Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead (30 page)

I didn't tell him I had only just learned that myself.

Frank made us some tea—tea crystals mixed in bottled water—and he started from the beginning.

“It started with this woman, this fat lady. She gets off a boat—see, there was like this little kind of shoreline where we was getting people off boats and sending the boats back out. So this lady gets off a boat. And she's crying, ‘Claude, Claude, Claude.' And this guy—
your
guy—he says, ‘Who's Claude? Who's Claude?' You know it's all dark, and it's just crazy out there. Just people all over the place. Just crazy. Like hell. So this guy,
your
guy, he says, ‘Who's Claude? Where'd you leave him?' I don't know where he came from, or how he got there. That, I can't tell you about. I mean, it was just chaos down there—dark, hot. People dropping like—

“Anyway. So this lady, she says”—Frank imitated the woman's voice—“‘My bird. My bird, I left him on the roof in his cage. My little bird, I gotta go back for him. He's my baby. They forced me into the fucking boat without my baby, but I ain't going anywhere without him. I'm not leavin' him.'

“And everyone else is just ignoring her. But
that
guy, he says, ‘A bird? You left your bird?' And she says, ‘Yeah, my bird. I had him for thirty years. I love him so much.' She's crying and wailing. She says, ‘He needs me. He needs me. I can't leave him. I can't leave him like this.' So your guy, he gets in a boat—there's boats all over, washed up from wherever—and he goes and then he comes back with that bird, a little parrot, and two people too. And dogs, two or three dogs.”

Frank stopped a minute and looked down.

“Some people,” he went on, “they wouldn't take animals. They didn't mean—” He looked at the dog, as if he didn't want to discuss such things in front of her. “They just didn't understand. They thought they was doing the right thing. They didn't mean nothing by it. But some people, they wouldn't leave without their animals. And I can understand that. I really can. Some of 'em got help and some of them didn't. Some stayed with their animals and, you know. And I got to say, I understand that. Because when you love something, well. You know. But a lot of people just didn't get it.

“So that guy. He goes out, and every boat he comes back with two or three people and a whole bunch of animals. Dogs, cats, whatever. He's taking all the ones everybody else left behind. He bring one boatload back, he go right out and get another. He ain't eat nothing, hardly even drink any water. Like a fucking machine,” Frank said. “Boatload after boatload.

“Then one trip, he come back, and he got on out of the boat. And I heard—well, I thought I heard a gunshot. I heard
something
, but I wasn't sure what it was. I looked around and I didn't see anything. But then he, your guy—he'd just got off the boat and he had this kid in his arms, this boy. And he kind of like—I thought at first the kid was too heavy, and he couldn't hold him up, you know. The kid kind of fell out of his arms and he kind
of like stumbled and then—” Frank waved his hand in the air, imitating a man falling down.

“He just like crumpled right down,” Frank said. “It all happened fast, like—” He snapped. “Like
that
. Of course, I knew what
that
was. I looked around and I seen a kid run off. Thug, long hair. Dreadlocks, kind of. White shirt, big pants. You know, like all of 'em wear. Didn't see his face. Didn't see much at all, you know, with the light. But one of the searchlights came down and I got a real good look for just, just about a split second. I didn't see his face, but I can tell you: thin, about five-seven, dark skin, hair like that, like all the thugs wear, tattoos. You know what they look like.”

Frank shook his head. He looked angry, and confused.

“These kids. Shootin' each other over nothing, shooting everyone they see. I mean, when does it end? When does it stop? A man like that, like some kind of a hero—and just this week, that musician, that mother with her baby just over there, and, what, seven, eight more. Ten? I mean, I seen a lot of people die. I went from Iraq to New Orleans and then they called me back again. But something like that—something like that, it sticks with you, you know? But I'll testify, sign an affidavit, whatever. I'd like to see whoever did this pay. I really would.”

Frank looked at me. I couldn't look at him.

“I don't know what's worse,” I finally said.

“Out of what?” Frank said, confused.

“I don't know if it's worse to tell you the truth,” I said. “Or keep lying to you.”

Frank sat up and frowned.

“I'll take the truth,” he said.

I told Frank the truth. I told him who killed Vic Willing, and why.

“You still willing to testify against him?” I asked when I was done.

Frank's face darkened, like a shadow had fallen across it.

“I don't know,” he said. “I'm gonna have to think about that one.”

I nodded. I hoped he wouldn't.

We sat and didn't look at each other.

“The thing about the truth,” Frank said after a while. “It's never just what you want it to be, is it?”

“No,” I said. “Doesn't seem that way.”

Frank made us some more tea. We drank it and talked about how he was rebuilding his house: a little bit at a time, with lumber “borrowed” from houses nearby. For the first time I noticed that the walls, few as they were, were good old cypress, the joints fitted tight. The beams that I'd assumed to be leftovers were solid cypress too, and the floor was hard, finished heart pine.

“Gonna be some place,” I said.

Frank nodded, and stopped frowning.

“It is,” he said. “It really is.”

“So,” I said when we finished our tea. “Do you know what happened to Vic's—do you know what happened to his body?”

Frank looked away.

He nodded.

“The thing was,” he said, “there was nowhere to put them. Not just him but a whole lot of people,
gone
.” He meant
dead
. “Nowhere to put 'em. So one of the other rescue crews, these Indian guys, these black Indian guys—we gave him to them, we asked them to—”

He stopped and sighed and drank some tea.

“The Indians,” he began again. “They put them in a boat and took them—well, I don't know where. They took them somewhere and, you know. Gave 'em, like, a burial. Each and every one, they promised me. Man I know from Central City. He's the Witch Doctor for the White Hawks. They know how to do it right. Put each one where they belong, someplace special. Like a burial at sea. They know chants, songs. How to do things right. And did something so, you know, they'd be okay. So they wouldn't keep floating back. So they'd just be gone. It wasn't for us,” he rushed to add. “Not for us. For them. To do the right thing.”

I nodded.

We were done. I tried to give Frank some money, but he wouldn't take it. I thanked him and then he thanked me in return.

“What for?” I said.

“For telling me the truth,” he said. “I know it ain't easy.”

He stopped and deepened his frown.

“People like you and me,” he said. “We can take it. Not everyone can. But I'd rather have the truth, ugly as it is, over every beautiful lie in the world. Because I seen too many times where the lies end up. Here. There. And sometimes I think people like us, people like you and me—we holding on to it for everyone else. Holding on to it so when everyone is ready, it's there. And it ain't easy, holding on to it. Not with all the good-looking lies all over the place. Not with everyone goin' around with their
have a nice day
and
thanks for calling
and
don't worry about the levees
and all that. It ain't always easy.”

“But it's worth it,” I said.

“Yeah,” Frank said. “It's worth it.”

On the way out, before I got into my car, I saw a copy of
Détection
poking out from under a bucket of plaster on what was left of the porch.

B
Y THE TIME
I'd finished with Ninth Ward Construction it was after seven. I called Mick. We met at a different Middle Eastern restaurant on Magazine Street for dinner.

I told him I'd solved the case. He wasn't too happy with my solution.

“That could have been anyone,” he said. “That description could be one of a thousand boys.”

“But it wasn't
anyone
,” I said. “It wasn't a thousand boys. It was one person. You know that.”

“I don't know anything,” Mick said, scowling.

“There's a difference between not knowing,” I said, “and not wanting to know.”

Mick frowned. We finished our meal quietly. We were like people grabbing a bite to eat after a funeral. But it was something worse than a funeral for Mick. It wasn't someone he knew who had died. Everyone knows that's gonna happen someday. You prepare for it, even expect it.

But Mick had lost something he hadn't even known he had. He'd been counting on a happy ending. But there is no such thing. Nothing ever really ends. The fat lady never really sings her last song. She only changes costumes and goes on to the next show. It's just a matter of when you stop watching.

The hard part was waiting for the next show to start after
everyone was lying on stage with their heads chopped off. But he'd make it.

“Promise me you won't do anything until tomorrow,” Mick said when we left. “Just sleep on it. Think about it, okay? Promise me.”

I promised.

Then I went and did something.

I
FOUND ANDRAY
on his regular corner. The sun was just going down. He and some other boys were in various stages of lounging on the steps of the abandoned lavender Victorian behind them. A slow day in the world of low finance.

Andray came over to my truck. He had a tight, forced smile on his face. I rolled down the window and he stepped up and leaned inside.

“What up, lady,” Andray said with his forced smile. “What you still doing here?”

“You did good,” I said. “Really, really good.”

He didn't say anything. He dropped the fake smile. From the look on his face I guessed he was hoping I was talking about something else.

He shook his head and turned, ready to run. I put my hand on my gun.

“Don't even think about it,” I said. “You know I'll catch you. It's over.”

“Fuck,” Andray said, twisting and turning as if he were fighting the very air around him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“You almost had me beat,” I said. “First you drew the attention on you. You left your prints in Vic's house. Made sure I knew you knew him. Did everything you could to make me look at you and not the real killer.”

Andray stopped twisting and turning and looked angry and didn't say anything.

“And that was,” I said. “Wow. Kind of brilliant actually. Because who would think, huh? You were betting that there wouldn't be enough evidence to arrest. And this being New Orleans, even if you were arrested, you'd be out in, what, thirty days? This town can't convict a murder case with ten eyewitnesses. You sure didn't have to worry about leaving your fingerprints at the scene. It was just enough to distract everyone from the real killer.

“But then I showed up,” I said. “And you didn't know people like me—people who actually
solve
mysteries—really exist, did you?”

Andray looked furious.

“You told everyone you knew not to talk to me,” I went on. “You led me wrong every chance I gave you, and you weren't really out getting diapers that night, were you?”

Andray shook his head.

“That ain't me,” he said bitterly. “Risking my life to help some other person—that ain't me.”

“No,” I said. “You would
never
do that.”

If he could tell I was being sarcastic, he didn't let on.

“You tried to drive me out of town,” I continued. “Maybe you even set up that shooting at the restaurant. I don't know. But that's my guess. Did you even really know Vic?” I asked. “Or was that all bullshit too?”

Andray didn't answer.

“My guess is you really did know him,” I said. “That at least that part of the story was true. But I don't need to know. I know one thing, though.”

Andray tried to pretend he wasn't interested. He wasn't good at it.

“You really did feed his birds.”

Andray's face softened a little, and he nodded.

“We'll get him a lawyer,” I said. “I don't blame him at all.”

“
You
don't,” Andray said. “You think the lawyers, the cops, all them—you think
they
ain't gonna blame him? Killing—shit, kill
ing a DA. A fucking white, rich DA. You know that boy hardly ever even use his piece before? He play tough, but shit—he can't even shoot. Can't shoot for nothing. One lucky shot.” Andray laughed bitterly. “
Once
. Fuck. I used to take the nigga out for target practice, he ain't hit one fucking bottle, not one, but this time he gotta—” Andray let out a sound of exasperation. He stomped one foot on the ground.

“Here's how you can help now,” I said. “Find people to testify that Vic did the same thing to them. Document how he was totally let down by the system—abuse, neglect, all that stuff. I'm gonna get him a good lawyer, I think we can build a good case. And I think we can get him a federal trial too, or at least a change of venue, considering the conflict of interests here—the DA's office can't really prosecute someone who killed one of their own. That's a good thing. Pretty much every place else is less corrupt than here. And considering that he killed an actual ADA, the system might not be a real safe place for him. I mean, I doubt he'd get convicted. But he might get pretty banged up in jail.”