The Man In Number 7 Read online

  Apolline sat up with a hand on her sleeping daughter. “Where will I go?” she asked.

  Holding a hand up to help Apolline out of the car, Petra pointed with her chin to the side. “Come, you will stay with us until this is all sorted out. The sun will be up soon. Sleep for now, we will talk later.” She looked over at her husband. “Domingo, you are fine with this, yes?”

  “Of course,” Domingo said as he got out of the station wagon and headed for the van. He unloaded his drums out of the van and carried them into the back door of the house. Petra picked up the sleeping child, and with Apolline following her, made her way up a narrow stairway to a small bedroom upstairs. The room was stuffy and hot. Petra nestled the girl in the bed and opened the window.

  “Some fresh air will help you sleep,” Petra closed the door behind her as she left the room.

  ◆◆◆

  In the morning an ache throbbed in Apolline’s head. Her right eye opened, but her left eyelid wouldn’t budge from the swelling. She winced from a sharp pain in her ribs as she started to roll over and decided to lie back flat. Elizabeth was sound asleep beside her. She was thankful for that. A train rattled along the tracks not far away, the rhythmic sound matching her own breathing. Her throat was dry and her stomach growled. She glanced around the small bedroom. The walls were covered with blue and purple flowers on beige paper. A multi-colored shag carpeting covered the small floor and sheer off-white curtains on the one window hung deathly still. A small night stand stood beside the bed and a narrow brown chest of drawers beside the closet. A dog barked outside and people on the street talked in a language she didn’t understand.

  The aroma of home cooking, bread and meat, wafted up the stairs and under the door into Apolline’s room. Home cooked food. How long had it been? But other questions raced through her mind as the morning sun filtered through the motionless curtains and fell across her face.

  What had she done last night? It felt like a bad dream. Surreal. Panic gripped her chest making it difficult to breathe. She held her left hand up and slowly turned the slim gold band on her ring finger. She must get home to her husband. She imagined him rolling over on the floor, soaked in blood, sitting up and calling her name. She must hurry and get back to him. He will need her there.

  A tear rolled out of her eye and across her swollen cheek. A whisper escaped her lips. “Jules, what have I done?” The question tumbled over and over in her brain. She couldn’t have murdered her husband. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It mustn’t be.

  Closing her eyes, all Apolline could see were the scarlet droplets of blood plummeting off the end of the blade in her hand to the dingy carpet below.

  Chapter 2

  June 17, 1961

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Julien sauntered out of the New Orleans jail, tipping his face up and squinting at the late afternoon sun. He danced a little jig and grinned as the warm rays licked his skin. His eyes were wild dots of coal and his teeth were as yellow as an old dog’s. He wore a croc’s tooth on a leather cord around his tattooed neck, and the scar of its bite on his left arm. He didn’t see himself as evil, but necessary in God’s plan to thin out the population one bitch at a time. He sniffed the air like a coon dog, smelling the left-over traces of a mid-day storm, the way it washed the air clean.

  Six years he’d been locked up. Six years he thought about what his brother had done to him. Six years was a long time. But now he was a free man again. He felt at home in his old grimy tee shirt, tattered jeans, and worn soft leather shoes. Not to mention fifty dollars and some change in his pocket. It was a good day for Julien Gale Dubois.

  He realized he needed a plan, and nothing helped him think like a shot of whiskey. Julien made his way along the old familiar streets of the city. He inhaled the scents of spicy creole food and urine stench that intermingled and hung in the air. Whiskey tempted his nose and lured him into the doorway of an old corner bar. The door was open, and the barkeeper had an inviting laugh and a cordial smile. Julien shoved his hand in his trousers pocket and rolled the change through his fingers. He strode across the threshold and leaned against the antique mahogany bar. “I take me a whiskey,” Julien said, flipping the change on the counter. He didn’t know how long his cash would need to hold out, so he wasn’t touching that yet.

  The bartender glanced down at the coins and raised an eyebrow. “Gonna’ cost ya double that, you wanna’ drink in here.” He wiped a shot glass dry and slid it onto the shelf.

  A pesky fly buzzed around Julien’s head. He swatted at it then angled his chin down to the floor. Squinting his eyes, Julien shot quick glances around the room, trying to not attract attention to himself. He was good at staying in the shadows, being unseen. He licked his parched lips and locked his gaze on the tip can next to the trumpet player in the corner. He was mighty thirsty. Six years without whiskey was a long time.

  “Here,” the bartender said as he scooted a glass of whiskey in front of Julien. “Y’all look like ya need this mo’ than I need anotha’ dolla’.” His smile faded as he narrowed his eyes. “It’s a slow aftanoon and the sun’s too hot today. Ya drink up and beat it, ya hear?” The bulky black bartender had a look that Julien understood.

  Looks said a lot in the French Quarter. Julien made no mistake about that. He threw back the whiskey in one swift gulp, wiped his chin with the back side of his hand, and nodded his thanks. Shoving both hands in his worn jeans pockets, Julien stepped back out into the sharp New Orleans sun. Sweat seeped into the collar of his dull green tee shirt and soaked the leather cord around his neck.

  Not much had changed in six years. The neighborhoods looked the same. Julien whistled a cheery tune as he made his way to the edge of town. He crossed the street and strolled into the small trailer court where his brother lived. Julien banged on the door of a silver home in space seven. “Lucky seven,” he snickered and spit on the gravel beside the cinderblock step. An older man in baggy trousers and a dirty white tee shirt that barely covered his barrel stomach, opened the door.

  “What ya’ll want?”

  “Jules Dubois,” Julien furrowed his brow and tried to see past the man into the narrow living space.

  “Never heard of ‘em,” the big man grunted.

  “He use to live here,” Julien spit again.

  “Well he ain’t no more,” the man bellowed and slammed the door shut. Julien strolled past the other trailers, but there was no sign of his brother’s truck. His brother may have moved, but Julien had the nose of a bloodhound. He coaxed a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it taking a deep, chest-expanding drag, let out a huff and headed back to town. He needed another drink in the worst way.

  Six years since he stood on these streets. Six years since he had him some…Julien smiled and rubbed his crotch. He thought of her lovely brown eyes. She had danced all around him, swinging those sexy hips in a tight mini skirt. Then he lost control when she waved her tattooed tits in front of his face. He knew what she wanted.

  Stepping off the curb, Julien waltzed his way to Bourbon Street. That was where he saw her. Yeah, he gave her what she wanted. Six years ago. And then he took what he wanted. Maybe he was rougher than she let on she liked.

  Bitches.

  His eyes searched the ladies with their layers of beads, plunging necklines, and excessive make-up, drinking and dancing in the streets. God, he loved this town. He watched for that girl with the tattooed tits. Maybe she wouldn’t remember him now and he could finish the job. Leave her for the gators after he was done. It’s what he was going to do with her then, but she’d got away. Ain’t no police find a girl that’s been snagged by a ‘gator. He arrived at the familiar stone bar just as the sun started its descent. Perfect timing, Julien thought.

  Hurricane Bar was a familiar dive, along with the joint beside it that sported dancing girls all night long. Whiskey was in order first. He took a long drag off his cigarette and flinched his jaw when he saw Sammy behind the bar. It was time to settle an old sco
re.

  Julien pushed his way through the crowd that was increasing by the minute. Sweat, cheap perfume, and women. It caused his nostrils to flare. Bracing his arms on the edge of the bar, he held his face down so as not to be noticed. “Whiskey,” Julien commanded. And whiskey he got. He reached for the glass but Sammy grabbed Julien’s arm first. The bartender’s arms were solid tattoos, and stout as a leg of lamb. The two men remained motionless for a moment. Sammy spit on the floor beside him.

  “Damn, Jules, where you been?” Sammy asked.

  “’Round,” Julien mumbled, the corner of his mouth twitched in a slight sneer. He jerked his hand loose from Sammy’s grasp. He snatched the whiskey and downed it.

  “Ain’t seen ya’ll in two year or more,” Sammy stepped back, crossing his arms over his heavy chest. “You get wed and now you’s too good for us’n?”

  “Wed...” Julien swayed as if he was dancing to the jazz music that swirled around his head.

  Sammy leaned forward to get a better look, then his eyes widened as his face hardened. “You ain’t Jules.”

  “You’s smart man, Sammy,” Julien spit on the floor.

  “I thought you’s in prison for rape,” Sammy glared.

  Pulling another cigarette out of its soft case and sliding it into his mouth, Julien grinned with gritted teeth as he touched a match and took a drag. “Was. Now I out and lookin’ fo’ my brudda,” Julien rolled his head back and forth, popping his neck. “He ain’t livin’ in his trailer no more. I figure y’all knows where he at.”

  “Well ya figured wrong,” Sammy huffed, turned, and scooted over to serve another customer farther down the bar.

  “Married, eh?” Julien muttered as he swiveled around and leaned his back against the bar, scanning the women who passed by in front of him. He inhaled deeply and grabbed one on the ass. “Y’all smell mighty fine, cher,” he hissed like a slimy serpent.

  The woman wasn’t impressed and slapped Julien’s face. He held his hand to his wounded cheek, licked his lips and held his gaze on her as she made her way through the crowd. He might have to have some of that later on. Her ass was tight, and it made him hard. But for now, he had business to take care of. He had to find his twin, the yella’-bellied scum who ratted him out to the police.

  Jules always was the weaker one. When their Papa got drunk and came after them with the belt, or worse, it was always Jules that took the brunt of the beatings. Julien learned to run and hide. He called it self-preservation.

  It was time to sniff out that pansy-ass of a brother.

  Pushing his way past the crowd, Julien strutted down the lively street. He paused and leaned against a light post and watched the passersby. Where had his brother gone? And who was this new bride Sammy mentioned? He and his twin brother may not have gotten along, but to hide a wife from him? That was low, even for Jules.

  Following some musicians strolling down Bourbon Street, Julien had a dance in his step as he laughed to himself and grinned at two lovely young ladies under a corner streetlight. “Laissez les bons temps rouler, ladies,” he called out to them in a sing song voice. But they weren’t interested in letting the good times roll. They turned up their noses and strutted in the opposite direction. Julien shrugged his shoulders and laughed even louder to the music and madness that swam in his mind.

  ◆◆◆

  Morning light trickled through the tree leaves onto Julien’s slack face as he lay dozing on the grass under a large tree. A dog barked a few yards away reminding him where he was. He peeled one eye open, then the other, wiped his parched mouth and rolled onto his side to glance around. The city was fairly hushed except for a bit of traffic. He sat up and ran his fingers through his matted hair. “Damn,” Julien mumbled, “I need me some coffee. Dat or whiskey.” He arched his back, stood up, and yawned.

  Pedestrians stared at Julien as he staggered down the street shaking his head and talking to himself. “Of course, I gotta’ go to da po’ boy shop where Jules work. Why I not think of dat?” He cut across a street and picked up his pace to the restaurant.

  A tall skinny teenage boy with pale skin and slick black hair that spilled down over his eyes, swept the front walk of Nick’s Po’Boy Restaurant. It was an old narrow stone building, a sign on the window read home of the best po’ boy sandwiches in the city. And Jules was the finest cook they had. Julien leaned against the crumbled stone wall lighting a cigarette as he eyed the young man.

  “Hey kid, ya seen my brudda? He look just like me,” Julien said on an exhale of smoke.

  The kid stopped sweeping and eyed the dirty man who smelled worse than he looked. “Jules?” he asked.

  “Dat right, where Jules? Where be my brudda?” Julien took another long drag and let it pull down deep into his lungs.

  “You ain’t Jules?” the kid shook his head, mumbled to himself, then went back to sweeping the walkway.

  Julien spit on the ground. “Can ya’ll read? What I say? I be Julien. Now where my brudda?”

  “I thought you and yo’ wife moved west,” the kid kept his head down.

  “West?” Julien said as he took a step closer. “Dat don’t tell me where to find my kin. Who know where Jules at?” He took another step and blew the cigarette smoke into the young man’s face. The kid coughed and stepped backwards.

  “I don’t know. Ask Jimmy. He in the kitchen.” He pointed his chin toward the inside of the small building.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Julien tossed the lit cigarette at the boy’s feet and stepped inside. “Jimmy, ya heah?”

  “In da kitchen,” the white-haired black man called out. He froze for a moment with a cold look on his face when he saw Julien. “What you doin’ here? I thought you was behind bars.”

  “Is dat anyway to treat an ol’ friend?” Julien held his arms out wide.

  “You got no friends here, Julien Dubois,” Jimmy tightened his grip on the large butcher knife in his right hand.

  “Uh, uh, uh, I don’t want no troubles, I just lookin’ for my brudda. I understand he went an’ got married while I was away. Don’t I got a right to see my new kin?”

  “I doubt she even know you exist. You was dead to Jules. He said you was a very bad man.” Jimmy huffed out his broad chest and took a step toward Julien. “You best leave before I call da po po.”

  Julien retreated and waved his hands up in the air. “Hey now, I ain’t done nuttin’ wrong. Just lookin’ for my famly,” he swayed back and forth like a skinny tree in a strong wind, unable to just stand still. “I on my way, but y’all mark my word, I find my brudda and his bride. I needs to welcome her to da famly.”

  As he stepped past the corner of the building, a scrawny black man with more gaps in his mouth than teeth, wiped his hands on his greasy apron and nodded at Julien to come his way. Julien danced over and leaned toward the kitchen helper. “What y’all got?” Julien asked.

  “I know where your bro is. But what in it for me?” He held out a skinny hand with long bony fingers.

  Julien rubbed his stubbly chin as he stared at the man, sizing him up and down. “How I know I can trust ya?”

  “I worked here with Jules. I remember him. His pretty young wife too, and dat baby.”

  “Baby?” Julien’s eyes lit up as a smile slithered across his face. “My brudda’s a papa?”

  “It weren’t his. But he married her right after it was born.” The man spit on the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Y’all want to know or not?”

  Julien dug in his pocket and held out a twisted up five dollar bill. “Dis all I got ‘til I get me some work.”

  The man snatched the bill out of Julien’s hand and shoved it into a pocket under his apron. “Winnemucca, Nevada. He went to work for some casino café.” The man hacked as if he had a hairball, then disappeared back into the sandwich shop.

  “Winne…what?” Julien muttered as he meandered down the sidewalk. “I guess I be goin’ to da desert.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, crossed the s
treet and walked into the Greyhound bus terminal. He lied about how much money he had. But then Julien always lied.

  Chapter 3

  Boise, Idaho

  Apolline woke with the dawn after pulling out of a nasty dream where she stood over her husband’s broken and bloody body. She rubbed the sweat off her brow and prayed to Mother Mary to be released from the dreams. She hated closing her eyes at night and returning to the day she stopped the physical pain. Now if she could only stop the rest of it.

  On the other hand, the mattress on Petra’s guest bed was soft in all the right places. Apolline felt safe here, hidden away in the upstairs of a Basque home. She went downstairs only to eat and use the restroom. She was terrified of what would happen if she stepped outside into the world again. She heard the rustle of Petra downstairs in the kitchen as she slipped out of bed and pulled on her robe. The morning conjured memories from her own childhood. Waking up to the sound of her mother fixing an early breakfast. Clanking of dishes, aromas from food baking in the oven or sizzling on the stovetop.

  She leaned over her sleeping daughter to gaze out the bedroom window. The sky was a soft blue with just a wisp of clouds. But the clear day promised her nothing. Her stomach rumbled and she wanted coffee.

  Rounding the corner into the kitchen, Apolline drew in a large breath. Petra was checking her biscuits in the oven and turned at the sound of her houseguest entering the room.

  “Good morning, Apolline. It is good to see you up,” Petra wiped the flour off her hands and onto her apron.

  “I am sorry we have been here so long,” Apolline eased into a chair at the kitchen table.

  “You have only been here four days, that is not so long, and you are looking better. The swelling is gone from your face,” Petra poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of Apolline. “I wondered if you would want to get out? Maybe even look for work?”