Now Let's Talk of Graves (32 page)

“That's okay. We can dispense with the scenery. So Sweetpea chased him up this tree.”

“That's right. And Stella's right there, with her little pearl-handled revolver and lots of security, all in evening wear, of course, toting heavier firepower, guns whipped out all over the place, ladies screaming, some of them delighted to be able to use the smelling salts they been carrying in their little evening bags for years, just hoping against hope there'd be an exciting enough occasion to go all limp, somebody could whip out the salts, prove they're still frail flowers, and Stella's shouting above the whole thing, Otis Dew, you son of a bitch, freeze!

“He did, of course, Otis not being entirely stupid.

“And Aunt Stella marched right up to him. Get down out of that tree, she said. Come down here and face the music like a man.

“Dew did. Jumped right down, looking like a prize athelete. Brushed his evening clothes off, like he'd mussed himself performing an act of galantry for some lady. I tell you, Aunt Stella's fingers were itching. She couldn't wait. She said, I know you're under there. You can't fool me with that Jerry Lee business. Then, timing it just right, everybody in the place stock-still, of course, band had long since stopped playing. Everybody having heard one of a thousand versions of the Elvis/lover story, what was supposed to have been happening, tales of ravishment too shameful to repeat, them old Creole ladies put their gossiping tongues together, do their gumbo ya ya, then Aunt Stella reached the tips of her fingers under that mask and ripped off the Jerry Lee Lewis face.”

“And there was Otis Dew!” crowed Sam, knowing it all the while, of course, but the joy of southern storytelling was in the telling and the hearing, not the punch line. Except, in this case.

“No. There was Elvis.”

“What?!”

“The face behind the mask was the spittin' image of The King himself.”

“What are you telling me, Arkadelphia? Beneath the Jerry Lee mask he was wearing another mask? The Elvis mask?”

“No, he was wearing his face.”

“Need I remind you again that Elvis is dead. And
was
dead at the time we're talking about?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,” laughed Uncle Luther. “But not that boy's brother.”

Sam just stared at the two of them. Little old black man. Great big fat white man. Both laughing.

“
Whose
brother? What are you talking about? I'm going to smack both of you, if you don't tell me.”

“Don't get your bowels in an uproar, girl,” Arkadelphia finally said when he got the use of himself again. “Now, did I tell you at the beginning that Otis Dew had a brother, Lamar who had gone to medical school?”

“You did not.”

“Studied plastic surgery. Did real well, mostly over in Sweden, mostly doing sex change operations.”

“And as a favor to his bubba, he turned him into Elvis.”

“Sure did. Isn't that rich?”

“But why?”

“Why anything, sugar pie? Why blue skies? Why boys and girls? Why sex, drugs, rock and roll, greed?”

“I think you hit it on the button with that last one.”

“Well, I 'spect so too. Think Otis Dew was greedy. Greedy for the riches of the earth those Houstonians had spoiled him with. Greedy for the roar of the crowd. Did I tell you the rest of the year he was on the Riviera, you got that right, there and lots of other places, doing Elvis impersonations? Had been on the TV lots of times.”

“No, Ark. No, you didn't. But what do you think made him come back to Louisiana? Do this weird thing?”

“Don't know, sugar pie. Maybe there's more ladies wear white cotton panties in this climate than any other place Otis Dew had ever been.”

And with that, Arkadelphia stood, shoved his straw hat back on his head, and lumbered off toward his mowing machine without giving her a backward look. Cranked the mower up and started doing whirlies in the Villères' grass.

Sam sat, feeling like she'd been run over by a particularly large truck, staring at Uncle Luther.

Who said, “Yep, well, listen, you feeling better, I guess I ought to be getting back to work.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Hey, hey.” Luther grinned, chewed a little, spat. “You ought not to let boys like Ark get under your skin. Just passing the time, you know. Telling you 'bout Old New Orleans.”

“You telling me you think I ought to believe any of that?”

Luther scratched his head. Then from behind him, she saw the shadowy figure of Tante Marie flutter again. She thought she heard the softest giggle. Then the figure disappeared.

Luther saw her looking, grinned a slow grin, and gave her a big wink. He said, “There's one would tell you yes. You ought to believe every word.”

“Luther, are you telling me Tante Marie was one of Otis Dew's victims?”

“Or beneficiaries? Depending on how you look at it?”

“Are you?”

“Honey, I ain't telling you nothing. Far as I'm concerned, we just been sitting here shooting the breeze, sipping a little tea.”

He was right. And it had all been so pleasant, she'd forgotten not only her manners, but what she'd set out for in the first place.

She stood. “Listen, Uncle Luther. I really do appreciate the refreshments and your first aid. Thanks so much.” She folded the washcloth and gingerly tried out her knees. Then she attempted an end run around Luther once more. “You wouldn't happen to know if Madeline Villère's over in St. Martinville, would you?”

He shook his head. “You know somebody else they ought to string up? Like that Imelder we was talking about 'fore Ark came along? Thinks she's a princess too? That Leona Helmsley. 'Course they did get her up on trial. Cheating on her taxes. I read 'bout that woman in a story in the
Picayune.
Thinks she's a queen. Ain't that something? She's an
American.
At least that Imelder's a foreigner. Could be a queen. You know what I mean?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well. Now, listen, anytime you come running by here in yo' bitty shorts, you want to stop and get a glass of ice water, some tea, you just holler, you hear? Old Luther, he get you some.”

Then he took her by the elbow and led her off the porch. Her knees hurt like hell. Luther flipped the switch on his Walkman. Did a little cakewalk ahead of her down the pavement, listening to somebody good.

“Who's that, Imelda?” she asked.

The old man grinned, looking like a jack-o'-lantern. “Wynton. He my man, that Wynton. Homeboy.” Executing a little slow drag. “That Imelder? Naw. She cain't sing worth spit. Ought to stuck to brassieres. High heels.”

And you ought to stick to pumping people dumber than you, Sam told herself as she gimped off down the sidewalk. Which means not messing with the help. Lord knows, growing up with Peaches and Horace ought to have taught her that.

Yes indeedy, both Ark and Uncle Luther had done a number on her. Sam turned onto General Taylor Street, laughing out loud at herself.

Twenty-Five

SAM DIDN'T HAVE to limp her way up the steps of the double shotgun on General Taylor to see who she'd come to see.

The left side of the house was G.T.'s, the right side Jimbo's. The two halves mirror images, named for their one-room-right-after-another-shoot-a-gun-straight-through-from-the-front-to-the-back construction.

Somebody who looked awfully like what Jimbo was supposed to was lying sprawled out in the side yard on his back.

“Hey!” he said, poking his head out from under what appeared to be a lawn chair he had propped up on short sawhorses. A very weird lawn chair. Above were your basic interwoven strips of green and white, but attached under the bottom was what looked like an inflatable rubber life raft. The raft was bright orange. Running all around the edges of the chair and on its arms was a series of little metal anchors.

“Hi!” said Sam.

“Well, hi there yourself, good-looking.”

Uh-oh. Maybe she should have put a little more thought into this—like not wearing running shorts for starters. “What'cha doing here?” she asked.

“Building me a flying lawn chair.” He grinned, showing lots of big white horsey teeth. “Wanta come on over here and see it?” He was lying propped up on his elbows now.

Not hardly, bubba. She shook her head. “What's gonna make it fly?”

He stood up. He
was
a tall sucker. He wiped the grass off the seat of his jeans with huge hands and reached for a big cardboard box. “These here weather balloons.”

“You fill 'em with helium?”

“You got that right. You wanta go up for a spin sometime?”

“Thanks. I don't think so.”

“Well, then, you wanta fuck?”

It was that kind of thing that made it real difficult to talk with some men. Once they'd said something like that, well, you could shoot 'em, but otherwise it was hard to continue.

“Thanks a lot, but I think I'll pass,” she said with a little smile, like he'd offered her a cold drink.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Listen, I'm looking into some business for the Lee family. You know Church Lee?”

“So that's what you doing here. Thought you was just strolling by.”

“Killing two birds with one stone.”

“What if we just fool around a little bit and see if you like it?”

“Maybe you had a conversation about him with a man named Maynard Dupree in the Pelican Bar some weeks ago.”

Jimbo straightened up a little bit, like he was thinking of getting serious. “Honey, I get to talking in the Pelican, it could be 'bout anybody. Any little old thing. You wanta go on over there and have a few drinks? Maybe reconsider my offer?”

“Thanks, I don't drink. I understand you and Maynard were saying some pretty audacious things about General Taylor Johnson, your neighbor here”—Sam crooked a thumb up at the house—“and Church Lee. Maybe a lady named Chéri too.”

“Now there's a pretty piece. Got a mouth on her, though. Just like you. That's okay. I like sassy women.”

“Did you know Church Lee died that next night? After you and Maynard Dupree were standing around in the Pelican talking about killing him?”

“Is that the truth?” Jimbo scratched his head. “That's a purrdee shame. I sure do hate to hear that.”

“Kind of makes it look bad for you, don't you think?”

“Naw.” Jimbo reached over to a Styrofoam cooler, knocked the lid aside, and reached out a cold Dixie. “You sure you don't want a beer?”

She shook her head. “Thanks.”

He drained it in one long swig. Belched. Grinned. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “'Scuse me.”

“You mind my asking where you were that next night?”

“When was that? I don't remember exactly. Don't remember the conversation you talking about, for that matter. Though it coulda happened. I ain't saying it didn't.”

“You mean you
could
have stood around the Pelican talking about killing somebody.”

“Sure. Mean son of a bitch like me could talk about most anything. Don't you think?” Giving her a hard look.

“I wouldn't know.” What she did know was that he was trying to scare her a little, but somehow she didn't think Jimbo was going to bump her off standing right there in his side yard before lunch.

“When was this?” he asked, giving up the tough approach, reaching for another beer, waggling it at her. “You sure I can't tempt you now?”

“Church was killed late Mardi Gras night. Almost three o'clock Ash Wednesday morning, actually.”

“Well, I'm afraid I can't help you. I don't know where I was then.”

“You don't remember?”

“Hell, no.”

“Maybe you were asleep?”

“I'm saying I was drunk as a skunk, as any self-respecting person would be on Mardi Gras, and I coulda been passed out, or I coulda been still standing. I surely don't know, myself.”

“Anybody with you who might?”

Jimbo grinned. “Oh, yeah. There's a whole lot of people with me.”

“You were at a party?”

“Naw. I don't like parties. Least not the usual kind.”

She knew she was walking into it, but what the hell? “What kind do you like?”

“Kind I put together myself.” He really did look exactly like the Big Bad Wolf, standing there, grinning. “Lots of girls, not many clothes. You know what I mean.”

“I think I get the drift. Any of these girls have names?”

“What'd you say you did for a living? Say you are a cop?”

“Nope. Actually, I'm a newspaper reporter.”