Malaria gently took Marcus by the arm and guided him towards the door, whispering something in his ear as they went.
Jim scooped up the small glass of rye and downed it in a gulp, anxious to erase Marcus’ disruptive performance from the minds of the marks.
“Goshamighty!” he coughed.
“Easy, son,” said Walter with suspect concern.
“No, it’s all right,” Jim assured him. “Feeling better already.” His chin dropped to his chest as if to relieve the weight that his head suffered upon his neck. Jim’s eyes widened dramatically upon meeting the floor. “Sir, perhaps you lost a charm from your watch chain.”
“Come again, son?”
“Down there. On the floor.”
Walter the Samaritan bent down in the direction of Jim’s pointing finger and picked something up from a conspicuously dry spot on the alcohol-muddy floor. “Ain’t mine,” said the Samaritan, eying each side of the dice carefully. “Sugar cube dice. Lost from someone’s game, I suspect.”
Fat Tommy’s eyes brightened. “Well, the cards are soaked through, but that dice looks all right to me, Walter. Have ourselves a little game?”
“Well, why don’t we just take it easy a spell, Tommy.” Walter offered a discreet nod of concern in Jim’s direction.
“No sirree, Mr. Walter,” Jim piped up with heroic fortitude. “I done wrecked yer card game and I sure as spit ain’t gonna keep you fine gentlemen from having a go with that little sugar dice. Y’all don’t mind me at all. Maybe watching you fellas play will take my mind offa this pain in my leg. That and another shot of Raleigh Rye, mayhap.”
“Waitress!” Walter barked with a wink. Jim smiled feebly in return.
Fat Tommy snatched the sugar dice from Walter’s paw, eyeing it as carefully as had Walter. The dice was as straight as a ruler. “So what’ll it be, gentlemen? Craps?”
“Need two dice for that, Tommy,” reminded Walter, the other men nodding in affirmation.
Jim looked up. “You fellas ain’t from ’round here, are ya?”
“Why, no, sonny,” the skinny fellow to Fat Tommy’s left answered with a dopey smile. “What gave us away?”
“Craps is old hat in New Orleans. Best dice game I know is a game my Daddy taught me. Before he died, that is.” The mention of a deceased parent is always good for effect. “Little game called ‘tat’. No dice game better anywhere in the world, he used to say.” Then, reiterating for emphasis, “My poor, dead Daddy used to say.”
“Ain’t never heard of no tat,” said a jacketless man next to Skinny. His rolled up shirtsleeves revealed a green tattoo across one forearm declaring love for a girl called “Mavis” in dramatically loopy font.
“Finest game ever was fer dice, sir. Easy to learn, too—if you want me to teach it to ya.”
Walter’s broad smile set off a chain reaction around the table. “Well, sure, son,” Walter cackled warmly. “Why don’t you show us your little game of tat?” The drunken laughter that erupted around the table communicated to Dropsy that the signal was close.
“We usually play for sticks or straws or buttons,” dead-panned Jim. “Got any straws we can use? Maybe the waitress might—”
“Well, son, you’d be playing with grown-ups tonight, and we’re used to playing for dollar bills.”
Jim’s expression turned tragic. “All I got’s two dollars and some nickels, sir.”
“Well, I tell you what, son. What’d you say your name was?”
“Nick, sir. Nick Clay. Pleased to meetcha.”
“Well, my young injured friend, to thank you for teaching us weary Pennsylvanian travelers your fine new game of tat, I’ll give you three crisp dollar bills to have a go with. What you win you keep; what you lose is my loss alone. How’s that sound?”
Jim scratched his right ear with his left hand thoughtfully before speaking.
Dropsy caught the signal.
“Well, that’d be mighty nice of you, Mr. Walter. I’d be pleased and honored to teach you my Daddy’s game of tat. And I thankee for the kindness of the three dollars.”
A new waitress, not Malaria, brought around a second shot of rye which Jim dispatched quickly. Walter seemed pleased with Jim’s newly relaxed demeanor—and with two shots of Rye in his blood, Jim didn’t have to act to make it real.
The tat was on.
Chapter twenty-eight
I Promise, She Lied
“Easy now, Mr. Marcus.”
In the relative calm of the stairwell Malaria’s husky coo was hardly audible to her own ears above the racket of the music hall above. With the subliminal guidance of her touch to his elbow, Marcus’ whiskey-addled brain negotiated the steps before him, his labored breathing mixing with the cacophony of voices in his head, a combination that fogged all else.
“Not too fast, Mr. Marcus. Don’t wanna go ’n trip,” Malaria scolded, as he thumped heavily onto the second floor landing. His eyes brushed momentarily over the frosted glass window of a door that announced EAGLE LOAN AND PAWN before inching towards the precipice of the final flight down. The air did not significantly cool as they reached the ground floor where the Eagle Saloon sat nearly empty, but a muggy breeze through an open window offered mild relief from the stifling night. Malaria led him to a high stool by the bar where he slumped and let out a sigh.
“Barkeep,” Marcus brightened marginally. “Couple shots of yer finest scotch for me and my fine young friend. No ice, if you please.”
The bartender known as Larry Man Larry raised an eyebrow to Malaria for confirmation.
“Now, Mr. Marcus, could be you done had yerself enough for tonight,” Malaria offered hopefully.
“Nonsense, my dear. I’m just gettin’ paced is what. Night is yet young.”
She bowed a nod of surrender and Larry poured out two shots, blank-faced and muttering something about not having no ice anyhow. Marcus smiled and laid a hand over Malaria’s. “All the fuss about your famous sister and I always thought you was the pretty one, Malaria. True and true.”
Larry’s dog, an effeminate poodle named Outlaw, emitted a decidedly un-intimidating trill of a growl from beneath the bench of a nearby and vacant upright piano.
“You’re so sweet,” she said without smiling, petting his forearm as if it were a cat. After a few moments closely examining the untouched glass before him, he pulled both of his hands down to his lap in a gesture akin to defense, interlacing his fingers into a nervous ball before looking at her sideways with wet eyes.
“Malaria, I know you think I been talking crazy up there, but when there’s something ain’t right in the world a fellow has to step up and do something ’bout it.”
“You always done right far as I ever knowed, Mr. Marcus.” She was wondering to herself if it would be okay to just leave him here like this, to skip back upstairs and squeeze out a few more tips while the night was still ripe and raging.
He locked eyes with her softly. “Do you think I’m crazy, Malaria?” He asked her this as if the question carried grave weight. “And I’d appreciate it if you told me true.”
“No, of course not. You’re my good friend, Mr. Marcus. Always have been, since I was small. You know that.” Fact was she thought him a nutty old kook, if endearingly so.
“I’m much appreciative of kindness even when it ain’t necessarily true, so I thank you, my dear.” He smiled.
Malaria considered arguing but didn’t want to appear rude or disrespectful, and so she only returned the smile in kind. Larry refilled Marcus’ suddenly-empty shot glass without being told.
“Let me ask you something, Malaria.” Marcus meant to go somewhere with this talk of his own sanity or lack thereof. “When you look in that kid’s eyes, what color are they to you?”
“You mean Jim?”
“That’s right.”
A pause. “Well, I guess I’d say fishy blue.”
“Fishy blue. That’s good. It means he ain’t got his sights on you. Not yet, leastways. Do you know what color I see i
n those eyes?”
“Upstairs you said ’red like summer cherries.’”
“That’s right. Red. Red as can be.”
“Glowing red? Like lamplight?” She was mildly fascinated by the notion of seeing whatever it was Marcus saw, even if it was a thing imagined.
“No. Like painted red. Dull in color, like dried blood against old smoothed wood. But red just the same.” He reached for her hand again. “Malaria, I’m usually just fine with folks thinking me a fool, an old feller with a wild imagination and strange ideas about the world, but I need to come clean with you about certain things—and for good and particular reason. Now try to keep an open mind ’cause some of this gonna sound damn strange.”
“All right.”
“That Jim Jam Jump kid ain’t quite human, darlin’, and he done latched onto yer brother Dropsy. This is a very serious thing.” His eyes told her he meant it. “Dropsy’s a good kid, but this association gonna get him hurt. Or worse. So you need to know certain things.”
Now he had her full attention. She had never liked Jim, though she couldn’t exactly say why—she just felt a hollow, sinking feeling whenever in his presence. It made her very nervous the way Dropsy followed the kid around, even seemed to idolize him.
“What kind of certain things?” She failed to conceal the worry in her voice and so Marcus softened his tone.
“Well, dear, neither you nor I were in that house on that night, but we both have an idea what happened there. And I happen to know there’s a lot more to it than what’s been said around town in the barbershops and sewing circles and such.”
Malaria understood which night he referred to. The night her father died—and almost took Typhus along with him. The night a demon was supposedly cast out of one-year-old Dominick Carolla, the boy currently known as Jim Jam Jump.
“Some folks say that boy was suffering from an illness, others say from demons. But I know it warn’t exactly neither.” An avalanche of irrelevant laughter erupted overhead—Marcus waited for it to pass before wheezing in a deep breath, then out, then continuing on. “The thing inside that child was invited by hoodoo most foul, brought on by that crazy old fool Malvina Latour. She set that thing into motion, brought it into this world many years back, before you was even born—and it was meant for me, that thing. Meant to right a perceived wrong I done against her kin.”
“What kin?” She’d heard many stories about Malvina the Vodou mambo over the years, but this one was new to her.
“I can’t get on that right now, and it don’t rightly matter by this late date anyhow.”
Malaria watched a bead of sweat roll down his cheek that could have passed for a tear.
“What matters is this: that old Malvina didn’t know then what it was she brought on, don’t know now neither, and likely won’t know never. It was a djab, that thing. Now, djab is a Haitian word that translates as ‘demon,’ but really just means any kind of unruly spirit with a need to be kept in check by Papa Legba and Mama Ayizan—if allowed into this world at all. Whatever it might be or might not be, it don’t see itself as no demon. It sees itself as some kinda savior of the human race. And, hell, maybe it is.” He glanced over by the piano to avoid the burn of her eyes. “But its methods are suspect.”
Unnoticed by any in the saloon, Outlaw told a silent tale of caution and dread beneath the piano bench with wildly expressive ears.
“But my daddy cast that demon out.” She never really believed those old stories, but when the nights got black enough she sometimes wondered. “That’s what they say at least.”
“It was Typhus cast it out,” he corrected. “And took it into himself. Yer daddy just hung up in the crossfire. But those two boys each got a part of it that linger on. Jim got the part what means harm. That kid was too young to fight it off or even know what was happening. He been living with that thing so long now he can’t see no other way, he’s become what it made him. I ’spect it’s too late for that boy now. But Typhus was older, smarter, more skilled in spiritual matters. I suspect he’s having a tough time with it in his own way, though.” His eyes returned to meet hers. “Malaria, this gonna be hard to hear but important, so try and take stock. I believe this thing to be more dangerous than some old demon. I’m afraid we’re talking about a danger so strong as to bring about a change in the weather. This thing means to clean the world of sin if it can, and the tryin’ won’t be kind nor pretty.”
“Clean the world of sin,” she echoed under breath. Malaria found herself fighting a powerful urge to laugh out loud. The urge passed quickly. “I thought you said this thing was after you in particular, Mr. Marcus.”
“No, that was the plan of the mambo alone. The thing in Jim couldn’t give a hang about that crazy witch’s vendetta against a beaten old gravedigger like me. But it knows that I know, and so it’s got its sights on me. I know this to be true when I look into those red eyes. And I plan to keep my sights on it, too—I mean to watch its every move. Now, don’t be scared ner overly worried, but you need to you keep an eye on it yerself—because this thing has positioned itself as a direct threat to your kin.” He let his voice deepen nearly an octave before finishing: “Malaria, promise me that if those eyes ever go red on you that you’ll be careful.”
“I promise,” she lied.
*
The strange confessions of Marcus Nobody Special had gotten Malaria to thinking about the dual forces that had set her life so firmly and cruelly on its current course; the forces of father and of God. Of what she’d hoped to learn from both or neither her whole life long—and how those lessons had remained so maddeningly unlearned yet so dearly paid for. Tonight she suffered new clarity as she came to realize such answers might come if only she dare indulge a secret wish to fail them both.
Being the oldest in a family of orphans had carried with it certain responsibilities. Her father’s death had effectively preordained the rest of her days—or so she’d believed—handing down a life sentence with no hope of recourse or appeal, a sentence allowing her only to give of herself and never truly to receive.
Now here she was, standing at a crossroads of regret and thankless servitude, with no sign of relief or rescue for as far as the eye could see. This had been her lot in life. Never having had time nor inclination to find a man—let alone a child—for herself, never having closely considered the possibility of a career or a higher purpose, never having confided to a soul on earth that all she’d ever wanted was to sing.
The bitterest pill was that her commitment to self-neglect went wholly unnoticed—certainly unchallenged—by the ones she’d loved most, the very beneficiaries of her sacrifice. They seemed content to accept her love as a matter of course and get on with their own lives. She assumed her eventual death would be deemed a similar matter of course; briefly to be mourned, soon to be forgotten. She would outlive none of them.
Marcus had been right about Diphtheria. She’d made her mark on the world. She was a beautiful and well-respected commodity at the world-famous Arlington Hall, had gotten her own listing in the Blue Book, had even borne a child by the locally famous musician Buddy Bolden. It was a grand life she’d been permitted to lead.
Malaria’s existence was ordinary and unadventurous by contrast. At her job she served drinks. At home she served the family; fretting over their well-being, their successes, their disappointments, their fears. Making sure there was always enough to eat. Worrying about Typhus and his lovesick ways. Keeping an eye on Diphtheria’s boy when his mama was otherwise disposed; off having fun, making her own way, acquiring the things she desired and doing so without guilt or shame.
Tonight Marcus had brought her a new concern regarding Dropsy and his unwholesome affiliation with Jim Jam Jump. But it was more than a mere item of concern to her now, it was a new twist on an old tune, an idea that instantaneously fermented in her mind a challenge of lifelong principles regarding duty and honor, principles thrust upon her at such a young age by her long dead father and his invisible God.<
br />
Tonight she understood the attraction of things unsafe. It was true there was something insidiously not right about Jim, something evil and dark—but she saw also a thing exciting and seductive. Like a hurricane party or a jazz funeral, an embrace of some fast-coming and brilliantly inevitable (if unjust) end, an open invitation to the last and wildest party on earth, a high stakes gamble with neither certainty nor hope.
A new name on an old and forgotten dance card.
Though she’d previously believed herself doomed to always do right in her life, she now discovered a secret part of herself deeply attracted to Marcus Nobody Special’s drunken fantasy of evil and intrigue, to this unnamable adventure he’d painted of the world barreling like a comet towards imminent destruction in the form of a mean little boy.
Chapter twenty-nine
King Tat
Faithfully responding to Jim’s signal, Dropsy Morningstar dutifully made dramatic reappearance—huffing and puffing with artfully-artificial dread. In between huffs:
“Sorry little fella. Ain’t a doctor on the whole block, but I sure did look. Best ya climb on my back and let me take ya to the Charity Hospital. Ain’t too far, I reckon.”
Walter, still intent on displaying concern for his new young friend’s welfare (but not so much that he’d sacrifice learning a game as intriguing as this “tat”), worked his own angle in Dropsy’s direction; “Boy, it would seem I owe you an apology for handling you so roughly earlier. Our new little pal has declared you quite the hero.”
“No, sir,” Dropsy offered with exaggerated humility. “Just doin’ what anyone’d done. No more’n that is what. No more a’tall.”
“Well, have a seat and let me buy you a drink just the same. The patient is in good hands, the bleeding done stopped.”
Jim displayed his handkerchiefed leg to Dropsy in confirmation.
“Young man’s ’bout to treat us to a local dice game. You ever hear of a game called tat?”
“Well, who hasn’t, sir? Best game of dice ever was, the tat.”
The Sound of Building Coffins Page 16