Rogers kicked some loose concrete in the sidewalk. “You’re not all that innocent either. I know what’s in that queer friend of yours’ will. You and your boyfriend are gettin’ a house out of the deal, aren’t you? Your own house uptown, as I recall.”
“What?” Neil’s mustache twitched again, and Jackson saw the whites of his eyes grow large. “Neither of us knew Glenway was paying off our house.”
Jackson looked past Neil and Rogers because Imogene was leaning over the edge of the balcony, her gray hair blowing in the wind. She waved at him, but he dared not return the gesture. Then she began flapping her sun hat in the air, obviously trying harder to get Jackson’s attention. He then saw Billy grab her and an argument ensued. It was like Jackson could see two matches at once.
Rogers continued, “Well, your boyfriend Allen’s the executor, and not only that, but a witness to the provision to pay off your mortgage. So I guess you did know about it.” He grabbed his belt buckle with an air of finality.
Neil glared. “We could give a shit about the house, you asshole. Our friend Glenway was more important than some house. Glenway was more important than a mansion. He was more important than the Cabildo Museum. I didn’t want my friend to die, not for any property, Lieutenant.” Neil’s voice shook.
“I have my doubts about you, Neil. You could’ve planned the whole thing,” Rogers said. “You told me Gilbert was supposed to meet at your house two nights ago, when he was killed, but he didn’t show up. So, where were you and your ‘partner’ from eleven p.m. through three a.m.?”
Neil scowled at the questioner. “We were home watching television, just the two of us.” He twisted the ring on his right hand, glancing at Jackson and then back at Rogers. Jackson wondered why Neil was fidgeting.
“Ahh, I see. So you two serve as each other’s alibi. You and the same partner who is executor of Gilbert’s will and his financial advisor. The same partner who is inheriting a house now.” Rogers tilted his big frame toward Neil. “You should realize that the fine city of New Awluns didn’t make me a lieutenant by chance.”
Neil’s eyebrows quivered. He looked like he could spit at the beast of the man in front of him. “Rogers, you still never answered how you got to the crime scene before the police were called.”
“I could ask the same of you.” Rogers swatted the air in front of Neil. Jackson felt the wind from it. He watched Rogers turn around and start toward his car, which was parked next to a dumpster in the side street.
Neil followed him, “We’ve been over this, Lieutenant. My guests and I were picking up Glenway for dinner.”
Jackson recognized the car as the same unmarked sedan from yesterday, the one in the alley behind Glenway’s studio. He wondered how long Rogers had been near Glenway’s and what his real purpose was for the visit.
“Yeah, convenient, that.” Rogers jangled the keys in his pocket, apparently ready to leave.
“Lieutenant Rogers, you better have proof next time you accuse me and mine of murdering our best friend. And you’d best stay away from my friends at this hotel. I mean it. I’ll make certain you suffer if you keep this up.”
Rogers opened the car door. “Yeah, well, you and your friends ‘best’ stay out of police work.” He pointed his index finger at Neil as he drove away.
Neil mimicked the gesture back at the lieutenant. “Whatever, you—”
“Neil, come on,” Jackson said, nodding at a woman watering her plants on the balcony across the street. He walked over and put his arm around his friend. “I appreciate you taking up for us, man. You’ve always been good to us, like Imogene says. By the way, did you know you had an audience?” He pointed to the hotel balcony, where Imogene was trying to conceal herself at the edge of the second floor. Her shirt flapped in the breeze like a flag.
Neil’s expression was fixed. He didn’t respond to seeing Imogene against the rail. He stared past her and then turned around and stormed toward the side door that led to the courtyard.
“Neil, wait up. What’s wrong?”
“Jackson, I’ve basically been accused of murder, and we have that suspicious ape on the loose doing nothing to figure out who killed Glenway.”
Jackson caught up to him beside the gardenias in the courtyard. He thought about the accusations Rogers had leveled at his friends.
Neil twisted his mustache on the way to the elevator. He called Allen, but Allen didn’t answer. “He doesn’t pick up his phone when he’s working. I want him to know what Rogers thinks.” He punched the elevator button.
Jackson didn’t want to say anything to upset him. He felt guilty for feeling suspicious, but at same time, he couldn’t help it. Neil was hiding something. And maybe Allen was, too.
Neil jumped out of the elevator first and then turned to Jackson. “You don’t think I would ever hurt Glenway, do you?”
Jackson tripped on the carpet upon hearing this question. It was as if Neil had read his mind. “Oh…gosh…I mean…no. No way.”
Neil scrunched his eyebrows up and said, “I certainly hope not. I loved Glenway and so did Allen. I’ll tell you one thing, Jackson Miller. I’ve made up my mind to find out who did kill our friend. It won’t be me rotting in jail for something I didn’t do.”
Nine
Imogene limped over to Neil, holding her hat in her hand. “Hey, shug, you gonna come get a doughnut with us? Me and the boys are headin’ out directly.”
Neil walked a few feet into the room and then toward her and then away, as if he couldn’t make up his mind. “No, ma’am, not right now. Could I meet you later? I gotta go talk to Allen…” It seemed he had forgotten the rest of the words in midsentence. He twisted his ring.
“Why you say it that way? What’s eatin’ at you, son?” Imogene grabbed Neil’s hand.
Neil stared through her, and then he looked at the open door. “No reason. Nothing. I just…need to speak with Allen.”
She removed her sunglasses. He patted her shoulder absent-mindedly.
“Hey, Neil, that’s fine. Don’t worry about us, but please do plan to meet up later.” Jackson grabbed a few last things before ushering everyone out the door.
Imogene fastened her purse full of odds and ends as they made their way to the street. She tried to talk Neil into staying, but he insisted otherwise. He didn’t make eye contact with her or the boys. As soon as they got to the curb to hail a taxi, Neil hugged Imogene, nodded at Jackson, and dashed to his car.
“Well, boys, I ain’t sure what’s on his mind, but he don’t seem right, for sure. What did the lawman say to him, Jack?” Imogene ducked into the cab and watched as Neil drove away.
Jackson jumped in and said, “Basically, Rogers accused Neil and Allen of lying about their whereabouts on Thursday night. He said they both had enough reason to kill Glenway.”
“Oh dear God. That’s ugly. And what’d Neil say back?”
“He said he figured out Rogers was the one who canceled Glenway’s police appointments to investigate the stolen art. And then he mentioned the duffel bag Rogers brought to Glenway’s studio and the fact that Rogers arrived so early to the scene.”
“That Neil’s a crackerjack, ain’t he? He didn’t try to whoop the big fellar again, did he?”
“Oh no. I kept a close eye on him.”
“Hmm. Well, honey, I can’t wait for them powdered sugar thangs. You say this place we’re goin’ to is the most famous for makin’ doughnuts? Yessir.” She patted her brassiere, which she had stuffed with money. “You ready for ’em, Billy?”
“Yeah, I am, but don’t you think it’s odd of Neil to leave like that? Didn’t he come here to spend time with us?” Billy looked out the window as they passed the balconies on Toulouse Street with the sun leading the way to the river. They were among the morning crowd and the French Quarter teemed with life. The sidewalks filled with walkers and shoppers. A family of three generations waited for a taxi, the grandmother allowing her baby grandson to adjust her hair bow. The morning sun in New Orleans
felt like it was trying to make a point, convincing the old world to believe something new.
Jackson put his arm around Billy and said, “He needs to talk to Allen.”
The cabbie dropped them off at the famous café next to the Mississippi River. Jackson said, “The Café du Monde’s been in business since 1862. They haven’t sold anything to drink but coffee and water for a hundred and twenty-five years.” The outside pavilion was packed with customers, so they walked inside and sat at the closest table. A middle-aged waitress approached them and stood over the table. Jackson asked her for three orders of beignets, café au laits, and waters.
“Decaf for me, please,” Billy told the server. Then he looked at Jackson. “You know what real coffee does to me.”
“Yeah, you always think you’re experiencing stroke symptoms.” Jackson smiled at Billy from across the small table.
“It’s just my TMJ.” Billy glanced around the room and focused on the corner. Jackson followed his partner’s stare, resting his eyes on a mysterious man hunkered over his table. The guy wore a hooded sweatshirt that covered his head. He sat so that no one could see his face.
Jackson said, “Ah, yes, temporomandibular joint disorder, diagnosed by an ENT after three trips to the ER, four visits to your primary physician, and the various specialists from whom you sought answers.” Jackson clapped his hands together as the waitress returned.
Imogene said, “Honey, I’ve never seen such as this.” It looked like a plate of dried snow, piled as high as the napkin dispenser in the center of the table. She picked up the first beignet on top of the pile and tried to eat it, getting sugar all over her face. She took a slurp of her coffee and then made a mean face. “That ain’t coffee, is it?” She glared at the boys as if they had tricked her. “That ain’t nothing but tar…with milk.”
Jackson said, “It has chicory in it. You need to sweeten it more.” He turned the sugar canister into her coffee and she tried it again.
“Yeah, that’s better. Still tastes funny though.”
Billy stared at the shady guy in the corner. Jackson asked, “What’s wrong? Why are you focused on that stranger?”
Billy motioned toward the wall. “Something seems familiar about him. He just turned his head to the side, and I thought I recognized him from somewhere.”
Jackson noticed the man wearing new shoes—shiny running shoes with reflectors under the laces. He leaned over to see the side of the man’s scruffy face, but a customer at the table beside him stared, so he stopped. He had a hot plate of doughnuts in front of him which needed attention.
Without looking down at the table, Billy grabbed for a cup of coffee, accidentally picking up Jackson’s, and took a big swig.
“What are you doing?” Jackson asked after noticing the mistake. “You just drank from mine.”
“Umm!” Billy slapped the table, shaking the plates and silverware. Imogene looked at him sideways, her mouth full of French deliciousness. Billy’s eyes started trembling.
Jackson said, “Calm down. Calm down. It won’t affect you that quickly.” He slid his water over and Billy drained it in one gulp. He pushed his plate back, claiming he would not combine caffeine and sugar in one meal.
Imogene, after finishing three beignets, turned her eyes to the man in the corner. She had a better angle than Billy. She could see more of the young man’s profile. While calming Billy’s nerves, Jackson saw the art postcard Imogene held in front of her. She leaned over as far as she could. Jackson was reaching under the table to pat Billy’s leg while Billy cupped his face in his hands, mumbling about the repercussions of such an ingestion.
“You’re not going to have a panic attack. You’ll be fine.” Jackson could say it all he wanted, but how well he knew of the hours he had seen his partner lying prostrate on the couch or the bed during one of his episodes. “Just take some deep breaths.”
Imogene swiped the camera from Jackson and started taking pictures on the sly. She held the camera under the table and snapped it. The flash lit up the boys’ legs and caused the other customers to turn toward her. Billy closed his eyes at the sight of the flash.
“Don’t worry about her, Billy. She’s just taking some pictures of this famous place.”
Billy shook his head. “Of our feet and the floor of this famous place?” He breathed in deeply and exhaled.
Imogene stretched her arm out and snapped a picture of the back corner, illuminating the wall near the mysterious man. He pulled his hood over his head, put a couple dollars on the table, and then jumped up from the seat. Imogene didn’t take her eyes off him, and she shot another picture as he walked toward her. When the man pushed past Imogene, the table shook and rocked her against Jackson. Billy kept his eyes closed.
Imogene turned around and told the boys, “That’s Buddy right there, boys, walkin’ through the crowd.”
Buddy stopped at the window out front on the sidewalk and lit a cigarette. He glared at Imogene from the sidewalk. She took a picture of him through the window, and he turned around and hurried toward across the street to the park.
The boys were focusing on Billy’s TMJ episode.
“Hey, while y’all are holdin’ hands and worryin’ yourself over God knows what, I just seen that fellar from the Gilbert boy’s painting.” She studied the last picture she’d taken, still on the camera screen. Jackson leaned over it. Even with the glare from the café window, the man’s face looked identical to the face in the postcard. “Oh, yeah, no doubt ’bout it. That’s him, Jackson. Ya know it?” She handed him the camera and the Bacchus postcard.
He studied it and then released Billy’s hand. “Yes, that’s Buddy all right. Buddy the hustler, the guy Glenway painted…and lived with.” Jackson scrubbed his mouth with a napkin, flipped a twenty-dollar bill in front of Imogene, and stood up. “I need to go speak with him. Come on, Billy. You can walk off that buzz.”
“What’s Mama gonna do?” he asked, looking at his mother.
Jackson said, “She can sit right here and rest her legs till we get back. We’re just going outside for a minute.” Billy threw his satchel around his shoulder and followed Jackson, who made it to the street crossing.
Buddy was standing in a park bench area. He stopped and spoke with a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a man whose legs were covered in scabs. He looked sickly. His bald head gleamed in the sun. Buddy held onto the sides of his hoodie to keep his face concealed. Jackson held a copy of the Bacchus postcard as he approached. “Excuse me, are you Buddy?”
The man shot Jackson a quick look, part anger and part fear. His lip curled as he focused his eyes on his questioner.
“I’m Jackson Miller, an old friend of Glenway Gilbert’s. I’m told you’ve been living with him for a few months…up until the time of his murder.” From behind him, he heard Billy saying, “Hey, hold up. Mother’s hollering at us from the street corner.” Jackson turned around to see Billy, and as soon as he did, Buddy took off running, heading for the St. Louis Cathedral, his new shoes reflecting the sun with each quick step.
Ten
Jackson saw Buddy run in between two trumpeters, who stood in front of the Cathedral and the Cabildo, a beautiful old building with Spanish arches and stucco walls, made famous as the site of the Louisiana Purchase’s transfer in 1803. Jackson yelled for him to stop. “We just want to ask you a few questions. Why are you running?”
Buddy made a right turn past the museum and headed away from the river and toward Chez Hill.
The boys sped up, but Buddy stayed fifty steps in front of them. Jackson huffed, “He’s guilty of something or else he wouldn’t have taken off. I didn’t even have a chance to accuse him.”
Billy clopped along as best he could. “Why don’t you stop running and see if he’ll do the same?”
Jackson was afraid to try it. He kept going as Buddy hoofed it through intersection after intersection. After a few moments of pursuit, Jackson realized that hustlers were generally in good shape. He had seen several hanging aroun
d the Southside of Birmingham. They spent a lot of time in cars, just not driving them. Their mode of transportation was their johns or their feet. Buddy was no different. He had a long stride, which Jackson would have admired if not currently sucking in as much of the humid, subtropical air as his body would allow.
As Buddy pumped his arms, the sweatshirt fell off his shoulders, revealing a sporty clean wifebeater and the tattoo of a wolf on his right arm. The white soles of his sneakers bounced off the cobblestone street. He wore a pair of blue jean cutoffs, frayed at the thigh, and a bandana in his back pocket. At a quarter past ten o’clock, the music was already streaming from some of the bars and restaurants along the route. The souvenir vendors prepared their storefronts and carts, several times obstructing Jackson’s sight of the fleeing hustler whose wolf tattoo seemed to gallop on his arm.
Jackson felt his legs burning. He cried out to Buddy, but the crowds were gathering in the streets and on the sidewalks. Buddy sped up, putting a greater distance between himself and the boys. Billy eventually had to stop running. Jackson heard the sound of his partner’s feet trail off, and he turned around to see Billy standing in the middle of Bourbon Street. Jackson kept going. He passed an establishment called the Tool Belt, which had a rainbow flag hanging from its exterior. It was obviously a gay establishment, and he made a mental note of it.
He got as close as three car lengths to Buddy when he crossed an intersection and ran straight into a mime, a street performer painted entirely in gold and taller than eight feet. He could not have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He looked like a flagpole with arms. Jackson knocked off the mime’s gold top hat during the fall. The performer fell to his side. Upon landing, he overturned the gold-painted shoe box.
The mime didn’t say a word during or after the fall, but Jackson could tell how the performer might speak by the grunts and sighs he released into the humid air. He hopped back to his feet because people were watching the aftermath of the collision.
Imogene in New Orleans Page 8
