Now Let's Talk of Graves (38 page)

“You know a short white boy named Billy Jack Joyner?” Lavert turned to Kush while picking up his chili dog, watching it almost disappear in his big hand, thinking he should have ordered two. Still could.

“Unh-huh. You know him too.”

“Nunh-uh.” Chewing. God, that was good! “I don't.”

“Well, you ought to. Would if you come around more often.”

“Jesus, Kush. You sounding like a woman pining for love.”

Kush leaned over from his barstool, tweaked Lavert's cheek. “Thass right. 'Cause I be loving you.”

“Get out of here.” Lavert and Kush had no more than six weeks before been chasing some skirts in a club out the edge of Desire. But no more. Now that he'd taken a vow to win the hand of the fair G.T. No way. “You mean he comes around?”

“I mean you just missed him, dude.”

“What?”

“Five minutes ago. Little sucker was in here hitting up one of my customers. Reckon one of his customers too.” Kush nodded his head over toward the billiard table.

“Who's that?”

“Docs. Playing hooky from surgery over at Oschner, hear them talk. Hell, blood or billiards, guess I know which one I'd rather do.”

“He was right here?”

“You record broken, son? Ain't that what I just said?”

“Shit.”

“Don't be so down in the mouth. You come back tomorrow, he probably be here again. Do a lot of visiting with my high rollers.”

And then there was a hubbub of noise from the billiard table, one man clapping the other on the back.

“What you think, Ma Elise?” the loser said to the old woman.

“You didn't need to play defense, that last shot,” she answered. “You supposed to make it.”

“
Now
you tell me,” the man laughed. Good-spirited. Lavert liked men like that. Looked like they enjoyed all the games of life. Would enjoy eating. Kind of men he'd be proud to serve in his restaurant.
Lavert's.
Wished he had a card index of all the people he'd met like that in this town. Send them invitations to his opening. That was the ticket. Send all the fancy Uptown dudes invites, come in and taste the fine spread, classy way to do it, G.T. at the door in a long dress, wearing a nice welcoming smile—not too much though.

“Game stretches our minds,” the man was saying.

He was right. Lavert knew. He played it himself. Billiards encompassed infinite possibilities—like life.

He looked down at the tops of the heads of the two little old ladies who'd toddled over, stopped now, idling.

“You that Lavert Washington?” Aunt Ida asked.

He stood up. Tipped an imaginary cap. Always paid to be polite to the ladies, especially old ladies. Besides, his mama had raised no ignorant, bad-mannered fool. “I am.”

He gave her his big warm smile. “What can I do for you?”

“I know your mama,” Ida said.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“She knows me too.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well, don't believe everything you hear.”

“No, ma'am.”

“Now, excuse us. Me and Ma Elise here's gonna get on home. Catch us a ride on the streetcar.”

“I'd be proud to drive you.”

“Humph. That's what my great-grandbaby said. You know G.T.?”

“Yes, ma'am, I sure do.”

“Oh, that's right.”

Had G.T.
said
something about him? Lavert's heart pounded in his chest like a bass drum gone nuts.

“Well, don't stand there, boy, looking like a fool. You gonna give us a ride, come on with you.”

*

Four blocks away, G.T. was running some questions around in her head. She was wondering why Teri had made tracks out of Ida's house. Wondering how long it would take her to show up to home next door, then start all over again, that bastard Jimbo pounding her face on the floor. Wondering how twisted their little boy's gonna be. Doctor King. Indeed! All the Kings she knew were black. Couple of them, toddlers, named Martin Luther, but Doctor??? Crazy white-folks business.

She was also wondering about Lavert. Actually she found herself doing that a lot.

And she was wondering about Samantha. What could she do for her? She'd said she'd help, but she hadn't done a thing. She ought to give Sam a call. Ought to talk with Ida. She needed to stop being so reactive. Get on the stick, girl, do something about Zoe too. She didn't know what was wrong with her, what had possessed her mind. (Big man hadn't even touched her, she'd already been hoo-dooed.) Well, first thing she ought to do was get together with the altar sisters. Do some transformations. Get on the case.

And stop being late. She glanced at her watch. Ida was gonna kill her.

She'd promised she'd pick them up. She'd
insisted
on it, knowing full well the old ladies would be okay on the streetcar.

Well, probably.

On the other hand, people were getting shot by drug dealers every day. Bystanders, sitting on their stoops, walking out their doors holding their children's hands, were suddenly blown away.

Never mind a poolhall.

She glanced back up.

Wait
a minute.

Was that who she thought it was, driving right past her in that Town Car?

It
was
that little son of a bitch!

She'd stake her life on it.

G.T. did a U-ey in the middle of Dante.

The little sucker stared at her in his rearview mirror for a long moment, then floored it.

G.T. hit the siren. That was against the rules, off duty, but what the hell were rules for?

Thirty-Two

HARRY HAD GOTTEN Sam's message, called her back, and made a date to meet her in the Pelican on Magazine. She'd wanted to see the place where he'd followed Chéri that afternoon of Mardi Gras eve—where he'd overheard the conversation between Jimbo and Maynard.

He was waiting for her at the bar now, whistling what he had of “I Thought I Knew How Angels Flew” under his breath. And there she was. God, she was beautiful.

“What's that tune?” she asked. Harry looked like a cool drink on a summer afternoon. It seemed years since she'd seen him.

“A song I've been working on.”

“How's it going?”

“Great.”

“Great.”

“Listen, I'm really s—” Their mouths formed the words simultaneously. Then they laughed. Together. Again.

Sam looked somewhere to the side of his left ear. “You're looking pretty good.”

“You always do.”

She stared down at the toes of her shoes, feeling the blush rise up her neck, feeling like first grade. “So, who do I have to see to get a drink around here?”

“Lookin' at him, darlin'.” Calvin popped up from behind the bar like a Jack-in-the-box. “What's your pleasure?”

“Perrier.”

“No fancy water.”

“Club soda. Slice of lemon. Splash of bitters.”

So. She slid a little sideways look at Harry. Jeans. Old navy blazer. Loafers. Gray shirt the same color as his eyes.

Did he just wink at her, or was that her imagination?

“How're things?”

“Good. I've taken in a partner.”

“At the office, you mean?”

Harry laughed. “No, I can't imagine my friend Lavert working for Uncle Tench.”

“Is your Lavert a huge black man?”

“You know Lavert? Oh, I forgot, you met him with G.T. He told me that.”

“Really?”

“We go way back.”

“So what's he doing for you?”

“We decided to throw in together finding Billy Jack and G.T.'s little dude.”

“What's his interest?”

“G.T.”

“I see. Any luck?”

“We're meeting later for a nightcap to compare notes. We started only last night.”

And it was only yesterday afternoon that he'd walked out on her at the Royal O. Why did it seem like
years
ago?

“Lots been happening,” she said.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know about it. Was she going to beat him over the head with whatever she'd been up to? “Wanta tell me about it?”

Sure. The visit with Sister Nadine, Zoe and the frenc
h-
fried rat
—Bastard!
spat Harry—her little chats with Jimbo and Miss Cissy.

“Damn! You make me feel like I've been standing still. Though”—laying it out casually—“I did hop over to St. Martinville earlier today, met with Madeline Villère.”

“You did! Really!” The
without me
was implicit.

“Now, as I remember—”

“Okay. Okay. It's just that Hoke, my managing editor, has been calling threatening to cut out my gizzard if I don't get back to work—”

“Which puts you on slo-mo.”

“Exactly. So I was thinking I've never seen Cajun country, it would be a good opportunity—”

“It's not going anywhere,” Harry said. “One day I'd be happy to drive you.”

What was she
talking
about? This wasn't a vacation. Two minutes with Harry again and she was losing track of what was
important.
“So what'd you find out from her? What was she like? What'd she say?”

“Said it was high time you came to visit.” He delivered the line to his beer.

“Harry.”

“Okay.”

Then he told her. She listened without interrupting for ten minutes, a major exercise in self-control. Finally, she breathed, Holy Toledo.

“My sentiments exactly. All that obsession with fat women—enough to make Jane Fonda commit suicide, don't you think?
And
that means Sister Nadine's a member of their club. You think Church's death could be about her? Maynard finally got tired of losing out with the ladies, offed him? Or hired Jimbo?”

“Jesus, I don't know. But what a couple of good-for-nothing losers.”

“You're right there. At least Madeline's happy now. And the good news is she wants to get involved with Zoe.”

“Absolutely great.”

“I told her you'd call her.”

“Why, Harry, that was awfully nice of you.”

“Way my mama raised me. Can't help it.” He tapped his glass on the bar in lieu of patting Sam. “Calvin, my good man, another round.”

Calvin was Johnny-on-the-spot, as if he'd been waiting. Which he had been.

“You know,” he said, wiping down the bar with a damp rag even though it didn't need it, “I couldn't help overhearing.”

“Yep,” said Harry. “Isn't that what bartenders do for a living?”

“Yeah, well, you know, some of what you've been saying, I've thought a lot about that afternoon you were in here before, you remember, that conversation the afternoon before old Church Lee died?”

“Yes?” Sam gave him her most encouraging smile.

“Well, you know how it is when folks get to drinking, fooling around. Say things they don't mean.”

“So you don't think Maynard meant what he said about killing Church?” said Sam.

“Well, as I remember it, wasn't Maynard said that in the first place. That was Jimbo.”

“You sure?” asked Harry.

“Well, hell, what difference would it make? I mean, they was just teasing. Talking big drunk talk. Hell, you believed a tenth of what you hear in here, you'd be on the phone to the police all the time. Couldn't ever make no money.”

“And there was never any
further
conversation about it that you know of?”

“Sure not in here. And both Jimbo and Maynard Dupree come in time to time.”

“Together?” asked Sam.

“Well. Let me think about that for a minute.”

Sam watched the rag making circles. The old mahogany bar glowed.

“Nope.” Calvin shook his head. “I'm sure they've not. They're not really friends, you know. May run into each other here, there, somewheres else in their drinking rounds, but”—he waggled a hand—“you know, different worlds.”

Oh, well. Sam gave Harry a look. Certainly didn't hurt to ask.

“Sort of like that young guy came in here with Church one night last fall. Yep, that was the same kind of thing. Different worlds.”

“
What
young man?” Sam jumped in.

Calvin went right on. “Of course Church Lee was no snob. 'Specially when it came to drinking partners.”