Creole Belle (8 page)

“If you need to use the bathroom, come in. If you want a snack, I’ll fix you one. But you should get away from the man you’re working for. Do you want to come in?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I ain’t meant to bother you.”

“Were you in my alleyway a while ago? What kind of shoes are you wearing?”

“What kind of shoes? I’m wearing the kind I put on this morning.”

“Don’t be smart with me.”

“I got to go. The man is waiting for me on the corner.”

“Come see me another time and let’s talk.”

He looked at her warily. “Talk about what?”

“Anything you want to.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do that,” he said.

After she closed the inside door, she looked through the side window and watched him walk up the street under the overhang of the trees. He did not stop at any of the other houses. Why had he stopped at only hers? She stepped out on the gallery and tried to see down the sidewalk, but the boy was gone. Maybe he had gone up a driveway to a garage apartment. That was possible, wasn’t it? Otherwise . . . She didn’t want to think about otherwise.

As she chained the door, she heard a Dumpster lid clang in the alley and the subdued thunder of rap music from inside a closed vehicle and a tree limb scraping wetly across the side of her house. She heard Cedric run across the linoleum in the kitchen.

“Where are you going, you fat little pumpkin head?” she said.

She glanced in her hallway and in her bedroom and in her clothes closet, but Cedric was nowhere to be seen. Then she felt a coldness in the wall that separated the guest room from the bath. She opened the door and stared numbly at the curtains blowing from the open window, one from which the screen had been removed.

She turned around in the hallway, her heart beating hard, just as a man in a purple ski mask and black leather gloves and red tennis shoes stepped out of the bathroom and swung his fist into the middle of her face. “You’re sure a stupid bitch,” he said. “You live in a neighborhood like this without a security system?”

W
HEN SHE WOKE
up, she didn’t know if she had been knocked unconscious by the blow of her assailant or by her head striking the
floor. All she knew was that she was in her kitchen, stretched out on the linoleum, her wrists wrapped with duct tape and the duct tape wrapped through the handle on the oven door. The only light in the kitchen came from the gas flame under the teakettle and the glow around the edge of the blinds from a streetlamp in the alley.

Her attacker was standing above her, breathing through the mouth hole in his mask, his gloved hands opening and closing at his sides. “You like opera?” he said. His pronunciation was strange, as though the inside of his mouth had been injured or he were wearing dentures that didn’t fit. “Answer my question, bitch.”

“Who are you?” she said.

“A guy who’s gonna turn you into an opera star. I’ll put you on the phone so you can yodel to a friend of yours. I heated up your teapot for you.”

“I know who you are. Shame on you.”

“That’s a dumb thing to say. Why do you think I’m wearing this mask?”

“Because you’re a coward.”

“It means you got a chance to live. But the odds of that happening aren’t as good as they were a few seconds ago. Your cat is hiding under the bed.”

She tried to read the expression in his eyes inside his mask, to no avail.

“Has the kitty got your tongue?” he said.

“Leave him alone.”

He looked over his shoulder at the microwave. “I think he might make a nice fit.”

“Friends are coming over anytime. You’ll be punished for whatever you do here. You’re a nasty little man. I should have let Mr. Purcel have his way with you.”

He leaned over her, looking straight down into her face. “You don’t have friends, lady. Nothing is gonna help you. Accept that. You’re totally in my power, and you’re gonna do everything I say. I think I’m gonna alter my plan a little bit. What do they call that place in Kentucky where people take vows of silence?” He snapped his fingers, his glove making a whispering sound. “Gethsemane? I
said I was gonna make an opera singer out of you, but that’s not a good idea. You’d wake up the whole neighborhood. I’m gonna give you my own vow of silence. Open wide.”

When she refused, he clenched the bottom of her chin and stuffed a dishrag in her mouth and pressed a strip of tape across her cheeks and lips. “There,” he said, standing erect. “You look like a balloon that’s about to pop. That’s not far from wrong.”

He turned off the flame on the stove and picked up a hot pad from the drainboard and lifted the teakettle off the burner. “Where do you want it first?” he asked.

She felt sweat popping on her brow, her throat gagging on the dishrag and her own saliva, her shoes coming off her feet as she thrashed against the linoleum. He tipped the spout of the teakettle down and slowly scalded one of her legs and then the other. “How’s that feel? That’s just for openers,” he said.

It became obvious that he was not prepared for what came next. Alice Werenhaus flexed both of her upper arms and her massive shoulders and tore the handle out of the oven door, rising to her feet like a behemoth emerging from an ancient bog. She ripped the tape from her face and pulled the dishrag from her mouth and drove her fist into a spot right between her assailant’s eyes.

The blow sent him crashing into the wall. She picked up a bread box and smashed it over his head, then opened the door to the pantry and pulled a Stillson pipe wrench loose from a washtub full of tools. The Stillson felt as heavy as a shot put, its serrated grips mounted on a long shaft. Her assailant was getting to his feet when she caught him across the buttocks. He screamed and arched his back in an inverted bow, as though it had been broken, one hand fluttering behind to protect himself from a second blow. Alice swung again, this time across his shoulders, and a third time high up on his arm, and a fourth time on the elbow, each blow thudding into bone.

He stumbled through her living room and jerked open the front door, his nose bleeding through his mask. She hit him again, this time across the spine, knocking him through the screen onto the gallery. She followed him outside, catching him in the rib cage, knocking him onto the sidewalk, beating him across the thighs and knees as
he picked himself up and began running down the street, careening off balance, like a bagful of broken sticks trying to reassemble itself.

Her ears were roaring with sound, her lungs screaming for air, her heart swollen with adrenaline. The black kid with the box of chocolate candy was staring at her in disbelief.

“What are you looking at?” she said.

“I done what you tole me. I quit my job. I ain’t give back the chocolate bars, either.”

She wanted to say something to him, but she couldn’t catch her breath or even remember what she had planned to say.

“Your cat just run out the door. I’ll go catch him.”

“No, he’ll come back.”

“You ain’t gonna hit nobody else wit’ that wrench, are you?”

The world was spinning around her, and she had to hold on to a tree limb so she would not fall down. Nor could she find breath enough or the right words to answer the boy’s question.

I
WENT BACK
to work at the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department on a half-day schedule the morning after the thundershower, primarily because we needed the income. But in all honesty, I loved my job and the place where I worked. The department had been consolidated with the city police and had moved from the courthouse to a big brick colonial-style building behind the library, with a lovely view of a tree-shaded religious grotto and Bayou Teche and City Park on the far side of the water. It was a sunny, cool, rain-washed morning my first day back, and the sheriff, whose name was Helen Soileau, and some of my colleagues had placed flowers on my desk, and as I sat down in my swivel chair and looked at the glaze of sunlight on the bayou and the wind blowing hundreds of arrowpoints across the water’s surface, I felt that perhaps Indian summer would never end, that the world was a grand place after all, and that I should never let the shadows of the heart stain my life again.

Then Clete Purcel came in at ten
A.M
. and told me he had just gotten a phone call from Alice Werenhaus and that she had been attacked in her house by a masked intruder she believed was Waylon Grimes.

“How does she know it was Grimes?” I said.

“He scalded both of her legs with a teakettle and talked about stuffing her cat in the microwave. Know a lot of guys with an MO like that?” He was pacing up and down, breathing through his nose.

“What are you planning to do?” I asked.

“Guess.”

“Clete, something isn’t adding up here. One, there’s no explanation for your marker being found in a safe owned by Didi Giacano. Didi has been dead for almost twenty-five years. Where has the safe been all this time? His office was on South Rampart, but I thought it caught fire or something.”

“It did. Some PR or marketing guy restored it. He’s from around here. Pierre something. Look, that’s not the point. Alice Werenhaus was tortured by a degenerate who has already killed a child and done four or five contract hits I know of. Waylon Grimes and Bix Golightly have been on the planet far too long.”

My office door was closed. Through the glass, I saw Helen Soileau smile and pass in the corridor. “I won’t be party to this,” I said.

“Who asked you to?”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I don’t know what to do. Grimes couldn’t get to my sister or niece, so he went after an old woman, an ex-nun, for Christ’s sakes, the same woman who stopped me from tearing him apart. You think Golightly or Grimes is going to be shaken up by NOPD? That’s like warning the devil about his overdue library books.”

“We were born in the wrong era, Cletus.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We don’t get to blow up their shit at the O.K. Corral.”

“That’s what you think,” he replied.

I wished I hadn’t heard that last remark.

I
COULDN’T SLEEP
that night. Clete had gone off to New Orleans on his own, leaving me with the choice of either dropping the dime on him with my boss or NOPD or letting him founder in the chaos and trail of destruction that had come to be his logo across the entire state. I slipped on my khakis and sat on the back steps and drank a glass of milk in the dark. Tripod, our pet raccoon, was sleeping under a big live oak in a hutch we had recently rain-proofed. His buddy Snuggs, our unneutered warrior cat, lay on his side next to me, his thick white short-haired tail flopping up and down on the wood step. His ears were chewed, his neck thick and hard as a fire hydrant, his body rippling with sinew when he walked. He was fearless in a fight, took no prisoners, and would chase dogs out of the yard if he thought they were a threat to Tripod. It was no accident that he and Clete were great pals.

I’m not being completely honest here. Clete’s problems were not my only concern. I was off the morphine drip, and every cell in my body knew it. Withdrawal from booze and pharmaceuticals is a bit like white-knuckling your way through a rough flight in an electric storm. Unfortunately, there’s another element involved, a type of fear that doesn’t have a name. It’s deep down in the id and produces a sense of anxiety that causes hyperventilation and night sweats. You don’t get to leave your fear on the plane. Your skin becomes
your prison, and you take it with you everyplace you go. You walk the floor. You hide your thoughts from others. You eat a half gallon of ice cream in one sitting. You crosshatch the tops of your teeth in your sleep. Every mistake or misdeed or sin in your life, no matter how many times you’ve owned up to it, re-creates itself and takes a fresh bite out of your heart the moment you wake.

That’s why mainline cons say everybody stacks time; it depends on where you stack it, but you stack it just the same.

When the house finally comes down on your head, you conclude that ice cream is a poor surrogate for that old-time full-throttle-and-fuck-it rock and roll, and there’s nothing like four fingers of Jack in a mug filled with shaved ice and a beer on the side or maybe a little weed or a few yellow jackets to really light up the basement.

For those who don’t want to run up their bar tab or put themselves at the mercies of a drug dealer, there’s another recourse. You can go on what is called a dry drunk. You can stoke your anger the moment you open your eyes in the morning and feed it through the day, in the same way that someone incrementally tosses sticks on a controlled fire. Your anger allows you to mentally type up your own menu, with many choices on it. You can become a moralist and a reformer and make the lives of other people miserable. You can scapegoat others and inflame street mobs or highjack religion and wage wars in the name of a holy cause. You can spit in the soup from morning to night and stay as high as a helium balloon in a windstorm without ever breaking a sweat. When a drunk tells you he doesn’t have a problem anymore because he has quit drinking, flee his presence as quickly as possible.

As I looked out at the reflection of moonlight on the bayou, I thought of Tee Jolie Melton and the music that no one heard except me. Had I become delusional? Maybe. But here’s the rub. I didn’t care. Long ago I had come to believe that the world is not a rational place and that only the most self-destructive of individuals convince themselves that it is. Those who change history are always rejected in their own era. As a revolutionary people, we Americans won an improbable victory over the best and biggest army in the world because we learned to fight from the Indians. You can do a lot of damage
with a Kentucky rifle from behind a tree. You don’t put on a peaked hat and a red coat and white leggings and crossed white bandoliers with a big silver buckle in the center of the X and march uphill into a line of howitzers loaded with chain and chopped-up horseshoes.