~ Carmalita

>~~ Brett ~~<

(436 words, 2 minutes read time.)

That’s an easy one! I wasn’t expecting to find Carmalita, my third (or was she my fourth?) wife on Royal Street in New Orleans. At my age, it’s hard to keep track of them anymore, but I know there were seven. Three in my early years, one in the middle, and three who were basic arm candy, sweet on other things. I like to think they cared for more than my money.

I was doing a lot of side work for the FBI back then, interrogating white supremacists and Klan members, setting up and monitoring wiretaps. You know, basic clandestine operations. Keeping the Bureau informed and myself out of trouble. All filler work until my big Mardi Gras payday for collecting Mob dirt on the Krewes.

She was tall and lanky. Dark, with that smooth, sly Creole look. Like she might be hustling cards, fortunes, snake oil, or any dark con you might imagine, but miss. You would buy into all of it all and not miss a dime. She also worked elaborate confidence games as though playing checkers, plying tricks on the side, all only for high rollers.

I would watch her on the street below, amused, from my second-story flat. I lived and rented there, my office space when in the Quarter, safe above Descanso’s Antique and Curio Shop. The store was also a front for drop exchanges.

I often noticed her, Carmalita, Carmel to friends, Carmy, as her intimates would plead, having coffee outside at Bangle, the coffee shop across the street. Almost always with someone new, always someone male.

Easy to see how my interest in this stylish, rather exotic woman grew. I found my attention to work details slipping. Not a lot, but enough for my handler to notice and ask “It’s that woman across the street, isn’t it?” I must have blushed, as he added, “stay away from her. She’s big trouble.”

Which turned me on even more than my simple voyeuristic compulsion ever could. I was hooked and immediately found myself designing ways to meet her. Before the weekend we were having coffee, surprising each other with all we had in common. The weekend came upon us as no surprise as one together.

We married the following Valentine’s Day, honeymooned in Paris. It was to be a casual working honeymoon but worked out to be a casualty honeymoon as a firefight with some right-wing Turks took her away.

>~~ Brett Cavanaugh P.I. ~~<

Piedmont Press (2019)

-dalton

371/408/436