Rescued By A Kiss (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 1) (8 page)

The police turned to Pinky, ‘Jewel’, and me who were standing there waiting for the conclusion and said, “This is a matter for the Fire Department. If he’s stuck, they get people out, not the police. After they get him out, call us back and we’ll arrest him.”

“Officer, I can leave, right?” I asked, oh so nicely.

“No. you need to be here when we get back to press charges.” said the officer.

“I don’t even know what I am pressing charges for.” I said.

“Indecent exposure,” said Jewel.

“Mine or yours? I was on the toilet when I heard him snoring. What do you think he saw?”

“Criminal mischief,” said Pinky.

“If it is mischief, then how is it criminal?” I asked, frustrated that no one saw the folly in any of it.

“Your civil rights have been violated,” offered Jewel.

“No. I think that’s a stretch.” I just looked at her.

“Can’t you wait ’til the Fire Department gets him out?” I pleaded with the officer.

“No, we have other calls. Just call in and say you got the guy out of the ceiling. Dispatch will send us right back here.” said Officer Not-So-Helpful.

What? Now, we had to call the Fire Department, and no telling how long it will take for them to get here on a parade night. Julia put her foot over the back of a chair and started stretching getting ready for her performance. The police officer almost walked into the wall. Pinky went to call the Fire Department, but before he did, he directed me to stay in front of the ladies’ room and tell the women patrons it was out of order. To the few who did need the facilities I had to recommend they go elsewhere as a man was stuck in the ceiling over the toilet. One woman didn’t care and pushed past me to get in. I guess her bathroom philosophy is, “Any port in a storm.”

When I redirected women to go elsewhere, they went to get their dates and left the club. When Pinky saw he was losing patrons, he went to Plan B. He stationed me in front of the ladies’ room door with the dog in my lap and wanted me to direct the women to the men’s room. Pinky would chase the guys out and hold the door while the women used it. While I sat with Isabella guarding the bathroom, I must have nodded off for a few minutes. A voice boomed in my ear and almost levitated me out of my chair. It was a fireman saying, “Miss, wake up. We need to get in there.”

The Fire Department had arrived—two hours after the police left, and they are located in the French Quarter, two blocks away from the club. Pinky told them it was not life or death. I started thinking it could become Pinky’s death if I had to wait here much longer. They took what felt like another hour running from the ladies’ room to the mens’ room assessing the situation. They concluded they could not pull or push this guy through the opening at either end. They decided they had to cut him out of the ceiling. This required many more trips back and forth to the truck.

Now, the entire bar was overrun by firemen preparing for the big rescue. The performances stopped along with the drinking and paying customers. Pinky was not happy. All the dancers in their costumes, or lack thereof, created distractions for the firemen. It seemed they had to make many more trips than necessary past the girls to get all the equipment needed from their truck. They were always forgetting something. They trekked in and out bringing in saws, the jaws of life, and various other equipment that looked like it could dismantle a New York City skyscraper.

The fire chief arrived, and before any work could be performed, he discussed with Pinky whether the Historical Society should be consulted since this had to do with defacing one of the French Quarter’s original sites. Who were they kidding? This was a titty bar, and Pinky said so. After this useless discussion of its historical significance they decided if the guy remained in the ceiling much longer it might be detrimental to his life expectancy. They finally started cutting.

Once the firemen cut a slice in the ceiling plaster, the trapped man’s weight caused the rest of the ceiling to give way and he crashed to the floor, smacked his head on the porcelain toilet bowl and was knocked unconscious. He started bleeding everywhere.

The firemen started picking up their equipment and leaving.

“Wait.” I said, “You need to take him to the hospital. Look, he’s hurt.”

“We only rescue and are not tasked with administering first aid or transporting to a care facility. We can’t take him anywhere. You have to call EMS.” said the fire chief.

“But y’all are the reason he hit his head.”

“No,” the chief corrected me, “he’s the reason he hit his head. We’re outta here. If someone else gets stuck or something catches fire, call us.” And with that they recovered their gear and disappeared.

I couldn’t believe it. What if EMS got there and he died, would we need to call and wait for the coroner? Maybe by then, they wouldn’t need me as the complaining witness.

I followed Pinky to his office where he dialed 911 to the Emergency Medical Service. I have to admit, Pinky scared me, but the fear of being stuck there the whole night scared me more. I couldn’t take it any longer. When he got off the phone, I said, “Pinky, this is going to take hours for the EMS guys to get here, take him to an emergency room, then wait for the police to take my statement and arrest him. I am happy to come back to do this, but I need to get to Charity. A friend of mine got shot at the parade tonight. I need to get to the hospital and see how he’s doing.”

“You’re taking the dog with you, right?”

Jewel walked up complaining, “This is the biggest cluster I’ve ever seen.” The Peeping Tom ran off business which negatively affected her tips. “Pinky, can I leave? I am not making any money tonight, and none of us can use the ladies’ room. She’s my ride.”

“Can you send Jim to get my car so we can go?” I asked.

He waved us off saying “Yes, and take Suzanne with you. Jimbo, go get her car!” he yelled.

As we pulled away from the curb, the EMS truck screamed up Bourbon Street and pulled right into our space. I wondered how many trips these guys would have to make to their crash truck to get Peeping Tom on his way to Charity.

“God! How do y’all work in there? I felt like I was stuck in a bad disco movie,” I said to Suzanne as we drove off.

“Yeah, it looks like the 80’s took a dump in there,” she answered.

“W
e need a
plan. We need help, and I think I know who might be willing to give it to us,” I said to Julia.

“Whose gonna help? Huh? This is on us, and by us, I mean you.” Julia said.

“I was thinking of Stan.”

“Oh yeah, Stan will help you.” said Suzanne. “Old Stan, the Duck Man.”

“That guy you grew up with, that Stan? The one who dresses up like a duck?” Julia’s face was all screwed up and she looked at me like I had grown feathers. She had heard all about Stan from Suzanne and I over lunch one day.

Stan lived to right wrongs and help those in need. He could hardly be considered a crime fighter. He was more of a prank fighter. During high school days he took on the persona of Duck Man, and it bode well for Stan since most pranksters in our schools didn’t carry automatic weapons. He made himself a Duck Man costume with an orange duckbilled cap, a white mask and a red cape. He wore a white button down shirt and white jeans to finish his disguise. His footwear of choice were his running shoes. He took an old baseball bat and cut it down to the grip. He cut out a web foot from an old inner tube tire and glued it to the end. The foot became known as his
assistant
in case he had to duck-slap someone about to kick his ass. He named his assistant, The Quacker.

“Stan is a nice guy and he’ll be happy to help an old friend. He’ll be up, he works late hours at home. Drop me home. I can’t be a witness to any more of this tonight. My head is going to explode and I have a class tomorrow,” Suzanne said from the back seat.

“How do you know Stan will be up?” I asked.

“He’s working on a patent for me on that streaming roach spray can I designed. I sometimes call him when I get off work which is usually late, and he always answers. He never sounds like I just woke him up. He’s a bit of a night owl and a workaholic,” Suzanne replied in a very tired voice. “He will be thrilled to see you, Brandy.”

“Julia, you’ll love Stan. He sews.” By now she had morphed out of the entertaining Jewel.

“What? Is he gay?” she asked.

“Let me tell her,” Suzanne offered. “You are not going to tell it right. When he decided to be Duck Man he thought he needed a disguise. One day he brought home fabric and was sewing a cape and mask on his mother’s sewing machine. When she saw him she asked, ‘Stan, are you gay?’ I guess since Stan was in high school and didn’t have a steady girlfriend, his mother got worried when she saw him sewing clothes. No, he isn’t gay. He’s just a nice guy and very creative.” Suzanne finished the story laughing.

“Okay, maybe not gay, maybe he’s just a momma’s boy,” Julia said unimpressed.

“He’s performed many humanitarian efforts,” I replied. My feelings were hurt for Stan.

Stan rode around on his motorcycle in the Duck Man outfit stopping minor crimes like purse snatching or helping old people cross streets. There were some punks in the neighborhood who drove by the projects in cars and water ballooned the old black people sitting on their porches. Stan attempted to reason with this gang to no avail, hence he needed the assistance of The Quacker. After the gang refused to stop water ballooning, Stan decided he had to do something. He borrowed metal garbage can lids and gave them to the old people to act as shields when the water ballooners rode by. This might have been the only time he had to duck slap someone. The punks were some kind of ticked off at Stan for putting the kibosh on their fun. When they tried to jump Stan, the assistant came to the rescue and fended off the attack.

I remembered the dog story and figured this would make Julia see Stan in a better light. “He won my eternal devotion when he stopped a man kicking a dog. Stan jumped off his motorcycle and kicked the guy in his butt. When the guy turned around, Stan decked him, and brought me the dog.” Julia listened but didn’t jump on board and join the Stan Fan Club.

Stan, Suzanne and I grew up on the same block. Stan went to Jesuit, an all boys Catholic School and Suzanne and I went to an all girls Catholic School about one bus stop away. We rode the bus in the morning together and stayed friends.

Suzanne and I thought Stan would go into a crime fighting career like law enforcement or as a DEA agent. He chose law school following in the steps of his dad, a successful attorney. Duck Man’s Daddy settled a very big tobacco suit earning his firm millions and then moved the family to the Lakefront into a very big, very nice house. Stan’s early antics did put him in touch with juvenile delinquents and subsequent career criminals that he now defended or sometimes prosecuted. Stan figured he could do more good with a law degree than the Duck Man costume. Before he hung it up he invited me to ride along with him on his last caper. I felt like a Bond girl. Stan and Dante were friends, and Stan, being the honorable Duck Man, would never ask me out knowing Dante liked me. I hoped Stan still carried the torch enough to help me.

“Stan just popped into my head,” Suzanne said. “Maybe because I’m delirious from lack of food and sleep.”

“The Duck? You want to ask a man who dresses up like a duck to help you? He would have his tail feathers handed to him, if not by the guys out to get Heinkel, then Dante. Forget about him.”

“Can you please just drop me at a bus stop. I can’t take any more of this.” Suzanne said from the back seat.

“I’m taking you home, relax. Julia and I will go to Stan’s.” I told Suzanne. Then to Julia, I continued, “We-e-e-e-ell, technically, he has not been the Duck since high school. I’m out of ideas, and if you don’t have a better one, then I’m asking him.” With that we dropped Suzanne in front of her apartment. She jumped out of the car before it stopped. I took a good look at her location. I liked it and I could see myself living there. There was a large fenced yard for the dogs. It could work. I told her I wanted to move in, but still had to check the finances to make sure I could. We waited until Suzanne opened her front door, went inside and waved goodnight to us, signaling all looked safe, before we drove away.

I drove to Stan’s home on the Lakefront, in the same high rent section of the parish where the Lakefront Towers are located.

I rang the bell and smiled, glad Julia talked me into wearing the scoop neck sweater. I took a very deep breath hoping to accentuate my positive attributes. The porch light came on and a very surprised, but smiling Stan stood in the doorway holding an old-fashioned glass of scotch. He was dressed in purple sweat pants with
GEAUX TIGERS
down one leg and a matching sweat shirt with
LSU
in giant gold letters across his chest.

“Hello Brandy, fancy you calling on me in the middle of the night.” Stan said smiling and stepping aside to invite us in. He paid so much attention to me he almost shut the door on Julia. She hated Stan instantly.

“I’m sorry, I know this is late, and I hope we aren’t disturbing you.” When I saw the drink in his hand I added, “Oh, my gosh, I hope you don’t have company. I really need your help. I just dropped Suzanne off at her house and she said you might be awake.”