Out of the Easy (28 page)

“Miss Moraine?” He interrupted my thoughts. “I asked if you know where your mother was on New Year’s Eve.”

“Have you met my mother, Detective?” I asked.

“Yes, I have.”

“Then I’m sure you won’t be surprised when I tell you that we have been estranged for quite some time. I’ve lived upstairs in this bookshop since I was twelve years old.” I stared at the detective. “I’ve never spent New Year’s Eve with my mother, and I have no idea where she was.”

He put his pen in his ear to scratch an itch or dislodge some wax. “Well, the chief wanted me to come talk to you. I told him he was going to a goat’s house for wool, but he’s got a checklist, you know.”

Coming to me was like going to a goat’s house?

“So, Miss Moraine, if you weren’t with your mother, where were you on New Year’s Eve?”

“I was right here, upstairs in my room.” I motioned toward the back stairs and regretted it the moment my hand moved.

Detective Langley looked toward the stairs at the back of the shop. What if he wanted to search my room? How would I explain thousands of dollars in Cokie’s gambling money in my floorboard? He would probably think it was the cash missing from Mr. Hearne. Droplets of perspiration popped at the back of my neck.

He leaned on the counter. “Did anyone see you here on New Year’s Eve?”

“Yes, Patrick Marlowe, the owner of the shop. He came by with a friend around midnight.”

“Did you all go out then?”

“No, Patrick will tell you I was quite indisposed, in my nightgown and hairpins.”

The detective chewed his lip in thought. I could practically see the dim lightbulb buzzing above his head. “What if I told you that someone saw you out on New Year’s Eve?” he said.

“I would say they were lying, hoping to pressure me into telling you something different. I have told you the facts, Detective. I was here, all night, on New Year’s Eve. You can speak to Patrick Marlowe and James from Doubleday Bookshop. They both saw me here.”

I almost felt bad for the guy. He’d never stay afloat in the Quarter with such transparent methods.

He thanked me for my time and left. I locked the door, turned out the lights, and watched him drive away. Then I ran across the street to call Willie.

I recounted all the details.

“He just left?” she asked.

“Yes, he just drove away.”

“They’re still digging. They don’t have anything,” she said.

“Willie, does Mother have an alibi?”

“Trust me, you don’t want what your mother has. Go back and lock your doors.” She hung up the phone.

I ran across the dark street. I fumbled with my keys, trying to find the right one in the low light. I heard a noise. My hair tore from my scalp as I was yanked and slammed up against the glass door. I felt something hard in my back.

“Hey, Crazy Josie. That was a bad, bad move. You really think it’s wise to go talkin’ to the police?” Cincinnati’s sour breath was hot in my ear.

“I wasn’t talking to the police.”

He shoved me into the door again. “I saw you. I stood and watched you talk to that copper.” His hand was on the back of my head, shoving the side of my face into the glass.

“I wasn’t talking to him. He just . . . asked me a question.”

He slapped his knife on the door next to my eye. “You,” he whispered, “are a liar.”

My body shuddered.

I saw a couple walking toward us down Royal and opened my mouth to scream. Cincinnati jerked me off the door, slung his arm around my neck, and forced me to walk with him.

“Don’t even think about screaming,” he said through his teeth.

I tried to follow his paces, my face practically wrenched in a headlock. His left hand held the blade of his knife at my waistline. I felt the sting of the tip against me. We walked a block up to Bourbon Street, and he pushed me into a small bar. I saw my mother sitting at a table in the back near a window, a litter of empty glasses in front of her.

He threw me into a chair and quickly pulled one up behind.

“Look what I found,” said Cincinnati.

“Hi, Jo.” Mother sounded sleepy. Her blue-shadowed lids bobbed like the last flaps of a dead bird.

“I told you that was the detective who drove by. And when I looked, guess who was chatting him up?” Cincinnati lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in my face.

Mother sat up, her tone shifting slightly. “Why were you talking to the detective, Jo?”

I slid my chair away from Cincinnati and closer to my mother. “The day Mr. Hearne died, he came to the shop. He bought two books. The police found the books and the receipt in his hotel room. The detective came to ask me about them.”

“Just now they came to ask you?” said Cincinnati. “Why didn’t they come earlier?”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking at my mother. I couldn’t stand to look at Cincinnati.

Mother reached for Cincinnati’s hand. “See, baby? That’s nothing. They just asked about books.”

“Shut up, Louise. She’s lyin’. The kid’s slick like me, not stupid like you.”

“I’m not stupid,” contested Mother. “You’re stupid.”

“You watch your mouth.”

Mother pouted. “Well, I’m no longer a suspect. They confirmed my alibi, and we’ll be goin’ back to Hollywood. This town’s just too small for us,” she told me.

“When are you leaving?” I asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” said Cincinnati. “Why, you wanna come with us, Crazy Josie?” He put his hand on my thigh. I threw it off.

“I don’t want to leave in the morning,” whined Mother. “I want to have dinner at Commander’s Palace tomorrow. I want all those Uptown women to see me and know I’m on my way back to Hollywood.”

“Shut your piehole. I told you, we have to get out of here. If you keep your mouth shut, I’ll take you to the Mocambo when we get back to Hollywood.”

Mother smiled, accepting the compromise. “Cinci’s got in real good with some fellas in Los Angeles.” Her eyes wandered like an impatient child. “Where’s that pretty watch?”

“In my room. I don’t wear it often. It’s a bit fancy.”

“You should give it to me, then. I’d wear it all the time.”

“I had a nice watch comin’ to me once, but your momma lost it,” said Cincinnati.

“I didn’t lose it!” snapped Mother. “Evangeline must have stolen it. I told you that a million times.”

“Or maybe Crazy Josie found it, sold it, and bought herself a nice watch.” Cincinnati stared at me.

“Mine was a gift.” I looked at Mother. “For my eighteenth birthday.”

“Ooh, you’re legal now.” Cincinnati snickered.

A uniformed police officer appeared in the doorway, greeting a friend at a nearby table.

I stood up. “Have a safe trip to California, Mother.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Please send me your address so I can write to you.” I walked as fast as I could without jogging. As soon as I was outside, I pulled my gun from under my skirt and ran.

The heat from Cincinnati’s hand hung on my thigh, and the evening air crept in through the knife slice in my blouse. I ran past the Sans Souci and thought of Forrest Hearne, sitting dead at the table.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.

FORTY-FIVE

His words were stuck in my head, running on a repeat loop.
The kid’s slick like me, not stupid like you.

The fact that Cincinnati thought I resembled him in any way sickened me. It made me want to run and hide. When I was a child in Detroit and terrors chased me, I would run to my hiding spot, a crawl space under the front porch of the boardinghouse we lived in. I’d wedge my small body into the cool brown earth and lie there, escaping the ugliness that was inevitably going on above me. I’d plug my ears with my fingers and hum to block out the remnants of Mother’s toxic tongue or sharp backhand. It became a habit, humming, and a decade later, I was still doing it. Life had turned cold again, the safety of the cocoon under the porch was gone, and lying in the dirt had become a metaphor for my life.

Shady Grove was my tunnel under the porch now. But it was too far to run to all the time. When I returned to the shop after running from Cincinnati, I found a piece of paper on the floor under the mail slot.

Is it official? Are you Massachusetts instead of Motor City?

Jesse

I wanted to be Massachusetts. I still wanted to believe it was possible, that my wings, no matter how thin and torn, could still somehow carry me away from a life of lies and perverted men. I wanted to use my mind for study and research instead of trickery and street hustle.

I thought about visiting Jesse, but felt guilty. Was I thinking of him only because Patrick didn’t want me?

• • • 

“Your mother’s in way over her head,” Willie said the next morning. She handed me the black book to put in the hiding box behind the mirror. “She thinks she’s tying into something glamorous, that she’s a gangster’s moll and her boyfriend’s some Al Capone. That horse’s ass thinks he’s big time, pulling favors. He’s a flimsy pawn, too stupid to realize the hand’s on his own back now.”

The black hand. That’s what Willie was talking about. In New Orleans, a black handprint meant you were marked, a threat for all to see unless you complied with the mob and whatever Carlos Marcello wanted. I saw one on a door once, on Esplanade. It gave me gooseflesh, knowing the person’s life was in danger, wondering how someone could be so stupid to mess with the mob.

“Mother wanted to stay and have dinner at Commander’s Palace tonight,” I told Willie.

“Are you kidding me? We better hope, for all our sakes, that they’re halfway to California by tonight,” said Willie. She settled against her pillows. “I think I’ll sleep another hour. I’ve earned it.”

I opened the door and prepared to take the coffee tray back into the kitchen. The echo of a gusty belch bounced in through the door.

“What the hell was that?” said Willie, reaching for her gun.

“It’s just Dora. She’s drinking soda water, says she has gas from the red beans and rice she ate after the johns left.”

Willie waved the gun in the air. “I swear to you, I’m an inch from selling her to P. T. Barnum. You hear me?” She stuffed the gun back under her pillow and lay down. “Get out. Tell Dora to take her gas leak up to her room or I’ll send a wagon for her.”

I walked into the kitchen. “Willie says to take your gas leak up to your room.”

“Well, I can’t sleep, hon. I need to get this out.” She waved a hand at me. “Jo,” she whispered, pointing to Sadie, whose back was turned at the stove. Dora took a gulp of soda water and swallowed hard. A few seconds later a thunderous burp rattled the kitchen. Sadie nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned, furious, and started beating Dora with a wooden spoon. Dora ran from the kitchen laughing, her trail nothing but a whirl of shamrock satin.

Sadie took the tray from me. “Sadie,” I whispered, “I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”

She looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“For your contribution, the money you gave Cokie.”

She put her hand up and shook her head. That meant the conversation was over. But I caught her smiling as she put the dishes in the sink.

I walked back to the shop, watching for the postman on the way. Shouldn’t I have heard from Smith by now? Patrick was behind the counter sorting a box of books when I arrived at the store. I wanted to dash to my room, avoid him altogether.

“Jo, I’m so glad you’re here. I was worried that you wouldn’t come.”

“I live here, Patrick.”

“You know what I mean,” he said. “I want to apologize for everything. My mind is all over the place these days.”

I moved toward the counter. “It’s understandable. Your father just died.”

“I just need some time. I’ve decided to take my mother up on her invitation, stay with her awhile.”

“For how long?” I asked.

“Until Christmas.”

“Christmas? That’s a long time.”

“I’m going to the Florida Keys first, to take some things to Charlie’s friends. I’ll stay a week, then sail to Havana to meet my mom and her husband for vacation. From there we’ll go on to Trinidad. That’s where they live now. Mom’s husband has an oil deal there.”

“What will you do in Trinidad?”

“Get my head together. Randolph says the US may go into Korea. Maybe I’ll enlist when I come back. I don’t know.”

Patrick in the service? I tried to think of the goat and sheep reference Detective Langley had used. I could definitely see Jesse in the military. He’d make a good soldier. But Patrick?

“Randolph told me some of the divisions set up musical outfits during the war,” said Patrick.

“Oh, so you’d go as a musician, not a soldier.”

“Well, no, I’d be both.” Patrick fiddled with a piece of paper on the counter in front of him. “What, sounds kinda crazy?”