by Dan Baum
“Congratulations,” the woman said. She tapped at a keyboard. “Sir?” she said.
“Yes?”
“I don’t show you having that much money in your account.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Wil said. “There’s fourteen thousand dollars.” He fished in his briefcase for the account register.
“I’m showing a little more than seven thousand.” She turned the screen to show him.
Motherfucking Whitney Bank. Squaly and Lawrence had both warned him about putting money in a bank for uptown blue bloods, but that’s how Wil had wanted it. He was working hard; he should have the best. Now they’d lost, or maybe stolen, half his money.
A short man with a bald head and glasses appeared behind them. “Let’s get this straightened out,” he said kindly. He led them to a desk enclosed by cubicle walls and turned to a computer. Wil looked at his watch. They were due at the closing in a little less than an hour. Luscious, usually quick to temper, sat quietly looking at the floor.
“Now, how big a cashier’s check were you wanting?” the man asked.
“Fourteen thousand dollars,” Wil said. “We’ve been saving for four years.”
The man cleared his throat. “Well, there have been some withdrawals,” he said, and then, right in front of Wil, slid his eyes over to check out Luscious.
Wil fought down his anger. “This is bullshit, man. I saved fourteen thousand dollars to buy us a house.”
“Well, as I say, there have been some withdrawals.” The man pushed his eyes over toward Luscious again, who was studying her long white nails.
Enough. Wil banged his hand on the desk. “You’re trying to steal my money!”
“Sir, please lower your voice.”
“I will not lower my voice! You just don’t want to give that kind of money to a black man!”
“Mr. Rawlins. Look here.” The man turned the screen. “You had fourteen thousand dollars, but as I say, there have been withdrawals. Lots of them.” He slid his eyes once more toward Luscious. “Big ones.”
Withdrawals. Wil turned to Luscious. She picked at a nail.
“May I see your ATM card, sir?” Wil fished it out and extended it. “Okay, it’s not this one. Ma’am? May I see your card?”
Luscious opened her purse and pulled out her card. She pushed it slowly across the desk with the tips of her long white nails. She raised her eyes to Wil. “We have to talk.”
“Ah, yes,” the vice president said. “This is the card.”
Luscious cried all the way to Dwyer Road. “It was them video poker machines,” she sniffled. “I was down about five thousand dollars when you started asking me to go get the check. I tried to win it back, and I guess I lost two thousand more.”
Video poker! Wil thought. I’m busting my ass at work, and she’s been hanging in the bars playing video poker?
Ma and Da were out—at the VA hospital. Luscious went straight back to the bedroom. Wil sat on the couch in the living room, elbows on knees, chin on fists.
Luscious came out, clutching a Kleenex. “Wil …”
He looked up. Her eyes were red, her makeup running.
“You need to call your mother and have her come get you,” he said. “You’re not welcome in this house anymore.”
BELINDA SMALLS
NORTH VILLERE AND LIZARDI STREETS
2000
Belinda cruised up Lizardi Street with the girls and little Curtis in the backseat, singing along with Whitney Houston, who poured like honey from the speakers: “I am not afraid to try it on my own, and I don’t care if I’m right or wrong.” “On My Own” had become Belinda’s anthem. No more men. No more being handed some married guy’s cell phone number. And no more husbands. That was for sure.
So many cars lined Lizardi that Belinda had to park two blocks away from cousin Katina’s. Curtis could see the bounce house poking up from the backyard and was clawing at the door. The girls, fifteen and eleven, took charge, untangling him from his car seat as Belinda cut the engine. Inside the glove compartment was the envelope holding the divorce papers from Snooker and a copy of the judge’s restraining order. She never went anywhere without them.
A DJ’s overamplified voice echoed across the Lower Nine, whomping up another hip-hop tune. Barbecue smoke rose from Katina’s yard and drifted between the houses. Curtis pulled Belinda excitedly along the pavement. It made her knee ache; it ached a lot lately.
Cousin Katina had found herself a good man—a Southern University graduate called Squaly—and they were going all out for the second birthday of their son, Myron. People spilled from the house, the porch, and the front and back yards in a way that reminded Belinda of Aunt Polly’s card parties back in the day.
She wrinkled her nose at the smell of crawfish boiling—more boiled bugs. Curtis exploded from her grip the minute they got inside the house, the girls went their own way, and Belinda wove through the crowd, pressing her cheek against the sweaty cheeks of friends and cousins. She took a plate, put a piece of chicken on it, and went out the back door to keep an eye on Curtis. A spot was open on a small wrought-iron bench, and she took a seat, pressing her knees together, pinching a chicken wing delicately in her fingers.
Across the yard, a big man in an orange and green tracksuit was talking with Squaly. He was tall, with long, long legs and a big butt, but he moved like a little boy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, waving his long arms. He and Squaly were laughing. Belinda liked Squaly; his education showed. He was polite, thought about his words before speaking, and had none of the swagger of men like Snooker who were thrashing around at the bottom of the economic ladder.
“Excuse me.”
Belinda looked up. The big man in the orange and green tracksuit stood over her. He had a sweet face—kinda goofy—quizzical eyebrows, full lips set a little crooked. One of his teeth was chipped. “My friend has asked me to go to the store,” he said formally. “Would you like anything from the store?”
“Uh, no thank you.”
The man smiled and shifted his stance. He looked like an oversized kid in feety pajamas. “Are you sure you don’t want anything?”
The clumsiest opening line, and he was repeating it. She was fed up with men, but this one was so gentle and so goofy he seemed harmless. “Okay,” she said. “Bring me some Goody’s powders. I got a pain in my knee.”
He pressed his palms together—“Goody’s powders!”—and strode off through the side yard, swinging his arms. No macho swagger at all. Belinda’s knee twinged as she got to her feet to find cousin Katina. “Who’s the big guy in the tracksuit?”
“Oh, that’s Squaly’s frat brother from Southern,” Katina said.
“What’s he do?”
“He’s the band director at Carver.”
The man in the orange and green tracksuit returned with the Goody’s powders. “Belinda Smalls,” he said formally, writing on a piece of paper. “I unfortunately have to leave the party. But rather than put you in the awkward position of being asked for your phone number, I will give you mine. I hope you will give me a call, because I would like to see you again.” So direct. So formal. He put out his huge hand, and she shook it. When he was gone, she looked at the paper. “Wilbert Rawlins,” it said. Next to the phone number, he’d written, “Home.”
TIM BRUNEAU
THE GOOSE
2000
Tim looked at the cop dozing in the passenger seat. The guy even looked stupid. What a mistake, to let him write up last night’s felony arrest. It had been a good bust, but Tim had glanced at the paperwork this morning. “Got in a fight,” it said. “Guy hit a guy with a bottel and cut him up.” Tim’s sergeant—no Einstein either—had put it in the out-box for the DA, who would certainly have thrown the case out. Tim had snatched the report and rewritten it. Precision was everything. Police work was useless without it. Ever since the city council forced cops to live within the parish, the police department had recruited mostly from people who had gone through the New Orleans
public schools and could barely spell their own names. You didn’t need crooked judges and prosecutors to let criminals walk; all you needed was cops who should have repeated third grade.
Tim’s usual partner was out sick, so this new guy was riding along. His belly hung over his belt, and his baby blue uniform shirt looked as though it were about to split. The department had physical-fitness standards, but nobody enforced them. Tim, who had run cross-country in high school and was still reedy, shuddered with disgust.
He piloted the white and blue cruiser past echelons of big, new brick houses. Blacks with money had moved to New Orleans East as fast as developers could carve it out of the swamp. New Orleans East was where new recruits started; it was a lousy place to be a cop if you wanted to kick ass.
“To hell with it,” Tim said. “Let’s do some police work.” His temporary partner muttered and shifted, his head lolling against the window. Tim pulled the cruiser fast through a U-turn and headed toward Chef Menteur Highway, which ran the length of New Orleans East like a black vein down the back of a shrimp. He cruised westward, toward the Industrial Canal, watching Nordstrom give way to Target, then to Kmart, then to cinder-block liquor stores caged up like jailhouses. He was heading for the only corner of the East that really rocked and rolled: the Goose, named after the legendarily violent Blue Goose Bar. Most cops tried hard to stay as far from the Goose as possible. Tim often drifted over.
He turned right on America Street, which didn’t look too bad by daylight—small houses with ratty little lawns, Greater Little Rock Baptist Church and Anchor of Hope Church, each no bigger than a cottage. By night, though, the drug dealing and slaughter were breathtaking. Tim turned left on Warfield. And look at this. A couple of men were hustling toilets, sinks, water heaters, and doors from the back of a beat-up pickup into a corrugated-steel garage. He pulled over to the sidewalk and stopped. His partner opened his eyes and blinked.
The two men turned to face them, one tall, thin, and light skinned; the other short and stocky.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Officer, what seems to be the problem?” the tall one said.
Jailbird, Tim thought. The ones who’d been to Angola addressed uniforms with exaggerated politeness. “When did you get out?” He gestured for the man’s ID.
“Couple months back. I’d be doing better if I could get the right kind of assistance.”
“So what’s this?” Tim gestured at the truckful of stuff.
“Demolition. My uncle’s gig. I’m just helping out.”
“Where did the stuff come from?”
“Abandoned houses and shit. People leave stuff.”
“And you take it.”
“It’s just left! People renovating, they throw stuff away. Leave stuff when they move. It’s, it’s, what do you call it? Salvage.”
It’s stolen, is what it is, Tim thought. But how was he going to trace a stack of lumber, a toilet seat, and a water heater? There was a time when he’d have gone at it. But even if he made a case, the guy would probably pay the judge “side bail” and walk.
A feeling of exhaustion overtook Tim, like a bad cold coming on. He handed back the man’s ID and gestured for his partner to get back in the car. What a city.
Some days later, Tim couldn’t find his sergeant.
“Haven’t you heard?” the lieutenant asked. “He got arrested by the state police.”
“You’re kidding me,” Tim said.
“Caught him with a car full of whores.”
Tim laughed. That was the sarge. Whores were his life. Called them his “confidential sources.”
“The one in the front seat had a warrant on her,” the lieutenant said. “The one in the backseat had weed in her purse. And Billy had a TEC-9 under his seat.”
“Jesus.” A TEC-9—a compact, high-speed semiautomatic—was a stone thug gun.
“Confiscated in a search and reported missing from the evidence room.”
“Christ.”
“He was driving an unmarked NOPD unit, and he made the staties chase him.” The lieutenant smiled.
“What?”
“Oh, and did I mention?” The lieutenant was loving this. “It was the Illinois State Police. Fuck knows what he was doing up there. We won’t be seeing him for a while.”
BELINDA SMALLS
EGANIA STREET
2000
“You sure this guy’s all right?” Cousin Ditty stood by the front door, scanning the street.
“I told you, I checked him out.” Belinda rubbed a hint of magenta into her cheekbones.
“Checked him out how?” After her short, disastrous marriage to Snooker, and watching his own mother’s descent into drugs, Ditty wasn’t taking any chances with his pretty cousin. Belinda loved him.
“I called the school from work and said UNO was thinking of donating instruments to the band. I asked the name of the band director. They said Wilbert Rawlins.”
“Hmm.”
“I called the band room, just to be sure.”
“That don’t mean …”
“I went on the Internet, too. Paid twenty-four ninety-five for a background. He’s been married. He went to Southern. He is the band director at Carver. He has no outstanding criminal record or judgments.”
“Damn, girl. You don’t play.”
A car was making its way slowly down Egania, sputtering and backfiring like a farm implement. “If that’s him, you ain’t going,” Ditty said. The car rolled past, thank goodness. “Where he taking you?”
“Not dancing.” She rubbed her knee. “I’ll tell you that.”
Somewhere in the distance, Chanté Moore was singing her new hit, “Chanté’s Got a Man.” Belinda and Ditty looked at each other: a good song, a good sign. The music got louder and cut off. Belinda pushed her forehead to the screen. A sleek navy blue Lexus with pretty chrome rims stopped in front of the house. The door opened, and the tall man from cousin Katina’s party stood up out of it: Wilbert Rawlins. Not in green and orange, but in a classic black silk shirt, a big gold medallion hanging around his neck. He smiled his goofy crooked, broken-tooth smile, wide as the keys of a piano.
RONALD LEWIS
2000 DESLONDE STREET
2000
Ronald sat on Dorothy’s porch at the corner of Deslonde and Prieur—diagonally across the street from the house in which they’d grown up. Stella, who lived in the old family house, was on her knees in the flower garden. She had painted the house lavender and white, but she kept it beautiful. It was Ronald’s favorite time of day—late afternoon, the shadows growing long. The high spreading oaks of Tennessee Street made a lovely backdrop to Stella’s house. Dorothy, at sixty-two fifteen years older than Ronald, was more than ever the family matriarch now that Mama was gone.
“What you got all up in your car?” she asked, leaning forward in her chair and peering down the stoop. Ronald’s beat-up old 1980 Cutlass was parked directly below, the back windows full of colors.
“Oh, more Mardi Gras Indian suits and parading-club clothes,” he said. “People keep giving ’em to me.”
Dorothy laughed. “Minnie’s going to put you out the house.”
Somebody, though, had to keep these things. They were the heritage of the Lower Ninth Ward—well-nigh sacred relics. And there was no end to them, because neither an Indian tribe nor a parading club could come out dressed in the previous year’s suits.
They sat in silence for a while. The silences were the best part of sitting on the porch—that dreamy, timeless feeling of togetherness that always made him miss his mama.
It was getting dark. Ronald would have to go face Minnie with the carful of Indian suits and parading clothes. The little room off the kitchen was heaped plenty high already. Minnie was sure to fill a big old cup of anger, but there was nothing to do. Minnie’s moods were like the weather in August; you never knew where or when lightning would strike. All that passion packed into her little body, that passion he’d loved since she wore that big natural, had to blow itself free from
time to time. He stood. His knees hurt, and lately his feet were achy with the gout. Not even fifty, and all wore out from work on the tracks.
One step at a time, he clumped down Dorothy’s stoop to the Cutlass. Instead of taking St. Claude or Claiborne, the main arteries, he took Prieur Street so he could look the neighborhood over. The Lower Ninth Ward seemed to be changing before his eyes. Idle young men in baggy white T-shirts plied their evil trade from their grandmothers’ porches. Ronald saw graffiti, abandoned cars, houses all stove in from neglect.
But this home over here: it needed paint but had flowers neatly planted all the way around it. That one over there had a tire swing out front, tied to a fat magnolia tree. Behind another, a lush vegetable garden. You got to fight not to give in to despair, he told himself. You got to see the good that’s mixed in with the bad.
Sprinkled around the neighborhood, on lawns and neutral grounds, were hand-painted signs reading, “No to Lock Expansion.” The city was looking to widen the lock at the junction of the Industrial Canal and the Mississippi River, which would wipe out several blocks of the Lower Nine and put Deslonde Street back-to-bosom with a noisy industrial site. It was typical; nobody cared about the families in the Lower Nine. Its families could be sacrificed. But a committee was forming to fight it; Ronald had been to a couple meetings of the mitigation board, which was supposed to come up with ways to soften the blow to the community.
Ronald turned onto Tupelo. Miss Sheryl, Miss Beulah, Miss Catherine, Miss Crystal—all of them kept their houses up. Nothing was prettier than Tupelo Street at sundown.
The lights were on inside his house. As he pulled in to the driveway, something twinkled in the glow of his headlights—something fragmented, colorful. Beadwork. He climbed out and walked laboriously up the driveway to the backyard. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a long sigh. The grass behind the house was strewn with Mardi Gras suits, crowns, staffs, four-hundred-dollar homburgs from Meyer the Hatter, seven-hundred-dollar shoes from Damien’s, pin-striped suits, and flowered sashes jumbled in a knee-high mound.