Imogene in New Orleans (15 page)

ear…wait.”

The doorbell rang downstairs, followed by a series of furious knocks against the front door. “Let me put you on speaker…” Billy pressed the button on his phone.

Imogene’s voice filled the room. “Boys, that gruff lawman’s outside. He’s hollerin’ for somebody named ‘Detective Miller,’ and I can’t for nothing understand why. Oh, Lord, now he’s ’bout to bust down Neil’s front door. I’m sittin’ here watchin’ him from Lena’s Place. You reckon I oughta let him know there ain’t a detective in there?”

“No, Mother. You stay with Lena.” Billy’s face, which had been so placid moments ago upon recognizing his normal oxygen levels, now turned a whitish color. His cheeks were sunken in and he looked sad like Goose. “Detective Miller, that’s you.”

Jackson felt like he’d been kicked by a big boot. “Okay, just hang tight. I’ll go check. It was my fault. I’m the reason he’s here.”

“No way. We’re going with you,” Neil said. “We don’t want Rogers up here in our room, seeing what we’ve found so far. He needs to do his own investigating.”

Jackson descended the steps, followed directly by Goose, who took the downward flight much more carefully. He let his paws slide from one step to the next. “Come on, Goose, you’re holding everybody up.” The banging on the door became louder.

Rogers called out from the porch. “Hey, I know you’re in there, Detective Miller. If I have to bust through this door, I will. You can count on it.”

Jackson turned to his friends, meeting Billy’s sad eyes. “Yeah, that’s him for sure. No one talks like that. It’s okay, Billy.” Jackson felt like a boy whistling alone in a deep, dark cave to keep his spirits up. He had slowed down so much on the steps that he and Goose reached the floor at the same time. He turned toward the front of the house and began walking. He could see the empty lawn chairs through the front windows on the left side of the porch. Even they looked lonely. Beyond the porch and the concrete wall, Rogers’s car sat stationary on the curb.

“Hey, you poofters, open the damn door.”

“Did he just call us poofters? How does he know that gay slang?” Neil asked. He tried to push past Jackson.

“No, Neil, not you again. I’m going.” Jackson stopped outside the foyer. He knew that as soon as he walked through, Rogers would be able to see him. Jackson nudged Neil out of the way, so he could be the first one to look, and he peeked his head into the open space. Rogers stood in front of the fleur-de-lis in the glass with his big hands blocking the sun from his eyes. As soon as he saw Jackson, he began screaming. “I see you, Curly. Or should I say ‘Detective Miller?’ We don’t have a Detective Miller in the entire NOPD. I know it was you…You can’t hide from me, boy. Do you realize that impersonating an officer is a felony offense? And on top of that, you tampered with a crime scene. I have probable cause, so I’m about to shatter this glass everywhere, if you don’t open up now.”

Neil whispered in Jackson’s ear, “Are you sure you want to go to jail, Jackson? He’s not after me this time. He’s after you.”

Jackson glanced at Rogers, and then he turned around and took off running. Goose began barking, but Jackson sprinted toward the back. He didn’t stop at the sound of Rogers’s voice. He even slammed into the walls in Neil’s kitchen, trying to open the door. But by the time Neil let Rogers inside and Rogers began stomping around the house trying to find him, Jackson had scooted out of sight.

Fourteen

Jackson didn’t know where to go; he had not concocted an escape plan during his brief meditation immediately following Rogers’s arrival. He slid through the broken fence just beyond the jasmine and plantains in between Neil’s house and Lena’s Place.

He headed toward the smell of gumbo, jambalaya, Creole sausage stuffed with rice and peppers, and all manner of Louisiana delicacies, which Lena served in wax paper and checkered red, picnic-style plates and baskets. He tripped right below the exhaust fan at the back of her cinder-block hut; the fan blew ninety-degree heat on him. He tapped on the door, and Lena cracked it open. She wore a mesh New Orleans Saints hat over her hairnet. An oversized shirt swallowed her tiny frame.

She peered over at him. “Hey, baby, you skeered? Look like you seen a haint.” Lena bunched up her gray eyebrows and glanced around the premises. She was skinny and a little anatomically askew. One shoulder appeared to hang lower than the other. She called Imogene over to the door. “Hey, Imogene. This one of your boys, ain’t it?”

“Sure as God made him. Jackson Miller, what the devil are you doin’ on the ground there, son? You spyin’ on Maw-Maw and Lena, like Billy done us?”

“No, Imogene. Do you know who that lieutenant’s calling Detective Miller?”

She stared at Neil’s house, pondering the question.

Jackson pointed at his chest. “He’s talking about me.”

“Aww, bull. You ain’t a detective. Stop trying to fool Maw-Maw.” She wiped some grease from her hands onto an apron that said “Lena’s Place.”

“I’m not trying to fool you.” Jackson slid into the corner of the hut like a beaten dog. Lena held the door for him and then looked outside. “That ugly lieutenant’s after you, baby?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She slammed the door and bolted it shut, but Imogene scowled at him as if he were interrupting her good time with Lena. He felt like a rat trapped in the corner between Imogene’s stare and the threat of the beefy lieutenant.

Lena walked to the front and pulled the curtain down on the window, shutting them out from view. She rolled two pieces of plywood together to obstruct the window completely, a system she used to secure the store at night. She fastened a lock. “What’d you do to tee him off, baby?” Lena shuffled over to him.

“I called the police department and said I was ‘Detective Miller.’ I wanted to know about the figurines missing from Glenway’s studio.” As he heaved for air, he studied the kitchen.

“Shoot, that man’s crazy, baby. You seen what he done to Neil. He ain’t no joke.” Lena shook her head.

Jackson noticed several paintings on the wall. On the opposite wall, there was a depiction of a second line parade with two umbrella women dancing in the middle of a joyous brass band. The initials “GG” were scribbled in the bottom right-hand corner of the picture.

Lena saw him looking at the piece. “That was Glenway’s favorite parade, baby. Me and Neil, we went to many a second line with him. Such a sweet fella, that Glenway Gilbert. He loved errbody. He loved too much, if you ask me. It ain’t my business, but I believe if he’d just stuck with one, he’d still be livin’ on this day. Matter of fact, he would’ve got to see the second line tomorrow for the Louis Armstrong pawty.” She used the loose fabric from her shirt to wipe her forehead.

To the right of the parade scene, Lena had hung another painting of a young man fishing on the swamp. He wore a yellow mesh hat and overalls as he stood on a log in the middle of the bayou. Jackson saw the feathery fishing lure hanging from the man’s hat. Again, Glenway had scrawled his initials in the bottom right-hand corner. Jackson pointed at it. “Miss Lena, would you tell me about that painting by Glen—”

A loud knock crashed on the back door made of industrial steel. The heavy door shook with a dull sound as it got pummeled. Jackson knew that few human beings could create such a racket. It had to be Rogers.

“You in there, boy?” The lieutenant yelled and banged again.

Jackson looked at Lena. He begged with his eyes for her to hide him. She pointed above his head to a square in the ceiling. Then she motioned for Imogene to pick up a stool and put it at his feet, making sure not to let it scratch the floor and cause noise. Lena held her hands above her head and showed him how to push the cover out of the way.

Jackson climbed up on the stool before Lena could blink and pushed the square out of the way. As he set it in the attic, a piece of pink insulation fell on Lena’s foot. There wasn’t a ladder like most attics, just a hole in the ceiling. Jackson tried to hoist himself up; he raised up to eye level with the attic floor, but he couldn’t quite make it.

“I’ll kick this damn thing down!” Rogers screamed.

In her singsong voice, Lena said, “Hold on, baby.” She shuffled her pots around to make it sound like she was working. “I gotta get a pan off de stove.”

Lena patted her shoulders. She motioned for Imogene to move under Jackson, directly below the opening in the ceiling, and give him a lift. Jackson shook his head. Imogene backed up as if she would just as soon he drop to the floor than use her as a ladder.

Lena whispered, “Baby, you want him to get jailed?”

He looked at Lena, whose shoulders were slumped.

Imogene said, “Naw, but I’m bent up enough already.” She scanned the room and spotted a rolling pie shelf. She wheeled it toward Jackson, whose feet dangled as he tried to help himself.

“All right, get me the battering ram.” Rogers’s voice carried through the door.

The pie cart made a horrible screeching noise because the wheels were locked. Imogene scrapped it halfway to Jackson. Lena bent over and unlocked the wheels, allowing the cart to move freely.

Jackson planted his feet on a middle shelf, poked his head out from the opening, and then said, “Are you sure it can it hold me?” He shook the fresh pralines as he tried to steady himself.

Rogers redoubled his ferocious knocking. “I’m counting to three…all right?” There was a slight pause before they heard a thunderous “One!”

Lena tightened her lips like a whistle. “Boy, get ya ass up there.”

Jackson didn’t question her anymore. He put his hands on the square opening and planted both feet on the pie shelf.

“Two!”

As soon as his knees touched the side of the open square, Lena slid the cart back to the corner. She strolled over to the door as if she were expecting a Sunday visitor. Imogene returned to her batch of pralines in progress.

Rogers growled, “This is it. And three…”

Lena opened the door and asked, “Can I help you?”

Lieutenant Rogers pulled the door back all the way and stormed into the hut. “Ma’am, we have a fugitive on the loose.”

Jackson peered through a crack in the ceiling. His heart beat so furiously that he feared they would hear it. Lena looked around the room. “Baby, we ain’t got no fugitive in here. The door and the window is both locked.”

Rogers studied the cramped premises, stomping around to the front of the kitchen. The rectangular room didn’t have any hiding places, but Rogers still walked around the steel island in the middle. “If you’re in here, boy, I’ll find you.” He noticed the cabinet doors under the island. “Aha, you can’t hide from Nathan P. Rogers.” He swung open the steel cabinets, as if he’d caught a squirrel by the tail.

Jackson saw the little piece of pink insulation that had fallen from the attic. To him, it very nearly glowed. It lay six feet from Rogers’s head. If Lena could only see it, she could cover it.

Rogers walked toward Lena, and Jackson took a deep breath. She backed up as Rogers approached. She shot a look at Imogene, who stirred the praline mix in front of her. Jackson saw her watching Rogers out of the corner of her eye.

“And you, ma’am? How come you’re always around when something goes wrong?” He stepped on the piece of insulation.

Imogene glanced up from her bowl. She curled her lip. “Shoot, I could say the same for you, Constable. You the one always chasin’ the wrong folks. Neil ain’t done nothing. And surely Jack ain’t either.”

Rogers took another step, and the insulation floated off the tile floor. He created a shadow over her smallish figure. “How did you know I was chasing someone named Jackson?”

“’Cause you was yellin’ his name to all creation outside. And plus, that’s my boy, that Jackson Miller. He’s like another son to me, so don’t think Maw-Maw McGregor wouldn’t know if someone’s after him.” Imogene spoke without stammering or stumbling over one word.

“Tell me where he is.” Rogers slammed his hand on the steel cooking island, shaking the utensils and all. He scowled at Lena, whose face was tight and frowning, like she smelled something burning in her kitchen and couldn’t do anything about it. “We ain’t got the foggiest notion. Look around. How we gonna hide a big ol’ boy like Jackson?”

Lena shuffled her feet, kicking the piece of insulation out from under her shoe. Jackson felt like he couldn’t breathe. His head was three inches from a wooden beam.

Rogers moved to Lena and leaned over her, blocking Jackson’s view of the chef and the pink swatch. “Don’t think I’m finished with you. Not by a long shot, Lena Ward.” He flicked an aluminum bowl with his hand, sending it spinning on the island. He slammed his hand on the counter and then stormed out of the building as loudly as he had entered it.

Lena bolted the locks as quietly as she could. She got her broom out and put her ear to the back door. After a few moments, wherein Jackson’s heart continued to pump, she pointed the broom toward the ceiling and pushed open the square cover. She whispered, “You all right up there, baby?”

Jackson scooted over to the opening in the ceiling and put his head into the cooler air of the kitchen. He secured his position in the attic by wedging his foot under a beam. Sweat dripped from his face to the floor. “Yeah, I’m fine. But please pick that piece of insulation up and throw it in the trash—”

There was a banging thud at the front window. It was obviously not one of Lena’s friendly customers looking for gumbo. Jackson jerked his head back so fast that he popped the wooden edge with his temple. He slid the cover back, feeling the blood rush to his throbbing skull. He heard Lena roll away the plywood at the front window and then pull open the curtain and the glass window. “May I help you?”

Jackson rolled on his belly and looked through the crack in the ceiling.

Rogers stuck his face through the small opening. “Why you got these windows pulled shut?”

She leaned down to him and said as sweetly as a bird, “To keep the sun from meltin’ us, baby.” Rogers huffed, but Lena kept on as if he were her best customer. “You want somethin’ to eat? It’s on the house.”

Rogers glared at her. “No, of course not. I’m keeping my eyes on you. You best not be withholding anything from me.” He removed his head from the opening and put his radio to his lips to tell his subordinates that the “fugitive” was not at Lena’s.