Black Delta Night

by Jessica Speart

  The hogs protested with angry grunts and snorts, eyeing me in much the same way as Virgil. I ignored their complaints and headed straight for the spot of yellow. Once there, I lowered the broomstick and began my fishing expedition.

  Voilà! I hooked my prey on the pole and, ever so carefully, lifted the sodden treasure out of the muck and waste. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at what I’d exhumed, not quite knowing what to make of it. Dangling from the end of the pole was what appeared to be one of Mavis Newcomb’s muddied yellow high heels, which I’d seen her wearing only yesterday.

  My stomach constricted until it was taut as a vise. Lowering the stick once more, I began to methodically probe the mud, not wanting to admit what I was after. By the time I was through, pinpricks of sweat dappled my skin like morning dew, turning my clothes cold and clammy so that they stuck to my flesh. I was no longer an astronaut heading up into the sky, but a diver delving under a sea of putrefying slime in search of what I hoped not to find—namely, a cadaver. The sensation of suffocation didn’t end until my task was through. Only then did I finally breathe a deep sigh of relief.

  Maybe I really was crazy. Still, Mavis had definitely been pissed at Virgil for ratting her out to a Fish and Wildlife agent. All I could figure was that she’d shown up here yesterday, gotten into a fight, and whacked Virgil with her shoe during the ensuing battle. Most likely, he’d retaliated by throwing her high heel into the pigpen. I was beginning to think the two truly were soul mates. God knew, they were greedy enough to deserve each other.

  I slogged past the hogs with my trophy and hauled myself out of their sty. I couldn’t help but get the giggles as I thought about how much I’d scared myself—not to mention how I must look in my stunning new outfit. Removing the plastic bags from my legs, I wrapped Mavis’s shoe inside one, then headed for the Ford. Virgil’s dog begged me to stop by breaking into a chorus of pitiful whimpers. I did everything in my power not to listen, but the pooch’s cries grew increasingly louder and more pathetic by the minute.

  I climbed inside my vehicle and started the engine, provoking the mutt to let loose with a heart-wrenching wail. It was as if I were consigning the critter to eternal damnation. I’d sworn on my life never to let myself get attached to anything ever again. Not after my dog Pilot, in Nevada. Still, I couldn’t help but sneak a peek. The canine played me masterfully, breaking into an eerie howl as if on the verge of dying.

  There are some things over which we have little control in life. Though my head told me to drive away, my heart kept my foot on the brake, refusing to let me leave. I finally gave in, knowing there was no other way I’d ever be able to live with myself.

  I trudged back across the yard with metal snips in hand and gave Virgil’s dog her freedom, knowing all too well what would happen next. The pooch made a mad dash for my vehicle and jumped inside the cab with a flying leap. Then she happily sat in the passenger seat, wagging her tail while waiting for me to join her.

  I pulled myself up behind the wheel and sternly stared at my new companion. “Okay, let’s get something straight right away. I’m the boss. That means I’m the one in control here.”

  She played me for the patsy I was by cheerfully licking my face.

  “All right! Enough already,” I gruffly replied, blinking the tears from my eyes as I once again turned on the engine and left.

  I now had a lot more baggage than when I’d first started out this morning. Namely, Virgil’s mutt, Mavis’s muddied yellow shoe, and a barbecue rib sandwich that lay like a log in my stomach.

  Twelve

  “You realize you’re crazy, don’t you?” Terri asked, after I’d bathed the dog and taken a shower.

  “Is that a question or a statement?” I inquired.

  “In your case, it’s both. What are you going to do with a dog? You couldn’t even take care of a cockatoo.”

  I didn’t bother to respond, but simply watched as Terri proceeded to feed our new boarder some leftover chicken. Then I went into the bedroom and finished getting dressed, in preparation for my caviar lesson.

  “So, what are you going to call her, anyway?” Terri questioned.

  I walked into the living room where the two of them were sitting on the couch together. I shrugged, not yet willing to name the pooch for fear of becoming too attached.

  “I haven’t really thought about it. How about just Dog?” I suggested.

  “Oh, right. I get it. You’re Holly Golightly and we’re about to have breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Terri retorted. “Absolutely not. The dog deserves better than that.”

  “Then why don’t you name her?” I proposed, as if that would release me from any emotional bond, and place the weight of commitment on Terri.

  But Terri shook his head. “Oh no, you don’t. On second thought, Dog will do just fine for now. You’ll name her when you’re ready.”

  Terri and I headed for Vincent’s, only to be stopped at the door by a heartfelt moan. Dog sat with her head cocked to one side and gazed at us with mournful eyes. Then she started to wobble as if she just might topple over, unable to bear the thought of being left alone.

  Terri and I looked at each other in a moment of silent communion before blurting out in unison, “Oh, all right. Come on!”

  Dog jauntily followed us out the door. We rang the bell and Vincent waved us into his abode, until he spotted what was tagging along at our feet.

  “Oh dear God. You’ve finally done it, Terri. You went and got a dog. Does this mean we’re now one of those New Age nuclear families?” he asked apprehensively.

  “No, it means Rach has picked up another stray which I temporarily get to take care of.” Terri sent a knowing look my way.

  “Just tell me the creature’s housebroken. That’s all I ask.” Vincent dramatically pointed toward his beautiful antique Persian rug.

  “Don’t worry, she’s perfectly well-behaved,” I assured him, hoping the pooch wouldn’t prove me a liar.

  “In that case, let’s start our lesson, shall we?” Vincent led the way into the dining room.

  Before us was a table laden with enough silver and crystal to make me believe I actually had landed at Tiffany’s.

  “This is absolutely amazing!” I exclaimed in delight.

  Four separate mounds of caviar, nestled in faceted cut-glass bowls, sat in sterling silver servers that acted as ice chambers. Vincent pulled out a chair and held it as I took my seat. Then he did the same for Terri. Dog seemed to sense this was an important test; she lay down and placed her chin on my feet.

  “Now, as I said the other night, one of the most crucial things is to know who you’re buying from. Your caviar connection should care about you as much as your plastic surgeon.”

  “I’m all for that,” Terri agreed, and gently patted the skin around his eyes.

  “The other thing to remember is never let caviar come into contact with metal,” Vincent instructed.

  “Why is that?” I asked, wondering how else you were supposed to spoon out the stuff.

  “Because a chemical reaction ensues when the two elements meet. That’s why the insides of their tins are always coated with epoxy glaze. Just look at those tiny, fragile globes. Good caviar should make your taste buds burst into the strains of a Chopin waltz. It should fill your veins with romance. That’s not about to happen if the roe has a metallic taste.”

  I could see his point.

  “That’s why all the spoons tonight are mother-of-pearl, and the caviar is served in crystal. Now, let’s move on to how the eggs should look,” Vincent suggested.

  I glanced at Terri, who sat with his chin in his hands, gazing at the wrestler with unadulterated rapture. It was the first time I’d ever seen him like this. For a moment, I felt the slightest twinge of envy. Even Dog had begun to snore in contentment at my feet. Boy, was I feeling sorry for my lonely, unattached self.

  Drop the self-pity, and get your mind back on the lesson!

  Vincent gently lifted a diminutive egg betwee
n two sausage-sized fingers. “You see how the roe is firm? That’s exactly the way you want it to be.” He slipped the sample into my hand. “The eggs should never be broken or mushy. Now go ahead and take a whiff.”

  I lifted the eggs and carefully inhaled, afraid if I sniffed too hard it might fly up my nose.

  “How does that smell?” he questioned.

  “Just like the sea.”

  “That’s exactly right. And the scent should have a fresh and clean aroma.”

  Vincent picked up a mother-of-pearl spoon and dipped it into the closest mound of roe.

  “Each of these four bowls contains a different type of caviar. It takes a certain amount of skill to differentiate between them, so I’m going to try and make this as simple as possible.”

  He extracted the spoon from bowl number one and offered me a taste. I placed a few of the eggs in my mouth. But try as hard as I might, I didn’t hear any strains of Chopin, nor did I feel a throbbing rush of romance course through my veins. Instead, it tasted akin to belly lox—except this stuff was probably a whole lot more expensive.

  Vincent opened a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, easing out the cork with a gentle sigh. Then he poured its contents into three crystal flutes. The bubbles raced to the surface of each glass like frantic survivors desperate for air.

  “Cleanse your palate with a sip of this,” he instructed.

  I reached for the flute.

  “Always hold your glass by the stem, Rachel. That way the warmth of your fingertips won’t flatten the bubbles, and you’ll impress the hell out of a true gourmand.”

  He handed a glass of champagne to Terri with an affectionate wink. No wonder Terri was falling for this guy. Not only could he kick ass, but his taste was impeccable.

  “Okay. Sample number two.” He slid a different spoon in my mouth. “How would you describe this one?”

  These eggs were more yellowish-golden in color than the first sample I’d tried.

  “It has a kind of nutty, earthy taste to it,” I offered. Ooh, yeah. I could see that review being printed in the New York Times. It sounded like I was critiquing a kid’s cereal.

  “Very good!” Vincent praised. “Your description is perfect. That was osetra. It’s one of the three types of Russian sturgeon from the Caspian Sea. Take a sip of champagne and we’ll move on to the next.”

  Mmm, I was really beginning to enjoy this lesson. I slipped the third spoonful of roe into my mouth. The eggs were smaller than the last batch, and lighter gray in color.

  “These seem to have rather a briny taste,” I tentatively offered.

  “Right again!” Vincent beamed. “Those are sevruga. You’re a natural at this. Now here’s the last sample.”

  However, rather than handing me the spoon, Vincent deposited a few of the eggs along the base of his thumb, as if they were snuff, and tested the roe with a small lick before eating them.

  I had no idea what the hell he was doing, but it certainly looked impressive. I naturally followed suit. These eggs were steel-gray and the largest of the four samples, with a taste like that of wonderfully creamy butter.

  “Those are my favorite,” I said boldly.

  Vincent nodded approvingly. “They’re the rarest and most expensive eggs of all. What you just tasted is beluga.”

  So these were the eggs that Mafia gangs were battling Russian marine guards over. The flavor instantly lost its appeal. The beluga sturgeon had little time left before it would officially be declared extinct.

  “I can’t stand it any longer! Enough with the lesson! Can I join in and eat some of this now?” Terri held a hand to his forehead, pretending to feel faint.

  “Absolutely.” Vincent laughed. “Why don’t you bring the toast points and crème fraîche out from the kitchen?”

  “You never told me what the first batch of eggs were,” I realized.

  Vincent smiled knowingly and had me sample them once again. “This is what we call our local caviar. It’s paddlefish roe. Can you tell the difference between it and the others?”

  The taste wasn’t all that different from the sevruga. “Yes,” I hesitantly responded. “But only the slightest bit.”

  “Don’t feel bad; it has nothing to do with your taste buds,” he said. “It takes a connoisseur to immediately make the distinction. Especially when black market dealers mix it with one of the more expensive varieties.”

  Terri placed a spoonful of roe on his sliver of toast, topped with a few drops of lemon juice. “That’s why I only eat beluga. At least that way I know what I’m getting,” he proclaimed and happily licked his fingers.

  Even Terri didn’t stop to think about where the eggs on his toast came from—or of the sturgeon’s inevitable march toward extermination.

  “The problem is, you can’t always be certain that what you’re buying is pure beluga these days—even at its rarefied price.” Vincent sighed. “That’s why it’s so important to deal with someone you trust.”

  “But how do they know what they’re being sold?” I asked.

  “Smart girl,” Vincent observed with a nod. “Sometimes they don’t. Which reminds me of one last trick I want to show you.”

  He pulled two of the bowls toward us—the ones holding osetra and beluga.

  “My caviar connection tells me that osetra is regularly being pawned off as beluga these days, since their population is in far better shape. However, there is a way to tell the difference. You just have to know the secret.”

  Vincent placed one of each egg on the white surface of his plate and then lightly pressed down on them. The beluga exuded a gray oil, while the liquid secreted from the osetra was tinged with yellow.

  “There! That’s the best two-second test you can possibly perform to detect fraud. Now, do you think you can remember everything you’ve just learned?”

  I put the champagne flute down. My head was beginning to spin from trying to retain too many facts.

  Vincent gave my hand a reassuring pat, and began walking toward the kitchen. “Don’t worry, I plan to feed you dinner now. That will make you feel better. Then we’ll go back over everything once more after we eat.”

  Thirteen

  By nine-thirty that night, I was in my Ford chugging south along the Blues Highway, the flat road humming beneath my wheels. Visions of paddlefish, osetra, beluga, and sevruga sturgeon danced inside my head. The living fossils performed a prehistoric ballet, slapping the water with their tails, as thousands of eggs spurted out of their bodies. I pushed the bizarre image from my mind, wondering if I was beginning to identify just a little too much with the archaic species. I tried focusing instead on the abandoned stores and clapboard houses with fallen-down porches which flew past, but even that couldn’t distract the horde of little blue devils who continued to dance around me.

  I’d heard the delta was a place of missing things. The image came to life tonight as I drove by the South’s very own version of the Great Wall—the levee holding back the Mighty Mississippi. A ghostly swirl of blues chants rose off the water, as if springing from the restless souls of those long-dead men who had given their lives to build it. Their spirits filled the air as the Ford began to shake, whipped by a blast of wind that mournfully howled across the broad delta floodplain. The cry became that of a woman betrayed, and I shivered as it crept inside my body.

  I turned off the main road and followed a serpentine street, finally arriving at my destination. A wrought iron gate barred the way up to the house, requiring that I press a buzzer for entry. I waited to hear a disembodied voice request my name, rank, and serial number, but my presence was obviously expected tonight. The gate automatically swung open.

  Towering live oaks lined both sides of the long driveway, creating the perfect setting for a horse and carriage transporting Scarlett O’Hara. I was in for a greater surprise when I arrived at the house, for this was no Tara: it was a cloned Graceland. I spotted Virgil’s broken-down Olds 88 sitting alongside Woody’s dented pick-up; the clunkers were parked next to
a dark Lincoln Town Car and a hot-pink 1955 Caddy. Either Mary Kay was permanently interred here, or its resident had a serious Elvis fetish.

  I walked up the steps, past four grandiose white columns. When I rang the bell, its chimes jived to the strains of “Jailhouse Rock.” If an Elvis impersonator opened the door, I was definitely out of here. The last time I’d bumped into the King’s likeness was when I’d nearly gotten hitched at the Graceland Wedding Chapel in Vegas.

  The man who answered the door did look like he was straight out of Central Casting, but he’d apparently stumbled off the set of The Beverly Hillbillies. A pair of beat-up jeans hung off his hips as though they were intent on hitting the ground running. The man’s eyes looked as red and sunken as those of a basset hound that had been sniffing glue. A matted lock of hair fell over his brow, while two cowlicks stuck straight out on either side of his head. On his feet were worn-out boots with dented metal tips.

  He stared at me for a long moment as if trying to figure out not only who I was, but what I was, before wiping his hand against his nose and slowly asking, “Kin I help youuuuuu?”

  “My name is Rachel Porter,” I replied, enunciating each word carefully, though I wasn’t sure why. “I’m supposed to meet the Hardy boys here tonight.”

  The realization of what I’d said hit me, and I started to giggle. Maybe I should have introduced myself as Nancy Drew.

  The man blinked, as if trying to decipher both the information and my reaction, before finally nodding his head.

  “Ooookay. Now I know whooo youuu are.”

  He rubbed his hand on his pants and extended it toward me—the same one with which he’d cleaned his nose. I reluctantly gripped his palm. Not only was it damp, but a thick strip of dirt was buried beneath each of his nails.

  “I’m Billy Paw.”

  Then I remembered that Woody and Virgil had never said the man they worked for was Russian; I’d simply taken it for granted. I was beginning to wonder if Mavis had made up the whole Mafia story. Could this be the mastermind behind the devastation of the paddlefish? No way! Something was definitely wrong with this picture.