by Mike Dennis
“Eddie.” Her voice turned singsongy.
“What?”
“When we get to New Orleans …” She looked up at him and licked her lips once. Just that one lick made them look so wet. “… I want to make love to you like no one ever has before. I told you I would make it up to you and I meant it. Is that okay?”
A blush tinted his face as he quit breathing and there were big stirrings south of his belt buckle. Breaking a slight smile, he looked around to make sure no one could hear.
“Baby, we’ll do whatever you want. When we get settled down, I’m gonna buy the biggest damn bed they make. Round. They make ‘em round, you know. And I’m gonna get sheets of the best silk.”
“What are you gonna do to me?” she giggled.
More stirrings — deep, nervous ones, the kind that always took control of him, that always gave him the whimwhams. They began to drown his thoughts and slur his speech.
“Oh, that’s easy. First, I’m gonna take your sweet, sweet legs and I’m gonna put —”
“Okay, I’m all set.” It was Garner, bag in hand, splashing cold water all over them. “Want me to wait outside or … or whatever?”
Eddie cleared his throat, jumping back into the real world. “No. No, we’re ready to go now. I’ll pay the check. Y’all go on out to the car.”
Outside, Eddie opened the trunk. As Garner put his bag in alongside Eddie’s and Felina’s, he said, “Say, that’s some old suitcase you got there, Eddie. Real leather, with those buckles, like they used to make ‘em. You must’ve had that one quite a while.”
“Yeah. Quite a while.” He slammed the trunk shut.
11
They stayed on the old road, away from the Interstate, drifting through the lovely, lazy towns of south Louisiana. New Iberia, Jeanerette, Morgan City. All were quiet in the deep afternoon, their low, flat buildings somehow blending with the bearded oaks and pecan trees spread-eagled beneath a reddening sky.
All through this silent backdrop, Lowell Garner yakked and yakked from the back seat. He wouldn’t shut up.
“Yep,” he said, “I used to have four clubs in central Texas. Smallest one seated eighteen hundred. Willie Nelson played all four of ‘em several times — he’s a good friend of mine, you know. I been knowing Willie for about twenty-five years now.”
“Ooh, Willie Nelson,” said Felina. “He’s really big.”
Garner tossed off a smug grin. “No brag here, young lady, but the money really did roll in pretty good for a while. And I’d still be in the damn saddle if I’d’a kept my eyes open. But that’s what happens, you know, when you get to a certain position, when you get a little bit o’ success.”
“What do you mean, Mr Garner? she asked.
“Well, you know, you start thinking that the top of the pile is all yours by divine right. Like you’ll be there forever. You get to feeling that nothing can touch you. And you forget what put you there in the first place. Hard work and sharp eyes! Yessir. Hard work and sharp eyes, especially in the back of your head.”
Eddie reflexively eyed the rear view mirror. Felina seemed to be listening, and increasingly Garner directed his monologue toward her, in search of an audience. Eddie tried rolling down his window, hoping to drown him out with road noise, but no luck.
“`Course,” Garner went on, “I like to make a bet on an occasional football game, too. And you know, that doesn’t usually help the ol’ finances.”
The old finances, Eddie thought. Occasional bets! That’s what put me here in the first place. If only the goddam Dodgers … I’d …
Then Felina’s words came floating back to him: We’re millionaires.
Hmph. What good’s all this dough if I can’t spend it?
His foot remained steady on the gas, but his insides rolled over. He was fearful, mortally fearful, of the tracking that by now had surely begun. But of course, he would never know the status of the hunt, nor even the identity of his pursuers, apart from Raymond Cannetta and Val. He was certain, however, that they would never quit. And he knew that they carried with them the assurance of long, horrible death, with no compromise. Only in the deepest, darkest corners could he hope to find a sometime-sanctuary from the sweeping beams of their searchlights.
The thing was, nobody made him do this. It’d be a damn sight easier to deal with this whole thing if he only had someone to blame. But he’d walked into this bargain with his eyes open, then closed the door behind him. Now it gnawed at him like a dentist’s drill that just wouldn’t stop.
Exactly what did he think he was going to do with all this cash? Where did he think he could go? Where was he going to live? He’d never lived anywhere but Houston till now. He and Felina couldn’t stay long in New Orleans, that was for damn sure.
But he just had to see Linda. He had to. He couldn’t go away without telling her. She’d never forgive him.
For now, though, the only thing he could count on was Felina. He’d taken her, and now she was all his. God damn, it was what he had always wanted. He couldn’t stop saying that to himself. He didn’t want to.
He looked at her as she sat there in the passenger seat, turned slightly toward him. She was now the other half of this … this new thing he had become.
The she half.
This she was powerful, wanton, and like all the shes Eddie had known, cruelly corrupting. He’d already stolen, killed, then put his own damn neck close to the dangling noose. He didn’t originally do it for her, for this she, but he might as well have. Because given the chance, he damn sure would’ve.
God damn right he would have.
He’d do it all over again if he had to, whatever the hell it took, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Make no mistake about it.
Not only that, he’d turn that car around right now and go straight back to Houston if he thought he could give Salazar back his money and walk away with her. But no, it was past that now. He couldn’t do that.
Now he was a millionaire.
12
The car rolled at a leisurely pace, keeping pace with Eddie’s thoughts. By nightfall, they were on the outskirts of New Orleans.
“Where can we take you, Mr. Garner?” asked Felina.
“Down in the French Quarter, if it’s not too far out of your way,” he replied. “The Louis Philippe Hotel. You know where it is?”
Eddie spoke for the first time in over fifty miles. “I know that place. My sister plays piano in there.”
“Your sister? She that pretty blonde gal — the one that’s been playin’ there a few years now?”
“Yeah, that’s her,” Eddie replied.
“Man, can that li’l ol’ gal sing or what! I’ve heard her a buncha times.” He leaned forward and tapped Eddie’s shoulder. “She can play a pretty mean piano, too. She’s your sister, Eddie? Hot damn!”
A shiver of pride swept over Eddie as they crossed a huge bridge, which appeared to be the gateway to the city.
“You’re gonna have to direct me,” he said over his shoulder to Garner. “I’ve never been to New Orleans before.”
“It’s on Bourbon Street, in the French Quarter,” Garner said. “Just turn up here, the other side of this bridge, and we’ll be there in no time.” Eddie made the turn. Some minutes later, they crossed a wide, wide street, then entered the cramped confines of the French Quarter.
≈≈≈
The narrow old streets, barely separating tucked-together buildings, made Eddie slow down and take notice. They were old, these buildings, older than any he’d ever seen. They splashed color, too, even now at dusk. Not the vivid riot of Mexican primary colors, but subtler, more unusual Crayola shades: mulberry, jungle green, burnt sienna. After a lifetime in the wide, dried, gray-white expanses of Houston, he twitched uncomfortably from being suddenly enveloped by the closeness of these bizarre, aging structures.
Balconies protruded from almost every one of them, while upstairs lights behind curtained windows made him feel as if someone was watching from a hidden position. On th
e street, people moved languidly. He saw no telephone poles or wires overhead, which made him think. Apart from electric streetlights and a few other concessions, the nineteenth century had stood still here, like an embalmed memory.
Garner was guiding Eddie through the one-way streets, when he said, “Say, how’d y’all like to join me for dinner? They’ve got a great restaurant at the Louis Philippe, and I’d like to treat you to a good meal. Kind of show my appreciation.”
Eddie was about to decline the offer, when Felina smiled and said, “Oh, that’s very nice of you, Mr. Garner. We’d love to.”
“Mighty fine, said Garner. “Here we are. You can park in the hotel lot, Eddie. And by the way, y’all, please call me Lowell.”
Eddie pulled into the hotel’s auto entrance. The attendant handed him a ticket, then slid into the driver’s seat, all in one practiced motion. Garner was still talking to Eddie, arm draped around his shoulder. But Eddie’s nervous attention remained riveted to the car as it whisked up the ramp, tires squealing, with the hot fortune in the trunk.
13
The restaurant of the Louis Philippe Hotel reeked of class. Eddie had never been in such a place. He was impressed by the sheer size of the handsome chandelier hanging over the center of the room, even though he had no way of knowing that it was made of Spanish crystal from another century. Nor could he ever spot the high-priced original artwork on the walls.
Eddie, Felina, and Garner were shown to a table. As soon as they ordered drinks, Eddie said, “I’ll be right back. I gotta make a phone call.”
He stepped out into the small, smart lobby with his cell phone and dialed a number. A woman answered.
“Hey, Linda. This’s Eddie.”
“Eddie? Eddie? What —” She made no attempt to mask her surprise. “What the hell —”
“I didn’t know if you were playing tonight or what. I was hoping I’d catch you at home.”
“Yeah, I’m playing tonight. Just getting ready to go in. But what the hell’s going on? Is it Christmas already?”
He slipped into his friendliest gear. “Hey, can’t a guy call his sister if he happens to be in town?”
“You’re in New Orleans? What’re you doing over here?”
He just had to melt her suspicions. He knew what a tough trick that would be. She’d always been sharp-eyed and quick, a lot quicker than he, even when they were growing up.
She had just turned fourteen when their mother died, so she had to take charge. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of Eddie, and of course going to school and waiting tables — it all honed her feminine softness to a steely edge.
Her musical talent didn’t really develop for another three or four years. It had to wait around while she learned so early the painful lessons of adulthood. But when she finally sat down at a piano, it all seemed to just flow out of her, like water from a downturned canteen.
“Well,” Eddie said, “we were just out driving, and I got to thinking I haven’t seen you since, uh … when’s the last time you was back in Houston? About a couple of years ago? Anyway, we were out driving, and the next thing you know, here we are.” He hoped she could hear his smile through the phone.
“We?”
“Yeah.” He was still smiling. “Me and my new girlfriend. We were just —”
“Okay, Eddie. Okay. How much this time?”
“No, no, Linda. You got it all wrong! I don’t need any dough. In fact, I’m fixed for li — I’m — I’m fixed pretty good right now. What I want to do is pay you back for what you’ve loaned me over the years.”
“Pay me back? What the hell are you —“
“I figure when you add it all up, it must be close to six or seven grand. Let’s make it an even ten, including the interest.”
Linda didn’t bite. “Behave yourself, Eddie. You didn’t drive all the way from Houston just to drop ten Gs in my lap. Now what’s the pitch?”
“No pitch, Linda! No pitch! I just wanted to pay you back. And I thought maybe we could stay by you for a few days until we get our bearings. I’m thinking of leaving Houston.”
“Leaving? Leaving Houston?””
Why yeah, I am. I —”
”Eddie, Eddie, who do you think you’re talking to here? Outside of a few trips to Beaumont and Galveston, and maybe once or twice to Dallas, I don’t think you ever been outside Harris County in your whole life. And now you show up in New Orleans? With ten thousand dollars to give me? With some girlfriend? Telling me you’re leaving Houston?” Eddie was silent as she added, “What happened, did you have a good week with your football business? Now you want to spread a little green around? Is that it?”
This wasn’t working at all. He just couldn’t slide anything past her. She was … she was just too much for him. She always had been, and he guessed she always would be.
Another short silence slinked into the phone line before Eddie said, “Linda, if I could explain. Can we come over and I’ll tell you all about it?”
“Well, right now I’m fixing to go play. I don’t get off till two.”
“Hey, better yet! We’re eating dinner here right now. Right here at the hotel you play at. I’m calling you from their lobby, in fact.”
“You’re eating at the Louis Philippe? In the restaurant there? The King’s Landing?”
“Yeah! And it’s some ritzy joint, I’m telling you. They got guys in there wearing tuxedoes and everything. This meal’s gonna cost a fortune.”
“What in God’s name are you doing in there, little brother? I didn’t think you ever got too far away from those grease-pit hash holes.”
“Naw, I know, it’s not exactly my style. But we picked this guy up along the way and he’s paying — well, I’ll explain everything when I see you. We’ll be there in a little while.” Then he put on a hoity-toity accent. “After we sip our brandy, of course.”
They both laughed a little and hung up. He returned to the dining room, still trying to believe that everything would work out just fine.
Back at the table, Garner was spinning tales of New Orleans and its potential for pleasure. “And believe you me, I’ve been to all the other hot towns — Vegas, New York, the Coast — and little old New Orleans will still give you the best damn time you ever had.”
Felina smiled. “You know, Lowell, I’ve heard that, too. I used to know this man who came here a lot and he used to say that the only way —”
“And I’ll tell you something else,” he murmured. He leaned forward over the table, toying with his thick mustache. His eyes darted left and right, like someone about to reveal forbidden secrets. “We are sitting right smack in one of the hottest party palaces in the whole damn state.”
Eddie and Felina looked around. They saw only elegance. The guy who showed them to their table looked like he’d been born in that immaculate tux. The soft music could put people to sleep. It didn’t look like there’d ever been a party held in this place.
“Oh no, not in here,” Garner said. “Not in this restaurant. I’m talking about the hotel itself. And the lounge. The Louis Philippe lounge is known far and wide for having the prettiest, the most expensive - ah — ladies of the night that you’re ever gonna find anywhere. That’s one reason why I always stay here whenever I’m in town.” Having spilled that piece of information, he sat back in his chair, quite satisfied with himself. He chuckled once. “A first-class whorehouse right in the middle of one of the top hotels in the South. Ha! How ‘bout that!”
Eddie turned to Felina. “I just talked to Linda. It’s all set. She’s playing tonight. We can go in and hear her when we get done here.”
Felina nodded. “Of course, Eddie. But perhaps Lowell would like to go along.” She eyed Garner. “Would you like to come with us, Lowell? We’re going to hear Eddie’s sister sing and play piano.”
Eddie made a face. Garner missed it and said, “Why, it’d be a real pleasure, Felina. I don’t really have any other plans for tonight myself. Shoot, I was probably just gonna go in there anyway.
`Course, I don’t want to be in the way, what with y’all seeing your sister …”
“Oh Lowell, you’re not in the way,” said Felina. “We’d love for you to come with us.”
Sure we would, thought Eddie. In your fucking dreams.
14
The Louis Philippe lounge was a hot little spot, all right. The fire-engine red grand piano leapt out of its brick nook along the left side, catching everyone’s eye, just as it was supposed to. But when Linda sat down to play it, as she did now, it became merely a rhythmic extension of her singing.
Every night, people gathered around the piano in large numbers for a taste of her sexy, white-girl blues. Eddie couldn’t believe the wild response. But as he drew closer, he felt the old familiar cry in her voice tugging at him the way it always used to, transporting him back through the long years. The customers loved her. Out in the lobby the sign read “Appearing nitely, Linda Lavelle,” but that couldn’t begin to tell the story.
The music she played was her music, done her way. It had been filtered through all the tough times, all her lonely teenage nights, when it was just she and Eddie. She was plenty scared during those nights, but she didn’t want her little brother to know how close to the edge they really were. So she would take him in her arms, soothing his anxieties with song.
They would sit by the window, overlooking the moonlit jumble of ratty courtyards and clotheslines, while she softly sang what words she could remember — words to the songs that had come crackling to her that day over her tiny transistor radio.
She sang until he fell into peaceful sleep, and even then she wouldn’t stop. Sometimes, with streaming eyes, she continued as much for her own peace of mind as for his. Back then it was all she had to give, the only way she knew to preserve Eddie’s childhood for him. He was so young, so helpless. She just had to keep him from being corrupted by the fear that had threatened to consume them both.