“Mi hogar? That’s Spanish for my home,” Angela interjected.
“Yes, it is. My Aunt Rose was of Spanish-Italian ancestry, born in Cordova, Argentina.”
I ignored the exchange. “It must have been difficult for you to keep your cool during the Presidential campaign when your Republican opponents painted Stan Gambrini as a violent and corrupt Mafia Godfather. Why didn’t you respond to the negative ‘Like father, like son’ commercials?”
“Why should I honor such stupidity by responding to it?” He glared at me. “Stan’s Mafia activities have been documented, although I feel the news accounts of his life were exaggerated. Personally, I never witnessed any illegal activity. I was sheltered from all of that. In my mind, Stan Gambrini was a wonderful, loving man who became my father when I desperately needed one.”
“I’m sure he would have been proud of your accomplishments,” I conceded. “And what do you think Rose Gambrini would say of your position as Vice President if she were around today?”
Gable laughed and ran his hand over his immaculate, gray suit coat. “‘Johnny, you be Presidente.’”
“And what would you tell her?”
“I’m the wrong sex, Ma.” Gable laughed. Angela laughed with him, obviously enjoying what she thought was a clever remark.
“Do you plan to run for President?” I asked.
“It’s too early to tell. Right now, I take my supporting role seriously. I want to help President Wilson push her innovative and progressive programs on drugs, health care and the economy through a resistant Congress.”
“Have you found any down side to the office of Vice President?” I suddenly felt like Barbara Walters, trying to uncover private details about Gable’s life.
He glanced at the floor. “It’s a very lonely job.”
“Were you happier as a Hollywood star and less lonely as California’s Governor?”
Gable squinted but didn’t respond. I thought I glimpsed a troubled soul beneath the fixed smile and wondered why he’d never married. “A respected political columnist once wrote that by remaining single you have eliminated the accusations of infidelity to which other leaders have been subjected. Is your solitary existence a political strategy?”
Gable shook his head. “Certainly not. I agree with the great German monk Martin Luther who wrote, ‘There is no more lovely, friendly and charming relationship, communion or company than a good marriage.’ Unfortunately, I have always been a man who must focus on one thing at a time. I become obsessed with whatever activity or work I’m involved in, blocking out everything else.” McIntoch entered the room. “Hate to interrupt, Mr. Vice President but we must make a round of the classrooms before your eleven o’clock speech at Tulane.”
Gable nodded, then turned back to me.
“Did I give you enough information?”
“I’d like to know more about President Wilson’s visit to New Orleans on Fat Tuesday. You said she’ll be speaking at St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square to kick off her goodwill tour. In light of the administration’s disputed drug program, aren’t you afraid she’ll attract enormous criticism by making an appearance in the party town during the wildest time of the year?”
“I’m afraid the President’s visit here is my fault.” Gable’s expression resembled a chastised little boy.
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Before the election, I was speaking at the Jefferson-Jackson Day Dinner in Atlanta and brazenly predicted that we democrats would win by a landslide. The President called afterwards, saying, ‘John, what can you be thinking? Our pollsters are predicting a close race.’ I told her to visualize our victory and she said, `John, if we get a landslide, I’ll wear a costume and make an appearance in New Orleans during Mardi Gras.”
Chapter Seventeen
Mama Sis wandered through the palatial Greek revival house she considered home. Usually an early riser, Sis got up a little later that morning and turned off her sound monitor. She hated the small, portable informant strapped to her wrist. When it was turned on Natasha could hear her every move. “Mama, what are you doing?” she’d keep asking. Natasha jus wan me to sit still and stay put.
Spying the dirty breakfast dishes, Sis hand-washed them in the kitchen sink, then placed the clean dishes on a towel to drain. She never could figure out why Natasha needed such a fancy kitchen with every gadget and appliance the color of silver. The only thing she liked about this room other than the canary-yellow walls was the way the sun streaked through the window over the sink.
Satisfied that the dishes were sparkling, Sis wiped her hands on the white cotton dress she’d absentmindedly slipped on over her pajamas and looked around for another chore to occupy her time. She knew it would be a while yet before Natasha got up.
Sis crept down the center hallway and cautiously climbed the oak staircase, not wanting to alert Natasha by making any creaking noises on the hardwood steps. When she reached the second floor, Sis felt light-headed and decided to rest in the armchair near the twin beds where Lilah and Angela had spent the night. Sis loved the room but hated that she could no longer see the rose, green and gold wallpaper.
“Cataracts,” Dr. Samuel said last year when Billy Joe insisted she have a physical.
“Mama, it’s a simple operation. Doctors can remove them with a laser, just like that,” Billy Joe said, snapping his fingers. To Sis, no surgery was simple, especially after what happened to her older sister, Maybell, ten years before. At seventy, Maybell was fit as a filly, except for arthritis which only bothered her when the weather changed. A doctor said she needed hip replacement surgery, and Maybell died from a blood clot while trying to recover. Besides, Mama Sis had no idea what “laser” meant. It sounded awful like a hissing snake.
When Maybell passed, Sis lost her only surviving blood kin, and she thanked God she still had Billy Joe. In her mind, he was hers. She sort of adopted him, but not legally, when he was two. Billy Joe was the ninth illegitimate child of Mainey, Sis’s neighbor, who worked every day cleaning white folks’ houses like Sis did.
Lawd, it hurts to see a child hungry or needy. Until Billy Joe came along, Sis had no children of her own, not even by that wandering cotton picker, named Caleb, who talked her into marrying him. He’d skipped town as quickly as he arrived. After Caleb left, Sis had no use for men. “They’s trouble,” she was famous for saying.
Wishing she could see the room clearer, Sis ran her hand over the marble-top washstand beside her chair and noticed the rumpled pink and ivory lace spreads on the hastily-made beds. Lilah’s aqua nightgown and matching robe draped the foot of the bed where she’d slept. On the other twin, Angela had thrown her long gray tee-shirt. Um, um, um, Lilah, does you thinks your clothes is gonna get up an’ put themselves away?
Clutching the velvet arms of her chair, Sis pushed herself up to make the beds. She picked up Lilah’s clothes and folded them before she pulled back the bedspread. The delicate lace of the spread caught on the handle of a suitcase. She bent down and worked with it, trying to untangle the lace. Somehow, the suitcase popped open. Sis blinked in disbelief at what she saw. Lawd, Lawd. Was she imagining things? More money than she’d ever seen in her entire life. Oooo, God have mercy, Lilah, has you robbed a bank, and does Billy Joe know?
Chapter Eighteen
Donell Elementary
“I don’t like it.” Billy Joe stuffed his giant hands in his trouser pockets and paced the cramped teacher’s lounge. “Macon asked the owner of Sly’s Pool Hall if he’d seen Blasey or Duffy on Tuesday and Sly’s almost positive they were in the bar at the same time.” Billy Joe paused to wave goodbye to Angela. She had decided to ride with Kern and Gable to Tulane. I tried to talk her out of it, but she told me to stop treating her like a baby.
To appease me, she promised to save me a parking space, thinking I might get there a bit late after picking up our things from Billy Joe’s.
After Angela left, I settled back against the plaid couch and waited for Billy Joe to
continue as he nervously paced back and forth.
“Sly remembers seeing a man who looked like Duffy, well-dressed, wearing a Tabasco cap and carrying luggage. Duffy couldn’t believe how warm it was in Louisiana, told Sly he’d flown down from Baltimore. He mentioned he was staying with a friend in La Place. Seems like Duffy took a cab from the airport and stopped in to have a drink...”
“Did Sly see Duffy leave with Blasey?” I interrupted, wishing Billy Joe would sit down and relax.
“Macon said Sly doesn’t exactly remember but thinks they both walked out around the same time. My guess is, Blasey offered Duffy a ride. And Duffy, probably drunk, jumped in the back of Blasey’s truck. But we can’t prove it.”
“Didn’t you say Blasey claimed Duffy didn’t ride with him?”
Billy Joe stopped pacing and looked at me. “I don’t believe Blasey. He’s a Peeping Tom. Has a record. That’s why I think it’d be a good idea for you and Angela to stay with us the rest of the time instead of going back to the Belle.”
“Angela and I will be fine. Blasey won’t bother us, especially after your friend questioned him. Besides, you’ve probably instructed your police cronies to swarm around the Belle like buzzards.” I forced a laugh, trying to get Billy Joe to relax. “We’ll be lucky if they don’t fine us for accidentally dropping a tissue on the ground.”
Billy Joe frowned. “If you get antsy and change your mind, you know you’re always welcome to stay with us, but as Mama Sis says, ‘You grown,’ and I can’t make you take precautions you don’t want to take.”
~ * ~
At ten-thirty, I drove away from Donell Elementary thinking about Dan Duffy. I called the hospital and learned he was still listed in critical condition. No telling how long he’d be in a coma and I needed to decide what to do about the money.
I finally made up my mind as I turned on to Prytania Street and rolled down the window to smell the gardenias. Their sweet fragrance reminded me of Billy Joe and what he’d said. I tried to piece it all together: If Blasey was driving the truck, he more than likely didn’t know about the cash, or he would have taken the suitcase before driving off.
My heart stopped for a second when I reached Billy Joe’s red-brick driveway. The front door was standing wide open. Something was terribly wrong. I wondered if Mama had wandered off again. Billy Joe said she’d been known to leave the house without telling anyone.
Natasha’s red sports car was parked in the driveway, meaning she was home.
I took my .38 pistol out of the glove compartment, then put it back. In my state of mind I was afraid I might accidentally fire at a totally innocent person.
Inside the house, my stomach tightened, more from a feeling than what I saw. The golden prism reflected from the stain-glass door, making the long hallway look like a disco. In the kitchen, morning dishes were draining on top of a towel, but other than that there were no signs of life downstairs. Upstairs, I found the door to Natasha and Billy Joe’s bedroom closed. Figuring Natasha was still asleep, I glanced in the room where Angela and I had slept the night before. Sis was crouched over Duffy’s suitcase with a stern expression, calling up a childhood memory: “You’s a mean child, the meanest child in the whole world.”
I kneeled down beside her. “Did you open the suitcase, Mama?”
“I minds my own business. Dat money don’t concern me.”
“Mama, I found the suitcase by accident.”
“Uh huh. Like I said, it ain’t my business.”
“I need to find out if it really belongs to the person who lost it or if it was stolen. Whatever you do, don’t tell Billy Joe or anyone about the money. This needs to be our secret, Mama. I know I can trust you. You’ve never told on me before.”
“You in trouble, child?”
“I hope not, Mama. I hope not.”
“I be praying for you.” Sis stroked my hair in the direction of my French twist. “Lord knows you be needin’ one big powerful prayer.” She clasped her hands together. “Dat much money sho’ do need prayin’ over.”
I hugged her. “Thank you, Mama.”
Natasha stood in the doorway of the guest bedroom wearing one of Billy Joe’s New Orleans Saints football jerseys, so large it covered her knees. I wondered if she’d overheard.
Natasha sleepily rubbed her eyes. “Mama, you turned off your monitor again, didn’t you?”
Sis stared at me sadly but said nothing.
“What are we gonna do with you, Mama?” Natasha continued. “If you don’t keep the monitor turned on, we’ll have to get Ms. Perkins across the street to come over and watch you.”
Sis vigorously shook her head. “No. She’s a busybody. Always pokin’ her nose in places it don’t belong.”
“We’ll talk about this later, after I’ve had my coffee. Would you care for a cup, Lilah?”
“No thanks. I’m caffeined out, need to head over to Tulane for my second John Gable speech of the morning. Wish we had more time to talk. You and Mama are welcome to join us for lunch at Antoine’s around one.”
“I have no desire to go to the French Quarter or anywhere today. I’m totally drained. Thank God it’s my day off and I plan to enjoy it by refusing to get dressed.” Natasha rearranged her disheveled hair. “Mama and I will just nest around the house, won’t we, Mama?”
Sis didn’t respond.
Natasha rubbed the dark mascara from under her eyes. “You could do me a favor, though, Lilah.”
“Anything.”
“Remind my husband he’s on a diet.”
I laughed nervously, relieved Natasha had not seen the money, but, at the same time, I worried about Sis and what she might say. “Thanks for everything.” I hugged Natasha, then grabbed Duffy’s suitcase and our overnight bags. “You have a standing invitation to visit us at the beach. And, if it’s all right with you, I’d like for Mama to come over Saturday and spend the day with me and Angela. We might even go fishing.” I winked at Sis who looked at me hopefully.
“I don’t know. She’s a handful. Call me later and we’ll talk.”
I nodded, then headed down the stairs.
Natasha followed. “I almost forgot to tell you,” she said as we approached the front door. “I overhead an ICU nurse say Dan Duffy tried to speak. Apparently, he’s coming out of the coma.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sgt. Ben Comeaux sped away from the French Quarter Police Station, sirens screaming and blue lights flashing. He almost hit a bag lady at the corner of Conti and Decatur Streets. She stumbled on the curb trying to get out of his path. Her shopping cart filled with empty cans spilled on the street, setting off clinking, aluminum explosions and obstructing traffic. She shot Comeaux a bird. He returned her one-finger salute as he whizzed by, driving the NOPD’s white Ford sixty-miles-an-hour down Decatur through the crowded city. He had his lip and handlebar mustache curled up in a snarl as if he smelled something rotten.
At Canal Street, he narrowly missed a bus pulling away from the curb. All he could think of was what Billy Joe had said about Blasey. “I’m the one supposed to be keepin’ up with that Duffy guy ‘cause I’m the one that happened on the fuckin’ accident,” he’d told Billy Joe.
Getting on Interstate 10 from Poydras, Comeaux floored the accelerator all the way to Belle Viella, but slowed down to twenty-five a block from where Blasey supposedly lived. He noticed Lilah Sanderford’s white van was gone from the Belle’s driveway, and figured she was off bangin’ somebody.
Comeaux parked in front of the tan cottage behind the main house. He knew he’d found the right place because of the green truck and its license plate.
Sure enough, as soon as he cut the motor, he saw a crack in one of the venetian blinds covering the two front windows. Somebody was obviously watching him, probably Blasey, scared shitless.
Comeaux got out then and walked up to the house, cracking his knuckles, thinking, I can bench three-eighty-five with no sweat so don’t give me any lip, Blasey, or I’ll split you like a match sti
ck.
Comeaux side-stepped the front entrance and drew his gun. “Barry Blasey,” he shouted in his rich baritone. The little man who creaked open the door was shaking. “Ye-ah.”
“Mr. Blasey, what if I told you Mr. Duffy is prepared to identify you as the driver of that truck over there?” Comeaux pointed to it with his gun. “Which means you left the scene of a serious accident.”
Blasey said nothing, staring at the officer as if he’d seen a ghost.
“And what if I also told you that Mr. Sly Bouche is prepared to testify that you were drunk when you left his establishment with Mr. Duffy?”
Comeaux brushed Blasey aside and walked through the main living into an adjoining bedroom. He glanced from ceiling to floor, eyeballing the premises.
“You got a search warrant?” Panic edged Blasey voice.
Comeaux parked his gun in his holster before skimming through the Alcoholics Anonymous book he found on a scratched maple night stand, then slammed the book on the table with such force Blasey jumped back. “Let me tell you somethin’.”
Comeaux walked over to Blasey, and leaned in close, tapping the front of the smaller man’s blue denim shirt. “I know you got Duffy’s luggage, and if you don’t hand it over, I’ll have to bust you.” Comeaux’s scowl changed into a smile. “Wouldn’t it be easier to give me the bags? Now, I don’t have anythin’ against you. You made a mistake is all. You fell off the wagon and let some crazy bastard ride in the back of your truck. Give me his bags and we’ll forget about this. Ms. Viella won’t be hearin’ nothin’ from me and you can keep your job. Okay?” Comeaux slapped Blasey on his back.
Blasey stumbled forward. “Aw-right.” He reached under his bed and pulled out a duffel bag and guitar case. “I don’t remember nothin’, honest. I started drinkin’ and blacked out. When I came to, I found ‘em.”
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