NEW ORLEANS LOUISIANA
The thirty-year old Irish whiskey wrapped itself around the ice in Jacques Cartier's glass. He drank alone these days; safer for everyone around him that way, he reasoned. The First Street mansion was more prison than home since... since he... since she... Jacques, known as Jack to his friends, when he did have friends, pushed the thoughts out of his mind and sat down.
He often thought of confiding in Lucius and Astrid to see if they could help him, but he feared they would fall victim to it just like Madame Lefaunue and the girls at the brothel.
None of the books had any dust on them lately. Sir Richard F. Burton's unabridged translation of the Thousand --and-One Arabian Nights had used up a full month of his lonely nights and thirty bottles of the best liquor he could find in New Orleans. Tonight Tsun Tsu's Art of War would stimulate his mind while the alcohol numbed it.
He was on page 75 when the knocking at the door interrupted him. He was only half way through his second glass, so finding his feet was not terribly difficult. Controlling the urge to take the gun out of the desk and fire through the door was much harder. The part of his mind that said it might be someone in trouble finally won out and he pulled the bolt back to see who dared disturb him.
Carol, his ex-wife, stood out under his porch light, not bothering to swat at the insects that circled her. He knew she was only thirty, but she looked sixty; her red hair streaked with gray, mascara running down her tear-stained cheeks, her dress hanging on her now gaunt body as if she had lost fifty pounds in a month. He almost felt sorry for the scarecrow she had become, but he remembered what had happened between them.
"Well, well, well," he growled, making no effort to hide his feelings. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Did someone drop a house on your sister?"
Carol didn't wait to be invited in, but threw her arms around him and sobbed, her face pressing the silk of his smoking jacket. Jack didn't know how to respond so he stood dumbly with his hands hanging at his sides.
Her sobbing continued for minutes; minutes that seemed like hours to him but seconds to her, before she spoke without raising her head. "Jack, in the name of everything holy, tell me the truth: Did you ever really love me?"
Jack was completely confused but answered honestly, with a single word: "Yes."
She turned her head to stare up at his face. "Then please, take me to your bed now!"
He pulled his hand up under her arms and shoved her away from his body. She might have fallen backwards if she hadn't had a death-grip on his jacket. She was obviously going to say something more, so he put his hand gently over her mouth. His eyes fixed on hers like she was some hostile witness he was grilling in court.
"I know you too well, Carol," he said bluntly. "Either you have the clap and you came to infect me or you're pregnant by someone other than Henry and you want to accuse me so you can draw child support."
She slapped his hand off of her face and screamed "Henry's dead! And you will be to if you don't take me to your bed before Rex gets here!"
Jack's face told her he was totally confused. She pulled away from him and proceeded into the living room, to the loveseat she had chosen nine years ago, sat down with her feet flat on the floor, knees together and hands resting on her thighs as if handcuffed. Jack saw that her hands were trembling.
"Looks like you need a drink to stop the dee-tees," he muttered.
"It's not the dee-tees," Carol grimaced. "I've been dry for over a year. I'm scared... for you."
Jack poured a club soda for her and handed it to her before seating himself in his favorite chair with his whiskey glass refilled.
"OK," he said blandly, "I DO want to know about Henry being dead, but before you tell me, let me remind you that I did try to reconcile with you BEFORE that asshole came into your life. Remember? I told you all about my affair with Lucy and begged you to forgive me."
Carol's eyes were fixed on the floor but she nodded. Jack had more to say, so she raised the glass to her lips and sipped the soda.
"Remember all the counseling sessions with Doctor Taylor, darling?" he said sarcastically.
Carol choked on her drink and coughed, almost falling forward.
"Yeah," Jack said. "I kinda thought you'd remember that man-hating piece of shit. Now, tell me about Henry."
Carol composed herself enough to begin: "He had an affair..." She paused to wipe her face with the back of her wrist.
"I'm not surprised," Jack interrupted. "Didn't I tell you a man who would leave his wife for you would leave you for the next cunt he wanted to fuck?"
Carol's eyes were downcast again. "Yes, you were right. Anyway, we had a big fight, he stomped out and I decided to get drunk and find a man to have sex with, the worst man who'd have me, just to get even with Henry. I picked the wrong bar."
A YEAR EARLIER, BAKERSFIELD CALIFORNIA.
The band was protected by chicken wire, or the tequila bottle would have sent the lead-singer-slash-double-D-set-of-tits to the hospital. The remnants of its contents, the worm already gone, splashed on her as the bottle shattered on the floor. The band paused for a second then resumed their feeble attempt to cover "Happiest Girl In the Whole U.S.A."
Carol wasn't even pretty with closing time an hour away: The lethal shrink-wrap dress wasn't working its magic and the "fuck me" five inch heals couldn't make her legs look pretty when gold label tequila had released her inner bitch.
"What does a girl have to do to get picked up in this joint?" She shouted. She looked around to see that all the men had become very interested in their wives and all the wives were cuddling their men. The petty officer wearing his white navy uniform, and his wife in her blue denim miniskirt and cowgirl boots, the only couple on the dance floor, had resumed their tango-two-step-watermelon-crawl that passed for a dance.
"Great," Carol thought out loud. "I need to get screwed and I pick a bar having couples night."
"Yeah, me too, Red," said a soprano voice behind her. "'Happens like that sometimes."
Carol snapped her head around to see a biker babe pulling out a chair and joining her at the table. She might have been Carol's age, but it was hard for the red head to tell in the dim light. The woman's hair was dark, streaked with gray, her make-up minimal. Tattoos covered her arms down to her fingernails and half way up the left side of her neck. Not an inch of skin below her chin was left in its natural color. Her breasts bulged under the boy-beater tank top and her jeans looked like they'd been spray painted onto her. Carol thought this woman might be a lesbian in the wrong bar and decided on a pre-emptive strike.
"Well, lady, before you start you should know that I like men 'cause..."
