by James Sallis
After three or four weeks I said, “There was a woman.”
“Lots of them.”
“She took care of me in the beginning, when I was really in bad shape. Scottish, I think.”
“That’d be Vicky. She’s over at Hotel Dieu, I hear.” This one was short, Latin, hair in a thick braid. “I never did understand why those British nurses are all so damned good. But if I was sick, that’s who I’d want taking care of me, bet money on it. You need anything else, Mr. Griffin?”
“No. But thanks, Donna.”
“Por nada.”
This went on for some time. I remember my father sitting beside the bed for a week or two. Verne came in a few times and told me if there was anything she could do … Corene Davis bent down and whispered something in my ear, which later Earl Long tried to bite off. One night Martin Luther King was there, but nobody else saw him. I asked.
“Lew?” someone said. “Lew? You okay?”
It was Don. He looked a lot older than I remembered him, a lot tireder. “You need anything, you better let me know.” He told me his wife had finally left, taking the kids with her. He said one of his people had picked me up and they’d kept it quiet.
“What do you feel about all this?” he said.
“Jesus, Don, you sound like one of the shrinks around here. I feel fucking embarrassed, is how I feel. Mortified, as Daffy Duck used to say.”
“You were pretty far gone, Lew. Ever since you and Janie got back together and it went bad again. I guess you know I was sending jobs your way.”
“I knew.”
“But finally I had to stop. I couldn’t answer the questions those people came back to me with. You remember much of how it was the last few months, Lew?”
I shook my head.
“My men had standing orders. Every night they’d find you about twelve or so and see that you got home. You didn’t want to go home, but you did. Sometimes they’d take you home three or four times a night.”
He paused and I said, “That bad.”
“One morning the captain wanted to see me. ‘Who the fuck is this Lew Griffin’, he said. ‘He a dealer, a stooge, what?’ I told him you were a friend. ‘They don’t pay us to take care of friends, Walsh’, he said, they pay us to scrape the bad guys off the streets, keep a little order out there. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I said, ‘Yessir’. He said, ‘I’m not going to hear this name anymore now, am I?’ I said, ‘Nosir’. But my men still had that standing order.”
I started to say thanks, but Don said, “Just shut the fuck up, Lew, all right?” I did. “Then a night or two later I get this call from Thibodeaux. I’d promised Maria we’d have that night together, it was our anniversary or some damn thing, and between the second drink and salad the beeper lets loose. It seems the waitress at Joe’s had called. For about an hour you’d been methodically walking into one of the walls there, saying you were trying to find the bathroom. The guys picked you up, I came down and had a look, and I told them to bring you up here.”
“My thanks.”
“I didn’t hear it.” He looked closely at me. “You’ve given me some grief, Lew. More than I’d ever have taken from just about anyone else. One thing you never did, though, was bullshit me, ever.”
“Right. But when, and how, do I get out of this rabbit hole?”
“You’re court-committed, old friend. For what the laws call a reasonable period of observation.”
“Which means that I’m delivered, without reservation or restraint, into the hands of those for whom I’m an ever-renewable meal ticket.”
“Lew. Think about where you were, man.”
“Have you met these guys, Don? I tried to shake hands with one of them and I thought he was going to leap over the couch and run out the door. My so-called social worker has an American flag pinned to his lapel. There’s Muzak in every fucking corner of this goddamn place, even in the bathrooms. Yesterday I heard a synthesizer version of Bessie Smith’s ‘Empty Bed Blues.’ ”
“Things’ll get better, Lew.”
“Now you’re bullshitting me. Things never get better, Don. At the very best, they only get different.”
He stood there a moment, then said, “Seems like it, doesn’t it? I’ll do what I can, Lew. Money, a place to stay, someone to talk to. You let me know.”
“I will.”
He nodded and left.
That week they decided the detox was complete and took me off sedatives. I was feeling pretty shaky, and the dreams weren’t near as interesting, but it wasn’t too bad. The rest, they said (three of them talking about me among themselves behind stacks of folders while I sat cross-legged on a folding chair at the front of the room), could be handled on an outpatient basis. A couple of days after that, they let me go. Don had dropped off some clothes. I sat in new navy polo shirt and chinos staring across at a bug-eyed accountant until he stopped making noises about my bill and discharge payments and so on and said all right I could go.
It was cool outside, and overcast: gray. The world didn’t look too much different from the way I remembered it before checking out for a while, only noisier, faster. But then, it wasn’t the world that had changed. I felt like someone long underwater, sucking in those first lungfuls of precious air. And at the same time I felt weighed down out here, overcome by so much activity, chance and change.
I took a cab to the Napoleon House-Don had dropped off some money with the clothes-and ordered a double scotch. Sat there looking at it, and being looked at by the waiters, for two hours. Then I got up and left.
I really didn’t know where to go. I’d given up paying rent on the office a long time ago, and I was sure I didn’t have an apartment anymore either. Sun goin’ down, black night gonna catch me here. Finally I stopped at a phone booth, dropped in my nickel, and dialed Verne’s number, the new one.
“ ’Lo,” she answered.
“It’s Lew, Verne.”
There was a pause.
“Can’t get away from the past however fast we run, can we?” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it probably sounds. How are you, Lew?”
“Better.”
“I heard.”
“Walsh?”
“My husband golfs with one of the docs who watchdogged you at Touro. You gonna be okay, Lew?”
“I’m gonna try to be. But I’m going to need a place to stay.”
“That’s easy. Take the old place on Daneel; I kept it for sentiment’s sake. Key’s where it always was.”
“Thanks, Verne. Be happy.”
“Lew! Wait a minute. Some guy’s called for you; I almost forgot. God only knows how he got this number. Hold on. I’ve got a note here some where…. William Sansom. Ring any bells?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He wants you to call him.”
“He didn’t say what about?”
“Nothing. But the number’s 524-8592. Anytime, he told me.”
“Right. Later, Verne.”
I hung up, dug out another nickel and tried the number. A breathy female voice answered “Yes?”
“William Sansom, please.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Sansom is out of the building just now. May I say who called?”
I told her.
“Ou or ew?” she said. “Excuse me, sir…. Mr. Griffin, I’m sorry, but Mr. Samson is in after all. Will you hold a moment? Thank you, sir.”
Stevie Wonder music came on the line. Moments later, a heavy male voice.
“Lew Griffin! How’s it going, man? You okay?”
He stopped, and I said nothing.
“You may not remember me, Mr. Griffin. We met some years ago, and you knew me then as Abdullah Abded.”
“Of course,” I said. “The Black Hand. Finger in every pot, just like the chicken in every.”
“You got our check, I hope.”
“You know I did.”
“We appreciate what you did, Griffin. You keep up with what happened with Coren
e? She went back to school, got her M.D. Now she’s in South America, traveling from village to village down there, doing what she can. There’s no stopping the woman.”
“So what’d you need?” I said.
“Not me: you. Heard there’d been some hard times for you, Griffin. Thought we might be able to help.”
“Yeah?”
“Heard you were just out of stir and maybe needing a place to stay. We run a halfway house down below the Quarter-some junkies, a few ex-cons, a lot of lost souls. Low batteries needing some time off the rack. You’d be welcome.”
“Why?”
“Anyone’s welcome. But you’re a brother-and you’ve helped us in the past.”
“Got my own tracks, though.”
“That’s cool. But if it comes to it, don’t forget us. This number is always good. Take care, man.”
“Right.”
I went up to Canal and walked around a while in the streams of shoppers, tourists, folks grabbing a half or whole hour off work, others hanging out aimlessly at bus stops and corners. Outside Maison Blanche, Sam the Preacher was holding forth on evil, atonement and the eternal struggle for rebirth. Sam’s been at his post for over twenty years and never, as far as I know, missed a single day, rain or shine-or hurricane, for that matter. The last couple of years there’s been a kid with him most days, maybe twelve or thirteen, who plays hymns on trumpet what little time Sam’s not preaching. In a city famous for its eccentrics, and proud of them, I guess Sam and the Duck Lady are king and queen. Every so often she still shows up in the Quarter pulling a little wagon behind her, with a string of ducks of all sizes quacking along behind that.
I walked down toward the river and along the levee, smelling hops and yeast from the brewery, smelling stagnant water and things that grow in it.
It was, after all, a kind of rebirth. No home, no work or career, just a lot of loose connections: a whole life to build from scratch. The terms tabula rasa and palimpsest drifted into my mind from courses taken long ago at college. And what was it, that Irish guy who wrote in French, something like: I can’t go on … I’ll go on.
It was getting colder, and a steady, low wind blew off the water. Barges crept upriver toward Memphis or St. Louis. A riverboat, dance band playing on the foredeck, was filling with afternoon tourists.
I thought about a test they’d given us back in school, when I was in the ninth grade maybe, around fifteen or so. Dozens of questions like this: “You have been at sea a very long time. The captain is a cruel, unjust man. One night some of the sailors come to you and ask if you will lead a mutiny. What would you do?” Results came back and our parents were called in for a conference. “Lewis made excellent decisions, fine choices,” Mr. Pace, the adviser, told them, “but there’s something missing from the profile. He doesn’t push, doesn’t strive.” “We already knew that,” my old man said, and got up and left.
Riverside, a guy and his kid were playing awful trumpet duets of “Bill Bailey” and “When the Saints.” I wandered back toward the Square. In one corner a young white clarinetist and an old black tenor banjo player worked their way through popular forties music; in another, an old trumpeter and young guitarist, both white and looking vaguely European, were doing Dixieland with complicated harmonies.
I went across to the Cafe du Monde and had a couple of coffees and an order of beignets. Then I bought a piece of sugar cane at the Market and was walking back up Chartres toward Canal to catch the trolley, sucking at the sugar cane, when a Pinto pulled up beside me.
“Griffin? Spread ’em,” the man said. I did, leaning forward onto the car. It gets to be habit after a while.
One of the guys flashed a badge, not local. The other one turned me around to face him.
“Okay, Griffin, you’re clean. Where you living?”
I shrugged.
“No known address,” he said to the other one. “Got a job?”
I shook my head, thinking how ancient this encounter was.
“No income,” he said.
“Been offered a place to stay, though,” the one with the badge said.
“That right?”
Their conversation went on without me.
“The halfway house.”
“Well. Maybe you better take that offer, Griffin.”
“Yeah. Be a real good idea.”
“Then maybe you could kind of keep an eye on Sansom and his people for us. We know something’s gotta be going on down there.”
“We just don’t know what.”
They both got back into the Pinto.
“You need money, Lew?”
I shook my head.
“Sure you do. Everybody needs money. You be thinking how much you need and let us know. We’ll work something out. See you, Lew.”
I watched the Pinto drive away down Chartres, hoping someone would rearend it.
Chapter Two
“I am pleased that you reconsidered,” Sansom said. He wore a dark suit with suspenders and looked like a lawyer. “More coffee?”
I shook my head.
“We’ve put you in room C-6. Only a couple of other guys in there right now. Any problems, let me know. Usually we ask for some work in return, but you’ve already done yours. Come and go as you wish. Make any money, throw in the pot whatever you think’s right. There’s food laid out in the common room every day between four and six-cold cuts, fruit, cheese, soup, bread.”
“I met some people on the way here,” I said.
“Let me guess. Guys in gray suits with short hair and rep ties? Yeah, they think we ought to still be painting slogans on ghetto walls instead of actually doing something. I don’t know, maybe they think we’re stockpiling bombs in the basement. We don’t have a basement, man-this is New Orleens.” For a moment intelligence fell away from his face and he became a caricature. “We don’t be good niggahs, Massuh Griff’n.” Then he laughed, a deep, rolling laugh. “Come on. I’ll take you up.”
The room was surprisingly light and airy. Beds occupied each corner, a small round table and chairs took up the room’s center. There wasn’t much else: a squat bookcase, some shelves nailed to the wall, a couple of throw rugs.
“Where is everyone?”
“Jimmi-” He pointed to one of the beds, meticulously made. “-does volunteer work with a child care group and is out most days. Carlos-” This bed was unmade. “-passes out flyers, telephone books, whatever work he can get. You never know, with him. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall to your right, towels and all that on shelves behind the door. Again, you let me know if there’s anything else you need; otherwise, we’ll all leave you alone.” He stuck out a hand. “Glad you came, Lew.”
I was kind of glad too. I lay on the bed watching the ceiling and wondering what the next move should be. When I woke up, it was dark outside.
I wandered downstairs to the common room. A couple of guys were hunched over a chess set, a half-dozen others were circled around a TV showing the last scenes of The Big Sleep. Dinner was long gone and I was starving.
I remembered passing a Royal Castle on the way there, and headed for it. Not many people on the streets-too damned cold-and not many people in the R.C. either. One guy with a beard and scraggly thin hair drooling onto his french fries; a young couple making out in the back booth; two Wealthy Independent Businessmen talking over the charts and invoices spread between their baskets of burgers. The clock said it was 9:14.
I had a mushroom burger, baked potato with sour cream, coffee. My first real food for a while, if you could call it that. It all smelled of bacon grease and tasted as though it had been cooked by the same person who invented polyester.
I paid the cashier, which put a hefty dent in my ready cash. She didn’t punch out prices but merely hit keys carrying stylized pictures of a hamburger, a mushroom, a potato, a steaming coffee cup.
“Come see us again real soon,” she said.
“Had a great time,” I told her.
I meandered along Basin, gradually a
ware that a car was pacing me. Turned into a side street and the car followed, against the one-way sign. Finally just turned and waited for them.
“Spread ’em, Griffin,” one of the guys said. I already had.
“You thought over what we were talking about earlier?”
I shrugged.
“Man needs friends in today’s world, especially a black man, right? You a friend of ours?”
I shrugged again.
“Man don’t know if he’s a friend of ours, Johnny.”
The guy in the car shook his head sadly.
“Makes you wonder who he is a friend of. Hello: what’s this? Johnny, you see this, don’t you? Where’d it come from?”
“Came out of his inside coat pocket, Bill.”
“And what is it?”
“Looks like a bag of some kind of white powder, near as I can tell.”
“You writing all this down?”
“Check.”
“You going out to do your laundry, Griffin? This some Tide or Cheer here?”
“Don’t think so, Bill,” the other one said.
“Nope. Ain’t Tide or Cheer. What is it, Griffin?”
“You tell me.”
“Looks like high quality coke to me, Mr. Griffin. I’m quite surprised you don’t recognize it.”
“Never saw it before.”
“Sure, Lew. No one ever has. Amazing how no one ever sees any of this. Right, Johnny?”
“Right.”
“You writing all this down?”
“Right.”
I walked-mainly because of the lawyer who materialized from nowhere and told me, the desk sergeant and then the court that he represented a rehabilitation center operated by “one William Sansom and Associates.” Somehow he managed to get a judge down there and had me in the courtroom for a prelim within the hour. The judge was a woman of fifty or so who listened closely to everything, yawned a couple of times and said, “No P.C. It’s out.” I saw Walsh standing at the back of the courtroom. He and the two feds exchanged glances as they left the courtroom.
It was nearly midnight when I got back to the place. The TV was still on, but nobody was there watching it. Upstairs one of the bunks held a snoring body cocooned in sheets. On another a guy sat nude, reading Principles of Economy.
