“I think,” Jack said, “that is, I have to assume, you’re distraught over the death of this person you mentioned. I’ve seen many people in your state, mourning a tragic loss, and I can understand. After all, it’s my business.” Jack paused. “I wonder if you’d mind telling me your name.”
The guy’s suspicious mind, behind those rosy glasses, wouldn’t let him come right out with it.
“If you would, please. I know this is Franklin. Franklin, how you doing?” The guy didn’t seem to know how to answer. Jack turned back to the colonel saying, “And you’re . . .”
“Colonel Dagoberto Godoy.”
Man, and proud of it. The guy straightened and there was a very faint but sharp sound as though he might have clicked his heels. Jack wondered. He couldn’t remember any heel clicking since grade school. It made him think these guys were from some world he knew nothing about. The only thing to do was get them out of here.
“Colonel,” Jack said, “if your buddy will put his gun away I’ll show you around, let you look in every room in this place, and if you see the person you mentioned . . . What was the name?”
The colonel didn’t want to say it, but he did. “Amelita Sosa.” Snapping the name.
“If you see her, then it will be the first time in mortuary history,” Jack said, “the deceased ever walked in on his or her own. If you’ll follow me, please . . .”
Leo had brought Mr. Louis Morrisseau upstairs and was working over him in the embalming room, head down, concentrating to find that carotid artery in the old man’s neck, Leo’s rubber fingers probing into the incision he’d made. It caught Colonel Godoy’s eye. He approached the doorway from the hall, where Jack and the Creole-looking guy, Franklin, waited. Leo still didn’t look up. Not even when the colonel asked him what he was doing and Leo told him.
“Drain the blood, uh?” the colonel said. “I always wonder how you do that. I don’t understand why you don’ make more holes, do it quicker.”
Leo mumbled something. The colonel said, “What?” as he moved in closer. “This is a very old man I see. But yesterday you had a young girl, uh? Very nice-looking one.”
Leo said, “I wasn’t here yesterday. I told you that.” Still not looking up, his shoulders hunched, his rubber fingers working away.
“But you do get young girls who die.”
“Once in a while.”
The colonel glanced over his shoulder at Franklin and gestured for him to go down the hall. “See if she’s in a room somewhere, hiding.”
Jack turned to follow Franklin. He heard the colonel saying to Leo, “When you place a young girl in the coffin, you don’ dress her completely, do you?”
Jack said to Franklin’s back, “Will you please put your gun away.”
He was glad Leo hadn’t noticed it. Leo might have come apart and told them anything they wanted to know. He watched Franklin take a look in Leo’s office, then come back along the hall to the two-room apartment. The door was closed. Franklin stepped aside for Jack to open it. That surprised him. He waited in the doorway as Franklin looked at the old sofa and refrigerator. When he went into the bedroom Jack stepped over to the refrigerator, opened it and looked in, then waited for Franklin to peek in the bathroom and appear once again.
“You want a cold one?”
The guy stared at him.
“That means a beer. You want one? You like beer?”
The guy shook his head and Jack closed the refrigerator. The guy had really weird hair. Not so nappy up close, rounded in a semifro, but all of it was above his ears in sort of a bowl hairdo, no sideburns. He looked as if he’d just stepped off the banana boat and somebody bought him a suit of clothes, guessing the size: a black suit with pointy shoulders, meant to be snug and mod, but at least a size too big, the sleeves almost touching his knuckles. The guy had the hands of a stonemason, the nails cracked and ridged. It was hard to guess his age, other than he was full grown but not too big. Now, with time to look at him, he appeared different than he did yesterday, when Jack was picturing him in the Big Yard. The guy looked like he was out of the fucking Stone Age, wearing a white regular shirt buttoned at the neck but no tie. Jack thought of asking the guy who dressed him, but then came up with a better question.
“What do you carry a gun for?”
“They gave it to me to use.”
There was the accent that made no sense. If the guy had trouble with Spanish, what was he? Maybe Jamaican. Except it wasn’t quite that kind of accent and the colonel had said he was from Nicaragua.
“To use how?”
“To use, to shoot it.”
“Well, I guess that’s what I’m asking. Who you gonna shoot in New Orleans?”
“I don’t know. They don’t tell me if I am.”
Jesus Christ. “You mean if the colonel, Godoy, he told you to shoot somebody you’d do it?”
“That’s why they give me the gun. If I have to use it.”
“Yeah, but it’s against the law. You can’t just shoot anybody you want.”
It seemed as if the guy had to think that one over. Finally he said, “If I’m told to shoot . . . You understand it isn’t the same as I want to shoot. Uh? It would be I have to do it.”
“If you have to . . . You realize this is hard for me to understand. What you’re talking about.”
“Why is it?”
A simple question. The guy waiting for an answer.
“Well, I guess it’s different here than in Nicaragua.”
“Much different, yes. But I think I like it here.”
“Well, that’s nice.” The guy seemed so easy to talk to, but he wasn’t, he didn’t make sense. The guy was studying him now, beginning to nod.
He said, “That was you, yesterday.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, in the coach. I know it was you.”
Like stating a simple fact, nothing more to it than that, nothing in his expression. . . . The Creole-looking guy stared at him and then walked out.
Jack waited. He looked at the phone, on the end table next to the sofa. He walked over and put his hand on the phone, then took it off. He couldn’t think of anyone to call who’d do him any good. He thought of Leo’s trocars, in the cabinet in the prep room. He had been good yesterday, wide awake. But a failure today. He was slow today. He wasn’t thinking. He thought, Well, you better start now, quick. And began to think, Take ’em. Just fucking take ’em, that’s all. You see ’em, hit. Take the guy with the gun first. Unless they both have a gun. Shit. Then had to get ready again, work himself up. . . . It was so quiet before the sound from the hall reached him, the hurried steps coming this way . . .
Leo said, “Hey!” Stopping dead and bringing his hands up as he came in the room. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Where are they?”
“What were you gonna do, hit me?”
“Leo, where are they?”
“They had a cab waiting, they left. What’s his name, that colonel? He seemed like a nice guy.”
8
* * *
“I THINK THEY’RE WATCHING the house,”Lucy’s voice said. “We’ve been sitting at a window most of the day. Dolores and I take turns. She’s there now, writing down what goes by. There aren’t that many—the street doesn’t go anywhere. The trouble is, all the cars look alike, the new ones.”
“The one yesterday,” Jack said, “was a Chrysler Fifth Avenue, I’m pretty sure. But you’re right, they all look alike. It was black.”
“Are you working?”
“I was. I’m at Mandina’s now. I wanted to call you before, but Leo kept coming in. You know Mandina’s, on Canal?”
“I’ve passed by it. Hang on a minute.”
He heard Lucy’s voice, away from the phone, call Dolores and then heard steps on a hardwood floor. Dolores had opened the door last night when he brought Amelita: Dolores a slim black woman in a flowery print dress and high heels, not looking anything like a housekeeper. When Lucy introduced them she sai
d, “Jack Delaney, Dolores Wilson,” and Dolores gave him a nod, closing her eyes, then gave Lucy a strange look—What’s going on here?—no doubt the first time she’d ever been introduced to company. He heard steps again on the wood floor and then Lucy’s voice.
“Jack? The black Chrysler. It drove by twice and then parked down the street, toward the river.”
“How many people in it?”
“Dolores thinks just one.”
“You could tell the police.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. If I cause a scene I’m not sure what might happen. I don’t want the guy in the car to think I’m, you know, sitting in the window. How about you? Anyone come to the funeral home?”
“Only the colonel himself. He’s a little guy, isn’t he?”
“Jack, really? What did you tell him?”
“He was there when I got back from picking up a body. Listen, I think I might have us another guy, too.”
“Jack . . .”
“I told him we didn’t have an Amelita Sosa. He goes, what’re you talking about? You picked up her body yesterday, at Carville. I said no, it wasn’t us. Must’ve been some other funeral home.”
“But did you put the notice in the paper?”
“No, see, then you’re admitting you have her, or you did. Then they want to know what you did with the body. You say you had it cremated or you sent it somewhere, they can check. There all kinds of records would be involved. I’ve found it’s best, something like this, to open your eyes real wide and play dumb. You don’t know anything. Amelita Sosa? No, I’m sorry, you have the wrong place.”
“But if they check with Carville . . .”
“So, one of the sisters wrote down the wrong funeral home. They’re human, aren’t they, can make mistakes? I never met a sister who did, but it must be possible.”
“What’d he say, the colonel?”
“He had a guy with him. You remember the other one yesterday who didn’t say anything?”
“He stood in front of the hearse.”
“Yeah, did you get a look at him?”
“I saw him, that’s about all.”
“He’s a weird guy. You didn’t notice his hair? Like he might be part colored?”
There was a pause on Lucy’s end. “Yeah, I did notice him. He looked different.”
“His name’s Franklin. You ever hear of a Nicaraguan named Franklin?”
“Sure, it’s possible.” She paused again. “Or he’s Indian. They live along the east coast, near Honduras.”
“He looked more black.”
“Well, there’re Caribbean Creoles mixed in with the Indians. Yeah, and some have unusual names, you’re right, they got from Moravian missionaries. There was a Miskito Indian at the hospital, his name was Armstrong Diego.” She said then, “But when you told the colonel she wasn’t there, what’d he do?”
“Well, he didn’t believe me. Especially when the guy, Franklin, says I was there, he saw me. But he didn’t do anything about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I said, okay, take a look around. We go upstairs, the colonel sees Leo preparing a body and forgets all about Amelita.”
“It didn’t make him ill . . .”
“No, he loved it. But after a few minutes that was it, he left. Told Leo he had an appointment. See, when I first got there I thought Leo was gonna have a heart attack. He talked to Sister Teresa Victor on the phone this morning and then he and I talked and he did not know how to handle it. The colonel comes, Leo’s scared to death. Afraid to even look at him. The colonel leaves and Leo says, ‘He seems like a nice guy.’ ”
“He didn’t . . .”
“You have to understand, anybody that’d want to watch an embalming becomes Leo’s friend for life.”
“That was all? They left?”
“I guess he had to be somewhere. But the guy, Franklin . . . he was weird.”
“I have to learn how to lie,” Lucy said.
“You tell a big one. The bigger the lie, the better chance you have they’ll believe you.”
“But if they believe she’s alive and she’s not at your place, then she must be here. Bertie and his guys. He seems less of a threat if I think of him as Bertie. I found out he’s staying at the Saint Louis. You know where it is?”
“It’s in the Quarter. Very nice hotel, small.”
“Did you ever . . . pick up jewelry there?”
He said, “I don’t think it was a hotel back then,” picturing the open hallways on each floor that looked down into a center courtyard. Why didn’t the guy stay at the Roosevelt? “You talked to your dad, huh?”
“I called him this morning and apologized. Probably the most deceitful thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Yeah, but were you convincing?”
“He said, ‘Don’t give it another thought, Sis.’ I said, ‘If I decide to borrow one of your guns and shoot the son of a bitch, where would I find him?’ He thought that was funny, his daughter the nun turned reactionary. Or whatever I am, I don’t know. I put him down, criticize his business, his politics, but I used money he gave me to buy the car in León.”
“You shouldn’t have trouble with that. You don’t have to like him just ’cause he’s your dad.”
“But I do, he’s a nice guy. . . . Except his values are all screwed up.”
“Wait’ll you meet Roy Hicks.”
There was a silence on Lucy’s end.
“If you’re having second thoughts, I can understand.”
“No, I want to meet him.”
“I might have another guy, too. The only problem is, he doesn’t have a place to live. But we can talk about that later. If the guy in the Chrysler comes to the door, don’t open it.”
“I won’t. But I’d like to get Amelita out of here tonight, if possible. There’s a late flight to L.A. with a change in Dallas. But we’d have to leave here by nine-thirty.”
“We’ll work it out. I’ll call you by eight.”
Jack had a couple of beers and an oyster loaf at the bar, talked to Mario on and off about nothing, and in between thought about the guy, Franklin, and his bluesteel automatic. That was one weird fucking guy. Jack finished eating and drove downtown.
Roy Hicks was putting together an array of pastel-colored drinks in stem glasses along the inside edge of the bar, topping them off with cherries, orange slices, and tiny parasols.
Jack watched him from the front end of the bar, near the entrance to the International Lounge, “Featuring Exotic Dancers from Around the World.”
The way Roy was concentrating, that hard jaw line of his clenched, Jack wouldn’t be surprised to see Roy finish making the drinks and then sweep them off the bar with one of his hairy forearms. Roy always wore short-sleeve shirts, even with the formal black bow tie and the red satin vest. The owner of the club, Jimmy Linahan, had told Roy he’d have to wear long sleeves with French cuffs, but Roy wouldn’t do it; he kept showing up for work in his short-sleeve shirts. Jimmy Linahan said to him, “I don’t want to have to tell you again.” Roy said, “Then don’t,” and went on making drinks.
Jack remembered that day, sitting on this same stool when it happened and Jimmy Linahan coming over to him. They had known each other since they were fifteen years old and used to swim off the levee in Audubon Park and get in fights with black kids or Italians, whoever happened to be there. Jimmy Linahan said, “What’s with this guy?” Roy had given Jack’s name as a reference.
Jack said to him that time, “Jimmy, if I were you I’d let the guy wear a jockstrap with sequins on it if that’s what he happens to show up in. A joint like this, you need Roy more than he needs you. And I don’t mean ’cause he was a cop and knows how to use a stick. Roy has a knack of getting people to agree with him.”
Jimmy Linahan came to appreciate Roy: the fact he never drew complaints or had to give refunds. Roy could put together a drink he’d never heard of without referring to the Bartender’s Guide. And if the patron said, ??
?This isn’t a Green Hornet,” Roy would look at the patron and say, “That’s the way I make ’em, pal. Drink up.” And the patron would see Roy’s eyes, the dead dark stones in there, and say, ‘Mmmmm, it’s different, but good.” Or if the patron bought one of the Exotic Dancers from Around the World a split of champagne and made a fuss when he got a tab for sixty-five dollars, Roy would look at the patron and say, “I bet you can have the money out, plus tip, before I come over the bar. Huh?”
Jack could hear conventioneers behind him having fun, several tables of middle-aged men and women wearing big ID badges. There were a few thousand more of them out on Bourbon Street and it wasn’t yet eight o’clock. Roy was working days this week and would be off at eight.
One of the International girls took the stool next to Jack saying, “Hi, how you doing?” With an accent that would make her an exotic dancer from around the East Texas part of the world. She said, “My name’s Darla. You want to pet my monkey?”
Roy was at the cash register punching keys. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Hey, Darla? Get your hand off his dick. That’s a friend of mine.” He punched some more keys, took the check out of the register, and walked up the bar to the service station.
“He’s an old sweetie, isn’t he?” Jack gave her a nice smile as he said it. He had watched her perform, up on the stage back of the bar, the Exotic Darla naked except for a silver G-string and pink pasties centered on tired, impersonal breasts that looked too old for her. Poor girl trying to make a living. “I tell people,” Jack said to her, “if you’re ever behind Roy at a stoplight and it changes and he doesn’t start up right away, don’t honk your horn.”
The Exotic Darla said, “Yeah?” Waiting for him to continue.
So Jack said, “We were on a 747 one time going to Vegas, one of those junkets where everything’s included, the flight, the hotel. . . . We’ve been drinking for about two hours, Roy decides he has to go to the bathroom. I’m on the aisle, so when I get up I decide, well, I may as well go too. We get to the back of the plane and see these little signs on all the lavatories, occupied. Roy goes over to the other side of the plane where there three more, but they’re occupied too, so he comes back. I’m standing there, he knows these three are occupied, he can see the little signs, but he tries the doors anyway, jiggles the handles. He stands there for about a half a minute and all of a sudden he kicks the door of the one I’m standing right in front of. He kicks it and says, ‘Come on, hurry up!’ The door opens like only about ten seconds later. This guy comes out, big guy, and gives me the dirtiest look you ever saw in your life. Not Roy, me, ’cause I’m the one standing there. The guy walks off, up the aisle, and Roy goes, ‘What’s the matter with him?’ ”