“Really,” Ariel tells her.
“Alright, Miss Minnesota.”
Ariel feels almost dismissed and strangely sad. Sharon seems to be a good person when it comes down to it. It’d probably suck to have a bunch of crappy kids. “Be safe and all,” Ariel tells her. “Is there an expression I’m supposed to know before a hurricane?”
“Huh?”
“Like, ‘Till the wind blows us back together’ or something?”
Sharon laughs again. Ariel really likes her laugh. “Woman, you say some funny things. I guess you can tell me good luck. Then again, you could tell me that any day of any ol’ week.”
Ariel smiles and watches a green lizard skitter across her porch railing. She guesses she could. “Good luck, and I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
“Nice talking with you, Miss Ariel.”
“Bye.” Ariel waits for Sharon to say good bye too but just hears the connection quit. Southerners seem to do that more often, Ariel’s come to realize. They don’t give proper good byes. Maybe it’s a more optimistic approach. Or something.
Ariel unlocks her door. She’ll ready the house best she can and squeeze in a second shower.
11
“Philomenia,” Joe calls out from his parlor bedroom.
Prancie looks for her filé in the spice cupboard.
“Philomenia.”
Can she not even have a moment? Prancie removes the thawed lump crabmeat from the microwave. The urchins across the street have no idea how good her gumbo is yet, but they will. She has promised to return with dinnertime food on schedule.
“Take a look at this thing,” Joe says when Prancie enters in her apron. He points at the swirling mass on television.
“Yes?” She tries to hide the annoyance in her voice. Shane Geautreaux promised to wait for her return. She could not resist his challenge for her to make a gumbo from scratch.
“Look at this thing!” Joe is so strangely animated. His hair has begun to fall out in earnest from the chemotherapy. It seems the objective is to shrink the remaining tumors if possible before excising so much more of his colon that he will not have enough left. A shame, really. His hair was always one of his best features.
Philomenia vaguely remembers a childhood dog, an Irish terrier, that needed to be plucked in the spring. Its coarse winter coat came away from its back in handfuls. Now Prancie must consciously fight the urge to do the same to Joe’s head. “Where will it make landfall?” she asks.
“They say to our east, but none of them seem to know exactly. It’s back to a strong Category Four.” Joe inhales. “Hope I get some of that gumbo.”
“How did you know?”
Joe was always such an eater. “How did I know?”
“I suppose that might be a silly question.” They both know he is not allowed gumbo to eat at this juncture.
She could walk over and just rub his head, imitating an affectionate gesture, and see what happens. He is not the sort of man who would look better bald. She entertains the notion of buying him a wig and giggles.
“What’s funny?” Joe’s eyes dart to her. Clearly his faculties fire on all cylinders today. ‘Fire on all cylinders’ is an expression Shane used often this afternoon. Prancie had to listen carefully numerous times for the context in order to discern his meaning. Now she thinks it to be a fine way to put some things.
“My apologies. I just, well, I was imagining you in a wig.” She should not have said it. She need not be cruel at this point.
Joe bursts out in laughter. He still has so many stitches that Philomenia worries. She does not desire to address his bleeding this evening or any other. Her duties at this point in their marriage are very clearly defined, such that she has to do next to nothing for him should she not want to. She is quite happy he manages in the facilities without her, thank you very much. “What do you think,” he asks, “maybe a long red one?”
Prancie suddenly has no idea what Joe is saying. “Sorry?”
“Or a ’fro. I could wear a rainbow afro.” He makes himself laugh more.
“Joe,” Philomenia warns, “be careful of the stitches.”
“Oh, they’re fine. I want some of that gumbo, woman!” Again, the strange buoyancy to his speech. “We’ll need some hot food for what’s to come. Look at that thing!” He points again to the TV screen as if it suddenly shows something new.
“You’re repeating yourself.”
“But look at it! It engulfs the Gulf!”
“We will be fine.” It is out of her mouth before she knows it. Of course Joe will not be fine.
“You’re a shallow woman, Philomenia.” He shakes his head. “What an act of nature! Of God! The raw power, and here man is, yet again, at its mercy.”
“And women,” Prancie says.
“What?”
“You said, ‘And here man is.’ I added ‘women.’ ”
Joe blinks. Which of the three usual dismissals will it be: the head shake, the hand wave off, or the scowl? Joe scowls.
Prancie makes a tally mark in the air.
“What are you doing?”
“Joe, I’m going to get back to the stove. Did you need something?”
“You have no idea the magnitude of this storm.”
“But I do,” she says and leaves the room. Of course she does. Fortunately the regulars at the barnacle do not.
Fearius so busy he dont have time to wash his hands between cars like he like. The whiteified pussies done left, drippling blood dots down the narrow, made Fearius think of bread crumbs that gone disappear soon in the rain comin from the Ivan. But Fearius so busy he just dont stop. Even Ali Abubu be raised up to a runner today.
The Tulane peoples come sometimes two, three cars in a row. The college fucks be pretty stupid to trust their connections the way they do. Maybe Fearius should be lettin Alphonse know bout the lineup they creating on the street, but if Fearius so busy, Alphonse only gone be ten times more.
Fearius done worked hours and hours, wishing he had a weather report, when a car roll to a stop make his skin go tickly by his ears an on his neck. Something aint right about the car, not neither the two niggas in it. They too right. All their bling hangin perfect, the car real clean an dope, but it dont smell like a niggas car. Smell like it been parked a long time, like nobody drive it. An they something else Fearius cant put his finger on top of an squash down just yet. Hafta read em fast and make a decision like Alphonse trust him to do.
“Yo,” the driver say.
Leaning on a parked car, Fearius give him the littlest head jerk he got. He duck to see the other one better in the passenger seat. Dude look straight ahead, almost like he scared. And right then, Fearius think he goin down, oh fuck, an all he gots be the boxcutter, and Alphonses protection aint nowhere suddenly in Fearius lifetime, maybe afterwards in revenge, but Alphonses protection aint here right the fuck now, not no fucking where.
Fearius put his hand in the back his pants like his training tell him. Make em think he has Alphonses Glock. Might get Fearius one second more.
“Hey, hey,” the driver say, and his accent aint right. The nigga hold up both his hands off the steering wheel and say it again. “Hey, hey. Just lookin to score, bro.”
And there it be. Stupid motherfucking police. The 5-0 undercover. Fearius wonder where they come from first before New Orleans with the accents. And then he wonder why they wasting their time here in Pigeontown. And then he wonder which of the whiteifieds talked. Fallout. The whiteifieds got brave and took it too far. Even they know it always better to stay away from the law.
Fearius guess he done make a mistake, but right now he cant do nothing about it. He gotta keep selling Avon and hope these two ghosts dont come back round the block and watch.
“What you think?” Fearius ask. “I aint stupid. Bro. You in the wrong place.”
“Not what I heard,” the driver say.
“You heard wrong.” Fearius take his hand out from behind his back.
“Course it
true, nigga,” the one in the other seat say.
Fearius duck an look hard at the pussy. Cant be no moren twenty, twenty and one. A dog trying to move up or a somebody trying to stay outside. Doing his duty. Yeah, sure. That be it. He goin down otherwise, just a somebody done got caught already and made a agreement. Gotta do his duty.
“You aint no friend a Alphonse, maybe?” Fearius ask the passenger. “That where I recognize you, friend?”
“Who?” The nigga wont look but forward, wont let Fearius see his full face.
Damn if Fearius dont feel like hootin. Fearius spot them both, and fast. No chance they be coming back with the lookouts crawling all over Pigeontown today.
Fearius draw a lil line in the air. Another favor for Alphonse mean one coming back his own way. Fearius fake a laugh. “We done see you, niggas. Try another day.” He slap the top of the car he be leaning on and look at theirs, so clean he could lick it if he had to. Dumb fuckers, huh?
The drivers shoulders kinda sink. He know Fearius aint gone shoot him and he know he fucked up.
“Show me yo slugs,” Fearius say, “an I get you what you want.” Fearius want to see some 24 carat teeth.
“What?”
“Dats what I thought,” Fearius tell him. The drivers mouth be slugged up about as much as Fearius gone get all As this year in school. Driver dont got no grill, not one lil speck of gold in his mouth. “Go on now. Theys a hurricane comin.”
The driver look like he wanna eat Fearius with giant wolverine fangs. Too bad. Gots to get going now. We all see your car, bro. Go try undercover workin across the bridge, yo.
Fearius waggle one finger at em. Aint no guessing which finger.
It may not be a well-oiled machine, but La Belle Nouvelle seems to be handling the influx of mucho-mega guests perfectly well. The hotel’s booked to the gills, including Greenback in the President. It’s happy hour, and room after room calls down for champagne and booze and ice buckets of beer, so much so that Ariel moves two trusted housekeepers over to room service, prompting them to tell the guests immediately when they deliver the food or drinks that they “are only substitutes and thank you for understanding, considering the circumstances.”
As Ariel oversees check-in, a waitress approaches the front desk. “Miss Ariel,” she says.
A family of five stands at the marble counter, the youngest son hanging off the marble lip and banging his tennis shoes on the glass front.
“Excuse me,” Ariel says to Bimbo’s sure successor, Falana, and the ever-trustworthy Henry.
Ariel directs the waitress to the edge of the lobby. “What is it?”
“Greenback, um, is in the restaurant. People just keep joining. The table’s up to twenty-five.”
“Shit.”
The poor girl stands there, the messenger, wringing her little ring-covered hands. Ariel makes a mental note to control the hand jewelry on employees when Ivan’s all over.
“Everybody,” the girl tries further, “I’m sorry—they’re saying … everybody says that he—”
“I appreciate directness,” Ariel tells her. What is her name? Denise. Deborah. No. The weird Irish D name.
“He’s going to have a huge party in the Presidential Suite. That’s what, um, what people are saying.”
Der-ba-lah. That’s it. But the girl spells it strangely. Ariel had never seen it before she approved the hire. Something like Dearbhla. “Derblah,” Ariel says, “you’re fine. Thank you for telling me. How’s the kitchen? Are they ordering food?”
“Not really. Um, not yet. But people keep coming in. We, I, don’t know if they’re guests or not or if they’re staying or, or …”
Okay. “Okay.” Think it through. “Have you all at least alerted the kitchen as to what might be coming down the chute?” Ariel takes Dearbhla’s arm and gets her moving back towards the restaurant.
“We keep telling them when more people sit down at the table.”
“Good. Just stay loose or whatever. Take it easy. We have a pretty good excuse today, you know?”
“Yes. Sure, alright. Thanks, Miss Ariel.” The Irish girl lopes away at a good pace, her fluffy strawberry blond hair holding its shape as she goes.
Yes. Sure, alright then. What can Ariel do to help the situation? She supposes she’d best go make the gesture of attending to Greenback and his hangers-on personally. Last Ariel heard, the hurricane wouldn’t be hitting New Orleans directly, but then a bellboy said it would still blow the city apart if it came close enough. She’s waiting for Indira’s call; Ariel’s set her cell to vibrate as her personal example of professionalism-under-fire.
Please let Greenback and his crew be sitting in smoking, she wishes, and please let them be smoking plain cigarettes. Please let Greenback be in a wonderful mood. Please let Greenback keep his people in control well enough that she doesn’t need to play hardball. Twenty-five. He’s never had twenty-five along for the Greenback ride before. Ariel’s worried the number’s not topped off yet. Hey, yo, she thinks, there’s a hurricane on its way. Greenback can have what he wants with a hurricane coming, she guesses. She knows so.
As long as the hos don’t misbehave enough for her to have to call them out. And as long as the boys keep their thangs in their droopy pants in the public places. And as long as nobody breaks more than what Greenback’s willing to pay for.
Deep breath. In she goes.
Ariel walks into the restaurant as casually as her Minnesotan legs will allow. She smiles, of course, the best version of Nice-n-Pretty-n-Cool she can do.
They sit in piles, sort of, something out of a film the Rat Pack might’ve been in, skimpily dressed women draping themselves around men wearing jewelry. Or one of those paintings from an art museum where black people dance and grind and sit and take up space in a better and more colorful way than white people do.
“Look it heah!” Greenback shouts in his smoke-scratchy bass of a voice. “It the general manager. Forgive me, lady, but you doin’ the best impression of Tomb Raider I seen in a long time.” He raises a flute of champagne Ariel’s way.
The whole six joined tables of them, twenty-five and growing, bust up as if they’ll all die laughing.
“Boob Raider one my faves,” a guy says.
If Ariel weren’t so flattered, she might counter. But hell, she’ll take Angelina Jolie any day. Thank you, thank you. “Dearest sir,” she says flirtily. She’s the general manager. She can flirt if she wants to. “Might I help you in making this evening any better than you’ve already planned?” She needs to see if she can’t get a total head count out of him, figure out what he’s stacked up.
“Come an’ sit your pretty—ahem—Ms. May, I think you should join us unless the hotel be about to fall apart, you think?”
Ariel wouldn’t mind sitting down, but she’s more interested in knowing what Greenback wants to do for the next forty-eight hours. If her stores of champagne and towels will hold up. How many she’ll need on P ’n B duty tomorrow and the next day, dragging out piles of dirty sheets nobody in her right mind would want to touch.
“A GM—” Be casual. He’s just flattered you. “Well, on the eve of a hurricane, a GM has things to do,” she tells him. Ariel practices the best open body language she has in her repertoire.
She sneaks a glance at Greenback’s guests. She sees a lot of skin, some of it better left covered. The women have buckets of confidence. Bras full of confidence. Or no bras, just boobs overflowing with confidence. Ariel will give the ladies credit for that, for sure. Southern black women don’t seem to have much problem showing a lot of what they have. Or it’s part of the cultural world of the recording industry of New Orleans. Either way, these people hanging on to Greenback live in the moment. Ariel supposes there’s no better moment.
“Iffin’ I have extra peoples stayin’ in my suite for the Ivan, Ms. May, you best charge me for ’em, hey?”
“I think we’re speaking the same language, sir.” Ariel turns on her heel and hopes her ass still looks as good as
she thought it did when she tried on the skirt. She looks back over her shoulder for effect with a purse of her big lips and a little rump jut. Hey, she’s the GM of a hotel staying open the night of a hurricane. Whether or not the owners would say so, Ariel’s decided she’s allowed to do whatever makes the most sense. Flirting with Greenback more directly than she has in the past makes perfect sense.
“Dat’s what I’m talkin’ about!”
“Oooh! Fine thang, lady manager!”
In her turning around, Ariel catches one of the hangers-on sucking her teeth at Ariel. The woman isn’t much to look at except for her bumps and lumps, but clearly she doesn’t like Ariel.
Or maybe it’s all just an act. Ariel has other things to worry about.
It like it cant get no worse. First the 5-0 come up all transparent, like Fearius could see through them a mile away in their car an hour ago or whatever. But fuck no. Of course it gone get worse after. Aint like the ghosts drift away and just not tell nobody about what they find.
Selling Avon might could be easier, fo sho. But Fearius, he put a lot of paper in Alphonses pocket today. Not a bad piece in Muzzles neither.
Banana Truck come up an has a order like she picking up burgers and fries for a whole office or something, and Fearius have to tell her she need to get it under control.
“Come on, Fearius,” she say, and that all Fearius need to turn around and walk away. He dont care how much a regular she be. She saying his street name make his stomach burn. Aw, naw. Go away, banana woman.
She know his name, which means it getting out there. Good and bad though, right? Rock and a hard place.
She honk her horn at him like some mess, maybe like the mess she be, her hair gettin worse with each day passing. Theys little worse for a woman than to show her lack of self management with her hair. A woman done lost her self respect when her hair out there all whacked.
Or that how most think on it. Fearius have too much cash money sittin where it shouldnt be right this moment, and he got Banana Truck tryin to buy him out. Even if he manage to get another runner up fast with more supplies, it probably just one those days. What’s the word? Chaotic.
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