Cold Blood (37 page)

Juda sighed again.

“You talk to your mama?”

He nodded.

“Sure, said she’d whacked Jesse and Willy with a broom, they been getting drugged up at Fryer’s bar, and Sugar May’s a handful, wants to be a singer, so she hangs out there too. It’s making Mama go crazy with worry.”

Juda nodded her head.

“Ruby’s got a beautiful face and a lovely tight body, but I don’t think she has the knowledge. That’s why I think she’s

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gonna be okay. But when we get home you sit your brothers down and you tell them they should keep away from Fryer Jones. If they don’t, they’re gonna get hurt bad, and the same goes for Sugar May.”

She closed her eyes and he chewed his fingernails, his foot tapping against one of the bed legs.

“You don’t do those drugs anymore, do you, Raoul?”

“No, Aunty Juda, not now I’m working for you.”

“That’s a good boy, they no good for you. Stop that tapping on the bed, Raoul, gettin’ on my nerves. You’re a real jumpy boy lately, so if you can’t sleep, make yourself some of that tea I get for Mrs. Caley.”

“That’d take an elephant out,”

he said, still chewing his nails.

“Well, I’ve had to increase the strength over the years… .”

He uncrossed his legs and then promptly recrossed them, his foot tapping into the dark night. He couldn’t stop it, his whole body was twitching, and he needed to get back to his pipe, had just been smoking up when she’d called out to him. If she’d looked close into his eyes she would have seen for herself: Raoul had advanced; he was no longer rolling the ganja, he was using crack now, and most nights. As soon as he saw she was asleep he would slip out to the clubs, and be back before she woke, back before she knew he’d been out to score.

Nick headed toward Fryer Jones’s bar, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets, cigarette dangling from his mouth. He he^rd the car backfire, like a gunshot, and he automatically ducked, turnpand sidestepped to the wall. Crack, it backfired again, and then he heard the loud, screeching music as an old broken-down Camaro careered toward him.

Willy was high, his brother Jesse hanging out of the window, yelling,

“I said it was him, it’s him, Willy! Pull on over now.”

Nick sighed with irritation, not in any way scared by the two stoned kids, but his hands were out of his pockets and he was looking up and down the road, making up his mind which way to go, to see if there was anyone who’d witness what he knew was going to go down.

“Eh! You motherfucker, you!”

The old Camaro lurched to a standstill just a few yards ahead of Nick. He moved closer to the wall, fists clenched, ready to thrash them both, knowing that if it came to it he’d go for the .22 stashed in his boot.

Willy crashed the gears into reverse and the Camaro screamed backward. He hadn’t intended to mount the pavement, he just misjudged the curb. Jesse was still hanging out of the passenger window, swearing and cursing at the guy who had beaten the hell out of them the previous night. Only tonight he was on his own, no old bastard Fryer Jones around. As

B4O Nick moved to one side to avoid being crunched by the car, his leg gave way. He stumbled and had just straightened up when Jesse came at him, screeching, doing a farcical kung fu side-kick. Nick grabbed his foot and twisted it, throwing Jesse off balance and making him fall on his hands and knees.

“Get the shit, Willy, get him!”

Carrying a baseball bat, Willy ran at Nick and swung wildly, striking him on his forearm as Nick protected his face. His leg buckled again, giving Jesse a few moments to get back on his feet. He grabbed the baseball bat from his brother, and as the two of them closed in on him Nick ducked and dived and took off, heading toward a lit-up bar. He ran as fast as he could, hampered by his bad leg, needing a moment to get his pistol out of his boot. But the kids were on his heels, Jesse swinging the baseball bat in a frenzy. He clipped Nick on the shoulder but he kept on running. Just before the safety of the bar he stumbled again. Willy moved in front of him and Nick saw the knife come out. He held up his hands, gasping for breath.

“Hey! Come on, just take it easy, huh …?”

Nick saw the alley right across the road and dived between them both, but not before Jesse took another swing with the baseball bat. This time it hit Nick just on the left side of the head above his ear, making him reel. He could see the neon sign of a liquor store and was trying to make it there, hoping there would be someone around to help. His breath rasped in his chest, the shooting pains in his leg were crippling him and his head thudded, but he made it right up to the doorway. The door was locked. He jammed his finger on a security buzzer and hurled his body against the door.

“Open the door, open the fucking door.”

The two boys were grinning, one swinging the bat, the other opening the switchblade. They had him cornered; the alley was a dead end and there was nowhere to run to. Nick was trapped.

Raoul still sat by his aunt’s bed, his whole body twitching now, and he was desperate to get back to his pipe.

“You still need me to stay with you?”

She didn’t answer. He stood up and leaned closer, sure she was sleeping, when she scared the hell out of him. She sat bolt upright, her hands clutching at her throat, and started retching. He backed away, not that he hadn’t seen this before, his mama often went into spasms and he hated it, just like he hated the way all his life people had come to their run-down

T

house and started screaming and shouting in that dark front room, the kids banished to the backyard.

She twisted*Łhd turned on the bed, making it creak and groan from her weight. At one point part of the bed actually lifted as she rolled to one side. He saw it then, the old wooden box, and became even more agitated, frightened by her grunting and moaning. Saliva trickled down her fat chin and frothed at the corners of her mouth, but all he could think about was the box, because he knew what was inside it.

Nick Bartello couldn’t run anywhere. He’d tried to reach his hidden .22 but the baseball bat had swung down on his arm and he’d felt the bone crack. He was defenseless but he remembered their faces, so young, the two arrogant black kids he’d given a whipping at Fryer’s bar. When they hemmed him in he still put up a good fight, but he knew it was the end, and with the pain in his leg he didn’t have a chance to defend himself. He curled up as they kicked at him, putting his hands up to protect himself. Then one of the boys leaned over him and he saw the blade close up, saw his whole life as it ran before him. Lorraine’s face was the last image he saw as they cut his throat, giving him one last kick to turn his body over.

Fryer Jones was in his usual seat at the bar. Willy and Jesse Corbello walked in and drew up stools next to him. Fryer held on to his trombone as Willy threw the grisgris necklace on the bt^-

“This yours, Fryer?”

^

He picked it up, felt the blood still sticky on the white bones, and he sighed.

“Boys, you just done somethin’ bad, these were mine, given in good faith.”

“You not given us what you promised, you old bastard, and besides, you gonna do the same for us as we done for you, right? We been here all night, man, never left your bar,”

Jesse said, and leaned over to get himself a beer.

Willy opened Nick Bartello’s wallet.

“Who gives a fuck? Nobody saw us anyway, we was cool. Hey! Drinks on the house, we ‘just scored a few bucks.”

Fryer eyed the boys and kissed his teeth. They were running out of control, getting into bad trouble, just like their crazy brother Raoul. He looked at the grisgris he had given to that poor bastard. He picked it up, tipped his beer over it, washing the blood away with his gnarled thumb, then hung it around his neck.

B4B “Think I’ll play a set,”

he said to no one. He eased off the barstool and wended his way back to the mirrored stage. As he passed two thickset black men playing bid whist, he murmured,

“Thrash ‘em hard, they gotta be taught a lesson from somebody, and they’re getting outta hand, way out.”

The two young boys were sitting on the barstools, laughing and joking, guzzling their free beer, confident they were running the show, confident no one would touch them. They were the Salina sisters’ boys.

“Where’s Nick?”

Lorraine asked as she joined Rosie and Rooney at the breakfast table for waffles and cream.

“I dunno, but we all had an early night,”

said Rooney, squinting over the menu.

“I called his room, no answer.”

Lorraine sat down and brought out all the small white envelopes with her messages.

“How did it go last night?”

Rosie asked as she signaled for the waitress.

Lorraine began slitting the envelopes open.

“They haven’t got the exact time Tilda Brown hanged herself, but they think about two or three hours after I left.”

There were fifteen messages from Robert Caley, one saying his wife was arriving in New Orleans. Dulay had called four times, and Nick twice. She noted the time of the last call.

“I would say Nick is sleeping one off, seems he didn’t take such an early night.”

She tossed the message over to Rooney.

Rosie had been studying the menu and turned to Rooney.

“Maybe we should cut down on all this sugar. I know we had a deal, but I don’t know about you, I felt a lot better before we made pigs of ourselves here.”

He nodded.

“You order for me, then.”

\

“Okay, maybe just some fresh fruit.”

“Fine,”

he said, and then flushed as he caught Lorraine looking at him and smiling.

“What you looking at me like that for?”

he said defensively.

“Because it’s nice to see you two getting along so well.”

“I noticed you and Nick were real friendly too,”

Rosie put in, afraid that Lorraine disapproved of her friendship with Rooney, or thought it unprofessional.

“Hell, don’t be so defensive, Rosie. And you’re right, I’m getting on really well with Nick, he’s okay, but that doesn’t mean we’re up for a double wedding or”

Rooney gasped.

“Who’s talking about weddings? Me and Rosie are just on the same diet.”

LYNDA LA PLANTS

Rosie brought her menu up quickly to cover her face, not wanting Rooney to see that his remark had upset her.

“So,”

she said’expressionlessly,

“it’s fruit all around, is it?”

Juda Salina eased her bulk into the shower, calling out for Raoul to put the coffee on and bring around the car to take them to the airport. It had been a bad night, but it was over, the dark cloud had lifted. It came down like a blanket fifteen minutes later when she kicked open the kitchen door and there was no coffee on the stove, just Raoul’s sleeping bag left in the middle of the floor. And it got darker when she went back into her bedroom, because just sticking out from under her bed was her precious box. Fat as she was, she got down on her knees fast and dragged it out. It was never this close to the edge, she was no fool. In fact, she slept feeling it through the mattress and the bedsprings on purpose so nobody would ever steal it from under her at night.

She screamed out loud when she realized all her savings were gone, every single dollar, more than one hundred fifty thousand dollars. Money to put toward Ruby’s float, her Mardi Gras gowns, money for her sister, her kids. Her savings, all gone.

At first Edith Corbello thought it was one of her clients screeching down the phone; it was a while before she realized it was her own sister.

“Hush now, Juda, hush now, I can’t underwnd a word you’re saying.”

Juda eventually gasped out that Raoul haJrstolen everything she possessed, all her life’s savings; everything she’d worked so hard tor in order to come back to New Orleans and live in style was gone.

“No, no, honey, you got to be mistaken.”

“I am not mistaken, he’s even taken my car, my car, Edith, that little shit’s got my fucking car.”

Juda gripped the bed tightly, gasping for breath, her massive bosom heaving.

“I never done evil work, Edith, you know that, but so help me God, I will on Raoul. I’ll fill that boy full of stuff to eat his guts alive, he’s gonna wish he never saw the light of day!”

Juda slammed the phone back on the hook. She slumped into a chair, put her head in her hands and wept. How many times had she been told by Mrs. Caley to put her money in the bank and she had always refused? Through her tears she ranted and raged against Raoul. She didn’t even have enough money to go home for Carnival, wouldn’t see Ruby crowned.

Eventually the tears and rage subsided into a deep depression, and she sat as if wedged into the chair. How could he do that to me? she said to herself over and over, and then looked at the ceiling. How come the spirits talk with me and I don’t know when my own blood is stealing from me? She wiped her face with a tissue and sniffed, and picked up the phone again. Maybe she’d help her out, like she’d helped her for all these years.

Phyllis answered, stunned to hear the plaintive voice at the other end.

“Juda? Mrs. Salina, is this you?”

“Yes, Phyllis. Something terrible has happened and I need to speak to Mrs. Caley.”

Phyllis pursed her lips; she was going to enjoy this.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Salina, but Mrs. Caley is not at home.”

“Can you get her to contact me?”

“Well, if she calls home I will tell her you rang.”

Phyllis was sure the horrible creature was crying, and when she thought of all the years she had been treated like a piece of worn carpet by the big fat woman, she enjoyed her moment of power.

“You know, Phyllis, I’ve been a good friend to Mrs. Caley, we go back a long time, so, please, I’m asking you, if she calls home, tell her to contact me. This time it’s me that needs her and I need her bad.”

“As I said, Mrs. Salina, I will relay the message to Mrs. Caley. Goodbye.”

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She replaced the phone as Peters walked into the hallway.

“Who was that?”

Phyllis followed him into the breakfast lounge.