursed his lips together. "You were playing the concerto the other day. I'd really like to hear that again."
"Really? You know the Bach concerto?"
Henny smiled broadly. "Yeah I do! I was a dancer. A classical one. When I was still costuming as a man. When I was Henry."
Erik put the violin back up to his chin, and his scarf slipped a little. Henny frowned.
"Ah, can I ask you a question?"
Erik lowered the instrument.
"You already did."
Henny dropped his head. "Yeah. Sorry. I should leave you alone to work." He began to walk away, then turned back. "I just have to. I'm sorry…"
Erik stiffened, adjusting the scarf nervously.
"Could you tell I was wearing make-up when I got up close to you?"
Erik was unbelievably speechless.
"Because I just got this new stuff… and I think it looks really good. It's made for burn victims and all, so I thought it would hide my old pockmarks, and the stubble I try to shave off, but you know how fast that grows back. So I heard about this Le Beau stuff, but Jesus, it's so expensive! But I thought, you know, what the fuck, and so I've been using it, but none of my regulars have said anything. And you're a performer, you know—well an artist, not a girl like me—so I know you'd tell me the truth."
Henny took a breath, put his hands on his hips and turned his face side to side.
"Seriously. What do you think? Worth the money?"
Erik appraised the situation. "Every penny."
Around 9:00 p.m., he saw her.
Melissa Touchet was bustling through the crowded street, dodging people with her notebook tucked firmly under her arm.
He watched her dart into a bar with a live band.
He gathered up his belongings and took off.
The first bar had a three-dollar cover charge. The second, five. The third, five again. Erik was spending a good deal of his money chasing after this woman. For Carrie, he mused. That wasn't entirely true, though her crumpled face last night when the woman reappeared at Jean Lafitte's was reason enough for him to be intrigued.
After listening to mediocre bands crank out one tired "hit" after another, Erik was almost ready to kill someone for a bit of pleasure.
The woman slinked out of the last bar, and kept her pace down Bourbon Street, closer to the residential section.
He crept along behind her. He'd watched her take notes all night with half-lidded eyes, begging to be stirred away. He tucked into in a small doorway and fished out his violin.
The sounds of the dirtiest street in America rang through the moonlit night. People filled the streets and the sidewalks. Some hung from the wrought-iron posts, some sat clumsily on the curbs.
He pulled the bow across the strings to elicit an aching moan.
She turned around quickly, scanning the crowd.
It's my imagination. God, there's so much music polluting the street, how could I possibly distinguish one instrument from another?
And yet, there it was again. Another long note. The sound of a violin, so chillingly precise it cut through the sounds of the karaoke machines and the people screaming.
Melissa stopped and closed her eyes.
Erik pulled his fedora lower and backed up against the brick wall.
She nervously adjusted her purse and her notebook, took a second survey of the crowd, and resumed a fast clip down the street.
Erik pursued her, case jostling under his arm, until he found another dark place between two shotgun houses. He played a bit of Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings, something he arranged for his solo violin on the spot—something he knew would tempt her with all its tender sentiment of youthful longing.
And stop she did.
He paused and launched into a composition of his own, so fiery and passionate that the woman's purse slid from her arm and she gasped involuntarily.
"Who are you?" she cried, suddenly realizing her self and collecting her things.
When no verbal answer came, only more music, she closed her eyes again and tried to stand very still.
"Who are you…." she whispered.
Again, her question was greeted with music.
"I'm looking for…someone. I'm looking for a musician. Please, I'd rather not stand in the street talking to myself."
Not that it's not common down here, but really, she thought grimly."Please. I'd just like to talk with you."
Erik kept silent, waiting for her next move.
"Alright. Fine. I'm going now. If you want," she dug in her purse and walked to one of the stoops, "I'm leaving my card here. You can call me, and I can meet you somewhere to hear you play. More formally. And in person."
She stepped away and shivered. "It's beautiful. Powerful. And you know it."
Running to her car, Melissa didn't look back.
Erik thumbed the card in his hand and sounded her name aloud. "Melissa." Simple, graceful, charming... He'd have to consider his game with her more fully before he made the call. He didn't doubt his music's ability to captivate and ensnare; the Devil gave him his due. But she seemed less ensnared than entranced, as if she might possibly know something of music, or at least have a mind keen enough to process what he played for her.
These thoughts led him back the way he came, down to the seediest part of Bourbon Street.
Erik had played his music tonight, to somewhat satisfactory results, but not the kind he preferred. He would rather a woman fall before him, legs spread, begging for him to pay them the same the attention he paid his violin.
He found himself standing before a bar with a stupid name, but the subtitle "Bottomless Topless- Come Inside" promised so much more. Paying the cover, he touched a hand to his fedora as he entered. The club was not very crowded, considering the hour, and he placed himself in a corner, away from the stage but with a full view of the dancing "ladies."
He ordered two glasses of wine for his drink minimum, and hoped against hope that the wine wasn't vinegar. After thirty minutes of choking on his drinks and watching girls gyrate on the stage, he was frustrated and bored.
At last, a girl approached him.
"Want a lap dance?"
He nodded.
She moved the table before him slightly to the left, and parted her legs to more effectively sway her hips. Dipping forward to roll her body almost on his, she whispered, "I'm Yvette." She knelt on her left knee beside him, and sat on his thigh.
"How much do you want?"
"What are you offering?"
She smiled. "Twenty for a lap out here. Forty for a lap," she pointed to a curtain in the back of the club, "back there. For a hundred, you can do anything you want."
"Anything?"
She nodded and touched his inner thigh.
Standing, she took his hand and led him. Erik sat his violin down on the seat next to him. Yvette went to place it on the floor, but he grabbed her wrist.
"What the—"
"Have you looked at this floor? My violin does not belong in other people's filth!"
"Okay, okay," she said with feigned conciliation. Erik looked about the empty room.
"Not many takers tonight?"
"Don't you like the privacy?"
"Indeed, I do."
She slid onto his lap, her crotch making contact with his, grinding slowly. "If you just want a lap back here, I can do that. If you want more, you have to give me $50 upfront, okay? Just so that if you get into it, you don't forget."
He nodded. She reached for his hat, and he let her remove it. She tugged at his scarf, and he slid his hand up to her breast.
"Leave that, please. It will keep me from kissing you, which I know is against the 'rules,' as it were."
She smiled at him again. "Yes," she murmured, and gasped as he pulled her flimsy costume down. His fingers molded to her breast, centering to gently pinch her nipple.
Yvette began to grind her hips, rolling them in a figure eight, and Erik released her skin with a sigh.
She stood and straddled him again, her back to him. Again she ground artfully into his groin, and he lifted up to meet her body. She looked back and grinned at him.
"You like it this way? From behind?"
He grunted.
"You want more?"
He could barely gasp an affirmative.
She stood again, but before she could make her next choreographed move, he was on her, pushing her against the wall.
"You are so soft," he breathed. "You are so fragile. And I can have you now."
She let him lift her up and press her firmly, wrapping her legs around him. Taking his head, she pressed his face into her breasts.
Erik licked and suckled the soft, fragrant skin, reveling in its downy feel. Lifting his head, he caught the unmistakable look of fear.
His scarf had slipped. The red light of the back room was dim, but it must have illuminated his sutures, as Yvette's eyes began to tear.
He dropped her unceremoniously, gathered his things and marched out of the door. Her fear must have been so great, she never sent the bouncers after him.
In want… in great need, he thought of only one element that could possibly bring the satisfaction he so desperately desired. He walked with purpose now.
Carrie.