by James Sallis
Dramatic music spilled up and over, sponsors and production members were thanked. Then a station I.D. Finally, the time: 5:40. I’d been asleep just a little over three hours.
I rolled left, right, onto my back, onto my stomach, almost onto the floor-and gave up. By then it was 6:21. Evidently the swan of sleep wasn’t coming back for me, however eagerly I awaited it. And outside, the city was stirring in its bed, stretching, throwing off covers, clearing its vast throat.
I filled a saucepan with water. When it was boiling I tossed in a handful of coffee. Let it steep and settle a few minutes, dumped it into a mug half full of milk. Perfect.
I crawled back in bed and picked up The Stranger again. Got up twice and made coffee. Got up about page 150 and poured a glass of Scotch.
Got up halfway through the Scotch to answer the door.
Those PI’s in the novels have it all wrong. You don’t have to go out and track people down. You just wait around the house and sooner or later the people come and find you. It had worked with Leo and Clifford. Now it was working again. Maybe I was on to something.
“You’re Griffin.” He looked as though he wouldn’t be surprised if I felt a need to apologize for it.
I didn’t, so I just stood there looking at him.
He stood there looking back at me.
Fine way to pass the morning. We were two damn tough brothers, better believe it. Seasons could change around us, leaves falling from the trees, baby ducks swimming in the pond, we’d still be standing there.
What the hell. Even the Buckingham guards change shift and go home.
“Why don’t we glare at one another inside? That okay with you?”
I turned and walked out to the kitchen. He came along, four paces behind.
“You want anything? Carrot juice, distilled water?”
“Beer’d be nice, if you have one. Or whatever you happen to be drinking.”
I’d brought my glass with me when I answered the door.
“Scotch okay? Johnny Walker?”
“Doesn’t get any more okay than that.”
I found another glass for him, poured in some amber, freshened my own.
I sat at the kitchen table. Maybe since he drank he’d want to use my chairs too.
Yep.
So we sat there a bit, sipping at one another now instead of glaring.
“Usually, people come by to have a drink with me,” I said, “they want to talk a little while they’re here.”
He took another taste, ran it around his tongue.
“Of course, it’s not required …”
He swallowed. “Saw you at that Himes thing the other night. You ever read his stuff?”
I shook my head.
“Me either. But I’ve sure heard a lot about it.”
Some silent bell rang then, and we went to our separate corners. No one said anything. I leaned the chair back, reached and got the bottle off the counter and set it on the table between us. He waited for me to offer and pour. Then he moved as though to hunch down over the glass with both hands wrapped around it-just for a second before he cut it off, but I caught the glimpse.
“You’ve done time,” I said.
He sipped, swallowed. Pulled his lips back tight against his teeth. “What makes you say that?”
“You mean aside from the fact you’re black and well into your twenties? Given that, and the city, what are the odds you haven’t? But what I pick up on is this special kind of courtesy you show-a respect. You didn’t even look at the bottle when I put it down: it was mine, I’d have to make the move. Then when I poured you a drink, for just a minute you started to hunch down over it. Like you used to hunch over food in the cafeteria. Or hootch back in the cell. It gets to be instinctive.”
“You been there too, else you wouldn’t know that.”
“I didn’t do any serious time. Enough to see what it was like.”
He nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. I did two pulls. Been a while now. Ten-to-fifteen on grand theft auto, another nickel on armed robbery. That’s where I first started hearing about Himes. He was big on the yard. Almost like he was right there with us sometimes. He wasn’t, of course. He was off in Paris living in some rich man’s house drinking wine with every meal. Brothers never wanted to hear that. And that’s a whole other thing. But what he wrote, what he said: he got it right.”
I poured some more into our glasses.
“You get much sleep?” I asked.
“What you want to know that for?”
“Just wondering. Kind of an informal poll. I don’t seem to be able to snag much of it lately. Sleep, I mean. Makes me wonder whether someone else isn’t getting my share.”
He looked at me. “Damn, Griffin. You may just be as strange as people say you are. Doo-Wop said when I found you you’d likely as not be spouting something you found in some book nobody else’d ever read.”
Doo-Wop was telling people I was strange? First chance that came along, I’d have to sit down and think about that.
“Doo-Wop sent you?”
“Well, yeah. Kind of.”
“And he told you where to come? Knew where I lived?”
He nodded.
Of course Doo-Wop knew. He didn’t know what day or year it was, but he knew where I lived. Everyone knew. Pretty soon lost kids were going to start showing up at the door. Tourists from New Jersey out to see the real New Orleans.
Time to find new quarters, Lewis.
“I, uh …” my guest went on. “This is just between the two of us, right?”
Right.
“I have a regular job, you understand. French-bread bakery out on Airline. Been there five, six years. Take care of my family. But time to time I still play a chorus or two off the old song, you know? Friend from those days comes to you, bills gobble up the paycheck by the fifteenth, baby needs new shoes. You know?”
I knew.
“Figured you did.”
I hit us again with the Scotch. He nodded, acknowledgment and thanks. Took the obligatory ceremonial sip.
“Things go well, after a job the players want to step out, unwind some, have a drink or two. Long about the third drink sometimes they’ll get to talking. Just like at the bakery on breaks. Same thing.”
“Yeah.”
“One of those nights this guy Julio and I had hit it off good, and after the others went on home, we stayed there, place called El Gore-e-adore or something, drinking. Develops that Julio’s a real pro, this is all he does. Pulls a spot as wheelman one day, does a little strong-arm turn the next, maybe goes in as backup on a heavy job.
“By this time it’s, I don’t know, two, three in the morning, and Julio tells me this story that’s about all I remember the next day when I wake up.
“Couple days after that, I’m lifting a few with the Doo Man. You know how that man likes a good story. So pretty soon I get to feeling good, way one does, and I tell him the whole thing, what Julio told me. When I’m through he just nods. Then after a while he says, Good story. After a little more, he tells me: Needs footnotes, though. I just look at him. Have to identify your sources, he says. And I think: This man’s been hanging around those uptown college campuses too much.
“Anyhow, he says I’ve got to come see you.”
“And he tells you where I live.”
“Even buys me a drink. Paying for the story-you know?”
Oh yes. “And?”
“Well, it’s not much. Only worth one drink to the Doo Man, mind you.”
“This a commercial transaction?”
“No no. Not what I mean at all. I don’t want you to think this is some big thing. It’s just warm air, a breeze, cotton. I’m only here-wasting time I could put to better use-because Doo-Wop says you’re all right. Friend of a friend kind of thing, you know?”
“Meanwhile having a few friend of a friend kind of drinks.”
He nodded. “A few.”
“Maybe a few more?”
“Whatever the market will be
ar.”
I poured. He nodded. We sipped.
“There’s this hardass Julio worked with a couple times. Guess they went out unwinding after some turns too. Man’s day job is with a security service. SeCure Corps. Black-owned and-operated. I’ve seen their advertisements. They’re all standing on the steps of some building in tight suits and bowties. Look like a bunch of CPAs.
“And they’re all avowed nonviolents. So from time to time on this or that job-just to protect themselves-they bring in backup.”
“Bodyguards.”
“More like contract soldiers. World’s changing, you know? Whatever your beliefs, you either change with it or you go under. Disappear like the dinosaurs.
“Anyway. One of the people they use most often, a marksman, calls himself The Sentry. That’s how they get in touch with him-run a personal ad for ‘The Sentry’ in The Griot. No one ever sees him. He responds with a similar ad of his own. Day before, he calls in from a pay phone for details. D-day, he signals his presence and position with a mirror flash.”
“A sniper.”
“You got it.”
“He ever had to shoot?”
“Not yet.”
“Good luck.”
He nodded.
“How does he get paid, once it’s over?”
“Post office box. Yeah: it changes every time. And the one time SeCure Corps staked it out, some kid on a bicycle came pedaling up to collect. They didn’t hear from The Sentry for a while after that. When they did, he wondered if SeCure Corps truly valued and required his services.”
“And?”
“They backed off.”
“So this is a long-term association.”
“It’s got history, yeah.”
“Pay well?”
“Expect so. From all I hear, these guys are going flat out, full throttle.”
“You have to wonder just where the support’s coming from.”
“Few others wondering about that right along with you.”
Chapter Twenty
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?”
“Personnel, please.”
“May I ask in regard to what?”
“I’m calling to inquire about employment with your firm.”
“Then it’s Mr. Bergeron you’d be needing. Please hold. I’ll see if Mr. Bergeron’s in his office.”
He was, but it took us both a while to find out.
I was calling from a pay phone facing a Frostop on St. Charles. Icy mugs of root beer and some of the best hamburgers in town inside. One of your more fascinating processions outside.
A white guy minced past in denim miniskirt and pink tights through which you could see whorls of leg hair. Baby-blue sleeveless blouse above, breasts like those castanet-size finger cymbals Indian dancers use. His Adam’s apple stuck out a lot further. He kept brushing at the blond wig and catching himself just before he fell off three-inch heels. Arms suddenly out at his sides like a tightrope walker’s.
A young woman in high-collared white blouse, oversize spectacles, and a dress that swept fastfood wrappers from the sidewalk as she passed. Walking beside a pure Marlon Brando type in T-shirt, jeans, and scowl, a foot shorter than she was.
Unshaven older guy in a baseball cap with belly arranged just so over the Texas-shaped buckle of his belt, belly and torso encased like sausage in a black T-shirt reading Love a Trucker-Or Do Without.
“Hello? Are you still there? Please hold, I’m trying to track down Mr. Bergeron.”
At least she didn’t switch me over to Hawaiian music or an arrangement of “Mack the Knife” for strings. Just a dead line with ghost voices far back, unintelligible, within it.
A thirtyish woman with bleach-blonde hair, bright red lipstick, tight cashmere sweater and full skirt came by. The Marilyn Monroe look, I suppose.
When he came on, he was breathing hard. Maybe he spent every lunch hour working out. Maybe when the receptionist tracked him down he took a shot at her. Or maybe he was just fat off other people’s work. The world was what you made it. Sure it was.
“Bergeron here. Please. To whom am I speaking?” I told him.
“And you’re interested in employment, my secretary says. In what capacity, if I might ask?”
I sketched my background in paper serving, skip tracing, bodyguard and security work. Most of the last was pure invention, but set up by the rest, which was true, it sounded good.
“Well,” he said. “Ordinarily we wouldn’t consider accepting an application over the phone. I’m sure you understand. But as it turns out, we find ourselves in need of extra help tonight-unexpectedly. A good and regular customer. Else we would have declined. And you do seem to be the kind of experienced professional we’re always looking for.”
“Had a feeling this might turn out to be a good day,” I said.
“First name spelled L-O-U-I-S?”
I corrected him, then went ahead and spelled my last name too.
“And you’re currently employed …?”
“I’m not-though not for lack of trying, I assure you. Generally I work freelance. Bodyguard work, collections, like I told you. And I walk a lot of paper for Boudleaux amp; Associates. But things have been getting thin for a while now.”
“Frankie DeNoux?”
“Yeah.”
“I know him. Everybody knows him.”
“Seems like it.”
“Your training?”
“Military.”
No reason to tell him I’d gone from civilian to MP back to civilian in a hop and a skip. More skip than hop, come to think of it.
“Address?”
“Wouldn’t do you much good. I move around a lot.” I had my fish, I could slack off now.
“I understand. Some place you can be reached, then? Since the law requires it.”
I gave him Verne’s address.
“Social Security number?”
“Let’s see …” I tried a couple of three-digit sequences. “Sorry. Can’t remember it just this minute.”
“No problem. Happens all the time. Just bring it in when you come by for your check.”
“Then I have work?”
“Are you free from seven to around twelve tonight?”
“I can be.”
“Then you have work. Pays four dollars an hour, four hours guaranteed, probably run between five and six. You’ll need to be at Esplanade and Broad by seven at the latest. Report to Sam Brown. Big guy, hair and beard completely white. You can’t miss him. He’s front man on this, and whatever he says, goes. Checks will be ready to pick up here by four tomorrow afternoon. We can cash your check on the premises, if you want. Sam likes you, puts in a good word, we’ll be using you again.
“Thank you for getting in touch with us, Mr. Griffin. Any questions?”
“Only one. What am I going to be doing?”
“Of course. I did fail to mention that, didn’t I. You’ll be working crowd control.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Gentlemen,” Sam Brown said.
Bergeron was right, he looked like a fullback. Hell, he looked like two fullbacks. You could land fighter planes on his shoulders. He wore a black suit skillfully tailored to downplay his size, but man’s ingenuity only goes so far.
“Most of you here, I’ve worked with you before. And work, for those new to SeCure Corps, is most definitely the operative word. We pay good money, we expect good value. You take care of business, we’ll take care of you.
“Tonight’s business is crowd control, people. You are intelligence, and intelligence only. You’ll be teamed in pairs, given walkie-talkies and specific watches. You’ll report in each fifteen minutes. You do not, repeat not, take any action. See anything unusual, anything suspicious, any sign of trouble, you get away from there and report back to me. And that’s all you do. Is that understood?
“Officially the city anticipates that about three hundred people will show up tonight; they’re prepared to handle twice that. Police estimates are running h
igher, maybe as many as a thousand, they say, before it’s over, and the department has placed officers accordingly.
“The affair’s sponsors, however, have reason to believe attendance may be well in advance of expectations. And you, gentlemen, we, are their insurance.
“I repeat: intelligence only. Circulate, observe, reconnoiter, report. Police officers both in uniform and plainclothes will be on watch for legal violations or for any possibility of violence. Federal agents are also present. We are here expressly as their helpmates, an early warning system. And the lower profile we keep, the more effective we can be.”
Walking up Broad on my way here, I’d seen stragglers as far back as Canal, then as I approached Esplanade, more and more, until they were everywhere: stapled to telephone poles, abandoned storefronts and boarded-up houses, impaled on ironwork fences, stuck beneath the wipers of cars sitting on bare wheels at curbside.
CORENE DAVIS
TONIGHT!
COMMUNITY HALL OF
REDEEMER BAPTIST CHURCH
8 P.M.
HEAR THE TRUTH
“Who’s Corene Davis?” I asked the guy I got paired with. He was as thin as Sam Brown was broad. He could lie down, you’d think he was the horizon.
He shrugged with shoulders a sparrow would fall off. “Big shot in Black Rights, I guess. From up North somewhere. Man said your name was Louis?”
“Lew.”
“James. You worked this before?”
“Not for SeCure Corps. Usually work on my own-freelance.”
“Oh yeah? You ever need help?”
“Only finding customers.”
“I know what that’s like. Used to do sales, myself. Fine men’s clothing. Only trouble was, no fine men ever came in to buy it, and I was on straight commission.”
“What about you?”
“What about me.”
I gestured around us.
“Oh. Yeah, I score a job with them a couple, three times a month. SeCure’s good people. Pay a decent wage, never try to hold back on you. I’ve been trying to get on as a regular, but it’s a long list.”
The community center had already filled. Earlier in the day speakers had been set up outside, and now a huge crowd was forming, spilling off the sidewalk into the street and sidewalk opposite. It looked like Carnival had touched down. Most had brought food: bags of fried chicken, picnic baskets and cardboard boxes, coolers, poboys in white butcher paper.
