You‘re selling yourself short, honey, and you know it.
“All I know is, I’m going home.”
Okay. Then what?
“You know damn well what. I’m going to find you and Joey, and we’re going to try to work things out. You win, remember? You win.”
What about that preacher?
“He’s nuts. Where the hell did I put that damn pen?”
It’s under the bed. And Casey? What about him?
“Out of his mind with painkillers. Maybe just out of his mind. I mean, his whole town ... I’d be a basket case myself. Now where is that stupid... I see it. How did you know it was there?”
Figure it out. And the girl?
“Lisse?”
You‘re quick, Ace. Don’t forget the stuff in the bottom drawer. You always forget the stuff in the bottom drawer.
“I got it, I got it, okay?”
Lisse, Ace.
“She’s gone. Scared off. Has more brains than I do, that’s for sure. At least she knows when to cut her losses. I should have cut mine a year ago. More. I never should have started this thing in the first place. Patty, you can’t know how sorry I am. You can’t know, but by God, I’m going to tell you to your face, anyway. I swear it. I really swear it.”
What are you going to tell George?
“I’ll work on it on the way home.”
Ace.
“What?”
Suppose you do go home.
“No supposing about it.”
You think all this is going away? You think what’s in that computer, what’s on all those pages is going to disappear? You think what you saw never happened? You think—
“Shut up, Patty, okay? Let me finish this.”
Ace, do me a favor and stop that damn whistling.
“What?”
You always whistle when you don’t want to listen to me. You always did. What is that, anyway?
“For your information, it’s ‘So Rare.’ Tommy Dorsey. Jimmy Dorsey. One of those.”
It’s awful.
“Hey, it’s a classic.”
The whistling, Ace, the whistling. You never could carry a tune in a bucket.
“Well, I like it.”
And I won’t go away, you know. That won’t make me.
“What did I do with the—”
The bathroom. On the floor by the toilet. Where you always leave it.
“Thanks. For nothing.”
Ace.
“Now what?”
You never answered my questions.
“Go away.”
Sure. But first work on this: All that stuff will still be there, at home, no matter what you do. It ain‘t going away.
“How the hell can you know that?”
Figure it out, Ace. Figure it out.
* * * *
4
Although the electric candles were lit in their brass sconces, they weren’t strong enough to dispel the gloom that slipped through the arched windows at each end of the hall. Sound seemed muffled. Air had weight.
Giselle Grudeau pushed her housekeeping cart out of the service elevator on the sixth floor, stopped, and waited for her heart to catch up. Too fast; she had been working too fast, trying to get done quickly so she could get home early.
As she stood in the secluded alcove, out of sight of the guest rooms, she decided once and for all that she was going to change her name. Giselle had been just fine when she was a girl; she had had the shape for it, kind of like that Lisse girl, only much more in the chest, more round at the hips. Now she was round everywhere, just like her sister, and Giselle was all wrong. Bertha, she figured, was probably more like it. Something to go along with all the weight, all the pounds that had crept up on her ever since that no good bum of a husband had left her, to go to California and be a star in the movies.
She grunted a bitter laugh.
Hadn’t seen him in any movies, hadn’t seen him on TV, and the next time she saw him, which would be too soon for her, she would take a brick to his head.
“Lord,” she whispered, “forgive me.”
But she’d still use that brick.
A sigh, a check to be sure her hair wasn’t flying out of the net that covered it, and she pushed the cart into the hallway, wincing at the creak one of the wheels made.
She wanted to be quiet.
She didn’t want anyone to know she was coming.
Especially she didn’t want him to know she was around.
Six-seventeen had spooked her mightily. Seeing him like that, on the ferry, doing that punk like that. Hearing that punk scream, seeing him fall like he was flat-out dead. Something not right about it, when she thought about it later. Something definitely not right.
She had told Reverend Trask that, first time the reverend had asked her, in private, to do some of the Lord’s work for him. And Him.
“Nice man,” she had said, not nervous at all being in the reverend’s presence, “but I get this feeling about him, Reverend. A strong feeling. Powerful.”
The reverend hadn’t blinked. “Like ...?”
Giselle wasn’t good at words, barely got herself out of school, never did get to high school, but this time what she wanted to say came easily:
“Haunted. Like he’s haunted.”
But he definitely was nice. Said a hello every time they passed in the hall, never asked her for special stuff, man even made his bed every morning, no mind that she had to tear it apart to change the linens. Made his bed. Kept the bathroom clean. Made her feel a little guilty, snooping around, looking for stuff and telling the reverend what she found. Which wasn’t much. Some papers, that’s all. Couldn’t work that tiny computer, and didn’t dare take any of the tapes, even though the reverend offered her a bonus. Didn’t dare. He would have known. She didn’t know how, but Mr. Bannock would have known.
Weren’t for the fact she was doing the Lord’s work, she’d never even think about snooping a room. That was more her sister’s line, always giggling and hooting about what she found in drawers and under beds, never once thinking what she was doing was wrong.
She checked the watch pinned to her uniform breast, rolled her eyes, and hustled. Vacuum, dust, straighten, change, singing hymns under her breath to pass the time. Thinking a few prayers now and then that the storm wouldn’t get here before she was done. Not a hurricane, the radio said, but a good blow just the same. That ferry wasn’t never in any danger of sinking, but it sure didn’t take the wind very well.
When she reached 617, she hesitated.
Miz Grudeau, Reverend Trask had told her last night, I don’t like to do it, you know I don’t, but I must ask you to poke around a little harder tomorrow. Mr. Bannock doesn’t know it yet, but he’s doing the Lord’s bidding, and the only way we—you and I—can help him, can give ourselves to the Lord and His mission in these terrible days, is by knowing exactly what it is Mr. Bannock is up to. I wouldn’t ask you, Miz Grudeau, I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t so terribly important.
Giselle took out her master key and knocked on the door. “Housekeeping,” she called brightly, counted to ten, knocked again, called again, counted to ten again, and when she heard no response, she opened the door.
“Morning, Mr. Bannock,” she said gaily, backing in with the vacuum cleaner. “How you doing today?”
She turned, smiling broadly, her very best smile, and stood for a long time before she said, “Oh ... Lord.”
* * * *
5
The house had no age. Old, young, it didn’t matter because the climate took care of the cosmetics and let the passersby draw their own conclusions.
Mostly white, where it wasn’t peeling; bougainvillea and magnolia, live oak, and a trellis at the portico that failed to contain a rambling rose; a neat but far from perfect small front yard; an eight-foot wall along the sidewalk and down the sides, whitewashed once, bleeding dark brick now. Just west of Tulane.
Any number of visitors couldn’t help wondering why Lanyon Trask
didn’t take some of the money his church gave him and fix the place up. Make it a showcase. Make it worthy of the man who lived in it all alone.
But Trask liked it just fine, just the way it was. Old and comfortable and ...fitting.
His office was at the back, high ceiling and built-in bookcases, a small teak desk an Alabama aunt had left him in her will, an armchair, a standing globe. A simple wood cross over the sliding doors that led into the parlor. If you didn’t look up, you’d never know it was there.
He did.
He faced it from his desk every day.
He glanced at it now as he replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach. Behind him were French doors that opened onto a patio where he wrote most of his sermons; to his right a door that led to an office that had once been a sewing room. It was the same size as his, with a computer, copier, fax machine, and things he didn’t know about but were necessary for his secretary in order to keep the church moving. Living.
“Mrs. Cawley,” he called.
No intercom; he hated the infernal things. They had no faces, and faces were what he insisted on talking to whenever he could.
Faces, like John Bannock’s.
A woman came to the doorway, plump and floral-dressed, her pure white hair in a complicated twist that never seemed to stay where she wanted it. Reading glasses on a black ribbon, resting on her bosom.
“Yes, Reverend?”
He glanced at the cross again before swiveling around to face her. “He’s gone, Emma.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I may ...” He squinted. “I may have to take a trip.”
Emma Cawley took one step into the room, one hand fussing with her glasses. “The governor,” she said. “Wednesday.”
He smiled, and waved the politician away as if he were shooing a pesky fly. “He needs my contribution, not my blessing, Mrs. Cawley. And I’m sure, somehow, he’ll survive without either.”
Mrs. Cawley ducked her head, a gesture he knew all too well. It wasn’t her place to criticize, it said. Which she did. Often. Twenty-four years apparently gave her that right.
Then she clasped her hands at the white belt around her waist. “Are you sure, Reverend?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cawley, I’m sure.”
They had only spoken of him once, the morning after he had had the dream.
floating
blue eyes
a never-ending sunset
It had terrified him.
“Will you need help?”
Ordinarily he would have said no; ordinarily he would have relied on the plain silver cross that hung around his neck, inside his shirt, and the plain small Bible he kept in his briefcase. A prayer, perhaps. And a walk in the garden beyond the patio, not searching for signs, just a little solitude.
Ordinarily he would have relied on faith.
“Yes,” he said at last. Wearily. Sadly. “Yes, Mrs. Cawley, I believe I will.”
And whispered, after she had left, “God, forgive me.”
* * * *
4
A
ll I want to do,” said John to the desk clerk, “is get out of this city. Is that so hard?’’
He winced; he was whining. He could hear it, but instead of making him ashamed, it only added to his exasperation.
“Not long,” the young man assured him patiently. “Really, Mr. Bannock. Not long.”
And what, John wondered, is not long in New Orleans time? An hour? Two? Tonight? Next goddamn month?
Hands in his pockets, he paced away from the counter, to a narrow corridor at the juncture and back and side walls. At the end of that corridor was a single glass door. Past the door was the parking lot. In the parking lot was supposed to be his rental car. It wasn’t. One had been, over an hour ago, but it had sputtered and died before he’d reached the exit. The company had been most apologetic, understood his concerns and needs, and promised rapid replacement.
He paced to the staircase and looked up.
Of course he could have taken a plane out. That had been his initial plan. The problem was seats. There were none, not until first thing in the morning. He had almost shouted, “Jesus, lady, they can do it in the movies, why the hell can’t I do it, too?”
He felt the clerk staring at him.
He didn’t care.
He was scared.
* * * *
The first telephone call, not forty-five minutes ago:
“Mr. Bannock, glad I could reach you. This is Detective Xavier, New Orleans Police? We spoke yesterday? The young man who attacked you and your lady on the Algiers ferry? Pete Hundrel? I thought you might like to know that, well, simplest is best, I suppose—he’s dead.”
Hundrel woke before dawn and snuck out of his hospital room. The odd thing was, he stole a broom from a supply closet, then made his way to the roof. An orderly and a nurse spotted him and chased him, but they were too late.
“Damn fool rode that handle, you know? Like kids do, pretending to be witches and stuff? Got on that damn broom, shouted something, the witnesses aren’t clear exactly what, and ran right off the edge. Didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate. One arm over his head, waving to beat the band. Didn’t scream on the way down, either. Just thought you’d like to know, Mr. Bannock. Just thought you’d like to know.”
* * * *
Shaken, John told the desk clerk to tell anyone else after him that he’d already checked out and was halfway to Hawaii.
* * * *
The second call came not ten minutes later.
The clerk took a message with John standing right there, rolling his eyes as he mouthed, it’s Reverend Trask. John shook his head vigorously, the clerk approved, and gave Trask the Hawaii story word-for-word.
“Not happy,” the clerk said when he hung up. Grinning.
John gave him ten dollars, and another ten for whoever called next.
And paced.
Waiting.
Trying not to think about Levee Pete, and failing miserably.
Pacing, checking the parking lot every ten minutes, glaring at his luggage stacked by the rear exit, trying to figure out a way to make the rental company get a move on. You get in the shower, the telephone rings; you light a cigarette, the waiter comes with your meal.
He was driving himself crazy, and he knew it, and couldn’t stop it.
Levee Pete, and Joey’s eyes.
He stopped in front of a bank of telephones next to the elevators. Two were house phones, three were pay phones, each separated from the other by partitions of stained wood. He could call the rental company again, but all they’d do is assure him his car would be there any second now, don’t worry about a thing. He could try the airlines again, but short of a miracle or spending all day at the airport hoping for a standby seat, there was nothing to be gained there but more frustration.
Using George’s phone card, he called New Jersey.
Casey Chisholm was gone.
According to a much aggrieved nurse, Casey had insisted on being sent home for the rest of his therapy. His doctor had signed him out. Highly irregular, the nurse complained. Reverend Chisholm was really in no condition to be moved. Highly irregular, and no, he had left no messages for a man named John Bannock.
John replaced the receiver and stared down the corridor toward his bags. His phone book was in there somewhere, and with it, Casey’s home number. Was it worth digging through to find it and try a call?
The clerk called his name softly.
John rolled his eyes—now what?—and turned, scowling, and brightened when he saw a man in blue coveralls at the desk, holding up a set of car keys.
Later, he promised himself; on the road, later, he’d give Casey a call.
The forms were completed, the deposit made, the clerk given another ten, the man in coveralls a twenty, and John waved away the offer to carry his bags to the car. He shook hands with the clerk, tossed the keys up, caught-them, and saw Lisse Montgomery come through the fron
t door.
* * * *
She said, “Look, I just wanted to apologize. I behaved like a jerk, and I’m sorry.”
He answered, without thinking, “No sweat. You ever been to Illinois?”
In the Mood - [Millennium Quartet 02] Page 18