Them (35 page)

Barlowe approached a man he knew. “Whas goin on?”

“A crazy white man bust into the Palace and started shootin up the place!”

Somehow, Barlowe guessed Sean Gilmore was involved. When he spotted Sandy's car being hitched to a tow truck, he knew for sure: The worst had happened.

D
ays after the shooting, Tyrone sneaked into the house through the back door. Barlowe had already left for work. Tyrone went to his room, pulled a suitcase from beneath the bed and snapped it open. He yanked open the dresser drawers and hurriedly began packing: underwear, toothbrush, shaver, shoes, socks. He picked one of his best suits from the closet, folded it and pressed it in the suitcase, too.

He had to get away, go someplace far and chill, at least until things cooled down a bit. Who knew? He might go west to California. He had heard good things about California. He'd heard the ladies out there were fine and the people weren't so uptight, like in the South.

He moved with speed and efficiency, every now and then rushing into the living room to peep through the blinds. When he was done, he grabbed the suitcase and left the room. He stopped in the kitchen and returned to the bedroom. In his haste, he had left his gun on top of the dresser. He snatched up the gun and stuffed it in his belt.

Outside, he set the gun on the table, where the birdcage stood. He opened the cage door. The pigeons sauntered forward, waiting for him to extend a finger. He stepped back and shook his head.

“Naw, baby. You on your own now.”

The pigeons cooed.

“Gwon.” He shooed them off. “Gwon. Get way from here.”

He picked up his suitcase and rushed out the door. He dashed, low-running through the backyard and out of sight.

 

Barlowe came home from work that evening and instantly realized that Tyrone had come and gone. He hadn't seen Tyrone since the night before the shootout. The days that followed had been trying, testy. Every time Barlowe went somewhere, people in the ward looked at him with questions burning in their eyes. Nobody asked outright. People simply told him how sorry they were about what had happened.

“I'm sorry, too,” he told them. “I'm sorry, too.”

In general, the shooting thrust the people of the Old Fourth Ward into a nervous fit. Gregory Barron called a press conference and demanded that police do more to protect neighborhood whites. Wendell Mabry countered with a press conference of his own, calling for whites to pack up and leave. Mayor Clifford Barnes imposed a curfew, to help cool emotions.

Still, gossip flowed heavy in the streets, with conflicting accounts of what went down at the Purple Palace that night. Barlowe was eager to hear his nephew's version. He went into Tyrone's room and came to the sudden realization that it was unlikely that he would see or hear from Tyrone anytime soon. He looked at the two dresser drawers, which sat open and half empty, and he saw the closet door had been left ajar.

He opened a dresser near the headboard and began sifting around. In the top drawer, Tyrone had stacked a pile of sweatshirts and lined socks neatly along the edges. Beneath the pile, Barlowe found a brand-new Bible, lying open with a page marker. He picked it up and studied the page. Tyrone had marked an asterisk beside a single verse: Isaiah 59:1-3:

Beneath the Bible, Barlowe came upon a handful of Seventh-Day Adventist pamphlets, about fifty in all. Now he knew where Tyrone had recently been spending his Saturday afternoons.

Barlowe chuckled:
Ol Ty. Followed some woman right into church.

He opened another drawer and found a box of bullets and three reefer sticks. He flushed the joints down the toilet and absentmindedly stuffed the bullets in his pocket.

Before leaving, he scanned the room one final time, half-hoping for a note or some sign to hang on to…There was nothing…

He went through the kitchen to the back porch. The birdcage was still open, like Tyrone had left it. Two of the pigeons had vanished. One bird stood alone on the Gilmores' fence.

When the bird spotted Barlowe, it flew over and landed on top of the cage. Barlowe reached for the bag of birdseed nearby. Then he spotted the gun. He picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket, wondering if it had been fired at the Purple Palace.

The pigeon ate, then sauntered forward, waiting for Barlowe to extend a finger so that it could hop on board.

Barlowe recoiled and shooed the bird. “Uh-uh. Go.”

The bird fluttered back to the Gilmores' fence.

The doorbell sounded, startling Barlowe. He took the box of bullets and placed it beneath the newspaper lining the cage bottom.

The bell rang again, followed by a heavy, insistent knock.

Barlowe went to the front of the house and peeked out front. Two policemen stood on the porch.
Caesar
. Barlowe opened the door.

“Tyrone Montgomery Reed?” The voice was attached to a burly man with pock-marked skin.

“No. I'm Barlowe Reed, his uncle.”

The other cop, short and thin, flung him a sideways look. “You got ID?”

Barlowe pulled out his wallet and flashed his driver's license.

“We need to talk to you. May we come in?”

Barlowe stepped to the side and let them enter. The cops sat down and explained why they were there: Tyrone was wanted for questioning in connection with the neighborhood shooting, they said. They repeated most of what Barlowe already knew: One of the shooting victims, identified as James Belton, also known as Henny Penn, was hospitalized, in critical condition. Another man, Sean Gilmore, was about the same. The cops made no mention of Big Buck or some of the other people who were in the room that night.

“We're wondering if you can help us find your nephew so we can find out from him what happened.”

“I don't know nothin,” said Barlowe.

“Any idea where we might be able to look?”

“No. But I'll be sure to contact you if I find out anythin.”

The burly cop leaned forward, to establish that they could speak in confidence. “We hear you and Mr. Belton got into a fistfight not too long ago. You wanna tell us about that?”

“It was nothin. A li'l misunderstandin, thas all.”

“That's not what we heard.”

“I told you what I know…Anythin else you need to ask me?”

The cops scanned the room, like they thought maybe Tyrone might be hiding somewhere. Then: “No. That's all for now.”

Barlowe moved to show them the door. Before he touched the knob, the bell sounded again. He opened it, and William Crawford walked in. The old man frowned when he saw the blue uniforms. He nodded a hello, then turned to his tenant.

“What's going on here?”

“Who are
you
?” the thin cop asked.

“I'm the owner of this house; the landlord.”

“Can you tell us where we might find Mr. Tyrone Montgomery Reed? He's listed at this address.”

Crawford furrowed a thick brow. “Barlowe here should be able to tell you that…. What do you want with Tyrone?”

“He's the prime suspect in a shooting—”

Barlowe interrupted, “You didn't say before that he was the prime suspect.”

“You didn't ask,” the thin cop snapped.

“I'm askin now.”

The policeman stepped forward. Barlowe cocked his fists. Crawford shoved an arm between the two.

“Wait a minute. Please, Barlowe. Cooperate.”

“I been cooperatin the best I know.”

“No problem. We were about to leave.” The burly cop aimed a finger at Barlowe. “Be advised. We will be watching this house. If Mr. Reed shows up, we're coming after him.”

“Suit yourself,” said Barlowe.

They left.

When they were gone, Barlowe remained in the doorway. He wanted Crawford to leave, too. Instead Crawford sat down hard on the couch. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

“Barlowe, what in the world is this about?”

“There was a shootin.”

“I
know
there was a shooting. It's been all over the news. But I had no idea Tyrone was involved.”

“Seems so.”

“Why didn't you call me?”

“Call you? For what? It didn't happen here.”

“But it involved somebody
living
here.”

Barlowe rubbed a hand wearily behind his neck. “I still ain't sure how much Tyrone was involved. From what I hear it was pitch-black in that room when the shootin started. To tell the truth, they ain't figgered out who shot who.”

Crawford listened. When Barlowe was done, he snorted and wiped his face again. “I don't like the sound of this. I don't like somebody I'm renting to having troubles with the law.”

“Mister, you rentin to
me
. I ain't had no trouble with the law.”

Crawford looked away and shook his head. He hadn't picked up on the hostile tone. “I don't like this. I don't like this at all.”

Barlowe shrugged. “Me, neither.”

“I can't have this,” said Crawford. “I
won't
have it.”

Barlowe looked him in the eye. “What are you sayin? You won't have what?”

“I'm saying, young man, that I've had enough.”

“Enough a what, Mr. Crawford?” He took a step closer. “Enough a what?”

“I don't do business with people who cause me trouble with the law…I mean, the complaint about the pigeons; that was enough.” He pointed toward the back of the house. “I told you two to get rid of those birds months ago. Now this…Somebody from this house involved in a shootout.”

Crawford wiped his face. “No, sir. This is too much. I've got my reputation, and a whole lotta other things to consider…Huumph. A shooting…I could lose this house behind something like that.”

Barlowe stared at him. It was a hard, violent stare. “So what are you sayin, man? Speak your mind.”

Crawford rubbed his chin and thought a moment. Then: “This is what I'm gonna do, son. I'm gonna put this house on the open market. If you're prepared to buy at the asking price, then that's all well and good. But if you can't pay what I ask, then, well…”

A wry smile crept across Barlowe's face. “That why you came over, to tell me this?”

Crawford said nothing.

“Somebody already made a offer, didn't they?”

Crawford looked away.

Barlowe nodded. “You got a offer on the table. Why didn't you jus say so?”

“Well,” said Crawford, “you can't expect me to
give
the house away.”

“No. I don't spect you to give it away. Specially not to
me
. I wouldn't buy it, neither—specially not from
you
.”

Crawford jerked his head, surprised. He rose from his seat. He was mad as hell. He wanted to give his tenant a good piece of his thinking. But something about Barlowe's body language—he looked tense, taut—inspired him to hold his thoughts.

Crawford stepped to the door and placed a hand on the knob. “So it's settled then.” His back was turned to Barlowe.

“Thas right, mister. Is settled.” Barlowe stepped forward. Before he could reach him, Crawford rushed out the door and down the steps.

When the landlord left, Barlowe stormed out back, furious. He went into the yard and piddled around in an absentminded, vacant way. He went to the shed and began rearranging tools that were already in their proper place. He looked around for something else to do.

For a while, he just stood there, out in the open, where he could be seen. He needed to talk. He hadn't seen or heard from her since the shooting. Maybe she might show her face.

He waited there a long moment. When nothing happened, he went back to the porch and saw that the lone pigeon had returned to its cage. It hovered in a corner, with the door hung open. Barlowe reached in and extended an index finger. The pigeon hobbled forth and hopped aboard. Barlowe brought out his hand and held it high. He flung his arm, tossing the bird in the air.

The creature fluttered, then flew over to the Gilmores' fence. From its perch the bird watched with interest as Barlowe took the box of bullets from beneath the newspaper in the cage. He carried the cage inside the house and closed the door.