The Neon Rain (26 page)

I drove through a residential neighborhood away from the beach, then circled back and parked on a dark street a block inland from the restaurant. I took my World War II Japanese field glasses from the glove compartment and focused them on the lighted porch where the man with the moles was parking cars.

In the next three hours I watched him go twice to the trunk of his own automobile before he delivered a car to a customer out front. At midnight the restaurant closed, and I followed him across town to an unpaved neighborhood of clapboard houses, open drainage ditches, and dirt yards littered with rusted engine parts and washing machines.

Most of the houses on the street were dark, and I left my car a block away and walked to a sandy driveway that led up to the lighted side door of a boxlike wooden house surrounded by unwatered and dying hedges. Through the screen I could see him in his undershirt, with a beer in his hand, changing the channels on his television set. His shoulders were as white as a frog’s belly and speckled with the same brown moles that covered his face. He sat back in a stuffed chair, a window fan blowing in his face, salted his beer can, and sipped at it while he watched television. The first raindrops clicked flatly on the roof.

I slipped my hand through the screen-door handle, then jerked it backward and tore the latch loose from the jamb. He sat erect, his eyes wide, the beer can rolling across the floor in a trail of foam.

“Some customers are persistent as hell,” I said, stepping inside.

But I should have come in holding the .25 Beretta that was in my pocket. He reached behind him on a workbench, grabbed a ball-peen hammer, and flung it into my chest. The steel head hit me just to the right of my breastbone, and I felt a pain, a breathlessness, shoot through my heart cavity as though I had been stunned with a high-voltage wire. Then he charged me, his arms flailing like a kid fighting on a school ground, and he caught me once on the eye and again on the ear before I could get my guard up. But I had been a good boxer at New Iberia High, and I had learned long ago that either in the ring or in a street fight there was nothing to equal setting your feet square, tucking your chin into your shoulder, raising your left to guard your face, and coming across with a right hook aimed somewhere between the mouth and the eyes. I got him right across the bridge of the nose. His eyes snapped straight with shock, the light glazed in them, and I hit him again, this time on the jaw, and knocked him over his chair into the television set. He looked up at me, his face white, his nose bleeding on his upper lip.

“You want to do it some more?” I said.

“Who are you, man?”

“What do you care, as long as you come out of this all right?”

“Come out of what? What you want with me? I never saw you before tonight.”

He started to get up. I pushed him down on the floor.

“You come here to rip me off, you’re going to deal later with a couple of bad dudes. That’s no joke, buddy,” he said.

“You see this in my hand? I’m not going to point it at you, because I don’t think you’re up to it. But we’re upping the stakes now.”

“You come in my goddamn house and attack me and wave a gun around, and
I’m
in trouble? You’re unbelievable, man.”

“Get up,” I said, and pulled him erect by his arm. I walked him into the bedroom.

“Turn on the light,” I said.

He flicked the light switch. The bed was unmade, and dirty clothes were piled on the wood floor. A jigsaw puzzle of Elvis Presley’s face was half completed on a card table. I pushed him through the hallway into the tiny kitchen at the back of the house.

“You forget where the light switch is?” I said.

“Look, man, I just work for some people. You got a problem with the action around here, you take it up with them. I’m just a small guy.”

I felt the wall with my hand and clicked on the overhead light. The kitchen was the only clean room in the house. The drainboards were washed down, the dishes put away in a drying rack, the linoleum floor waxed and polished. A solitary chair was placed at the large Formica-topped table in the center of the room, and on the table were three black plastic bags closed with masking tape, an ether bottle, and boxes of powdered milk and powdered sugar.

He wiped his nose on his hand. The moles on his face looked like dead bugs. Beyond the drawn window shades I could hear the rain falling in the trees.

“It looks like you’ve been watering down the stock,” I said.

“What do you want? You’re looking at everything I got.”

“Where’s Philip Murphy?”

He looked at me curiously, his brow furrowed.

“I don’t know the guy,” he said.

“Yes, you do. He’s a two-poke-a-day regular.”

“That’s lots of people. Look, if I could give you the dude and get you out of my life, you’d have him.”

“He’s in his fifties, wears glasses, tangled gray hair and eyebrows, talks a little bit like an Englishman sometimes.”

“Oh, that fucker. He told me his name was Eddy. You out to pop him or something?”

“Where is he?”

“Look, this dude has a lot of money. Around here we piece off the score. Everybody gets along that way.”

“Last chance,” I said, and moved toward him. His back bumped against the sink and he raised his hands up in front of his chest.

“All right,” he said. “The last stucco duplex on Azalea Drive. It’s straight north of Jefferson Davis’s house. Now get the fuck out of here, man.”

“Do you rent or own this place?”

“I own it. Why?”

“Bad answer,” I said, and I unscrewed the cap from the ether bottle and poured it over the black plastic bags on the kitchen table.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“Better get moving, partner,” I said, and folded back the cover on a book of matches.

“Are you crazy? That stuff’s like napalm. Don’t do it, man.”

He stared at me wild-eyed, frozen, waiting until the last second to see if I was serious. I lighted the whole book, and he broke for the window, put one foot through the shade, balanced for a moment on the sill like a clothespin while he stared back at me incredulously a last time, and then crashed to the ground outside with the torn shade dangling behind him.

I backed out the door and threw the flaming matchbook at the table. The air seemed to snap apart with a yellow-blue flash like lightning arching back on itself. Then the Formica tabletop erupted into a cone of flame that was absolutely white at the center. Within seconds the paint on the ceiling burned outward in a spreading black blister that touched all four walls.

When I walked away from the house, the fire had already cracked through the shingles of the kitchen roof and I could see the rain turning in the red light.

I drove along the beach boulevard next to the sea wall in the dark. The surf was loud, the waves crashing hard on the sand, and the shrimp boats that were moored in their slips were knocking against the pilings. I passed Beauvoir, the rambling, one-story home of Jefferson Davis, set back on a dark lawn under spreading oak trees. The wide veranda was lighted, and in the darkness and the sweep of rain through the trees, the building seemed like an inverted telescopic vision into that spring of 1865 when Davis watched his failed medieval romance collapse around him. If the grass in that same lawn was a darker green than it should have been, perhaps it was because of the two hundred Confederate soldiers who were anonymously buried there. The road to Roncevaux lures the poet and the visionary like a drug, but the soldier pays for the real estate.

I turned north and followed the road to a pink stucco duplex at the end of an unfinished subdivision. There was no moon, the sky was totally black now, and I parked my car down the street under a dripping oak tree. Murphy wasn’t going to be easy, and I had to make some decisions. My father used to say that an old armadillo is old because he’s smart, and he doesn’t leave his hole unless you give him an acceptable reason. I had packed a change of clothes and a raincoat and a rain hat in a small suitcase before I had left New Orleans. I put on the hat and coat, slipped the shotgun out of its sheep-lined cover, and hung it through the trigger guard from under my armpit with a coat hanger. I buttoned the coat over the shotgun and walked to the duplex, which was set apart from the other houses by a vacant lot filled with construction rubble.

Both sides of the duplex were dark, but the driveway on the far side was empty and newspapers moldered on the lawn. I went behind the apartment closest to me, cut the telephone wire at the box with my Puma knife, and unscrewed the lightbulb on the porch. The rain beat against my hat and coat, and the shotgun knocked against my side and knee like a two-by-four. I pulled my hat low on my eyes, put a pencil between my teeth, then hammered on the door with my fist and stepped back out into the rain.

A light went on in back, and a moment later I saw the curtain move behind the door glass.

“Who is it?” a voice called.

“Gulf Coast Gas and Electric. We got a busted main. Turn off your pilot.”

“What?” the voice asked from behind the door.

“The main’s busted. We can’t get it shut down at the pump station. If you smell gas, go to the National Guard armory. Don’t light no matches, either,” I said, and walked into the darkness as though I were headed toward another house.

But instead I cut behind a pile of bulldozed fiberboard in the vacant lot next door, circled through a stand of pines along a coulee, and came out in back of the duplex. I suspected that Murphy had stayed at the window until he gave up trying to locate me in the darkness and rain, then had gone to the telephone. I was right. As I eased under the window I heard him dialing, a pause, then the receiver rattling in the cradle. I stooped and walked quickly along the side wall toward the front porch, trying to keep the barrel of the shotgun out of the mud. At the corner I stopped and listened. He unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door on the chain.

Come on, you’ve got to prove you have
cojones
, I thought. Big boys wear them on the outside of their pants. You kicked gook ass with the Legionnaires, crouched in the bottom of an LST at the Bay of Pigs, hung parts of Sandinista farmers in trees like Christmas-tree ornaments. What good is life if you’re not willing to risk it?

Then I heard him slide the chain and let it swing back against the door. I raised the shotgun in front of me, my body pressed tightly against the stucco wall. He stepped out into the slanting rain, his pajama top unbuttoned over his white pot belly, a flashlight in one hand and a blue two-inch .38 in the other.

I clicked off the safety and came around the corner and aimed the twelve-gauge’s barrel at the side of his head in one motion.

“Throw it away! Don’t think about it! Do it!” I said.

He was frozen, the flashlight’s glow illuminating his face like a piece of dead wax. But I could see thought working in his eyes.

“I’ll cut you in half, Murphy.”

“I suspect you would, Lieutenant,” he said, and he bent his knees, almost as though he were going to genuflect, and set the revolver on the porch slab.

I pushed him inside, turned on the light switch, and kicked the door closed behind me.

“Facedown on the floor, arms straight out,” I said.

“We don’t need all this street theater, do we?” He looked again at my face in the light. “All right, I don’t argue. But there’s nobody else here. It looks like you’ve won the day.”

The inside of the duplex looked like a motel room. An air-conditioning unit hummed in one window and dripped water on the shag carpet; the wallpaper had been roller-painted a pale green; the furniture was either plastic or made of composite wood; the air smelled of chemical deodorizer. I looked quickly in the bedroom, the bath, the small kitchen and dinette.

“It’s a simple place,” he said. He had to turn his head sideways on the rug to talk. The pink fat around his hips was striped with gray hair. “No women, no guns, no mysteries. This might be a disappointing bust for you, Lieutenant.”

“Take off your shirt and sit in that chair.”

“All right,” he said, and a smile flickered around the corner of his lips.

“Do I amuse you for some reason?”

“Not you. Just your attitude. I told you once before you had puritan sympathies. At some point in your career, you need to realize that nobody cares about these things. Oh, they say they do. But they really don’t, and I think you know it.”

He dropped his pajama top on the arm of a stuffed chair and sat down. His chest was small and gray, and his stomach pushed up high on his breastbone.

“Turn them up,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders and turned up his forearms so I could see the flat, gray scar tissue along the veins. The scars were so thick they could have been traced there with a barber’s razor.

“I heard you were just a two-pop-a-day man. I think you’ve worked up to the full-tilt boogie,” I said.

“Does that somehow make you feel better?” The smile was gone, and I could see the contempt, the cynicism, the glint of evil in his eyes.

“If I allowed myself to have feelings about you, I would have blown you up on the porch.”

“And we thought you were a professional.”

“I hope you shot up a lot of dope tonight. You’re going on a long dry. Figure what it’s going to be like after two days in lockdown.”

“I’m trembling already. See the cold sweat on my face. Oh Lawsie, what’s I going to do?”

At that moment I felt a genuine rush of hatred in my chest.

“If my brother dies and you somehow get back on the street, God help you,” I said.

“Your brother?”

I watched his face carefully.

“He’s still alive, and he saw the guy you sent to do it,” I said.

“You think we tried to kill your brother?”

I watched the bead of light in his eyes, the curve of his palms on the arm of the chair.

“That’s what all this bullshit is about? Somebody hit your brother and you think we were behind it?” he said.

He widened his eyes, pursed his lips with his own question. He started to smile but glanced at my face and thought better of it.