The ferry docked with only the faintest lurch. The handful of cars below instantly gunned their engines, waiting for the ramp and barriers to accommodate their leaving.
It was...normal.
Nothing out of place.
City life as usual on a Sunday afternoon.
She ate the last of the sandwich and reached down beside her for the can of soda she had set on the deck.
This was supposed to be normal, too. A clear, comfortable day with an easy, sometimes tickling breeze. A makeshift picnic—his idea, not hers—on a ferry on the Mississippi. Not exactly first class, but it wouldn’t take much pushing to even call it a little romantic. Which, she thought, is just about the story of my life since there ain’t nothing else normal going on.
She felt him flicking glances at her, waiting for a reaction as if it actually mattered to him.
This, she decided, is just too damn weird.
He may not be a freak, but he’s damn sure turning into a fruitcake.
Voices distracted her. John paid no attention, but when she looked, she saw two women settle on a bench against the wheelhouse, loaded shopping bags between their feet, while a young man slumped in a chair near the stairs. The women were fat and swarmed by unashamedly vivid clothing, intent on their conversation while fanning themselves with white handkerchiefs. When one looked up and gave her a quick wave, she realized it was the Grudeau sisters, Giselle and Pandora, housekeepers at the Cajun. It was the first time she had ever seen them not in their hotel whites.
The kid, on the other hand, she had never seen before. He wore a bandanna around his head pirate-style, a silver cross dangling from one ear, his hair in an unkempt pony-tail.
As if even an inch would make a difference between privacy and eavesdropping, Lisse smiled politely at the sisters and scooted her chair closer to the railing so she could fold her arms on it and rest her chin on the back of her hand. Then she turned her head and said, “Are you ... ?” Her right eye nearly closed as she tried to work it out as she spoke. “Are you in trouble with, like, the Mob?”
“I... what?”
“That guy you talked to, he said you were marked, right? You do taxes and finances, right? Moving numbers around, things like that? So maybe you’re skimming a little here and there, they find out, they mark you for a what-do-you-call-it, a hit, right? I mean, you’re a CPA, for crying out loud, no offense. Maybe you’re not really writing a book at all, maybe you’re just getting a little information, you know what I mean? Something to keep them off your back. Or ... or for the Feds, you know?”
She shrugged.
He started to laugh, changed his mind, started to laugh again, and finally said, simply, “No.”
She didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t frown; but she believed him. “Then what are we talking about? I mean, what did he mean by you’re marked?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, Lisse. Honest to God, I don’t know.”
“Well, something’s the matter,” she said, not accusing, only wondering. “You get all bent out of shape over some TV preaching, then all of a sudden you’re running around like crazy needing to get some stuff printed, then you’re acting like somebody just told you it’s going to rain for the next hundred days and you ain’t got anything to keep your shorts dry.”
She raised her eyebrows—so what is it?—and did frown then when all he could do was shake his head again and shrug helplessly, his expression marked by fearful confusion. It was the look, not the lack of an answer, that bothered her, and she concentrated on the water as the ferry nudged away from the dock.
“Then I don’t get it. I mean, I’m grateful for the job and all. I won’t say that I can’t use the money, especially now. But I like to know what I’m getting into, you know? And I have to tell you, I don’t like this at all. It’s too ...” She shuddered, and wished she had brought a light sweater or something.
When he draped his jacket over her shoulders, smoothed it down her back, she wanted to cry.
Maybe she would have, but a voice said, loudly and belligerently, “Hey.”
When she looked, she saw the pirate a few feet away, hands in his pockets, one hip cocked.
“I know you, kid?” she said flatly.
He jerked his chin at the picnic bag. “Looks like you got enough there for an army. I ain’t eaten today. Wanna share?”
She rolled her eyes, not bothering to answer.
John shifted around to sit sideways in his chair, looking up at the kid, who had cocked his other hip, making it clear Lisse didn’t exist.
“Just give me something,” the kid said, pointing languidly as if they were wasting his time with a foregone conclusion.
John smiled tolerantly. “Looks like you could use more than just a sandwich, kiddo.”
“It’ll do for now.”
Lisse stood slowly. She didn’t like the way his right hand bulged in its pocket; there was something more in there than just a fist. “Hike it,” she said, scowling. “We got nothing for you.”
“Tell him, child,” one of the sisters called, and her companion laughed.
The pirate shook his head slowly as if to say that he had tried, he had really tried to be civilized about all this, and took a step to his left. “You know, bitch, you got a mouth.”
“Hey,” John said softly.
Lisse faced the kid squarely. John’s jacket slid from her shoulders, hit her chair, and slithered to the deck. “You got a name, boy?”
He sneered. “Yeah. They call me Levee Pete.”
One of the sisters hooted.
Lisse grinned. “Well, listen here, Mr. Levee Pete, my friend and me, we got ourselves a private conversation going here, and we don’t need you bothering us, okay? So why don’t you just—’’
The step forward and the punch came so swiftly it was only instinct that made her lean away from the brass-knuckled fist, feeling the wind of it pass just under her chin. But his momentum half-turned him, and before he could recover, she grabbed his ponytail with both hands and yanked it as she dropped to her knees, slamming him hard onto the deck on his back.
The sisters hooted and applauded; one put thumb and forefinger in her mouth and whistled appreciation.
Then a hand grabbed the back of her shirt as she got to her feet and jerked her to one side so hard she came up against the railing. She didn’t feel the collision; all she felt was a cold tremor in her muscles that wouldn’t let her legs hold her until she leaned hard against the top rail.
That, she thought, was the dumbest thing you ever did in your life, are you out of your mind?
John stood between her and the pirate, head slightly cocked. “Levee Pete,” he said evenly, as the kid rolled to his feet, “is a dumbass name, and you’re just as dumb for swinging at a lady. Move on, kid, before somebody gets hurt.”
The pirate swayed, leaning forward, panting to catch his breath, grinning the whole time, wide enough to expose a mouth of stained teeth. He held up his right fist, and Lisse’s eyes widened when she saw the filed edges ranged across the knuckles; no wonder he had aimed for her throat.
“John.”
John gestured quickly—I know, I see it—but didn’t move. “Go on, kid,” he said gently. “Go on, this is silly.”
Swaying. “Ain’t nothing silly about it, mister.” Never taking his eyes off John. “Said I could ride with him, John, so I’m gonna ride.” His grin widened, gums exposed. “Gotta eat first, though, gotta eat. And you got the food.”
John shrugged. “Then take it. Hell, take it.”
“Too late,” and he lunged, swinging, darting back when he missed and John tried to grab his wrist.
Lisse looked to the sisters, thinking, praying, one of them was on her way to fetch someone, a crew member or the captain or whoever ran this damn boat. But they hadn’t moved; they were watching intently, handkerchiefs fanning.
Not real, she thought; this isn’t real.
The ferry reached the other side, engines sputtering.
>
The pirate lurched at the docking, and swung again, but from so far away John didn’t even have to move. Then the kid snatched up a chair and flung it at his head. It was wide of the mark, and John turned as it went past, using one hand to keep it going, over the rail and into the river.
“Oooh, that’ll cost you,” one of the sisters said. “That’ll cost you.”
Frenzied, muttering, the pirate grabbed a second chair and threw it so wildly it went directly behind him. Muttering. Wide eyed and panting. Finally uttering a desperate shriek and charging.
John met him without flinching, easily grabbing both his wrists. Chest to chest. Face to face. Arms fully extended, outward and up.
Not a sound.
Lisse looked down and saw the kid was on his toes, saw the legs trembling; when she pushed away from the rail, she could see the kid’s face—covered with sweat, absolutely pale. While John simply stared.
Not a sound.
Then she saw John’s lips move.
And the kid screamed. Once. Short. Before he sagged, unconscious.
Still John held him, still stared at him, until Lisse hurried over and touched his shoulder. “It’s okay, John,” she whispered urgently, “it’s okay, let him go.”
Slowly he lowered his arms, opened his hands, and the kid slumped to the deck. Lisse knelt beside him, suddenly afraid he was dead, holding a hand to his chest until she felt a shallow rise and fall.
A bubble of blood quivered at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes were open, but she suspected he didn’t see the sky.
* * * *
2
The depot is small and freshly painted. A bus is parked at the curb, gleaming wetly as a man in coveralls hoses it down. From a small patch of bright grass between the sidewalk and the building a flagpole rises out of a round garden ringed with bricks. Rope slaps against the pole, the hollow ring of an aluminum bell.
Patty sits on a bench just outside the entrance, a worn suitcase between her feet. There are tickets in her right hand; in her left hand is a cigarette she seems to have forgotten she’s lit.
The little cowboy paces up and down the concrete walk to the bus. He looks at the sky. He looks at the flag. He stops in front of his mother and says, “Mom?’’
She blinks and smiles. “Yes, dear?”
“Soon?”
She leans forward and twists around to check the round-faced clock above the doors. “Fifteen minutes, hon.”
“Thank you.”
She winks at him, and crushes the cigarette out beneath her sole. “Is there something wrong, honey?”
He doesn’t answer. He walks back to the bus, tips his hat back, and stares up at the closed door. He bounces a little with impatience, with impotence. The rawhide strip at the bottom on his holster slaps lightly against his leg.
The man with the hose grins at him and suggests he step back or he’s going to get an early shower.
Joey retreats a few steps, then turns and walks back to his mother. “Mom?”
“Joey. Honey. I’ll tell you when, okay? You just have to be patient.”
He squints as hard as he can. “Dad.”
Patty turns her head, looks at him sideways. “What about him?”
“I think he’s in trouble.”
“How do you know?”
He puts a hand against his stomach and rubs it. “My tummy hurts.”
“Well, maybe you’re just hungry, what do you think about that?”
The little cowboy giggles. “Mom!”
Patty smiles, and reaches for her son’s hand just as the bus driver steps out of the depot.
Joey hurries to his mother’s side and looks up at the man, and whispers, “Is he going to take us home?”
“If you want, honey, if you want.”
A few seconds pass before the boy nods.
* * * *
3
“Do you know,” John said with mild astonishment, “I have never been in a fight in my life?”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she told him. She took hold of his arm and hauled herself to her feet, holding on because she was still shaking. Her side hurt where she had struck the rail, and she refused to think what would have happened if those filed brass knuckles had even brushed across her throat. Unconsciously her hand went to her neck, and she swallowed a sudden surge of nausea.
The sisters paused on their way to the exit, shopping bags in hand, handkerchiefs gone.
One of them looked down and said to the pirate, “Child, you the pure definition of trash,” and spat at him dryly.
The other nodded at John with gratitude. “He was following us around, scared us half to death. Thought he was one of them drug boys, you know?”
He took in her girth and the clear strength in her hands, and said, “Well, I think he was lucky he didn’t tangle with you.”
“Oh, you right about that,” the first woman agreed emphatically. “But it’s nice having a man do all the work for a change.”
He laughed softly, ducking his head in embarrassment.
The second sister reached across and patted Lisse’s arm. “Don’t you worry, honey. I saw what you did. But you let this man take the credit, it be good for his male mind.”
And they were gone, and Lisse couldn’t help it, she shifted until her arms were around him and her cheek was against his chest. “You know,” she whispered, “you Northern boys haven’t a clue how to run a proper picnic.”
When finally he held her, too, she allowed herself to relax, sensing the still unconscious kid behind her and not really caring. However it had begun, this was nice, and she didn’t even mind when the police met them onshore, asking questions, nodding, not really paying much attention when ambulance attendants took the pirate kid away. A few notes; a caution to John to come to the station for a statement, although it was clear they weren’t going to make this a priority; a suggestion to her that she be careful with her mouth if she ever came up on a drugged-out idiot like this; a handshake all around; and they were gone, too.
Now, alone again, she felt awkward and uneasy. She guessed that, given half a chance, John would bolt the city so fast his shadow would have a hard time catching up. He looked up Canal, and she could see him trembling, catching himself, and trembling again. He kept licking his lips. He blinked too fast.
She knew how he felt.
The adrenaline had drained, and reaction had set in, the realization of what could have happened instead of what did.
She whirled toward the river and stamped her foot. “Damn, we left the food on the ferry.”
“The hell with food,” he grumbled. “What I need now, what I want now, is a stiff cold drink and I don’t care what time it is.”
“John,” she warned.
“It’s all right, I don’t mean getting drunk.” His head swiveled toward her. “Although that sure sounds tempting.”
She didn’t know whether he was kidding or not, not until she saw the lines around his eyes deepen. “Okay. Where?”
“Not the hotel. The Quarter. I want people, Lisse. Lots and lots of people.”
Yet he didn’t move until she took his hand, and they drifted toward the Square. Edges sharper, colors brighter, reminding her of the time she’d fallen from her bicycle and whacked her head against the pavement. All sound had an edge.
They turned the first corner, the gardens on their right, and there they were—the people watching the sidewalk artists, the people drifting in and out of the shops, the people walking past them and paying them no mind.
She squeezed his hand as they crossed over Bourbon Street, looking for a place that would hide them for a while. “John,” she said, tugging his arm until he looked down, “why did the kid scream?”
He shook his head, and said, “His eyes.”
Oh, Lord, she thought, moving closer, holding tighter.
Everything had moved so fast, it hadn’t registered until it was all over, until she’d watched them load the kid into the ambulance.
r /> At the time she had thought it had only been her imagination.
He had the crow’s eyes.
Bright, and blue.
And watching.
* * * *
10
B
ullé Pete’s was on Burgundy, one of the few bars John had seen that wasn’t open to the street. A sun-faded wide-plank facade, no windows at all, not even in the door propped open by a thick wedge of wood. They didn’t have to go in to see that it was crowded.
In the Mood - [Millennium Quartet 02] Page 9