Half of Paradise

by James Lee Burke

“Do you think the others will go home early?”

  “I’ll ask Denise to suggest that everyone go to that cellar place on Burgundy.”

  “Will they do it?”

  “I think so. It’s one of those sandal and beard places. It’s artistic to be seen there.”

  He kissed her on the neck and held her and put his face in her hair. He felt the smoothness of her body against him.

  “I want you so much,” she said.

  “You’re a precious lady.”

  “I love you terribly.”

  “Can’t we go in the other room?”

  “It will only be a couple of more hours.”

  “We haven’t had each other in four days.”

  “I know, darling. But it will be so good tonight. Let’s wait.”

  He kissed her cheek again and bit the lobe of her ear.

  “We have to go back,” she said. “Stay a little longer.”

  “I have to cook.”

  “Let’s don’t go to any more parties for a while.”

  “All right, darling.”

  “We’re around other people too much.”

  “We won’t go to any more parties unless you want to, and we’ll only see each other.”

  “Do you mind not seeing anyone but me?” he said. “Of course I don’t. We have good times together.”

  “Don’t go back yet.”

  “We have to. Be good and help me carry the food down.”

  They went down the stone steps to the courtyard. The light from the Japanese lanterns fell on the oleander and jasmine and Spanish daggers in the flower beds. There was the whisper of silk and petticoats, and the quiet talk of couples in the shadows, and the clink of ice in cool glasses of gin and quinine water. Avery reached his hand down into the tin tub and took out one of the last bottles of beer and opened it. The cap clicked on the flagging of the court. Suzanne stood under the willow by the iron gate to greet some people who had just come in. She came over to Avery.

  “We’ll have to get more beer,” she said. “Can you go down to the grocery store?”

  “It’s closed now.”

  “That place on Esplanade is still open. Go in the car.”

  “Where are the keys?”

  “Upstairs, I suppose. You don’t mind going, do you? I’d ask Wally, but he’d never come back.”

  “When are they going to leave?”

  “It won’t be long. I’ll talk with Denise. Be a good darling.”

  Avery went upstairs and got the keys and came back down and started out the courtyard.

  “Where are you going, old pal?” Wally said.

  “To get beer.”

  “Is it all right if I go along? That painter has started talking again. I swear to Jesus I can’t tolerate listening to that fellow.”

  “I’m only going to be gone a few minutes.”

  “Maybe he will have left when we get back. If he’s still here I think I’m going to hit him.”

  “You’d better come with me.”

  “Rather. I’m not keen on getting into a bash with such a disgusting fellow.”

  They went around the side of the building to the cobbled alley where the car was parked. Avery started the engine and drove out onto the street with the convertible top down and pressed on the accelerator. The exhaust roared against the pavement and echoed off the quiet buildings. The car, low-slung and flat with a wide wheelbase, could turn a corner with a slight twist of the steering wheel.

  You couldn’t use all the gears except on the highway; and when he pushed down on the gas he felt the power pull him back in the leather seat. They went to the grocery store on Esplanade and bought a half case of beer. They put it on the front seat between them. Wally opened one of the warm beers on the bumper of the car by putting the cap against the metal edge and knocking it down with the palm of his hand until it popped loose. The beer foamed up over the front of his coat. He upended the bottle and drank fast, his throat working, to avoid spilling any more. Avery put the car into gear and pulled away from the curb and made a right turn into the Quarter.

  “One-way street,” Wally said.

  Avery stepped on the brake and put the car in reverse. He backed into a driveway to turn around. The exhaust throbbed against the stucco wall of the building. An automobile was coming down the street towards them. Avery waited for it to pass before he pulled out. It stopped in front of them and blocked the driveway. The headlights went out, and Avery saw the city police emblem on the door. He could hear the police calls coming over the mobile radio inside. The officer got out and walked towards them. He had a flashlight in his hand.

  “Put the beer under the seat,” Avery said.

  “There’s no room.”

  “Cover it with your coat.”

  Too late, old pal.”

  The officer shone the large three-battery flashlight at them and into the car. The bottles were amber in the light. The officer was young and looked as though he hadn’t been on the police force long. He wore a tight, well-fitting light blue shirt and dark blue trousers with a black stripe down the side. He had a pistol and holster on his hip and a thick leather belt with the .45 cartridges protruding through the loops and handcuffs in a black leather case and a short billy with a spring and a lead weight in it. He was tall with dark hair and athletic features. There was a pair of sunglasses in his shirt pocket.

  “Do you know this is a one-way street?” he said.

  “I didn’t see the sign,” Avery said.

  The officer shined the light on the bottles.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Not in the car.”

  “Let me see your driver’s license, please.”

  Avery took out his billfold and opened the celluloid viewers.

  “Take it out of the wallet, please.”

  Avery gave it to him. The officer looked at it under the flashlight.

  “This expired last year, Broussard.”

  “I didn’t look at the date on it.”

  “I say, I’m the only one drinking, officer. This fellow is quite all right,” Wally said.

  “You’ll have to come down to the station with me.”

  “I’m not drunk,” Avery said.

  “You have liquor in your possession and you’ve been drinking.”

  “Look, couldn’t you give me the ticket and let it go?”

  “Both of you get in my car, please.”

  “I say,” Wally said.

  The officer opened the door for Avery to get out.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “You can’t get me on a D.W.I. I’m not drunk.”

  “He’s disgustingly sober,” Wally said.

  “Don’t make it hard on yourself, Broussard.”

  “I haven’t had more than four beers this evening.”

  “Get out of the car.”

  “I’m not going to jail for a D.W.I.”

  “You just have to go to night court and pay your fine.”

  “We’re absolutely broke. That means the can, doesn’t it?” Wally said.

  “Come on, Broussard.”

  “All right, but I want a test. Do you understand? I’m not going to jail on a drunk charge.”

  “Have you been in jail before?”

  “No.”

  “Put away your beer and come along, too,” he said to Wally.

  “Righto. Just a moment. I never leave an unfinished drink about.” Wally drank down the last of the beer in the bottle.

  “I want the test right away. As soon as I get in the station,” Avery said.

  “You’ll get it.”

  “No jail, either. You understand.”

  “Both of you get out.”

  “Let go of my shoulder,” Avery said.

  “I told you to get out.”

  “Take your hand off me.”

  “You’re making trouble for both of us. Now climb out of there.”

  Avery knocked his hand away.

  “All right, stand up,” the off
icer said. “You heard me. Put your hands against the car.”

  “Isn’t this a bit absurd?” Wally said.

  “Put your hands on the car and lean on them, Broussard.”

  Avery stood with his feet wide apart and his weight on his arms. The officer shook him down carefully. He kept one leg inside Avery’s as he patted with his hands along his trousers so he could kick his feet out from under him if he attempted anything.

  “You’re next. Lean against the car,” he said to Wally.

  “You haven’t any abnormal complexes, have you?”

  “Do what I tell you.”

  Wally turned around and placed his hands on the car fender. The officer searched his pockets.

  “Get in the back seat of my car,” he said.

  The inside of the police car was fitted with a thick wire screen which was attached to the roof and bolted to an iron bar that ran along behind the driver’s seat so that the driver was protected from anyone behind him. Wally and Avery got in, and the officer pulled the car up to unblock the driveway and went back to move Suzanne’s sports car out into the street and park it by the curb.

  As they rode down to the police station Avery began to feel afraid. It was an empty sick feeling in his stomach, the same sick feeling he had when he was taken to the work camp on the train in handcuffs and a prison guard met him and the deputy sheriff at the depot and they drove down the dirt road in the pickup truck and he had looked out the window and had seen the white barracks through the pines and the denim uniforms of the men and the high fence with the strands of barbed wire at the top. He felt in his pocket for his cigarettes and found that he had only the package of Virginia Extra he had bought earlier in the evening. He tried to roll a cigarette and the tobacco shook out of the paper. He took a cigarette from Wally, but the smoke tasted bad in his mouth. He tried to remain reasonable and to think of the best thing to do, and then he knew that there was nothing to do; they had him and maybe they would fine him and let him go, or someone might check and discover that he was an exconvict, and that would mean the jail without bond and a trial for parole violation and then the ride on the train back to the work camp and two more years on the gang.

  They walked up the steps of the police station, a brown brick building with yellow shades on the windows. There was a big marble corridor inside and spittoons were placed along the walls, and at the end there were two varnished swinging doors with panes of frosted glass in them. Wally and Avery and the officer went through the doors into a large room where there were several desks, filing cabinets, spittoons, and telephones. There were only two men at the desks. One of them was in uniform. The officer told Avery and Wally to sit down on the bench by the wall and wait. Avery rolled another cigarette and the tobacco fell out the ends, and when he lighted it the paper flared up and made the smoke hot in his throat, and finally the cigarette broke apart in his hand. The officer made out his report and started to leave.

  “Am I being charged with a D.W.I.?” Avery said.

  The policeman didn’t answer him and walked back out through the wood doors.

  The officer in uniform at the desk came over to them with some papers and a fountain pen in his hand. He had a square, blunt, red face and brown hair that had begun to thin and recede at the forehead. He sat down beside them on the bench and crossed his leg and held the papers on his thigh to write.

  “What is your name?” he said to Wally.

  “Wally Laughlin.”

  “Age.”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Why did you give the officer some trouble?”

  “I assure you I didn’t. The fellow seemed intent on making a fool of himself.”

  “That’s enough of that.”

  “What am I being charged with?”

  “You’re not charged with anything. You can go if you like. Just try to cooperate with the police next time.”

  “Why was I brought down here?”

  “You’d better go, son.”

  “Do you want me to do anything?” he said to Avery.

  “What time is night court?”

  “Eleven o’clock,” the officer said.

  “Go tell Suzanne what happened. Ask her if she can raise the fine,” Avery said.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay around?” Wally said.

  “Just see Suzanne.”

  “We’ll get the car and come back before eleven.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Take care.”

  “So long.”

  Wally went out through the doors, which swung back behind him.

  “How do you want to enter your plea?” the officer said, his red, square face looking at Avery.

  “What are the charges?”

  “No license, going the wrong way on a one-way street, and driving while intoxicated.”

  “I’m not drunk. I wasn’t drunk in the car.”

  “Do you want to plead not guilty?”

  “The officer said I would get a test.”

  “A test won’t tell us anything now. You might be sober at the station, but that don’t mean you weren’t tight earlier.”

  “That man knew I wasn’t tight.”

  “You had liquor in your possession.”

  “Where did the other officer go?”

  “Out on call.”

  “If I plead not guilty and he’s not in court, that means I get off, doesn’t it?”

  “It will be better for you to plead guilty. You’ll only get a fine that way.”

  “I’m not getting caught for a D.W.I.”

  “All right, son. Not guilty. Were you ever arrested before?”

  “No.”

  The officer wrote on the papers held against his thigh.

  “Whose car were you driving?”

  “My girl’s.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Is that important?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Suzanne Robicheaux.”

  “We’ll have to check you through for a previous violation.”

  Avery felt that sick empty feeling in his stomach again. The officer gave the papers to the detective at the desk and asked him to check Avery’s name through their records. The detective was dressed in a pair of unpressed slacks and an open-neck sports shirt, and his undershirt showed at the top of his chest. He had a cold and he blew his nose often on a soiled handkerchief. There were deep pockmarks in the back of his neck, and his skin was coarse with large pores. His eyes squinted as he read the papers on his desk and he held the handkerchief to his nose with both hands and blew. He turned around in his chair and looked at Avery, wiping his upper lip with the handkerchief.

  “Are you Broussard?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is that list of resident parolees the parole board sent us?” he said to the officer in uniform.

  Avery felt everything go weak and sick inside him.

  “It’s in my desk. What do you want it for?”

  “I thought I saw this guy’s name on it,” the man with the handkerchief said.

  The officer in uniform took the list out of his desk drawer and looked through the names.

  “Broussard, Avery. On parole for two years,” he read. His blunt red face looked at Avery. “Let’s go upstairs, son.”

  “Is that where the jail is? Am I going into the drunk tank?”

  “You shouldn’t have broke parole.”

  “It’s the drunk tank and then back to the pen. Is that it?”

  The man with the handkerchief blew his nose loudly.

  “You want me to take him up?” he said.

  “No. I’ll take him.”

  “A girl is going to be here in a little while. Can I see her when she comes?” Avery said.

  “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Visitors are only allowed in the afternoon.”

  They went out the side door of the room into another hallway and rode upstairs in the elevator. The officer slid back the elevator door and they entered th
e third floor of the building which served as the jail. The corridor ran in a rectangle around the building, and there were four rows of cells facing the outside walls. There were dim ceiling lights along the corridor that were protected by wire screens. Avery could hear the men in the cells snoring or talking in low voices. There was a sound like a man retching, and someone coughed and cleared his throat of phlegm and spat through the bars on the floor. The officer unlocked one of the cells, and Avery walked into the darkened room, with the three iron bunks fixed to the wall and the obscene words burned on the ceiling with matches and the tobacco spittle and cigarette butts on the floor. A man with some torn newspaper in his hand was relieving himself on the toilet. Another man slept in one of the bunks with his back turned towards them and a striped pillow without a case over his head. The officer clanged the door shut behind Avery and went back down in the elevator.

  The man who had been on the toilet stood up and buttoned his trousers. He was rawboned and tall, and his hair was gray and his face pallid. One of the straps of his undershirt was frayed almost in two. He walked barefoot across the concrete floor of the cell and sat on his bunk.

  “You got any cigarettes?” he said.

  Avery looked out the bars across the corridor through the window. He could see the night glow of the city and hear the sound of the automobiles below.

  “Hey, you got any cigarettes?” the man said.

  Avery threw him the package of Virginia Extra. The man took out one of the very thin yellow-brown wheat-straw papers and poured the tobacco neatly and rolled it into a cylinder between his thumb and fingers.

  “You in on a stew-bum?” he said.

  “Parole violation.”

  “What have you got left?”

  “Two years.”

  “Hell, I got ten to fifteen facing me. I’m really fucked.”

  I’ll probably go back on the same gang, Avery thought. We’ll cut cane and clear fields of stumps and dig irrigation canals, and Evans will be there with his sunburnt face and sunglasses and khaki uniform and pistol, and we’ll line up for mess and roll call and somebody will get time in detention for talking in line, and on Sunday we’ll clean the barracks and Evans will make inspection, and on Monday we’ll start all over again. He thought of the homosexuals who always made advances to the new men in camp, and the sound of the man in the next bunk masturbating in his sleep, and the phlegmy hacking cough of Daddy Claxton, and the inevitable talk about women and sadism and escape, and the story everyone told about the convict who had tried to climb over the barbed wire on top of the fence and how he had been caught in the lights and the guards had cut him to pieces with the shotguns and everyone was made to come out and see it after it was over.