The moths and the delicate green lacewings were the tragic stars of the night. By the hundreds of thousands they burned in the eerie violet halos of electronic insect traps. The lucky ones made it past the traps and found heaven in the parking lot lights at the E-Z Way. Under the brilliant floods they danced and died in midnight ecstasy. Their bodies littered the pavement like confetti.
ELVIS COULTIER LIKED the bugs. They made intricate patterns in the boring nightscape, like a living kaleidoscope. In some dumb way they brought him a breath of drama. Once a night, or sometimes twice, a luna moth would appear, huge, green, fragile. He would watch as it circled and climbed, danced, courting the light, and finally burned, fluttering like an autumn maple leaf to the parking lot.
He loved the bugs, but the heat was killing him. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs felt as if they were packed with sponges. He had the doors and the big side window open as far as they would go, but never a breeze came in.
Elvis was the night manager at the E-Z Way, a fat young man given to tent-size sweatpants and novelty T-shirts. Tonight’s had a tiger-striped cartoon cat, with the caption “I Love a Little Pussy.” He’d dripped ketchup on the shirt while eating a hot dog, and five red splotches crossed the Pussy like bloody fingerprints. Elvis mopped his face with a rag he kept in the soda cooler. Reruns of The Mary Tyler Moore Show flickered on the portable TV bolted into one corner of the ceiling, but it was so hot that he’d lost the story line. Beige moths the size of penny-candy wrappers battered themselves against Mary’s face.
The E-Z Way, the only all-night store in town, squatted beside the A&M Railroad tracks. Both whites from the east side and blacks from the west—anyone looking for milk or beer or cigarettes—patronized the place. “We get ’em all, sooner or later,” Elvis liked to say.
AT 11:04 DARRELL CLARK was Elvis’s only customer. He stood in the back of the store, peering through the glass of an upright cooler. A dozen varieties of ice cream and sherbet were racked inside: vanilla, Dutch chocolate, strawberry, butter brickle, raspberry surprise, chocolate rocky road. Each name and each color photo evoked a memory of taste. Butter brickle and jamocha were out. Vanilla was good, but too… vanilla.
Darrell was dressed in Wal-Mart shorts and a brown short-sleeved polo shirt. The shirt was too small and fit his growing body like a second skin. His hair was close-cropped over his high forehead.
Darrell licked his lower lip every few seconds as he considered the beckoning flavors. After some thought he opened the cooler door, paused to let the cold air wash over him, shivered, selected a two-quart carton of the chocolate rocky road, and carried it to the counter. Elvis counted Darrell’s handful of crumpled dollar bills, quarters, and dimes, rang up the sale, and slipped the ice cream into a brown paper bag.
“Now you haul ass, boy,” Elvis told him. “That rocky road’ll melt faster’n snot on a hot doorknob.”
Darrell headed out the door on the run. The brown paper bag dangled from one hand, and his rubber flip-flops slapped on the blacktop as his long fourteen-year-old legs ate up the ground. He crossed the parking lot under the moth-shrouded pole lights and ran down the dirt-and-cinders path that paralleled the A&M tracks.
Two things were going through his head.
The first was the thought of the rocky road, cool and buttery in a blue plastic bowl. A good choice.
Behind that was an algorithm he had been toying with: a way to generate real-time fractal terrain at reasonable speeds on his Macintosh II personal computer.…
CLARISSE BARNWRIGHT, whom everybody, including herself, called Old Lady Barnwright, hobbled along Bluebell, a rubber-tipped cane held in one hand, her purse clutched in the other. She lived one block over from the tracks, on the white side of town. She’d spent her entire life in the neighborhood, born in a house not a hundred yards from the house where she expected to die. For thirty-nine years she’d beaten Latin and English into the thick heads of Longstreet’s children. White children for the first twenty-seven years, a mix of black and white for the last twelve. Then she gave it up and sank gratefully into retirement.
Her husband’s death preceded her retirement by a year. Some people thought that was why she quit. She couldn’t face life and work without Albert, they said wisely.
They were wrong.
The fact was, Clarisse wasn’t unhappy to see him go. Had, late on hot summer nights in the forties and fifties, lying in the same bed with him, sweaty and suffocating, listening to his burbling snorts and occasional farts, considered helping him along the Path to Glory. Might have done it, if she could have thought of a surefire way of not getting caught. The state had the electric chair, and no particular prejudice against using it on women.
Clarisse sighed as she thought about it. If Albert had lived, he’d have just sat around the house and complained. Complained about paint flaking off the siding, complained about the furnace, complained about the cracking sidewalks, complained about the cotton crop. Never complained about anything interesting.
Never complained about their sex life, for example. She might have been interested if one night he’d looked up and said, “Clare, just what do you know about this here cunny-lingus business?” Old Lady Barnwright cackled to herself. That probably would have finished her off.
Clarisse Barnwright lived inside her head. She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she never heard the soft steps coming up behind.
CLAYTON RAND SAT on his dark porch and watched Old Lady Barnwright coming down the sidewalk. A little late for the old lady, but she still got around good, considering her age. Hell, Clayton was sixty-four, and he’d had her as a teacher in eleventh and twelfth grades. Clayton fanned himself with the sports section of the Gazette, watching her hobble down the sidewalk. Wonder what she thinks about? Probably conjugating Latin verbs or something.
When he saw the shadow behind her, Clayton wanted to holler a warning, but his tongue got stuck, and nothing would come out of his mouth. He stood up with his mouth half open as the shadow grabbed the old lady’s purse. She went ass over teakettle into the Carters’ honeysuckle hedge, yelling her head off, while the shadow went sideways across the street, headed for the tracks. Clarisse Barnwright might have been an old lady, Clayton thought as he pulled open the screen door and reached for the phone, but there was nothing wrong with her lungs.
“Police emergency,” Lucy answered in her best bubble gum voice. Lucy had wonderful cone-shaped tits and tended toward pink glitter lipstick and thin cotton sweaters. Clayton felt as if he’d sinned just calling her on the 911 line. “Is this an emergency?”
“Goddamn right it is, honey,” Clayton hollered. “This here is Clayton Rand out on Bluebell. Some colored kid just snatched Old Lady Barnwright’s purse. Not more than five, ten seconds ago. He’s took off lickety-split toward the tracks.…”
OFFICERS ROY R. (“TUD”) DICK and William L. Teeter had the tac squad that night. That was why the laser-sighted Heckler & Koch MP5, instead of the standard police shotgun, was propped between them. The MP5 was a new weapon. Billy Lee had qualified on it, but Tud had not. He wasn’t interested. Tud had little time for guns, and with good reason: The last time a Longstreet cop had fired a weapon in the line of duty, he’d missed six out of six times and got his own ass shot by his brother-in-law. That was back in ’71.…
The two cops were sitting on a side street, talking about the heat and waiting to see if Annie Carlson would get drunk and take one of her patented summer showers. She never pulled the shade on the back bathroom window, and when she came out of the shower, with the white towel wrapped around her hair, and was framed in the lighted square, Tud thought she looked just like some kind of famous painting. He couldn’t tell you which. Billy Lee thought she looked like a potential Playmate of the Month. Which is to say, large.
Tud was sucking on a peach soda when they got the squawk from Lucy down at Dispatch. One second later the black kid ran past the end of the street, lickety-split, just like Lucy said.
“L
et’s get him,” Tud said. He dropped the empty pop can on the floor, hit the lights and the siren at the same time, and they took off, leaving Annie Carlson high and dry. The black kid was running parallel to the tracks and was fast coming to the point where the street went left around a bend and the tracks went straight.
“Shit, Billy Lee, he’s gonna get off behind the water tower,” Tud said.
“Stop the car. Stop the fuckin’ car.”
Tud stopped the car, and Billy Lee jumped out with the MP5 and punched up the laser.
“Hold it right there. You hold it right there.…” He was screaming as loud as he could.
He put the laser’s red dot in the middle of the black kid’s back. “You hold it, boy.…” A sort of greasy, short-breathed excitement got him by the balls when he realized the black kid wasn’t going to stop and Tud said, “Hey, now, Billy Lee…” Billy Lee pulled the trigger, and a burst of nine-millimeter slugs went downrange, and the black kid tumbled ass over teakettle into the weeds.
“Ass over teakettle,” Billy Lee said aloud in the sudden stunning silence.
Tud called for a backup and an ambulance, and then they walked down toward the body, Billy Lee with the MP5 on his hip and Tud clutching his .38 police special. Lights were coming on in houses on both sides of the tracks, and a guy in a white sleeveless T-shirt was standing on his front lawn, watching them. They found the boy in the cinders and sandbabies next to the tracks, facedown. One bullet punched through his neck; a second took him in the spine between his shoulder blades; a third caught him a little lower and to the left, maybe nicking a lung. Good shooting. The boy must have lived for just a second after he went down, Tud thought, because his mouth was full of dirt and cinders, as if he’d bitten into the earth as he died.
The two officers looked down at him for a minute, and then Tud squatted and dumped the bag the kid had been carrying. Out fell a two-quart carton of chocolate rocky road, steaming in the muggy night air. They both looked at it for a long beat. Then Tud turned his sad hound dog eyes up to his partner.
“Goddamn it, Billy Lee,” he said, shaking his head. “You went and shot yourself the wrong nigger.”
THE COMPUTER ALARM went off at four in the morning. When it started buzzing, I’d been asleep for half an hour. The alarm sounds like an off-the-hook telephone, and it took a minute to penetrate.
“Jap phone?” Chaminade Loan made a bump under the sheet across the bed. Her voice grated like old rust.
“Zwat?”
“Jap phone?”
“Yeah.” The cat was curled at the foot of the bed and looked up as I rolled out and padded down the hall toward the front room. When I passed the study door, a message was running down the blue screen of the Amiga 3000, and I realized I was hearing the computer alarm, not the phone. A dozen small computers and dumb terminals are scattered around the study, three or four of them plugged in at any one time. Several people knew how to call and dump data to the Amiga’s memory. Only one knew how to tap the alarm.
Bobby Duchamps.
Bobby wouldn’t be calling to chat. The alarm sounded as soon as the data came in and repeated one minute out of every five until I turned it off. The message on the screen was straightforward. After the sign-on stuff, it said:
Call Now.
When Bobby said now, he meant now. As far as I know, he sits in front of a computer around the clock; Bobby doesn’t have a workday and always answered personally when I called his private board.
I yawned, sat down naked at the machine, tapped a key to kill the alarm, switched the modem to SEND and punched in a number for East St. Louis. The number rang eight times, and I pressed the “a” key. It rang twice more and was answered with a twenty-four-hundred-baud carrier tone. A few seconds later a “?” flashed on the upper left corner of my screen. I typed Hivaoa, my code name on Bobby’s system. It’s taken from Gauguin’s 1902 painting The Magician of Hivaoa, which hangs in the Musée d’Art Moderne in Liège. As a password Hivaoa may seem pretentious, but it fills the two main requirements of any computer code word: It’s easy to remember, and you don’t have to worry that somebody will stumble on it by accident.
Bobby came back instantly:
Friend bad-needs face-to-face ASAP.
When/Where?
Today/Memphis.
Short notice.
Asking favor.
I’ll check airlines.
Already booked 4:47 Northwest Airlines Minn-St. Paul-Memphis arrive 7:20.
Booking the plane was presumptuous, but Bobby’s a computer freak. Computer freaks are like that. Besides, he was virtually a full-time resident of the Northwest reservation system, so it probably didn’t cost him anything.
Bobby and I had met inside a GM design computer back in the old days and had enlarged our friendship on the early pirate boards, the good ones that the teenyboppers never saw. Over the years we’d dealt a lot of data and code to each other. I’d never met him face-to-face, but I’d talked to him on voice lines. A black kid, I thought, still young, early to mid-twenties. A southerner. He had a hint of a speech impediment, and something he said suggested a physical problem. Cerebral palsy, like that. A while back he helped me out of a jam involving the mob, several murders, and a computer attack that wrecked a defense contractor. I still flash on it from time to time, like visitations from an old acid trip. In return for his help, I sent a bundle of cash Bobby’s way. So we were friends, but only on the wires. I went back to him:
Where go Memphis?
He meets plane.
OK.
After Bobby signed off, I went back to the bedroom, reset the alarm for eleven o’clock, and crawled into bed. Chaminade smelled of red wine and garlic sauce, a little sweat and a tingle of French scent. She’s a large woman, with jet black hair and eyes that are almost powder blue; both her genes and her temper are black Irish. She does electronic engineering, specializing in miniaturization. She was one of the first to crack the new satellite-TV scrambling system and makes a tidy income on pirate receivers.
She was lying on her side, facing away from me. I put my back against hers; the cat turned a couple of circles at my feet. Chaminade said, “Wha?” one time before we all went back to sleep.
I LIVE IN a paid-off condominium apartment in St. Paul’s Lowertown, a few hundred feet up the bank from the Mississippi River. The building is a modern conversion of a redbrick turn-of-the-century warehouse.
I have a compact kitchen, a dining area off the front room, a bedroom, a painting studio with north windows, and a study jammed with small computers and a couple of thousand books. I keep a brand-new seventeen-foot Tuffy Esox fishing boat and an older Oldsmobile in a private parking garage up the block. There’s another place, quite a bit like it, also paid off, in New Orleans.
When I say the apartments are paid off, I’m not bragging. I’m worried. I screwed up. The run-in with the mob generated quite a bit of cash. I’d never been rich before, and when the money came in, I managed to ignore the annoying buzzing sound in the background. The buzzing sound was my accountant, of course, and she was trying to remind me that I lived in Minnesota, that 40 percent of every dime I earned went for income taxes, either state or federal, plus a couple of more percentages for Social Security and etc. The etc., I suspect, is something I don’t want to know about.
Looking back, I shouldn’t have paid off the houses. And the trip to Paris and the Côte sometimes seems a tad excessive. I spent a lot of money on food, booze, and women and thoroughly field-tested a faulty baccarat system on the tables at Monte Carlo and what was left, I wasted.
When I got back from France, I was still fairly complacent about the state of my finances. Then the IRS and the Minnesota Department of Revenue showed up. Neither exactly had hat in hand. Tch. I didn’t have holes in my socks, but I could use some cash. Soon. Very soon. Like before the fall quarterly estimate was due.
“So what’s in Memphis?” Chaminade asked during breakfast, spreading marmalade on her English muffin.
>
“Beale Street,” I suggested.
“Last time I was in Memphis”—she rolled her eyes up and thought about it—“must have been ten or eleven years ago.”
“A mere child.”
She ignored me. “I went over to Beale Street, you know, because of the blues. I’d been listening to a Memphis Slim tape; it had this great piece called ‘He Flew the Coop.’… I don’t know. Anyway, I went over to Beale, and the whole street was boarded up for urban renewal. I found a big goddamned statue of? Who? Guess.”
“W. C. Handy?”
“Nope. Elvis. Right there at the top of Beale. They had a bust of Handy stuck away in a little park. Those Memphis folks got style.” She popped the last bite of muffin into her mouth, licked her fingers, split another muffin in half, and popped it into the toaster.
“I don’t know the place very well. Seems kind of trashy, in a likable way. The food’s good,” I said.
I pass through Memphis twice a year, eat a pile of ribs, and move on. From St. Paul to St. Louis is a brutal day’s drive. From there you can make it to New Orleans in another day if you don’t fool around in Memphis.
When the muffins popped up, Chaminade spread a gob of butter on them, not looking at me. “When you get back…”
“Yeah?” But I knew what was coming. I’d been brooding about it for a couple of weeks.
“I’ll be out of here.” She said it in such a conversational way that we might have been talking about grocery shopping or new wallpaper.
“We were getting along,” I said tentatively.
“We were. Wonderfully. Up to a point. Then it stopped. The problem is, I’m something between number four and six on your list of priorities. The way I see it, there’s not much prospect of moving up.”
Kidd and LuEllen: Novels 1-4 Page 24