Roots of Misfortune

by Seth Pevey

  “Ouch. What a cynic.”

  “You’re still not a cynic yet? Good for you kid, that’s real swell,” Melancon said, but he wasn’t giving his full attention to the conversation, not anymore. His eyes were on a neighbor, out watering his grass in a fluffy robe imprinted with little white bunnies. The man had just finished attending to his glorious azalea bushes but was now standing with the hose running into his sod and staring at them inside the El Camino.

  Felix must have noticed it too. “I think we’ve been spotted.”

  The man came closer, bent down for his paper. Then he stood there and pretended to look at it: a poor performance. The man’s eyes danced between the headlines and the busted old car at the end of his driveway.

  Felix tried a wave.

  “Don’t do that, now he’s coming over here,” Melancon said.

  “Let me handle this.”

  Felix used the old-fashioned crank to roll his window down and Melancon killed the volume on Robert Johnson, who had begun now to sing about red hot tamales at four for a dime.

  “Morning sir,” Felix said, and began waving the breathalyzer through the air outside the passenger window, a sober, serious look settling over his young features.

  The man peered down his nose at the device. He wouldn’t quite approach the car, but stood in his driveway with his newspaper in hand, now balled up like you’d use on a piddling puppy.

  Felix raised his voice to the man. “Morning sir! We’re with the CDC. Just doing a routine check on the carcinogen levels in the air. This handy little gadget here reads the prion levels of the atmosphere. Nasty stuff. Stuff you definitely don’t want to be breathing. But not to worry, the levels are absolutely normal this morning. There is no immediate risk to the health and well-being of this community.”

  Now the man’s shoulders slackened. He waved back and smiled.

  Felix rolled the window back up and Melancon put his hat on.

  “Prions?”

  Felix shrugged.

  “Alright kid. If you’re such a wise-acre, pray tell how you reckon we are going to scoop this pooch in broad daylight and close this crucial early case file.”

  “Turn that blues man back on and I’ll think about it. He helps me relax.”

  And Melancon did. They waited another thirty minutes, finishing Johnson’s tragically small catalogue, before they finally saw, through the wrought-iron fence, the dog in question sticking his nose between the bars and peering at them.

  A quick photo comparison confirmed it. The wanted dog. The dognapped.

  It was a scruffy looking thing, shaggy, merle-ish in color with long hair. It appeared to be part Catahoula and maybe a poodle mix. It just stood there, no barking or pacing or whining as dogs do. It was large enough to be dangerous but entirely placid in demeanor. It stared directly at the detectives in their well-past-classic ride and wagged its tail at them.

  Now the woman could also be seen. She’d come out into the back yard, sat in a beach chair with her feet in the wet suburban grass, and opened a book across her chest.

  “Give me those binoculars,” Felix said. He squinted through them. “Just as I suspected. Christian Romance fiction. We’re dealing with absolute scum of the earth here.”

  “Come on kid, you can’t tell that from looking at the cover.”

  Felix nodded, bit his lip. “You’re right, but I did see the giant Easter cross hanging on the doorway.”

  The neighbor of the bunny coat and slippers had come back outside, fully dressed now in a suit and tie, and left for work in his silver sedan. The detectives watched him disappear down the street. Finally, Felix leaned in to his partner and asked, in a low voice, “Can I borrow your coat, your hat… and your briefcase?”

  “What for?”

  “Because only a Bible salesman would wear a getup like that,” Felix said.

  And so the plan was constructed. Half-baked perhaps, but too much time had passed now in inaction. The lights needed to be kept on at 400 Basin Street, after all. Their new office was cramped yet expensive, and Felix, with his ham fortune, couldn’t be expected to subsidize them forever. His gin-soaked mother’s checks would certainly dry up as soon as she did, or else proud Felix would finally become overwhelmed with shame once again and stop accepting them. It had happened before. It would happen again. A cycle as certain as the sun’s. Not to mention that the market for retro music had skipped cassettes all together and went straight for vinyl, of which Melancon had collected precisely zero. No cycles there, unfortunately. He’d been living on his credit cards for over a month.

  So, with the threat of outrageous APR spurring him on, Melancon found himself gingerly approaching the iron fence leading into the side yard and to the wanted canine, while Felix occupied the woman’s attention at her front door. No doubt he was proffering the crumpled up Reader’s Digest as a catalogue full of family bibles, or else already whispering sweet Christian nothings into this recently divorced woman’s ears. Whatever he was doing, it worked well enough for David Melancon to make it to the fence, open the gate (unlocked, thankfully), pat the dog on the head a few times until he was rather satisfied it wasn’t going to sink its teeth into his shank. He then produced the Slim-Jim from his pocket he had brought out of his limited, but entirely accurate, understanding of dogs. But this dog only sniffed it, took a small bite, and immediately began to follow him. It was as if the mutt had been waiting for one David Melancon to appear, wondering when he would arrive and take him out of this place, back to his real master. The saying, after all, Melancon noted, was man’s best friend. And this woman had taken custody of what clearly wasn’t hers. If Melancon knew anything about the attitudes and behaviors of recently separated couples, which he certainly did, it was probably more out of hate for the man than love for the dog. Because no matter what they say, love does not, in fact, trump hate. If Melancon’s decades as a police detective had taught him anything, it was quite the opposite. Hate drove the world. And it drove it at ninety with the radio blaring, while love wrung its hands in the backseat, asking if they’d left the oven on.

  But you took your cases where you could get them.

  It was no surprise to him, then, when he heard screeching at his back. It was of the hateful variety, and erupted with him only about halfway to the car. Hearing the urgency in the woman’s voice, he bent down and attempted to pick up the dog, only to find the animal far too heavy. He strained himself. The detective’s back now did some screeching of its own—long tendrils of pain shooting across his ropy muscles. Luckily, Felix was at his side in a moment. The woman was quite serious. Using the briefcase, Felix shielded them both from her dynamic and creative attempts to strike them. At first, she used her balled up fists. Realizing her disadvantaged position, and facing the Aegis of the buffalo leather vintage portfolio, the woman retrieved a plastic flamingo from her walking path and began stabbing at them with the bent metal rods that represented its legs.

  Melancon backed away slowly until he felt the reassuring rust of the El Camino on his backside. He opened the door of the car and the dog jumped inside it without needing to be told. Next, the detective had himself in the car, the engine fired up, and the door slammed home before the woman was able to find flesh with her twin flamingo pokeys. But the screeching certainly didn’t abate.

  Melancon was in a perfect vantage to witness as Felix tried to slide over the hood of the car. It was a move he must have gotten from watching far, far too many movies. It was comical to see him realize halfway that the hood was not nearly slick enough, nor was he. His chinos bunched up and squeaked indelicately as he scooted across the hood. The kid weathered a full on flamingo body blow to the head, as the woman had given up her stabbing attempts and just thrown the whole thing. Felix finally managed to ungracefully put the Camino between himself and the ex-missus, and in the next moment, he was in the passenger seat where he belonged.

  Without a glance at all the gawking neighbors, Melancon peeled out of the quiet suburban paradise.
The dog panted in the middle seat while Felix laughed off the adrenalin.

  Three

  It was turning into an ugly night for David Melancon.

  Things had started off OK, with his usual 2 fingers of scotch, always slowly sipped upon returning to their Basin Street office, always without ice. A hard day of detecting called for something brown. Then he had walked to the corner store to pick up some things for the dog—kibble, a squeaky little ball, some treats in the shape of false bacon, and other items he selected at random from the pet aisle. The detective had even found his old, hardly-used coat puffing out the top of a moving box right near his desk. He’d pulled it out and given it to the pup, who curled up on it and immediately fell asleep. Something about the total trust and dependency of the animal gave the detective a pain in the stomach—a falter which led him to another drink.

  The next hour he spent debating with Felix. It was their habit when the office got too quiet—they both loved nothing more than their own opinions. On this night, they circled back around to the discussion of music that had started back on the stakeout. That had led to an exasperated Felix showing him how to download songs onto the new computer, a slick looking but inscrutable device also paid for by the Herbert ham business.

  This new ability to play any song on demand had led to Blind Willie McTell and his wavering, androgynous voice singing about leaving his family, picking up his traveling shoes.

  Come on home to me baby, some old lonesome day, he sang. So sad, and so…well…blind—a man singing from a place so deep and dark Melancon struggled to imagine it, though he thought he could catch whatever the opposite of a glimmer was in the dolorous voice. Just on certain words, certain cracks of infinite sadness bursting out the seams.

  You’ve forgotten me, and now I’m alone in the dark.

  These dark thoughts, in turn, led to more scotch. For this round, Melancon didn’t bother measuring the fingers.

  And then, the last nail in the boozy, ruinous coffin occurred when he finally picked up that day’s Picayune.

  “WOMAN’S MANGLED BODY FOUND ON I-10”

  “Jesus, you hear about this Felix? Jesus. Jesus….” he yelled over Blind Willie. The office was a single, long rectangle of a room, which they shared, desks at the opposite ends. While cramped, their spots were just far enough apart for yelling. The dog whimpered in the middle, dreaming of frisbees or fox hunts or bacon, maybe.

  “Yeah I read that. Some twisted shit man. They think she might have been pregnant.”

  “Jesus Christ. Well…have they…have they released her identity?” Melancon was gritting his teeth and frantically reading through the article, a panic fondling the chambers of his aging heart.

  “You might have to call your old flame about that.”

  Janine. He meant Janine. Lovely, doe-eyed Janine in booking. Janine with her finger on the pulse of the whole downtown station. Melancon doubted, even in his increasingly loose state, that Janine would take kindly to being called a ‘flame’. She had been more like some small, blinking bulb that flickers on and off in the darkness when you’d least expect it. Would she be receptive to a call for such information? What time was it anyway and how many fingers had he imbibed? He wondered if he ought to fish out that breathalyzer from the glove box and put it to use— check that he was within the legal limit for ex-flame dialing. She’d probably light up at the call. Be pleased to hear from him. A match to tinder. Maybe. Maybe she would. And then, maybe she’d slam the phone down and burn any memory of David Melancon.

  Suddenly he made up his mind to just try and see. It would be nice to talk to her tonight. It wasn’t really a decision though: the scotch was pouring him now.

  He muted Blind Willie and picked up his ancient rotary phone, flipped through a yellowed rolodex.

  “Booking please,” he said. Felix watched him. It was such a worried look to be on such a young face.

  “Janine! How are you, doll? Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s right it is the man himself. I have been thinking about you up there tonight, Janine and wondering how those brutes must be driving you crazy.”

  Felix rolled his eyes and went to pet the dog.

  He made awkward small talk with her for a few solid minutes. Or she made it, rather. He was surprised by that warmth. Melancon was never too good at talking small, so he let her go complaining about the cuts the city had made to the department, the drunk tank being full, the removal of the vending machine on some bullshit “health initiative”. He waited for her to finish, feeling the scotch driving the blood into his face and the sound of her voice stirring him.

  “Anyway, Janine. I’m not sure I remember how much I told you…about my situation…about…” He hesitated a long moment, finding it hard to say the name out loud. “About Julie.”

  The line was silent for a second, and then Janine said, “Was that your daughter’s name David? Because you never told me her name. I asked you but you never did tell me.”

  He hiccupped into the phone. “It is her name. And so…you know Janine…I guess you can probably figure out why I’m calling then…”

  Janine’s voice was soft and warm. At least, a lot softer and warmer than he had a right to expect. “You’re calling about this girl out on I-10?” she asked.

  “Paper said she was in her late 20’s, so I figured…”

  “Oh, so you’re wondering…” Janine said. She paused. It was a pause pregnant enough to spit out a litter about two dozen deep, Melancon figured.

  He could feel the words getting gummed up in his throat, choking him. “I figured since she was around the same age and all…”

  “This was a black girl, David,” Janine cut in.

  “Oh, well, I guess….I guess that means it was someone else’s daughter then…Fuck sake.” He was feeling foolish. The detective slid open his desk drawer and pulled out his wrinkled picture of blue-eyed, blond haired Julie in her high school graduation gown, all purple with hope.

  “Well…do you guys have any leads? On the…on the I-10 girl I mean?”

  “Times are tough around here. We recently lost one of our best detectives,” Janine said. But, in his state, Melancon missed the compliment entirely.

  She pushed on: her voice cutting now, sober. “It is an ugly, nasty situation, David. A real horror of a case, from what I’ve heard. Her hands were bound with a zip tie, and she was…you know…with child. The trucker who hit her is beside himself. We’ve had to put him on suicide watch.”

  “Jesus Christ…Jesus Christ,” Melancon sputtered. He put his hand out for the bottle, let it rest there on the cool glass.

  “Also…” Janine went on, “and let me know what you make of this…she was also holding these…roots. I mean her left hand ended up separating from her body, but it was still gripping a little brown piece of plant matter, like a little tuber. Looked just like a plum pit or something. Her right hand too. We’ve sent it for identification, but we have no fucking clue…”

  Melancon had an iron stomach after serving years as a homicide detective. But for some reason he felt his supper rising. “That is an odd one,” he said, one hand on the bottle and another balled over his mouth.

  “Anyway David, I’m in the weeds here. But if you wanted to go to lunch sometime...”

  The nausea subsided.

  “Janine. Do you think we could ever…you know…rekindle that old flame? I’m a lonely man, Janine.”

  “Call me when you ain’t keeping company with Johnnie Walker and we’ll discuss. I can smell you over the phone, David.”

  He felt himself slipping into the realm of the maudlin, wanting to say something else to Janine. Something profound. Something poetic. To show her how he felt. But somewhere that big breathalyzer inside his head knew that this—these crazy emotions bouncing around his skull, all too much like a monkey throwing peanuts from his frontal lobe—wasn’t to do with the woman on the other end of the phone, and he ought not pretend like it was just to make himself feel better. This was about something else entirely.


  He looked at the picture of Julie on his desk, the corners all worn off.

  “Without the truth, a man is nothing,” he said to himself, forgetting that he was speaking directly into the phone, nestled as it was in the crook of his neck.

  “Goodnight David.”

  “It ain’t a good night, Janine. But speaking to you sure lightened it up for me. Let me know…I mean if you hear anything else, will ya?”

  “Same to you. Something might pop into that old brain of yours if you dry it out for a while. If so, I’m sure this new guy could use your help. He’s a bit of a dud.”

  “You’re right. This brain is old. And wet. Hell, it’s practically drowning 10 feet off the starboard bow at the moment.”

  “Godspeed sailor,” she said, and hung up.

  Felix was sitting across the room now, speaking animatedly into his own phone, sounding angry. The dog had awoken and sat watching him, its shaggy tail slowly keeping time.

  Melancon turned his blues back up, poured himself another drink, looked again at the picture of Julie.

  Like a plum pit. That was what Janine had said.

  It reminded him of better days. Of days when he was a young police detective, working cases from the main station off Tulane Avenue. His family lived over in St. Roch, allowing him to walk to and from work. In those days, he’d relished those long walks through the Quarter, and they had kept him thin and fit. Even in the rain he would holster his gun, his badge, and with his rain boots on he’d make a squishy trek through the potholed Bourbon Street scene. A professional man in the midst of all the carousers, the pimps and pushers. A man with a place to be among the idle, weaving through the devil’s very fingers and coming out clean on the other side.

  Way back when. Back when, once upon a time, his clothes were in style and fit perfectly and he was a blade of a man. Back when people listened to cassette tapes and auto-tune had sensibly not been invented yet. Back when the French Market was actually still somewhat of a market and not just a tourist trap filled with stuffed alligator heads and corn-syrupy praline-like substitutes, kitschy masks and stacks of Shanghai-carved jewelry boxes shaped like fleur de lis.