The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-6

: The address on Philip Tupperman’s driver’s license was for an apartment on Ulloa St. Fortunately, the landlady was there and remembered him. He’d been moved out by a woman claiming to be his mother in the summer of 1992. The old lady also happened to keep excellent records and had an address out in Old Metairie. Forty minutes later Bruce Halloran was sitting outside of the address just off Metairie Road. The house was definitely Old Metairie. So old they still had an actual barn in the back of the property, which went back to the next street. The cypress trees in the front yard are at least 60 years old, maybe older. They cover the entire roof of the house. Here and there upstairs there are window AC units, but none downstairs. It’s constructed like a double shotgun, but only one of the two doors has a screened-in porch. The driveway leading back to the barn has never been paved. All in all, it reminds Bruce of the setting for a cheap Southern gothic horror flick. Still, what other choice does he have?

“If I get to the door and Bette Davis answers, I’ll sleep under the overpass,” he mutters to himself as he turns off the engine.

Halloran pulls his corpulent self out of the car and makes his way across the street, breaking a sweat before he even hits the curb. Beneath the cypress canopy, he maneuvers around the overgrown box hedges lining the walkway, goes to the screened side, and rings the bell. As he waits in the torpid heat, he’s thankful for a light breeze that stirs the air. The cypress cover does a pretty good job of keeping things cool. Still, his perspiration levels are somewhere between rushing torrent and Niagara Falls. Impatiently he pushes the doorbell again, rivulets of sweat absorbing into his shirt and pants, dark marks slowly growing in various places, none of them attractive. At last, he hears the latch on the door, which creaks open a sliver Something like a human eye appears in the crack and says in a numbed tone,

“Yes? What do you want?”

“Uh, yeah,” stammers Halloran, just now realizing he hasn’t prepared for actually talking to anyone. “Uh, I’m...I’m lookin’ for….uh...I was given your...I mean...are you Tupp--er, Philip Tupperman?”

There is silence from the eye for a moment, then the door slowly opens and a slight, average looking man with a distinctive moustache emerges from the darkness. He would look amazed if it weren’t for the fact that his eyes don’t seem to be registering anything. The man slowly walks over to the screen door, and trips the latch.

“I’m Phil Tupperman. Come in, Mister…?”

“Uhm, inside?. Uh, I was...I was wondering if I could talk to you...uhm, thank you.” Opening the screen door, he follows Tupperman into the house, absently letting the screen slam shut behind him. The sound stops Phil in his tracks. Without turning around he says plainly,

“Next time, please don’t slam the screen. And please lock it back before you come in.”

With that, he continues inside, leaving Halloran to wonder if he shouldn’t be looking at apartment ads instead of chasing this crazy train. Being cheap can make a man do many things, even abandon his own cowardice. Halloran re-latches the screen, and ventures inside.

Closing the door behind him, Bruce is now officially certain he’s in Old Metairie. Despite being over 90 degrees outside, the first floor of the house is remarkably cool. Only the windows are open, providing a wonderful cross breeze. Still, nothing can remove the smell of the house. Stuffy with the memories of thousands of meals cooked and eaten, people living, breathing, farting, screwing, dying. And the lingering remnants of White Shoulders perfume. The room is illuminated in the kind of dim amber-sienna light unique to old New Orleans homes. Walking into the parlor, which goes the width of the house, every available horizontal surface in the room is crowded with porcelain figurines. A menagerie of bulls, owls, turtles, rabbits, and a wide selection of intricately clothed Victorian women and apple-faced Hummel children to watch over the zoo. Each corner of the room contained a tall display case fairly bursting with even more molded creations in the same veins. Above the apparently still-used fireplace, an oil portrait of a distinguished woman hangs in judgement of the surroundings. Halloran is instantly disgusted by the sight of her. Exactly the kind of woman he loathed growing up. She was painted wearing a pink Chanel suit like the ones Jackie Kennedy wore. Haughty expression, pursed lips, her jowly face surrounded by what looks like high-end diamond earrings and matching necklace. Her white hair is piled on top of her head in a bouffant somewhere between campy and cretinous. To Halloran she looks like every judgmental bitch he ever encountered growing up. Treading the fine line between Junior League and the Daughters of the American Revolution, looking down her nose at everyone who didn’t marry money, and always used to getting her way. Looking around the room again, he finally spots Tupperman, who has blended into the 60s era beige furniture like a despondent chameleon.

Halloran walks over to the chair opposite Tupperman and takes a seat. Another cooling breeze cuts through the house, catching Bruce in the face and neck. A refreshing break. Looking towards the odd fellow near him, Halloran smiles awkwardly. The guy twitches a bit, and asks monotonously,

“Can I get you something to drink? I have iced tea in the refrigerator.”

Halloran takes the opportunity to have a few moments to think and says,

“Yeah. I mean, yes please.”

Tupperman rises automatically and walks to the kitchen like an amusement park ride on a track. Once gone, Halloran tries to recall everything he was able to learn about what Gary Pitts had done to this guy. Chased away his anonymous lover, used him, Tupperman tried to off himself, Pitts dumped him in a cab for Charity, anti-gay therapy, his mom taking over. Got it. What the hell do I do now?

Before he can formulate further, he hears the even tread of Tupperman coming back. Turning to look, he sees Philip walking evenly and carrying a tray with two glasses and a glass pitcher of iced tea. He looks like the most disturbing Kool-Aid commercial ever. He comes in and places the tray on the coffee table. Pouring a glass, Tupperman turns to Halloran and asks simply,

“How many sugars?”

“Three please,” Halloran says, half smiling. Three spoons of sugar go into the glass, which is then handed to Bruce. Another glass is poured, which Tupperman sets on a coaster near his chair. It is the last time during their discussion he will touch the glass.

Bruce takes a sip of the tea, and sets the glass onto the now-antique Falstaff Beer coaster on the table. Tupperman returns to his seat and begins anew to blend in with the beige fabric on his chair. For a few moments there is nothing but silence between them. The only sounds are the birds and chickens out by the barn, and the vague whoosh of cars speeding by through the neighborhood. Finally, Bruce clears his throat and says,

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here?”

Tupperman looks up and says softly, “no.”

“Really?” exclaims Bruce, somewhat surprised at this. “You’re not wondering what I’m doing here?”

“No,” comes Philip’s reply, still soft and even. “What I was wondering is who are you?”

Bruce stops for a second. Hadn’t thought of that.

“My name is Bruce Halloran.” No response. “And you’re Philip Tupperman...right?”

“Yes, I’m Phil Tupperman. Nice to meet you Mr. Halloran.”

With that, Phil rose from his seat and extended his hand to Bruce. Halloran takes and shakes the man’s hand. It is a handshake in name only. No pressure or resistance from Phil whatsoever. They break and return to their seats. Another long uncomfortable silence. Halloran is about to lose his tongue when Phil pipes up and says,

“Now I’m wondering about why you’re here. Why are you here, Mr. Halloran?”

Took a while to get back on track, but all right, thinks Halloran. Bracing himself, he jumps in.

“Well Mr. Tupperman--can I call you Phil? Phil, I’m here...well, I’m here to right a wrong. A wrong that was done to you”

Phil sits and stares at Bruce as if he’s just asked for the gross national product of Luxembourg. Another pause, it’s like Ibsen in here, thinks Halloran. He’s about to repeat himself when Phil speaks, a little more certain than before.

“What wrong?”

Moment of truth. Time to dive in and get this going. Halloran takes another hearty swig of tea and replies,

“Uhm, OK. Can you tell me about China Imperial and the Lesbian Avengers rally at Charlene’s?”

For a few seconds Halloran isn’t certain that Tupperman has heard him. Then all at once a blaze of life fires up behind Phil’s eyes and his demeanor changes.

“Why do you want to know?”

That’s it, thinks Bruce. I’ve opened the gates to Hell. And they’re going to find my body in Old Metairie.

Then Halloran notices a change in Phil’s posture. Suddenly he’s not too far removed from the young guy in the Polaroid. He decides this is progress and continues as best he can.

“Well...I want to know because that’s the best way to start correcting the wrong that’s been done to you. I...well, I...I need some answers from you first.”

Phil stares deeply into Bruce’s eyes, which makes him uncomfortable. Despite his wanting to, he cannot look away from the intensity of Tupperman. He’s reminded of Gloria Holden’s campy glower in Dracula’s Daughter. Except he really can’t look away. It creeps him out even more.

“Are you talking about Jeremy?” Phil blurts the question as if it’s been bottled up for a long time.

Partially out of trying his luck and partly because he hasn't any other ideas, Halloran decides to take the risk and utters a quiet “yes.” The light in Phil’s eyes flickers into full flame.

“How do you know about that? Do you know Jeremy?”

“Uhhhhhhhh….well, no. No, I don’t know Jeremy. I...I only just recently learned his name. But I think I’ve got a good idea about what happened. I just need you to...well, fill in the gaps.”

A shade of uncertainty passes over Phil’s face, and for a second the light dims. But it doesn’t last long. Halloran tries to collect the thousands of thoughts reeling about in his head, then proceeds.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you this. But...do you remember someone named...Gary Pitts?”

The mention of Pitts’ name has a dramatic effect on Philip. An expression of loathing and fear pops out like acne on his face. His breathing is now pronounced, filling and exiting his slight chest like a bear stirred from hibernation. Halloran has seen this happen before with the call center employees at Cox when he tells them they have to work overtime again. He knows what to do.

“Phil, calm down. I’m only asking because it’s important. I have to get all the facts. Just breathe and then answer me, calmly.”

Phil does as he is instructed, not entirely certain as to why but knowing it feels more comfortable to conform to what he’s told. Taking as deep a breath as he is able, he composes himself and says lowly,

“I remember Gary. Too well.”

OK. we’re on the right track. That’s good. What now? Halloran thinks for a moment and comes up with nothing. Let’s hear it for consistency.

“Good. That’s...good. Now, tell me about Jeremy.”

Phil’s head suddenly turns on its side, like a puppy trying to understand a new command. His eyes look away as if seeing something for the first time, then he says,

“I haven’t answered your other question, yet.”

Halloran blinks a bit and says, with cunning wit,

“Whut?”

“The question you asked me earlier. Can I tell you about China Imperial and the Lesbian Avengers rally? I can tell you...almost everything.”

Bruce smiles a bit, thinking he’s gotten through.

“What you should have asked is ‘will I tell you?’ And the answer is no.”

Shit, thinks Halloran. It was going so well.

“Phil, listen to me--”

“No,” Phil says with surprising firmness. Standing up, he walks to the foyer as he speaks. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re here. But if you know Gary Pitts’ name, then no good can come of you. I want you to leave now.”

Halloran fights the urge to leave the premises like a big ol’ bar fag and forces himself to rise respectfully and leave in a dignified manner. Stopping just short of the doorway festooned with shelves of oddly menacing porcelain cherubs, Halloran says to Phil’s face,

“If you don’t tell me what happened, I can’t make it right.”

“No one asked you to make anything right,” Phil gasps with dull rage. Halloran looks him in the eye, and says with a tinge of bitchiness,

“Actually, someone did. That’s why I’m in your house. Somebody did ask me to make this right.”

Phil stares at Bruce, as if trying to find the answers in his eyebrows or his pores. Bruce submits to this visual undressing, reminding himself that homelessness is so much worse than feeling like you need a shower. Phil takes a few steps backwards, then stands his ground and says,

“I don’t trust you.”

Bruce looks to the rug then toward the door, drawling,

“That’s probably the best decision you’ve made in years.”

Phil continues to stare at Bruce for a while longer, then breaks his gaze. His eyes dart around, keeping track with what his fractured mind can recall and where everything is supposed to go. He makes his way back into the parlor, holding onto Bruce’s arm for support. Finally seated, Bruce returns to his place and they begin again...This Is My New Orleans.

The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-5

: Sleeping peacefully under the coffee table, the little male Pekinese catastrophe named Miss Sara Joy dreams on while his master Bruce Halloran pours over the story of Philip Tupperman. Scattered around the room are the many notes from Gary Pitts, rearranged into various piles, with some pages torn in pieces and separated across piles. While it was true that Gary Pitts had left extensive notes on each of his victims, it was equally true that these notes were made while Pitts was extensively drunk and high, so the narrative is nothing like linear. Still, Bruce had practically made a career out of deciphering Pitts’ loaded ramblings, so eventually he was able to glean the major details of Gary Pitts’ first rotten act.

Tupperman came to New Orleans sometime in the mid 80s. The driver’s license in the plastic bag expired in 1998, so maybe 84 or 85? In one passage Pitts describes him as “a plain little queerboy from Kansas City, MO. He’s cute because he isn’t.” He started popping up at The Latrine, Friendly Bar, all the parties. Sara Joy took notice and set her sights on him. There was another guy who also liked him, but Sara Joy never names him. All he can tell is that when he became a point of interest, Pitts’ job became chasing Other Guy away. Here it gets even murkier. Two events happened. One at a restaurant called China Imperial, if the matchbook in the bag can be believed. And at a rally at Charlene’s for the Lesbian Avengers (“We recruit!”). That was the flyer folded up in the bag. He had recognized it once he got it open. During the late 80s and early 90s these fliers were up in every bar and telephone pole in the Marigny.  At one of these events, it happened. Sara Joy said or did something to drive away Other Guy. After that, Pitts’ recollections are vividly clear.

Turns out Tupperman was madly in love with Other Guy. As planned, Tupperman turned to Gary Pitts for comfort. A few months in Pitts grew tired with Tupperman and his bouts of depression which “interfered with my busy bar schedule.” He had already made up his mind to ditch Tupperman when he got back to his apartment that night.

Pitts was living in the Quarter back then, and had a nice apartment about a block up from The Corner Pocket. That was where he was returning from the night he found Philip on the floor in the living room, unconscious. Next to him was a high-priced floor lamp that had apparently gone down with Philip, breaking one of the glass panels in the shade. That infuriated Pitts. Turning him over, he saw some foam coming out of Philip’s mouth and looked up to see an empty bottle of vodka and an empty bottle of Windex on the coffee table.

“Without coasters!” Pitts had scrawled, underlining the phrase three times. “Realizing he’d pulled a Heathers and certainly not wanting the NOPD traipsing through my stash, I did the only thing I could do. I pulled him onto my shoulder, carried him downstairs, hailed a cab, and paid the driver $100 to take him to Charity Hospital and forget my face.”

If you wanted to know anything in the service industry in the late 1980s, you hung out in the gay bars. That’s how Pitts kept up with Tupperman, by trawling the nurses from Charity. He had two guys and a lesbian keeping tabs on Philip for him. They were able to pump his stomach, but there was some damage. When they learned he not only attempted suicide but was also gay, he was sent to the fourth floor. The mental ward. While he recovered the doctors began “treating” him for his homosexuality with aversion therapy. Eventually, either his mother or his aunt arrives from Kansas City, gets made legal guardian, and checks him out to live with him in his house. That was 1992. The last notes in the stack, (aside from a rambling dissertation on how the final season of Dynasty was both the most revealing and the most disappointing way to close out a television series. Three pages alone on shoulder pads...) are more sincere than Bruce had expected.

He must have been coming down.

“It wasn’t until I saw him by chance on the street today that I realized what I had done. If it wasn’t for that same cheesy moustache I wouldn’t have recognized him. He was gaunt, somewhat pear shaped. But his eyes were dead. No life inside them anymore. For me, he was a game, a sport. An easy lay for a few weeks or more. I didn’t see the love in his eyes. And I think I drove away someone who loved him back. I certainly didn’t give him any comfort that didn’t benefit me first. And it destroyed him. I wish I hadn’t done it.”

A sudden sneezing fit awakens Miss Sara Joy, sending her snuffling and chuffing out from beneath the coffee table. Shaking herself into full puff, she trots over to Halloran’s feet and sits, looking up at his master with big brown eyes. Bruce turns to the dog and catches his stare.  Without thinking Bruce rises automatically and walks into the kitchen to put down fresh food. Dropping some kibble into his metal bowl, it almost sounds like ice being dropped in a cocktail glass. A tall glass. Like the ones Pitts preferred. Inspired, Halloran walks over to the kitchen bar and pours himself two fingers of bourbon before walking outside onto the deck.

Closing the sliding glass door behind him, he walks over to the railing that looks out over St. Claude and Elysian Fields. The heat comes up off the cement in waves, convection roasting Bruce’s bare legs. He takes a deep breath and a deeper swig and swallows it down whole. From now until the middle of March, his entire life is going to be spent reliving all of Pitts’ sins and somehow making it all better. He was always like this, making messes and expecting others to clean up after him. Now he’s getting away with it after he’s dead. Irreconcilable.

He knocks back the last of his drink and takes one more look at the street below, growing darker with a couple of new clouds forming overhead.

“Damn you, Sara Joy,” he mutters bitterly.

Turning to go back inside, the winds pick up and stir a few leaves into torrents of flight along the deck. A faint hint of confederate jasmine dances by as a low rumble sounds above the city. A little heat storm is ready to break, raining down just enough to heighten the heat and the humidity for the early evening...This Is My New Orleans.

The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-4

: Beating the pavement in the early morning mugginess in the Central Business District, Bruce Halloran is already sopping wet inside the block and a half he’s walked from the World War II Museum parking lot. Another four blocks away, he attempts to keep himself in the thinning lines of shadows close to the buildings. Crossing Tchoupitoulas he’s nearly hit by a bicyclist blazing through the red light, cursing him as she passes. The faint smell of rancid patchouli and soup hovers in her wake like a skidmark in the air. He pushes on, finally arriving at the address on Fulton and N. Diamond. The only good thing about the morning so far was the smell of roasting meats coming from Cochon a few blocks away. Wiping himself down with his saturated handkerchief, he enters the door tastefully etched “DiNotto, Tschantz, & Asino: Testamentary Law and Legal Services.”

It was like stepping into a deep freeze. Within seconds his sweat-soaked button-down and khaki shorts become a frozen tundra. Turning to look behind him, he wonders exactly why it isn’t raining inside the doorway. The interior is a small vestibule painted a Wedgewood blue and white everything else, including the carved woodwork along the baseboards. On either side hang two white filigree framed marbled mirrors, very 70s chic. Directly across from him is an elevator door covered in white latticework. The doors open to reveal a mahogany paneled lift with Persian carpeting. Bruce steps inside, and pushes the old fashioned button that says simply “Up.”

The doors close, and for a few moments the temperature rises, warming him up. At first he doesn’t think he’s even moving until a subtle jump in the car alerts him to his arrival. The doors open and Bruce steps into a repurposed Creole cottage interior. It’s decorated in much the same way as downstairs, except for the very authentic looking hardwood floors. The elevator closes behind him and Halloran steps into the office, and looks around. There are several very young, very thin interns beavering away in the various rooms. Few of them are boys, and the few they have are nothing to write home about. To his left, he hears a tinkly little voice ask,

“Mr. Halloran?”

He turns to see a blonde pencil in a blouse and matching skirt rising from behind an enormous antique desk. In his head he utters the phrase “Ichabod Crane’s little sister.” She comes at him like that stick family on the back of the van you barely miss hitting in rush hour traffic, and tinkles cheerfully,

“Hi Mr. Halloran. My name is Alsace. I’ll let Mr. Tschantz know you’re here. While you’re waiting, can I get you anything? Vodka stinger? Margarita? Jim Beam and Coke?”

Bruce looks up at her with shock. “It’s 9:15 in the morning.”

Alsace blinks. “Margarita then?”

“Please!” he exclaims, pulling his wet shirt away from his chest. “I need energy.”

Alsace dangles off like a marionette in search of his cocktail when the unmistakable smell of seersucker and Grey Flannel pierces his nose. He turns to find said seersucker adorning the slight frame of a young man somewhere just north of his middle twenties. His straight brown hair is neatly combed to the side at an angle that accentuates the cherub-like features of his artless face. And of course, a bow tie. A navy blue bow tie embroidered with crimson crawfish.

Very daring. And exactly what Bruce Halloran had no intention of seeing. The recruitment poster for the Young Log Cabin Republicans. The boy sticks out his hand and chirps,

“Mr. Halloran, it’s a pleasure to meet you sir.”

Bruce looks down at the hand, and shakes it begrudgingly, mumbling,

“Obviously you haven’t met me.”

The barb goes unnoticed, and the boy turns and walks into his office down the hall. Bruce follows, simply because there is nothing else to do. Once inside, he’s surprised to find an ultra modern office setup that was obviously geared to the building. It looks a bit like the Habsburgs' Ikea. Taking their seats, Mr. Tschantz opens a drawer and pulls out a weighty folder, placing it on his desk. Alsace totters in and delivers the neon green margarita, rimmed with...wait for it...yes. Bacon salt. Bruce takes a long sip as he and the young man take their seats. Alsace closes the door behind her.

“Now, Mr. Halloran you obviously know why you’re here. I have here a list of the five people that your late benefactor Mr. Pitts left for you to handle, as well as Mr. Pitts’ copious notes on each...incident.” The boy’s smile doesn’t waver as he speaks but he can’t hide the catch in his throat at talking about it. A single strand of his perfect hair swoons at the thought and falls gracelessly across his unlined brow, the sole dissenter. Sara Joy must have done some really awful things. Mr. Tschantz pushes the folder across the desk to Bruce, his eyes looking just a little too intense. Bruce takes up the folder more out of defense than security and opens it up. Inside are five smaller folders, each one containing a person Gary Pitts ruined during his wasted, hateful life. The top folder is for a guy named Philip Tupperman. He flips it open to reveal an old Polaroid picture of Tupperman, along with some stuff in a plastic bag and several sheets of Pitt’s recounting of what had happened. Closing it, he turns the entire thing on its side and reads the names: Philip Tupperman, Lois Uzermaan, Gerald Kramer, Nicky Oesterheimer, and--

Bruce’s eyes widen to the point of dehydration. There before him is the one name he didn’t want to see. The one person left on the planet who crawls under his skin more than Gary Pitts ever did.

Avalena Beasley.

That bellowing termagant that has been the bane of his existence since he went to work for Cox. The sulphurous harpy that infests his office and his eyesight every single, stinking day. The customer service equivalent of Typhoid Mary. Avalena Beasley! Beelzebub in a Lane Bryant suit.

Damn you Gary Pitts! This is too far! He begins to reach into the folder to see what he did when Mr. Tschantz says with remarkable authority,

“Mr. Halloran, please! Set the folder down, there are some things we need to discuss.”

Bruce overgently places the folder back where he found it, patronizingly uttering "OK Princess. Don't break a sweat." The young man continues, reading from another set of pages at his hand.

“It is Mr. Pitts’ wish that you make amends with the five individuals as they are ordered in the folder--”

“Are you kidding me?” Bruce blurts out, his temperature rising again.

“Mr. Halloran, please let me finish!” The young man remains decidedly seated. Bruce calms down and listens. Mr. Tschantz continues.

“As I was saying, Mr. Pitts wishes for you to make things right in the order he made them wrong. He was very specific on this point. Your first mission is Mr. Tupperman. You can take that file today. The rest go back into the safe until reparations are made.”

Bruce stares bullets at the kid before snarling,

“Define ‘reparations.’”

The young man’s face never loses its mask of grace and civility. Bruce has to hand it to the kid. By now he’s got most of these hipsters spitting nails in his wake. All he does is blink a little. Like he’s doing now. It speaks.

“That can mean anything from correcting a misconception to remuneration.”

Halloran snorts and says, “I suppose that money’s coming out of me. That miserly bitch.”

Mr. Tschantz looks back to his papers, and smiles as he points to a line and says,

“Oh yes. He said you’d say that. It’s right here, ‘you miserly bitch.’”

Unseen, Bruce narrows his eyes at this fetus from Rubenstein’s. But he resists the urge to kill. Squaring his shoulders like Susan Hayward in ‘I Want to Live.’ he asks,

“What else did Eva Braun scrawl before the Allies got there? And if you tell me that gag is in your notes I’ll kill myself all over your pretty blue walls!”

And again Mr. Tschantz blinks. Four times this round. “No,” he says kindly, checking his notes. “...there’s is a reference here to Tallulah Bankhead, but I…”

His voice trails off as he looks up to see Bruce’s grimace.

“Anyway,” continues Mr. Tschantz, his babyface rictus unshaken, “the money doesn’t in fact come from you. Mr. Pitts has a reserve fund specifically for the expenses of your tasks.”

“There’s more money?!?” Halloran exclaims. “How much is this fund?”

“I am specifically forbidden from revealing the exact sum to you, Mr. Halloran, as per the provisions in the footnotes on page six of the will which reads ‘if he knows how much there really is, it will kill him.’ If there is any balance remaining in the fund at the completion of your tasks, it will be awarded to you.”

Bruce stops to take it all in, then slowly slides Philip Tupperman’s file toward him. Mr. Tchantz takes up the rest of the files and places them back in the drawer. The smile abides. Flipping it open, he looks at the photograph of Philip Tupperman. He wasn’t a bad looking guy. Not Bruce’s style, but he could see the appeal. Brown mane of 80s hair, cute little moustache, average build. And he’s standing in front of the Smokey Mary on Elysian Fields.

Beneath the picture is the plastic bag. Inside he sees Tupperman’s driver’s license from 1988, what looks like an inside-out used matchbook, and a folded mimeographed flyer. And beneath that were the notes, all in Sara Joy’s hand. He flips aimlessly through the pages, and asks,

“So, how exactly am I to go about this?”

“That is an excellent question,” replies Mr. Tschantz, returned to his unnervingly perfect posed composition. Even the one errant hair has returned to place of it’s own accord. “Your task is to go through the files and learn all you can about the circumstances of each victim’s situation. When you have all the information you will make contact with them and find out what they need or want in order to feel they’ve been repaid. Once they agree to terms you must have them sign the paperwork which indemnifies Mr. Pitts and his estate from any and all further claims. Upon final delivery of whatever they have accepted as payment, your task is complete and you may move on to the next victim’s case.”

Bruce stares at Mr. Tschantz with his practiced “bar-eyes,” guaranteed to rattle anyone’s cage. But this Tschantz kid. He’s good. Not even a twitch. Just the blinking. Finally Halloran sniffs a bit and asks bluntly,

“OK. What’s the catch?”

Blink. Two. Three.

“Catch?”

“The catch. The stumbling block. The twist.” Bruce exhales. “What’s the twist?”

Blink. Two. Three. Four...five…

“...the victims cannot know that you are brokering the legal release of the late Mr. Pitts and his estate from any and all responsibility for whatever his past actions may have caused. You may represent yourself as a longtime friend of Mr. Pitts, but in no way may you identify yourself with this office or indicate your goal until the time of signing. All requests for services, cash, other forms of barter are to come through me…”

Bruce’s eyes narrow in on his with laser-like precision.

“Aaaannnd?”

Mr. Tschantz slowly pushes his chair away from his desk, turning it towards the door. Still smiling, he says,

“In fact Mr. Halloran, it is my exclusive job to work with you on bringing this account to a close--”

“That’s the one!” bellows Halloran, his voice reverberating against the walls. “Anything else? There must be something else?”

Mr. Tschantz rises and backs up slowly toward the window where a large and heavy marble buffalo resides. He keeps himself within ready access as he replies atonally,

“It is my job to assist you and keep up with your records. But I cannot physically assist you in any way. My involvement is strictly limited to advice, requisitions, and accountancy."

“So, what you’re sayin’ is you can get me the car, but you can’t pick me up at the airport.”

“...yes.”

Bruce sighs. Once again he’s being told what to do by some kid that can’t even carry boxes. Perfect. Still, what’s the alternative? Shrugging it off his big, rounded shoulders he asks flatly,

“So, what do I do, just report back here once a week?”

At last, the smile strains. It doesn’t fail entirely but it loses some of its structural integrity. Here, the chirp of young Mr. Tschantz become less of a budgie and more of a hawk.

“No Mr. Halloran. You won’t. This will be your last visit to the offices. The partners wish to make it clear that it is in their immediate interest to close Mr. Pitts’ account and distance themselves from any knowledge of it. From now on I will be coming to you. If you need me, you will always be able to reach me at the number you called earlier. Once you leave today, you are never to return. Refusal or violation of any of these conditions will constitute a breach of contract and will instantly trigger the repossession of all of Mr. Halloran’s assets. Is that clear?”

Bruce leans in, picks up his margarita and drains it down. Setting it back on the desk, he turns to Tschantz and says,

“That’s fine, the drywall man’s coming at noon. Can I get another margarita before I go?”

The disturbingly pleasant smile returns in full force, puffed into place by six blinks before he says,

“Of course Mr. Halloran.” Reaching over to a slick black box he touches a lit square and calls out “Alsace, another margarita for Mr. Halloran. And take out some petty cash for his parking. Thank you Alsace.”

Returning to his chair, Mr. Tschantz settles back in and stares at Bruce Halloran. The morning sun pouring in through the cantilevered windows settles on the left side of him, catching the lightness of his suit and skin in blinding detail. Suddenly the fresh-faced Mr. Tschantz seems more aged and imposing than Bruce had originally seen. Innocent freckles now appear as wizened liver spots, Feeling the heat, he moves his chair away from the windows, returning to his creepy little perfect self. Leaning in to Bruce, Tschantz says cheerfully,

“Now would be a good time to start learning about Mr. Tupperman.”

Outside the closed office door, the “thinterns” continue about their daily tasks. In the kitchenette Alsace finishes rimming another glass with bacon salt and limes, a couple of hundreds laying nearby. It won’t be the last time she does this today...This Is My New Orleans.

The Sad, Sordid Tale of Bruce Halloran-3

: Recovering from the preponderance of drywall smoke floating aimlessly throughout his condo, Bruce Halloran starts pulling costumes, hangers, and debris out of the way to see exactly what he’s done. The hole in the closet wall is sizeable and shaped a bit like Africa. Pushing aside the broken closet rod, he finds the source of the problem. A small metal box set into the drywall with its handle coming out of the other side. The hanger on the costume is chained to the handle.

“Sara Joy, you crazy bitch!”

Bruce pulls the contraption towards him through the mess, a large, jagged piece of drywall flaking as it rubs across an ocean of sequins and paillettes. The dust is settling, along with the hot, dry, musty breath of the original building exhaling from the hole. Picking up an old espadrille covered in oxidizing gold spray paint, Bruce knocks the drywall away to reveal the top of the box. Popping open the catch, he lifts the lid to reveal a single envelope. Flipping it over, he finds the handwritten word

“Halloran.”

Inside the envelope he finds several pages of a handwritten letter and a business card for a law firm in the CBD. The extravagant confusing swoops and unfinished points marks it instantly as Gary Pitts handwriting. Leaning back against the huge foam rubber penis, Bruce reads.

“March 15th, 2011

Hello Agnes!

If you’re reading this, then I’m either dead or trying to prove a point.

Either way, now you know. Let’s assume it’s the former.

I also expect by now you’ve moved into my condo and have turned it into the rotten pigsty you enjoy so much. Good thing I’m dead. Because now I can’t do anything about it.

Or, can I?

As it turns out, yes I can.

The business card is for my lawyers. You should recognize the address, you had to go down there to sign the papers to get all my shit.”

Bruce snatches up the card and reads it again. Yeah, that’s them. DiNotta, Tschantz, and Asino.

“Well Brucie Boy, they’re waiting to hear from you. And, knowing you only clean up every ice age, I’ve got a bet with Tschantz that you won’t find this before 2014. If $500 suddenly disappeared from my--”your” bank account in January of 2015, that’s where it went.”

It had disappeared, and Bruce had caused quite a scene. Now he has to bank in Gentilly. Sara Joy would have adored it.

“Here’s why they’re waiting to hear from you. You still have something you have to do. In fact, you have five things you have to do before it all belongs to you in full. I know you didn’t read the fine print in the paperwork you had to sign. You never do. That’s why I told my shysters to make certain it was in there. If you’ll look at the footnotes in Section IV of page six, you’ll see.”

Bruce didn’t even bother to go look. He knew it would be there. That calculating bitch.

“Now, I’m only going to say this once. And since I’ll most likely be dead by the time you read it, it doesn’t count, you gossiping potato. Though I have become a legend in the bars for my cutting wit, acid tongue, and countless acts of Christian charity…”

According to Sara Joy, Christian charity was the name of the company that supplied Caligula with lion chow.

“...I do admit that I have some regrets. Five, to be exact. I had six. But you’re living here now, so I can scratch that bloated mark off my list.”

Bruce’s eyes and nostrils flare as a contagion of grandma beads breaks out all over his body. His temper rising with him, he points towards the letter in his trembling hand like Javert in the worst production of Les Mis ever conceived. His voice begins as a low growl and grows to a piercing shriek as he hisses,

“I knew it! I knew it, I knew it, I kneeeeeeeewwwwwww it! You felt guilty! You heartless piece of flint, you felt remorse! REMORSE! For every nasty trick you played on me, you felt BAD! I can’t believe it! I can’t--I can’t believe I’m screaming at a dead man’s penmanship!”

Bruce drops the letter and staggers out of the closet, his arms clenched tight into his chest. With grasping hands he struggles over to the bedroom bar for a quick visit with Mr. Beam and his good friends at Coca-Cola. But before a drop of liquor can hit the glass he practically drops it on the bar and rushes back to the letter.

“In order to keep this condo, you have to go to the five people on a list that the lawyers have waiting for you. For obvious reasons I can never approach them to make things right. But things have to be set right. And you're the one who has to do it.

Maybe it’s because I’m nearly as old as you’ll be when you find this, but I do have some scrap of decency. Some of them will likely surprise you, at least I’m hoping they will. Your job Executive Secretary Anthony--”

“Good God, again with the obscure TV references,” Bruce groans, a hesitant grin on his face.

“--is to find these people, and make amends on my behalf. I’ve left some notes. They should help. The only rules are that you have to get with everyone on the list and fix things no later than midnight on March 15th, 2016. If anybody is dead before you get to them, let the lawyers know. They’ll tell you what to do.

If you don’t get it all done by the 15th Halloran, you lose everything. The condo, the clothes, the car, the money, everything. When that happens, my entire estate goes to my pet charity, the”

Bruce turns over the page, and shuffles through the letter. He tears through the envelope looking for the last page. Not there. Typical Sara Joy trick. Frustration from beyond the grave. Bruce looks around the pile of rubble and finds the card for DiNotta, Tschantz, & Asino. On the back is a note:

“On weekends, call here,” and the number. There’s also another number and a smaller note that reads “Drywall repair. Prepaid.” Well, she always said she paid for her fun.

Bruce takes a big breath and exhales deeply. Walking back out of the bedroom he picks up his phone and begins dialing the number. For what seems like an eternity there is silence, then the call connects. On the fifth ring it picks up and a young man’s voice dripping of seersucker chirps,

“Hello Mr. Halloran. We’ve been waiting to hear from you. My name is Mr. Tschantz and I’m here to help you.”

The words chill Bruce Halloran down to his pettiest bone...This Is My New Orleans.