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About the Author: Tom Andes has published fiction in in Witness, Natural Bridge, News from the Republic of Letters, the Blue Earth Review, the Akashic Books Mondays Are Murder Flash Fiction Blog, Best American Mystery Stories 2012, and elsewhere. He has also published essays, interviews, and reviews in journals including Necessary Fiction, Bookslut, the Santa Clara Review, the South Carolina Review, the Los Angeles Review of Books, and The Rumpus.
When a customer blackened one of the girls’ eyes at the Bangkok Spa on Iberville Street in the French Quarter and left without paying, Angela Wong, the proprietress, reached out to Leon Hayes, who put her in touch with Jack Gardner.
Angela met Jack late that Saturday morning at the Shamrock Bar in the Lower Garden District.
“The idiot left this.” Angela handed Gardner a driver’s license.
Gardner noted the address, on Hurst Street. He didn’t say anything.
Leon smoked, sipping his coffee.
“I’ll pay whatever you require.” Angela leaned across the table, a lacquered nail tapping the wood. “I don’t care so much about the money. I want you to teach this kid a lesson.”
And she grinned at Gardner, lipstick staining her yellow teeth.
That afternoon, Gardner rode the streetcar uptown. He disembarked at State, and he walked into the exclusive neighborhood on the riverside of St. Charles Avenue, below Audubon Park. He wore white linen pants, and a loose-fitting purple shirt, also linen, with an undershirt. In the shade of one of the massive oaks that lined those streets, he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, mopping his brow.
In front of the address that matched the one on the license, an Oldsmobile sported a faded Dole ‘96 bumper sticker. A Toyota Land Cruiser parked in the driveway, a Vanderbilt University decal in its rear window.
Gardner rang the bell.
hired detective track down punk well well written a little unclear at end maybe rushed the ending
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