The Saint Louisans

by Steven Clark

My mouth was dry.

  “Antje?”

  She did another Yorick and picked up the skull. “I noticed the inchal ridge. Its profile is round.” She took calipers from her coat, carrying them around like a nerd would a slide rule. “I measured the cranial …” she looked to Pierce.

  “Index,” said Pierce. Antje nodded and continued, her finger on the skull. “See the shape of the eye. It is round. It slopes.”

  I dumbly nodded, my old anatomy class coming back. Antje continued. “Did you suspect the subject was a Negro?”

  “We were shooting in that direction.”

  Antje frowned. “The Negroid inchal ridge is pinched. Little. A Negroid eye …” She looked to Pierce.

  “Socket.”

  “Thank you. Is a square rectangle. These skull measurements fit those of a mongoloid.”

  Sky wiped his forehead. “Whoa.”

  Antje’s withering stare made him step back. “Also, it is the racial measurements of Native Indians. They and mongoloids match.” She set down the skull. “This could be a Native American woman.”

  I sank back against the door. “We just dug up Corn Mother?”

  Sky whistled. “Shit. Can I get a drink?”

  Even Ampelmannchen seemed to march faster.

  27

  Mississippi Cool

  Antje took a deep breath and stepped forward. “It cannot be this Corn Mother. The skeleton is … I don’t believe it is that old.”

  I shrugged. “That’s what I think, but we can hardly pop in to the coroner’s for a friendly checkup on carbon dating. Which leaves the butler.”

  “I talked to him,” Antje said. “He keeps secrets. Like in Germany.” She frowned. “Older people always have the secrets.”

  The stairs creaked. Our heads quickly turned as Rainer descended. He looked around. “She is not an Indian goddess.” He was sour. “Lucas brought her here.”

  I glared at Rainer. “No more secrets. Come on.”

  Rainer stared back. “I don’t know who she was. A Chinese woman, I think.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Rainer glared and seemed to grow an inch as he stiffened. “You are right. Lucas brought her in. A man was with him. Black. A Mark Anthony Hollis. Yes, Mrs. Bridger, it was a drug deal that went bad. Lucas confessed to me after the woman was buried.”

  Pierce spoke. “You decided to keep her buried?”

  “I would hardly do this without consulting Madame and Mr. Desouche.” He turned to me. “Your patient needs you.”

  Sky stretched his arms. “I got a boat to take south tomorrow. Let’s all get some sleep, and play detective in the morning.” He turned to me. “I’m crashing on the sofa. I’m used to sofas.” He grinned at me. “Right, Dear?”

  In the morning, I drove Sky to the riverfront, Pierce and Antje in the car with us. We’d had a quiet, moody breakfast as Sky and I exchanged glances, as well as that wink I’d gotten to hate, but I had to admit Sky had been a big help. As a grave robber, he was top drawer.

  We parked at the riverfront, the Mississippi speeding by on cruise control as usual. Sky grabbed his bag.

  “It’ll be good to hit the river again. I was getting tired of being a boy scout, but we had some laughs.”

  We parked, then walked to the levee under the arm of the Eads Bridge, one of America’s first engineering marvels. Circus elephants were sent over the bridge to test its strength. The overarching girders and vaults are like the ribs of Moby Dick.

  It was time to get things rolling, and I nodded to Sky. He tweaked a smile. “So, Antje, what do you think of our river?”

  For being up all night and making an earth shattering discovery, my daughter-in-law was remarkably chipper. “It’s majestic. I understand, as a captain, you know it well.”

  “That I do,” Sky said with no small amount of pride. “I start the second leg of the trip. Goes from here to Cairo.” Kay-ro. “Then from Cairo to New Orleans. We’ll manage about twelve miles an hour.”

  We stood where Lewis and Clark had docked from the West in 1806. Back then, St. Louisans were more shocked than joyful seeing the expedition’s boats return upriver from the Missouri. They’d long been given up for dead. Once they realized the explorers were very much alive, the city exploded in celebration. St. Louisans even then were known for hedging their bets.

  Sky pointed across the river. “There’s my boat.” He read the letters on its bow. “The Cahokia. Usually name them for some fat cat or dead moneybags, but not this time.” Sky’s boat was the usual barge tender, a three-storied craft looking like a floating pyramid, the wheel house its temple. Crewmen paced back and forth along the barges, checking for leaks. Bright orange vests were strapped on their torsos, with flashlights attached. The crew always looks raffish, but as Sky told me, a felony conviction is almost a prerequisite for getting hired. Since no booze or drugs are allowed, it’s a paid rehab.

  “It’s beautiful,” murmured Antje.

  Sky laughed. “It’s ugly as a ten dollar lay, but it moves cargo. No romance there, just freight. Like the Indians and Cahokia. They piled into canoes going up and down the river with trade goods from the big mound, then one day, just said the hell with it. Walked away from their city. Like everyone walks away from St. Louis.”

  Pierce yawned and put his arm around Antje. “The riverfront here wasn’t so empty. Used to have lots of boats here.”

  “When Sky and I were married,” I said, “there was a floating restaurant. A big excursion boat called The Admiral. And a replica of the Santa Maria. Brought here by Mayor Cervantes. He was on a Spanish heritage kick.”

  Sky nodded. “It sank. Then there was the Inaugural. An old minesweeper. Filled the riverfront with all kinds of floating crap. Boats going nowhere. Like a lot of marriages.” He shot me a cold glance, then continued. “Then came the flood of ’93.” Sky pointed. “The river rose to the steps of the Arch. Remember that?”

  I nodded. Bridges were flooded over. Roads cut off. The confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi became an inland sea. We really were a city under siege. “The river broke all those boats loose. They floated away. Hit the bridges. Sank.”

  “Yeah,” Sky’s tone darkened. “Especially that fucking minesweeper. If it had crashed into those fuel tanks downriver, that would have been something. They just let it sink by the shore. When my boat goes south, I always see what’s left of it rusting by the side. Piece of shit. That’s how it is with St. Louis, Antje. Pearl Harbor has the Arizona. St. Louis has the piece of shit.”

  Antje had listened to all this, her eyes studying the barge as if she was ready to hop on board. “Tell me, Sky, do you agree with Mutti Bridger? That this river is a goddess, or do you think it is a brown god?”

  “Hate to admit it” Sky said, “but Lee’s right. This river is a goddess, and she’s high maintenance. I just think she had enough of that shit on the shore and did her own celestial housekeeping.” He looked at the river as I remembered him look at the cityscape outside the hospital when, years ago, we thought we’d connected. When the night and city was a parable we thought joined our lives. But our life together was abandoned, much like the Cahokians abandoned their city and made North America’s first cosmic divorce.

  “Yeah,” he said, “the Corps of Engineers is always shaping, molding trying to straighten out her curves, but the Mississippi goes right back to being her old cantankerous self.”

  A motorized raft zoomed up the river, its top raised like a snout. It came to us, the crewman’s wild curls sticking out from a beaten-up baseball cap, his hog-like jowls sprouting a new beard. He nodded to Sky.

  “This is Looby,” Sky said to Antje, “one of my crew. Just came from the river store. Chow. Sundries. Time to go. Headin’ south, ain’t we?”

  “Sure, Skipper,” Looby cackled. “Going ’way south.”

  “When we get down there we’ll be in the thick of Mardi Gras. Pierce, you and your wife are welcome to come.” He winked at Antje. “This is a tough girl. She’d love Mardi
Gras.”

  “Yeah, it’d be an adventure,” Pierce smiled, “but we have to get back to Berlin. That’s also an adventure.”

  “Berlin” Antje said, “is Mardi Gras. A dark Mardi Gras.”

  Sky stepped into the raft. “That’s the best kind.” He sat next to the canned goods and Coke. I looked at Sky.

  “Thanks.”

  “Good luck with the old lady. Hope she goes quick. Give my best to Jama.” Looby started the motor, and the raft turned.

  “She’s still in shit,” I called out.

  Sky shouted back. “Our daughter always lands on her feet.”

  The raft zipped off to The Cahokia. I turned and felt the river’s chill, like a cold hand to my neck.

  It was time to meet Saul.

  Between the old court house, a modest dome famous for the Dred Scott case, and the city courts building is a large green square, a kind of tennis court scooped out between high rises. AT&T is on one side, where Lindy Squared was obliterated, and on the other side, an octagonal-shaped bank of dark, sleek glass that always looks brown, as if squares of the Mississippi had been frozen into shiny cubes. Next to it is a particularly ugly building Saul calls a pie slice on stilts. The green square has been many things: a building, a parking lot (natch), and now a quiet lawn, recalling Laclede Town’s abandonment where I saw the crows flock. It rests for now until something else will be built there. Now it’s a tennis court, yes, but also an oblong space like the chunkey field at Cahokia, where the ball game had been played between the high mounds. In the garden’s middle, Saul sat alone, wearing a heavy bridge coat, like those worn by naval officers. A serious, cold weather coat … very un-St. Louis. He looked like the Flying Dutchman on shore leave. My heart raced as I approached and could’ve cried when he caught me up in an embrace.

  Tourists, the ever increasing flocks of Chinese, flowed near us, photographing and no doubt staking out which parts of downtown they’ll take when America can borrow no more and they foreclose on us. Saul glared at the bank, its brown glass squares of frozen Mississippi.

  “Marc Anthony Hollis, right?”

  “That’s what Rainer said.”

  “A body,” Saul almost groaned. “It’s too damned weird to be funny or sad. Sort of like a three-D Jewish joke.” He sighed. “My man Barrett did his footwork. Lucas’s adventures in drug dealings had a larger audience than you’d think.” He frowned. “You dug up this body by yourself?”

  “That we did. Pierce, Antje, and Sky.”

  Saul looked away. “Sky. The ex-husband.”

  “We needed someone to help dig.”

  “Yeah. The ex. Then Doc. Where do I fit in, Lee?”

  I sensed for a moment the spurt of resentment Saul has about our relationship. I talk too much about Doc. God knows I never talk about Sky, but he was here, was drafted by me, and there it is. My hand closed in on that wall of navy cloth covering him.

  “I’m so sorry. Saul, but I needed someone to do scut work. Someone I could trust. Sky was there at Ike’s funeral. One thing led to another. Are you angry?”

  A calm in Saul’s eyes dismissed his chagrin, and he looked at me; not smiling, but thoughtful.

  “For a nasty, immoral second I was. Doc was a great guy, and his death was sad and tragic. Really. I know he’ll always have a place in your heart. Lee, I love you. I love the way you listen to my ranting. Not many people put up with it, and you’ve got stability. It’s something I envy.”

  “Stability? That’s a hoot. Have you looked at my life lately?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Come on. You’re pretty stable. You put up with a lot from me.”

  Around us the air was damp with the scent of snow. Saul rubbed his forehead. “Okay, we must be some kind of second-hand match. Used goods, but the mileage is great. Now I’m talking like a lousy salesman. Like the kind of salesman I was for three weeks during semester break. Kiss?”

  We did. And meant it. The wet air didn’t matter. Saul looked up, saw a flake or two spiral down. He smiled and brushed a thick one off my shoulder. “So you dug up a body. Please don’t tell me it’s Corn Mother.”

  “Antje said no. The skeleton was modern. Asian.”

  “All right. Look, I’ll go back to Barrett, dig into my fantastically shrinking nest egg to buy some knowledge. This Marc Anthony Hollis has to be somewhere. Well, big maybe, but finding him might help. How’s Margot?”

  “She’s sinking.”

  He lowered his head.

  “Pierce and Antje are going back. I’ll see them off, and we’ll get this woman’s identity solved.”

  “Yeah, I’ll go kick Barrett.”

  More snow flecked down like coconut shavings.

  When Pierce, Antje, and I went into my apartment house’s lobby, we met an indignant Jama as she shot out of an armchair, simmering.

  “You screwed it up, and I hope you’re happy.”

  I frowned. “What did I screw up?”

  “Hey, Jama.”

  “Hey, big bro’. Antje. Ampelmannchen.”

  Antje yawned and nodded. “We dug up a body.”

  Jama raised her eyebrows. “You dug up Corn Mother?”

  Pierce spoke. “It was a woman. No Corn Mother.”

  This made Jama clench her fist, then look at me. “This makes you happy?”

  “This has hardly been a pleasure trip for me.”

  “Okay, Mom. Now, I want an answer.”

  I trooped to my apartment. “An answer about what?”

  “At my talk in New Town. Those two men in black.”

  “Sky and I thought they were Mormons.”

  Jama snarled. “One of them was. Both of them were IRS.” She flung up her arms. “They shut me down! All of my funds.”

  “Kiddo, it wasn’t me.”

  “It’s so like you, Mother. You had to be a jackal. You can’t stand to see me succeed.”

  “I’ve been waiting thirty years for you to succeed at something, and could we lay off the ‘jackal’ thing?”

  Pierce nodded. “Come on, Jam. Back off. Mom’s had no time. We’ve had a busy night.”

  Jama stamped her foot. “Fifty-seven thousand dollars!”

  I huffed and put my key in the door, but it creaked open. All of us looked into Yul’s contented face as he purred happily in Rasheed’s lap. With two Semitic-looking men standing behind him, Rasheed wore a long overcoat and cologne that filled the room. His fragrance was balance due.

  “Hello, Jama,” Rasheed nodded. “We have a plane to catch.”

  Childe Fantastical wasn’t impressed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Rasheed set Yul down and gave him one last languorous stroke. He rubbed against me. Yul, that is. Rasheed only smiled in that Joel Cairo way. “A private jet, free of your government’s degrading security checks. My sheik has every convenience on board. As you well know. As we pass over your Appalachian Mountains, we shall discuss your repayment. There is a spa near Haifa that has dozens of clients everyday. My, you will be busy.”

  “Look,” Jama frowned, “I need more time.”

  “Time is the one thing you lack.” The man on the right closed in. Pierce stepped forward. The other man pulled an automatic from his jacket, gently shoving Pierce, Antje, and me to one side.

  “Please do not interfere,” Rasheed warned us. He grabbed Jama’s wrist. She jerked it away.

  “Get your hands off me!”

  Rasheed grabbed her arm. Jama’s open palm smacked into his jaw. “Hey! Fuck off!”

  In the movies, Rasheed would have crumpled, but he only shook his head, smiled, and got Jama in an armlock, staying away from her teeth and whipping hair as she wriggled. Rasheed nodded to me.

  “Goodbye, Mrs. Bridger.”

  A sharp click unraveled his smile. Kenyatta had quietly opened his door and now the barrel of his nickel-plated .38 touched Rasheed’s ear, matching Kenyatta’s metallic stare.

  “I crash here,” he said slowly. “I don’t like shit going
on where I crash.”

  Rasheed’s men pointed their guns. Kenyatta ignored them as Rasheed lowered his voice. “This does not concern you.”

  Kenyatta grunted. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We all gonna be cool. You put them pieces away, step away from the ladies. Let go of the ’ho. Everybody’s gonna do it slow, and we all gonna be cool.”

  Rasheed’s smile evened out. “Yes. We will be cool.”

  “So let’s see it, motherfucker. Let’s see some cool.”

  Rasheed muttered to his men, and they slowly replaced their pistols. He turned Jama loose. She rubbed her wrist and snarled at Rasheed’s arctic demeanor. Ken’s barrel moved from Rasheed’s head, but was still inches from his chest.

  “Jama,” Rasheed warned, “I will see you again soon.”

  “Go on,” she sneered. “Scram.”

  In wordless motion, Rasheed and his goons walked down the hall. When we heard the exit door click, I pushed open my door.

  “Everybody in.”

  When I closed the door, Yul immediately rubbed Ken’s leg. He glared and pointed his pistol down.

  “Pussycat, you’re pushing it with me.”

  I picked up Yul and set him in the chair Rasheed had occupied, then sighed. “Thanks.”

  Ken only grunted and uncocked the trigger. Again, I noticed the star engraved above the grip.

  “Lady,” he said, “I see guns around where I crash, a little bell goes off.”

  Jama had already helped herself to one of my chocolate mints. I looked back at Ken. He scratched his beard, shook his head, and then ducked back into his apartment without another word.

  28

  Jiminy Cricket

  My apartment was a full court press of packing and zipping as Pierce and Antje prepared for the return flight to Berlin. Jama lounged on the couch.

  “Hey,” Pierce said to Antje, “got room for my briefs?”

  “Give.” She took his Euro jocks and stuffed them next to her panties.

  “I got to call Pixar,” said Jama. “I know someone over there, and three months ago at Development I was pitching Lallah Rookh. I mean, come on: An elephant. Passion. Tragedy.”