“Thanks, I don’t drink. I understand you and Maynard were saying some pretty audacious things about General Taylor Johnson, your neighbor here”—Sam crooked a thumb up at the house—“and Church Lee. Maybe a lady named Chéri too.”
“Now there’s a pretty piece. Got a mouth on her, though. Just like you. That’s okay. I like sassy women.”
“Did you know Church Lee died that next night? After you and Maynard Dupree were standing around in the Pelican talking about killing him?”
“Is that the truth?” Jimbo scratched his head. “That’s a purrdee shame. I sure do hate to hear that.”
“Kind of makes it look bad for you, don’t you think?”
“Naw.” Jimbo reached over to a Styrofoam cooler, knocked the lid aside, and reached out a cold Dixie. “You sure you don’t want a beer?”
She shook her head. “Thanks.”
He drained it in one long swig. Belched. Grinned. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “’Scuse me.”
“You mind my asking where you were that next night?”
“When was that? I don’t remember exactly. Don’t remember the conversation you talking about, for that matter. Though it coulda happened. I ain’t saying it didn’t.”
“You mean you could have stood around the Pelican talking about killing somebody.”
“Sure. Mean son of a bitch like me could talk about most anything. Don’t you think?” Giving her a hard look.
“I wouldn’t know.” What she did know was that he was trying to scare her a little, but somehow she didn’t think Jimbo was going to bump her off standing right there in his side yard before lunch.
“When was this?” he asked, giving up the tough approach, reaching for another beer, waggling it at her. “You sure I can’t tempt you now?”
“Church was killed late Mardi Gras night. Almost three o’clock Ash Wednesday morning, actually.”
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know where I was then.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Hell, no.”
“Maybe you were asleep?”
“I’m saying I was drunk as a skunk, as any self-respecting person would be on Mardi Gras, and I coulda been passed out, or I coulda been still standing. I surely don’t know, myself.”
“Anybody with you who might?”
Jimbo grinned. “Oh, yeah. There’s a whole lot of people with me.”
“You were at a party?”
“Naw. I don’t like parties. Least not the usual kind.”
She knew she was walking into it, but what the hell? “What kind do you like?”
“Kind I put together myself.” He really did look exactly like the Big Bad Wolf, standing there, grinning. “Lots of girls, not many clothes. You know what I mean.”
“I think I get the drift. Any of these girls have names?”
“What’d you say you did for a living? Say you are a cop?”
“Nope. Actually, I’m a newspaper reporter.”
“You are? Well, hell. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Jimbo was looking awfully excited, smoothing down his hair, and shifting into another gear. “Listen, I didn’t mean nothing, what I said earlier. I was just playing. You know how us stupid old boys are.”
“I sure do.” She grinned. What was this? Jimbo liked reporters?
“Listen. You here to do a story on my flying lawn chair?”
“No—I told—” Wait a minute. “Well—actually—it does sound kind of interesting.” She reached in her little belly pouch, pulled out one of the small notebooks she always carried. “You want to tell me about it?” She settled right down on top of the beer cooler.
*
Who the hell was that? Teri wondered, driving by real slow. She knew she oughten to, but she couldn’t help herself. Just like when she was in junior high, high school, her and her friends, cruising their boyfriends’ houses. Curly headed brunette getting up off the Styrofoam cooler she’d bought at Walmart, sashaying out of the yard in running shorts. Well, she might have known, no sooner was she out the door’n Jimbo’d be bringing ’em in. Hot and cold running whores.
And here she’d got up this morning full of fresh resolve. That’s the one thing her grandma’d taught her—brought her up after Daddy died and Mama ran off to deal blackjack in Vegas. Mamaw said, Teri Lynn, you get up every morning, it’s a whole new world, honey. Whole new slate. You just greet it with fresh resolve to make the best of it. Same thing Sister Nadine preached on TV. You try hard enough, you can be anything you want to be. Even if you are fat.
Not that that was the precise truth. Teri knew that. She wuddn’t exactly a fool. Knew she wuddn’t gonna be Madonna. She wuddn’t Italian, for one thing. And she couldn’t sing.
But. She could be that cute if she tried. She had naturally blond—almost white—hair. Didn’t have to bleach the bejesus—’scuse me Lord—out of it like Madonna.
All she had to do was lose about sixty-five pounds. ’Course, Sister Nadine would say you didn’t have to, but she didn’t agree with her on that. ’Cause if she did, lose the weight, that is, Jimbo would love her again, wouldn’t be so quick to get mad, knock her around. Actually, it was only sixty now. She’d already lost five this week. Not that Aunt Ida wuddn’t feeding her, she was. She was the sweetest old black lady, taking her in like that, her and Doctor.
That’s what her little baby boy was called. It had been her mamaw’s idea. Doctor King. It had a nice ring to it.
And Aunt Ida giving her all those nice baths too. Made her feel so good. She didn’t know if that was what had done it, or if it was staying home in the afternoons and watching Sister Nadine live ’stead of watching her later taped. She truly did believe that if you watched things live, you could get those people’s vibrations, if you put your hand on the top of the TV. That was why some of them evangelists, they had you put your money on top of the TV right before you sent it to them. Then it was doubly blessed. So every afternoon that’s what she’d been doing. Put her belly right up to the tube too. If you got those vibes, your reducing diet would work twice as fast, better than Optifast. She didn’t care what Oprah said. She didn’t like Oprah so much anyway. She was with Aunt Ida on that one, said there was something about that Oprah was shuck and jive.
That curly-headed brunette was gone now, had traipsed off down the sidewalk with kind of a limp. Teri went over it in her head again, what she’d been practicing to say.
Jimbo, honey, I do love you. And I know you love me, and you love Doctor. But I just cain’t put up with the way you been treating me. First, I know you want me to lose weight. I’m already doing that. Second, I want you to come to the tabernacle with me, pray about it. See if you can find it in your heart to give yourself to the Lord, let Him help me with my diet, even though Sister Nadine says it’s okay if you’re fat, she said real fast under her breath. He’ll make a new man out of you.
She missed Jimbo, got a hot flush all over her body looking at him across the street. She was squinched way down low in the car she’d borrowed from her friend Nouvelle—a girl she and Jimbo had met dancing to the jukebox over at the Mayfair Bar on Amelia Street one night. It was a brand new Trans Am.
Speaking of which, what was that shiny new black thing pulled up in their driveway? G.T. done bought herself a new wagon? Not hardly, saving all her medical school cash.
Teri sighed. You turn your back on a man half a second, and just look at that.
Now, look at that!
Little brown Mercedes pulling right past her, then wheeling into the driveway, brakes pumping, redhead waving both arms over her head at Jimbo, he jumping up, her tits nodding this way and that, could see ’em over to Algiers. Christ!
’Scuse me, Lord, but, now, would you look at that? Jimbo leaning over the side of that little convertible like he was a teenager over to the Clematis Bar, hanging out. Smoothing back an imaginary ducktail. Next thing you know he’d be singing “Don’t Be Cruel.”
What was he a
nd that redhead talking about?
Leaning their heads real close together, then Jimbo looking real serious. Shaking his head no. No. Unh-uh. No way, Jack. Redhead gabbing away eleventy-hundred miles a minute. Waving her hands around like she was Italian. She didn’t look Italian, though. Those great big sunglasses, she looked like a movie star.
Teri ran a finger under the gold necklace Jimbo’d given her when they first started going out. It had hung lower then, covered that little mole he liked to kiss right above where her cleavage started. The necklace was higher now, what with all her baby fat.
Now the redhead was starting up her motor, but not faster than Teri Lynn. Teri Lynn King. A tear slipped down her cheek, landed right above the little mole on her chest. Still Mrs. Jimbo King, thank you very kindly.
Twenty-Six
MARIETTA WAS JUST walking out of the Pic’N’Pac store on Coliseum close by her house when Billy Jack was coming in the door.
She didn’t even notice him, not that she would anyway. Marietta was the kind of Uptown woman could tell with her peripheral vision if a boy was Tulane or just trash.
On the other hand, he gave her a long look. Checked out the diamonds on her left hand, big enough to blind you. Thought how pretty they’d look on his mama. Thought about asking her, just for confirmation, you get those at Coleman E. Adler?
Heavy gold bracelet full of charms. Good watch too. Yep, yep. Middle-aged lady, not too bad-looking, she’d be worth taking down for her pretties if it wasn’t broad daylight, middle of the afternoon.
You couldn’t do individuals then. It was too dangerous. But, boy, was it exciting.
Well, she was gone now anyway. Billy Jack started cruising around the store. Seeing what was what.
Who was where.
Running his fingers across the candy wrappers. Milky Ways. Peppermint Patties. Almond Joys. Baby Ruths. Picking ’em up and putting ’em down. Wrinkling up his forehead like he was concentrating. Trying to get his mind to decide what his mouth wanted to do.
Two kids behind the counter. Manager out to lunch.
Billy Jack knew that. He knew everything there was to know about Pic’N’Pacs and 7-Elevens. The work schedules. When they went to the bank. These hadn’t been yet. That that little sign—said the cash register had only a hundred dollars and the clerk couldn’t open the safe—was bullshit. He knew it all now. That once he’d got busted was because he was so young. Hadn’t figured out you had to have a system. Had to know what was what.
Billy Jack pulled the brim of his red Peterbilt gimme hat down a little farther. He was starting to get pumped up now.
That was what people didn’t understand.
Robbing things was fun.
As far as Billy Jack was concerned, it was better than almost anything. Better than a good meal. Better than Dixie beer. Better than coke. Hell, better than sex. Though it was kind of like sex.
It was being right on the edge. Walking a tightrope. No net. Only you calling the shots. But anything could happen. There was always the possibility of the wild card. That was what was so exciting about it. And then you had to use all you got.
Sure, he needed the money. This time. But lots of times he’d hit stores, hit individuals, just for the fun. Watching ’em go white—if they was white. Start to shake. Try to run.
He popped a look back at the clerks. Neither of them paying any attention to him. They never did till you gave them something to look at. Yep. They were both white, all right. But don’t think he’d forgotten about that black bitch yesterday. One slapped that parking ticket—he tore it right up and stomped on it—on his Town Car. He’d find one later. Just drive around. Find one by himself. Herself. Pow. Even things up.
’Course you never could tell what might come cruising in here before it was all over.
Oh, boy. Billy Jack could feel himself starting to get a little hard.
The clerks—one boy, redheaded, lots of freckles with acne mixed in, one girl, blonde, kind of soft and blurry, like you could erase her nose or her mouth if you rubbed hard—they were laughing now. Still one customer. Big old fat guy, North Louisiana accent, sounded like home, buying a half-gallon of ice cream.
“You sure you don’t want to come home with me and help me finish this butter brickle up?” he was saying to the blonde.
Ought to be ashamed of himself. Old enough to be her daddy. The girl was giggling, punching the redheaded boy. “Naw. I sure don’t.”
Get on out of here, blubber butt. Haul it. Move it. “Well, I reckon I better get on home. Louise gone wonder I didn’t get run over by a truck.”
“Well, thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow,” the boy was saying.
“If not sooner.” The fat ass was laughing like he’d said something funny. Started shuffling toward the door.
Billy Jack picked up a Moon Pie, pretending he was gonna buy it. Same time started pulling up the stocking. He’d cut the foot part off so he could slip it down around his neck, then jerk it up. Made him look like a monster, nose and mouth pulled everywhichway. Peterbilt gimme hat stuck back on top. Nobody’d ever recognize him. But it was kinda hard to talk. The fat man was gone. Careful that door don’t hit you in the butt, son.
Then, whap, just like that, Billy Jack was at the counter. He pulled the shiny .38 Smith & Wesson he’d bought off a guy over in Slidell out of his belt.
There went their faces snow-white. The redheaded boy’s freckles were standing out like little flecks of dirt. Like a truck had gone by real fast, him standing too close to the curb, and splattered him good.
The girl was crying right on cue, ought to be in the movies, great big old tears pouring down her face, blurring her nose and mouth even worse, except her mouth now was like it was turned upside down.
Wuddn’t it funny, you had time to see all that? When you were doing something gets you on the edge like this, time just came to a dead stop.
“Empty the cash register and the safe,” Billy Jack said through the tight stocking, his mouth a little dry, lips really having to work.
“Whut?” said the girl.
The boy’s eyes were so big, you could see white all around the edges. He wasn’t even breathing.
“Gimme all the cash!”
The girl looked at the boy like he was gonna say something. “What’s he saying?”
Jesus Christ! Even if she was having trouble understanding him through the stocking, wouldn’t you think she could just like figure it out?
“He wants the money,” the redhead finally said in a rusty voice.
“Well!” she said.
Billy Jack thought he was gonna bust a gut. He truly could not believe the way she’d said the word. It was like every little pissant girl he’d ever grown up with. Well! Like the word had its hands on its hips. Like I’ll have to think about that, let you know. Like you’re a little old country boy and I’m a cheerleader and popular and my mama said I don’t have to—
“Now!” Billy Jack screamed at the top of his lungs. And right then the front door slapped.
The unexpected. The you-can’t-figure. Here it was.
Billy Jack whirled.
*
Lavert stopped, one foot in the air. Held it there for a long second before he put it down, real slow.
He didn’t even have to be told.
It just goes to show you, he thought, what a wonderful place the world is.
Not that this was wonderful. This little bitty honky motherfucker throwing down on him with that shiny little gun he must have bought yesterday in the Woolworth’s, it looked that new, but prob’ly wasn’t a cap gun. Lavert wasn’t willing to lose a bet on that one. But what was wonderful was here he was, driving along, still half in the bag from his get-together with Harry Zack last night, thinking about old times, little glimpses of G.T. creeping around the edges, like a treat he was saving for himself, a treat so sweet he didn’t even want to taste it yet with his tongue, knew it would make his shoulders squish together like ummmmmh, say, little tiny skate win
gs quickly sautéed and finished with a red wine caper sauce, knowing that she was gonna give him the time of day, knowing that she was just a little bit interested, feeling like he was sixteen years old, goddamned springtime in his soul, didn’t even matter if it had been December outside, inside he had that feeling like he was just gonna bust, wanted to snatch up little kids on the street, drag ’em off and buy ’em ice cream cones, throw about two dozen of ’em in the back of Joey’s limo, take ’em out to the zoo, buy ’em cotton candy, hot dogs, find a carnival, buy strings of tickets, loop ’em around their skinny little necks about three times, and let ’em ride. Let ’em twirl. Let ’em hang upside down in the Tilt-A-Whirl till they puked their little guts out. Who cared? He’d clean ’em up and take ’em home and plop ’em all around Joey’s round table and make ’em spaghetti with Joey’s mama’s secret sauce. Then take them all home to their mamas before they got worried. Tell each mama how much he’d enjoyed the day with her perfect little angel child.
Now, that was love.
And that was what was so wonderful about the world.
That you could be so gone in your own mind, your own reality, your own little bit of space and time when whop! there was a whole other world.
Now, which was real and which wasn’t? He looked at the little white boy. Was he for real? Standing there, legs spread like John Wayne with his six-shooter. And then he looked again.
Son of a bitch! Lavert leaned back his head and laughed and laughed and laughed like a man gone nuts.
*
“Freeze!” Billy Jack snapped.
What was so goddamned funny to this jigaboo?
Big jigaboo.
And then he knew.
Oh, fuck. He was screwed.
*
“Son,” Lavert said, “I been looking all over for you.”
“Well, okay”—dancing around a little now—“so you found me. But you better step back.” Billy Jack waggled his gun.
“I got a pretty little woman wants to talk with you bad.” One step forward.
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