"That's insane. They can't all believe that."
"This coming from the very same person who thought it completely understandable to elicit information about the afterlife from a suicidal hillbilly high on meth-amphetamines."
I scratched my chin, wondering if I should relate my bad dreams to Deuce. "I have my reasons."
But he had already moved back to thinking about his days in the NFL. I could see him thinking about something, hesitating. Finally, he said, "One teammate of mine - and no matter whether you believe me or not, this is no shit - but one of them, a perpetual Pro Bowler, had his own personal mojo man."
"I would have thought that crazy a month ago. Hell, weeks ago. It doesn't sound so bad now."
Deuce finished off his beer. The amber liquid drained into his mouth, leaving only suds, and he placed the mug on the bar and burped. It was dainty and constrained for such a big man, and I nearly smiled. Meanwhile, I sipped on my Coca-Cola.
"Consulted with him before every. Single. Game."
"And what exactly is a 'mojo man?’"
"Think of that old Muddy Waters song, 'Got My Mojo Working.' Not much different than it sounds. Dude keeps little charms and things in a bag called a mojo. He don't do everything the voodoo men do, but he does some things. Kept a criminal's hand with him at all times."
"A human hand?"
Deuce nodded in a way that made me wonder if he was having me over. "Lopped off at the wrist. It was all shriveled and desiccated. Saw it for myself before a game against Carolina."
"What possible use could it serve?"
"Said it kept him outta jail. Said, and I'm just saying, but he said he ain't been locked up since he got that hand. What he didn't say was he'd given up bum wine, too, but I'm sure he didn't take that into account."
"You'd think he'd of just put himself under a spell, if he was so powerful."
Deuce motioned to the barkeep for another beer. "Logic and spirituality don't mix much. You should know that. Look at your situation. It isn't logical that dirt and grass mixed with water would make you stop drinking."
"I suspected he might have been up to something when he gave it to me, but I just figured that he'd be doing...different things."
"Well, voodoo ain't got nothing to do with sticking pins into dolls and chanting at midnight, either. That's where they get it wrong in the movies."
"The movies always seem to do that."
"Christianity influenced the voodoo practiced in the U.S., but what they believe doesn't have much to do with a man dying on a cross two thousand years ago. That's what the Pro Bowler's main guy told me, that voodoo, on its ear, just means 'contemplating the unknown.’ and damned if there ain't a lot of that going on."
"I never knew you had a grasp on all of this."
The bartender dropped a bottle of Bud in front of him, a napkin underneath, and Deuce took his time transferring the beer to the stein, tilting the glass and the bottle simultaneously. My mouth soured watching the bottle empty.
"What people don't realize is that voodoo is powerful because people believe it, like how believing in God makes people think they can pick up live snakes or drive planes into skyscrapers. There's power in that, good or bad, and you can't deny it.”
“True.”
He said, “ This is no different. Just because people in movies who doin’ voodoo look crazy as shithouse rats shouldn't shake the fact that a lot people do think it's very real. When that belief is there, nothing can displace it. Half the power of voodoo is believing in it yourself, and if you believe it as a priest, so will the people subjected to it."
The door opened and light flooded in, stomping out all the shadows. The spell of the bar was momentarily broken, and, as if the voodoo talk was somehow itself a trance, Deuce changed the subject.
"So, big day tomorrow."
"What is going to happen will happen,” I said distractedly. On top of everything else, I was worried about Vanessa now, too.
"You don't seem worried."
"I've got other things on my mind."
A loud racket emerged from the other side of the room. Buford McKibben, an old and not-quite-retired small engine repairman, slapped the video poker machine and let loose a series of curses only vaguely resembling English. His voice cut like a saw blade through the jangle of Willie Nelson's guitar.
When Buford finished his rant, Deuce's attention returned to me. His face was bathed in that orange light. He said, "Well, at the very least, you've got one day in county lock-up. That's just the rule. Don't you think the people who did this know that? If you take too long a nap, something's going to disappear, I can tell you that. Then you'll have the rest of your life for this to be on your mind, and I can guarantee you don't want that."
"I know. I reckon I'll have to make a big move in the next day or so."
"Big meaning stupid."
"Pretty much."
"What is driving you to do this?"
"’The sins of the father are visited upon the son,’ and, God help me, I was witness to something as a kid I was never meant to see, and I've been paying for it my entire life. Some part of me thinks helping the Laveau family will get some of the muck off my hands."
"All right," he said, trying to sound bewildered, though the look in his eyes told me different. "It's your dog you're putting in this fight. Just don't be surprised if you have to put him down afterwards."
* * *
Deuce left shortly thereafter, and I remained glued to my barstool, ordering Coke and staring blankly at the television. I thought about Emmitt Laveau the rest of the evening.
I still didn't have a sense of who he was, really. All I had to go on were the memories of friends and loved ones and a few supernatural dreams.
I knew a few things, though. He had given no one reason to harm him. He had attended Georgia Southern down in Statesboro for a couple of semesters before dropping out to wait tables in Savannah. After bumming around that city for a couple of years, he returned to Lumber Junction with a temporary teaching certificate in hand. Wanted to work with special needs children at the high school.
Two women I had spoken to broke down in tears talking about him. Lorreta Barnes had said, "I had never, until this whole situation, thought racism a problem in this city anymore. God help us all."
Was it, though? I wondered. Could I be certain racism was to blame, or were people hiding something about him and the Brickmeyer family? Jeffrey, especially, seemed weirded out when I mentioned Laveau around him.
Several possibilities emerged, but the most obvious to me was that he had moved back to the Junction to run away from something in Savannah. It made sense that he would come back home if he had run into some trouble down there. However, no mysterious strangers had been noticed snooping around town, and in Lumber Junction folks tend to notice unfamiliar people.
He and Jeffrey Brickmeyer both had had troubles down in Savannah, but they’d lived down there at slightly different times, so there was no real connection between them. Strike that from the investigation.
"Another soda," I said to the bartender, and when he brought it and I reached for my wallet, he shook his head. "This one ain't on you.”
"Thanks," I replied.
"Oh, I didn't do it," Louis cackled, nodding over my shoulder. "He's been paying for them since Deuce left."
Leaned back in a chair was Leland Brickmeyer's right hand man. Somehow, in here, he looked more ragged than the last time I’d seen him. He raised his beer, held it there for a second, and then tilted his head back like he wanted me to come sit with him.
I checked the length of the bar. Could be some kind of set-up. But I didn't see anything. Nobody even seemed to notice I was there, except the one guy, Brickmeyer's heavy hand, whose name was Bodean Driscoll, Deuce had told me.
I couldn't say now what made me do it, but I did go and sit with him. I felt a little woozy, but I attributed that as much to being in a bar as anything else.
He said, "Drinking cokes, huh? Better
watch it. Makes it hard for people to be charitable and buy you a beer."
"What do you want?"
"Grab a seat, big guy," he replied. "I got no beef with you."
"What the fuck are you doing motioning me over here?"
He smiled. "Hey. Whoa. I just bought you a drink, man. Doesn't that entitle me to a few sentences? Just give me something to work with."
My muscles were so tight I thought I could feel my bones clenching. The way he smiled just begged for me to deck him; I don't know why. I guess I was tired, ill, grasping for anger. And something was spinning in my head. "Did Brickmeyer send you here?"
"Which one, the boss or the fairy?"
I stared.
"All right," he said, laughing about his little joke. "Yeah, the big man sent me out here. Figured I'd be able to calm the tide a little bit, seeing as every time the two of you were in each other's presence, you tend to go goddamn nuclear."
"Were you the one chasing me that night, after I left the bar?"
He didn't react. I expected something. Jesus, even if it was ridiculous, I expected him to laugh at me, but all he did was give me that smile, that all-knowing grin. He reminded me of a crocodile.
Finally, he said, "Boy, you sure don't disappoint, do you? Leland said you'd bring the crazy, and I had seen it some myself, but he didn't tell me you were this fucking nutso. Je. Sus. No, I ain't had a part in people fucking with you. I come here to make amends."
I stared at him. He said, "I ain't shitting you, man. I'm an honest guy. Got to work for Mr. Brickmeyer because I've got a security background. I just happen to have a head for numbers, too, so I fit in real well with his model for running business. That not make much sense to you? Probably shouldn't. But with guys like you sniffing the air around him, especially with the way you're staring at me, Leland has no choice but to have people like me around."
"What was Jeffrey doing at Laveau's funeral?"
However tough his facade, this last comment elicited a reaction. His flesh-colored eyebrows twitched. "I didn’t see him. Didn't know he would be there, actually."
Something in the man's eyes betrayed him, like a light flickering after an electrical surge. I looked away, careful not to let on that I knew he was lying.
"No, no. He came out to the graveside and pretended not to look interested. Know anything about that?"
"I done told you I didn't know shit. You think I'm just an errand boy. Why go and ask all these questions?"
"Somebody's got to answer them. Why not you? Plus, and I think this is the more related point, you strolled in here and started buying me drinks." I gestured at the Coke.
"I am like the, uh, intermediary between you and my boss."
"So you're giving me the polite shine-on. Buying me flat Coca-Cola and showing off your personality. Forgive me for being skeptical."
He leaned forward, resting one elbow on the table between us. "No offense taken. Brickmeyer wants to see to it that you give up this personal mission to ruin his name."
"A bribe? That what you here for?"
"It won't help to use that language.” He paused, perhaps to think of the exact way of easing himself back into his former point. “You're looking at some jail. Not a lot, mind you-"
"Bare minimum's a day in county. I can swing that."
"One word from the big man himself, and your problems could be washed away. He’s got some influence with the DA."
I thought it over. "And all I'd have to do is give up on my investigation?"
"That's it, chief. Just head back out to the country and don't make a peep for a while."
I thought of Emmitt Laveau and Janita. I thought of my dreams. I thought of my mother. "Forget it. I'm sticking with it, but don't let that get between our newfound friendship," I said. "I'm liking these free drinks."
"Personally, I don't give a damn what you do. You're an alcoholic in complete denial. I suspect you’ll probably end up tripping over your disease.”
"Sounds like a broken record, that idea. Let's get on something fresh, like Jeffrey Brickmeyer."
"Go ahead."
"What gives with his attendance at the funeral?"
He looked around, peeking at some older couple in the corner, and then turned back to me. "Jeffrey's a private man. Got that from his daddy. And they aren't keen on the hive getting throttled around like this."
"I've never seen a more thin-skinned politician in my life."
His smile widened, but he shook his head. He took another swig of his Bud, finishing it off, and jangled it in front of him. "You want that soda topped off? I'm getting another brew.” He shrugged noncommittally. “Long as it's on the boss, you know."
I told him no, but he insisted. I shrugged, and he went to the bar with my cup in hand. No skin off my back; it wasn't like I was going to drink it, either way. He was basically wasting his time and his hospitality.
As he stood there at the bar, I felt a wave of groggy nausea wash over me. I leaned forward and placed my face on my knuckles. Something was making me woozy, like a Nyquil hangover. Being caught up in conversation with Driscoll had distracted me, I guess, and I hadn’t realized how sick I was.
At one point that evening, before I’d realized there were eyes on me, the bartender had taken a call, turning his back to the bar and stuffing one finger in his ear to hear the person on the other line. My mind was hazy, but I couldn't recall if I'd had a drink in front of me at the moment, or if someone Bodean's size had sauntered up to the bar, maybe to sprinkle something into my soda.
Or was this another manifestation of Uncle K’s punishment? It certainly reeked of his involvement, but I no longer cared, one way or the other. I felt punch-drunk, and everything around me was growing dimmer.
"Hey, you all right?" Bodean said, and I nodded unconvincingly. The spins hit me like the blunt end of a claw hammer, and I tried to stand, thinking maybe getting myself upright, getting some good ground underneath me, might help.
It didn't. I lurched forward, knocking the table sideways, sending both it and Bodean's glass to the floor.
"Hey, come on," cried someone in the bar. "The hell you doing serving somebody this hammered?"
"Shut up," replied Louis. He sounded like he was talking through water. "I haven't ever seen Coca-Cola do that to a man before."
I closed my eyes and expected the floor to rush up and meet me, but two hands caught me and propped me up instead.
"Easy now," Bodean said. He hefted me up, placing my arm across his impossibly broad shoulders, and carried me over to the bar. "Cup of water for my friend here."
I don't remember much after that. The water stands out as familiar, and Bodean patting me on the back, but after that, only moments are available to memory. A soothing voice. Vomiting. Bright lights. Angry voices. Then, darkness. Just. Darkness. I did not dream of dead men, and I suppose for that, at least once, I was thankful.
Ninth Chapter
I remember some parts of that night, the night my father took his revenge on my mother’s lover, but most of it as a narrative breaks up into indistinct parts.
I do remember seeing my father choking him, beating him, kicking him. I remember the sound of bones breaking like pieces of crackling over a fire. I remember how the hangman's rope glistened under the glow of headlights.
And I remember blood, spilling from a man both guilty and innocent, and I remember the way his eyes widened with knowledge of his own looming death. Those eyes...I'll never forget. The memories from that night are like a backlit manuscript, one I will be forced to carry inside me for the rest of my life.
It doesn’t always come back to me as a single, continuous event, like a movie running from beginning to end. Sometimes I catch only a snippet, but I am always beholden to it when it appears.
Often, I will be transported back to that night doing ordinary things. Once, while standing in line at the hardware store, someone stepped in beside me with a length of rope, and I had such a violent reaction to it that some people thought I
was having a seizure. Instead of rope, I saw blood-stained twine being wrapped around a man's hands and feet to keep him from struggling, even then as he fought for breath, for his very life.
But, of those things, what I do not remember is what my father's accomplices looked like, not for the life of me. The single biggest shame of my life. I am only thankful that no one else knows that I saw what I saw, not even Vanessa. Just me and the shadows of the men who were there.
Whenever I am pulled back into that night, I am a child again, literally and figuratively, bound to the torture I witnessed. The men laugh and mock their captive, their faces obscured by gray smudges of the sort found in poorly-developed film. Only my father’s face stands out, and it is such a grotesque, misshapen scowl, a devil's mask of scars and wrinkles, that I can't help but be drawn toward it, afraid that breaking my gaze will somehow cause him to see me. And so I remain among the high grass and trees that hide me, dozens of feet away, and I watch a man die.
I never stepped forward. Never said a word, and so though I can’t carry the weight of his death - that would be co-opting his pain - I can’t unburden myself of it, and I guess maybe it’s why I had become obsessed with the Emmitt Laveau case.
Sometimes I see his face in a crowd, or in the corner of a dark mirror, and until this past week, I thought I was a little crazy. Maybe I still am. Maybe my dreams are not proof that I am sane but that I am even crazier than I thought. Or maybe he’s always been there, and I never realized it.
Even joining the Lumber Junction Police Department at twenty-five, on my birthday, ten days after September 11, 2001, and after seven years of aimlessly working jobs I didn't care for, the roots dragging me downward had not loosened. I felt trapped in a limbo caused not by me but by a dangerous and humorless man, and if fate played any role in my life, it was playing one now.
Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery Page 22