Porkchop Chambonne made an exaggerated hourglass shape with his hands that described Veronika pretty accurately. Jules grimaced. “Don’t ask. That one’s poison.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that. She looked… interesting, that one did.” He shrugged his stooped shoulders. “ ‘Fraid you got here too late to catch the band. You’ll have one more chance, though. Me and the big band play one more gig, night after next. Then I’ve got to let most of the boys go. Cuttin’ back to a trio.”
“That’s what I came to see you about. Here. I got something for you.”
Jules handed a check to his friend. The bandleader’s eyes popped big as soup bowls when he read the amount. “Five thousand dollars? Where’d you get this kind of money? And why are you givin‘ it tome?”
“My ticket hit big on the Pick-Four Lotto,” Jules said. “I already got most of everything I need. So I wanna help you keep the band together. Five thou won’t keep you goin‘ forever, but maybe it’ll help you hang in there until better gigs come calling.”
Porkchop Chambonne leaned against the trunk of his car, still staring at the check. “I, well, I don’t rightly know what to say, Jules. Nobody’s ever given me this kinda dough for nuthin‘ before. I’m not sure I can accept this kinda gift from you.”
“Don’t think of it as a gift. There’s somethin‘ I want you and the band to do for me.”
“Oh?” The bandleader raised an eyebrow and glanced slyly at his benefactor. “Now the other shoe drops. What’s the pitch?”
“It’s nothin‘ bad, Chop,” Jules said quickly. “You and the band have done jazz funerals before, haven’t you?”
“Well, sure. Practically every traditional jazz group in the city has, at one time or another. Sure.”
“I’ve got this friend, see… Ihad this friend. A real special friend. She, uh, she died last night.”
“Oh. I’m real sorry, Jules,” Porkchop Chambonne said quietly.
Jules waited a second before continuing, waiting for his friend to ask how it had happened. But the bandleader maintained a respectful silence, and Jules was profoundly grateful that he didn’t have to make up any stories about how Maureen had died.
“Maureen, my, uh, my friend, she lived her whole life in the Quarter. Worked here, too. All her pals are French Quarter people. I think she’d really appreciate a New Orleans jazz send-off. She always liked music. She was a dancer.”
“When’s the funeral? Will the holy service be at St. Louis Cathedral or up at St. Patrick’s?”
“She, umm, she wanted to be cremated. There won’t be a funeral; not really. And she wasn’t much of a churchgoer, so she didn’t want no holy service. To tell the truth, she worked at Jezebel’s Joy Room most of the last twenty years. And that’s where most of her buddies work. So what I’d like-what I think she’d like-is if you and the band could parade past the club, and then go past her house on Bienville, between Dauphine and Rampart. Tomorrow night, around midnight or so, after any gigs you guys might have. It’s kinda weird, I know. But she was always a night person. Like me. Do it in the daytime, I’m not sure she’d hear it.”
“She have any favorite songs or spirituals we oughtta play?”
“She liked show tunes. The old ones, from forty or fifty years back.”
“I’m sure we can whip somethin‘ up. And if it’s all right, there’s an original number I’d like to play, too. Somethin’ I been foolin‘ around with for a little whiles now. Actually, you were kinda my inspiration for it.”
“Sure. I trust your judgment, Chop. Whatever you think’s appropriate. You think we should be worrying about permits for that late at night?”
The bandleader made a dismissive gesture. “Naww. Maybe if we was paradin‘ in front of the Pontalba Apartments. But those blocks you want us to circle, them’s mostly music clubs, bars, strip joints, or warehouses. Nobody’s gonna mind us none.”
“So you’ll take the check?”
Porkchop Chambonne glanced at the check again, shaking his head with disbelief as he read the amount one more time. “Sure, Jules. I’ll take this check. If that’s how you wanna spread your money around, who amI to argue?”
“Great. Hey, just one more favor. I’ve gotta make a call, and I don’t have any change on me. Can I maybe borrow thirty-five cents?”
The old man made a mock-stern face. “I don’t know! Are you good for it?” He dug into his pocket and retrieved two quarters and a pair of dimes. “Here. Make yourselftwo phone calls.”
Jules shook his friend’s hand and took the change. “Thanks. That jazz funeral tomorrow night, I know it’ll be somethin‘ to hear. Chop… you may have a hard time believing this, but ever since you started playin’ music, well… I’ve been your biggest fan.”
Porkchop Chambonne rubbed his mocha-colored chin, speckled with white stubble. Then he smiled slyly and gave Jules a deeply knowing look. “Yeah. I believe you. You and your ‘daddy,’ youboth been my biggest fans. I’m mighty sorry for your loss, man. I surely am. But me and my students, we’ll make a heavenly noise to guide your friend to her final reward.”
Jules hadn’t thought seeing the little diner again would affect him this much. The place had only been in business for the past four years, a tiny blip in his life. And Jules had groused heartily when his nightly coffee crew of cabbies and cops had decided to pull up stakes and move from the St. Charles Tavern to its new rival up the street. But the Trolley Stop Cafй really had become a home away from home for him. Anyway, it wasn’t the physical particulars of a place that made it a home. It was the people inside that did.
People like Erato.
“Hey, pal. Thanks for coming out,” Jules said.
“No problem,” Erato said. He leaned across the table and pushed a chair out for Jules to sit in. “Slow night, anyway. And I been a little concerned about you, ever since you ran off from that rally earlier. You doin‘ all right?”
Jules sat down heavily and placed his vase on the table. “I’ve had better nights.”
“What’s with the vase? Somebody send you flowers?”
“It’s…” Jules considered the wide range of possible lies he could tell his friend. He decided now wasn’t the time for lies. “It’s Maureen, Erato. It’s-it’s herashes.”
Erato didn’t say anything for a minute. His eyes turned harshly on his friend. “That’sevil, man. That ain’t no kinda joke to be makin‘. It ain’t funny.”
Jules’s expression didn’t change one iota. “It’s not a joke. I’d give anything in the world for it tobe a joke. Look at me, Erato. Tell me if I’m pullin‘ a gag.”
His friend looked at him long and hard. Slowly, reluctantly, Erato’s expression shifted from indignant anger to shock. “Jesus… You ain’t shittin‘ me. How-when-how the fuck did thishappen, man?”
“I…shit. I can’t give you no details. You’re the best friend I got in this world, and if there’s anybody I’d wanna tell, it’s you. But Maureen wouldn’t want me to tell you. And I’ve gotta honor what I figure her wishes would be.”
Erato stared at his hands. Jules watched the man’s face turn a deeper shade of brown and his large, callused hands clench into fists. “Why the hell are you layin‘ this on me if you won’t trust me-if you don’t think enough of me to tell me what happened? Maureen wasmy friend, too. Don’t you think I got a right to know?”
Jules swallowed. Hard. “Yeah. You got a right to know. I just don’t got a right to tell you. And if you don’t think that’s tearing my guts to pieces right now, then you don’t know me.”
Erato’s fists slowly unclenched. Jules saw grief, hurt, anger, and resignation carve themselves into his friend’s face in turn. “Okay,” Erato said at last. “What can I do?”
“Take this vase, Erato. Take Maureen for me. Take her home with you, and put her on a windowsill that has a pretty view. Where she’ll get lots of sun and be warm all the time. That would mean a helluva lot to me.”
“Jules, I–I mean, I said I’d do anything I can, but�
� but that’s not forme to do. She belongs withyou.”
“She belongs with someone who can take care of her. Someone who’s gonna be around for a while. And I don’t think that someone is me.”
“What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Erato’s eyes blazed. “Awwfuck!” He slammed his palm down on the table. “What the hellis this? You yank me in here, stir me up like a hamster in a Mixmaster, and then you won’t tell meshit! What’s with all this bullshit, man?”
Jules took another check out of his pocket and pushed it across the table. “Here. Maybe this’ll make the bullshit go down easier.”
Erato took a few seconds to read the check. “Twelve thousand dollars. Made out to me. ‘To send Lacrecia to LSU.’ ” He pushed the check back across the table. “You are justfull of surprises tonight, aren’t you? Where’d you get this kinda money?”
Jules pushed the check back toward Erato. “Take it. I want you to have it. It’d make me real happy, knowin‘ that I helped send her to college in Baton Rouge. Since I know that’s what you really want for her.”
Erato didn’t touch the check. “I ask youagain. Where’d you get this kinda money?”
Jules sighed. Withholding information from his best friend was one thing. Telling him an out-and-out lie was another. “It’s part of the insurance payout from my house.”
“So what are you givin‘ it tome for? Don’t you need a place to live?”
Jules stared down at the table. Without his wanting it to, his gaze drifted to the green glass vase and the white dust inside. “That’s what I was hinting around at before, see. I won’t be needing no place to live. I won’t need a car or a record player or a set of dishes or nothin‘. After tomorrow night… well, lemme put it this way. We won’t be drinkin’ coffee together in here no more, pal.”
Erato grabbed his arm. “You aren’t-you aren’t plannin‘ on killing yo’self, are you?”
Jules smiled ruefully. “Naww. Nothin‘ like that. I figure another guy’ll do it for me. But not before I get in some licks of my own.”
“If you’re in bad trouble… let me help.”
“Forget it. These guys I’m tusslin‘ with, they’re way outta your league. They’re outta the cops’ league. I’ve gotta handle this in my own way, on my own.”
“Oh? And what sorta league areyou in? That’sbullshit, man. If you’re in the kinda trouble you think you won’t walk away from, you needhelp. And who’s gonna help you if your friends don’t?”
Jules stood up. He squared his shoulders and stared Erato down, using a tone of voice he’d never thought he’d ever use with his friend. “Now you listen up. You arenot gettin‘ tangled up inmy business. Ever since this whole mess got started, I’ve been scramblin’ for ways to get other people to do my dirty work for me. All that ducking and running, you know what that’s ended up gettin‘ for me? Two of my best friends killed. That’s what. And here you are, volunteerin’ to become the third. Jeezus, Erato, do you realize what you’vegot? You’ve got all the good stuff in your life that I’llnever have. A wife. A family. Things you done for other people that you can be proud of. Now listen. You go back to your house tonight, and you crawl in bed next to your wife, and tomorrow morning you deposit that check in your bank account. You hear me?”
The black cabdriver didn’t say a word in response. He picked up the check from the table, folded it in half, and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
Jules watched him and smiled with satisfaction. “Thanks for being my friend, Erato,” he said. And then he walked out the door of the Trolley Stop Cafй, for what he figured would be the last time.
The Lincoln was parked out back, on the shadowy fringes of the Central City neighborhood where Jules last encountered Malice X. Jules felt a spear of anguish in his chest when he thought back to that night. If he hadn’t been so squeamish about killing a fellow vampire… if he’d fired his wooden darts through Malice X’s heart when he’d had the chance… both Maureen and Doc Landrieu would still be among the living.
Jules heard footsteps behind him. Numerous footsteps, none heavy enough to be a man’s. He whirled around to face them, enraged that anything would intrude on his mournful thoughts.
Dogs. Or wolves; he couldn’t tell. Five of them, standing at the edge of the parking lot, all staring up at him.
Jules realized he wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t even particularly surprised. “Couldn’t wait ‘til tomorrow night, huh?” he scowled. “I thought Malice wanted to polish me off all by himself. Doesn’t matter.” He picked up a broken piece of plywood from near his feet. “Come on, then! Let’s get this goddamn business over with!”
But the wolf-dogs didn’t come any closer. Not one of them growled. Their muscles weren’t tensed; they were clearly interested in him, but they weren’t angry or fearful. The beasts’ tails moved slowly from side to side. It might’ve been a trick of the light, but Jules thought he could almost see friendliness in their eyes. And their scent-heknew that scent from somewhere. The sense memory was as strong as his recollection of Maureen’s perfume, even if he couldn’t for the life of him place it.
The largest of the pack, the leader, separated itself from the others and slowly ambled toward Jules. Wondering whether he’d end up with five fewer fingers, Jules nervously extended his hand for the animal to sniff. But it didn’t pause at the preliminaries-it immediately licked his fingers, as enthusiastically as a boyhood pet. The lead wolf-dog rested its muzzle on his hand, staring up at Jules with big blue-gray eyes, eyes that were both weirdly intelligent and piercingly familiar, as mysteriously known to him as the other wolf-dogs’ scents had been. It pressed its cold, damp nose against his hand for several seconds, as if maybe trying to comfort him somehow, trying to tell him that in this big harsh universe perhaps Jules wasn’t as alone as he thought. Then the big wolf-dog licked him a second time, wagged its tail, and returned to its fellow pack members.
Jules cautiously unlocked his car, still grasping the plywood fragment. He started the engine and backed out of the lot. The wolf-dogs continued watching him as he drove past. He tried looking at them a final time in his rearview mirror, but they were already gone.
Jules awoke the next night at eight forty-three. He felt surprisingly well rested.So now I know the trick to a good day’s sleep, he told himself.Help your pals, and have your mind made up. Easy. Shame I learned that lesson with only one day’s sleep left to me.
He opened the cottage’s refrigerator and removed two of the three remaining pints of California blood that Doodlebug had left behind. Jules downed them both, straight out of the plastic bottles. It was a definite bummer that his last blood meal was this weak, watery, almost tasteless plasma. But it was also good, in a way. Drinking California blood was like downing a vitamin shake; New Orleans blood was like a Christmas ham feast, the kind of repast that makes you dopey and sleepy enough to enjoy the Vienna Boys Choir on TV. He would need his strength tonight, so skipping a meal wasn’t an option, but he couldn’t afford to be weighed down.
He wrote two checks for the remainder of the money in his checking account, one to Billy Mac for what Jules still owed on the Lincoln, the other to Tiny Idaho for the weapons he’d made. Jules recounted that when his father had passed on, he’d also passed on a bunch of bad debts to Jules’s mother. The memory left a bad taste in his mouth, bad as spoiled blood. If Jules was to leave this earth, he’d do so debt-free.
He had two stops to make before he faced his destiny at the foot of Canal Street. His first stop was the E-Z Mart at the corner of South Claiborne and Tulane Avenues, in the dusty shadow of the Pontchartrain Expressway overpass. The proliferation of these little all-night convenience stores had been one aspect of progress that’d made a vampire’s existence easier. He located his two items quickly. The total for the tin of Qwik-Start lighter fluid and the book of matches came to three dollars and forty-three cents. Jules handed the clerk a five-dollar bill and told him to keep the change.
The two items fit easily in one of his safari jacket’s huge Velcro-flap pockets.
Jules clambered into his despised Lincoln for what he hoped would be the last time. He had to turn the ignition key and give the accelerator five pumps before the big, gutless motor finally turned over. It didn’t matter. Real soon now-just another few blocks-and this shit bucket would be somebody else’s problem.
He turned onto Claiborne Avenue, driving beneath the vibrating canopy of the elevated expressway until he reached the New Orleans Police Department’s impoundment lot, an open-air jail for dozens of vehicles. They ranged from jalopies held together with Bondo and duct tape, hauled in for unpaid parking tickets, on up to Porsche Speedsters confiscated from drug dealers. The impounded cars were protected from the elements by the thick ceiling of the expressway, and protected from vandals and thieves by a twelve-foot fence topped with razor wire.
Jules briefly reviewed his options. As he idled the Lincoln, he observed two cops in the guard shack, watching TV. Option One: He could park the Lincoln, go over to the gate, and call the guards over. Then, once they were within eye contact, he could hypnotize them to open the gate for him. That would be the prudent way. Option Two: He could throw prudence to the winds and do it the fun way.
Option Two was it.
He drove past the lot, then swung the Lincoln around with an earsplitting shriek of cheap tire tread. He gunned the engine, heading toward the gate with all the momentum he could muster. His speed when he hit the gate wasn’t very impressive, barely twenty miles an hour. But the Lincoln’s sturdy frame and two-and-a-half-ton bulk were more than adequate for the job. The big coupe lost its grille and front bumper, but the fence got the worst of it-both sides of the gate were hurled toward the guard shack in a shower of sparks and broken metal.
He swung the Lincoln into an empty patch of weeds in a corner of the lot and cut the engine. He didn’t bother removing the key before he flung the door open and got out. Hell, he was donating the car to the NOPD, so he might as well leave them the keys. The guard shack’s door burst open. The two cops came running out, one of them sporting just- spilled gravy from a half-eaten roast beef po‘ boy all over his blue shirt.Definitely not two of New Orleans’s finest, Jules thought.
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