The Client

X - Fear and Loathing in New Orleans

           

I caught a break the next day when I got a call from Marcus. And damnit, I deserved one.

"Hey man," I answered, smiling. "You could have just walked across the hall. That fitness thing you're doing not working out for you?"

He laughed. "I'm not in my office, obviously. Look, you know how you've been trying to get in touch with that Brad Bailey kid? For your murder case?"

"Yeah. His mom won't let me anywhere near him. Says he has nothing to do with Amanda's death and isn't talking to anyone. Why?"

"Right," he grunted. "I know her; she's a piece of work. Anyway, she'll be out of town this weekend. Will Bailey's a friend of mine and says you can talk to Brad if you want."

"Wow," I said, feigning incredulity. "Couch life ain't all it's cracked up to be. Trust me on this. Does he have a death wish?"

"He must. Some weeks I can't even take a shit without my wife's permission, let alone make decisions about the kids. I think they've been fighting about it. Don't say I said that, by the way. It's between us."

"No problem. And thanks. Set it up for me."

"You got it. Gotta run. Holler at you later."

That was a promising break. Brad was the closest person to Amanda at the time of her death. Although the sheriff's department had confirmed his alibi, his mother had as-of-yet refused to let anyone question him. I needed to find out why.

That reminded me of another loose end I needed to tie up: Amanda's phone records. The investigators should have requested them from her carrier as part of the murder investigation, but since they believed they had the killer in custody, they hadn't done it. I don't think there was anything sinister about it—they were just being lazy. The Court had granted me a subpoena but I was still waiting on the records to be delivered.

I heard my phone buzz and a text dropped down onto the screen. Wassup? Eddie's text read. I'd been trying to get in touch with him, so I called him right then.

"Hey Eddie," I said once he picked up. "What's up?"

"I can't call it," he answered, his words running together.

"I hear ya. Look, I got another favor to ask."

"Aight."

"This is gonna sound strange, but I need your help getting into a whorehouse in New Orleans."

He chuckled. "I ain't know you got down like that, Jack."

I laughed back. "I don't. It's not like that." I debated whether to tell him about Sarah or keep that information a secret. I settled on the former. A good friend once told me: when in doubt, default to the truth.

"Eddie, my daughter disappeared two years ago. I think she was kidnapped and is now being held at an apartment complex in New Orleans. I think the guy I was asking you about, Rabbit, brought her there. I'd go by myself, but I have a weird feeling they wouldn't accept me with open arms."

"You serious wit dis shit?" Eddie replied. "Damn man. Fucked up."

"I know, man," I said apologetically. "Sorry to drop this on you, and I wouldn't ask if it wasn't this important. There's a gang down there—the Young Mafia. They control Hawthorne Heights. I just want to see Sarah with my own eyes, Eddie. Then we'll get out of there and let the authorities do the rest. If you don't want to do it, it's fine. I know I'm asking a lot."

"Aight," he said.

"All right, you'll do it?"

"Yeah I got ya, Jack."