Dirty South

by Ace Atkins

  He had a roughened, musical voice and worked his tricky lyrics and rhymes as if he were juggling words and verses in midair.

  I didn’t know rap but I knew he was good.

  “Hey, dog,” Teddy yelled. He wore rimless sunglasses tinted a deep red and a toothpick hung out of his mouth. The rap music was loud and shaking and the red, green, and yellow cars bucked like wild horses, the bikini girls popped their asses, and the posse just shouted and waved black-and-gold bandannas over their heads.

  We walked to a far corner of the expressway cavern, behind one of the huge columns, where we were somewhat shielded from the music.

  “I know about the cops and Malcolm,” I said.

  He was silent.

  “You could’ve just dropped a word, man,” I said. “I like to know these things.”

  Teddy was six feet six and 300 pounds and loomed over me while I talked. Not a lot of people made me feel so small.

  “The cops wanted Malcolm ’cause it was easy,” Teddy said, finally speaking.

  The rain from earlier dripped down in dirty beads from underneath the expressway and dropped onto Teddy’s sunglasses. He wiped his face and looked over my shoulder.

  “Why won’t he let them see his bank account?”

  The music stopped and I heard the director yelling at one of the women to put her bikini top back on. While Teddy and I watched, a young white man in loose khakis and a plaid untucked shirt came by.

  “I need to talk to Malcolm,” I said.

  Teddy nodded and said, “Later.”

  The man offered his hand to me and I shook it.

  “This your friend Nick?” the man asked. He was in his late twenties. Easy smile on his face. Relaxed handshake. His eyes kind of unfocused, slow and lazy in his movements. He looked like he’d just woken up and stifled a yawn with his fist.

  “This my dog Trey,” Teddy said. “Take care of my financial things. Keep the Ninth Ward show runnin’ hard.”

  “Y’all work together?” I asked.

  “Trey Brill,” he said. He had that carefully disheveled hair that was supposed to make you look like you’d just crawled out of bed. He was kind of tan and had a slight blondish stubble on his face. He kept his sunglasses on Croakies around his neck.

  “Thought I was your one and only token,” I said.

  “I like to diversify.”

  “Hey, man,” I said to Trey. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “You can come by the office tomorrow.”

  I looked at Teddy.

  “They ain’t no tomorrow,” Teddy said to Trey. “I’ll explain later. I need you to do this.”

  Trey looked confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you about Nick looking into what happened with ALIAS?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Give him what he needs.”

  “What do you do, Nick?”

  “Pick up my paycheck at the end of the week,” I said. I hated that question.

  Trey gave that relaxed smile. “You’re a teacher or something?”

  “At Tulane.”

  “Teddy, I’m sorry, but I really don’t understand.”

  “Take care of Nick,” he said. “I ain’t got time.”

  “I’ve got to head back to my office,” Trey said.

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  Trey looked back at Teddy, but Teddy had already disappeared under the concrete caves.

  12

  FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I rode the elevator up to the thirty-second floor of a nameless CBD building made of steel and mirrors. A black leather sofa and a small coffee table covered in back issues of the Robb Report sat inside the glass door to BRILL & ASSOCIATES, SPORTS AND ENTERTAINMENT MANAGEMENT. A wooden humidor of cigars and a cutter waited for anyone who needed to indulge. The magazines featured articles on test drives of the latest Ferraris and new Caribbean resorts with nights that started in the $3,000 range.

  Framed photos hung on the walls. Couple of old teammates of mine. The current coach for the Saints. A famous jazz musician. I stared through a doorway flooded with dim light into an office and back wall with a view of another mirrored office building across the street. A red light blinked from an antenna on the roof. The sky was orange and black, dark clouds still hovering over Algiers. I hoped the streets would not flood tonight.

  Brill walked in with a black man who looked to be somewhere in his twenties. The black man, really just a kid, carried a couple of helmets and footballs. He wore a navy polo shirt and khakis. They were laughing hard, and when the guy put down all the sports paraphernalia, Trey gave him a high five.

  The other guy looked at me and his eyes narrowed a bit. Trey waited a second, checked messages on the secretary’s desk, and then turned back. “One minute, Nick. Okay?”

  We shook hands and his smile folded deeply into dimples. He divided his long frat-boy hair out of his eyes. “So, what do you need?”

  He’d yet to introduce his buddy. The buddy crossed his arms over his chest and peered down at my dirty boots. I looked at him and he just watched me. No smile, no greeting.

  “Oh, this is my friend Christian,” Brill said. “We had to grab some of this stuff for a new sports bar a friend of ours is opening. They needed some more Saints crap. Man, we’re going to be great this year. I can’t wait.”

  I always hated it when men referred to the teams they followed as “we.” I don’t call drinking beer and yelling at the players doing the actual work some kind of true common bond. Especially the ones who think their affiliation is on a metaphysical plane and they are as responsible for the outcome as the guys on the field.

  I followed Brill back to his office, where the walls were lined with more sports stars and photos of him with old NFL greats. One showed him running through some tires at some kind of NFL fantasy camp.

  He reached into a small refrigerator by his glass desk and pulled out Evian water. He kicked out of his Nikes, rolled off his socks, and laid his bare feet on top of the desk. “Shoot.”

  “I need to look at Teddy and Malcolm’s bank records, any account that was drained.”

  He sipped on the water as if it were a baby’s bottle. A pacifier of some kind. He squinted his eyes and nodded with concern. “And what will that do?”

  “Find ALIAS’s money.”

  He nodded. “O-kay. Haven’t the police already done this?” He gave a forced laugh.

  “They tried, but Malcolm wouldn’t let them,” I said. “I need to know when you noticed the money was missing and copies of any withdrawals made.”

  He nodded again and downed half the bottle of water. He stood up and patted me on the back. “Listen, I appreciate you being such a good friend to Teddy, and if you hear of anything that can help us out with that missing money, I will let the detectives know. But it’s not our policy to let information like that out.”

  “Call Teddy.”

  “We already spoke.”

  “And he said not to release these records to me?”

  “And what would you do with them?”

  “Make paper animals. Maybe a hat.”

  “They don’t tell us anything. It just transferred to some kind of holding account that disappeared. The money came from Malcolm’s joint account, and he doesn’t want to work with you.”

  “What was the name on the account where the money was transferred to?”

  He patted me on the back again and tried to steer me out of his office by grabbing my biceps. I didn’t move.

  In the other room, his buddy had strapped the helmet on his head and was trying to drop back like a QB. He had a puckered scar from a brand on his muscular arm, but his polo shirt was stiff and fresh. Expensive brown leather loafers.

  “Teddy gets a little ahead of himself sometimes,” he said. “I can only work with the police.”

  I pried his fingers from my biceps.

  “Don’t ever grab my arm again, kid.”

  “Whooh.” Brill laughed and made a scary moti
on with his palms raised.

  His buddy laughed and took off his helmet. He moved in close to me. I could smell a sourness about his clothes mixed with some kind of expensive cologne. He was light-skinned and his eyes were a brownish green.

  “Listen, I know Teddy thinks he owes you something because you didn’t really work out with the team and all.”

  “I look forward to getting those records,” I said. “Why don’t you just wait here for Teddy to call.”

  “All right, then,” he said, holding the door wide. “Thanks for coming by.”

  His smile remained stuck on his face as if drawn by a stranger. He didn’t even know it was there.

  13

  ABERCROMBIE & FITCH. Brooks Brothers. Crate & Barrel. Starbucks. Trey Brill liked the way his stores smelled. Uncluttered and clean. The dark coffee smell of Starbucks. The faded look to an Abercrombie hat with a cool old rugby logo. The way Brooks Brothers had the same ties and shirts every year. Everything the way you expected it. Trey finished up paying for a new suit and walked out with Christian, who’d hung with him since they left the office. He and his old friend side by side since the time they were twelve. Soccer practices to bars to business partners.

  Trey and Christian watched Teddy from the second floor of the shopping mall, looking down at the fat man sitting by the wishing fountain. Teddy sure was sweating a lot today, the back of his silk shirt soaked. He seemed real jumpy, too, like when Trey mentioned that he needed to pick up a suit before they headed to Redfish for dinner. Teddy just kind of freaked out.

  “He’s fucked,” Christian said, smiling.

  “His own fault,” Trey said.

  “People like that can never handle money,” Christian said. “They don’t understand it.”

  “True.”

  He said good-bye to Christian, and as his friend was walking away, he saw Teddy peer up at the balcony. He was sure that Teddy saw Christian only from a distance and he was glad of that.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Teddy said when he met him at the foot of the escalator. The PA system played some Sting from his Live in Tuscany concert, one of Trey’s favorites.

  “He’s my friend.”

  “Just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  Trey tried to look concerned at Teddy’s sweating and paranoia while they walked outside to the parking lot and stuck his suit in his trunk. Make him think he was flipping out about nothing. They decided to walk over to Bourbon Street and Redfish. Teddy said he couldn’t breathe in the car.

  “Are you doing okay, man?” Trey asked as they walked around the old marble Customs House. It was dark now and he could hear all the dance music and that awful Cajun stuff starting up down on North Peters and through the Quarter. Tourists in tennis shoes and shorts, carrying cameras and cups of Hurricanes, walked by the old brick storefronts and under wooden signs flapping in the warm wind.

  “Yeah,” Teddy said, huffing and puffing down Iberville and crossing over Decatur Street. “Just got some things on my mind.”

  “Your buddy Travers stopped by,” he said.

  “You help him out?”

  “Yeah,” Trey said. “Gave him what I legally could.”

  “Good.”

  Some homeless man wandered over, begging them for a few bucks. Said he needed some bus fare, behind him was the red curved neon of an all-night bar.

  Trey laughed at him. “Get a job.”

  “Can’t,” said the toothless man.

  “Sorry,” Trey said. “Jeez.”

  Teddy didn’t even notice. He just had his big head down kicking absently at a dirty Lucky Dog wrapper filled with mustard and stinking onions.

  “You believe ALIAS?” Teddy asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know him that well.”

  “I need that money.”

  “I know, Teddy.”

  “I don’t think you do,” he said. “Ain’t worried about creditors, man. See, I borrowed some money from Cash.”

  Trey stopped walking by a used bookstore. He put his hand on Teddy’s shoulder. “What’s going on? Talk to me, dog.”

  Trey knew Teddy liked when he said “dog.” Made him seem like a true Ninth Warder.

  Teddy told the whole story about why he’d gone to Cash for money for ALIAS’s video, said he thought they could make it up on the next record from this guy that Malcolm thought was so great named Stank. But Trey knew that Stank hadn’t even cut the damned album yet. They were already getting killed by the latest releases from No Limit and Cash Money. Last year Ninth Ward Records was making those guys sweat.

  Teddy said he had till morning before Cash said he was going to kill him. Trey led him into the restaurant, where they took a seat near the bar and ordered. They didn’t talk until the waiter returned.

  Trey took a sip of his dirty martini and looked concerned. Redfish had lots of chrome, yellow Christmas lights, a big fake oyster over the bar that had been turned into a mirror. Nice leather seats. It was all right to Trey, but he liked Emeril’s a lot more.

  The waiter brought them a couple of plates of Oysters Three Ways: grilled, fried, and raw on a bed of rock salt. Teddy slurped his right off his plate, gobbling everything up just like the street hustler that he’d always been. Or maybe because he thought this was his last supper or something. Pretty weird. Of course Teddy wasn’t brought up with any class. He hadn’t gone to Metairie Country Day or gone to Vandy on an academic scholarship that his parents bought. He hadn’t spent his winters skiing in Vail or summers down in Baja sipping tequila and screwing girls from UCLA.

  Teddy went to Freaknik in Atlanta and still paid women to be seen with him.

  “Can we get money from anywhere else?” Teddy asked. “Did you check into the cars or the house?”

  “Not in one night, man.”

  “Don’t you know some people?” he asked. “People in Old Metairie. That kind of money like chump change to them.”

  “Teddy, you are my friend. But it doesn’t work that way. I can’t just call up somebody and ask for a half a million. I mean, they’d think I was crazy.”

  Trey stirred the martini with his finger. He knew he needed to call Molly, finally buy that sofa from Restoration Hardware, and maybe hook up with this gash who was in grad school at Tulane. A buddy of his had already fucked her. He’d buy her a drink and take her to the Hyatt or something. Heard she had an ass that just wouldn’t quit.

  Teddy buried his head in his hands. The redfish entrée came and Teddy pushed it away. “Nick’s got to find it. He has to.”

  Trey played with his drink more. Two women, dirty blondes in halters and fake leather pants, walked into the bar. Their boyfriends behind them. Couple of tools in cheap Gap shirts and tourist running shoes. Last year’s Nikes.

  “I know this guy’s your friend, but who is he, really?” Trey asked, trying to seem interested in Teddy’s problems. “I mean, as a professional. He’s a teacher, right? My buddy Josh is a lawyer and has three investigators working for him. They’d do a better job. This guy doesn’t impress me.”

  “Yeah?” Teddy said. “Nick once got this woman out of jail after forty years. Also took down that L.A. motherfucker that owned that Blues Shack club.”

  “So he’s muscle?” Trey asked. “That’s not what we need. Let me get someone good on this. This guy, no offense, man, seems like a real loser. He was wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon on it.”

  “I have till the morning,” Teddy said, head up and watching Brill now. “Ain’t you listenin’?”

  Trey shrugged. “Aren’t you above this thug shit now? You worked too hard. You don’t need people like that.”

  “What you got goin’ on, Brill?” Teddy asked, looking Trey hard in the eye. He held his stare. “You wouldn’t want to see me lose, would you?”

  “After all we’ve been through?” Trey asked. “We’re more brothers than you and Malcolm.”

  “You still meetin’ with him tonight?”

  “Should I c
ancel?”

  “I guess not,” Teddy said. “Don’t have nothin’ to do with my troubles.”

  Trey winked at him.

  Teddy smiled. “You a hustla too, right?”

  Trey smiled back and took a sip of the martini. “You know it, dog.”

  14

  I CHECKED WITH CURTIS at his house – and got nowhere – dropped by the warehouse and fed Annie, leaving on Cartoon Network for her to watch Super-friends, and headed out to a strip club in New Orleans East where I knew I’d find ALIAS. It was about eight o’clock and the sky turned black and purple on the horizon as I drove I-10 toward Slidell and found the exit. I passed an old Shoney’s and a now-defunct shopping mall that had become the place for local crack deals and gun-fights. The cops didn’t even like to patrol here anymore.

  About ten years ago, New Orleans East was a suburb of corporate apartments and yuppie condos along with the usual strip malls and chain restaurants. But since the Hope VI federal housing initiative took off and local slumlords could get easy money through Section 8 housing grants, New Orleans East had taken over where the now-demolished Magnolia and Desire housing projects had left off.

  But instead of brick and mortar sheltering the poor, it was Sheetrock and flimsy plywood – no apartment manager having to answer for shit while the slumlords grew rich and wrote off millions on their taxes.

  The Booty Call Club was pretty much black-only with the loose gathering of basic out-of-town white businessmen with per diem cash to spend. Nothing special. A rambling building with no windows next door to a Denny’s. By the parking lot stood an industrial plastic sign of a cartoon black woman covering her breasts with a Mardi Gras mask.

  The inside was dark, lit in a few areas with track lighting and neon beer signs. The air smelled like cherry incense and Pine-Sol. Toward a main stage where some woman was twirling on a brass pole to George Clinton’s “Atomic Dog,” I found Malcolm sipping on a forty-ounce and smoking a Newport. His Saints jersey running down to his knees and his Timberland boots propped up in a chair before him. A couple of other teens I’d seen at the video shoot gathered around the girl’s stage and stuck twenties into her garter.