Now Let's Talk of Graves (8 page)

Sam could see his chest puff a little, going along with it.

He had a sense of humor. That was nice.

“Kitty said you're with the
Constitution.
What do
you
do?” he asked.

“Write. Crime beat.”

“Ah-ha! So you definitely can recognize the type.”

“Oh, yeah. It's all in the eyes.”

“Really? Tell me what else you see.”

“This isn't palm reading, Harry,” Kitty said.

“You planted a bomb,” said Sam, mock-serious.

“Nope.”

“Kidnapping. Here to collect a
big
ransom. Run away to—”

“Bali,” Harry said. “You ever been there?”

“No.”

“Wanta go?”

“Why, Mr. Zack.” She fluttered her eyelashes just a tad, though in her mind her bag was packed. Swimsuit. Black lace nightie—

Then: “
There
you are!” a voice boomed from the door, so loud they couldn't ignore it. “Kitty Lee, sister woman, I've been looking all over for you.”

“Oh, shit,” said Kitty. “It's Church, three sheets to the wind.”

Sam looked up at Kitty's brother. It had been years since she'd met him, and that briefly. He was a very tall man with a bony, ugly-handsome face and deep circles beneath his eyes. He looked like Abe Lincoln on a bad day. There was a race horse blaze of white in the thick, dark curly hair which he tried to pomade down in a long, old-fashioned style. But the most striking thing about him this particular evening was that he was drunk—absolutely reeling.

“So
this
is Samantha.” He leaned into their table now, spraying them with spittle.

“Now, Church, you've met Sam before. Don't you remember?”

And suddenly it struck Sam that their most recent meeting had been this evening. “Did I dance with you earlier at the Comus ball? You were masked?” she asked.

“Well, darlin'!” His fumy laugh was booming, expansive. “I certainly couldn't tell you that. Though I certainly was at the ball. Did you see my baby girl? My Zoe?”

“I did indeed. She was absolutely beautiful.” Sam paused. “But I could swear it was you.”

He leaned over, whispered slyly, “Comus secrets always secret.”

Now close behind Church followed a round, doll-faced man with wavy blond hair. He extended his hand. “Howdy, howdy. I'm Tench Young.”

Church said to Kitty, “Haven't even brought Samantha around. You that ashamed of your brother?”

“Don't be silly, we were over earlier this evening, but you weren't home. Now, why don't you and Mr. Young sit down? You know Harry Zack?”

“Know him?” thundered Tench Young in that hearty manner of some Southern men, as if he were about to hand you a check for a million dollars. “Harry here's my nephew!”

“Oh, I'm sorry, I'd for—”

“My right-hand man. He's working for me. Even as we speak!”

“You selling insurance, Harry?” Kitty grinned at him. “You here writing policies for wives think the old man won't make it through the night?”

“Chief bottle-washer,” Harry muttered.

Sam watched the flush creep up his neck. His uncle was embarrassing him.

“Nose like a bloodhound,” Young roared. “Nothing you can hide from that boy. Doing investigations for me. Saves me a shitload—'scuse me, ladies—of money. Kind of young man I want to have on my team. Bring him up in the company. Take over from me someday—when I get all those little fillies of mine married off. Sad, you know, man has no sons.” Young reached across the table and slapped Harry on the back, in the process spilling Sam's drink. “Oh, I'm so sorry, my dear.”

Sam dabbed at the water on her turquoise silk while politely brushing away his apologies. She ought to have known better than to get all dolled up for a bunch of drunks, she thought. Saran Wrap would have been more appropriate, or combat boots and a raincoat.

Harry was handing her his handkerchief. “Hope you didn't ruin your pretty dress.”

“Thanks. It's just water. It'll be okay.”

“Do you want me to—”

But she never heard what he was going to offer. Another wave of merrymakers crowded into the room, drawing everyone's attention.

Tench Young punched Church in the arm and pointed. “Hey, bubba. There's your friend, Maynard Dupree.”

Church turned, frowning in the direction Tench pointed. “That son of a bitch,” he growled. “Look at him. Too bad he didn't fall off that horse in the parade and break his neck. All dressed up in his captain costume, looked like a fool trying to be Roy Rogers. Did you see his horse rear up, bucking like a bastard in front of the reviewing stand? Zoe waving her little hand off. Thank God he didn't have the grit to block her being queen. I would have shot him.”

“Now, watch yourself, son,” Tench said, laughing up at his tall friend. Then he turned back to the table. “Every time Church sees that old boy Maynard Dupree, he gets all pushed out of shape. I've warned Church to stay away from him. Makes his blood pressure shoot right up and I cain't afford for this ol' hoss”—he squeezed Church's arm—“to be kicking the bucket. Not with all the insurance I'm carrying on him.”

Church laughed, showing lots of pearly teeth. “Don't you worry about me,” he said. Sam noticed the humor didn't extend above his mouth. His eyes were somewhere else. They looked like they were seeing something awful. Then he focused back into the room. “It's not my health I'm worried about. It's going to the po'house.” He laughed his big empty laugh again.

“Well, I reckon this whole sheebang has cost you a sou or two, hadn't it, son?” Now Tench slapped Church on the back. He was one of those men who constantly touched, poked, prodded. “Little girl's debut and on top of it being queen. Ain't chicken feed, is it?”

That was Church's cue to laugh again, but instead, he looked away. Sam watched him stare at the mural of Jackson Square for a long count of five. His brow gnarled like a gathering storm. Then he blinked.

“Church?” Kitty frowned at her brother.

He shook his head and turned back with a big grin. “Think somebody just walked on my grave.” He shivered, hamming it up for the effect. “You ever have that feeling?”

Sure, everyone nodded.

“Well, listen.” Church rubbed his hands together. “We better get into the ballroom. Gonna miss my baby's breakfast.” The man was used to getting the show on the road, Sam thought, a surgeon accustomed to giving orders. “Celebrate the last couple of hours of my baby's being queen. Come on, y'all.” He hustled everyone out of their seats. “Let's
eat
us some breakfast.
Drink
us some champagne.
Make
us some merry.” Now he was herding them out of the room. “Put it all on my tab,” he called to the waiter, who nodded. “All of it, Charlie. Nobody's money is good here tonight. Nobody but Church Lee's.”

It was two-thirty when they piled out of the hotel into waiting limousines, waking drivers who had grabbed the chance for a little snooze.

“Church!” Kitty called to her brother on the sidewalk. “You come on with me and Sam and Zoe. There's room for you with us. Ma Elise went home a long time ago.”

“Nawh.” He waved. “I left my car in the parking lot 'fore the parade. Here it is right now.” Church slurred, bobbing and weaving. The attendant stepped out of the old black Mercedes, palmed Church's tip. “I'll drive it on home.”

“We can't let him do it,” Sam said. “He's way too drunk.”

“He won't listen,” said Zoe in the tired voice of one who's given up trying.

“Of course not,” said Sam. “You can't reason with booze. But let me see what I can do. Since I'm not family, maybe he'll let me drive.”

She was out of the limo and halfway to Church's car, running over in her mind what she was going to say to him, what she said to other drunks while doing Twelve Step work. She spoke his language, had been where he was more than once. With a lot of luck she might keep him from getting behind the wheel.

But he was too fast for her. There was not even a prayer of grabbing the keys. Bang. Slam. The dark car lumbered out into the street and picked up speed. Its tires squealed as he turned right onto Canal.

“Come on.” Kitty had rolled down her window. “We'll follow him home.”

Sam jumped in the front seat with the driver. “Do not lose that car.”

“Yes, ma'am!” He accelerated, burning rubber.

Then began a rerun of the drive from the airport the day before. There had been too many movies filmed in this town, Sam thought. Everybody was cruising for a bit part.

“We have
got
to do something about Church's drinking,” said Kitty. “He won't say, but I know a friend of his, a member of the State Licensing Board, has spoken to him unofficially, warned him he's risking a lot with his behavior. And his malpractice insurance—there's been a suit—”

Zoe stared out the window. Her reign as Queen of Comus was finally, finally over. And her daddy was drunk again. All that glitter and glory—and none of it was real. Well, maybe the diamonds around her neck were, she thought, fingering them. Nothing had changed. Here they were, rolling down old Canal Street. Next year another girl would sit on the reviewing stand at the Boston Club and watch the Comus parade pass by. Would
her
life change? Zoe stared out into the soft rain. The streetlights were ringed with yellow halos. She closed her eyes and could still see them behind her eyelids—like golden crowns. They'd be gone at first light.

No one in the long limo noticed the car that pulled in right behind, making them a little caravan. Church in the lead, the long black car full of women now the filling in the middle of a sandwich.

The limo crossed double yellow lines and ran red lights, following Church. Where were the cops, wondered Sam, when you needed them?

Up ahead the taillights of the Mercedes flashed and flashed again as Church fishtailed around Lee Circle, coming into where St. Charles became a boulevard. He was just easing through, sliding by. This drunk was lucky tonight, wasn't he? At least he had been this far, but he couldn't count on Lady Luck forever.

Sam remembered, it had been ten years since she'd driven like the man in front of her, her eyes struggling for focus but zeroing in on a little beam of light. She knew Church was holding on to a clear signal, a path that would lead him home. It had to, had to work, because the booze made him invincible. Nothing could stop him. Nothing could even touch him. With enough booze in him, like every other drunk, he was Superman. He was flying.

Of course, he might fly right over a pedestrian. Or through a stop sign. Or blow an exit, misreading it to mean
Come right on ahead, we like your kind.

An incident like that had finally grabbed Sam's attention. She had gunned it at 105 mph past a STOP EXIT WRONG WAY sign south of San Francisco. She liked to drive fast when she was drunk. She liked to bad-mouth cops too—like the highway patrolman who had run her off the road.

“You could have killed me, you bastard.” She'd lunged at him as he pulled her out of what was left of her Austin-Healy.

“I was trying to, you stupid bitch.” He'd thrown her into the back of his black and white, not caring if she was hurt, snapping the cuffs on her. “Before you kill a real human being.”

Nothing had grabbed her attention before. Shattered glasses, lost shoes, rolled cars, broken friendships and promises, hangovers, dry heaves, hallucinations, black-outs—none of it had jerked her up and made her face the fact that she was an alcoholic. She couldn't handle her booze, it was running her life, and
that
was a problem. But that next morning when she woke up in the women's drunk tank in San Mateo County with her license lifted and narrowly averted disaster staring her in the face, she hit bottom. She called her lawyer, then her doctor. Get me out of here, she said, and into a treatment program.

That had been her first step on the long road back.

In front of them, Church was weaving over into the streetcar tracks in the neutral ground, looking like he might not make it till tomorrow.

She wondered how many years he'd been drinking.

She thought about Zoe too. The apple never fell far from the tree. Sam remembered the look on the girl's face when she'd walked in on her earlier that evening in the ladies' room at the Fairmont. Zoe, wearing the simple white slip of a gown she'd changed into for the breakfast, was startled. She spilled her coke, looking like a little girl with her hand in the cookie jar. How long would it take for Zoe to hit bottom?

Then suddenly from behind them a car blinked its lights once, twice, and roared past.

It was a heavy car, a very old Buick, a make Sam could identify from the little holes down its side.

The Buick flew by, honking at Church, who swerved sharply to the right, missing another parked car by millimeters. Then the Buick kept going, squeezing past a cross street at the beginning of a red light, picking up even more speed and disappearing into the wet mist.