Half of Paradise

by James Lee Burke

  “You’re screwing things up for us. We got to teach you.”

  “I’ll get toe-to-toe with anybody in here.”

  “There ain’t going to be a fight,” Johnny Big said. “Leander said he don’t want no more. This is something else.”

  “Take it easy,” an older inmate said. “Leander will put us in the tank.”

  “He ain’t going to know. There ain’t anybody going to tell him.” He looked into each face. “There’s a way to do it that don’t leave any marks.”

  He took a newspaper out of his back pocket and rolled it into a tight cylinder. He patted it in his open palm.

  “You should know about this, LeBlanc,” he said. “It just leaves a few red marks on the ribs. It does all the work on the inside. Nobody can tell you been worked on except yourself.”

  “Let him be, Johnny,” the older inmate said.

  “Keep shut.”

  Most of the inmates pressed forward. A few shrank back from what was about to happen.

  “Grab hold of him and pull his shirt off,” Johnny Big said.

  LeBlanc lunged at him, but the men caught him and pinned his arms behind him. He struggled to get free, cursing, his eyes wild. Johnny Big whipped the newspaper across his ribs. He hit him on the other side with a backhand stroke and started again. He swung harder with each blow. He was a heavy man, and he threw all his weight into his arm and shoulder. LeBlanc’s body twisted with each stab in his side. The newspaper swished through the air and whapped across his ribs. The beating became faster. The newspaper was in shreds, and suddenly all the men were upon LeBlanc, striking him with whatever they could.

  Avery had plunged into the men and was tearing at bodies and clothing to get to LeBlanc. He was shoved to the floor, and someone stepped on his hand. He came back and hit the man in front of him with his fist in the back of the neck. The man he had struck didn’t seem to feel the blow. He hit again and again and could hurt no one. They were intent upon hurting LeBlanc and he could do nothing to turn their attention. An inmate pushed him in the face. He felt the sweat and grit of the man’s palm in his mouth. He drove through the men, and then he was free, stumbling forward off balance. The beating was over and they had drawn back. He looked down at LeBlanc; his lips were split and his face was covered with red swellings that were already beginning to turn blue and his forehead was knotted with bumps. He lay contorted on the floor with his bloodied and ripped shirt hanging loosely from his trousers.

  “You dirty bastards. Oh, you dirty bastards,” Avery said.

  “Let’s get him, too,” someone said.

  “He ain’t any better than LeBlanc.”

  “He hit me in the back of the neck.”

  “Yeah, Johnny. Teach them both.”

  Johnny Big had the stub of the frayed newspaper in his hand. He let it drop to the floor by LeBlanc’s feet.

  “This one don’t look tough enough for all of us,” he said.

  The men knew what Johnny Big was going to do. They had already forgotten that the jailer would lock them in the tank for what they had done to LeBlanc. They had watched or helped beat one man senseless, and they didn’t want to stop. They formed a circle around Avery and Johnny Big.

  “What do you say, boy? You want to find out how good you are?” Johnny said.

  Avery set himself and caught him on the chin with the first punch. Johnny Big’s head jerked back and his felt hat flew in the air. Avery hit him twice more in the stomach, and then Johnny was on him, clubbing with both fists. Avery recoiled backwards under the blows. The men were shouting and enjoying it. He felt that everything in his head was shaken loose. Each blow struck him like a hammer and sent a wave of nausea and weakness through his body. He ducked and weaved and tried to get out from under him and took one full in the face. The room tilted upwards and he spun into the wall of the tank and fell to the floor. Johnny came on. Avery tried to get up, and Johnny Big knocked him back against the tank with his knee. He lay stunned, tasting the blood in his mouth and smelling the damp concrete. A pair of thick legs stood before him. He could hear voices from afar, as though someone were shouting down a well. His eyes fixed on the rough leather work boots and the pair of legs.

  Someone laughed and the pair of legs moved away. Avery dove forward and tackled him below the knees. He caught him from behind and locked his wrists and jerked upward. He felt the man struggle for his balance and leap out at the air as he went down. Johnny Big hit the concrete with his full weight. Avery freed himself and got up. He didn’t know if he could stand. His limbs felt disjointed from his body. Johnny Big pushed himself up from the floor. There was a cut right at his hairline. Avery clenched both his hands together and swung his arms downward in one motion like an axe and hit him across the bridge of the nose. Johnny Big fell back to the floor with his hands to his face. He was sitting on his rump, and he took his hands away and looked at them dumbly and put them back. His nose was broken. He got to his feet and swayed across the room to where his felt hat lay. Avery watched him, believing he had quit. Johnny Big put his fingers in the hatband and pulled out a thin, single-edged razor blade. He came forward, holding the razor between his thumb and fingers, low and out to the side like a knife fighter.

  Avery backed away. The men scattered about the room. He looked around for a weapon. There was nothing he could use except a broom propped against the opposite wall, and Johnny Big was between him and it. He moved along the side of the tank, watching the razor blade all the while.

  “Let him go, Johnny. We don’t want a cutting,” Shortboy said.

  Johnny Big backed Avery towards the wall.

  “He fought you square. You got no right to cut him,” the older inmate said.

  Some of the men agreed and told Johnny Big that he should let Avery go. Johnny had been beaten in a fair fight, he had had his nose broken, and he was no longer head man of the tank. He had betrayed the others by losing the fight.

  “You ain’t got call to cut on him.”

  “You done beat one man almost to death,” the older inmate said.

  “Yeah,” Shortboy said.

  “I’ll cut any man that comes near us,” Johnny said.

  Shortboy stepped back, although he was already twenty feet away.

  The main door swung open and Ben Leander and two of the guards came into the room.

  “I told you what would happen if I caught you at it again,” the jailer said. “There isn’t one of you going to get out of it this time.” He saw LeBlanc lying on the other side of the room. Johnny Big pushed his razor blade down into the back pocket of his denims. Avery was standing against the wall, and his face and neck were beaded with drops of perspiration.

  “You guys don’t know when you got it good,” Leander said. “The only time you’re going to get out of the tank is to sandpaper the concrete. I told you I don’t take crap in my jail. It hasn’t been two hours since I warned you. Now it’s your ass.” He turned to the guards. “Go see if the sonofabitch is dead.”

  The guards went over and looked at LeBlanc. One of them lifted his head and put it down again.

  “He’s bleeding inside.”

  “Did you start this, Johnny?” Ben Leander said.

  “No sir.”

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Leander walked over and picked up the stub of frayed newspaper from the floor. He held it towards Johnny Big.

  “Is this yours?”

  He shook his head.

  “This is one of your tricks.”

  “I didn’t start the fight. It was LeBlanc and his buddy. LeBlanc started throwing things around after you left and we tried to stop him and the kid jumped in.”

  “You don’t look too good, boy,” Leander said to Avery.

  “Johnny Big don’t look too good, neither,” the older inmate said.

  “That’s enough from you,” Leander said.

  “Everybody beat up on LeBlanc and the boy tried to help him,” the older inmate said. “J
ohnny thought he could have some fun knocking him around and he got his nose broke.”

  “Is that straight, Shortboy?” the jailer asked.

  “I didn’t see it too good,” Shortboy said.

  “It don’t make any difference who started it,” Leander said, “because all of you are going into the tank until I see fit to let you out.” He spoke to the guards. “Get LeBlanc out of my sight. Put him downstairs and keep him there till I call an ambulance. I don’t want to see him again. Take Johnny with you and get his nose fixed.”

  The guards put LeBlanc’s arms over their shoulders and lifted him. His head hung down and his feet dragged across the floor. Johnny Big followed them.

  “Wait a minute,” Leander said.

  Johnny Big stopped.

  “You put something in your back pocket when I came in.”

  “I ain’t got nothing.”

  “Take it out.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Now throw it on the floor and get out of here.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Leander picked up the razor blade and dropped it in his shirt pocket.

  “Come with me,” he said to Avery.

  Avery went out of the room and Leander pulled the door shut behind him. He shot the steel bolt in place and clamped down the handle of the safety lock. They went down a corridor and up a spiral metal stairwell to the third floor of the building. Leander opened the door to a bare white room with a single window and an iron cage in the center. Avery stood by the window and looked down into the street while Leander unlocked the hole. The courthouse was across the square, with its white pillars and classic façade, and the well-kept lawn in front, green and wet from the water sprinklers in the sunlight, and the Confederate monument in the shade of the trees.

  “Get inside,” Ben Leander said.

  Avery walked to the open door.

  “What do you get out of it?” he said. “Is it the money?”

  Leander pushed him inside and swung the door shut. He twisted the key in the iron lock.

  “They’re taking you to the work camp next week. You’re goddamn lucky,” he said.

  That afternoon Avery had a visitor. Batiste had ridden the bus from Martinique parish to see him. He sat in the waiting room with his hat in his hand, wondering who to ask about Avery. There was a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with cord by his side. Ben Leander came out of his office and asked him what he wanted. Batiste said he wanted to see Avery Broussard, he had some tobacco and breadcake for him. Leander said that he was not allowed to have visitors, no one could see him on that day or any day as long as he remained in the parish jail. Batiste wanted to leave the package.

  “He’s in the hole. He can’t get anything from outside when he’s in the hole,” Leander said, to make him understand how things were run in the parish jail.

  J.P. WINFIELD

  He was in the recording studio of a Nashville radio station. Three mornings a week he did a half-hour show which was put on tape and broadcast in the afternoon. The show was almost over. He stood at the microphone and sang the last number. The announcer sat at the table before another microphone, reading over the typewritten pages in his hand. A very plain woman in a cotton-print dress sat on the other side of the table, nervously twisting a handkerchief around her fingers. There were two men standing beside J.P., one with a guitar and the other with a banjo. They were waiting to do the advertisement. One of the sound engineers in the control room behind the sheet of glass signaled to them when J.P. finished. They strummed and sang the Live-Again slogan:

  Live-Again, Live-Again, the sick man’s friend,

  It helps you every time,

  There ain’t anything like it

  That makes you feel so fine.

  Drink Live-Again today,

  Chase them miseries away,

  Get out of bed and holler,

  Live-Again for a dollar.

  “Yes sir, neighbor, there ain’t anything like it,” the announcer read. “Live-Again has got everything you need to make you get up and stomp around like your old self again. It’s got vitamin potency that drives through your body and makes you shout and holler like you was never sick a day in your life. It ain’t right to waste your life in a sickbed. There’s people all over the country setting around doing nothing because they don’t have the energy to get out and have a good time. Well, you don’t have to be a shut-in anymore. Go down to the drugstore or the grocery and ask for Live-Again vitamin tonic in the black and yellow box with the big bottle inside. There’s a lady with me now who used to be a shut-in. She couldn’t do her chores and her family was falling apart because of her poor health. She heard about Live-Again and she tried it, and now she’s healthy and strong and her family is back together again. Tell the people about it, Mrs. Ricker.”

  Mrs. Ricker read in a steady, flat monotone: “I don’t know how to thank the good people who make Live-Again. They made my life worth living. Before I tried Live-Again I didn’t think I could go on anymore. I had to stay in bed all the time and I couldn’t take care of my children and my husband had to spend all our money on doctor bills. The deacon of our church told us about Live-Again, and in a few weeks’ time I was a new woman. This wonderful medicine has saved me and my family and we are happy once more.”

  “And believe me, neighbor, it helps everybody,” the announcer said. “Well, that does it for today. You’ve been listening to the J. P. Winfield show. Remember to send us your cards and letters and to buy Live-Again. There ain’t anything like it. So long, neighbors, and may the good Lord watch after you.”

  Drink Live-Again today,

  Chase them miseries away,

  Get out of bed and holler,

  Live-Again for a dollar.

  The red light over the door went off. The two singers put away their banjo and guitar. Mrs. Ricker twisted her handkerchief around her fingers and looked at the announcer.

  “Did I sound all right?” she said.

  “What do you think, J.P.?” the announcer said. “Have you ever heard anything like this good woman?” He was a business college graduate who was employed by the station to sell vitamin tonic, glow-in-the-dark Bibles, tablecloths painted with the Last Supper, and pamphlets on faith healing.

  The singers laughed and went out. J.P. put his guitar in its case.

  “I was never on the radio before,” Mrs. Ricker said. “Will I be on the air this afternoon?”

  “Yes ma’am. They’ll hear you all over the South. Mrs. A. J. Ricker, voice of the Southland.”

  “I declare,” she said. “Do you think they’ll want me to make any more recordings?”

  “I don’t think so. You’d better run along home now. You don’t want to miss the afternoon show.”

  “I’ll leave my phone number in case they want me again.”

  “That’s fine. Goodbye.”

  The door clicked shut after her.

  The sound engineer stuck his head out of the control room.

  “You want to hear the playback?” he said.

  “Why not?” the announcer said. “Let’s hear Mrs. Ricker tell us of the wonderful medicine that saved her husband and brats from ruin.”

  “I’m going back to the hotel,” J.P. said. “I don’t want to hear no more about vitamin tonic.”

  He picked up his guitar case and left the studio. He walked out on the street and turned up his coat collar. It was November and the air was sharp with cold. The wind beat against him and almost whipped the guitar case from his hand. There were snow clouds building in the east, and the sky was lavender and pink from the hidden sun. He turned around the corner of a building to protect himself from the wind. There were no taxis on the street. An old woman sat in the doorway of the building with an army coat around her shoulders. She had a wagon made from apple crates, filled with old rags, newspaper bundles, and things she had taken from garbage cans. Her hands were raw and chafed. She dipped snuff from a can and spit on the sidewalk. J.P. started up the street and walke
d the six blocks to the hotel.

  He went through the lobby into the coffee shop. The waiter brought him coffee and a plate of sandwiches. Nothing but a poor-white tenant farmer with one pair of shiny britches and a polka-dot bow tie, he thought. I paid my last five dollars to enter a crooked talent show and now I’m on the Nashville Barn Dance. Everybody from Raleigh to Little Rock can listen to me on Saturday night. Seven weeks on the Barn Dance and an afternoon show besides. Ain’t that too goddamn nice?

  He thought about the few days he had taken off from the show to go up to the mountains. He had worked almost constantly since coming to Nashville. The director of the radio show had given him three days’ leave. J.P. went up by the Kentucky line and stayed in a hunting lodge. The mornings were cold and misty, and there was always a smell of pine smoke in the air. When he walked out on the front porch after breakfast he could see the log cabins spread across the valley, their stone chimneys stained white by the frost. The first snowflakes were just beginning to fall, and the mountains were green with fir and pine trees. There was a trout stream just below the timber line that wound across a meadow and rushed into a great rock chasm behind the lodge. It was good country, some of the best he had seen. He wanted to stay, but he went back to Nashville to sell Live-Again.

  He took out an aspirin bottle and shook a Benzedrine and a Seconal into his hand. A month ago he had used up the supply Doc Elgin had given him. Several days later he bought ten rolls of yellow jackets, bennies, and redwings from a junkie on the other side of town. He had learned to mix the three in a combination that gave him a high alcohol never had. Soon he would have to buy more. He had only a half roll left in his room.

  A porter came into the coffee shop and gave him a telegram. J.P. tipped him and tore the end off the envelope,

  GET READY TO LEAVE

  WILL PHONE THIS AFTERNOON

  HUNNICUT.

  He paid his check and went out to the lobby. He told the desk clerk to page him in the bar if he received a long distance phone call. He left the guitar case with the porter to be taken up to his room. The bar was done in deeply stained mahogany with deer antlers and antique rifles along the walls. There was a stone fireplace at one end of the room, and the logs spit and cracked in the flames. A thick wine-colored carpet covered the floor. Brass lamps with candles and glass chimneys were placed along the bar. He drank a whiskey and water and wondered what Hunnicut had planned for him now.