The telephone rang. "Mr. Carson?" "Yes. Who is this?" "I'm Detective Myles Boudreau from the New Orleans Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind. It'll only take a few minutes." "What about?" "I'm in the hotel lobby and I'd like to do this in person, Mr. Carson. If you don't mind." "I do mind, but I get the feeling I have no choice. How will I recognize you, Detective Boudreau?" "Light tan suit, open-neck shirt, black hair, sunglasses tucked in the jacket pocket. And you?" "Six feet, four inches, black, shaved head. And I'll be naked. See you in a minute." I hung up the phone, feeling very annoyed. Perhaps, I thought, he'll have cuffs in hand and be waiting to arrest me for indecent exposure as I step off the elevator. I brushed my teeth, then walked to the elevator. A hundred questions raced through my mind on the way to the lobby, the least of which was, What kind of self-respecting detective wears a light tan suit and an open neck shirt? A cheap blue blazer, white short sleeved shirt, mix-match tie, and gray trousers would give him more credibility. A light tan suit required not only the show of a badge, but a picture I.D. as well. And why didn't he just obtain the room number from the front desk and come to my room? Well, maybe it was his style and choice. I was anxious to find out what this was about. The combination of uncertainty and my lack of control were beginning to piss me off. The elevator door opened and I was standing six feet from the light tan suit. Detective Boudreau was a bit shorter than I'd imagined, but he looked like he routinely visited a health club. "Good afternoon," he said, approaching me but not extending his hand. "There's a place on the other side of the lobby," he pointed, "where we can have some privacy. Unless you have some other place in mind?" "That'll do fine," I said, passing him. "This won't take too long," he promised as we sat on a sofa and adjoining love seat. I looked at his police badge. "Any picture I.D.?" He smiled and inconspicuously laid his wallet on the sofa beside him, exposing his driver's license. "Okay," I said, "what's this all about, Detective?" “We have been experiencing an increasing amount of criminal activity in and around the area where you visited this morning,” he said, referring to his notebook. “We received a couple of calls from concerned residents, and I simply want to know what the nature of your business in that neighborhood was." Referring again to his notes, he continued, "We routinely—” "What kind of criminal activity?" I asked. I was showing the beginning stages of my aggravation. "You are not under suspicion of any crime, Mr. Carson. We routinely question nonresidents loitering in high-profile crime areas." "What kind of criminal activity?" I repeated. "Narcotics and burglaries, mostly." "And you think someone would conduct that kind of business from a taxi?" I didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. He laughed but was not derailed or intimidated by my sarcasm. "What brings you to Nawlins, Mr. Carson?" “I'm quite sure you know the answer to that question, Detective, but for the record I'm attending a convention this week. I took pictures of the house because that's where I lived as a child. I'll spend some time in the French Quarter during the next couple of days. I'm planning to visit my aunt in Marrero on Sunday and, hopefully, leave New Orleans come Monday afternoon." “What do you do for a living?" "I'm a co-owner of a management consultant firm." "Whereabouts?" "San Diego, California." "Did you observe anything unusual on that corner during your visit on Wednesday?" "Everything was unusual, Detective Boudreau. I haven't set foot on that corner in more than forty years." "Did you talk to anyone other than the kids while you were there?" "No." "Thank you for your time, Mr. Carson." I leaned forward. "Detective Boudreau, you and I are both aware that I have no ties to or knowledge of the sordid activities you claim are happening around that particular neighborhood. I still don't know what this is all about, and I'll bet you're not telling me the whole story. But tell you what—I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt this go around. However, I'm going to interpret our next meeting as harassment unless, of course, you're prepared to stop trying to blow smoke up my ass and give me a legitimate reason for our little discussion." "Whoa," he said, holding his palms toward me, "there's no need to make this confrontational." Pausing a moment, I said, "You're right. I apologize for my choice of words, but not for my directness and intent. I know how tough police work is, and I respect the job you guys do and the risks you take. However, I have a low tolerance for bullshit, and I think you're feeding me a Cajun line of it right now." I looked at my watch and stood up. "Any other questions? I'm late for a meeting." He stood up and extended his hand. "No, no more questions. Thanks for your time, Mr. Carson." As he walked away, I noticed the smart looking tan fedora he was carrying. It was an ensemble I would have been proud to call my own. Myles Boudreau was obviously no run-of-the-mill detective chasing leads on drug activities in the hood. The series of events during the past few hours were beginning to freak me out. Was this a "stay out of the neighborhood" threat, or did he anticipate gleaning additional information about me from some other source? I was grasping at straws, and at the moment they were all short ones.
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