”I already have. They're just not that impressive a crowd,“ I said, got up off the stool, and collided into the deformed man. His wood shoe-shine box tumbled out of his hands; brushes, cans of wax and saddle soap, bottles of liquid polish clattered and rolled across the floor. His eyes had the panicked, veined intensity of hard-boiled eggs. He slobbered and made a moaning sound in his throat as he tried to pick up a cracked bottle of liquid polish that was bleeding into a black pool in the wood. But his torso was top-heavy, his arms too short and uncoordinated, and he stared helplessly at the dripping polish on his fingers as the bottle rolled farther from his grasp and left a trail of black curlicues across the floor.
I got down on my knees and began putting his things back in the box.
”I'm sorry, partner. We'll go down to the store and replace whatever I broke here. It's going to be okay,“ I said.
His expression was opaque, his tongue thick as a wet biscuit on his teeth. He tried to make words, but they had no more definition than a man clearing a phlegmy obstruction from his throat.
I saw Moleen grinning at me.
”Racial empathy can be a sticky business, can't it, laddie?“ he said.
I wanted to wipe him off the stool.
The anger, the inability to accept, would not go out of Bootsie's words. There were pale discolorations like melted pieces of ice in her cheeks. I couldn't blame her.
”Dave, she's only thirteen years old. She could have killed someone,“
she said.
”But she didn't. She didn't chamber the round, either,“ I said.
”That seems poor consolation.“
”I'll lock up all the guns,“ I said.
It was eleven Friday night and we were in the kitchen. I had turned on the floodlight in the mimosa tree in the backyard. Alafair was in her room with the door closed.
I took another run at it.
”I know it's my fault. I left the Beretta where she could find it,“ I said. ”But what if this guy had tried to come through the door or window?“
She washed a cup in hot water with her hands. Her skin was red under the tap. Her back looked stiff and hard against her shirt.
”You want to install a burglar alarm system?“ I said.
”Yes!“
”I'll call somebody in the morning,“ I said, and went into the backyard, where I sat for a long time at the picnic table and stared listlessly at the shadows of the mimosa tree shifting back and forth on the grass. It was not a good night to be locked up with your own thoughts, but I knew of nowhere else to take them.
In the morning I drove to New Iberia with Alafair to pick up an outboard engine from the freight agent at the train depot.
”You shouldn't have messed with the gun, Alf,“ I said.
”I'd already called 911. What was I supposed to do next? Wait for him to kick the door in?“ She looked straight ahead, her eyes dancing.
”I couldn't find any footprints.“
”I don't care. I saw him. He was out there in the trees. Tripod got scared and started running on his chain.“
”It wasn't the guy who got Tripod out of the coulee?“
”He was thinner. A car went by and his skin looked real white.“
”Did he have red hair?“
”I don't know. It was only a second.“
”Maybe it's time we learn how to use a pistol properly,“ I said.
”Why's everybody mad at me? It's not fair, Dave.“
”I'm not mad at you, little guy .. . Sorry .. . Bootsie isn't, either.
It's just-“
”Yes, she is. Don't lie about it. It makes it worse.“
”That's pretty strong, Alf.“
”Why'd y'all leave me alone, then? What am I supposed to do if bad people come around the house?“ Her voice grew in intensity, then it broke like a stick snapping and she began to cry.
We were on East Main in front of the Shadows. I pulled into the shade of the oaks, behind a charter bus full of elderly tourists. The bus's diesel engine throbbed off the cement.
”I screwed up. I won't do it again,“ I said.
But she kept crying, with both of her hands over her face.
”Look, maybe I won't go back with the department. I'm tired of being a punching bag for other people. I'm tired of the family taking my fall, too.“
She took her hands from her face and looked out the side window for a long time. She kept sniffing and touching at her eyes with the backs of her wrists. When she turned straight in the seat again, her eyes were round and dry, as though someone had popped a flashbulb in front of them.
”It's not true,“ she said.
”What isn't?“
”You'll always be a cop, Dave. Always.“
Her voice was older than her years, removed from both of us, prescient with a joyless knowledge about the nature of adult promises.
By Sunday morning I still hadn't put the matter to rest. I woke early and tapped on Alafair's door.
”Yes?“
”It's Dave. You got a second?“
”Wait.“ I heard her bare feet on the floor. ”Okay.“
Her shelves were filled with stuffed animals, the walls covered with posters featuring cats of all kinds. Alafair had propped a pillow behind her head and pulled up her knees so that they made a tent under the sheet. The curtains puffed in the breeze and the screen hung loose from the latch.
I sat in the chair by her homework desk.
”I was upset for another reason yesterday, one that's hard to explain,“
I said. ”You didn't do anything wrong, Alf. I did.“
”You already said that.“
”Listen. When you kill another human being, no matter how necessary it might seem at the time, something goes out of your life forever. I never want that to happen to you. I still have dreams about the war, I have them about men I ran up against as a police officer. Their faces don't go underground with them.“ Her eyes blinked and went away from mine. I saw the sheet ruffle and hump at the foot of the bed. It should have been a humorous moment, but it wasn't. ”Let's get this guy out of here so we can talk,“ I said, and lifted Tripod from under the sheet. He hung heavily from my hands and churned his paws in the air as I walked to the window. ”He'll run down to the dock again,“ she said, as if she could open a door out of our conversation. ”Batist can handle it,“ I said, and dropped Tripod into the yard. I sat back down.
It was sunny and blue outside. In a short while we would be driving to Mass at St. Peter's in New Iberia, then we'd have lunch at Victor's on Main. I didn't want to address the question in her eyes. Her hands were pinched together on top of her knees. She looked at a poster of two calico kittens on the far wall. ”How many people, Dave, how many did you-“
”You never let yourself see a number in your mind, Alf. The day you do, the day it comes out of your mouth, that's the day you start being someone else,“ I said. Sonny Boy called the bait shop at three o'clock that afternoon. ”You've got a serious hearing problem,“
I said. ”I want you out of my life. Don't come around my house anymore, you understand? You want to be a guardian angel, go to New York, put on a red beret, and buy a lot of subway tokens.“
”What do you mean come around your house?“ he said. I could hear waves breaking against rocks or a jetty, then the sound of a door on a telephone booth closing. ”Friday night,“ I said. ”I was in New Orleans,“ he said. ”Don't give me that, Sonny.“
”I'm telling you the truth.“
”My daughter saw a guy in the trees. It wasn't Emile Pogue, it
wasn't Patsy Dap, Patsy wants to do business and screw Johnny Carp, that leaves you.“ But my words sounded hollow even to myself.
”They got lots of guys working for them, Streak, a lot of them in Florida. They get gooned-up like over-the-hill jarheads on a skivvy run, blow into town, give a guy a fatal accident, and catch the redeye back to Tampa the same night.“
I could hear myself breathing against the receiv
er. Outside the screen window, the sunlight's reflection on the bayou was like a sliver of glass in the eye.
”Why'd you call?“ I said.
”A rag-nose used to work for Johnny Carp told me Johnny's in on a deal to get some land by a train track. He said he heard Johnny tell a guy on the phone the land's got to be by a train track. That's the key.“
”To what?“ I said.
”I don't know. You ought to see the rag-nose. He's got nostrils that look like tunnels going straight into his brain. The real reason I called, if my string runs out, like I bounce back treys and boxcars, know what I'm saying, I wanted to tell you I'm sorry for the trouble I caused other people.“
”Come on, Sonny, you got your ticket punched a long time ago. You'll be standing on Canal with a glass of champagne when they drive Johnny's hearse by … Sonny?“
I heard the phone booth door rachet back violently on its hinges, the receiver clattering back and forth on its cord, then, almost lost in the crash of waves against rocks or a jetty, a sound like a string of firecrackers popping.
Chapter 21
DEARLY MONDAY MORNING the sheriff called and asked me to come to the department. I thought it was about Sonny. It wasn't. He was scraping out the bowl of his pipe over the wastebasket with a penknife when I walked into his office. ”Sit down,“ he said. He wiped the blade of the penknife on a piece of paper and folded it against the heel of his hand. ”This is a bad day, my friend … I wish I could tell you it's just a matter of IAD finding against you.“ I waited. ”You know the route,“ he said. ”It's the kind of deal usually gets a guy a letter of reprimand in his jacket or a suspension.“ He wadded up the piece of paper and tried to wipe the pipe's ashes out of his palm. ”This one's different.“
”Too many times across the line?“
”The problem is you're a police officer who doesn't like rules. You kept yourself on the job while you were officially suspended, didn't your In my mind's eye I saw Rufus Arceneaux's face leaning across the seat inside Julia's automobile, the green eyes lighted with ambition and long-held grievance.
“There's something you're not saying, Sheriff.”
“I couldn't cover for you anymore, Dave. I told them about you and Purcel salting Sweet Pea's Caddy and queering the warrant.”
“I'm fired?”
“You can submit your resignation. It needs to be on my desk by five.”
I bounced my palms on my thighs.
“About queering the warrant,” I said. “I made the connection between the scrap iron on the floater's body and a junk pile next to Sweet Pea's house. How'd that play out?”
“I'm afraid it's not your concern any longer.”
It was a windy day outside, and I could see the flag snapping and popping on the steel pole without making any sound.
“I'll box up my stuff,” I said.
“I'm sorry about this,” he said.
I nodded and opened the door to leave.
“Are you going to have that letter on my desk?” he asked.
“I don't think so,” I said.
On the way down the hall I picked up my mail and messages, found an empty cardboard box in a custodian's closet, unlocked my office door, and went inside.
It was all that quick, as though a loud train had gone past me, slamming across switches, baking the track with its own heat, creating a tunnel of sound and energy so intense that the rails seem to reshape like bronze licorice under the wheels; then silence that's like hands clapped across the eardrums, a field of weeds that smell of dust and creosote, a lighted club car disappearing across the prairie.
Or simply a man walking through glass doors into a sun-drenched parking lot, a box on his shoulder, and no one taking particular notice.
An electrical storm struck New Iberia that afternoon, and I sent Batist home and shut down the dock and watched a twenty-four-hour news station on the television set that I kept on top of the soda and lunch meat cooler. A lorry carrying three white men had gone into the black homelands of South Africa and had been shot up by black militia of some kind. The footage was stunning. One white man was already dead, crumpled over the steering wheel, his face pushed into a lopsided expression by the horn button; the two other men lay wounded on the pavement. One had propped his back against the tire and had his hands up, but he never spoke. The other man was on his stomach and having trouble raising his head so he could speak to the soldiers whose legs surrounded him. He was a large man, with a wild red beard, a broad nose, and coarse-grained skin, and he could hardly contain the rage in his throat.
“Will you call a fucking ambulance?” he said in a British accent. “My friend's hurt. Did you hear me? We need the fucking ambulance. How do I say it to you? Call the fucking hospital for an ambulance .. . Oh you have, have you? Well, thank you very much. Thank you fucking bloody very much.”
The militia shot him and his friend. Later, the replay of the tape did not show the bearded man getting in the face of his executioners.
Instead, the newscaster said the victims had begged for their lives.
That last line was repeated over and over throughout the afternoon. I kept waiting for it to be corrected. It never was, not to my knowledge. A brave man's death was revised downward to a shameful and humiliating one, either for categorical or dramatic purposes. The truth had become an early casualty.
What's the point?
I didn't know myself.
The thunder finally stopped and the rain roared on the tin roof and drenched the dock and spool tables and blew through the screens in a fine mist. I waited for it to slack off, then I locked up the bait shop and ran up the slope with a raincoat over my head and told Bootsie of the change in our circumstances.
That evening, which was unseasonably cool and marked by strange lights in the sky, Helen Soileau came out to the house and sat with me on the front steps, her thick forearms propped on her thighs like a ballplayer in a dugout, and told me the story about Sonny's phone call within earshot of waves bursting against a coastline.
The two shooters were pros, probably ex-military men, not the much-inflated contract wiseguys who undid their victims through treachery and had to press the muzzle into the hairline to ensure they didn't miss. They had him triangulated from forty yards out, with either ARi5's or .223 carbines. Had the target been anyone else, he would have been hurled backward, matted with shards of glass, and made to dance on invisible wires inside the phone booth. But one of the shooters probably blew it, shifted his sling to box the side of Sonny's face more tightly in his sights, to lock cartilage and jawbone and the almost feminine mouth, which made soundless words the shooter hated without even hearing them, lock them all into a narrow iron rectangle that would splinter into torn watermelon with the slightest pull of the shooter's finger.
But the inverted boat hull he was aiming across dented and made a thunking sound when he shifted the sling, and suddenly Sonny was on rock 'n' roll, his heart bursting with adrenaline, springing from the booth, his shoulders hunched, zigzagging through the boatyard, his hips swiveling like a football quarterback evading ladders, his skin twitching as though someone had touched a hot match to it.
A witness down by the collapsed pier said Sonny seemed painted with magic. He raced between cinder-block tool shops and dry-docked shrimp boats that were eaten with rot, while the shooters tried to lock down on him again and whanged rounds off a welding truck, blew glass out of a watchman's hut, dissected the yawning door of a junked Coca-Cola machine, and stitched a row of bleeding holes across a corrugated tin paint shed.
Sonny bolted down the sandy slope to the riverbank and poured it on.
But for some unexplainable reason he ran for the beach, the wheeling of gulls and other winged creatures, rather than back up the river to higher ground, and the sand became wetter and wetter under his feet, until his shoes sank up to the ankles in porridge.
2 O I
Then they nailed him.
One shooter, a thick-bodied, truncated man, with knots o
f muscle through his back and skin-tight cutoffs rolled into his genitals, came over the riverbank in a breath-wheezing run, his rifle at port arms, and fired and fired until the breech locked open and shell casings littered the sand like broken gold teeth.
Sonny's Hawaiian shirt jumped and puffed as though carrion birds were pecking at it. His gait broke, his torso twisted momentarily, and he became a man ingesting a chunk of angle iron. But a long time ago, perhaps back in the Iberville welfare project, Sonny had learned the fate of those who go down in front of their adversaries' booted feet.
He seemed to right himself, his face concentrating with a fragile inner balance, forcing a composed and single thought in front of his eyes; then he stumbled toward the surf and the crumpled pier that rang with the cries of frightened birds.
He waded through the breakers, his destroyed shirt billowing out into the tide like wings. The shooters fired twice more, wide and high, the rounds toppling and skipping across the water. But Sonny had become his own denouement. He struggled forward into the undertow, staining the world of fish and crabs and eels and stingrays with his blood, then simply stepped off into the depths, his red hair floating briefly beneath a wave like a windblown flower.
“You handling this, Dave?” Helen said.
Sure.
“He always lived on the edge. It was his way.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I said. My voice seemed outside of my skin, my words spoken by someone else. After a while I said, “Who pulled the body out?”
“They didn't find it.” I could feel her eyes moving on the side of my face. “Forget it, Dave. He didn't make it. The Fed I talked to said the blood spore looked like dogs had been chewing on him.”
I felt my teeth scrape against one another. “What was he doing in Mississippi?”
“The beach is full of casinos and grease balls Maybe he was tying another knot on his string. The Fed I talked to got pretty vague when I asked him the same thing.”
I bounced my forehead on my thumbs, looked at the sky that was metallic and burned-looking and flickering with lights. Helen stood up with her car keys in her hand.
DR08 - Burning Angel Page 19
