Out of the Easy

  “What?”

  Willie stared at me. “You’re old enough to go to jail now.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  By the time I finished cleaning and pulled the Valentine decorations from the attic, the girls were in the kitchen having coffee.

  “Happy birthday, sugar!” said Dora. “Sweety reminded us last night.”

  “You mean happy death day,” said Evangeline. “The madam she’s named after died on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Can you imagine dyin’ on Valentine’s Day?” said Dora. She twisted her long red hair on top of her head and stuck a pencil through it. “There’s somethin’ so sad about that. But y’all know I’m gonna kick it on St. Patrick’s Day, ride out in a coffin lined in green satin.”

  “Did Willie give you anything for your birthday?” Evangeline asked, rubbing her palms across her thighs.

  “Vangie, Willie don’t give birthday gifts—you know that,” said Dora. “You’re just fired up about presents because you think your big man might bring you a Valentine’s gift.”

  “A big man? Do you have a new boyfriend, Evangeline?” I asked.

  “Mind your own business,” she snapped. She swiped the pencil from Dora’s hair and stomped out of the room.

  John Lockwell had Evangeline. I didn’t have my letter.

  • • •

  I shot a quick glance over my shoulder, making sure I was alone. I dialed RAymond 4119. There was a click, then the double ring.

  “Good morning, the Lockwell Company.”

  “Good morning. Mr. Lockwell, please.” Was my voice shaking? I coughed into my hand. I pictured the receptionist, filing her nails and rolling her eyes.

  “Hold the line, please.”

  “Mr. Lockwell’s office.”

  I took a breath, trying to sound pleasant, calm. “Hello, Dottie. How are you? This is Josephine Moraine phoning for Mr. Lockwell.”

  Silence. “Is Mr. Lockwell expecting your call?”

  Absolutely not. “Yes, he is, thanks.”

  “One moment, please.”

  More silence. Sal walked by carrying a king cake. I pointed to the phone and mouthed, “For Willie.” Sal nodded.

  The voice on the line swayed deep and thick. “Let me guess—you want me to be your valentine.”

  I looked down at the receiver. “No, Mr. Lockwell, this is Josephine Moraine, Charlotte’s friend.”

  He laughed, then hacked some late-night cigar miasma from his lungs. “I know exactly who you are. You’re lucky you caught me. I’m not usually in the office this early, especially around Mardi Gras. I had to come in to sign a check. Closed a big deal. Why don’t you come over and make me one of your martinis to celebrate? Hell, I’m still drunk from last night.”

  “I’m calling to follow up on the recommendation letter. I’ve got to send in my application soon.” It came out exactly as I had rehearsed it in my apartment.

  “Have you gotten some new shoes yet?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’ve got nice ankles, but those beat-up—whatever they were—make your legs look dumpy. You need some heels. High heels.”

  My palm tightened around the receiver. “What I need is the letter.”

  “Well, come over here in a nice pair of heels, and I’ll give you the letter,” he said. I heard a creak and a tap. I saw him leaning back in his red leather chair, putting his feet on the bureau in front of all the framed pictures.

  “Give me the letter, and I’ll make you a martini,” I countered.

  “Nope.” He chuckled. Maybe he really was drunk. If so, I needed to take advantage of it.

  “Be here at six thirty,” he said.

  “Three thirty.”

  “Six,” he said. “Bye-bye, Josephine.”

  It was a game to him. Just a little game. It was silly, really.

  Then why did I have such a sick feeling inside?

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Next to my dull exterior, it appeared newer than a new pair of shoes. The gold was so shiny it looked ridiculous on me. She’d had the watch engraved on the back: Jo is 18.—Willie.

  With all that was going on around Mardi Gras, she still remembered my birthday. And I was keeping something from her, breaking what was most important to Willie—trust. I was relieved to see Cokie’s cab pull up to the curb outside the bookstore. He walked through the door carrying a cardboard box and started singing and dancing.

  “I’d rather drink muddy water than let you jive on me. Josie girl, it’s your birthday, so don’t you jive on me.”

  A birthday serenade from Cokie was tradition. It still made me blush.

  “I don’t think Smiley Lewis would appreciate you turning his song into a birthday tune,” I said.

  “What you talking about? Smiley would be honored. He’s gonna record that song one day. I’ll tell him to play it that way just for you tonight. Happy birthday, Josie girl.” Cokie smiled from ear to ear.

  “Before I forget”—I slid the envelope across the counter—“Willie wants you to drop this off at the Pontchartrain.”

  “All right, then. Now that we got business behind us, let’s talk about the business of your birthday. I see you got Willie’s gift. But who wants a big ol’ mess a gold when you can have this?” Cokie set the floppy box on the counter in front of me.

  I loved Cokie’s birthday gifts almost as much as I loved Cokie. Never fancy, but always meaningful. And he always claimed it was a puppy.

  “Now, be careful when you open it so he don’t jump out,” warned Cokie.

  “You’ve fed him already, though, right?” I asked.

  “Sure did. I fed him early this mornin’.”

  I pulled back the flaps and peeked in the box. An aluminum thermos with a red plastic top. A map.

  Cokie bounced with excitement. “That’s brand-new from Sears. The ad says it’ll keep your drink hot for near a whole day. You can even put soup in it, it says. But you’ll need to put coffee in it.”

  “I will?”

  “Sure you will. How you gonna make it over thirty hours with no coffee?”

  “Thirty hours?”

  Cokie put the box on the floor and brought out the map. “I got it all figured out. Even talked to Cornbread, and he confirmed the route.” He spread the map out on the counter in front of us. “See, we here.” He pointed to New Orleans on the map. “Now, follow me.” His dusky finger traced along a line he had drawn with a red pen. “First you’ll go through Mississippi, then Alabama, then on up through Georgia.”

  My eyes jumped ahead. The red ink ended abruptly in Connecticut. “Cokie, you did this?”

  “Me and Cornbread. He knows the routes from truckin’. I got the idea from Willie. Sometimes when I’m drivin’, she talks. She ain’t even talkin’ to me, she’s just talkin’, like thinkin’ out loud. Well, she was hotter than blue blazes because you told her you want to go to some fancy college out East. She go on, sayin’ you’re too salty for those schools, and I said, ‘Why not? Maybe those schools need a little spice. They’d be lucky to have Josie girl.’ Ooh, she got mad and said gettin’ into those schools is political and you ain’t got the politics to get in and so on. But you know what? I think you can do it. My only worry is how you’ll get up there. So I talked to Cornbread. He said I could try to take you in the taxi, or maybe he could find you a rig route and you could ride up with a trucker. And then we charted it out. But I wasn’t sure which school you gonna pick—’cuz they all gonna want you—so we stopped the trail in Connecticut. Over fifteen hundred miles. That’s some long road.” He patted the top of the thermos. “So you’ll need coffee.”

  He smiled wide. He was so certain, his belief so absolute.

  “Josie girl.” The smile faded from his voice. “Why you cryin’?”

  I shook my head,
unable to speak. I reached for the thermos and cradled it against my chest. Tears rolled down my face.

  “Aw, you shouldn’t be cryin’ on your birthday.” He pointed to the map. “Where is it?” he asked softly.

  “It’s Smith College in Northampton. Near Boston.”

  “All right, then.” He pulled the red pen from his pocket and continued the trail from Connecticut into Massachusetts. “Boston. There.” He looked at me. “Why you frettin’, Jo? You not sure?”

  I inhaled my tears in order to speak. “I’m sure I want to go, but I’m not sure it’s possible. Why would they accept me? And if they did, how would I pay for it? I don’t want to get my hopes up only to be disappointed. I’m always disappointed.”

  “Now, don’t let fear keep you in New Orleans. Sometimes we set off down a road thinkin’ we’re goin’ one place and we end up another. But that’s okay. The important thing is to start. I know you can do it. Come on, Josie girl, give those ol’ wings a try.”

  “Willie doesn’t want me to.”

  “So what, you gonna stay here just so you can clean her house and run around with all the naked crazies in the Quarter? You got a bigger story than that.”

  I held up the thermos. “And hot coffee for the journey.”

  Cokie started to shuffle and sing. “I’d rather drink muddy water than let you jive on me. Josie girl, you goin’ to Boston, so don’t you jive on me.”

  I hugged the thermos.

  “All right, I better get to the Pontchartrain, or Willie will have my hide,” said Cokie. “I got somethin’ else.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a thin piece of newspaper, torn at the edges. “Cornbread got back from Tennessee. He gave me this. The rich man’s family ain’t satisfied. Apparently his watch and money were stolen, so they suspicious. They wanna do their own autopsy.” He laid the piece of newsprint on the counter.

  TENNESSEAN’S DEATH SUSPICIOUS

  The body of Forrest L. Hearne, Jr., 42, will be exhumed in Memphis on Monday for autopsy. Hearne, a wealthy architect and builder, died during the early morning hours of January 1 at the Sans Souci nightclub in New Orleans. Hearne and his two friends had traveled to New Orleans to attend the Sugar Bowl football game January 2. Hearne reportedly left Memphis with $3,000, but no money was found on his person when he died. The deceased was also missing his expensive wristwatch and Sugar Bowl tickets. Hearne’s death was attributed at the time to a heart attack. Dr. Riley Moore, Orleans Parish coroner, said Hearne collapsed in the club and was dead when the ambulance arrived.

  “Josie.” Cokie moved toward the counter. “You okay? You’re grayer than a bottle of rain, girl.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “You really have to go tonight?” said Patrick. “I thought maybe you could come over for your birthday, say hello to Charlie.”

  “Yes, I have to go. He’s going to give me the letter.”

  “Why don’t I go with you? Maybe it’ll look more serious if I’m there.”

  I liked the idea of Patrick coming. Then I thought about what Mr. Lockwell had said. High heels. He wouldn’t appreciate Patrick being there. And I knew better than to tell Patrick about his comment.

  “Let’s meet up later at the Paddock. Smiley Lewis is playing tonight. Could you come after Charlie goes to sleep?” I asked.

  “The Paddock’s so grimy. Besides, I can’t leave Charlie for too long. He’s been acting up. Miss Paulsen called asking to talk to him. She said she came by. You didn’t tell her about him, did you?”

  “Of course not. I’d never do that.”

  “Promise me you won’t tell anyone, Jo.”

  “I promise! I love Charlie just as much as you do,” I told him.

  “Some of the neighbors are suspicious. I told them that he’s completely absorbed in writing a play and sometimes reads it aloud, acting the parts.”

  “That was smart. He did spend thirty-five days inside writing once,” I said.

  “Yeah, but I don’t know how long they’ll buy it. I like Miss Paulsen, but she’s pretty nosy. And her brother’s a doctor. All we need is for her to get a look at Charlie and call for a straitjacket.”

  “Don’t say that. Have you written to your mom yet?” I asked.

  “I had told her about the robbery and the beating, but she doesn’t know how bad it’s gotten.” Patrick shuffled some papers on the counter. “Say, Jo, I keep forgetting to ask, do you have that inventory report? The accountants need it for taxes.”

  “Your accountant is part of the Proteus Krewe for Mardi Gras. He’s not thinking about tax season right now.”

  “I know, but I want to have it in advance. I’m tired of always doing things last minute. And I hate to ask, but do you think you could do me a favor and stay with Charlie for a couple hours tomorrow night? I’ve got some books coming in around dinnertime, and I want to turn them around and deliver. We could use the money.”

  “Sure, I’ll stay with Charlie.”

  “Thanks, Jo. Jeez, now I feel bad. Your redneck Romeo, Jesse, gets you flowers for your birthday, and I can’t even go with you to the Paddock.”

  “Flowers?”

  “You didn’t see?” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Step outside and look at your window.”

  I walked into the street and looked up toward my apartment. Balancing in the wrought-iron window box was a bouquet of pink lilies. How had Jesse gotten them up there?

  I had never received flowers and didn’t own a vase, so I propped them in a glass on my desk. The fragrance quickly filled the small space. Staring at the lilies, I felt a mix of happiness and apprehension. Unless it was Cokie, gifts from men weren’t free.

  I put on the same dress I had worn to Lockwell’s office before. It was the only nice dress I owned. I tied a red scarf around my neck onto my shoulder, trying to make the outfit look different, and combed my hair over to the side to tame the puff from the humidity. For some reason, my hair always looked best right before bed, and what good was that?

  I looked down at my feet. Pretty shoes for a letter. Sex for a string of pearls.

  Was there a difference?

  TWENTY-NINE

  My heels echoed across the deserted marble floor of the lobby. Six o’clock on Valentine’s Day and so close to Mardi Gras, everyone was out chasing hearts. When I reached the eighth floor, the reception desk was empty. A trickle of perspiration slid between my shoulder blades in a single stream and landed at the base of my spine. I grabbed a magazine from the reception area table and fanned my face. The temperature outside was only seventy, but I had tried to walk fast. I lifted my arm and fanned the orbs of sweat in my armpits. Was I hot or nervous?

  “Now, that’s the best use of that magazine I can think of.”

  I looked up. A man in a gray suit with a briefcase stood near the reception desk.

  “I think they reduce the cool air after hours. Are you here for someone?” he asked.

  “Mr. Lockwell.” I nodded, adding, “I’m a friend of his niece.”

  “I think he’s back in his office. Big day for him. Another nice deal. I’d show you back, but I’m late to meet the wife for dinner. Go on through.”

  I walked by the rows of desks toward Mr. Lockwell’s mammoth office. Each step was more difficult and my toes began to cramp. This was a mistake. Mr. Lockwell’s voice rose in volume as I approached. He was giving dates and dollar figures. Large sums. He said the deal was signed today and his attorney had just left the office with the contract. I stood outside the door. I heard him hang up the phone and knocked on the door frame.

  “Come in.”

  The office was a haze of cigar smoke.

  “Well, hello, Josephine.” Mr. Lockwell grinned and walked around his desk toward the door. His greedy eyes immediately locked onto my feet.

  My stomach twisted. I felt the taste of humil
iation rise in my throat. He stared at my feet. “What the hell are those?”

  “They’re called loafers. Brown loafers.”

  “I know what they’re called, but that wasn’t the deal,” he said.

  “Show me the letter first.”

  “Show you the letter?”

  “Yes. Show me the letter and then I’ll show you the high heels.”

  He leaned back against his desk. “Is that the only dress you own?”

  “This isn’t about the dress. This is about the letter.”

  “And the shoes,” he added.

  “Yes, and the shoes. So, show me the letter.”

  “Oh, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? I love that game.”

  I swallowed hard and stared, trying to keep from throwing up.

  He ran his hand through his hair, a habit from his youth, no doubt, before his hairline began its slow retreat at the temples. His fleshy midsection challenged the buttons on his dress shirt. He wasn’t ugly, but if he picked a flower, I was fairly certain it would die in his hand. Mother might find him attractive. For some, a bloated bank account improved a man’s features.

  “Well, you see, Josephine, today was one of those great days, but great days are often really busy days. So I don’t exactly have the letter.”

  I nodded. “I figured that was likely. That’s why I didn’t sashay in here wearing the shoes. That would be called a negative ROI.”

  “ROI? Return on investment?”

  “Exactly, a bad investment of my time and self-respect, not to mention money, on a pair of shoes I’d never wear. Durable goods, Mr. Lockwell.” I motioned to my feet. “Practical and high yield.”

  “Jesus, I should hire you. Are you looking for a job?”

  “I’m looking for a college education. Smith. Northampton.”

  Mr. Lockwell laughed, pointing his finger at me. “You’re good, Josephine. You just may have earned your letter. And with a little spit shine, you could earn a lot more, if you know what I mean.” My face must have conveyed my disgust. He rolled his eyes. “Or you could work in an office. Are you eighteen?” he asked.