Now Let's Talk of Graves

by Sarah Shankman

  Marietta for sure couldn’t stop. Kicking her feet against the bar. Pounding her little hands. Her breath coming short,

  “May-retta, honey, are you all right? Is your asthma—?”

  “I can’t help—I can’t—oh, God, get me out of here. I’ve wet my pants.”

  “May-retta!”

  Thirty-Eight

  “I WISH MY daddy could have lived to see this.”

  Jimbo was standing in the middle of his living room in front of the supercolossal TV he’d bought himself last week with Maynard’s hush money. Talking to himself, watching Maynard Dupree, attorney-at-law, man-about-town, bon vivant, and generally speaking a pillar of New Orleans society and the bi’nis community talking about him, Jimbo King, like he was something. Like he wasn’t a redneck. Nor your white trash. Like he was free, white, and twenty-one.

  Though he wasn’t so sure about this Dupree Productions.

  He hoped Maynard didn’t think he was gonna take a piece of his action when the movie and the TV people came ’round, wanting to move him to Hollywood.

  Nuh-uh. No way, son.

  Jimbo wishing he’d had a picture taken of himself, Maynard could of been showing it to the folks.

  Wait a minute! Why didn’t Maynard take him along? Put him on the TV this evening with Sister Nadine?

  Jimbo stepped over a few feet so he could check himself out in the mirror—the one with the seashell frame he and Teri had brought back from their honeymoon in Tarpon Springs. Full face. Gave himself a big grin. Good teeth. His mama had always said that was the one thing she was grateful to her daddy for, he’d passed along his teeth. Now Jimbo had ’em too. They wouldn’t even need to cap ’em when he went for his screen tests.

  Swiveled his head. Profile. He had a good strong chin. He always hated that, when guys turned sideways, you could see they had wimpy chins.

  His was like Michael Douglas’s. Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction. That was a chin.

  He stepped back from the mirror. Sucked in his gut. Not that there was much. He was still hanging in there.

  Hoped Maynard didn’t think he was gonna steal from him.

  What the hell? The phone was ringing, Hollywood already trying to find him. He wondered if he ought to get his number unlisted. People gonna start bothering him, trying to sell him cars, boats, condominiums.

  He picked up the phone. Nothing. Then he realized it was the doorbell.

  He threw the door open with his best smile.

  “Hi, Jimbo.”

  It was Teri!

  You could have knocked him over.

  “Honey!” Jimbo opening his arms wide. “Come on in.”

  “I saw them talking about you on the TV.”

  He grinned. “That was something, huh? I bet you never thought you’d see that.” And then he found himself giving her a big hug. And she felt good. What a surprise, that feeling.

  “Where’s Doctor?” he asked, suddenly really wanting to know. “Where’s my baby?”

  “He’s right here.” She reached back out the door and brought in the little boy.

  “You left him on the porch?”

  “Just for a minute.” She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “I didn’t know if you’d let us in.”

  “Let you in? Let you in? Somebody could have stole him!” Then with the suddenness with which people get swept up with ol’ time religion, with the fervor of the Lord’s sending a clear message, Jimbo got it. Loud and clear.

  This was the Lord’s way of telling him, now hadn’t Teri been praying for him all this time, he knew she had, and it was a sign that his Big Moment, or Pre-Big Moment, came on Sister Nadine’s show—that blessed angel, Teri used to call her—Teri’s favorite show. It was a sign. A divine convergence, what they called it, like when hot air and cold air and moisture and all that other shit comes together out in the Gulf, out where he used to work on the rigs, thought he was going to make his fortune, grunting, sweating, but no way, Jose, this was it.

  And Teri, his blessed angel wife, and their little angel baby, had made it possible. And, praise the Lord, here they were again. His own little family.

  “You been putting your hands on the TV?” he asked her, but knowing the answer in his heart. “Watching the show live in the afternoons?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Bless you, Jesus!”

  Teri gave him a funny look, like she wasn’t sure she was hearing what she was hearing. Then she said, “That Mr. Dupree made you sound like you were really something, didn’t he?” looking at him the way she used to from under her eyelashes. When she wanted to do it. Then running one finger under her gold necklace kind of nervouslike, like on the other hand she still wasn’t sure she ought to be here. Wasn’t sure he wouldn’t hurt her.

  He wuddn’t ever going to hurt her again. He was as sure of that as he’d been of anything in his life. Jimbo fell to his knees.

  Teri grabbed hold of him. “Honey! What on earth—you having some kind of fit? Here, let me—”

  “No way, sugarplum.” He had his arms around her knees now, her chubby knees he loved so much. He couldn’t imagine that he’d ever felt any different.

  It was the miracle of Sister Nadine, hands on the TV, just like Teri had always said.

  “No way, baby. This ain’t no fit. This is the power of the love of the Lord.”

  “Oh. Oh. Oh. My goodness.” Teri reached into her bag, pulled out her little Hallmark datebook, started fanning herself with it, she felt that faint.

  Doctor, sitting on the floor, was just staring at them. He always was the best angel baby.

  “I just don’t know how we’re ever going to thank Sister Nadine and that Mr. Dupree,” Teri said.

  “Well, I do.”

  And he did. For now, like it came to him in a flash, Jimbo saw that if he wanted this flying lawn chair thing to come together, now that it had been given the blessing of Sister Nadine, which was just like it being blessed by the Lord, well, he was going to have to mend the error of his ways.

  He was going to have to get Maynard Dupree on the phone right this very minute and tell him that he’d been shucking and jiving him all this time.

  Let Maynard know not a blessed thing had happened.

  Maynard hadn’t had nothing to do with what went down with that Church Lee. At least, not as far as Jimbo knew. And for sure, Maynard hadn’t hired him to do nothing, not like he’d led Maynard to believe.

  Far as he knew, Maynard had gone straight home, drunk as a skunk that evening. Just like he had.

  Drunk as a skunk and probably did lots of things he’d be ashamed of, especially with this new lease on life the Lord had given him, but he sure as hell hadn’t been anywhere near the vicinity of St. Charles and pore old Church Lee.

  He reached for the phone.

  “What you doing, honey?” Teri said, still kind of nervous in her voice.

  “Making amends, sugar. Making amends is the best way I know in the world to buy yourself some insurance.”

  “Insurance? Life insurance?”

  “Happiness insurance, sugar. We about to buy ourselves a happiness guarantee.”

  *

  “Held up the Pic’N’Pac on Coliseum? Why do you think he did that?”

  “Sam, we’re not dealing here with a rocket scientist,” Harry said. “You know what I mean?”

  “Well, you want to hear one that’ll match that? Are you sitting down?”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “You’re not going to believe whose son I think he is.”

  “Mother Teresa’s.”

  “Very funny, Zack. Though—”

  “Possibility?”

  “No. That just made me realize why I never asked her last name.”

  “Whose?”

  “Sister Nadine’s.”

  “I’m not following you, Sam. Want to run that by me again?”

  “I never asked her last name because with people like that you don’t. Sister Nadine. Mother Teresa. Madonna. Cher.”


  “That’s an interesting assortment. But what’s Sister Nadine got to do with T & A or the price of rice?”

  “Ida says she’s Billy Jack’s mother.”

  Two beats, then, “You’re kidding me.”

  “G.T. and I are going to go over and see Nadine right now, talk to her about it. Maybe get a bead on where Billy Jack is and what he’s been doing with his spare time. Especially with what you’re telling me about seeing Maynard with her on TV. I can’t believe that. Maynard and Jimbo and this flying lawn chair thing? Is this making any sense, Harry? Or is this just the way you all do things in New Orleans?

  “Our number-one boy Maynard, we’ve never even talked with him yet, and now he’s hooked up with Sister Nadine, who’s the mother of Billy Jack—could you check that out and call me right back—and furthermore, G.T. came up with something I can’t get out of my mind.

  “You know I told you she made a point of how the guy driving the Buick was so short? And we know how short Billy Jack is. We know he’s crazy. Stone cokehead, I’m sure. I bet he’s got a record, you check that too. Or shall I do that? Know he knew Church. At least well enough to have a drink with him in the Pelican.”

  Suddenly Sam realized there was no one on the other end of the line. She was talking to herself. “Harry? Harry?”

  Thirty-Nine

  “I WENT BACK over to Patrissy’s and leaned on Billy Jack’s friend, the maître d’. Our boy’s at the Andrew Jackson Hotel, 919 Royal,” said Harry.

  “Do you feel stupid, or what?” said Lavert. “Right in the goddamn neighborhood the whole time. Why didn’t we lean on that guy earlier?”

  “Forget about it. Just get there pronto. Meet you in front.”

  Sam and G.T. and Arkadelphia were all piled up together in the front seat of the ambulance.

  “You gonna get us in so much trouble, G.T.”

  “Ark, I wish you would shut up.”

  The fat man was shaking his head, which made Sam, who was sitting on his lap, feel like she was resting atop a tidal wave.

  “You can’t just be running around town in this vehicle like it was your own,” Arkadelphia said.

  “Why not?” argued G.T.

  “What if we get a legit call while we headed on this personal business of yours—with the sireen going? It ain’t good.”

  “What if I told you we might be going to pick up a potential murderer?” G.T. countered.

  Arkadelphia laughed, squashing Sam up against the dash. “And why would that be different from any other run? Half the folks we pick up been slashing and burning one another like they’re working cane.”

  “What if I told you he was Sister Nadine’s son?”

  Sam could feel the disbelief rising up like gas from deep down inside the fat man.

  “Harumph. Humph. I’d say you done lost your mind.”

  “Is Nadine your personal savior?”

  “Don’t be sacrilegious, G.T. You know that’s the Lord’s role. Sister Nadine is just his agent.”

  Like Otis Dew? But Sam knew better than to bring that up. “Like an angel?” she asked instead.

  “That too.”

  Then, though she couldn’t see it, she could feel Arkadelphia’s mouth shut into a prim line.

  “What if I told you we were going over to Sister Nadine’s tabernacle?” G.T. kept pushing.

  “I’ve been there before.”

  “What if I told you we were going to visit with her personally?”

  Beneath Sam, Arkadelphia stopped breathing. She counted to ten, then pinched him.

  “Could I get her autograph?” he squeaked.

  “Hell, yes,” G.T. roared, firing up the siren. “Just like those pictures of Jesus Christ with his John Hancock that radio station sends you from Laredo, Texas, you give ’em enough cash.”

  Arkadelphia reached for the microphone. Said into it, “Blue Oldsmobile, blocking our way up there, would you kindly move your ass, please, and thank you.”

  *

  “They on their way up,” Clothilde, the day manager at the Andrew Jackson, whispered into the phone.

  Then she grinned at the vanishing backs of the two men. They looked kind of like those guys in Lethal Weapon. Except in this case, the big black one was cuter. (Her mama would drop dead if she knew Clothilde thought things like that—like she hadn’t spent her whole life fighting that damned busing.) But Clothilde herself had always fancied big men and tried to be open-minded about their coloring. And this one was awfully big. Hmmmmmm. So maybe she hadn’t been so smart—she could hear their feet running down the hall upstairs, but it would be too late, Billy Jack would have already disappeared out the back—hadn’t been so smart calling him.

  But that was their deal, hers and Billy Jack’s. And he kept her in a lot of toot for holding up her end of the bargain, which she had just done. Which meant they were even.

  So. When the two cop types came back downstairs, maybe she’d tell them where Billy Jack went.

  Wuddn’t but one place that little ninny ran when he was scared. She’d seen it happen more than once.

  Straight home to his sugar tit.

  *

  Maynard was sitting upstairs in Nadine’s special kitchen, where all the pies and cakes for the TV show were baked. He took another bite. Holy Jesus! There was nothing in the world could beat Nadine’s black walnut cake for sweet and delicious.

  Except Nadine herself.

  She was downstairs in the tabernacle’s auditorium, rehearsing with the choir for the Easter service. She had come home after that promo for Dupree Productions, the flying-lawn-chair business, jumped in the shower, jumped out, given her hair a shake, him a quick kiss, said, Have yourself a snack, baby, you looking kind of peaked. Which he was, he just didn’t have her energy. But then, she didn’t have his sins on her mind either, didn’t have that Jimbo breathing down her neck. And now that big buck, whoever he was, warning him about Miss Chéri. Miss Chéri, indeed! Marietta’s friend, not his. The same Chéri had been in the Pelican that night, when he’d said whatever he’d said had started this whole mess? Jesus.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Dupree.”

  Maynard looked up. It was Dana or Dian or Dion, or whatever that girl’s name was, was Nadine’s assistant. “Did you receive your messages, Mr. Dupree?”

  She was always so cool she gave Maynard the creeps. “What messages?”

  “Your secretary’s been trying to reach you all day.” As if it were his fault.

  “Oh yeah?” Maynard’s head reared up. Sally Jean never called around unless it was urgent. She especially wouldn’t call him here. “What’d she say?”

  Dana pulled a little notebook out of her pocket. “Mr. King has to speak with you immediately.”

  Oh, God. What now? That bastard Jimbo was never happy.

  “Is that it?”

  She looked down at the little notebook again. “Mr. King came by the office. She told him you’re here and he’s on his way over. She said a Mr. Washington had called too. She said he said you’d know him from the spider.”

  “The spider?”

  “I’m merely reporting what she said, Mr. Dupree. I didn’t ask her what variety.” She gazed off into the middle distance as if she were privately amused. She always looked that way. Then offered, “Black widow, perhaps?” She gave him a whisper of a grin as if she’d said something terribly amusing.

  Black widow, indeed.

  Black.

  Oh, Jesus. Black as in that humongous black person in the little car. That little Fiat. Little Fiat Spider. Mr. Black Person—Washington she’d said he called himself—in the Spider. Oh, shit.

  That was it. That was absolute-rooting-tooting-final-the-last-straw it. That was all he needed, Mr. Black Person Washington following him, calling his office on top of Jimbo King barging in here. Never could tell what that peckerwood might do. Might tell Nadine all about Church Lee, ruin his chances with her.

  And here he’d just decided that he was going to marry Nadine, had
decided it while he was sitting eating her black walnut cake.

  It was the only fitting thing to do, sort of a recompense for Church and all their bad blood and, truth be told, all the pain that business had caused other people. Why, everybody thought men were so tough, but he could still remember the look on Madeline’s face that terrible day she’d run up on him and Church yelling about her out in front of the Pickwick. And Zoe. Poor Zoe. He’d felt heartsick about that little girl ever since. It was one of the things that made him so mean. Made him drink. Made him sometimes want to hurt people. Round and round went that little snotwad of shame about his selfishness, pinging off the walls of his brain. But now, now, because of Nadine, he’d seen the error of his ways. He had to. It was all closing in on him. He’d give Marietta her divorce, he knew she wanted it, wouldn’t even put up a fight, wouldn’t drag her through the mud like she thought he would, just give her and the kids their share, like an upstanding gentleman. He wondered if he’d ever see the boys again. Oh, God. Well, there was nothing for it but Do It Right. Then hope for the best. Dear Jesus, he was so sorry. He hoped some of Nadine’s grace would rub off on him.

  “Thanks,” he said to the back of the retreating Dana, who’d been standing there drinking her cup of coffee and studying him. “Thanks a lot for the messages.”

  “You’re welcome.” Then she gave him a funny look. Well, he never had been very nice to her. He’d try now. “How’s the rehearsal going?”

  She shrugged. “Fine. Everything’s always fine when Nadine’s doing it. Right on target.” And then she made a little gun with her hand like she was pointing it at a bull’s-eye. Her idea of a friendly gesture. Pulled the trigger. Pow.

  And she was gone.

  Alone, he felt the pit of his stomach rise up again. The black walnut cake felt like a load of lead.

  What was he going to do if Jimbo came over? Why wasn’t Jimbo satisfied with the flying-lawn-chair TV publicity? The man was always wanting more and more. And what the hell was it now with the big spade? What was this crap about Chéri?

  Then he saw Dana pulling that little trigger in her hand. That was it! Being sorry for the error of his ways was one thing, but there was no need to roll over and play dead.