It belatedly occurred to me that the rain was probably responsible for this late influx of customers. Most of my parties were of the type I mentioned—poseurs, struggling artists. Some of them were no doubt worthwhile and the genuine article, but, Christ, you hear people talking the same shit over and over, it gets hard to believe anything.
Did I, for instance, believe what Maestro had told me about himself?
I had shot pool with the guy, occasionally seen dawn’s light seeping through a bar’s shutters with him. We were pals. He was some odd ethnic mix, like Indonesian-Scottish or something equally goofy, with a swarthy complexion, but not too dark. His hair was curly and very thick, and black where it didn’t show grey. He probably could have stood to lose a few pounds, but he generally appeared fit for his age, early fifties—certainly healthier than most of the booze-bloated, on-their-last-legs, middle-aged barflies I see around.
Maestro looked and acted like a fairly ordinary Joe ... or as ordinary as the Quarter has to offer.
What he did not seem like was an extra from GoodFellas. A Mafioso. A made man. A mob warlord.
Okay, he hadn’t claimed that. Still, it was a hell of a bombshell. Particularly because I believed him.
Judith shot me dagger looks as I fetched coffee for one of my three-tops. I sailed past, still not giving that rat’s ass. Four of my six tables had checks on them now. Everybody was happy with the food, with my service. I hadn’t even ballparked the tips I’d already made. Probably I’d end up doing very well tonight. And for once I didn’t feel overly soiled, degraded. It was, of course, because I had larger things on my mind.
Twenty more minutes, I figured, and I’d rendezvous with Maestro. And then we could start the wheels turning on avenging Sunshine.
I was ... looking forward to it. Excited by it. That realization, sudden and powerful, actually brought me to a standstill for a moment there in the middle of the dining room floor, coffeepot in hand, eyes centered intently on nothing.
I had enjoyed punching out that creep last night in Sin City’s toilet. I didn’t have any problem admitting that to myself. But—looking forward to hunting—to killing—Sunshine’s murderer? Did I have the right to happily anticipate that? Where was my moral high ground?
Pushing myself back into motion, I let the questions hang. How I felt about what I meant to do wouldn’t have any bearing on my actions, I decided, and rightfully. For instance, I could love being a waiter or hate it, but I still had to show up and do the job. I didn’t have a choice.
The new waiter, Otto, had clocked in and come on, and he could have the graveyard shift. One of Judith’s tables had walked out. Her other party was looking very pissed off. I collected my checks, delivered two more—my last two—and started sorting the contents of my apron pockets.
I recognized the detective when he came in because I’d known him before his promotion, had poured coffee for him here when he was still in a uniform. Zanders. Liked lots of Equal instead of sugar; cream; tipped well. So my brain automatically reported.
He was dressed in slacks and a lavender shirt, and crossing the floor, heading for me. He had an easy gait and looked very comfortable in his new rank. His auburn mustache had since grown handlebars, and his hairline had receded a bit further.
I nodded hello. “Detective Zanders. How’re you tonight?”
“Fine, just fine. I’d like a word with you, okay? You got somewhere quiet here—office, something?”
He had a pistol holstered on his belt. I was suddenly very aware of that, of what it represented. Even when he’d been in uniform, this man had always just been one of my customers. Now, he was ... a cop. A cop who wanted to talk to me, privately.
I thought of Mitchell, the guy who’d threatened Alex, lying crumpled beside the urinal in the back of Sin City.
“Sure, Detective,” I said with a shrug. “Right this way.”
Phil, the shift manager was helping out the cooks—Werewolf and Firecracker—in the kitchen, so the little office next to the prep room was empty. We entered. Detective Zanders closed the door behind us.
“What can I do for you, Detective?” I propped a hip up on the edge of the desk in the center of the small room, pulled out my cigarettes and offered one to Zanders. Detective Zander waved it off, pulling out a little notebook and positioning himself comfortably between me and the door.
“I’m conducting an investigation into the murder of Peace S. Williams. Did you know her?”
Hearing someone official talk about Sunshine in the past tense like that made the truth of her death somehow more real, more raw. But I calmly lit my smoke, inhaling deeply, determined not to let it show.
“Yeah, I knew her.” I exhaled smoke. “I was married to her.” I certainly wasn’t going to lie about it. As Maestro had pointed out, it was something he probably already knew.
“But you’re not married now.”
“No. We divorced last year.”
“A messy divorce?”
“Not particularly. She just wanted her space. We stayed friends.” Damn, saying that aloud made it sound trite.
“Really? What about Molly’s Bar about ten days ago? I gotta say that the scene witnesses described to me sure didn’t sound very friendly.”
I felt anger build, even though I knew he had to ask—had known these questions would come. He was deliberately trying to pull my chain.
“Yeah, OK. We had a fight that night. I think if you ask your witnesses, you’ll find that she came at me.”
“So I’m asking you. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
At Zanders’ request I recounted the whole awful confrontation, including Sunshine’s appearance and behavior when she came at me. “ ... and even at that, it never got physical.”
“Maybe not then.”
“Not ever! Fact is, that was the last time I saw her alive. And just to clear the air and get this over with, I was here, working, when she ... died.” I didn’t quite glare at Zanders. He heard it in my voice, though, and gave me a sharp look.
He made a point of looking at his notebook. “Well, one of your co-workers, Judith I think, says you weren’t here that night—says you clocked in and left.”
“Judith!” I almost exploded off the desk, biting back a furious torrent of expletives. That bitch! I forced my anger down. It was just a cop interrogation method. He wanted to rattle me to see what popped out.
“First, if you check with anyone, you’ll find that Judith wasn’t here at all that night. So whatever she told you about anything is shit. Second, during that night’s shift I served fifteen tables, ending with a four-top of tourists—the guy who paid was named Ned something—and a two-top with Boogie Joe and Lisa who work at the House of Blues.” I proceeded to rattle off exactly what each diner had ordered just to make it clear that I could.
“ ... and if you need more proof, check with Phil,” I said and gestured toward the outer restaurant. “He’s here tonight and he was shift manager that night.” I took a deep breath, ground out the remains of my cigarette, and focused on Zanders. “Look, Detective Zanders, I know you’re just trying to do your job—and you need to understand, that I really, really want you to do your job. But the fact that you are here questioning me means that you have no idea who really killed Sunshine, do you.”
“I can’t discuss the investigation with you.”
“Right. Now if you don’t mind, Detective, I’ve had a long day and would like to clock out now.” He moved out of the way as I walked past and opened the door, gesturing for him to lead the way out.
“Just don’t go too far, Bone. I may need to talk to you again.”
“Well, you know where to find me Detective Zanders. Always happy to help.” I forced a smile and shook his hand as I escorted him out the door. I knew I was in the clear, there were just too many people who had s
een me here that night. But it still felt disconcerting to think that the police might keep tabs on me—especially since it looked like we were going to have to do their job, after all.
* * *
Excerpt from Bone’s Movie Diary:
My personal favorite gotcha! movie moment occurs at the end of The Mechanic. Jan-Michael Vincent is the protégé & Charles Bronson (again Bronson; woodenish actor but turned up in some good films) is the seasoned assassin. Fairly standard hit-man-in-training stuff. Eventually the “son” slays the “father,” Greek tragedy-like, & Vincent is smugly victorious, about to inherit it all ... until he gets into Bronson’s car, has just enough time to read the brief note waiting for him—then the bomb goes off. It’s an effective twist, which I admit caught me flat-footed. Gotcha, Jan-Michael.
The rain almost caught me, but the Quarter is full of umbrellas. Lots of the older buildings are fronted with balconies—“galleries” is the local term—overhanging the sidewalk, usually made of decorative wrought iron, often filled with potted plants and sometimes patio furniture. When a sudden cloudburst comes along, you can still get around on foot by ducking under a gallery and hopping from one to another of these shelters.
Or you can just go into the nearest bar and wait it out.
I’m aware of other parts of the city, like Mid-City, the Garden District, the Ninth Ward, etc. I know they’re real the same way I know Norway and Thailand are real. But my New Orleans is the Quarter, and so I confine my activities to it.
I had been purposely doing a high-visibility walkabout. I was out earlier than usual, by which I mean it was slightly before midnight. Still, it was plenty late enough for the locals to be stirring.
I didn’t bother with Bourbon but strolled up and down the parallel and cross-streets at a leisurely pace. I was on alert, though, of course.
When I first relocated down here, a fellow displaced Northerner summed up what I could expect from the Quarter with one explanation: “Man, these folks down here have one solution to everything—let’s party. Yuh got a new job? Let’s party. Yuh lost yer job? Com’on, let’s party. Y’er gettin’ married? Hey! Let’s party. Y’er gettin’ a divorce? Screw the bitch, screw the bastard, let’s party!”
New Orleaneans in general, and Quarterites specifically, will party down anytime for any reason. Birthday parties, wedding parties, anniversary parties, graduation parties, and leaving-town parties you can find in any city, but the Quarter doesn’t stop there. We also have hurricane parties, bar-anniversary parties, raise-bail-money parties, not to mention holiday parties for every American holiday and several foreign ones I’d never heard of until I got here. Then you toss in a wide assortment of specialty theme parties—like classic toga parties, ’60s retro parties, white-trash parties, barbecue parties, and high-heel pool tournament parties (don’t ask)—that the bars host periodically just to keep things from getting too dull, and you might start to get a feel for what the “normal” nightlife in the Quarter is like.
I enjoy my whiskey, but I don’t expect it to change or solve anything in my life. Drinking is more of a time-killer than anything ... like a lot of what I do these days, it seems. Also, in deference to my age and liver, I tend to go easy on the more hardcore bar celebrations.
Tonight, though, I had figured as a good night for “doing the rounds.” First of all, it established among the sundry bar patrons that I was presently in an “up, party” mood. Second, roaming from bar to bar reestablished me at some of the places I hadn’t hit for weeks or months, as well as let me update my mental files of who was still in the Quarter and where they currently worked.
It was elemental groundwork. I might not need any of it. This hunt that Bone had in mind for Sunshine’s killer might come to nothing for any number of reasons. But if it actually happened, I didn’t want anyone remembering me as brooding, maybe thinking dark vigilante thoughts about Sunshine’s murderer. As for re-circulating my face ... you never know which contacts will do you good when. Use what resources are at hand. I had saved myself immeasurable hassle in my career days with the Outfit simply by making the right casual acquaintances.
While I was out and about, I was also accosted four different times in four different bars by acquaintances of varying familiarity who told me about somebody walking Decatur two nights earlier, looking for me. Nobody had a description as thorough as the one the Bear had given me, of course, but it was the same early thirties, clean-cut male. Nobody knew who he was. Nobody had told him anything. The Quarter’s traditional conspiracy of silence was working in my favor.
To each of these four giving me the heads-up, I said casually, “Thanks, I know. I know the guy, but neither of us has a phone number or address for the other. If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him too.”
It’s never good to be the prey. As a former pro tracker, it seriously rankled me to think of someone hunting me. It wouldn’t do. If this guy surfaced again asking questions, my message would very probably reach him, and might give him pause.
But more disturbing, I ran into Mother Mystic—or rather she found me—just outside of CC’s coffee shop, which was closed for the night.
“Maestro! You are quite a hard man to find.” She grabbed my arm and walked with me toward my next bar.
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. Were you looking for me?” Somebody else hunting me—great! Only Mystic had found me. She asked if we could go somewhere to talk, so we stepped into the next available bar. After throwing a few hello’s to those I recognized, we grabbed a table in the back corner. I ordered a coke and Mother Mystic had coffee. I sipped my coke and waited for her to speak.
“You remember the day you came to visit me? You ask about that girl—your friend—who was murdered? You asked about the Vodun?” She looked around nervously, leaning forward. “I did not say it then, but the night before she died, someone broke into the Voodoo Museum. They desecrated the shrine, and took some powerful gris-gris—the kind that could be used for evil purpose by those with dark hearts.”
She took a deep breath. “But that is not why I looked for you, Maestro. When you came to me, I was angry. I had been asked to do black ritual by a man I didn’t know. It happened days before the girl died. I refuse. Not unusual. The world is full of those who look to the dark rather than face their own faults. But ...” She looked around again and dropped her voice so low I had to strain to hear her, “I get a call today. This man speaks to me, that if I do not do his ritual, I end up like the girl by the river—and he will use my blood to feed the Loa.”
“What did he look like?”
She sat back in her chair. “I have never seen him. He has only used the phone and e-mail. I do not even know if he is in the Quarter.”
I could tell she was upset. “What are you going to do?”
“I do not know. But the Loa will protect me. I will be fine. I just wanted you to know.” She looked around again. “I must go.” She got up and quickly left the bar. I waited a few minutes, long enough to socialize with the few folks I knew and to make certain no undo attention had been paid to my meeting with Mystic, then left. I had no idea if Mystic’s mystery man was actually our murderer, but her story had certainly been disturbing.
I continued my rounds, even putting in appearances along Decatur, a track that is more for the younger crowd and not one I frequent regularly. It was too early for the Bear to be on at his joint, but I still made nods and hello’s and whatcha-been-up-to’s at several places. I caught up on a lot of unnecessary bar gossip, but never stayed around long enough to get totally sucked into anything.
Mind you, I was not, repeat not, having a cocktail every time I stopped. Had I been, experienced drinker or not, I’d have been flat on my face before long. It’s usually not any big deal if you want to go out in the Quarter and not drink alcohol. You can sit with a soda, coffee, or a juice, and no one looks at you sideways. The fact th
at I was tipping for Cokes, even though I only drank one sip, kept the bartenders happy.
During my rounds, I even passed the restaurant where Bone worked, also on Decatur. I glanced in the tall front windows, but it looked busy so I walked on. Work is the curse of the working class. The last time I had a square job—my boyhood paper route—Eisenhower was president.
After sitting out the rain, I picked my way through the sidewalk puddles that were already being sucked back into the air. If this were the fall or spring, we’d probably be treated to a nice thick fog eddying in off the river. In the summer, though, all a heavy rain does is turn the night into a steam bath.
I swung back to my pad and shed one shirt for another. Sometimes I wondered why I bothered. Thirty seconds after stepping out of the shower down here in summer, you’ll find yourself dripping with sweat. I don’t wear eyeglasses, but up North your lenses fog up in the winter when you step from the icy outdoors to the cozy indoors. Here, in the summertime, they fog when you step out of the nippy air-conditioned bars into the sauna-like streets. It’s just another little item of culture shock that after ten years doesn’t seem so bizarre to me anymore.
No messages on my machine, but that was how it usually was. I loaded up with a fresh pack of cigarettes and headed out again. It was late enough that Bone ought to be off work and at the Calf.
The Two of Cups from Rose’s tarot reading meant the appearance of a lover or partner. I felt quite safe that Bone wasn’t the former, but he was certainly looking like the latter: a partner. Thing was, did I want a partner?
Evidently I did, I thought as I made my way toward St. Peter Street. I had invited myself into Bone’s undertaking to find Sunshine’s killer. Frankly, I wouldn’t be tackling that venture on my own initiative. I liked Sunshine, but I’d never been in the revenge business ... not for personal reasons, anyway.
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