Waiting for his answer, she buckled in and when she turned back to him, the moon was in her eyes and he knew that he was the soldier who’d saved her life, noble and august, tall and true, and part of him rejoiced that Troy wasn’t there to take that away. He said, “It was this or Hercules.”
Ines said, “I guess it’s no different than Biblical names, or us naming kids after famous Americans. How many Abraham Leroy Lincolns and George Washington Johnsons do you know?”
Achilles shrugged. He knew none.
“Exactly. Too many to count,” said Ines, starting her engine. The car rattled like it was going to take flight, or disintegrate. The body was mottled with primer and rust, the original yellow faded to the color of earwax and the left taillight covered with an oversized bandage. It was the kind of beater rich kids tooled around in on weekdays, the kind of car a poor person would actually fix.
“When can I see you again?”
“I have a boyfriend, Achilles. As I said, I only wanted to thank you for your help and share a different side of Nola. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Do you have Margaret’s number?”
“Of course.” She scowled and drove off.
Back at Wages’s he tossed and turned, albeit dressed. That feeling he first had when Wexler ran into the minefield, which subsided after his discharge, was stronger than ever in New Orleans. A kind of paranoia, it was the suspicion that his life was irreparably damaged, that everything he touched was scarred and singed. His grandfather always said, “Don’t write checks your ass can’t cash.” After a few weeks in Kabul, Achilles knew he was writing checks that other people’s asses were cashing.
It was like the book they read in middle school about the big dumb guy who pet rabbits to death because he didn’t know his own strength, or understand his place in the world. When Achilles first read it, the book meant little to him, but he thought about the story during every leave and wondered how he and his friends would fit into the world now that they knew what they were capable of doing. Wages was at the casino. Wexler worked construction. Merriweather was looking for a part-time job with kids. No purpose. Unlike Ines.
Ines. The taut pull of the T-shirt across her chest, the gentle curve of her belly, the shake when she walked. Those glossy heart-shaped lips, kissing question marks. His dick in those lips, a kind of Cupid. His groin felt heavy as his cock thickened. He saw Ines bent over the sofa, ass poked up, cheeks blossomed out, looking back in shock as he rammed into her, biting the pillow to keep from screaming. He would pause for a minute and let her savor the sensation of being impaled by his meat sword. Then withdraw, and return so slowly she’d wonder if it’d ever stop coming, like a long train easing into a tunnel. She’d look back at him with that face that said she worshipped him.
Just as Achilles began kneading his dick, Wages came stomping down the hall. “Have you tried calling boardinghouses?”
Achilles couldn’t see the bottle but heard sloshing liquid. He pulled the covers over his head.
“He has to be staying somewhere. Let’s get oscar-mike, Connie.”
Hearing his army nickname, Achilles perked up. His hand to his ear like a phone, he said, in a bad British accent, “Conroy’s room please.”
“I’m serious and you’re doing a bad Slurpee slinger impression.”
As his erection subsided, Achilles admitted it wasn’t a bad idea. This was the time Troy would most likely be in. Over the next hour, they called every hotel to no avail. Achilles experienced the same intense disappointment he’d known at the green camelback. Wages also looked forlorn, like it was his damned brother missing.
“We tried.” Why was he consoling Wages just because Wages had to be in charge of everything? It was four a.m. Bethany would be home any minute, see him getting drunk only hours before his shift, and give Achilles the stink eye. Hadn’t she known he liked to drink when they married? Everyone else knew. He didn’t cause trouble, but he had a high capacity for high octane, as he put it. Achilles cocooned himself in the sheet and dove onto the couch. “Good night!”
After a moment of silence, he peeked out. Wages stood there in his hunting hat and yellow ducky boxer shorts, holding a pint bottle of whiskey with a crazy straw in it, peeking through the blinds. He had the tiniest spare tire growing. Bethany’s cooking.
Achilles asked, “Are you horsesleeping?”
“No, I was just thinking about some of the rooming houses I’ve seen.” As he described them, they sounded like halfway houses. “Maybe we should stick to B&Bs.”
“We called them under hotels.”
“No we didn’t. That’s a different section of the phone book. I work in the hospitality industry now.”
“You work. Exactly. Man, go to bed before Bethany comes in and gives me crosshairs.”
Wages straightened up and waved the bottle, sloshing whiskey on his feet. “No one tells me what to do.”
“I know, dude. I’m just saying, she’ll be in here like ‘Kyyylllle? A-sheel?’ dragging our names the way women drag names out.”
“Ma ma sa, ma ma sa, ma ma ma coo sa.” That was Wages’s version of blah blah blah. He removed the straw and drained his bottle. “I know you just want to detonate your heat seeker. Go ahead. Just don’t look at pictures of my wife while you do it. If you do, leave five dollars on the table.” He raised the bottle in a toast, and shuffled down the hall.
Achilles’s hands slipped back into his shorts. Of course he wanted to detonate the heat seeker. It would be light soon, and whacking off during the day was desperate and adolescent. If he did it now, he’d forget about it by morning. Achilles wriggled his shorts down and conjured Ines again. The gummy smile, the deep shadow of cleavage, but he couldn’t hold the image. He kept envisioning the boardinghouses Wages had described, and imagined Troy inside some ratty home in the Tremé district. He thought of Ines, then Troy. He wondered if they would like each other, and knew she would like Troy more.
Ines was his most exciting fantasy since high school, when a Japanese exchange student transferred in for one semester. She was slim and porcelain and had such a small mouth he wondered how she ate. He constantly imagined himself with her. Jacking off was easy with people he didn’t know. With women he knew it was different. That’s why he never fantasized in earnest about Bethany. It was like trying to put a spell on them or reach into their dreams. He would imagine them just so, arranging it so they were looking him in the eye when he came. Then they belonged to him. It had worked with Aiko. He imagined her thin purple lips making cooing sounds. On their first date, he discovered that they did. They were quite a couple, the only black and the only Asian in the twelfth grade together. (There’d been one other black kid in his grade for one year, but he lived with his grandmother, brought his lunch, and talked like the rest of them from the city. So, he didn’t count.) Someone had called Achilles and Aiko the United Nations. Achilles didn’t remember who said that, but he should have punched him. He thought it funny at the time. Aiko deserved better.
So did Ines, so earnest. Ines pressing her tits together like a pin-up girl. Ines shaking her ass like a popcorn pot. Ines, reaching back and spreading her cheeks like a porn star, sighing when he enters her, and how he loves to enter, watching the look of surprise on her face. He wanted to lick her from navel to nookie, make her crow and caw, flap her arms and fly off the bed with delight. He wanted to bend her over, crack her cheeks, wedge his nose into the arch with the asshole for the keystone, and feel her fat ass like a velvet vise clenching his cheeks as she came. He would. Yes. He would.
CHAPTER 9
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, ACHILLES DIVIDED HIS TIME BETWEEN DRIVING the neighborhood where he’d gotten into the fight and doing the heavy lifting at St. Jude. It was difficult to say which was more frustrating. Since the screening, Ines had taken to calling him Mr. Conroy. Mr. Conroy, can you help Dudley move these books? Mr. Conroy, would you mind assisting Mabel with the heavy pots? Mr. Conroy do you have time to help Mabel sort these clothes? But Mr
. Conroy would not be broken. He had nothing if not endurance, and the patience of a sniper to boot. Besides, she said Mr. Conroy with such a smile.
The neighborhood where he’d had the fight was a different matter. There, they actually stopped smiling when he showed up, like he was a teacher entering the room carrying final exams. Old women waved him off with a shake of the head, kids ran away, teenagers ignored him. He even tried dressing in a hoodie and Army surplus fatigues. The response was the same. Achilles didn’t understand what about his demeanor led anyone to think that he was a cop, but the third time he was accused of being one, it occurred to him to call Morse.
Wages advised him against contacting the detective, explaining that if anything happened to the residents of the boardinghouse, the police would blame Achilles. “I hate to pull the wings off your fly, but these motherfuckers are dirtier than dealers. They’ll shoot you in the back and sprinkle crunch on you. They’ll run you over, and call it suicide by cop. They’ll pressure you for cash, then arrest you for trying to bribe a public official. You aren’t from here. Avoid them. In New Orleans, people go into crime so they’ll have some protection from the police.”
“All cops aren’t dirty,” said Achilles.
Wages shook his head, “That’s what I always liked about you, Brother. You rock that suburban optimism.”
When he arrived at the police station, Achilles was surprised to hear Morse tell him the same thing. Achilles had barely started telling him about the camelback when the detective raised his hands and mouthed Not here! as he offered to take Achilles to lunch at the Bluebird Diner next door to the station. In a back booth, Morse explained that it was best to stay away from a scenario involving arson, a corpse, and a one-eyed man. “I don’t doubt they had it coming, but …”
“I didn’t start that fire,” said Achilles.
“I’m not saying you did—” Morse paused while the bottom-heavy waitress took their orders. Judging by their banter, she knew Morse and liked him. Morse stared wistfully as she walked away.
“I should have never divorced her. Anyway, kid, the first piece of advice is never order a chicken salad sandwich in a place that serves real food. Would you ask for a massage when offered a blowjob?”
Achilles nodded his understanding. That’s why the waitress at Seaton’s always looked funny when he ordered. Morse called his ex back over to the table and, arm around her waist, changed Achilles’s order.
“Eat well. No one’s here for the weather. New Orleans has traditions, like red beans and rice on Mondays, always.” Morse explained that Mondays were washdays, so a slow-cooking meal left time to do the wash. The beans could stay on the pot all day, simmering, seasoned with the leftover ham or sausage from Sunday night’s dinner.
When the food came, Morse attacked it like a soldier who’d been marching all day. He applied Tabasco until red pools formed at the edges of the plate, licked his fingers like chicken bones, and sopped up sauce with scraps of bread. Achilles felt comfortable to do the same, except for the hot sauce. The vinegary smell burned his nostrils. Achilles also declined to wipe his plate with the bread, which his father had always described as countrified.
While they ate, Morse explained that Achilles needed to keep a low profile. “When it’s gang related, one guy kills another, killer goes to jail. Two birds.”
It made sense. Let the troublemakers fight among themselves, and clean up the mess after the fact. It wasn’t too different from Afghanistan, in theory. What was unusual was the patience with which Morse explained himself. In the past, Achilles had twice been pulled over by cops who were irritated that he didn’t immediately hang his hands out of the window and drop the keys. His opinion was solicited whenever Ramirez made a slow-jam CD for his girlfriend, who was black. He’d been expected to know where the good soul food restaurants were that time they visited DC. Morse was different. He spoke as if Achilles had no idea what was going on in the city, and the more Morse talked, the more Achilles believed him. Morse’s point was simple:
“You get into a tussle with a gangster, your record says gang-related as far as the department is concerned. Forever. Then your face goes into the bang-book, the binder that every beat officer memorizes. If you so much as run a stop sign, and you’re in that book, you’re going to jail. And that’s if you get a record and not a toe tag. What if a gang leader catches wind that you’re in that book? You’re either with him or you’re on his hit list. And kid, the way you present yourself, it’ll be the hit list. You open your mouth and everyone knows you’re not from here. Your parents brought you up good. You sound white. I’m okay with that, but to some people you sound like a victim. This city is consistently ranked as a murder capital. In 1994 there were 421 murders. Even we were shocked. After that, who is left to kill? That record hasn’t been broken anywhere in America. Over one a day. At that rate, it isn’t even front-page news anymore. You’ll get the Saints’ scores before you find out who was shot. Understand?”
Achilles nodded. New Orleans was even more dangerous than DC, and he knew what Morse meant by some people.
“This isn’t Scared Straight. I know you been shot at before and I’m sure you can handle yourself, you got some guns on you and some serious experience. But this is different. You’re not Charles Bronson. The city is safe unless you wander into exactly those few areas you keep visiting. So, if you get any more ‘leads,’” he made air quotes, “talk to me. About this green camelback, because you’ve already filed that report, I’ll send someone to investigate a possible sighting.” Morse gave him his cell phone number, and a piece of paper with “Spirit House” written on it.
“Spirit House?”
“You got this?” asked Morse, pointing at the check as he stood.
“Sure. Spirit House?”
“They took in a family who lost everything in a fire a couple weeks back. A family with three little girls. Sounds like it might be the Harpers from your green camelback.” He clapped Achilles on the back. “I’m in a good mood today. My son got shot. Only in the leg, and it will heal fine. But it’s enough that he’s coming home early, on his own two feet. I’m sure your mother wants to see you do the same.”
He pictured his mother with her backpack on. She wasn’t worried. “This was her idea. Can’t you introduce me to the other officers and let them know that I’m only trying to find my brother?”
Morse scratched his head. “Achilles, do you know about the Stop Snitching campaign? The T-shirts, the DVDs, the website? It’s the whole public relations kit-n-caboodle. The message on the streets across the country is that if anyone finds out you’re a snitch, you’re done. What do you think half of those murders are about?”
Achilles groaned, trapped no matter which way he turned.
“Just go to the Spirit and let me know if anything else turns up.”
Achilles thanked him, and rushed to the Spirit House, another small storefront shelter with a few bunks. The Harpers were in the small backyard. The couple was much younger than he had expected, younger than him maybe. They must have started early to have three kids already. Between the rusty barbecue grill, tire swing, and patchy grass he would have thought it was their house, except for the mother’s constant watchful gaze, as if assessing a danger only she could see. Achilles could see her in profile, a broad nose and round eyes. For some reason, her face made Achilles think that she liked to hug a lot. Whenever one of her daughters waved, she forced a smile and waved back before her mouth took on a grim downward turn at the corners. The girls chased each other around the yard, the youngest trailing behind, weighed down by her right arm, swathed in bandages, save for two tiny fingers.
The Harpers were open and friendly, which he hadn’t expected, but which made sense considering that they put all their children’s names on the mailbox. After learning that he was looking for his brother, they invited him to sit in a plastic lawn chair. They were a nice couple and spoke freely with Achilles while keeping their eyes on their three daughters. They’d nev
er even personally met the landlord and didn’t really like the place, but the price was right. They’d never seen Troy. The only thing they knew was that Blow and Lex also referred to each other as Holiday and Charles.
“It’s a shame they can play outside here and couldn’t in our own house,” said Mr. Harper watching his daughters play. “All those damned barrels.”
It did seem a shame that they would be safer only after being displaced, but at least they hadn’t been chased out of their city, at least it wasn’t uninhabitable and overrun by the military. “Do you know how the fire started?”
Mrs. Harper turned to face Achilles. The other side of her face was badly burned, the skin from the eyelid to lower cheek pink and brown, like raw, spoiled chicken. She had no eyelashes and the hair around her temple was gray, as if it hadn’t burned but was dying nonetheless. “If you know something, please tell us.”
Achilles shook his head. Did Mr. and Mrs. Harper still have sex? “Is it okay if I say good-bye to your daughters?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Harper.
Mrs. Harper, who hadn’t taken her eyes off of him, held his stare a moment more before nodding, as if she needed that extra time to measure him.
But Achilles was used to it. The first few weeks after their injuries, the scarred soldiers either avoided your eyes altogether, or stared as if daring you to turn away. Achilles had seen much, much worse than Mrs. Harper, and had seen it happen to people who didn’t live next to druggies. But it was seeing her children that made it feel so unfair. He felt bad for them, for what they would endure with a mother who stuck out like that.
He shook their hands one by one, planning to give them each five dollars. Shaking hands with the little girl with the burned arm, he felt especially sorry for her, and gave her a ten-dollar bill. He remembered adults doing this when he was a child. But no amount of money was going to help. The little girl was doomed. How could she not be when her father and mother were willing to live next to two scum like Lex and Blow just because the rent was low? The father had said The price was right in the same tone guys used to explain why they bought cheap beer. It was at that moment when Achilles was holding her free hand, the ten-dollar bill clasped between the two fingers that poked out of the bandages on the other arm, her mother cooing What do you say? and her sisters now gathered around Achilles with their hands out for more, that the girls all turned as if Carmen Sandiego had arrived and he looked up to see Ines smiling at him, flushed like she’d been caught leaving without saying good-bye, as she flashed a small wave, like a Castaneda clap, and skipped through the door. But he gave them each five dollars more, in case she was watching from inside the house.
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