Free Murder in the Rue St. Ann by Greg Herren Page B

fought my irritation. It was just Paul. You’d think someone who had worked for an airline for seven years would always be on time. Paul even joked about it. “I single handedly keep Transco from being the most on-time airline,” he would laugh. “If they want to improve their ranking, they should fire me.” It never seemed to matter what time he started getting ready—he always managed to be late. He could start getting ready three hours before we had to be somewhere and we’d still wind up arriving half an hour late.
    I was always on time—even when I was a kid. Having to be someplace meant getting out of the trailer and away from my parents, so I always left early. When I started getting invitations to parties in high school, I was without fail the first guest to arrive, sampling the food and making awkward conversation with whoever was throwing the party as they put last minute touches on things. T. J. always teased me about it. “You always do as your told, Chanse? Someone tells you ‘be there at seven’ and you obey?” He’d flash me that grin.
    Any command you want to give me, T. J. , flashed through my mind every time he’d say it.
    I was on time the night I went over to T. J.’s to study History my junior year. He picked me up in the convertible outside the entrance to the trailer park, where I always had him meet me. He’d met my parents at football games, and was always extremely polite while I burned with embarrassment. His parents never reeked of liquor. His mom always smelled of some nice perfume, and was always made up perfectly and dressed nice. Even when she was just wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, she seemed to radiate class. His father wasn’t as friendly as his mom, but he was always nice. He would ask me about the team and school— things like that—even though I could tell he wasn’t interested.
    On the way over to T.J.’s  house the stereo was blaring Def Leppard  and he was  singing along over the roar of the wind. In the passenger seat I obliged by playing air guitar to go with his vocal, chiming in on the chorus. We both had big stupid grins on our faces. I always liked spending the night at his house. We’d both sleep in his big king-sixe bed.  I got to get long looks at him in his underwear. While he slept I would lie there, unable to sleep, listening to the even rhythm of his breathing and wishing I had the nerve to do something—anything— but was always too afraid.
    He wore a white mesh Texas Longhorns tank-top and tapped his hand on the car door in time with the drum.  Ray-Bans hid his eyes.  His curls danced as he bopped his head as he sang.
    The house was dark as we pulled up the long driveway. “Where’s your folks?” I asked as we got out of the car. He had an older sister, Karen, who was at school in Austin.
    “Dad had a thing in Dallas, and Mom went with him.” He flashed that grin at me again. “We got the whole place to ourselves.” He laughed. “Party time, ole buddy.”
    The Ziebell place didn’t intimidate me any more by then. The house was huge, something out of a movie— two stories with a wide verandah and big round stone columns. A fountain bubbled in the front yard, and the verandah was lined with Mrs. Ziebell’s huge rose bushes. The living room was as big as our entire trailer.
    We tossed our back packs on a chair by the front door and headed back to the kitchen, where T. J. snagged a six-pack of Coors Lite out of the refrigerator and led me out back to the pool. He kicked off his shoes and socks, cracked a beer, and tossed me one. I pulled off my own shoes and sat down, my feet dangling into the warm pool water. He flicked a switch and the pool flooded with lights. He went back inside and turned on the stereo:“Appetite for Destruction” by Guns ‘n’ Roses. He came back and sat down next to me, his feet plopping into the pool. He grinned at me as he pulled a joint out of his pants pocket. He lit it and handed it to me. We sat