Hotel Heiress: New Orleans

"I see," Byron said, "like do drugs in New York City."

"Well, that just happened by accident. I don't normally do drugs and the few I've done was no big deal. At least I'll never truly be an addict."

"So you want to dance right now? I don't know shit about waltzing."

"We don't have to but everyone's gone over there."

"My God, is it possible Alma knows how to waltz?"

"I don't think so. Maybe she hasn't arrived at the party. Look, some folks are just arriving."

We looked into the direction of the entrance where costumed and masked guests were pouring into the house. It was now about nine in the evening and these people were an hour late. Among the guests I noticed Private Detective Stone Martin. I had the ability to remember body types and faces and I instantly knew it was him despite his costume and mask. His eyes searched everywhere but he also maintained a look of collected coolness and reserve. He didn't speak to anyone and made his way into the foyer.

It was then when I decided to tell Byron about him.

"Byron, there' something I must tell you," I said to him, "it's about the other night. After we made love and while you were sleeping, I sought a Private Investigator here in town."

"Say what?"

"Yes. I honestly think it's too much for us to do something like this. We're no professional detectives. We can't just do this type of thing without help. His name is Detective Stone Martin and he's right here at the party. He's right over there. He's looking at us."

"Why is he here?"

"He's already done some detective work and he has learned that Alma is not even living in New Orleans. She's living somewhere in Cajun country outside the city. She's got Ron somewhere over there. There were rumors that she was going to show up for the ball tonight."

"She's here?"

"No. I haven't seen here. I've been keeping an eye out for her. There's no sign of her or Ron here."

The Detective approached and he shook my hand. He also shook Byron's hand.

"I'm Detective Stone," he said to Byron, "and by now you must know why I'm here."

"To get that Alma woman who's been causing so much trouble," he said.

"She has kidnapped a man and that's a crime."

"That's not her only crime. She killed a woman in cold blood. And I know she's killed other people."

"And how would you know that?"

"She used to be my lover."

"Detective, everyone's dancing in the ballroom. I think it's best to stay here to keep our eyes out for Alma."

"Good thinking."

The next half hour was spent by the buffet table, eating and drinking and "staking out" for Alma. By then, many of the dancers had returned to the foyer and grand salon to socialize and drink. We were almost losing hope when we noticed that a woman escorted by two men entered the manor. She fit Alma's profile perfectly. She was a short, tan skinned woman and the men looked strong and swift. Stone leaned against my face to whisper:

"Isn't that her?"

"Yes," I said, "I'm pretty sure of it."

He sprang into action at once. He approached them while Byron and I stood against the wall by the door and watched. He arrested their walk and he showed them his badge and spoke to them.

I watched as Alma's mouth opened wide and she didn't seem pleased. You can tell she looked afraid and angry even with her mask concealing her face. At that moment, the two strong men who were with her pushed Detective Stone aside and ran towards me and Byron.

"Get them," Alma ordered.

The men grabbed me and Byron and we were locked in their tight grip. We tried to break free and struggled but it was of no use. The men took us, running across the floor and then Alma ran with them. They took us out of the mansion, down the steps, in full view of the horrified guests. Detective Stone screamed at Alma and urged someone to call the police. Moving quickly, the men and Alma took us inside a black limousine. Inside, there were two other mobster friends, dressed in dark suits. The limo was pretty dark and the lights were dim but the feeling of danger was in the air. This could be my very own final chapter of life. They looked at us with a grin.

"Here she is, muchachos," Alma said, "This is the rich bitch I was telling you about. I can't believe my luck. I thought you were in New York."

"You're not going to get away with this," I said to her, "by now police have issued a dragnet and they'll be coming after you and your crooked friends."

"Shut up, puta," she said to me.

I knew enough Spanish living in California to know that "puta" was a really wicked insult meaning "whore" or "bitch". I spat at her face, the anger that had been boiling inside me finally ready to explode.

"You're going to pay for that," Alma said to me, slapping me.

"What have you done to Ron?"

"Oh, you're worried about him are you? That's pretty interesting because you're not even his wife."

"Ron and Linda are my friends. I came here after being released from prison because of you. You killed Felicia."

"I thought it was pretty funny how you went to jail for that."

"You're a psychotic bitch," Byron said to her, "this girl has done you no harm."

"Byron? Is that you?" Alma said getting a closer look at him.

"Yeah it's me," he said, "and you've really gone "loca". Now you've kidnapped two more people. What the hell is your problem?"

"It's not good to see you, Byron, especially knowing that you and this white bitch have something going on. You two fuck buddies or what? Did she make you her boy toy? Did she promise you to get you an acting career?"

"Me and her are none of your business, Alma. Let us go. This girl's right. You're a wanted criminal and they're looking for you. That guy really was a P.I. and cops here in town have been informed about you."

"Yeah, well, I'm taking us to a place no one can find us in a million years. It's way out in the swamp."

"And pray tell what are you going to do with us there?" Byron said.

"Oh, you'll see," she replied with a grin.

I tried not to look afraid but the truth was I was petrified. She was obviously going to kill me.

The limo driver remained a total mystery. I couldn't see him well and all I could see was his back. He looked like he was probably one of Alma's Mafia gangster friends. He was driving the limo pretty fast and cutting through traffic as swiftly as possible to get out of the city. Before long, we were on a long road that led out of New Orleans and into God knew where.

* * * * *

Cypress Island was as far removed from civilization as I thought was possible. Lake Martin was the major body of water here, a vast, swampy bayou that seemed to stretch over a dark, foreboding wilderness. A grey mist shrouded the ground, and it was difficult to see the road ahead. The limo driver seemed to know this wild landscape well and remained on course, following a dirt road that seemed to go on for miles, deeper and deeper into the bayou forest. Cypress trees grew everywhere and many tangled brush. The road disappeared and the night's darkness enveloped us. I was scared.

The limo came to a stop.

Alma was holding a gun and at gunpoint she made us step out of the limo. Her mobster friends were keeping an eye out, as if expecting us to suddenly make a run for it. I could hardly see a thing. There was moonlight and in the soft silvery gleam that fell, I saw that we were standing by the little shore of a lake. Anchored to the shore was a riverboat or rather a pale ghost of a former operational paddlewheel riverboat. There it stood, eerily bathed in the moonlight, its color was a dark, smoky grey and it looked so old and dilapidated that it looked as if it could collapse on to the waters at any moment.

"That's going to be your newest prison, bitch," Alma said, "only this time, you'll never get out of it."

Her burly gangster friends in suits suddenly pushed us and walked us to the riverboat. Inside there was a horrible, fetish stench, like a nauseous mix of incense, nicotine, excrement and semen. The place was dark and only a few lanterns on the ground provided some light. There were no furnishings and no color everywhere.

In some of the deserted cabin rooms and the salon, there were ponchos and old blankets spread out on the wooden floor. I figured this was her crack-house where she and her criminal buddies enjoyed sex and drugs. Here in this skeletal riverboat, there was nothing but hard floor which was cracked and broken in some parts. The promenade deck looked intact, and it was strangely beautiful in the glow of the moonlight, the deck commanding a view of the lake and the bayou nearby.

We were taken to the nether regions of the riverboat. We descended down a flight of stairs that spiraled downward into darkness. The smell of feces was stronger here and there was also a very frightening, abysmal sense here. Would this be my tomb and Byron's?

Alma's gangster friends carried lanterns to guide us down the stairs and on to the floor. Here we were possibly under the water of the lake and you could almost smell the water. I distinctly heard rats scuttling about. Alma said something in Spanish which I did not understand but her tone was strong and I suspected she was giving the men some orders.

"You're going to Hell for this Alma," Byron said to her.

"And even if I do," Alma said, "at least I'll have the satisfaction of having had fun on earth first. Muchachos, chain them up against the wall."

The men had honest-to-goodness chains which they used to bind Byron and I against the walls. It seemed as if it would take one big burst for the walls to crack and for water to pour in. Alma's no-good buddies had taken our guns. From the moment they had forced us into the limo, they had seized them.

We were standing, chained to the wall, Byron and me, looking at our captors and trying not to look afraid. Byron was so strong, so firm. He didn't show any sign of fear but I wondered if he felt as scared as I was. I had already turned pale and wanted to faint.

"You'll be getting a visitor tomorrow," Alma said to us.

She laughed in malicious pleasure and she and the two gangsters returned up the stairs to the deck of the riverboat......

* * * * * * * *

The visitor turned out to be Ron.

He was dressed in a white, torn long-sleeved shirt (the sleeves looked as if they had been ripped) and some dark brown slacks that looked old and used, as if they had been the only pair of clothes he had been wearing for over a year. He looked defeated and dispirited, nothing like the energetic, strong, proud man I had met in New York. His hair looked almost grey. He had not lost much weight, and his body was strong-looking but it did look lean and as if he had been under a lot of strain. He barely had the energy to look up at me. Alma had him in a leash which she quickly removed. The same two gangsters that had chained us to the wall were with her again.

"Remember her?" Alma said to Ron, pointing at me.

Ron looked up and his facial expression turned to one of surprise.

"Valerie," he said.

"Ron," I said, moving against my chains.

"Reunited and it feels so good," Alma said in her malicious joking manner, "Ok, boys, chain him up with the rest of this trash."

"You're the trash, Alma," Byron said, his voice marked with anger.

"Still showing spirit and courage are we, you worthless ni-"

"Shut up. I swear I'd like to kill you right this instant."

Alma laughed.

"There's no way out for all of you. You'll be in here so long that you'll start going crazy with starvation. Then you'll die. I'm going to feed your dead bodies to Hugo."

"Who's Hugo?" I said.

"He's a big old alligator that Alma has been feeding with pieces of meat and by that I mean the corpses of men and women she and her friends have killed, innocent folks who stay at an inn nearby."

"Shut your trap. So listen up. I'll be back down here in a couple of weeks. If you guys are still alive, we're going to shoot you and you'll still be Hugo's lunch, even if you're alive."

"Fucking bitch," Ron said to her, "I don't know why even got involved with you. If I had known you were a sick, evil devil –"

"Oh shut up. You were with me because of the drugs we shared and the sex and you loved it."

"Yeah, well I wish I hadn't."

Alma laughed and her gangster friends joined in. They went back up the stairs to the deck of the boat, leaving us behind, chained to our fate..........

When it was high noon, the same thing always happened; a swarm of mosquitoes that came from the shoots above and from cracks and openings on the walls of the riverboat stormed inside, making a hellish buzzing sound that drove me nuts. They would fly around us and we would try to fight them off by moving our bodies and struggling in our chains.

We lost the concept of time, the three of us, Byron, Ron and I. We only knew it was day when the swamp mosquitoes attacked us and night when it was eerily quiet and we could hear all kinds of moans and animal sounds coming from the swamp. This was hell. I can honestly say I've been there. I longed even for the comfort of my little jail cell back in New York City, which was a palace compared to this nightmarish place.

To keep our sanities, Byron, Ron and I had conversations, long-winded conversations about our lives, about our beliefs and about our past. Ron had played football in high school and some college and Byron had played basketball. Me, I had only played tennis and polo. Byron was Southern Baptist. Ron was an agnostic and his wife Linda was a Neo-Hippie Pagan. Me, I had grown up in a far too secular home and so I wasn't spiritual or religious in any sense. Since there looked to be no future for us, we couldn't discuss future plans. My hope was that the Private Eye I had hired, Stone Martin, would come to the rescue, he and New Orleans police. So far, there was no indication that this was happening. Maybe it was hard for them to locate this particular swamp. I told Ron about the P.I. and that also seemed to fill him with hope.

When Alma and her henchmen returned, they found us alive. We were pale from lack of sunlight and we had lost some weight. It had been too difficult for any of us to sleep so our eyes were tired and bloodshot.

"You guys are a lot of fun," Alma said, "I figured you'd be alive. Now we can have some real fun."

"Alma, look," Ron said to her, his voice rough, "don't do this. Don't add another crime to your list. Why don't you just let us go."

"You'd all love that and you couldn't think I was that stupid. You guys would tell the cops about me and I'll be in jail for life."

"I wanted to make a deal with you," Ron said," that's what I was talking about. I'm rich. Valerie is too. We can give you money in exchange for our freedom."

"Oh, no," Alma said, "I'm comfortable here in Cajun Country. I don't need any more money. I'm a Mafia princess almost. I want you guys to die at my pleasure. So this is what we're going to do. We'll let you loose and we will give you about half hour to run out of here. It's like Hide and Seek in the Bayou."

"That's always a good game," one of her gangster friends said.

I had a better look at them in the clarity of day. They were all Hispanic, their skins tanned and bronze looking, save for one burly white man who looked like he had been born and raised in the South. They were all obviously in some kind of ethnic Latin Mafia.

They released us from our chains and Byron, Ron and I raced up the stairs that led to the deck of the riverboat. Our hearts were racing, too, our blood pumping, filling us with adrenaline. We knew we didn't have a chance. These evil-doers knew the bayou a lot better than us and no matter how far we ran or where we went, they would be sure to find us. There was also the matter of that alligator Alma mentioned lurking around the swamp. I didn't know what to believe was more dangerous, the predatory alligator who could kill us or the wicked Mafiosos who were going to be hunting us down. They were also as much animal as the alligator.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Ron said, as we ran out into the unknown.

The swamp was vast, sprawling before us like some huge naturally constructed labyrinth of tangled underbrush, swamp water and cypresses. Even the ground off the waters was wet and spongy beneath our feet. It felt like we would sink into it like quicksand at any moment. We ran, o God did we run, because our lives depended on it.

I don't know what Byron and Ron were thinking but all the while I was thinking that perhaps we could outrun them and hide somewhere just long enough to make them stop searching for us. Then we could run back to the city and report our experience to authorities. But at the same time, hearing Alma's hyena-like laugh and the approaching feet of her henchmen made me want to despair.

We were doomed in the bayou.

We ran for about half an hour although it felt like an eternity. We crossed a thick bayou forest, and we felt that we had really lost Alma and her men after we didn't hear any sounds coming from behind us. And then it happened. We heard gun shots, lots of them, followed by laughter and swearing in Spanish.

We turned behind us to see that Alma's men were wielding the guns Byron and I had brought to New Orleans. They were firing at us. Somehow, they were fast on their feet, coming at us like an invading guerilla army troop. They had changed clothes somehow, and they were dressed in greenish army slacks and shirts. They looked like they were having the time of their life.

"How did they catch up to us?" Byron said.

"Alma knows this bayou like the palm of her hand," Ron said, "except for probably the farthest end of it by the edge of the woods."

"Keep running!" I shouted.

We ran, the bullets flying in the air, the sharp sounds of their guns piercing our ears. Thank God they weren't rifles or machine guns, because that would most likely have killed us. The handguns weren't really powerful enough but the men seemed to enjoy providing us with a frightening life-or-death chase. Before long, we were somehow back into the swamp, which we had lost in the immensity of the wood. There was water beneath us and it was hard to run.

"It looks like we're going to have to swim," Ron said.

"I can't swim," Byron said.

I knew right there and then that he was a goner. If he couldn't swim, he wouldn't survive. Ron and I didn't say a word but we began to swim, as swiftly as we could, stroking the waters with our arms and legs, looking ever forward despite the horror of gun shots behind us. I looked behind only to see if Byron had begun to swim. He was swimming as best he could but he was behind us, lagging behind.

"O God," I prayed, the first time I had ever prayed, "please make this nightmare end and save us."

Ron and I swam for some distance and then we turned to see that Byron had been shot. The men were approaching his corpse, which was just lying over the swamp, floating, bleeding. Just then, possibly at the smell of Byron's blood, the alligator they called Hugo appeared. I gasped at the sight of it. It was a huge, fat, scaly green creature with a strong jaws and a mouth that looked as if it could swallow an adult whole. And the thing did just that, devouring Byron's corpse, feasting on his flesh, taking its time in consuming everything it could.

"Oh my God," I cried.

Ron held me in his arms tightly as we watched in horror. The men were laughing but they dared not approach. Hugo was too close to them so they swam as far back as they could. They stood watching the alligator eating Byron from afar. I looked up and saw that the sun was still high in the sky which meant it was probably noon already or some time in the early afternoon. The sun's orange-yellow gleam mixed with the redness of blood over the swamp waters.

"Come on, we better run," Ron said to me.