The Charlie Parker Collection 1

by John Connolly

  ‘The names?’

  ‘Parker. Charlie Parker.’

  ‘By two,’ added Louis, helpfully.

  The guard spoke into his walkie-talkie, out of earshot from us. We waited, two or three cars lining up behind us, until the guard finished talking.

  ‘You can go ahead. Mr. Kittim will meet you at the parking area.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ said Louis. I had told him about my encounter with Bowen and Kittim at the Antioch rally.

  ‘Told you this would work,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m a detective.’ It struck me then, my worries about the consequences of the Caina incident aside, that I was already feeling better since Louis had arrived. That wasn’t too surprising, since I now had a pistol, thanks to him, and I was pretty certain that Louis had at least one more on his person.

  We followed half a mile of live oaks, palmettos, and palms, much of it overhung with Spanish moss. Cicadas chirped in the trees and droplets from the morning’s now departed rain kept up a steady rhythmic patter on the roof and road until we emerged from the trees and onto an expanse of green lawn. Another white-gloved flunky directed us to park the car beneath one of a number of tarpaulins erected to shelter the vehicles from the sunlight, the canvas shifting slightly in the currents of cold air cast by one of a number of huge industrial air conditioners arrayed on the grass. Long tables had been arranged along three sides of a square and covered by starched linen tablecloths. Huge amounts of food had been arrayed upon them, while black servants in pristine white shirts and dark trousers hovered anxiously, waiting to serve guests. Others moved through the crowds already gathered on the lawn, offering champagne and cocktails. I looked at Louis. He looked at me. Apart from the servants, he was the only person of color present. He was also the only guest dressed in black.

  ‘You should have worn a white jacket,’ I said. ‘You look like an exclamation mark. Plus, you might have picked up a few bucks in tips.’

  ‘Look at them brothers.’ He despaired. ‘Ain’t nobody here heard of Denmark Vesey?’

  A dragonfly glided across the grass by my feet, hunting for prey among the blades. There were no birds to prey on him in turn, at least none that I could see or hear. The only sign of life came from a single heron standing in a patch of marshland to the northeast of the house, the waters around it seemingly stilled by a carpet of algae. Beside it, amid rows of oak and pecans, stood the remains of small dwellings, equidistantly spaced, their tiled roofs now gone and the miscast and broken bricks used in their construction weathered by the elements over the century and a half that had probably passed since their original establishment. Even I could guess what it represented: the remains of a slave street.

  ‘You’d think they’d have knocked them down,’ I said.

  ‘That’s heritage,’ said Louis. ‘Right up there with flying the Confederate flag and keeping one pillowcase clean at all times. Y’know, for special wear.’

  The Larousses’ old plantation house was pre-Revolutionary redbrick, a Georgian-Palladian villa dating back to the mid–eighteenth century. Limestone steps led up a set of twin staircases to a marble–floored portico. Four Doric pillars supported the gallery that ran across the front of the house, four windows on either side over two levels. Elegantly dressed couples crowded in the shade of the porch.

  Our attention was distracted by a party of men moving quickly across the lawn. They were all white, all had earpieces, and all were sweating beneath their dark suits, despite the efforts of the air conditioners. The only exception was the man at the center of the group. Kittim wore a blue blazer over tan trousers and penny loafers, his white shirt buttoned to the neck. His head and face were largely concealed by the baseball cap and sunglasses, but they couldn’t conceal the blade wound that had been torn in his right cheek.

  Atys. That was why the T-bar cross had not been on his body when he was found.

  Kittim stopped about five feet away from us and raised his hand. Instantly, the men around him paused, then spread out in a semicircle surrounding us. No words were spoken for a moment. His attention shifted from Louis to me, then back again. His smile remained fixed in place, even when Louis spoke to him for the first time.

  ‘What. The fuck. Are you?’ asked Louis.

  Kittim didn’t respond to him.

  ‘This is Kittim,’ I explained.

  ‘Ain’t he the pretty one?’

  ‘Mr. Parker,’ said Kittim, still ignoring Louis. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’

  ‘It was a last-minute decision,’ I replied. ‘Some sudden deaths cleared my schedule.’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ said Kittim. ‘I can’t help but notice that you and your colleague appear to be armed.’

  ‘Armed.’ I looked disapprovingly at Louis. ‘Told you it wasn’t that kind of party.’

  ‘Never hurts to come prepared. Folks don’t take us seriously otherwise,’ said Louis.

  ‘Oh, I take you very seriously,’ said Kittim, acknowledging him properly for the first time. ‘So seriously that I’d be grateful if you would come with us to the basement, where we can dispose of your weapons without alarming the other guests.’

  Already I could see people casting curious looks in our direction. As if on cue, a string quartet struck up from the far side of the lawn. They were playing a Strauss waltz. How quaint.

  ‘No offense, man, but we ain’t goin’ to no basement with you.’ It was Louis.

  ‘Then you’ll force us to take action.’

  Louis’s eyebrow rose about half an inch. ‘Yeah, what you gonna do, kill us on the lawn? That’s gonna be some party, you do that. People be talkin’ about it for a loooong time. “Hey, you remember Earl’s party, when those sweaty guys and the fucker with leprosy tried to take the guns away from those fellas that arrived late, and they drew down on them and Bessie Bluechip got all that blood on her dress? Man, how we laughed . . .”’

  The tension was perceptibly rising. The men around Kittim were waiting for an indication from him on how to proceed, but he wasn’t moving. His smile remained fixed in place as if he’d died with it and then been stuffed and mounted on the lawn. I felt something roll down my back and pool at the base of my spine, and realized that the security guards weren’t the only ones who were sweating.

  The tension was broken by a voice from the porch.

  ‘Mr. Kittim,’ it said. ‘Don’t keep our guests on the grass. Bring them up here.’

  The voice came from Earl Jr., looking elegantly wasted in a blue double-breasted jacket and jeans pressed with the crease along the knee. His light hair was brushed forward to disguise his widow’s peak, and his lips seemed even fuller and more feminine than when last I saw him. Kittim inclined his head slightly, indicating we should do as requested, then he and his men fell into place behind and around us. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that we were about as welcome as bugs in the buffet, but the guests around us studiously pretended to ignore us. Even the servants didn’t look our way. We were led through the main doors and into a great hall floored with loblolly pine. Two drawing rooms opened up on either side, and a graceful double stairway led to the upper floor. The doors closed behind us and we were disarmed within seconds. They got two guns and a knife out of Louis. They seemed impressed.

  ‘Look at you,’ I said. ‘Two guns.’

  ‘And a knife. I had to get the trousers cut special.’

  Kittim moved around until he was standing by Earl Jr.’s side. Kittim had a shiny blue Taurus in his hand.

  ‘Why are you here, Mr. Parker?’ said Larousse. ‘This is a private party, the first such occasion since the death of my sister.’

  ‘Why break out the champagne now? You have something to celebrate?’

  ‘Your presence is not welcome here.’

  ‘Somebody killed Atys Jones.’

  ‘I heard. You’ll forgive me if I shed no tears.’

  ‘He didn’t murder your sister, Mr. Larousse, but I suspect you already know that.’

  ‘Why would you
suspect that?’

  ‘Because I think Mr. Kittim here probably tortured Atys before he killed him in an effort to find out who did. Because you think, as I do, that the person responsible for your sister’s death may also be responsible for the deaths of Landron Mobley, Grady Truett, the suicide of James Foster, and possibly the death of Elliot Norton.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He didn’t look surprised at the mention of Elliot’s name.

  ‘I also think that Elliot Norton might have been trying to find out who was responsible as well, which was why he took on the Jones case, and I’m starting to think that he may have taken it on with your approval, maybe even your cooperation. Except he wasn’t making enough progress, so you took matters into your own hands after Mobley’s body was found.’

  I turned to Kittim.

  ‘Did you enjoy killing Atys Jones, Kittim? Did you enjoy shooting an old woman in the back?’

  I saw the blow coming too late to react. His fist caught me in the hollow of my left temple and sent me sprawling to the ground. Louis twitched slightly, on the verge of movement, but froze with the sound of hammers cocking.

  ‘You need to work on your manners, Mr. Parker,’ said Kittim. ‘You can’t come in here and make accusations of that kind without incurring the consequences.’

  I raised myself slowly onto my hands and knees. The punch had rattled me, and I felt bile rising into my throat. I gagged, then vomited.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Larousse. ‘Now look what you’ve done. Toby, get somebody to clean that up.’

  Kittim’s feet appeared beside me. ‘You’re a mess, Mr. Parker.’ He squatted down so I could see his face. ‘Mr. Bowen doesn’t like you. Now I can see why. Don’t think that we’ve finished with you yet. Me, I’d be very surprised if you make it home alive out of South Carolina. In fact, I’d say the odds against it would be quite attractive, if I were a gambling man.’

  The door in front of me opened, and a manservant entered. He didn’t appear to register the guns or the tension in the room. He simply knelt down as I stood unsteadily, and began to scrub the floorboards clean. He was followed by Earl Sr.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked.

  ‘Some uninvited guests, Mr. Larousse,’ replied Kittim. ‘They’re about to leave.’

  The old man barely glanced at him. It was clear that Larousse didn’t like Kittim and resented his presence in his house, yet still Kittim was here. Larousse said nothing to him and instead diverted his attention to his son, whose confidence immediately began to dissipate in his father’s presence.

  ‘Who are they?’ he asked.

  ‘This is the investigator I spoke to at the hotel, the one hired by Elliot Norton to get Marianne’s nigger murderer off the hook,’ stammered Earl Jr.

  ‘Is that true?’ asked the older man.

  I wiped the back of my hand over my mouth.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe that Atys Jones killed your daughter, but I will find out who did.’

  ‘It’s not your business.’

  ‘Atys is dead. So are the people who gave him sanctuary in their home. You’re right: finding out what happened isn’t my business. It’s more than that. It’s my moral obligation.’

  ‘I would advise you to take your moral obligations elsewhere, sir. This one will lead you to ruin.’ He turned to his son. ‘Have them escorted off my property.’

  Earl Jr. looked to Kittim. The decision was clearly his to make.

  After a pause to assert his authority, Kittim nodded to his men and they moved forward, their guns held discreetly by their sides so as not to alarm the guests when we left the house.

  ‘And Mr. Kittim,’ added Earl Sr.

  Kittim turned to look at him.

  ‘In future, conduct your beatings elsewhere. This is my house and you are not a member of my staff.’

  He shot a final harsh look at his son, then went out onto the lawn to rejoin his guests.

  We were placed at the center of a circle of men and escorted to the car. Our weapons were placed in the trunk, minus their ammunition. Kittim leaned on the driver’s side window as I prepared to drive away. The smell of burning was so strong that I almost gagged again.

  ‘Next time I see you will be the last,’ he said. ‘Now take your porch monkey and get out of here.’ He winked at Louis, then he patted the roof of the car and watched us drive away.

  I touched my temple where Kittim’s punch had landed, and winced at the contact.

  ‘You okay to drive?’ asked Louis.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Looked like Kittim was makin’ himself at home back there.’

  ‘He’s there because Bowen wants him there.’

  ‘Means Bowen got something on the Larousses, if his boy has the run of the house.’

  ‘He called you a bad name.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘You seem to be taking it pretty calmly, all things considered.’

  ‘Wasn’t worth dyin’ over. Least, not worth my dyin’ over. Kittim’s another matter. Like the man said, we be seein’ him again. It’ll wait.’

  ‘You think you can stay with him?’

  ‘Sure. Where you goin’?’

  ‘To get a history lesson. I’m tired of being nice to people.’

  Louis looked mildly surprised.

  ‘Just how exactly you been definin’ “nice” up to now?’

  22

  There was a message waiting for me when I got back to my hotel. It was from Phil Poveda. He wanted me to call him. He didn’t sound panicked or fearful. In fact, I thought I detected a note of relief in his voice. First, though, I called Rachel. Bruce Taylor, one of the patrolmen out of Scarborough, was in the kitchen when she answered, drinking coffee and eating a cookie. It made me feel better knowing that the cops were dropping by as MacArthur had promised and that somewhere the Klan Killer was being intolerant of lactose, among other things.

  ‘Wallace has been by a few times as well,’ said Rachel.

  ‘How is Mr. Lonelyheart?’

  ‘He went shopping in Freeport. He bought himself a couple of jackets in Ralph’s, some new shirts and ties. He’s a work in progress, but there’s potential there. And Mary really seems to be his type.’

  ‘Desperate?’

  ‘The word you’re looking for is “easygoing”. Now go away. I have an attractive man in uniform to take care of.’

  I hung up and dialed Phil Poveda’s number.

  ‘It’s Parker,’ I said when he picked up the phone.

  ‘Hey,’ he replied. ‘Thanks for calling.’ He sounded upbeat, almost cheerful. This was a far cry from the Phil Poveda who had threatened me with a gun two days before. ‘I’ve just been putting my affairs in order. You know, wills and shit. I’m a pretty wealthy man, I just never knew it. Admittedly, I’ll have to die to capitalize on it, but that’s cool.’

  ‘Mr. Poveda, are you feeling okay?’ It was kind of a redundant question. Phil Poveda appeared to be feeling better than okay. Unfortunately, I figured Phil Poveda felt that way because his sanity was falling down around his ears.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, and for the first time a twinge of doubt crept into his voice. ‘Yeah, I think so. You were right: Elliot’s dead. They found his car. It was on the news.’

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘Like you said, that leaves just me and Earl, and unlike Earl, I don’t have my daddy and my Nazi friends to protect me.’

  ‘You mean Bowen.’

  ‘Uh-huh, Bowen and that Aryan freak of his. But they won’t be able to protect him forever. Someday, he’ll find himself alone, and then . . .’

  He let himself trail off before resuming.

  ‘I just want it all to be over.’

  ‘You want what to be over?’

  ‘Everything: the killing, the guilt. Hell, the guilt most of all. You got time, we can talk about it. I got time. Not much, though, not much. Time’s running out for me. Time’s running out for all of us.’


  I told him I’d be right over. I also wanted to tell him to stay away from the medicine cabinet and any sharp objects, but by then the glimmer of sanity that had briefly shone through had been swallowed up by the dark clouds in his brain. He just said, ‘Cool!’ and put down the phone.

  I packed my bags and checked out of the hotel. Whatever happened next, I wouldn’t be back in Charleston for a while.

  Phil Poveda answered his door wearing shorts, deck shoes, and a white T-shirt depicting Jesus Christ pulling back his robes to reveal the thorn-enclosed heart within.

  ‘Jesus is my Savior,’ explained Phil. ‘Every time I look in the mirror, I’m reminded of that fact. He is ready to forgive me.’

  Poveda’s pupils had shrunk to the size of pinheads. Whatever he was on was strong stuff. You could have given it to the folks on the Titanic and watched them descend beneath the waves with beatific smiles on their faces. He shepherded me into his neat oak kitchen and made decaf coffee for both of us. For the next hour, his coffee sat untouched beside him. Pretty soon, I’d laid mine aside as well.

  After hearing Phil Poveda’s tale, I didn’t think I’d ever want to eat or drink again.

  The bar, Obee’s, is gone now. It was a roadhouse dive off Bluff Road, a place where clean-cut college boys could get five-dollar blow jobs from poor blacks and poorer whites out among the trees that descended in dark conclave down to the banks of the Congaree, then return to their buddies, high-fiving and grinning, while the women washed their mouth out from the tap in the yard. But close to where it once stood is a new structure: the Swamp Rat, where Atys Jones and Marianne Larousse spent their last hours together before her death.

  The Jones sisters used to drink in Obee’s, though one of them, Addy, was barely seventeen and the older sister, Melia, by a quirk of nature, looked younger still. By then, Addy had already given birth to her son, Atys: the fruit, it appeared, of an ill-fated liaison with one of her momma’s passing boyfriends, the late Davis ‘Boot’ Smoot, a liaison that might have been classified as rape had she seen fit to report it. So Addy had begun to raise the boy with her grandma, for her mother couldn’t bear to look at her. Pretty soon, she wouldn’t be there for her mother to ignore, for on this night all traces of Addy and her sister were about to be erased from this earth.