Now Let's Talk of Graves (22 page)

And he didn't like Frankie bugging him either, saying if he couldn't deal with the weight, they'd find somebody who could.

Couldn't Frankie tell he ought to lay off a little? Show some respect.

Respect? Christ! Think the wop would know about respect.

And here it was almost Easter.

Billy Jack needed all the cash he had on hand to pay for his mom's Easter present. She was gonna love it. A diamond cross. Eleven diamonds. Half a carat each. The absolute best. Set in genuine platinum. The man at Coleman E. Adler on Canal—he'd asked Zoe, who knew where to go—said it was the finest of its kind he'd ever seen. Perfect stones. Came from Russia, time of the czars. Billy Jack wasn't exactly sure when that was, but he knew his mom would be impressed.

And here it was Wednesday; Sunday was right around the corner, and he didn't have the cash for Adler's yet. It wasn't a problem, really. He could always get more bread. If nothing else, this town was lousy with 7-Elevens. He would tell Frankie Zito that.

And then, like out of nowhere, something cold grabbed him in the gut like a Tastee-Freez cone had slipped down his throat, straight into his belly without passing Go.

What if it wasn't Frankie Zito who was looking for him? Actually, Willie hadn't said. What if it was those fucking cops with some other beef? Something his mom would hear about?

He signaled to Buster for the tab. He had to get out of there. Had to get out in the street, over to Patrissy's, check this thing out.

He stepped out onto the sidewalk. Skinny black cat almost ran under his feet. Billy Jack kicked at it. He hated cats.

And there, look, see, right across the street, was a nigger meter maid putting a parking ticket on his black Lincoln Town Car.

Billy Jack went berserk.

Motherfucker!
he screamed.

Charged across the street, breathing hard through his mouth, big snatches of air, almost hyperventilating. He was gonna kill her. That's all.

Then, zap, like a big old rubber band from the sky snapped him back, he got ahold of himself. Stopped dead in the middle of the street.

Horns honking. Tourists from Iowa freaked, almost ran him down.

That was okay. It was all tit for tat in the big numbers game—the one up in the sky, where everything was ones and zeroes.

Nigger got him. He'd get one back.

Billy Jack could always make the numbers come out.

Sixteen

“WHAT'CHA BEEN UP to, lady?” asked Harry, rising from his seat in the Esplanade Lounge. He probably looked like a fool, but he couldn't do anything about his grin. He couldn't help it that he was always so happy to see Sam. “Got this thing whupped?” He glanced at his watch. “You've been in town more than twenty-four hours. Already on overtime.”

She plopped down, checked him out out of the corner of her eye. God, he looked so
fresh.
He had wonderful skin—like a baby's. “No, son, it is not
whupped.
Of course, if you'd done right in the first place, passed on this case when your uncle Tench handed it out, I'd be home in Atlanta with my little dog, doing what I get paid to do, instead of charity work for my friends.”

“Listen, I been meaning to ask you. How the hell old are you, anyway? Fifty? Fifty-five?”

Sam's head jerked like she'd been slapped. What the—?

“I'll tell you, reason I asked, now I'd put you at thirty-four, thirty-five, tops.”

Still, she winced. There'd been the time they'd been light by
ten
years.

“But the way you talk to me, like I'm a little idjit child, calling me
son
,
I figure you must be at least old enough to be my ma. Am I right?”

She relaxed.
That's
all he meant. “Shut up, Harry, and order me a drink.”

He grinned. He had her where he wanted her for a change. Said to a passing waitress, “Perrier with lime,” out of the side of his mouth.

“You doing Bogey imitations now?”

He winked. “Call 'em as you see 'em, sweetheart.”

“Puhleeze.” But she couldn't stifle her smile. ‘”Wanta hear the scoop on Mr. Leander?”

“He bought the Hope diamond.”

Sam laughed. “Aren't his sparklers something? I thought Atlanta was full of weirdos, but, boy, y'all do have the types. Anyway, he says he's dropping the suit against the Lee estate.”

“Well—how do you like that? What do you think that means?”

“Don't know, was hoping you'd tell me.”

“Let's look at it. One, he doesn't need the money.
Never
needed the money.”

“Right. So the suit was brought because he was so pissed.”

“Perfectly natural, considering we're talking about his sight.”

“Absolutely. So why's he dropping it?”

“Church is dead. He's got nothing against his heirs.”

“Which gets us no closer to knowing if he might have engineered Church's exit.”

“What was your gut feeling when you saw him?” Harry asked.

Sam shrugged. “You know, he's that type. Old, rich men—hell, Harry, they've been playing games so long,
they
don't even know which way's up. Couldn't deal a straight hand if they had to. Except—well, the crazy thing about him was he told me he'd forgiven Church because of Sister Nadine. The TV evangelist.”

‘What?”

“He said Church had introduced him to her and she'd changed his life. He talks like a Born Again.”

“You've
got
to be kidding.”

“Would I make this up?”

Harry scratched his head. “Hell, I guess it could happen to anyone. But it seems hard to figure. Plus that gives us Church being hooked up with Sister Nadine somehow. I'll tell you, this town is getting crazier every day. No wonder everybody drinks.”

“So I thought I'd go and make a call on Sister Nadine later this evening. See if there's anything there.”

“Prob'ly worth the time. Besides”—he grinned—“can't wait to see your take on her.”

“She's something, right?”

“Listen, could you get me her autograph, for my sister Sudie. She collects freaks. So, what else you been up to?”

“Well, if you really want to know, I've been with G.T. Johnson over at St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 getting the blessings of Mam'zelle Marie LaVeau.”

“Hey. Never said there were any flies on you, woman. She give you some gris-gris, you'll have this thing wrapped up by suppertime. Which reminds me”—whenever he was around her, Harry just couldn't get the great food-great loving doubleheader out of his mind—“you wanta go grab a bite somewhere?”

“Thanks, no. I'm going home to spend some more time with the ladies.” Not that she wouldn't have liked to while away the evening with him, but first things first. And now it was his turn to do some show-and-tell. “So, Kitty said you struck out on Billy Jack.”

“I love the way you put that. I did not strike out. I just didn't find him waiting for me with open arms at Patrissy's. I ran him through Motor Vehicles. No such cat. And trying first name Billy or William, middle name Jack is going to get us about five thousand possibilities across the state. I can guarantee you that.”

“Pretty common, right?”

“'Specially in North Louisiana.”

“How come you all say it like that?”

“North Louisiana? Just snobby, I guess. It really is like another state. More like the rest of the Deep South—Mississippi, Alabama—dare I say, Georgia.”

“And South Louisiana is—?”

“New Orleans and Cajun country, up through Lafayette, is more European than Southern. We think those folks up in North Louisiana—Baptists eating white bread and frowning on dancing and anything else that's fun—well, it runs contrary to our nature.”

“And they think you're all going to hell.”

“That's pretty much the size of it.”

“Speaking of going to hell, the word from G.T. is that there's more to Zoe's involvement with drugs than Billy Jack. G.T. said she's dealing.”

“Oh, crap!”

“Precisely my sentiments.”

Harry leaned his head into his hands. “There's no telling what's gonna be in
that
ball of wax, depending on her contacts. Put her in Dutch with the Italian faction, she could be history right before our eyes.”

“Don't I know it. I'll push Zoe, see if I can get her to tell me about her dealing. Girl may have the answer right in her hand, not even know it.
Or
know it and not want to cop to it.”

“Great—if you can get her to talk. By the way, I've been asking a few questions about Maynard Dupree. Now I know he's on your list, but I thought it couldn't hurt.”

Boy couldn't be trusted to stick to the game plan. “You're gonna scare him off.”

“I never said I was going to do exactly what you wanted. Besides, does it make any sense, when our families run in the same circles, not to use what I've got?”

Maybe she
was
being too stiff-necked. “Okay. I see your point. So?”

“So.”

“So?”

“So—” He pushed his coffee spoon around on the little table. “So nobody knows nothing about the feud, except that it goes way back.”

Sam couldn't help but laugh. “You talked with a bunch of old friends and you got zip?”

He could feel himself flush. He was 0 for 2 in this meeting and fading fast. “You're so smart, you try. I'm telling you, Sam, you don't know anything about Old New Orleans. Even if you're on the inside, if they think it's none of your business, they'll cover for each other until death.
After
death. There's no telling what you'd find in those mausoleums uptown in Lafayette No. 1 if you pried them open.”

“No thanks, I'll pass.” Then she made him an offer. “Listen, if I promise you we'll go see Maynard together when the time feels right, will you leave it alone?”

She could tell from his expression, he wasn't at all happy about the way she put that.

“Maybe.” He shrugged.

“I beg your pardon?”

She sounded like his third-grade teacher, the one he and some other kids had once locked in the basement. “Get off my back, Sam.”

“Okay. Okay.” He was right. Why was she pushing him so hard? “Listen, G.T. told me a couple of interesting things about Jimbo. Said, one, he's too tall to have been driving the Buick.”

“The driver was short? Is that the way you remember it?”

“I'm not sure. But shorter than Jimbo, according to her.”

“Jimbo is pretty tall.”

“
And
that Jimbo seems to have a new source of serious income.”

He hated to have to say it, another point on her scorecard. But he did. “Great. That looks like something, huh?”

“Worth checking out, I'd say.”

“I'll get right on it.”

Silence hung in the air.

He leaned back in his chair. “You're saying you'd rather do it yourself.”

“Well—” This was very hard for her. One of the lessons of the program was that it served no one to insist on shouldering things all by yourself. It was a lesson she had to learn again and again.

“You think I'm a total fuckup,” Harry said.

“I didn't say that. I just have some trouble with—” Letting you have the good parts. Letting go of the reins.

“You didn't have to. Listen, now
you
listen.” His chair hit the floor loud and hard. He couldn't help it. His ego was on the line, his young man's ego. “I never asked you to come here. I never asked you to poke your nose, pretty though it may be, into my business.”

He was standing, reaching for his wallet.

She felt terrible about this. “I'll get it,” she said.

“Goddammit! Do not tell me that you will pick up the check when I am telling you to go screw yourself. When I am telling you that I have had it up to here with your bossiness and your pushiness and your talking to me like I'm a five-year-old.”

He pulled a wad of money out of his wallet without looking and tossed it on the table.

“And do
not
tell me I'm leaving too big a tip. This is
my
table in
my
favorite hangout in
my
town. And from now
on I'm working on my case. By myself.
Capice
?”

He grabbed the worn backpack that served as his briefcase and flung it over his shoulder.