: The tarmac at Louis Armstrong International Airport is busy. Planes maneuver themselves around the new facilities with ease, bringing visitors from around the world to the Crescent City. The concourses are bustling with humanity, rushing to catch connecting flights or strolling aimlessly as vacations begin and cohesive thought ends.
At least, that’s what Bitsie assumes.
Currently, she is standing alone by the limo behind the old airport, deserted except for some assorted men in a service shed by the landing strip. Planes haven’t landed on this runway in years, so of course Philomena Phistemopheles would be arriving here. No inconvenience too great.
Bitsie crushes out another cigarette and rinses the taste of cloves from her mouth with a shot of Japanese bourbon from her purse flask.
Bitsie had given up cigarettes for nearly thirty years before her first meeting with Philomena. She was riddled with crippling migraines whenever the woman was near. Then one day, Rony Parmentiere gave her one of his clove cigarettes and the migraines stopped. As long as she was smoking the cloves. The moment Philomena left town, the migraines and Bitsie stopped cold turkey. That turkey has been back in the smoker again for 24 hours. And it’s gonna stay there until Phil gets the hell out of town or Bitsie wills herself to die.
It’s a gorgeous day though, she thinks. Chilly, the sky, so clear and blue. Even the weeds coming up unchecked along the old tarmac are in bloom. And surprisingly quiet considering all the planes taking off less than half a mile away. She takes a deep breath and agrees with herself that it is a beautiful New Orleans spring day.
A dull bang snaps her out of it. The shed has opened and three men in jumpsuits rush out to the landing strip. Bitsie looks up to see a small, gaudy gold dot in the sky growing larger. The Phistemopheles private jet.
“Beautiful day” she says, lighting up another cigarette. She takes a long drag and exhales,
“And here you are, just in time to fuck it up.”
Reaching into her purse, she pulls out her Maybach Diplomat sunglasses and makes herself comfortable.
“Welcome back, Phil. No one missed you.”
Philomena’s gold Airbus 380 alights onto the runway like a gilded pelican, and swings around towards Bitsie. Two of the workers rush out to the luggage area while a third drives a stair-set up to the plane. She watches as an oval hole opens up on the side of the plane, only to be instantly darkened by the precisely tailored visage of Philomena Phistemopheles.
The overkill forces Bitsie to watch over the rims of her shades, just to be sure she’s she doesn't miss a beat of this performance.
Philomena is encased in a black structured dress that looks to Bitsie like Maleficent arriving at a board meeting. Over one shoulder, a sleek black mink bag.
"Probably skinned 'em with her teeth," she mutters.
Beneath a sheer black picture hat, the Phistemopheles tradmark blue-black mane is now accented by a blue-white shock in the center of her forehead, tortured into a nautilean curl. Even the burnish of her olive complexion pales against the bright blood-red lipstick, which is visible from a distance.
The exact distance being Biloxi.
Philomena spies Bitsie and descends the stairs towards her like a panther at Fashion Week. Seeing Philomena approach gives Bitsie a feeling like food poisoning without the pleasure of eating first. She quickly lights another clove cigarette, just to be on the safe side. Philomena takes her own sweet time as the airport workers scramble after her with more luggage than Samsonite makes in a year. Finally, the women stand face to face.
“Bitchy.”
“Baphomet.”
Philomena smiles unnervingly and trills in her thick Peloponnese accent,
“My darling. No one’s called me that in centuries.”
A deadpan sneer embedded on her face, Bitsie replies,
“Oh. Which name are you using now? Not Lucifer again. That’s so overdone.”
Philomena’s eyes narrow. Bitsie recognizes the warning sign, and takes a long drag off her cigarette.
“Not this time, Beelzebub,” she spits, a thick cloud of sweetly spiced smoke filling the air between them.
“I figured out how to stop your migraine trick the last time, so back off. I’m cloved-up and ready for you.” She takes another drag, blowing it into Phil’s face. Philomena merely smiles, unblinkingly acknowledging the victory. “Speaking of which, those God-awful blunts you like are in the back seat.” She walks back to the limo, complaining, “I had to drive here with all the windows down. Still smells like a funeral in Hell.”
She opens the back door and a stench like rotting horsemeat and burning electrical wires rushes out. Bitsie and the workers, about 15 feet away, all recoil. One of the men forcefully vomits onto the steps of the plane. Philomena smiles and walks towards the box on the seat. She picks it up, takes a long ardent sniff, and stuffs the box into her mink bag. Instantly, the stench is gone.
“Thank you Bitsie. That was kind of you” Philomena says politely.
Bitsie blinks uncomfortably and glances away at the workers struggling to move a Monkey Hill-sized mound of baggage and… old trunks? What, she couldn’t bring the good luggage?
“So, Phil. How did you get them to open Moisant just for you?”
Philomena smiles gracefully and says,
“The ambassador owed me a favor. Alexandra is such a lovely girl. She knows I despise crowds.”
The workers arrive with the baggage, looking worse for wear. It is taller than the limo.
“I’m not sure all of this will fit in the trunk, Phil,” Bitsie says. “If I’d have known, I’d have brought a U-Haul.”
“It will all fit. Just go sit up front. I will be there with you momentarily. Go.”
Not needing any reason to walk away from Philomena Phistemopheles, Bitsie turns and goes around the front of the limo, and climbs into the driver’s seat as packing begins. She can barely hear Phil and the crew outside.
She checks her phone. Message from Amanda; Phil's rooms are ready.
The limo begins rocking, and there is muffled shouting from the trunk.
Message from Rony; plane delayed, will call when they land.
The back doors of the limo open, and baggage is crammed in tighter than it should go. The privacy window behind her rises, cutting her off again. She pays no attention
Message from Stav; liquor arrived. Garage is full, will have to park in the driveway.
More shaking, and something screamed in Greek. Silence. The trunk and the doors all close.
No messages from Schramm. That’s concerning.
Before she knows it, Philomena is in the passenger seat next to her, the workers are nowhere to be seen, and the jet is turning to taxi back down the runway..
“That was quick” she says, starting the car. “I hope you tipped them well.”
“They were properly compensated, darling.” says Phil, producing one of her new cigars.
The pair drive back to the mansion in silence, save for the sound of rushing air from the open windows as they both smoke their choice of poison to pass the time. The clouds in their wake are visible all along the I-10, leading drivers behind them to believe a major accident has happened, causing a traffic jam. Coming up on the Causeway exit, Philomena suddenly barks,
“Darling! Take this exit. I want to drive by the Hammar home first.”
Bitsie looks askance at Philomena, but does as she’s told. Coming around the curve, she asks pointely,
“What are you planning to do, just find him and strike him dead now? If it gets you out of town faster, I know pig farmers in Simmsport. They'll never find the body.”
Philomena snorts with amusement, but otherwise remains silent. They cross Causeway's rush-hour traffic effortlessly. Because, of course. They finally make their way onto Chester and into the neighborhood. They come to the turn when Philomena yells “STOP!”
Bitsie slams on the brakes with a small squeal, the limo bouncing to a halt. Philomena gets out of the front seat and walks over to the street sign. Chester and Ridgelake.
“This is wrong. The last time I was here, this street was called Ridgeway, not Ridgelake.”
Bitsie, having also gotten out of the limo leans out between the door and the windshield and says,
“We know. It’s the only thing we could find that didn’t change back after the first time. We don’t know why. Doesn’t seem to have bothered anything substantially, though.”
Philomena is disquieted by this seemingly insignificant change. She turns and heads back towards the limousine.
“Never mind driving by the house. I’ve seen what I needed to see. Home!”
Bitsie watches as she climbs back into the passenger seat, smacks her lips regretfully and mutters “Sure, why not? That’s where all the liquor in Orleans Parish is by now anyway.”
She crawls back in and puts the limo in gear to head back to Audubon Place…This Is My New Orleans.
No comments:
Post a Comment