Pickett pulled the ragged 8-by-10 from his jacket, and smoothed it out on the checkered tablecloth.
Standard cheese-cake—knees bent, one hand on the hip, the other behind the head, a seductively startled expression in the eyes and mouth. The image was generic, interchangeable with any thousand others of the sort; still, something—in the face, perhaps, or the black hair pushed high on the head—something wrinkled Pickett's brow.
The kitchen door swung open and Pickett turned the photo face down.
Round faced, plump and pretty, his waitress returned, setting before him a bowel of shrimp that billowed steam both white and yeasty. Next, came a bowl of dip—ketchup, tabasco, and horseradish blended; then an empty bowel for the shells, and a hot platter of sweet yellow hush puppies. She stepped back from the table, surveyed her handiwork and grinned.
“Y'enjoy it now, y'hear?”
Pickett did. And when he finished the waitress returned and they talked: Yes, she liked her job, liked Canaan; someday she'd like to open a place of her own, but closer to the city. (She called Sanford “the city.”) Her name was Liza. “You know, like the movie star?”
Pickett asked her if she knew anybody by the name of Moses—like in the Bible.
Liza laughed. When he didn't join in, she thought a minute, pursing her round red lips. “You must mean the newsstand downtown, by the bus station. The old man died, but it's still open, I think. His wife runs it, I suppose.” Liza took a deep breath, unselfconsciously inflating her ample chest, and sighed. She settled into the chair next to Pickett, put her elbow to the checkered table cloth, and rested her chin in her hand. She rested a frown on her chin. “Sort a sad, y'know, what some people have to go through. Just aint fair. Some people—well, everything goes their way. Others…” She raised her brow and plump shoulders. “They just can't get a break.”
Pickett relaxed back into his chair.
“. . . I mean, take that Moses woman… Losing her husband like that… And he weren't all that old neither. Though she was a good bit younger than him now's I think of it. Losing him after losing her daughter and all.… It just—well, it just don't seem right, that's all. Y'know what I mean?”
Pickett nodded, smiling the while, basking in Liza as if in the sun. Then he frowned a second in thought. “What happened to the daughter?”
“It was a while back. Well, she just up and disappeared. One spring, I think. Hit Miss Moses hard—the old man too; but, as I remember, it weren't his daughter, y'know? By another marriage or something.”
“Anybody find out what happened to her?”
Liza shook her head. “Nope. There was a lot a talk, but nothing, you know, official.”
“What sort of talk?”
“Well…” Liza leaned toward Pickett, checking the empty corners as if for eavesdroppers. “There was this family that come in the summers. Had this big spread up near Osteen, y'know? Lots a money. Lots. The son, he hung around Pugh's Inn—down by the river. That's where the kids used to get together on the weekends. You know, hang out and what not?”
Pickett nodded.
“Anyways, he—the son—he used to hang out around Millie and her kid sister—”
“What was her name?”
“Nettie.”
“The one that disappeared?”
“Uh-uh. Millie's the one that disappeared. Nettie's her sister. Millie and Nettie Moses. Anyways, this rich kid—the one I was telling you about—used to hang around them a lot. That's in the summers, y'know, when his folks were at their place up near Osteen? Anyways, he shows up in town that spring and takes Millie out once or twice… Then, fore you know it, she's gone.” Liza looked at Pickett, one eyebrow raised, the other eye half closed. “What do you think?”
Pickett smiled and shrugged.
“Well, what I think is that she up and run off with that kid. Anyways, that's the way it looks to me. Miss Moses, why she was all over the city police and the county sheriff… Boy, she raised a real stink. But there weren't nothing anybody could do. Didn't know where she went. Didn't have nothing on the boy, really—excepting he was hanging around and all. Don't really matter in the end, I guess.… It was hell for Miss Moses, though—and the old man too. I dunno what happened to the sister, Nettie. I aint seen her for years. Liza looked up at Pickett, her chin lowered, and her cheeks coloring. “Course I was just a kid then.”
Pickett smiled. The colored remained in Liza's face.
“Where you from?” she said, “round here?”
“Miami.”
“Up here on business?”
“No. Personal.”
“Yeah?” And Liza looked at him, as if waiting for more.
Pickett looked up nervously, then at his fingers spread tensely before him on the checkered plastic. “My Daddy died.”
Liza's face fell.
“Oh, gee. I'm sorry to hear that.” She looked down at Pickett's fingers pressed white against the red and white checks, then slowly up again to Bodie Picket. “Was he… I mean, well, he been sick for long?”
Pickett sighed, leaned back, thrust his narrow hands into his pockets and cast a stony glare toward the window. “Yeah, I suppose in a way he had.”
Liza brightened slightly. “I mean, you know, sometimes its a blessing. In disguise, I mean. The ways some a those strokes and cancers and things can just go on and on—”
“Nah, he was shot. Killed himself…”
“Oh, god—”
“. . . least that's what the police say.”
The color drained from Liza's face. “That's horrible. You must feel like… Oh, god, I'm sure sorry.” She looked away.
Pickett's absent expression softened; he smiled and patted Liza's plump forearm.
“No need to fret. You're probably right anyway. He was a drunk and had a whole heap on his conscience. However it happened he's probably better off.”
“But… why? I mean, what sort a guilt could make someone wanna go and do that? To himself.”
Pickett's expression tensed slightly then, as he glanced into Liza's baby-doll eyes, it fell. And he sighed. “Well, for all practical purposes, he killed my mama. She caught him with another woman. Two months later, she was dead. Dead as he is now.”
“Lord…” She cocked her head to the side and laid a plump hand hesitantly on his forearm.
Pickett smiled at her, then shrugged. “Happened right there in the DeLeon building, in Belle Haven, you know? That's where J.B.'s—Daddy's—office was. Little two story building. He had the second floor. Had an office there to let next to his own. It'd always been `to let.' No one ever moved in. Anyway, he was, well…” Pickett exhaled sharply and shook his head. The smile that disfigured half his mouth dissolved slowly back into blankness as his head stilled and his eyes drifted from Liza's expectant gaze to the window. “Mama and I been shopping—first day of high school or something. Anyway, Mama decides to drop in on J.B.—you know, bring him an egg-salad sandwich. He wasn't there. I was wandering around out in the hall while Mama went into his office to write him a note. I heard something in the vacant office at the top of the stairs. Just curious more than anything…”
Liza raised her head as if to speak, but closed her mouth again when the words failed to come. Pickett spoke as if to no one.
“. . . and there was old J.B., his trousers down around his ankles, and ol' Betty Hudgins flat on her back. She worked at Otley's Drug Store downstairs. Cosmetics, I think.” Pickett laughed an unpleasant laugh. “Least that's where she usually worked. It's funny, Mama never had liked her. Rude, she said. I can't remember J.B. ever even noticing her. Anyway, he was sure as hell full of her that morning.” Pickett laughed the laugh again. “Or the other way around…”
Liza bunched her lips, moving her head from side to side. She seemed to notice, for the first time, her hand on Pickett's arm. Embarrassed, she gently removed it. She said nothing.
“Well, I didn't know what the hell to do. J.B. hadn't even noticed me. But Betty sure had. She started beating
on J.B.'s chest—you know, like trying to get his attention. Christ—he just seemed to think she was enjoying herself. Anyhow, I decided to get out. But when I turned around, I ran right smack into Dad's thirty-eight, the one that he—” Pickett paused, his mouth open. His eyes flickered as if to clear the image that was before them. He closed his mouth and glared down at the red checked table. “Mama had it. She just stood there, pointing that thing at J.B. Like something out of a Joan Crawford movie. Christ, I hardly recognized her…” Pickett exhaled slowly, sat back in his chair. “I'll tell you though, when that revolver went off into the plaster next to J.B.'s head, it got his attention all right. Betty let out a scream that scared the living shit out of me. Sent J.B. over backwards flat on his ass. Christ—” He looked as if he wanted to laugh, but couldn't. “I took off down the stairs, Mama right behind me.”
Pickett reached casually into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, flat box. He opened it and took out a thin black cigar. His narrow hand shook slightly. He fired the tobacco, looked up, and, in a billow of white smoke, said:
“I never heard Mama say another word to J.B. as long as she lived.” He exhaled sharply through a thin-lipped smile. “She was dead by Christmas.”
“That why he did it? Killed himself, I mean?”
“He didn't.”
“Well, the guilt and all…”
Pickett turned his head away with an embarrassed shrug. His expression hardened. “He didn't do it. No matter what that hayseed Sheriff says. He couldn't have. Not without…”
Liza stared at the tall man for a moment, puzzled. Then she sighed; wetness glistened round her eyes. She moved her plump hand toward Pickett's, then slowly pulled it away. “I'm sorry, Mister, I truly am.”
Pickett turned toward her. She smiled, her face as white and soft as a magnolia petal. Pickett leaned toward her and smiled back. “Liza, Liza, Liza…”
She stared into his hazel eyes, her eyes glistening, her mouth red and ripe as a berry. He took her hand in both of his and grinned, like a kid.
“You wouldn't consider marrying me, would you?”
Her jaw dropped. Pickett chuckled, still clinging to her hand. “Didn't think so.”
Liza bunched her chin gleefully and slapped Pickett's hand, withdrawing her own. She laughed. “Well now Mister, I'll tell you what—y'all pay your bill then maybe we'll talk about it… Maybe y'all come back another time. We got great blues.” She stood, her cheeks the same color as her mouth. “You come on back sometime and we'll talk about it.”
Pickett said he would if he could and paid the bill. He left her a five, picked up the photo and shuffled back out into the afternoon heat and to his super-heated Nova.
He stood for a long interval at the open car door looking at the photo, his brow knitting as it had before. He took a deep breath, tossed the photo onto the front seat, then dropped in after it. He looked up from turning the ignition to see Liza at the Crab Shack door.
She leaned one rounded hip against the door frame and waved. “See y'around.”
Pickett smiled, nodded, then threw the Nova into reverse. He looked down at the seat next to him and slammed on the brakes. The photo slid to the floor, landing face up; he retrieved it and stared. Tearing away all below the woman's neck, he looked again. He tore off the hair piled high on the woman's head and looked again. Then Pickett pulled back out onto route 46.
The light turned red.
Liza waved lazily from the doorway, her face flushed, and ripe with some private cheer. Pickett smiled back, then went straight out of Canaan, back towards I-4 and Belle Haven, the remains of the photo still in his hand.
13
“Just coffee. Thanks.”
Without a word, the woman in the photograph dropped a spoon and napkin in front of Bodie Pickett. She wiped the front of a menu with her apron and handed it to him.
“Anything to eat?” She pulled a pencil and pad from her apron pocket.
Pickett glanced at the green cardboard, then back at the woman. She stared absently into the dusk over Pickett's shoulder, her cheek bones high and fine, softened by skin of porcelain pallor that became pale blue in half moons below dark eyes. Her black hair parted in the middle and hung down her back in a ponytail. A loose strand played on her forehead. She brushed it away. “No. Thanks. Maybe later.”
Her lips twitched a smile, and she turned to the coffee pot. She returned with a heavy white ceramic cup labeled KRISPY KRUNCH in hospital green. It matched the hat she wore. And the plastic tag on her collar which, in white lettering on the same green, said: MILLIE.
She walked as though her feet hurt.
Pickett sipped at his coffee. “You new here?”
“Guess so. I been here a week, anyway.”
Millie put an elbow on the counter and looked over her shoulder at the line of empty stools as if, any moment, one might ask for a refill. “You regular?”
“Nah.” Pickett sipped at his coffee. “How's it going? The job, I mean…”
Millie sighed. “Okay, I guess. It's hard on the feet. But… I'll get used to it.” The tone suggested that she'd had experience getting used to things. Millie glanced over at Pickett. She smiled a little more warmly, and the porcelain skin crinkled at the corners of her eyes and her youth fled: she teetered for the duration of that smile on the brink of middle-age. “You from outta town?”
“Uh-huh. Miami.”
“Yeah? What's your business?”
Two men in suits walked in before Pickett could answer.
Millie sighed, stretched, and said: “Later, maybe.”
Pickett stared down into the coffee cup. He raised it to his lips, grimaced as he had at Otley's, then drained it.
“Get the fuck outta here!” Pickett turned toward Millie's cry—and the two men that had just entered.
Neither man was sitting. One, the shortest, had both hands on the counter and spoke to Millie in a voice almost too soft for Pickett to hear. Standing behind him and facing Pickett was the suit he'd met at the Temple—Tom, the hairless protector of Ed's time who really worked for Matt. He worked at looking tough now; he was doing a good job. It was the same suit.
Millie cried: “I don't have to go nowhere.” But she didn't sound convinced.
The soft man spoke again.
Millie's face crumpled in rage—or fear. She backed away. “The hell I do!” She pressed back against the wall. “He aint got nothing on me!”
Pickett put a foot to the floor.
Tom took a step toward him, his face blank.
But the soft man stood in his way. He turned to Pickett and smiled. He no longer looked soft. “This here's a private discussion, Mister,” he said in a very public voice. “Maybe you oughta wait outside.”
“May be. But then—” Pickett swung his other leg over the stool and stood facing the man who no longer looked soft. “—I'd like to finish my coffee.”
The soft man, still smiling, looked at Pickett's empty coffee cup, then back at Pickett. He moved toward him. “That right?”
And Pickett moved, as if reading the other's mind. His left forearm blocked the soft man's looping right, and his own right fist caught the man on the jaw while he was still moving in. Something gave under the blow, and Pickett's face twisted in pain. The soft man fell back against the counter and slid down over the stool onto the floor, awake, but not conscious.
When Pickett looked up again, Tom held a revolver. Tom smiled and stepped over his companion.
Pickett held his useless right hand in his left.
Tom's smile broadened.
Pickett stepped backward.
“Better late then never,” chimed a cheerful voice from the kitchen door.
Millie yelped.
Tom wheeled around.
Pickett lunged for his back. But his right hand wouldn't hold. Tom threw an elbow into his rib cage and Pickett fell back onto the stool he'd been sitting on. His coffee cup and saucer skittered over the counter and to the floor, shattering.<
br />
“What kind a party you throwing, Millie honey?”
Tom looked hurriedly from Pickett to the fat, white-uniformed woman who'd just rolled in. He looked confused.
She looked mad as hell. Her grey-brown hair coiled in tight curls held close to her scalp by a net. Her face reddened. Millie held onto her fleshy arm and followed her to the counter opposite Tom. “Put that thing away, skin head,” the fat woman barked, “and you and your boyfriend get out a here before I call the police. There aint nothing here to rip-off—less you want a couple dozen donuts.” Her fleshy cheeks continued to jiggle after the words stopped.
Tom raised the gun menacingly, but there was confusion in his eyes.
The fat woman snorted. “I wouldn't if I was you.”
Tom froze.
“I tried em once, and they aren't for shit.”
Tom was clearly unused to thinking; taking orders, however, he understood. He stuck the gun into his pocket and lifted the other from the floor. The soft man's legs pistoned up and down in slow motion as if climbing imaginary stairs. The two slow-danced to the door.
“Next time you jerk-offs go out,” the fat lady roared, “pick someplace got something worth lifting.”
Tom pushed sheepishly through the door.
“Damn de-fects…” The fat lady threw an arm around Millie, patted her shoulder. “Now. How bout you, fella?”
Tires squealed onto the highway.
“Like another cup a coffee?” Suddenly, her cheerful face wrinkled. “Jeez, fella, wha'happened to your hand?”
14
Millie had no car, so he'd offered to drive her home.
She laughed.
Millie drove; Bodie Pickett sat shotgun, cradling his right hand. At Belle Haven Memorial a smart aleck intern wrapped his hand in plaster. Millie drove them both to her place.
For Millie, home was an old motor court, a string of square one room stucco cottages arranged around a semicircular drive. The neon sign at the head of the drive had been painted out.
“Manager had to close down when I-four opened. Nobody'd come this far off for a room. So she opened them up for permanents. They're sort a small…”
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