by Owen Mullen
When were they going to get one? How did he think that looked?
On the evidence of their last bank statement, the answer to her first question was never. The second wasn’t worth a reply.
‘Jolene and I have something we want you to hear,’ Mia hung on his forearm, gazing into his face. ‘Right now, before dinner.’
Joe didn’t ask what, he could guess. His wife marched him past the front door and left into the garage. In the middle of the floor, two plastic outdoor seats sat side by side facing the stage. Joe remembered the argument they’d had about that.
‘A stage in the garage? For fuck’s sake, Mia.’
She had been sitting at the big country table in the middle of the kitchen. Waiting for him. They’d looked at each other. Finally, Mia said, ‘She needs it. It’ll help her. She needs as close to the real deal as we can get. Practisin’ takes ten hours a week. At least. It’ll be more fun if she can be on a stage. She’ll love it, Joe.’
Her hand tried to find his. He pulled away, refusing to share in her vision.
‘Say somethin’! It doesn’t cost so much. I got a deal.’
She leaned towards him, gripping the edge of the table, knuckles white, bottom lip trembling.
‘Joe! Joe!’ Mia had pleaded. ‘All that matters is that Jolene’s happy, isn’t that right? If she’s happy, we’re happy. That’s what you always say. Right, Joe?’
She broke down. ‘Right, Joe?’
Mia started to cry. ‘Say that’s right, say it, Joe.’
Joe recalled how flat his voice had sounded. ‘The stage isn’t the problem. Fact, I like the idea.’
‘So, it’s all right? You’re not mad?’ Mia’s eyes blazed with hope. She sniffed away the last of her tears.
‘Maybe I don’t communicate too well.’
‘No, Joe,’ Mia reached across and grabbed his hand. ‘You communicate fine. Just fine.’
‘Well, how come nothin’ I say ever gets heard? How come I’m talkin’ to myself night and day?’
‘Joe …’
‘Don’t “Joe” me, Mia. We’ll carry on, for a time at least, for Jolene’s sake. Soon as she doesn’t need us anymore, I’m gone.’
‘What’re you sayin’? We can go at each other hammer and tongs. It don’t mean diddly. Never did.’
‘I’m sayin’ it’s over, plain and simple. Over. All that needs thinkin’ about is the when.’
His expression told her he was serious.
‘How much to build the stage?’
‘What? Oh … six hundred dollars, includin’ the carpet.’
Joe’s eyebrows arched. ‘Good price,’ he’d said, and went through to his room.
But his wife was a determined woman, so here they were again.
Mia said, ‘Now, Joe, you just sit there while I turn the music on.’
Her husband allowed himself to be treated this way because he recognised the effort Mia was making. He was too far down to respond. Even the guys at work commented on it. Whole days passed without him saying anything, other than just enough to get by. The depression Joe Johnson had fallen into hadn’t been diagnosed, yet it was there, drawing him deeper every day. He was a man going through the motions of living.
Mia Johnson fussed over the disc player, then shouted, ‘Okay, honey, here we go.’
The music began, and Jolene strode on to the stage in her cowgirl costume.
A line into the song her mother began giving Joe a running commentary.
‘Her breathing’s better, don’t you think?’
Joe didn’t reply.
‘Breathing gives a performer confidence, Miss Wilson says. I think it’s true. Does she seem more confident to you? She does to me.’
Jolene twirled the toy gun. Her eyes never once left her mother, and her brain juggled the messages.
Chin up! Eyes on the judges not on the ground!
Big breath.
Big breath. Out slowly. Slowly.
Smile. Keep that smile going.
Joe’s wife whispered in his ear. ‘She’s getting there. This is better, it really is. Don’t you see a big improvement? Look at her face, she’s enjoying herself.’
Was it better? He didn’t know. He thought again about the suitcase at the back of the wardrobe, packed and ready to go. Whenever he was certain his little girl no longer needed him, he’d take it out, disappear and never look back.
That was the plan. Right now, he just wanted to sleep.
21
Another weekend and another bust.
No competition and no Stella. I missed her laugh and the quiet way she managed me, thinking I wasn’t onto her. Of course I always was.
Make that sometimes was.
I wanted to call. I can be mule-stubborn at times, so I didn’t, and suffered my way through another day. Good decision, Delaney. Later, I did something unusual for me: started drinking before the gig. By the time I got to Mr MaGoo’s, my mood was dark. A few more shots of Jack during the first set didn’t help, and by the time the break came around, I was in bad shape.
Fitzpatrick sat beside me at a table near the back of the room and tried to lift me out of it. He pointed to the glass in my hand. ‘That won’t help.’
My reply was sullen. ‘You don’t say.’
Fitz stayed with it. ‘I do say. I’ve always admired you, Delaney. Want to know why?’
I snorted my contempt for his judgement. ‘I’m guessing you’re gonna tell me.’
‘You’ve never been afraid to be who you are. The bike, the harp – even talking to a dog. No matter how crazy it looks from the outside, if it feels right, you do it, and to hell with what people think. When the department let you down, you quit. Other officers would’ve stayed and let their resentment fester. Not you.’ He made a gesture in the air with his arm. ‘You were gone.’
I swirled the bourbon in the glass, unimpressed. ‘And your point is?’
‘You’ve got character, my friend. Don’t forget it.’
He got up to leave. The rest of the band were already onstage. Fitzy leaned towards me, put a hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear. ‘Did I mention you can also be an asshole?’
The pity-party was over. For the rest of the gig, I left the booze in the bottle and put how I was feeling into the music. Played a storm, even if I say so myself.
On Sunday, I stayed home nursing the hangover I’d paid good money to get. For once, Catherine didn’t protest too hard about not seeing me. I watched the game on TV by myself – the Broncos won 27/15 – but to tell the truth, most of it passed in a haze. After that, I mooched around, kind of cleaned the house, picked up the guitar, put it down, fed my dog, picked the guitar up again; made myself a sandwich and couldn’t eat it, poured half a glass of milk I didn’t drink, and fell asleep on the couch. The only living soul I’d spoken to all day was Lowell. As conversations went, it wasn’t the best. He made it clear he blamed me for Stella.
When I woke up, it was almost eight o’clock at night. Cornflakes for dinner. On a shelf by the fireplace, two books caught my eye. To be on the safe side, I started both of them. An hour later, they were out of my life. I let Lowell out into the garden because I couldn’t be bothered taking him for a walk. Somehow, he understood it was the best offer he was gonna get and took it. For the next I-don’t-know-how-long, I flicked through the never-ending selection of television channels, amazed to find nothing of interest.
Finally, I pressed the big red button and went to bed.
And I still didn’t call her. What an idiot I could be sometimes.
Death came unexpectedly to Clyde Hays. He’d been surprised to see the two men come into his shop and instinctively understood it wasn’t good news; they didn’t say a word. Was it starting again?
One of them turned the open sign to closed and pulled down the blind. His friend stepped behind the counter and knocked the old black man to the ground. He coughed blood and felt a tooth loosen. The thugs hooked their hands in the collar of his shirt and dragged him in
to the back. Then, they got to work.
Clyde’s wrists were tied behind his back; a gag bit into his mouth. When he felt the rope go around his neck and tighten, he realised they weren’t there for money and started to struggle in earnest.
Too late.
His feet left the ground. Pain like he’d never known made him blind; he couldn’t breathe. The men hauled him high and used a grain barrel to tie-off the rope. They watched his legs kick until they stopped. It didn’t take long. Satisfied with what they’d done, they raised the blind, turned the sign to open and left.
I spent Monday in the office on behalf of Harry Love. The place was quiet. Just me and Lowell. He had concluded I was beyond his help. Or maybe he’d caught some of my mood. Either way, he gave me a wide berth, except when he needed me to walk or feed him.
A black cloud hung over New Orleans: a thunderstorm building. It would probably break later tonight. It was hot, not as bad as the previous months but still in the 80s, and humid. Around eight, I was sitting in a bar waiting for the Monday night football to begin when my cell bleeped. I had a text. It was from Stella.
Meet me @ 9. Le Petit Chemineau. S.
I had to meet her, I knew that – but what could I say? Nothing had changed. Julian Boutte was still out there somewhere, and my life still attracted the wrong kind of people.
I ordered another beer. When it came I took a sip, swung myself off the stool and strolled outside for some air, feeling bluer by the minute.
Meet me @ 9. Le Petit Chemineau. S.
The night was unnaturally dark, and the street almost deserted. All around, static air waited to be cleansed. Then, it began. No more than a steady drizzle at first, bathing New Orleans. There were no sounds, other than the hypnotic rhythm of falling rain.
I called Stella’s message up again and re-read it just as a flash of distant light split the night, signalling the beginning of the deluge. Down it came, changing the colour of everything in an exhibition of raw power.
The phone rang. I moved inside to the relative quiet of the bar.
She spoke without preamble. ‘Meet me. Jackson Square. Nine o’clock.’
The line went dead.
I had two people to meet at the same time: nine o’clock. One of them was going to be disappointed, though not more disappointed than me. I tried to reach her. Her cell was off. This was bad.
“Meet me. Jackson Square. Nine o’clock.”
I knew which appointment I had to keep.
Stella was still unobtainable. I started to write a text message and stopped. What would I say? Sorry. Can’t make it, something’s come up?
I wouldn’t be meeting Stella at nine.
The fear in her tone brooked no denial. The telephone number was new; the voice was all too familiar.
“Meet me. Jackson Square. Nine o’clock,” Cilla Bartholomew had said.
And I’d be there.
It wasn’t a request.
22
Torrential rain reduced visibility and made driving almost impossible.
At eight-forty-five, I pulled up near the site of Indian fighter and future president Andrew Jackson’s “glorious victory” over the British in the Battle of New Orleans in 1815, and got out. Within seconds, I was soaked to the skin. Hard to believe it could get much wetter. After half a block, I knew different. My clothes stuck to my skin, water filled my shoes. I sheltered under an awning on Wilk Row, where I could see across the Square. It was deserted. I waited, wishing I was sitting in Le Petit Chemineau with Stella, instead of shipping water out on the street, certain something bad was about to happen.
Five past nine. No sign of Cilla Bartholomew. Then, she appeared.
At first, I didn’t recognise her. When I did, I stepped into the near-vertical torrent of water, lowered my head against the night, and made my way towards her. She was surrounded by an unearthly calm as she moved from Madison Street at the other side of the French Quarter. Off to the side, the Saint Louis Cathedral was like a ghost ship broken on the rocks.
She walked in small steps, advancing in slow-motion. Her head was uncovered, and she stared at me. Even in those awful conditions, I could see a difference in her not brought by any elemental force. She looked smaller than before, more fragile. Rain cascaded down her face, past the sunken eyes of someone who has cried for hours. She looked at me without speaking, bloodless lips pressed together. Lightning flashed behind her, the wind fell to nothing, and the rain fell and fell.
‘Clyde’s dead.’
‘Dead? How?’
She shook her head, unable to answer, deflecting drops of falling rain. ‘They hung him. In his back shop.’
‘Fuck! Who did?’ I already knew the answer.
Bitterness helped her find her voice. ‘They did!’
‘Tell me what happened.’
Jackson Square was covered in pools of water inches deep, and still, the heavens raged. A peel of thunder, then another, broke over New Orleans. A flash of lightning lit her for a fleeting moment. She wiped tears away. Or maybe it was rain; I couldn’t tell which.
Another flash of electricity washed the dark from the sky then the night plunged even deeper into black. And all the while, Pricilla Bartholomew stared balefully at me through the suffocating rain.
‘This morning, two new men arrived to make collections. Imagine our horror, our disappointment. It wasn’t over. It wasn’t over at all. Henry Duke was in his hardware store and refused to pay. But the men made no threats. All they said was, “We’ve got a message for you. Two messages. The first is in his back shop. The second is more important. No more Delaney. No more cops.” When they left, we found him.’
The rain still fell, and the thunder roared, but I didn’t hear. Only Cilla Bartholomew and her horrific tale existed. I was too stunned to speak.
‘Mr Delaney, I trusted you, but I was wrong. Do you remember our one request, our one condition?’
I remembered.
No police, we don’t trust them
‘But we agreed …’
She cut me off. ‘Clyde paid for doing it your way. We’ll all pay. I came to tell you to stay away from us. Before you read about Clyde’s suicide in the newspaper, I want to say stay away. Far, far away.’
Her hair was flat against her head. She drew an elegant finger under her eyes and smiled the saddest smile I ever saw. ‘We made many mistakes, Mr Delaney. You were the biggest.’
On my way back to the car, I didn’t try to shelter from the river of water raining down on me. Cilla Bartholomew was right: the death of Clyde Hays was on me.
I had to make this right.
Part III
That’s What Friends Are For
23
The storm lingered into the next day. It fitted my mood all too well. Lowell and I spent time on the rain-washed Moon Walk beside the river watching its swollen progress.
What a mess I’d made of everything.
The only people who knew about my involvement were the storekeepers – and there were plenty of them – Cal Moreland and me. I’d said nothing to anyone, not even Danny. That narrowed it to the traders or Cal. Maybe a trader had talked, or perhaps Cal told someone he thought he could trust. Either way, whoever was behind this thing knew all about me.
But what if it wasn’t down to some slip up?
That would mean a trader on the wrong side or that Cal was involved. No other options presented themselves. The shopkeepers were the victims. End of story. But surely it couldn’t be Cal? I’d known him most of my life and had no reason to suspect he was dirty. Except Hill and Clark had worked out of his district. Did they really get caught up in a drug bust that went wrong?
‘Convenient, or what?’ Cal had said. Could Hill and Clark have been sacrificed to leave the trail cold and allow the extortion to start again, reinforced by new threats and Clyde’s murder? If so, we were looking at three homicides. The racket drew down big money. Big enough to warrant triple murder?
Absolutely.
Julian
Boutte never crossed my mind. Not smart, though I didn’t care anymore. He could bring it on any time he liked.
On Friday, I went to the office and left Lowell at home. I asked Mrs Santini, the widowed lady next door, to look in and make sure he was okay. Rosa Santini was a tiny woman and a dog-person, with three of her own. The family had emigrated from southern Italy three generations earlier. Her grandfather hadn’t liked New York – too cold – and moved to Louisiana. By the time Rosa came along, they were New Orleans republicans, running a restaurant in Marrero. Her husband, Alberto, had died years earlier. Alberto must’ve been quite a guy to keep up with her. She had a talent for asking questions which shouldn’t be asked, and expecting an answer. Rosa was nosey and rude, outrageous and generous, and the best neighbour anybody could have – my go-to girl whenever I had to be out of town and couldn’t take Lowell with me. Every female who came to my house got marked out of ten. Low scores and unflattering observations were the norm. Stella was the exception; Rosa liked her and was convinced she was too good for me.
‘Saw that girl (with Rosa Santini, anybody under fifty was a girl) ‘round again last night. When you gonna do right by her, huh?’
I laughed. ‘Won’t have me, Mrs Santini. Believe me, I’ve tried.’
She nodded, as if she understood, which didn’t do a lot for my self-worth. In her estimation, every single man was doomed until the right “girl” came along to save him from himself. She might just have a point.
Occasionally – when the morning mass gossip mill was having a slow day – Rosa would bring food and stay to watch me eat. It took months to realise the visits were fishing expeditions. The only topic she wouldn’t discuss was how old she was. On her seventy-sixth birthday – information that had slipped out one evening on my front porch thanks to a couple of glasses of red wine – an attempt to congratulate her was met with the flinty wisdom that was her trademark. ‘Age is just a bunch of numbers, Delaney.’