Sam remembered her own expectations at the Comus ball and blushed, her tummy doing a little flip. Prince Charming. Rich Right. Isn’t that who every woman waited for—sometimes her whole life long?
“Wearing an Elvis mask.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s right. Looking like Elvis—which wuddn’t so unusual, people wearing all kinds of things and Elvis is always popular—and crooning in their ears while they waltzed. Sounded exactly like The King. Or so said the one or two who finally talked.”
“After—”
“So, see, he danced them and romanced them, and then—he waltzed them right off the dance floor.”
“To—”
“Their houses. Where, of course, these ladies being who they were, members of these fancy families who were all at the ball, nobody was home.”
“Whereupon—”
“He’d make love to them like they’d never been made love to before.”
“I like it so far.”
“When they woke up, he have hogtied them to the bedposts.”
“Oh, no!”
“Nothing ugly, just tied up. Everything worth hauling off would be gone.”
“Ah. Jewels.”
“Jewels, especially, but paintings, too, silver—and believe me, a lot of these folks think nothing of having service for a hundred—Persian, Chinese carpets, antiques of all sort—”
“My God, did he have a truck?”
“Sure did. Would load it right up.”
“And in the midst of Carnival madness, nobody would notice.”
“Nope. And the beauty part was—”
“Nobody would tell. It was too embarrassing.”
“Absolutely! Seems like by the time Carnival was over, he’d have scored enough hits, there’s lots of balls, to have retired for the season.”
“Spend the rest of the year on the Riviera.”
“Wherever. Oh, did I say the part about the underpants?”
“I was waiting for that little article of clothing to drop.”
“If the lady in question was more partial to nylon or silk or rayon, he’d oblige her with a pair of his favorites before the festivities began.”
“Came prepared?”
“All seemed to be a part of his seduction kit. Burglar’s tools. Or if she had her own cotton, he’d help himself to a few pairs of those as he was leaving. Part of the booty.”
“This gonna lead us to Otis Dew?”
“I bet you read the last page of mysteries first.”
No, she didn’t. But she was still impatient, her plea to Mam’zelle for help on that issue notwithstanding. “Sorry.”
“Well, eventually a couple of ladies ’fessed up to the little parties, and a committee was formed—”
“They didn’t go to the police.”
“Child, don’t be silly,” said Uncle Luther, who’d been so quiet Sam had almost forgotten he was there. “Uptown folks don’t go to the po-lice. No more than Tante Marie goes shopping. Why wash your dirty laundry—?” And then Uncle Luther got to thinking about what that laundry might be and was carried away again by a fit of giggling.
“As I was saying,” said Ark, “a committee was formed by male relatives of the aggrieved, and they found them an investigator.”
“Aunt Stella.”
“That’s right.”
“Why her, might I ask?”
“Well, she’s homefolks, specializes in being discreet, and her particular attraction in this case was that she was female. For talking to the ladies, don’t you know?”
“I see. And what did Stella do?”
“Well, she came and talked to those who was talking, and that number grew, let me tell you, once the ball got rolling. It got to be sort of the thing, don’t you know, to have been kissed and robbed by Elvis—”
“Kissed?” asked Sam.
“That being the local circumlocution.” Ark sat back with his arms folded and a big grin. Proud as punch of his vocabulary and the impression it had made on Sam, whose major failing as an investigator was that she’d never managed to keep her feelings off her face.
“Anyway. She talked with all the ladies, and then, as was her way, locked herself in a room for the evening. The penthouse, I might mention, of the Pontchartrain, the committee sponsoring her being no slouch, and when she came out the next morning, which, by the way, was during Carnival season, said, I know who it is. Who? they all asked. But Stella wasn’t saying.”
“Otis Dew, of course. But how’d she know?”
“Stella has her ways.”
“Come on, Ark. Don’t con a con man.”
“Why, Ms. Adams”—and then Ark batted his eyes behind the thick lenses—“whatever do you mean?”
“I mean spill the beans.”
“Well. She had suspected him all along, I mean from the time the committee had first called on her and outlined the case.”
“Why?”
“The Elvis business. The pretty ways. The build. And, then, Stella had the additional advantage of having caught Otis’s preaching routine. Besides, the boy always did love nice things. After those Texas Baptists had given him a taste for the genuine article, you don’t think he was gonna go back to no Dodge Colt, no Thunderbird wine, do you? Not our Otis, with his champagne tastes. Plus—”
“Don’t forget the dog,” said Uncle Luther.
“I was just getting to that, if you please.”
“The dog?”
“Aunt Stella’s hound Sweetpea. She got hold of some things used to belong to Otis, then ran Sweetpea around one of them houses he robbed.”
“Wait a minute, Arkadelphia. You trying to tell me this Sweetpea could pick up a scent that was years old.”
“You don’t know Sweetpea.”
“Yeah, but I do know a shaggy hound story when I hear one.”
Ark held up his hands. “You want me to stop, I’m willing. I got three more lawns to mow before I go pick up the bleeding and the wounded with G.T.”
Sam shook her head. “Go on.”
“You sure?”
“Arkadelphia—” There was a knife in her voice. Poised at his throat. Which was exactly the response he was craving.
He took a deep breath. “So what Stella did was, she bought herself a fancy dress and went to every ball that seemed the least bit likely after that. Looking for Elvis.”
“But you said lots of people went as Elvis.”
“That’s right. So, to avoid embarrassing folks who might wear the same mask or costume, she took along Sweetpea.”
“Took the dog to the balls?”
“Listen, there are balls where elephants, gorillas, camels are real popular. Nobody’s gonna pay much attention to one hound bitch.”
“If you say so, Ark. So she found Elvis.”
“Sort of.”
Sam sighed. “Just tell me.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. I guess it was the tenth or twelfth ball. And there’d been plenty of Elvises. But Sweetpea didn’t even give any of them a sniff. Then, just about the time the committee was losing its patience, because they suspected he was at it again—none of this latest batch of ladies talking, but some houses a good deal emptier and a few grandes dames wearing some very suspicious grins—and believe me, neither the penthouse at the Pontchartrain nor Aunt Stella come cheap, when bingo! There in the midst of the dancing at Osiris, Sweetpea starts whining.
“Stella is holding her tight by her leash, and Sweetpea is pointing like crazy, but Stella can’t find any Elvis anywhere. “She’s all over the place, her and Sweetpea, bobbing and weaving, afraid Elvis/Otis is gonna cut out with another prize before she gets to him when, lo and behold. She sees him.”
“Elvis.” Sam couldn’t help herself.
“Nope. Jerry Lee.”
“He’s wearing a Jerry Lee mask?”
“Well, that’s what she thought.”
“Ark, I have been very patient.”
Uncle Luther laughed. “You
ain’t been nothing of the kind, missy. I’ve seen banty roosters more patient than you, and if you’ve ever seen a banty—”
“What do you mean, Ark?”
“So she sights him, and she lets go of the leash. Sweetpea takes out across the dance floor, and before you know it, the man is up with the orchestra. Stumbling in and out of the saxophones and the clarinets. Put his foot through a snare drum. But not slowed down a bit. Gets up there on the stage, all mixed in with the scenery for the tableaux, and I’ll be damned if Sweetpea didn’t tree him.”
“There was a tree on the stage, of course.”
“A live oak tree. The theme of the ball was Tara. There were these—”
“That’s okay. We can dispense with the scenery. So Sweetpea chased him up this tree.”
“That’s right. And Stella’s right there, with her little pearl-handled revolver and lots of security, all in evening wear, of course, toting heavier firepower, guns whipped out all over the place, ladies screaming, some of them delighted to be able to use the smelling salts they been carrying in their little evening bags for years, just hoping against hope there’d be an exciting enough occasion to go all limp, somebody could whip out the salts, prove they’re still frail flowers, and Stella’s shouting above the whole thing, Otis Dew, you son of a bitch, freeze!
“He did, of course, Otis not being entirely stupid.
“And Aunt Stella marched right up to him. Get down out of that tree, she said. Come down here and face the music like a man.
“Dew did. Jumped right down, looking like a prize athelete. Brushed his evening clothes off, like he’d mussed himself performing an act of galantry for some lady. I tell you, Aunt Stella’s fingers were itching. She couldn’t wait. She said, I know you’re under there. You can’t fool me with that Jerry Lee business. Then, timing it just right, everybody in the place stock-still, of course, band had long since stopped playing. Everybody having heard one of a thousand versions of the Elvis/lover story, what was supposed to have been happening, tales of ravishment too shameful to repeat, them old Creole ladies put their gossiping tongues together, do their gumbo ya ya, then Aunt Stella reached the tips of her fingers under that mask and ripped off the Jerry Lee Lewis face.”
“And there was Otis Dew!” crowed Sam, knowing it all the while, of course, but the joy of southern storytelling was in the telling and the hearing, not the punch line. Except, in this case.
“No. There was Elvis.”
“What?!”
“The face behind the mask was the spittin’ image of The King himself.”
“What are you telling me, Arkadelphia? Beneath the Jerry Lee mask he was wearing another mask? The Elvis mask?”
“No, he was wearing his face.”
“Need I remind you again that Elvis is dead. And was dead at the time we’re talking about?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,” laughed Uncle Luther. “But not that boy’s brother.”
Sam just stared at the two of them. Little old black man. Great big fat white man. Both laughing.
“Whose brother? What are you talking about? I’m going to smack both of you, if you don’t tell me.”
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar, girl,” Arkadelphia finally said when he got the use of himself again. “Now, did I tell you at the beginning that Otis Dew had a brother, Lamar who had gone to medical school?”
“You did not.”
“Studied plastic surgery. Did real well, mostly over in Sweden, mostly doing sex change operations.”
“And as a favor to his bubba, he turned him into Elvis.”
“Sure did. Isn’t that rich?”
“But why?”
“Why anything, sugar pie? Why blue skies? Why boys and girls? Why sex, drugs, rock and roll, greed?”
“I think you hit it on the button with that last one.”
“Well, I ’spect so too. Think Otis Dew was greedy. Greedy for the riches of the earth those Houstonians had spoiled him with. Greedy for the roar of the crowd. Did I tell you the rest of the year he was on the Riviera, you got that right, there and lots of other places, doing Elvis impersonations? Had been on the TV lots of times.”
“No, Ark. No, you didn’t. But what do you think made him come back to Louisiana? Do this weird thing?”
“Don’t know, sugar pie. Maybe there’s more ladies wear white cotton panties in this climate than any other place Otis Dew had ever been.”
And with that, Arkadelphia stood, shoved his straw hat back on his head, and lumbered off toward his mowing machine without giving her a backward look. Cranked the mower up and started doing whirlies in the Villères’ grass.
Sam sat, feeling like she’d been run over by a particularly large truck, staring at Uncle Luther.
Who said, “Yep, well, listen, you feeling better, I guess I ought to be getting back to work.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Hey, hey.” Luther grinned, chewed a little, spat. “You ought not to let boys like Ark get under your skin. Just passing the time, you know. Telling you ’bout Old New Orleans.”
“You telling me you think I ought to believe any of that?”
Luther scratched his head. Then from behind him, she saw the shadowy figure of Tante Marie flutter again. She thought she heard the softest giggle. Then the figure disappeared.
Luther saw her looking, grinned a slow grin, and gave her a big wink. He said, “There’s one would tell you yes. You ought to believe every word.”
“Luther, are you telling me Tante Marie was one of Otis Dew’s victims?”
“Or beneficiaries? Depending on how you look at it?”
“Are you?”
“Honey, I ain’t telling you nothing. Far as I’m concerned, we just been sitting here shooting the breeze, sipping a little tea.”
He was right. And it had all been so pleasant, she’d forgotten not only her manners, but what she’d set out for in the first place.
She stood. “Listen, Uncle Luther. I really do appreciate the refreshments and your first aid. Thanks so much.” She folded the washcloth and gingerly tried out her knees. Then she attempted an end run around Luther once more. “You wouldn’t happen to know if Madeline Villère’s over in St. Martinville, would you?”
He shook his head. “You know somebody else they ought to string up? Like that Imelder we was talking about ’fore Ark came along? Thinks she’s a princess too? That Leona Helmsley. ’Course they did get her up on trial. Cheating on her taxes. I read ’bout that woman in a story in the Picayune. Thinks she’s a queen. Ain’t that something? She’s an American. At least that Imelder’s a foreigner. Could be a queen. You know what I mean?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well. Now, listen, anytime you come running by here in yo’ bitty shorts, you want to stop and get a glass of ice water, some tea, you just holler, you hear? Old Luther, he get you some.”
Then he took her by the elbow and led her off the porch. Her knees hurt like hell. Luther flipped the switch on his Walkman. Did a little cakewalk ahead of her down the pavement, listening to somebody good.
“Who’s that, Imelda?” she asked.
The old man grinned, looking like a jack-o’-lantern. “Wynton. He my man, that Wynton. Homeboy.” Executing a little slow drag. “That Imelder? Naw. She cain’t sing worth spit. Ought to stuck to brassieres. High heels.”
And you ought to stick to pumping people dumber than you, Sam told herself as she gimped off down the sidewalk. Which means not messing with the help. Lord knows, growing up with Peaches and Horace ought to have taught her that.
Yes indeedy, both Ark and Uncle Luther had done a number on her. Sam turned onto General Taylor Street, laughing out loud at herself.
Twenty-Five
SAM DIDN’T HAVE to limp her way up the steps of the double shotgun on General Taylor to see who she’d come to see.
The left side of the house was G.T.’s, the right side Jimbo’s. The two halves mirror images, named for their one-room-right-after-another-shoot-
a-gun-straight-through-from-the-front-to-the-back construction.
Somebody who looked awfully like what Jimbo was supposed to was lying sprawled out in the side yard on his back.
“Hey!” he said, poking his head out from under what appeared to be a lawn chair he had propped up on short sawhorses. A very weird lawn chair. Above were your basic interwoven strips of green and white, but attached under the bottom was what looked like an inflatable rubber life raft. The raft was bright orange. Running all around the edges of the chair and on its arms was a series of little metal anchors.
“Hi!” said Sam.
“Well, hi there yourself, good-looking.”
Uh-oh. Maybe she should have put a little more thought into this—like not wearing running shorts for starters. “What’cha doing here?” she asked.
“Building me a flying lawn chair.” He grinned, showing lots of big white horsey teeth. “Wanta come on over here and see it?” He was lying propped up on his elbows now.
Not hardly, bubba. She shook her head. “What’s gonna make it fly?”
He stood up. He was a tall sucker. He wiped the grass off the seat of his jeans with huge hands and reached for a big cardboard box. “These here weather balloons.”
“You fill ’em with helium?”
“You got that right. You wanta go up for a spin sometime?”
“Thanks. I don’t think so.”
“Well, then, you wanta fuck?”
It was that kind of thing that made it real difficult to talk with some men. Once they’d said something like that, well, you could shoot ’em, but otherwise it was hard to continue.
“Thanks a lot, but I think I’ll pass,” she said with a little smile, like he’d offered her a cold drink.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Listen, I’m looking into some business for the Lee family. You know Church Lee?”
“So that’s what you doing here. Thought you was just strolling by.”
“Killing two birds with one stone.”
“What if we just fool around a little bit and see if you like it?”
“Maybe you had a conversation about him with a man named Maynard Dupree in the Pelican Bar some weeks ago.”
Jimbo straightened up a little bit, like he was thinking of getting serious. “Honey, I get to talking in the Pelican, it could be ’bout anybody. Any little old thing. You wanta go on over there and have a few drinks? Maybe reconsider my offer?”
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