The Bayou Trilogy: Under the Bright Lights, Muscle for the Wing, and The Ones You Do (17 page)

“I don’t know what you mean, man. I really don’t.”

Sundown curled his lips, sighed, then nodded sadly.

“Lewis—show him what I mean.”

Lewis Brown, a man who found a personal music in the moans of others, stepped up to Duncan.

“I want you to know,” he said softly, “that I
like
your attitude. I really do. But I
am
gonna have
fun
changin’ it.”

When Duncan could focus again he realized that he was hanging upside down, his wrists and ankles lashed to the parallel bars. His teeth felt mushy and his arms felt ingrown. There was a new arrangement with his eyes, one opened and one wouldn’t.

His whole life seemed like a cramp now.

“He’s back,” Powers said. “The eye on the fresh side of his head fluttered up.”

Sundown crouched toward Duncan’s loyal eye. His face was stern and not bored.

“It ain’t goin’ to get better,” he said. There was a dull aloofness to Duncan’s arms, and extra knobs at his shoulders where bones had been freed from sockets. Purple and blue welts swathed his face, leaving just the one eye bare.

“Ohh,” he groaned. “Ohh, Jesus. I’m not. I’m not Jewel. Man! Ohh!”

Sundown raised one loglike leg and rested his toe in the soft space between shoulder and arm.

“Man, I know you’re in it with him,” Sundown said. “And must be Pete Ledoux is in it, too. And Ledoux, he don’t do
too much
without Steve Roque givin’ the okay on it.” He prodded with his toe and the interviewee writhed. “You just meat to them, Cobb. I like you. And I’m the only man can help you right now.”

“Ohh, I just don’t know, man!”

After a reflective pause, Sundown leaned his full weight behind his probing foot, and there was a brief, high-note scream, then blackout silence.

*     *     *

On his next return to this world, Duncan Cobb, oldest son, faithless cousin, cautious lover, and pal of killers, awoke infused with the lucidity born of no escape, and a mortal dose of honesty.

He spoke in spasms, his body swaying in its moor, his voice leached of emphasis. All recollections were becoming equal.

“Music Center,” he said. “The nigger who was elected—he was a businessman. Ohh.”

“Alvin Rankin?”

“Him. Oh, him. He did business. He shopped around. We bought the Music Center job. Thousands, maybe. Thousands in it.”

“No, you wrong,” Sundown said. “
I
got the Music Center.”

“He shopped it twice. Ahh. We done deals with him before you. Cut us out when the bread gets, ahh, long.”

“Who the fuck hit him?”

“Ohh.” A gurgling sound like an afterlife chuckle came from Duncan’s throat. “Guh, guh. Crane. Your boy. Crane.”

“No.”

“Guh, guh. Ohh. Had him by the nuts. Juice was eatin’ him up. Way in the hole to us. Had kids, too. Ahh. Way. Way in the hole.”

“The hit squared him up, huh?”

“Guh, guh, guh.”

Sundown rested on the pommel horse, a stunned sag to his posture.

“Alvin died over this? I would’ve stepped out to keep him from bein’ whacked over this, for God’s sake. It ain’t worth it. I could’ve straightened it out later.”

“Oh.”

“Steve Roque is behind this.”

Sundown turned to Powers and Lewis, who’d pulled the bottom bench of the bleachers out and were squatting there, elbows on knees, chins in hands. His brows clenched into a serious V and his fists balled.

“There some nefarious deeds goin’ on,” he said. He saw the chop-fallen look on his associates’ faces. “That means dark and shitty stuff.”

“We equal to it,” Powers Jones said, jumping up. “They get it started, but we
more
than equal to it.”

“Of course,” Sundown said, dryly. “You’ve proved that.”

Lewis gestured at the dangling Duncan.

“What about this boy?”

Slowly Sundown turned his gaze on his reluctant oracle. Duncan wiggled his body so that he could see, with his one now-wide open eye, Sundown’s face.

“Well, we got to do the right thing by this boy,” Sundown said. “The
right
thing.”

Duncan’s neck relaxed and his head flopped back gratefully.

“Uh-huh,” Lewis said. “Naturally we’ll do the right thing by him.”

“Then after that,” Powers interjected, “should we dump him in the river?”

Sundown raised his arms and shrugged.

“What else? Carp got to eat, too.”

Now comprehension made Duncan rigid, and he let his important eye flap shut, choosing not to view the most glamorous occurrence, the straight-razor finale, to this his gaudy, but already forgotten, life.

18

T
HE DOCK
was all in darkness, even the full moon’s rays being blocked by the high loom of nearby trees. Jewel Cobb lay on his back staring up, listening to the night sounds of the river and the Marais du Croche beyond. Owls hooted, and the river sidled up to the dock with wet whispers. Something snapped a branch on the other side and the sharp note of the crack wafted across the water. He sat up.

He’d been waiting for most of an hour. It had taken him fifteen minutes to sneak there from the kitchen of the Catfish. Ledoux had inspected the cuts on his side and said, “You cut bad, mon ami. Get up to my place and we’ll take care of you. Watch out for niggers.”

All Jewel could think of as he slinked along the dirt lane that led upriver was “buenas noches” and “hasta luego,” for he was of the opinion that it was Mexico for him. But he didn’t speak Mex. He could get patched up, though, then smuggle on downriver to some place with an airport and get to greaseball country where the laws were silly and you just paid off for anything you done like it was a traffic ticket. Yup, that’d be the place to cool out.

There was a splash nearby, a warning splash, a splash of something that might be big enough to come up on land with its mouth open. Jewel looked to where the sound had come from but couldn’t see anything.

The bandages on his sides were coming loose. The big pock-faced guy in the kitchen had been nervous, in a hurry, and Ledoux hadn’t really taped him up good. It wasn’t that much pain, or blood, anymore,
but it’d still be better if Pete showed up, ’cause he was getting dog tired. He could relax, just get in the boat and relax, once Pete came home and took charge.

That’d be the ticket.

Yeah.

When Pete Ledoux entered his house he saw a cigarette glowing near the window.

“Peggy?” he said.

“Where’s the car?” she asked.

“Down the road. My boy get here?”

“I told him to wait on the dock. He’s a puppy. He’s just layin’ there.”

“Good.”

“You could hear him if he walked,” she said. “I’m goin’ to have a beer—want one?”

“Nah.” Ledoux went into the bedroom as Peggy opened a beer. When he came back out he carried a Remington 876 shotgun. “Where’re my shells?”

“Am I supposed to know?” Peggy asked. She swigged half a beer and wiped her mouth with her hand. “You used some when you splattered that gar, whenever that was.”

“I know the plastic ones are on top of the fridge.”

“That’s right,” she said. She reached up and brought down a tattered box of plastic twelve-gauge shells.

“No,” Ledoux said. “Keep ’em, they’re for shit. Cheap-ass shells.”

Peggy finished her beer and tossed the empty into the trash.

“You’re
such
a man, Petey. Why the hell don’t you just club the snotnose to death?”

Ledoux shook his head.

“He’s only a boy,” he said. “That means energy. It could be too messy. Or he might get away.”

“Use the plastic shells, then.”

“I guess I have to.” He waved his hand in Peggy’s face. “If you kept decent house I could find the good shells. Can’t find shit around here.”

“Aw, Petey, honey—if I kept house you’d lose respect for me. Respect’s important to a marriage.”

“My gun jams with cheapshit shells I’m goin’ to slap your face, ’cause it’ll be your fault.”

“Everything always is,” Peggy said, and opened the fridge for another beer.

After a grunt of dissatisfaction, Ledoux took the plastic shells and grimly stepped out the door.

The footsteps came like drumbeats down the suspended runway to the dock.

Jewel stood up.

“Pete?”

The steps came closer.

“Pete?” Jewel trembled, then jumped back. “Hey, man! What’s with the piece, huh?”

“Relax, Cobb,” Ledoux said as he walked past him. “Keep your fuckin’ head on straight.” There was a boat with an outboard motor tied up to one of the dock pillars. Ledoux stepped into the boat, steadying himself with a hand on the pillar. He laid the shotgun on the dock. “See if I can get this sucker started.”

“Uh-huh. Where’re we goin’?”

“Cabin I got, over there.” Ledoux pointed toward the swamp. “In a couple of days we’ll go to the other side. A guy’ll pick you up there. Nobody’ll know.”

“Can I send a message to my girl?”

“Oh, hell yes, you peckerwood idiot. Send her a message and a fuckin’ map, why not, so’s she can bring you some sugar cookies and another squad of niggers with guns. Hell yes.”

Jewel backed off.

“It don’t matter,” he said.

The engine kicked over easily and rattled to life.

“Mon Dieu,” Ledoux said. “Runs like a tee.”

Ledoux stepped back onto the dock and picked up the shotgun. He held it loosely by the trigger guard.

“Go on and get in. Be careful you don’t tip it over.”

As Jewel stepped into the boat Ledoux jacked a shell into the chamber. Jewel collapsed to the boat bench.

“Sorry, kid,” Ledoux said. “You gotta go.”

Jewel curled up in the bottom of the boat.

“I ain’t gonna tell, man! I don’t know nobody
to
tell!”

Ledoux wanted a head shot. The boat was wobbling and Jewel lurched with it. He pointed between Jewel’s eyes and nodded, then pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing. He pumped another shell and the ejection slot stuck open.

“Damn!” Ledoux shouted, then quickly added, “You pass, kid. Duncan said you were cool as polar bear shit, and you really are. Lotta heart, kid.”

“What the fuck?”

“Just checkin’ your balls, Cobb. Enormous. Really. Now I feel like we can be partners.”

“Man, don’t do that shit with me!”

The engine was loud. Ledoux bent to Jewel for easier dialogue.

“I gotta run back up to the house, mon ami. Get us some grub. You like corned beef, I hope. You wait, huh? Then we’ll be gone.”

Jewel nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving his new partner’s face.

Halfway to the house Ledoux heard the pitch of the motor shift and turned to see Jewel speeding off in the boat, pushing into the night.

He dropped the shotgun and kicked at it, spinning it off the runway.

“Goddamn fucking women!” he screamed.

It’s all water and none of it’s safe. Home was some kind of weak-hope shit, but better ’n this. Jewel tried to steer but he didn’t know where to go. He headed for the trees, thinking that land must be near them.

Gonna kill that bacon-fat Duncan and his whole limb of the family tree. That’ll be my payback.

The boat was run aground within minutes, ridden up on a spit of unexpected earth in the Marais du Croche.

Jewel Cobb sat on the boat bench, still and silent, waiting a long time before getting out. He gingerly tested the earth with his foot. It seemed he could walk on it, so he did, his heels sinking with each step.

19

A
S
R
ENE
Shade drove north on Tecumseh his thoughts were of change, the changes on the street. In his father’s day, or so he’d been winkingly told, skull cracking was a sort of larkish after-mass sport, but using a knife was considered a sign of natural girlishness. But he was Irish. Shade’s grandfather Blanqui, on the other hand, had never been without his hook-bladed linoleum cutter, and frequently wheezed cheap cigar breath while practicing pulling it from his pocket and opening it in one malevolent move. By the time of Shade’s own sharptoed shiny shoe period, knives were mundane and single-action pistols a sign of mature vision. And today, today it often seemed that any fifteen-year-old worth nodding to had at least shot
at
somebody with a secret Armalite. Violence had lost the personal touch, the pride had gone out of self-preservation, and mere chickenshit possibilities of improved technology replaced it.

Shade had gone looking for Duncan Cobb but with no success. He’d checked the address they had on him and prowled the corner tavern where it seemed no one had seen him, now or ever. So Shade was heading north to Pete Ledoux’s. The headlights picked up the shock of weeds that flanked the lane and the water-filled gullies in between. There were no street signs out here, but mailboxes offered an occasional clue. Soon Shade found a lane and drove down it until his path was blocked by a black Pinto.

He parked and approached the house. He could see a light on inside. When he drew closer he saw the blue flicker of a television set.

He thumped on the porch door but no one answered. He let himself in, then knocked again at the interior door.

When the door opened he flipped his badge at the shape that stood behind it. His other hand grasped the butt of his thirty-eight.

“Detective Shade. Can I come in?”

The shape turned on a light. Her blond hair framed her face like crabgrass does flagstone. There were black highlighters beneath her eyes and a can of beer in her hand.

“Can I stop you?” she asked.

“No.”

“Say no more,” she replied and walked away from the door.

Shade followed her into the room. The television had a fuzzy picture and newspapers from barely remembered Sundays littered the furniture and floor. An intimidating load of dirty laundry was piled in one corner, and plates with entrenched yolks sat on the table.

“Cop a squat,” Peggy said. “Just shove some shit off the chair, hunh.”

Shade decided to sit on top of the newspapers in a rocking chair.

“Is Pete Ledoux here?”

“Not right now.”

“You’re Mrs. Ledoux?”