Special Agent John Tuttle
The street was like so many others in the French Quarter, a blaze of colour, pounding music, tight pants, and short skirts. While still a block away from the famous Bourbon Street, Dauphin Street was no less impressive for its collection of liquor serving establishments and numerous business, everything from clothing shops, to knick-knack retailers, even barristers.
One such shop, a neat little store front with etched glass declaring it
Thurston at Law, was tucked into a small side ally across from an ice cream shop. If you asked anyone in the neighbourhood how long it had been there, most would shrug and tell you it had always been there. Mr Thurston was described as a medium sized man, neatly groomed, who was friendly and polite, in short, he was utterly forgettable.
On this particular day the little bell above the door tinkled as a leggy blonde, her hair hanging loose about her shoulders, tight cropped shirt exposing midriff and extensive cleavage, stepped into the front room. It looked like any other barristers waiting room. A collection of out of date magazines, well swept, with limited art and a couple of leather chairs that smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.
"Good morning!" She called out in a voice made husky by cigarette consumption.
"Good morning to you as well, miss." A man of unremarkable stature appeared at the office door. He wore a suit that was slightly to big for him, his hair was neatly combed back, and he peered at her over a pair of wire rimmed spectacles.
"I understand you do divorces?" The blonde had pushed the door closed behind her, clutching her large purse to her chest so that it pushed up her bra even more. Any further and her breasts were liable to escape the tight shirt.
"I do, come in." The barrister stepped aside and waved the blonde into his office. He stepped to the window and flipped the sign from "Open" to "Meeting" and locked the door before following the strange mix of cigarette smoke and perfume into his own office, closing this door as well. "What can I do for you, Miss...?"
"Miss Stalenhag." Replied the woman as her nervous demeanour vanished and she wasted no time in drawing a manila envelope from her bag and handing it over to the bespectacled man. He accepted it without comment, drew out the papers inside, glanced them over, and then back at her.
"Anything else?"
She shook her head.
"Alright, help yourself to a drink." He gestured to a coffee machine nearby. "I have to make a call."
He dialled several numbers into the phone and waited until it was picked up at the other end. Two clicks came over the line as he waited, doing his best not to stare at the blondes backside as she poured a coffee. There was a
whirrr and then he spoke into the receiver.
"Hello, Mrs Stalenhag is here." He nodded and
mhm'd a couple of times before thanking the person on the other end and hanging up. The blonde, meanwhile, had made herself comfortable and almost finished her coffee. She went to light a cigarette but paused when he shot her a sharp look. "Not in here, please."
She shrugged and placed the unlit smoke between her lips, studying the man across from her. He looked, for all intents and purposes, like any other of the thousands of men who bustled importantly through the streets of America. Her assignment had been to bring him the envelope, nothing more. She knew literally nothing about him. She suspected he was probably some sort of local informant, kept an eye on the bars and local weirdos. It was more than likely he was on the take with the local mob as well. She had seen that often enough. The only thing that set him apart from most informants, however, was his apparent lack of interest in her. She knew she could turn heads, and had even done a little bend at the waist while pouring coffee to see what would happen. Your average man would certainly have at least made a comment, but not this fellow. Probably gay.
"Anything else?" He asked, breaking in on her thoughts and she shook her head. He handed her the $20 she had been promised and then opened the door into the waiting room. "Thank you for coming. Good luck with your husband."
She smiled sweetly at him and received a ghost of a smile in reply. The second door was unlocked and she stepped out into the little ally, glancing about, and then moving into the rush of bodies that populated the street even this early in the day. By the time she got back to the restaurant where she worked she realized she couldn't remember a single remarkable thing about the man she had gone to see.
* * * * * * * * *
About the same time the blonde was returning to work, a door at the rear of the barristers opened and John Tuttle stepped into the street. Gone was the spectacle wearing lawyer, in his place was an athletic looking man in clean cream coloured pants, black belt, and blue collared shirt. He closed the door, brushed for a moment at a moustache, and then set off down the street with one hand in his pocket, the other snapping along to a song only he could hear.
The call with Washington had been an interesting one. He had been in the New Orleans area for the better part of two years now and was well embedded into local society. Three major investigations had been successful based on information he collected and several others were nearing the final stages. It was almost time for him to move to a new location. Stay to long the locals started to realize that you didn't actually fit in, at all, because they didn't actually know who you were.
Still, there were worse places to live. At least it wasn't Mississippi.
