Imogene in New Orleans (17 page)

Sixteen

“I ain’t got whatever you’re after, cuz.” Buddy pressed his arm against Jackson’s neck. He still wore his sweatshirt from earlier in the day, but he looked away so all Jackson could see was the tip of the hustler’s chin and the blue hoodie.

“How do you know what I’m after, Buddy?” Jackson wrestled Buddy’s elbow away from his Adam’s apple and caught a glimpse of his face.

“You’re wantin’ me to tell you about Glenway.” Buddy spit on the deck.

Jackson nodded. “Of course I am. He was my friend, and someone beat him to death. Let me see your face.”

Buddy pulled back the hood. He had a black eye and a swollen lip. It appeared someone had punched him since their last meeting. Buddy had a strong face, like a weight lifter’s. It looked made for punching. Aside from his run-in with a fist, he had a scruffy, stubbly face, which improved his sex appeal and probably his business prospects. He had light blue eyes with a hint of green about them. Under his sweatshirt, he wore a plain white wifebeater T-shirt.

Buddy lightened his grip so Jackson could breathe a little easier. He asked, “Where are you going?”

“A friend’s house,” Buddy said, looking around to see if they were being watched. The young couple feeding the seagulls took a break and were standing on the edge of the boat. As soon as the father turned around to see the pair, Buddy released Jackson and forced him to sit on the bench beside the door.

Jackson lowered his head and whispered, “Oh, horse hock, Buddy. Unless that ‘friend’s house’ you’re referring to is Glenway’s. I know you guys live in Algiers. You and Glenway share a house—or you did—up until Thursday night…when you killed him.”

Buddy grabbed Jackson again and pushed him against the bench. “I ain’t killed him, you understand? Why you think I ran this morning? Exactly ’cause of this. I knew the police’d be after me soon’s they found I lived with him.”

The West Bank came into focus as they neared Algiers, and Jackson felt some relief at the sight of dry land, seeing as how the hustler had him in a rather immovable position, penned against the bench. “What are you gonna do, Buddy?”

“What do you mean, cuz?” He squeezed the back of Jackson’s neck, not in a sweet and loving way, the kind of way he squeezed Billy’s, but the way one would squeeze a rag to remove excess water.

Jackson winced. “I mean, what are you going to do with me, especially now that I know about you?”

“You don’t know shit, cuz. You don’t know me. You don’t know what Glenway was like with me. I ain’t even picked up tricks since I met Glenway last spring.” Buddy’s face was so close to Jackson that he could see a silver filling on one of the hustler’s yellowing teeth.

“Well, good for you.” Jackson felt a bead of sweat rolling down his back. “Could you please stop squeezing me? I can’t run. I’ve got nowhere to go.” Jackson looked at the muddy river in front of him and thought about taking a swim in order to escape. Buddy released a little pressure from his neck and Jackson inhaled the humid air.

His phone began ringing. He tried to silence it through the cargo pockets on his shorts, but as it rang, it got louder. Buddy stuck his hand in Jackson’s pockets and retrieved the phone. “Is this the police, cuz? Are they following me? I knew it.” He thumped the wall beside Jackson’s head and answered in mid-ring.

“Who the hell is this? Billy? Billy who? No, you can’t talk to him, not until you tell me what he wants.” Jackson tried to grab the phone away from the hustler, who blocked the takeaway with his arm. “Oh, he’s fine…Were you the other one chasing me today...? Yeah, this is Buddy…No, I won’t tell you where we’re at.”

Jackson started yelling, “Billy, I’m all right. We’re on the boat to Algiers. Going to see Buddy’s house, where Glenway was living. Tell Neil—”

Buddy pushed Jackson to the deck. “Shut your mouth. You’re yelling in my ear.” He covered his ear and spoke into the receiver. “Listen up.. I’m keeping this phone for a while until I figure out what to do with your Jackson. If you call the police, you won’t like what happens.”

Jackson said, “Give me that.” He lunged for it and Buddy pushed him away, hanging the phone up and sticking it in his blue jeans pocket. He grabbed Jackson again and forced him to sit down. “You stop actin’ up or you’ll have to swim your way back. I swear, cuz. Cool it.” The ferry sounded its horn, which meant it was approaching the dock.

“All I want to do is see where my friend Glenway lived.” Jackson was tired, frustrated, and he needed water. The Mississippi River didn’t look as calm now that Buddy had him cornered. It looked a little sinister, coming around the bend. He couldn’t appreciate what was ahead at Algiers Point, the charming community with its white picket fences and rustic homes painted like those of small waterfront communities in New England. No, he could only concern himself with the strong cologne of the hustler and his even stronger grip. “Can I please see where you live? I don’t have any weapons. You’ve got my only means of communication. What could I possibly do to threaten you?” Jackson’s cheeks were red from the stress and struggle with the hustler.

“I’m keeping your cell while you’re over here. Don’t try anything funny, cuz, or I’ll maul your ass to the ground,” Buddy whispered, smelling like cigarette smoke and sweat.

“Duly noted, Buddy. Now, take your hand off me and let me breathe.” Jackson slid over a few feet from Buddy on the bench. He rubbed his neck, which Buddy had twisted around like dough. The ferry stopped and they disembarked, walking up the slight incline to the streets of Algiers.

Just as the Mediterranean separated France from the country Algiers, so did the Mississippi separate New Orleans proper from Algiers Point. The neighborhood had a strange mix. It looked seedier and more laid-back all at the same time. Many artists lived on the peninsula, with greenery everywhere and the most beautiful and exotic plants. The French influence was heavy in Algiers, as if the air above the water had carried as much ambience as it could across to the little neighborhood. There were more dilapidated buildings in the community, but Jackson and Buddy passed homes with completely manicured properties, too, and wild ferns growing out of baskets on the porches, as if they were a part of the architecture. Many of the buildings had rich, ornamental detail, wood trim hand-carved by craftsmen and artisans years ago. The community almost had the look of an ailing beach town on some forgotten coast.

Buddy walked faster. He crossed the street to the sidewalk and then removed his hood, as if only there did he feel comfortable enough to show his face. After a few minutes, he took off the jacket completely, exposing his wolf tattoo.

Jackson looked at it and then remembered a painting in Glenway’s studio with an inscription at the bottom: “To B.” The painting had a hazy, abstract background, which meant it may have been unfinished. Created in charcoal, it looked like a sketch or a first draft. Glenway had finished the vague outline of a creature perched on a mountain. The individual didn’t have a face, but its limbs were composed in such a way as to suggest both man and beast. It had sharp, jagged teeth almost floating from the end of its face. Jackson recognized the teeth on Buddy’s arm, as the wolf teeth gleamed in the sunlight. They looked to be painted by Glenway himself.

“Where’d you get that tattoo?” Jackson asked, pointing to his arm.

Buddy flexed his considerable biceps as he showed Jackson. “A little shop in the Quarter.”

“Did Glenway draw the design?”

Buddy shot his questioner a curt look. “How’d you know?”

“It looks like a painting I saw in Glenway’s studio the day we found him dead.” Jackson watched for a reaction.

“Oh.” Buddy glanced at the tattoo again. “I ain’t killed him, cuz.” The muscles in Buddy’s face tightened as he took a step toward Jackson.

“You did have the means and opportunity. Weren’t you with him on Thursday, his last day alive?” Jackson stepped back into the grass of a cottage house.

Buddy flicked his sweatshirt in the air. “Why would I hurt the only person who gave a shit about me?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.” Jackson continued walking through the grass in the cottage’s yard, passing baskets filled with red begonias, which hung over a rickety fence.

“I told you, cuz. I ain’t hurt Glenway. I…shoot…I didn’t kill him.” Buddy turned his head away from Jackson. He looked at the buildings across the river in New Orleans, which were small in the distance. They walked in silence for a few minutes until Buddy turned right on a quaint avenue with small homes, neat and tidy residences with porches and character.

Jackson changed the subject. “Buddy, tell me, do you dance in the ballet?”

The hustler cocked his head. “Hell no. I just go to watch them twinks.”

“Twinks? I’ve never heard such a word.” Jackson relayed what Thurston had said about Buddy’s ballet attendance. “Yeah, I’ve met guys there.”

Jackson asked, “Is that where you met Glenway?”

“Yeah. I mean, I saw him at the bar for months and we started talking after New Year’s. He wanted me to sit for his paintings. First one we did was that one for the art thing in the Quarter.”

Jackson removed the postcard advertising the art festival with Buddy as Bacchus and showed it to him.

“Yeah, that’s the one. Whatchya think them stuffed shirts would say knowing a hustler was sittin’ on the poster for their muckety-muck party?”

Jackson examined the postcard, thinking about Glenway. “That’s a great painting. I’ve seen the original. Such a talented man.” He ran his finger over it, tracing Buddy’s torso.

Buddy crossed the street and walked into the yard of a little house with red shutters and a wraparound porch with ferns and flowing ivy growing around the banisters. It was much nicer than Jackson had expected. Buddy’s place stood on a street of historic houses with iron fences and furniture on the porches. Jackson had prepared himself for a cinder-block stoop and some tarpaulin windows, rather than the glass with linen drapes that he encountered.

“Wow, this is something. This is so…well, nice.”

“You did judge me, cuz. You expected me to live in the projects.” Buddy scowled at his visitor. “I come from the projects and I ain’t going back.” He pulled a key from his shoe. Jackson had expected him to jimmy the lock. The hustler opened the door and walked inside. He turned around for Jackson to follow. Jackson crept through the door, preparing to be jumped at any moment. He noticed a wooden hat rack with copper ends as he eased into the foyer with its auburn hardwood floors partially covered in a fine rug. Buddy’s place had Glenway’s paintings and aesthetic imprint all over it.

“What were you doing today in the Quarter when you ran from us?” Jackson studied the magnificence of the interior.

“Taking care of some business, cuz. Shoot, that old woman with y’all started staring at me and taking my damn picture and then you and your ‘partner’ came at me like I’d done wrong and I didn’t want no trouble. I still don’t want no trouble. I hope you ain’t here for some.”

Jackson stepped back. “Oh, no. None from me. The feeling is quite mutual.” He walked over to a statue that looked similar to a figurine Glenway created. It was a rough young man bathing in a creek. Jackson noticed the dimple just like Buddy had and that strong, muscular face. Jackson stared at it and mumbled, “Buddy doesn’t have a car. He wears a wifebeater T-shirt and a thrift-store hoodie, and he’s sitting on art worth thousands of dollars.”

“What was that, cuz?” Buddy said, leaning over him at the statue.

Jackson flinched as he felt Buddy’s breath on his shoulder. He scooted over into the living room. “Oh…nothing…I’m just impressed with this place.”

Buddy snorted. “I guess you know Glenway decided to give it to me. Is that why you’re here, cuz?” Buddy rubbed his arm right below the teeth on his tattoo. “It’s the cheapest house on the street, but it’ll do.”

“I didn’t know that, Buddy. Unbelievable. Glenway gave away everything he had, didn’t he? He didn’t care who got what.” Jackson felt frustrated. He knew four people who would profit from Glenway’s death: Lena, Neil, Allen, and now Buddy. Buddy lived well with Glenway alive, but he could do just as well with Glenway gone.

“Yeah, but he didn’t tell your friend Allen, because—” Buddy stopped short.

Jackson looked sideways at him. “How do you know Allen’s my friend?”

“Shoot, we got a picture of y’all, man. You and Billy with Neil and Allen. All of you. Glenway told me about you.” Buddy led Jackson to the back of the house, which opened up onto a spacious sunroom with beach windows and bright yellow paint. Jackson saw an easel and an unfinished painting on it, a scene from Jackson Square in the French Quarter. A man who looked like Thurston, bald-headed and wearing one of his signature loud shirts, sat in the same place where Jackson found him, near the oak trees in the corner across from Café du Monde. The painting’s model was reading a book in the sunshine just like Thurston had been reading.

Buddy fumbled through some sketches on a workstation. He removed one of them and said, “Here it is. That’s you, ain’t it?”

Jackson looked at the sketch of him and Billy sitting on the porch at Neil and Allen’s house at night. Jackson rested against the columns on the house. Billy had his head against the wall, sitting in a lawn chair with his eyes closed. Jackson recognized the pose as his partner’s blood-pressure checking pose. Allen held the end of a jasmine stem, smelling it, as Neil talked.

“Yeah, that’s us. I’ve never seen this one. We’ve visited Neil and Allen a lot down here. They’ve been good to us.” Jackson felt bad about his suspicion toward Neil and Allen. He remembered Glenway saying he wanted to capture those long hours of enjoyment the boys had on Neil and Allen’s front porch. The light from the moon created a haze around the scene, giving it the quality of magic.

Buddy slipped out of Jackson’s periphery. “Buddy, what did Glenway say about us?” Jackson turned around quickly to keep Buddy in full view.

Buddy dug in his pockets. His eyes darted around the room. “Aww, he said he liked you. He liked that old woman too. Said your partner’s got some sort of health hang-up. Checks his pulse a lot or something.” Buddy inspected the back fence, scrutinizing it from the window. He turned his head, but Jackson crept forward, trying to figure out what the hustler was doing and why he was acting so shifty. Wisteria and bougainvillea covered the entire fence, running along the property line. However, some plants were conspicuously absent in the back corner. It looked like someone had cut them down. Buddy peered in that direction.