Kiss of Noir (8 page)

“Sure, it ain’t no thing.” I slugged Payne on the arm.

“You did a good deed,” Payne said.

“Thanks.”

“It was a mistake,” Cleo said, sitting at the table.

“What?” I felt punched in the stomach. Drew pulled up a chair and Johnny sat cross-legged on the speaker.

“We ain’t a charity,” Cleo explained. “Now maybe word will get around. Can’t be doing that. Everyone who comes in is a hard-luck case. Maybe they all deserve a break, but this is a business. And they understand that when they come in. Now, maybe the husband hears about this and comes after us with a shotgun. Or maybe just you.”

“My man is right on,” Drew said, his eyes shining as he looked at Cleo.

“We can’t afford to for lots of reasons,” Cleo continued. “And I
know
you can’t afford to. So don’t play that.”

“Ha,” Payne whispered.

I threw up my hands. “I can’t afford
not
to! Are you all crazy? Did you see her?”

“Are you gonna save all of them?” Cleo asked. There was a hushed pause.

“No, maybe just one,” I replied.

“All right then,” Cleo said. “What’s done is done. Let’s play. Why don’t you two both go for lunch?”

Payne and I stared at each other. Steel met steel.

“What the hell,” I said.

“I’ll drive,” Payne said.

In Payne’s SUV, I watched the scenery pass. Louisiana was flat and marshy, as if the whole state were hanging by a thread, ready to snap off and plunge to the ocean floor. The humidity was like Oklahoma—you needed to grow gills to breathe and somewhere on my body was always sweating. The insects had already taken over Louisiana as if it were a corpse they were eager to clean. Everything came bigger—ants the size of grapes, slugs as big as snakes, mosquitoes like little anti-human aircraft, and the cockroaches! I shuddered as I remembered Ellis’s stories about them. Armored tanks they were, and big enough to be considered meat. And they
flew
. But Louisiana was also viciously green. As fecund and fertile as the valley Nile. There were oak and cypress trees with ladles of Spanish moss dripping from them, but there were also poisonous things twirling seductively around anything they could climb. And I had heard the jokes about the kudzu growing so fast that it twined around your ankles and choked off your screams as you tried to outrun it. I tried not to believe these stories. What did I know of the South? Everything in Louisiana was perpetually springing into bloom and exploding outward and upward, and the dark, dank swamps seemed like primordial soup from which life itself oozed. Anywhere there was a speck of dust, there was a seed on it bursting into life. And Bayou La Belle D’eau was mostly coastline, so to get anywhere, I had to drive past the swamps, thick with gnarled and twisted cypresses with enormous tortuous knees squatting above the placid black water. I saw millions of turtles sunning themselves and dropping nonchalantly into the water if I approached. I saw huge herons, still as statues, fishing, and flocks of pelicans basking on land bars. I heard birds I never knew existed and sometimes great crashing through the dry areas that sounded like buffalo, but I was assured it was not. Something scarier, I decided.

But twilight was the worst. That’s when I imagined the terrible creatures on the hunt rising out of the steamy swamp. When I heard what I learned were owl screams, I almost jumped out of my skin. I was convinced that one evening, my headlights would pick out some enraged carnivorous beast that no one knew existed and had quietly been feasting on humans for centuries. Charles Darwin should have studied here, I thought. So I tried to travel only in daylight and I tried to stay put once I got somewhere. Once I was at Ellis’s at night, I never went out again, even as a favor to run an errand. Ellis didn’t press it.

“I love this area. The swamps are so beautiful,” Payne said dreamily.

I grunted.

“There are lots of people who live by their wits in there to this day,” Payne said, sweeping her arm toward the water.

“Really.”

“Yeah, there are Cajun camps all through these swamps. They hunt and fish and almost never come to town. These wetlands go on for miles. Even experienced swamp guides can go in there and get lost forever.” Payne’s voice was thin.

“Yeah?”

“Uh-huh. And some people don’t even have camps, they live on floats year-round.”

“What’s a float, another word for boat?”

“Like a houseboat. Wouldn’t that be great?”

I looked at Payne sideways. “No.”

“When I retire that’s what I’ll do.” Payne’s voice was determined yet soft.

“What, you’ll trap and kill your own meat?” I laughed.

Payne was serious. “Sure will. I do it on weekends now. Mostly nutria, but sometimes I get bigger animals.”

“What’s nutria? Kelp?”

“No, like a very big rat. But good stuff.” Payne smacked her lips.

“Sure, sure it is.” I rolled my eyes.

“You should come with me this weekend.”

I stared at her. “Thanks, but no. I have to wash my hair.”

Payne glanced at my gleaming bald scalp and laughed. “Chemicals.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“I’m in chemicals. Big business down here.”

“Hmm.”

“And you?”

I sat up straight. “I coach ball.” I refused to put it in past tense.

“Oh yes.” Payne nodded, her grin sparkling. “I
saw
you.” Her voice was snide and she said nothing more, driving in silence.

Finally, I responded. “Ah, another fan. You follow my team pretty hard?”

“Nope.”

I asked nothing more. The swamps surrounded us now as we headed for the Gulf. I couldn’t place where we were going.

“Since having you skin and gut rodents this weekend didn’t appeal, how about we go to the club?”

“There’s a club in this tiny Catholic backwater?” For the first time, I gave Payne my complete attention.

“Sure, several.” Payne turned on to a bumpy two-track dirt road. “Roll up your window, the dust will get in.”

“Where are we going?”

“To Fat Mammy’s, of course. Don’t you know the best food is never on the main drag?”

I thought about it. Payne was right. In Los Angeles, the best authentic Mexican and the finest true Chinese were always holes in the wall down an alley or tucked into a corner without a sign. And without advertising of any kind, those places were always packed with people. People happy with food. The kind of food that was so good you didn’t want to eat it in front of anyone at a table, but get it to go and have a porcine orgy with it once you got to the privacy of your own home. But the food was so tempting, it made you suck in your breath in the car and you ended up tearing through the sacks at a stoplight for a morsel to tide you over. Then, at home, you just took off your shirt and dove in, moaning like someone in a porn flick and slathering sauce or salsa or mole or curry all over yourself. Each thing you tasted was better than the last. The delicate crispness, the blend of sweet and spicy, the pungent marinade, the heavenly juice, the sticky rice, the healing soup, the buttery fish, the crunch, the silky sauces, the chiles. When finally, there was nothing left but debris, the only thing to do was shower and go to sleep. My belly grumbled at the memory of my pet places to which I would be forever loyal. The family-run shops who knew me when I came and in exchange for cash, gave me the gift of their phenomenal food. The places with real food, true food, not fussy food, not chain food, not salad, none of which satisfied anyone, but home food and while you ate it that was your home too. The tiny places know that food was a sacred love. That was their secret.

“Here we are.” Payne pulled into a bare dirt parking lot riddled with deep ruts and mud berms and puddles. There were lots of cars, each parked carefully straddling a puddle or a rut and pointed in any direction. It was a bumper car jigsaw puzzle of vehicles.

The building was a one-story concrete block structure painted hot pink with a flat roof and lots of big windows. In the window next to the door was a hand-painted sign—Fat Mammy’s. That was it, no slogans, no open or closed, no hours of operation, no welcome, come in! Just the surrounding forest and the crowd of cars and the splendid smell of frying chicken.

“You can stay here. I’ll be right back. Can I get you something?”

“Yeah, get me some of what they do best.” I held out cash.

Payne waved me away and winked. “Forget it. I can buy lunch for a hero.”

I watched her, lanky and lean where I carried muscle. Payne was loose-limbed as if she were a marionette barely held aloft. I was strong and swift and hard and heavy like a panther walking upright. Payne was swivelly and dippy and light and utterly relaxed. I snorted. A boy, I thought.

I waited, watching people come and go. I was surprised to see it was divided equally between black and white customers. My stomach growled. I hoped there would be flaky butter-soaked biscuits, steaming fresh mashed potatoes with thick gravy, crisp, tangy coleslaw, and tender, juicy, melt-in-your-mouth chicken hidden under a scalding, crunchy crust. I rolled a cigarette, smiling and thinking of slick thighs, kinky pubic hair, big round asses, and jutting, chewy nipples. I lit up, hoping Payne didn’t allow smoking in her car. I opened the glove compartment to pass the time. The gun looked to be a .38. I stared at it until I finished my cigarette and then closed the compartment as Payne sauntered out of the restaurant with several plastic bags. She put the food in the backseat and started the car.

“You know, the leprosarium is not too far from here,” Payne finally said.

“No.”

“Yeah, in Carville.”

“Hmm.”

We rode in silence most of the way. As we neared the pawn shop neighborhood, Payne, staring straight ahead, said, “The gun is for my job.”

“Don’t even care. I’m sure a chemical company requires you to do a lot of assassinations.”

“Don’t joke about it.”

Payne parked in front of the pawn, but left the engine idling. “Listen, I’ve gotta take care of some business, so you take lunch in and tell Johnny I’ll catch him later. Just leave me a sack.”

I gathered the food. “Uh-huh, some new bump-bump.”

“I’ll pick you up tonight. Here or at Ellis’s?” Payne answered.

“For what?”

“The bar. Let me buy you a drink.”

I held up the bags. “It’s my turn to buy.”

“Sure, okay, say about ten?”

“Yeah, fine. But I’m gonna score and sharing a car won’t work. I’ll meet you here and follow you.”

“Thought your car was in the shop.”

“So? I can borrow a ride.”

Payne’s lip curled. “Okay, later.” She sped away in a cloud of dust.

The men clamored for the food as soon as I opened the door. There were indeed biscuits and coleslaw and mashers and superb chicken and plenty of everything. Plus sweet potato pie that was as rich and creamy as candy.

After the meal, I chewed a toothpick and watched Cleo eat his pie with a knife.

“Don’t you want a fork?” I asked. Cleo shook his head.

“My man.” Drew groaned, stretching.

That night, I thought long and hard about what to wear. Not for the women I would try to pick up, but for Payne. After half an hour and my bedroom littered with all the clothes I owned, I decided on jeans and a tight white T-shirt with black boots and a black belt. I shaved my head carefully, showered, and dressed, closing the bedroom door behind me so Sayan wouldn’t give me grief for the mess.

“Hey, Sayan, how you doin’?” I found her reading in the living room.

“You just saw me at supper, you know how I’m doing.”

“Where’s Ellis?”

“Still working, poor baby. His dinner is in the oven and I’m waiting for him. Where do you think you’re goin’?”

“Uh…I’m gonna meet a friend and we’re going out. Can I use your car?”

“You want to use my car to pick up perverts?”

“No, no. Pick up women.” I laughed and stopped under Sayan’s glare. “I’m supposed to meet Payne Phillips at the shop. Then she’s gonna show me around town.”

“Oh. Payne. Well, okay then. The keys are in my purse in the bedroom.”

“Thanks. Say, why is it okay for Payne and not for me?”

“’Cause she’s white and a fool. You’re black and you’re family.”

“Uh-huh.”

I got the keys and as I was at the front door, Sayan shouted, “Mind you fill up the tank when you’re through. And deodorize it too. And don’t mess with any of my stations or my mirrors. And I don’t have to tell you what will happen to you if there’s even one scratch or dent—”

I gently shut the door against the rest.

The car was a Lincoln and immaculate. Sayan had giddily informed me that she was going to trade it in for a station wagon in a few weeks. I would’ve preferred Ellis’s all-black Mercedes with smoked windows and rumbling bass, but this would do.

I sat scrunched in the car and said, “Sorry, sister Sayan,” as I adjusted the seat and mirrors for my six-foot frame. On the road, I gripped the steering wheel and sped by the swamps at ninety miles per hour. I drove with the headlights on high beam to reassure myself.