by Julie Smith
Somehow, he didn’t know how—maybe from television—Potter knew this was not how it was supposed to be. He knew his mama wasn’t supposed to be sick all the time, and the kids weren’t supposed to have to do everything themselves. He even knew he was supposed to have a daddy. Kids on TV did.
He didn’t think there were supposed to be so many shootings, either. He didn’t think people you knew were supposed to die.
My whole life might have been different if it hadn’t been for Ms. Myers.
She was his first-grade teacher. She had read stories to the class, the first he’d heard, and he was desperate to be able to do that himself. And so she had taught him. All the kids were supposed to learn, but he threw a fit one day because he couldn’t do it, because it wasn’t coming fast enough, and she had asked him if he wanted to stay after school until he learned how.
He had simply nodded, not thinking words were necessary, and after that, he had stayed twice a week. Ms. Myers brought him home herself.
She taught him how to read and other things. She even took him home one day, to show him where she lived, and that was how he found out what a backyard was like. He saw where her kids lived, too, each in his or her own spotless room, and then he knew for sure it didn’t have to be the way it was at home.
For some people there were other ways.
“Why not me,” he had asked her. “Why is my life ugly and bleak?”
He hadn’t actually put it that way. He had pitched another fit, screaming incoherently, but she understood. She saw what he was trying to ask.
“It will get better,” she said. “You can get out of this. But you have to promise me two things. First, do well in school.”
He had simply nodded, impatient. All you had to do to do well in school was show up.
“And second, never, never, never under any circumstances, do drugs.”
“Drugs?” he had said. “What that be?”
He had found out. When his mother died, his grandmother had come, and she had said his mother died of drugs. He still didn’t know what they were, but he saw why Ms. Myers objected.
His grandmother couldn’t keep the kids, and they were split up. Potter was sent to a foster home, and then another and another.
Pretty soon every kid he knew was doing something, pot at least, but all Potter could think about was that Ms. Myers said he could get out.
He had gotten out of the project, out of the filth and squalor, but they beat him in some of the homes, in the one where he was living when he decided to run away.
I can get out, he thought. She told me I can. I do well in school and I don’t do drugs.
He was twelve years old at the time. He lived on the streets for three weeks before it occurred to him to find his grandmother. He knew she lived somewhere in New Orleans, in the lower Ninth Ward she had told him once, so he asked where that was, and he went there. He never did find her, but he did find someone who reminded him of her, an older woman who found him sleeping in a doorway and took him home. He didn’t know why except that Miss Rose was a Christian.
She told him that right away and immediately began taking him to church. She said he should thank God for his food and shelter and clothing and the truth was, he was so grateful, he didn’t care who he thanked.
That was how he found out about God. He liked the idea that someone was looking out for him. Maybe that was how he’d gotten out of the Fisher, maybe God had sent Ms. Myers.
He did well in school, just like she said, and even got into Xavier, where he went for a year. Miss Rose helped him out a little, but she couldn’t really afford it, and Potter had to work his butt off doing various jobs that paid pennies just to stay in school.
That summer he got a real job working for a lawyer. And from there his life went fast—he met the guy who did the lawyer’s investigations, and they got to talking. Potter got fascinated, so the guy hired him, and that was it. Potter never went back to school.
It paid seven-fifty an hour, but he figured he could learn fast and open his own agency, which indeed had happened. And that had led to other things, things he’d never have imagined—lucrative government contracts, some of them in foreign countries. Potter had done things he couldn’t tell Yolanda about, but Daddy—now that was different. He could talk to Daddy about anything and not feel judged, not feel he’d be any less loved—either by Daddy or the Lord—if Daddy knew everything he’d ever done for money.
“You did what you had to do, son,” Daddy had said, and it was true. Potter had gotten out of the Fisher, and had gotten his wife and kids a nice house in Eastover.
And he’d made enough money to take a few months off and help Daddy get elected.
What Potter had liked first about being a detective was playing with the surveillance equipment. He still loved the stuff (which had improved markedly since he’d been in the business), but now what he liked was the sheer joy of being good at it. He had never played football in any formal sense, but he watched athletes, even at the high school level—the way they used their bodies, their grace and confidence, their surefootedness, and he felt their exhilaration; it was his life.
Treadaway came out of the store, apparently having gotten change. He made a call at the booth outside and then began taking notes from the Yellow Pages, making more calls. Most of the numbers he called evidently didn’t answer, but one or two seemed to.
In a few minutes a cab pulled up and Treadaway got in.
Potter followed the cab to a pawn shop in Harahan. He got out and watched through the window as Treadaway bought a handgun, and then he followed the cab back to Treadaway’s house in the French Quarter.
He reported instantly to Daddy, whose mouth turned grim at the news. “He’s coming after me.”
Potter nodded. “It’s possible, yes.”
“What do you think we should do about it?”
Potter shrugged. “‘Terminate him.”
“Very good. But how, Mr. Menard?”
“I have to think about that.”
“You do that. And come up with a plan.”
Chapter Eighteen
SKIP HAD GOTTEN an early start—semi-early anyway— because Steve Steinman was coming that night. It was going to be a tight squeeze—New Orleans to Atlanta, Atlanta to Savannah, interview a woman who wasn’t expecting her, and back again in time for dinner at Jimmy Dee’s.
If Aunt Alice would see her—and Hurricane Hannah didn’t disrupt plane schedules—she’d make it. According to the weatherman, Hannah was still headed for the Gulf Coast rather than the Atlantic, which meant that, as long as the storm didn’t take a sudden turn, Savannah was out of danger.
But if anything went wrong, she’d have to spend the night. It wasn’t a hospitable way to greet a guest. She had phoned in advance—found an Alice Sherman in Information, and gotten an answer, but as Theo Jackson had warned, she was deaf as a store dummy.
When stating her business didn’t seem to work, Skip had simply said she was coming Wednesday morning, but she wasn’t sure that got through either. She had called Theo back, asked him to run it down for Aunt Alice, then spent fifteen minutes explaining why she wouldn’t be needing to be picked up at the airport, and in fact really wouldn’t be able to see Theo at all this time. He seemed a little miffed, and Skip wasn’t sure he’d speak to his aunt.
Aunt Alice was there when she showed up, though, resplendent in light blue, apparently dressed for receiving a guest. She was a large woman, either built so top-heavy she was a freak of nature or the victim of bizarre and sadistic corsetry.
“I’m Skip Langdon.”
“Alice Sherman. Not at all sure why you’re here, but come on in.”
Aunt Alice had a lot of extra fat, extra skin, and extra makeup. Her skin had been powdered a sweet shell-pink, and it hung off her chin in wattles. She had white hair curled much too tight and an absolutely beatific expression. Skip wondered if perfect happiness came from being able to tune out what you didn’t want to hear.
Her living room was so full of tiny things that had to be dusted, Skip didn’t see how she could have time for anything else. She sat in a rocker and motioned Skip to a stiff, hard-sitting sofa.
“What can I do for you, Ms. Langdon? My, you have pretty skin.”
“Thank you. Thank you. I’ve come about—”
Sherman began waving her arms for quiet. “Sorry. I almost forgot your paper.” She handed over a small lined pad. “In the pleasure of having a visitor, I nearly forgot my infirmity. I can still talk, praise the good Lord, but I’m as deaf as that girl in the picture.”
She pointed to the wall behind Skip, where an ancient print of Lawrence’s Pinkie hung.
“Just write down your half of the conversation. And while you’re doing that, I’ll fix us some lemonade.” She heaved her bulk out of the chair and waddled to the kitchen, legs unsteady though she wore the heaviest of orthopedic shoes.
Skip wrote, “I’m here about your nephew, Earl Jackson. I understand he was quite a hellion in his time.”
She wanted to test the waters before plunging in.
When Aunt Alice had returned with the lemonade, and had read the note, she wrinkled her nose. “Theo told me what you said about him being a small-town preacher who just got elected president of something. Is that true? Earl Jackson’s actually a solid citizen somewhere?”
Skip wrote, “I’m afraid I lied to Theo. Earl Jackson’s a preacher, but I think he’s a con man and worse.”
Aunt Alice said. “Now that sounds more like him. Meanest kid I ever saw. Only mean kid I ever saw. You ever meet anybody you thought was really a bad person? I mean actually evil?”
Skip said, “I think so. Earl Jackson.”
“Write it! Write it!”
When she had, Aunt Alice nodded. “The family thought it was a big joke about the kittens and fish and everything—Theo said he told you about that. They always play it for laughs. But I say, ‘ ‘Taint funny, McGee.’ ”
At Skip’s puzzled expression, she said, “That’s something left over from radio. You’re not supposed to understand it. I wonder why families do those things? He was a very, very dangerous little boy—always in trouble, too.”
Skip wrote. “What sort?”
“At first, it was just stuff like getting sent to the principal’s office—you know, for disrupting the class, things like that. Then he started actually getting arrested.”
“For what?” Skip was so excited she spoke, but Sherman nodded, evidently having understood.
“Oh, things like breaking into the school.” She shrugged. “Personally, I think that was just a prank. What really bothered me was that he hit other kids. And then there was the time he set fire to his parents’ mattress. ‘Course, no one knew about that but the family. Then later on, when he was in high school, there was the usual stuff—marijuana, illegal possession of alcohol, car-stealing once. Nothing much.” She stopped and frowned. “I notice you’re not taking notes. You’re not a reporter, are you?”
Skip laughed and shook her head. She wrote, “I’m a police officer on leave. This is a private job. To tell you the truth I’m working for myself. I think he’s incredibly dangerous and he’s running for mayor of New Orleans.”
Sherman let out a loud breath. “God help that city if he gets elected.”
“That’s what I think.”
“He did threaten a kid with a gun once, but that’s not gon’ help you. I know something that might, though.” She put a hand over her mouth for a moment. “I know he’s dangerous, always knew he was dangerous, but I don’t know about this one.”
“What was it?”
“He was accused of murder once.”
“What!”
Sherman held her ears, and then laughed. It was her little joke. “Well, I wasn’t gon’ tell you over some silly small-town club election, but I just never did think that was what you were here about. Nobody’d fly a reporter clear to Savannah for that. Anyway, you’re older than Theo thinks you are. Didn’t quite make sense.”
Skip smiled. She had underestimated Alice Sherman, and she was kicking herself for it: Deaf didn’t mean stupid, and neither did old. She wrote: “Why’d you decide to talk to me?”
“Liked you,” Sherman said simply. “I knew you were a good person, even if you were lying.”
Skip smiled again and wrote, “You must be psychic.”
“Nope. Just smart.” She rocked a bit, intertwining her fingers. “Don’t know about that murder charge. In the first place, I don’t know much about it—even where it was, I mean. Only reason I know about it at all is, Earl’s mother had to hire a lawyer for him, and the lawyer got him off. She always said it was an accident.” She rocked some more. “Maybe it was. Might have been, I just don’t know.”
Skip wrote, “Do you have any other details?”
“Nope. Not a one. Wish I did, but that’s all I know. Right after that he became a preacher, and Blanche— that’s his mother—begged me to forget about it. You know what, about Blanche? When he was a little bitty boy, she dreamed he was the Messiah. Can you beat that? Now there’s a dream shoulda never been told.”
Skip was wondering if Blanche were alive when Sherman said, “ ‘Course, poor Blanche is long gone. I’m the oldest one left—in fact, the only one left who’d know about that. And I sure don’t know much about it.”
Skip thanked her and drove to the airport in her rental car, thinking she’d have to write Alice Sherman a big fat thank-you note, even if she didn’t find out another thing. Sherman was a sharply intelligent woman who didn’t try to brush things under the carpet—evil under the carpet. She liked the way Sherman had put it, what she saw in Jacomine.
Skip had seen it only a couple of times, and she knew what courage it took to face it—to say, this is it, that thing you’ve read about.
This is pure evil.
She called Jane Storey from the airport. “I’ve got something good, but I can’t prove it. A murder charge, no conviction.”
“Dynamite! Who needs a conviction? It’s not libelous to say he stood trial—and the testimony’s public record. If there’s anything good, I can use it.”
“Here’s the problem. I don’t know where it was.”
“Wait a minute. We know his real name. Wouldn’t it be in a data bank somewhere?”
“Uh-huh. In any one of fifty.”
“You mean there’s no central Hall of Records?”
“There’s a federal wanted system, but I’ve already checked it under both names we know. The problem is, some small towns don’t report—this could have slipped by. Or, he might have had a third name at the time. I’ll check southern states—Louisiana and Georgia, for sure. Maybe a few others.”
“I’d appreciate it. I’d love to get that bastard.”
“Careful. In his case, the walls really do have ears.”
“Listen, I’ve got a tidbit for you. Do you have time? Is your flight being called or anything?”
“Shoot. I’ve got half an hour.”
“I just got a call from a source in Perretti’s campaign. Get this—Jacomine’s new press secretary quit. He wants to go to work for Perretti.”
“Noel Treadaway?” Skip whistled. “Thereby hangs a tale, I bet.”
“Don’t you imagine. I’ve got a call in to him right now.”
* * *
She’d been gone two days. Maybe that was long enough. Torian called her mother.
“‘Torian? Torian, is it really you?”
Did her mother sound slightly concerned? Maybe just a little bit as if she’d been worried?
“It’s really me.”
“Are you all right?” Lise’s voice was slurred—that was what was off.
“Fine.”
“Where are you?”
“I just thought I’d call and—”
“Where are you, Torian?”
“I’m in a nice place. Someone nice is taking care of me.”
“Some kid with a pierced nose? You little w
hore, you probably—”
“What?”
“You’d probably shack up with the first thing in trousers—”
“What did you call me?”
“Torian, you brat. Do you have any idea what you’ve put me through? Tell me where the hell you are, and I’ll come get your sorry ass.”
Even Lise wasn’t usually this nasty—or this loaded, from the sound of things.
Torian said, “You couldn’t even walk, much less drive.”
She hung up.
Faylice said, “Ain’ nothin’ change, huh?”
Torian turned away, blinking tears.
Faylice came and sat on the bed next to her. “Hey. It be okay to cry. That what my auntie say.”
Shyly, she put an arm around Torian’s shoulders, and without thinking, Torian put her arms around her. She buried her face in Faylice’s soft, fleshy shoulder. It was oddly, almost unbearably comforting. There was a pleasure in it that took Torian by surprise, not like what she felt when she held Noel, but not so different either. It was something more basic, something primeval.
It came to her suddenly: This is what a mother feels like.
In the realization were the ironies of it, and all the pain of them: That she shouldn’t find out till she was nearly an adult; that the maternal object should be a child younger than she; that she should discover it only because Lise had hurt her so much and so often.
Faylice had given her permission to cry, and she took it, with utter abandon and without self-consciousness. The other girl held her and stroked her hair as if Torian were a younger sister.
When she had exhausted her tears, Torian pulled away, a little embarrassed. “‘Thank you,” she whispered.
“You sure got silky hair, you know that?”
Torian laughed. “I feel better.” In fact, she felt as if a dense black thing in her heart had dissolved.
Can a person have heartstones? she wondered. Like gallstones?