South, America

by Rod Davis

  On the way over she had sketched out the funeral home story. The body hadn’t been ready for viewing but she had picked a casket, a medium-priced wooden model, silver and brown. It, and he, would be shipped to Oxford and the services would be in a couple of days. She’d been busy making calls and setting it all up since Monday. Breaking down into tears, as time permitted.

  We settled into a table in a dark part of the bar. I ordered a bottle of Cabernet. It was on the second glass that she told me she had a timeshare in Mid-City, near the Fairgrounds. She apologized for misleading me about that, but said it was because we’d just met and a woman had to be careful about things like that. Another click went off in my head. I chalked it up to the chance and awkward nature of our entire mode of acquaintance.

  She rounded out the picture a little more. Although her job was in Tuscaloosa, she needed a place in New Orleans because she had a year-long contract with Orleans Parish, working with abused women one or two weekends a month. Ironically, this was her week to have the timeshare.

  She mostly came into town, counseled for double twelve-hour days, and left, so she didn’t have much of a social life here. From what I could gather, not that much back in Alabama, either. When I tried to press, she demurred, something about “focusing on my own life this year.” I told her more about what I did, and we joked a little, in a gallows way, about me having an exclusive on her story, but it had a bad aftertaste so we dropped it.

  We went over the coroner’s visit again and she told me a little more about her brother. We had been there maybe an hour when she excused herself and walked outside with her cell phone. She was gone for at least several songs on the famously eclectic jukebox: Patsy Cline, Tito Puente, Etta James, Olu Dara. When she came back she poured the rest of the bottle for us and seemed preoccupied. Then she said she wanted to go home.

  I probably shouldn’t have driven after all the vino, but it wasn’t the first time I’d erred in that direction. Sometimes I got into situations and I just said the hell with it and did what I needed to do. On the other hand, I was working at keeping the outright stupid stuff to a minimum.

  Her place was an upstairs garage apartment behind a larger bungalow, gray with blue trim, in the front. The garden between them was dense with bright, fragrant flowers, lush shrubs and towering magnolias. The inside was clean, hardwood floors, not much furniture, Pier I stuff mixed with Magazine Street boutique touches. I glanced into the bedroom. The oak-framed bed had a yellow duvet partly covering four pillows in white lace cases, a couple of cane and wicker chairs nearby, walnut dresser. Tasteful but impersonal. Like only strangers spent time there.

  “I decided to have him cremated.” She was in the kitchen. I heard a fridge door shut just before she came out holding a plastic bottle of spring water. “That’s what I was doing on the phone.”

  It took a moment to register. “You’re kidding. After all that?”

  “It was what he wanted. I never should have gone for the burial.”

  “But I thought you already paid for it.”

  She walked into the living room and gave me the water. I drank it. My head was a little woozy and I figured hers must be, too. Still, I had expected an entirely different line of conversation.

  “Mr. Orman was okay about it. He still gets a fee.”

  I put the bottle on an end table and moved close to her. “So, never mind Oxford?”

  She moved back, slightly, but enough. I took a long drink.

  “I’m still taking Young Henry home. Just differently. They’ll send the ashes. Mr. Orman said he had a man heading that way so it wasn’t an extra cost, or at least not that much. He’s very nice to me. He knows the preacher in Oxford.”

  She glanced at some envelopes on the couch, like she still had business to attend. It was still early in the evening.

  “Well, you know, maybe it’s better.”

  “I don’t know if it is or not but I don’t want Young Henry going back the way you found him and with the way they cut him up over there in that basement. Even Mr. Orman said it would be better, a cremation. He’s seen these before.”

  I began to feel uncomfortable, intrusive.

  “I guess I’ll go.”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to bring it up tonight. I had a good time with you. It felt good to let go for a little while. It really did.”

  I wasn’t expecting it but she came close and kissed me, lightly, on the cheek. Maybe it was just a courtesy, a thoughtful good night. But in her eyes dwelt the sadness. It was all that kept me from wanting to press her close for hours.

  4

  The Rio Blanche occupied a corner, open on both sides for anyone who wanted to go in. They did all day long, leaning against the weathered wooden counter or weaving on the vinyl-topped stools. Behind the bar, a long mirror was plastered with photos, music posters, beer signs, Hawaiian leis, jock straps, and dildos. At night the crowds came out onto the sidewalk, to the annoyance of the police and passersby, and the music got pretty loud. It was unusual but not rare to see a woman inside, or a straight guy. It was one of the best places in town for catfish po’ boys.

  When I walked in, around 5 p.m., the crowd was medium. I got the usual territorial looks, which basically said I wasn’t invited—not because I wasn’t gay, but because I wasn’t a regular.

  I found an empty two-top near the sidewalk entry and waited. I was pretty sure the server who came over was Elfego from the way Elle had described him: peroxided curly hair, pale, skinny, maybe late forties, usually wearing a guayabera. He had a triangle-shaped ring in his left ear. He was Spanish, she had said, not Mexican, and didn’t like to be confused with what he considered a colonial nation.

  He smiled a waiter’s welcome and asked what I wanted. I ordered a Dos Equis. When he came back, I had placed a photo of Terrell on the table.

  He glanced at it and said, “He looks younger.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Now, as old as he’s gonna get. In that, maybe twenty-six, twenty-five.”

  “It looks like he’s on a farm or something,” I said, shifting my body to look at it better. It was at least eight years out of date.

  “Probably is.” He pushed the photo back to me. “I don’t want to look at that boy just now.”

  “Of course.”

  “You got a name or you just in the photography business?”

  “Jack. I figured you probably knew. I guess you’re Elfego.”

  “Why did Elle want you to talk to me?”

  I looked at him closely. And he back at me. He seemed sincere. As sincere as you can look wearing lavender parachute pants and a bright green shirt speckled with red parrots. We knew we were in the same situation. The situation was Elle.

  “I’m not sure why,” I said. “I mean, obviously about her brother. They found a cocktail napkin from here in his clothes. Maybe the cops have already been here. She called me this morning and asked if I would come by. She’s busy with the funeral stuff.”

  Elfego smiled slightly. “Or maybe the thought of coming here freaked her, you know? But whatever.”

  I shrugged. To be sure, I didn’t really know why she asked me to see Elfego when she called me just after lunch, thanked me again for last night’s “mental oasis,” and asked, almost apologizing, if I could do her another favor. She had remembered her brother had some kind of friend who might have worked at the Rio Blanche. She said she wasn’t sure and it had been a long time ago, and maybe it wasn’t anything at all, but would I mind just checking it out, since I already knew where the bar was. She said she knew she was grasping but had to. She probably knew I would say yes, and I did.

  He pretended to wipe condensation rings from the table. “Sí, handsome, the cops were here already. They asked me a couple of questions, and Quasimodo back there at the bar. We didn’t know shit. They said they’d be back if they needed anything else. It t
ook about ten valuable minutes of their time.” He laughed outright.

  I didn’t know where this was supposed to go, so I just figured to keep probing out of habit.

  “Elle said the detective told her he was seen here with a white guy, older.”

  “How do you know Elle, anyway?”

  “I found Terrell’s body. We got to know each other.”

  He nodded. We both knew she had filled him in. I guess he wanted to get in front of the conversation.

  “Probably she wanted to know who was with him in here. Other than me.”

  “Were you and Terrell friends, or whatever?”

  “ ‘Or whatever’ for going on five years. Thanks for asking.”

  “I just meant, did you know him well?”

  “I think I know what you meant.”

  “Sorry.”

  He fiddled with the photo again, and looked away.

  “So I guess the funeral’s going to be in Oxford.”

  “I guess so. Are you going?”

  “Maybe. You gonna drink that beer?”

  I looked at it but didn’t pick it up. Some of the lads at a table in the corner were studying me, the stranger, pretty hard again.

  “She thinks she knows it was Trey who came in here, but you can tell her I said it definitely was. I didn’t want to say over the phone. She said to tell you what I saw exactly and to trust you. Me, I wouldn’t.”

  I peeled at the label on the bottle. “She knows who this Trey is?”

  “You better believe it.”

  “Who is he?”

  Elfego thought about that. “You know much about Mississippi?”

  “Does anybody?”

  “About Elle’s family?”

  “Just the brother.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Nice. Anyway, ‘this’ Trey, he’s the little niño of Tom Barnett, they called him Junior, some big businessman. But it was Junior’s daddy, Big Tom, who made all the family money. Cotton and shipping, some shit like that. Anyway he was rich. They had a plantation outside Oxford from back when all those gringos were having slaves, like that. Rich white folks, you’d call them. Trey being the only child of Junior, who got killed driving his little plane into a mountain in Colorado, and mama already dead, he inherited all of it. Speaking of snow, our Trey got into the importing business, dealing some art, some powder. What they say.” He stopped. “She says you’re some kind of private eye or something.”

  “Not really. Sort of. But that’s not why I’m helping her.”

  He examined me like a specimen. “Yeah. Maybe.” He pulled back, crossed his arms. Then he leaned in. “Well Mister-Magnum-P. I.-Not-Really-Sort-Of. I don’t really give a shit what you do. The reason I’m wasting my time talking to you about this is Elle asked me to.” He paused. “And I could hear it in her voice.”

  “What?”

  “You know what. I can see it in your face, too. What are you, teenagers? Hell, she’s barely into mourning.”

  “What are you, her dad?”

  He reached over and pinged my beer bottle with the ring on his forefinger. Not an especially friendly gesture.

  “Look, if you’re going to be with Elle someday—you know, in about a hundred years—you should know a little about her brother’s situation. And you should be good to her.” He looked away.

  I found something to study on the table.

  Elfego put up a hand and waved it as if to end the digression. “Trey and Terrell were ‘friends or whatever,’ too, okay? From years back. They grew up together. Those two, and Elle. So like I said, Trey was in here with Terrell that night. They were actually sitting at this same table.”

  I was starting to get the drift. “I see.”

  “So you’re listening. Good. That’s good for Mister-P. I.-Not-Really-Sort-Of.”

  “It’s a gift.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, Trey got a call. Said he was going to look at a painting at some gallery down on Chartres. Left Terrell here alone. An hour or something.” Elfego smiled. Big, Cheshire-cat kind. “That’s how the napkin got in Terrell’s shorts, you get it?”

  “The police said it was in his pocket.”

  “Sure they did.”

  We looked at each other, then at the beer bottle.

  “So you two got together. You and Terrell.”

  “Very good, Magnum. Together and together again. Right back around there in the office. Where you get to go if you know somebody here. Like me. Where you get a napkin wrapped around your dick.”

  I took a drink. He was taunting me, but his lover had been murdered just last weekend and he was talking about it with a stranger sent by a sister. He had to tell it to someone. And it sure wouldn’t be the cops.

  “Then, what, he came back? Trey?”

  Elfego’s lip curled. “Sí, señor. It got a little ugly.”

  “Trey knew? About you and Terrell? I mean about . . . while he was gone?”

  “Claro. Hell yes. I told him. The prick.”

  “Damn.”

  “Terrell didn’t like it much either but I said to him, little puta, you’re going to fuck me don’t expect me to keep it all to myself, querida.”

  I drank some of my beer. Elfego’s face was red and his jaw taut. He took a breath and forced a smile.

  “Anyway, that bourgeois bitch ought to of been proud being with me. I always was with him. We went all over this city, and down in Biloxi, and Mobile, Jackson, together. We were beautiful together. People watched us, because we were things of beauty. And then to waste it on that gringo Trey Barnett cocksucker, which he was—” He feigned spitting on the ground. “And right here in front of me. Sure, I’m gonna fuck my baby. And then you better believe I’m gonna tell that rich asshole he shows up with here exactly what we did.”

  “Elfego, you working here or what?” It was the guy behind the bar. He did sort of look like Quasimodo. Elfego shot him a finger, but slowly pushed back his chair and stood.

  “So, next I know Young Henry is dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, what are you gonna do? You want another Dos?”

  I planned to phone her about ten or so but she called me, from her cell. It was barely seven.

  “Jack, how are you?”

  “I’m good. I miss you.”

  “Same.” It came out almost coquettish. Then some other quality. Strained, maybe. “Look, Jack. I’m just driving around now. In Tuscaloosa. I’m on some streets down by the UA campus.”

  “Roll Tide.”

  “Jack—” Instead of words I heard rapid, shallow breathing.

  “Elle? Elle?”

  Now a longer, deeper breath.

  “I’m scared. I can’t go home. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Hang on.” I had been watching a sitcom, or more accurately I had the TV on as background, a habit I had picked up from the newsroom. I muted the sound, then went over to the folded half-table in my kitchen. “What is it?”

  “I was going home. I’d stopped at the Pak n’ Sak for a couple of things and then was going down my street. It’s not too far from downtown but it’s quiet, just a lot of families and a few professors . . . Jack?”

  “I’m here.”

  “There was someone at my house. I could see it when I was at the corner before my block. I could see a car parked in the driveway and the lights were on inside.”

  “You didn’t leave them on.”

  “No.”

  “You mean you were being robbed?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Elle?”

  “I pulled in behind a pickup on the street and watched. I watched about half an hour.”

  “They left?”

  “No. But I did.”

  “They’re still there?”

  “I don’t know.”


  “Call the police.”

  “I can’t. Hang on.” I heard the phone drop on the seat. “Sorry. I forgot my seat belt. I don’t want to get stopped.”

  “You can’t call the police?”

  “No.”

  I walked into the living room, then into the kitchen and looked out into the garden. It looked nice in the approaching sunset. “I guess I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be vague.” She didn’t say anything for a moment or two. “I’m on University now, headed toward the mall. I think I’ll go on and pick up the interstate. That should be okay.”

  “You’re going to leave them there like that?”

  “What can I do? I don’t think they’ll stay that long. If I don’t show up.”

  “What?”

  “I think I know who they are. I saw the plates on the car. It was a black Volvo, that fast-looking one. Mississippi.”

  I let that work in my head a minute.

  “You’re saying somebody came to your house looking for you. Somebody you know.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “And you’re afraid to go up and see who it is. Or call the police.”

  “Yeah. Yes. I am.”

  “Is there anyone else there you could call for help?”

  “I have friends if that’s what you mean.”

  “I just meant someone close by.”

  “I wanted to call you.”

  “I just meant, you know, you’re in Tuscaloosa and I’m down here in New Orleans. . . . And good.”

  “And there are some guys taking over my house. . . . And good.”

  I let the friendly volley settle. “Elle, what’s going on?”

  “It’s complicated. It’s hard to talk about over this phone. Hang on—” I heard a horn, muffled. “Damn, a pickup just ran through that light. Aren’t you sorry you ever met me?”

  “No.”

  I could hear the noise of the road from her end of the phone.

  “I was going to call you anyway later to say I had talked to Elfego.”