Medusa (12 page)

“Mafalda, tell me a little about yourself.”

She shrugged elaborately, putting on a little drama, now. She took her coat off in a single, fluid motion, with just a hint of the strip tease I’d witnessed earlier that evening. She stretched out on a couch, and took another deep drink, like a swami counting ten before responding to a pupil.
 

“Oh, I don’t know, now honey . . . not a lot to tell.”
 

“Something tells me that a woman as complex and beautiful as you has to have a long story behind her.”
 

A cryptic look came across her face. “It’s hell what we women have to go through.”
 

I went over and sat across from her. I saw the start of tears glistening in her green eyes.
 

“Hey, I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
 

She smiled and blinked the tears away. “So, what about a little music?”
 

“Sure.”
 

“What do you like?”
 

“I love all kinds of music.”
 

Mafalda crossed the room to the wall opposite the bar. She picked up a remote from the top of a stereo cabinet and shuffled through about thirty disks until she found what she wanted.
 

“Here. You’ll like this, I bet.”
 

A woman with a deep, soulful voice started singing, with a piano and saxophone playing behind her. She was singing about that biggest of all mysteries, love:
 

How carelessly
 

You gave me your heart
 

And carelessly I broke it, sweetheart
 

I took each tender kiss you gave to me
 

Every kiss made you a slave to me Then carelessly
 

I told you good-bye
 

But now at night I wake up and cry
 

I wish I knew a way to find the love
 

I threw away so carelessly
 

“Billy Holiday.” I smiled. I rose and went over and stood next to her. She had showered recently, I noticed, at the Blue Bayou, no doubt. She now wore a perfume that hinted of a woman’s hidden mysteries. It was intriguing, a bit like the Scotch, though its dangers were quite different, to be sure.
 

She was standing, smiling up at me, and suddenly her eyelids drooped, and her voice became a sultry whisper. “So tell me what it is you want to know about me, honey.”
 

“Mafalda, is that your real name?”
 

“It sure is.”
 

What kind of name is that? Greek?”
 

“I don’t think so German, maybe. Something like that. My mother told me it was the name of a beautiful princess she and my father saw when he was in the military . . . somewhere in Europe.”
 

“I like it. It’s very unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever met a ‘Mafalda’ before.”
 

She smiled. “Ask me something else.”
 

I pulled out the photocopied flier that Corsack had given me. “Tell me who these men are, Mafalda.”
 

Her eyes went to the picture. For a second there was a tiny dent of confusion on the smooth brow. Then she looked at me and laughed, and it was the throaty, bawdy laugh that I had heard before, at the Blue Bayou.

“Oh, dear, why couldn’t you be for real? I had such high hopes. I’m still a fool, after all.” She went back to the bar and began refilling her drink.
 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”
 

Mafalda turned, her drink lifted, the other arm crossed underneath it. She looked amused, rather than angry.
 

“Corsack gave you that picture. He put you up to all of this, didn’t he?”
 

“He gave me the photo, yes. But no one put me up to anything. I make my own decisions. I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things.”
 

She arched an eyebrow. “Okay, like what?”
 

“What’s the story with you and Corsack? Were you childhood sweethearts or something? You seem to have quite the history together.”
 

“Sweethearts?” Another hard, long laugh escaped her. She gave me a strange look, half glare and half cool appraisal, as if she knew something I didn’t, and she was loathe to give it away. Her tone was mysterious when she continued, like a dance of veils. “Hardly. History . . . maybe, yes. We have some history, of a sort. That’s all I want to say about him.”
 

Mafalda crossed and took the picture from my hands. She turned it back toward me. “Cute, huh? It’s a couple years old. That’s my granny in the middle. She owns a little carnival funhouse out on Patreaux Island. It’s still ‘technically open,’ I suppose, but no one ever goes out there anymore. I used to do my little snake dance there as an opener . . . but I kept my costume on in those days.”
 

“Did you say funhouse?”
 

“That’s right. The old-fashioned type, you know, warped mirrors, clowns, midgets, the whole nine yards. I haven’t been out there in a long time. I’m pretty sure it’s all boarded up, now. Granny is too old to run things herself, anymore.”
 

Mafalda placed her drink on the bar. “There, Roland. Does that answer your question?”
 

I walked over and stood next to her again. I nodded at the picture which now lay on the bar. “There’s just one thing, Mafalda. The men in the pictures. Do you know their names?”
 

She turned and faced me suddenly, and our eyes locked. She raised her hand to my face. “How did you get that scar, Roland?”
 

The tips of her fingers traced the crescent of the scar lightly, from the corner of my left eye down to the corner of my mouth and back again, her fingertips ever so soft, almost not touching me at all, softer than the touch of the gentlest breeze—or of the wasp before the sting.
 

“A bad man with a knife.”
 

“Oh.”
 

I grabbed her wrists, gently, and brought her face closer to mine. “Come on, Mafalda, help me out.”
 

She smiled and arched her eyebrows, and almost whispered, “Only if you kiss me first.”
 

I drew her to me. Her perfume, her burning green eyes, the faint aroma of fifty-year-old Scotch were all there, inches away. Our lips met. We kissed, gently at first, then harder, and she put her arms around me, and there was something desperate in her touch, the longing and the need of her, but her scent was intoxicating and it was hard for me to push her away. But at last, I did.
 

“Mafalda,” I fairly panted, “first, their names.”
 

She seemed to hesitate for a second, and gave her little shrug again. She pushed her hair back, and drew a deep breath.
 

“Whew. Really, baby, I thought all the talking would come later. I don’t remember their names, honestly. They’re some of those carnival types that Granny dredges up from somewhere. They probably still help her out around the place. Why don’t you go ask them yourself . . . tomorrow?”
 

“There’s something I have to do. That’s why I need to know who these men are.”
 

She put her arms around me. “Oh, please, Roland, let’s worry about that later.”
 

I wondered if Mafalda’s momentary hesitation was from trying to remember, or trying not to tell what she knew. Her green eyes seemed to be smiling, smiling out of a secret that she was having fun keeping to herself. I took a breath and smoothed my clothes.
 

“Would you happen to know if they are still there? The big man, I mean. The really big man, with the bald head. Does he still work for your grandmother?”
 

Mafalda smiled and laughed, the girlish laugh winning out this time. “They’re probably all still out there. I’m sure, Roland, honey. Something about that old funhouse of hers, people go out there, and then they just never want to leave.”
 

“I thought you said the place was closed.”
 

“Patreaux Island still gets the occasional tourist, and Granny isn’t one to pass up a dollar.”
 

“Patreaux Island. Your name, then, is Mafalda Patreaux?”
 

She turned toward me again, and wrinkled her nose in a girlish smile. “What, interested in me at last? Yes, my last name is Patreaux, yes. My father was a Cajun. My mother . . . she was from Chicago.”
 

“Tell me more,” I said and went over to her.
 

She set her drink down and put her arms around me again.
 

“I’ll tell you everything,” she said, her eyes green fire. “Kiss me again.”
 

Our lips met again, and I knew I was falling for sure this time, and somewhere in the back of my mind a little voice was calling, but whether it was the inner voice of warning that I sometimes heard, the lost voice from the telephone line, or the voice of a Gypsy fortune teller, I could not tell, because the rushing of my own blood drowned it out, and we sank together as one down on the couch.

Chapter 14

Later that same morning, I found Tiller seated in the hotel restaurant, with a cup of black coffee and the newspaper in front of him. I ordered myself a cup, and sat down.
 

“We have some things to do today,” I said.
 

Tiller folded his newspaper and put it down. “Now you’re talking. I was beginning to think we weren’t going to do anything down here but admire the boobs on your new girlfriend. Let’s hear it.”
 

I let the remark slide. “Tiller, I want you take Corsack with you somewhere—anywhere, in fact. Make up a pretext. I want you to keep him busy while I check into Mafalda’s story. I think I might be able to find out where Fain is keeping himself.” I slid a piece of paper across the table. “That’s Corsack’s cell phone number. I’ve lined you up another rental car. It’s outside; they just dropped it off.”
 

“I’m taking the Saturn out to a place called Patreaux island, and I’m going to check out Mafalda’s story. I didn’t want to leave you without transportation. I sensed she wasn’t leveling with me.”
 

“Not sparing any expense, are you? Remember, this case is gratis.”
 

I grinned. “Haven’t you heard? I caught the biggest dognapper in Birmingham history. I’m pretty flush with cash.”
 

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I get it. You want Corsack out of your way while you sniff Fain out. Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of taking Samson Fain on without me there. I owe that son of a bitch as much as you do.”
 

“Never. There’s no way I’d cut you out when it all goes down. I just want to find out from the owners if he’s still on the scene. If he isn’t, they might just know where he lives, what he’s doing now, anything at all. Something tells me they’re going to know where he is, even if he isn’t working for them, now. They’ll damn sure know what he’s calling himself these days. Of course he won’t be using his real name, so I’m going to have to be very cautious, so as not to arouse suspicions, since I don’t have any idea who to ask about. I can’t have Corsack showing up, and interfering.”
 

“What are you thinking? Corsack’s mixed up with Fain somehow? That Mafalda knows about it?”
 

“It’s possible. Corsack just appeared out of nowhere, and somehow he knows all about our case. His story as to why he came to us is just too pat for my tastes. Then he leads us right to someone who has a connection to Fain—but, according to him, he doesn’t know any of the details of our case, just that we’re looking for the creep. He said he recognized us from the television news. Doesn’t add up. Pretty damn big coincidence, and I don’t like coincidences. There’s a lot our friend isn’t telling us, and I aim to find out why.”
 

“So what’s the deal with this weirdo funhouse?” Tiller asked.
 

“Mafalda’s grandmother owns the place. She’s pretty old now, and needs help to keep it going. I think Fain certainly has the background for that fringe type of work. He’s been a clown, a magician, and he has worked carnivals and circuses. I just want to talk to this grandmother of hers. According to Mafalda, the group picture with Fain in it is a couple years old. I want to see if our big boy is still hanging around out there, being helpful.”
 

“All right. I don’t like it, but I’ll keep Corsack out of the picture for a few hours.” Tiller scooped up the keys to his rental car, and the paper with Corsack’s cell phone number on it. “But when the time comes to take Fain down, remember. I want to be there.”
 

“Don’t worry. I want every cop in metropolitan New Orleans there when we find Fain. Maybe the National Guard, too. We take no chances this time. Once we find him, he goes down. I intend to make sure that this time, he goes down for good.”