Sailor & Lula (13 page)

Sailor sat down in a chair by the window. He could see the heat waves roll down the street.

“Up at Pee Dee I met a guy named Reader O'Day,” he said. “Reader was in for doin' in his common-law wife. Got seventeen to life for second-degree murder.”

“What kinda name is Reader?” asked Lula.

“He's called that on account of he reads a lot. I never heard his Christian name that I can recall. He's always readin' some book that his people send him. Reader went to college. He's about forty-six now and he still reads books.”

“That's amazin',” said Lula. “I mean, it's probably pretty rare for a criminal of any kind.”

“For a long time he was readin' books by a dead French guy. Reader
told me all this guy's books were parts of what was called
Rememberin' Things Past
. I think that's the name. Anyway, accordin' to Reader, the author got the idea for writin' down all this stuff just after he ate a cookie.”

“A cookie?”

“Yeah. The French guy bit into a cookie and a whole flood of things he remembered filled up his brain and he wrote 'em down. Reader said the guy was sick a lot and he was still writin' when he died, right up to the last second.”

Lula clucked her tongue a couple of times.

“Why'd Reader clock his old lady?” she asked.

Sailor shook his head and whistled softly through his teeth.

“That's a whole story,” he said. “Seems they had a daughter that didn't get along too good with the mother, and Reader stuck it out for the kid's sake. According to him, the woman acted pretty violent toward the little girl and toward Reader, too. Reader said once she attacked him with a hot iron and another time with a chain saw.”

“Sounds like that movie I wouldn't go see,” said Lula.

“Reader figured he ought to stay around to protect his daughter. For a while they lived down around Morgan City and he worked in the oil fields. When the oil business went belly-up he moved back to the Piedmont and worked the tobacco. The woman worked once in a while as a helper in a hospital. Reader said she was just Alabama trash and he'd picked up with her in the first place at a time when he wasn't feelin' none too high on himself neither. After the daughter was born, though, he kinda changed his ways.”

“He must come from good people?” said Lula. “After all, he did go to college.”

“I believe he said his daddy was a doctor,” Sailor said. “So prob'ly he was a disappointment to his folks, out kickin' around the oil fields and doin' jobs anybody could be doin'. Anyhow, the woman kept buggin' him to marry her and make their daughter legitimate. Reader didn't want to get hitched to this woman and told her he was only still with her 'cause of the kid. This went on for some time, I guess, her after him to marry her and him refusin'. One day when the daughter, who was about ten years old at the time, was at school or somewhere, Reader's old lady
come at him with a rifle and threatened to kill him unless he married her. When he told her to back off, she fired the gun and just missed him. He said the bullet grazed his left ear and smacked into the wall behind him. He grabbed the rifle away from her and went a little crazy.”

“You mean he shot her?” said Lula.

“Five or six times,” said Sailor. “Guess he got so mad he just stood over her and kept cockin' the rifle and firin' till it was empty. Then he made a real mistake.”

“As if pluggin' half a dozen slugs into the lady wasn't enough,” Lula said.

“Instead of callin' the cops,” said Sailor, “and pleadin' self-defense or justifiable homicide and bein' driven out of his mind, he wrapped up her body in a shower curtain and buried it underneath the house.”

“What'd he tell his daughter?”

“Just that her mother'd gone away for a vacation or somethin'. Reader dropped her with his folks and took off. Went to New York, Chicago, Las Vegas, all over. He got caught when he tried to sneak back and see his daughter.”

“How'd the police find the body?”

“That's the good part,” Sailor said. “They didn't. At least not until Reader told 'em where he'd stashed it. They went ahead and prosecuted him based on circumstantial evidence. In the middle of the trial, with Reader thinkin' he was gonna walk, they subpoenaed his mama, and when she refused to testify they popped her in the slam. She's a older woman in poor health, so she can't take more'n a week. When she gets out she admits that Reader told her about the shootin'. Reader testifies that his common-law wife attacked him first and that she got shot by accident while they was strugglin' for the weapon. He tells 'em where the body's buried, they dig it up, and find her full of holes fired point-blank. Put together with his havin' hit the road, this don't do Reader no good. The jury just wasn't about to buy his side of the matter. He told me most of the jurors was women, and when he said in court that his common-law wife used to get riled up regular whenever she got on the rag, they looked about set to lynch him right now. Reader was prob'ly the nicest fella I met at Pee Dee. Your toes dry yet, peanut?”

“How do you get sixteen Haitians into a Dixie cup?” said Sparky.

“How?” asked Lula.

“Tell 'em it floats.”

Sailor, Lula, Sparky and Buddy were sitting in the lobby of the Iguana Hotel at ten P.M., sharing Sparky's fifth of Ezra Brooks and shooting the shit.

“Sparky's big on Florida jokes,” said Buddy.

“You need a active sense of humor to survive in the Big Tuna,” said Sparky.

Bobby Peru walked in and came over.

“Hey, everybody,” he said.

“Sailor, Lula, this here's the man himself,” said Buddy. “Bobby, this is Sailor and Lula, the most recent strandees, economic variety.”

Bobby nodded to Lula and offered a hand to Sailor.

“Bobby Peru, just like the country.”

Sparky and Buddy laughed.

“Accordin' to Red and Rex,” said Buddy, “Bobby's the most excitin' item to hit Big Tuna since the '86 cyclone sheared the roof off the high school.”

“Only in town two months and there ain't a young thing around don't know how that cobra tattoo works, right, Bob?” Sparky said.

Bobby laughed. He had a lopsided grin that exposed only three brownish front teeth on the upper right side of his mouth. He had dark, wavy hair and a small, thin nose that bent slightly left. His eyebrows were long and tapered and looked as if they'd been drawn on. What frightened Lula about Bobby Peru were his eyes: flat black, they reflected no light. They were like heavy shades, she thought, that prevented people from seeing inside. Lula guessed that he was about the same age as Sparky and Buddy, but Bobby was the kind of person who would look the same when he was forty-five as he did when he was twenty.

“You from Texas, Mr. Peru?” Lula asked.

Bobby pulled up a chair and poured himself a shot glass full of whisky.

“I'm from all over,” he said. “Born in Tulsa, raised in Arkansas, Illinois, Indiana, lived in Oregon, South Dakota, Virginia. Got people in Pasadena, California, who I was headin' to see when my Dodge busted a rod. Still meanin' to get out there.”

“You was in the marines, huh?” said Sailor, noticing a USMC tattoo on Bobby's right hand.

Bobby looked down at his hand, flexed it.

“Four years,” he said.

“Bobby was at Cao Ben,” said Sparky.

“What's Cao Ben?” asked Lula.

“How old are you?” Buddy asked her.

“Twenty.”

“Bunch of civilians got killed,” said Bobby. “March 1968. We torched a village and the government made a big deal out of it. Politicians tryin' to get attention. Put the commandin' officer on trial for murder. Only problem was, there weren't no such persons as civilians in that war.”

“Lotta women and kids and old people died at Cao Ben,” said Buddy.

Bobby sipped the whisky and closed his eyes for several seconds before reopening them and looking at Buddy.

“You was on a ship, pardner. Hard to make contact with the people when you're off floatin' in the Gulf of Tonkin. It weren't simple.”

“Saw Perdita this afternoon,” said Sparky. “Came by Red's lookin' for you.”

“Had some business over by Iraaq,” said Bobby. “I'm just about to go check on her now.”

He stood up and set the shot glass on his chair.

“Good meetin' you,” Bobby said to Sailor and Lula. “
Adiós,
boys.”

He walked out.

After Bobby was gone, Lula said, “Somethin' in that man scares me.”

“Bobby's got a way,” said Buddy.

“Can't shake that institution odor,” Sparky said, and poured himself another shot.

Lula put a hand on Sailor's leg.

“Darlin', I still ain't feelin' so well,” she said. “I'm goin' to bed.”

“I'll come along,” said Sailor.

They said good night to Sparky and Buddy and went upstairs.

In the room, Sailor said, “Man, that barf smell don't fade fast.”

“I'll get some white vinegar to rub on it tomorrow, honey, take care of it.”

Lula went into the bathroom and stayed there for a long time. When she came out, Sailor asked if there was anything he could do for her.

“No, I don't think so, Sail. I just need to lie down.”

Lula listened to Sailor brush his teeth, then urinate into the toilet and flush it.

“Sailor?” she said as he climbed into bed. “You know what?”

“I know you ain't particularly pleased bein' here.”

“Not that. Might be I'm pregnant.”

Sailor rolled over and looked into Lula's eyes.

“It's okay by me, peanut.”

“Well, nothin' personal, but I ain't so sure it's okay by me.”

Sailor lay down on his back.

“Really, Sailor, it ain't nothin' against you. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“I know. Just I'm sorta uncomfortable about the way some things is goin', and this don't help soothe me.”

Sailor got out of bed and went over by the window. He sat down in the chair and looked out. Bobby Peru and a Mexican woman with black hair longer than Lula's were parked across the street in a maroon 1971 Eldorado convertible with the top down. Sailor watched as the woman pulled a knife out of her purse and tried to stick Bobby with it. He took the knife away from her and tossed it. She got out of the car and ran. Bobby fired up the Eldo and drove after her.

“I know this ain't easy, Lula,” Sailor said, “but I ain't gonna let things get no worse, I promise.”

“I've always been fascinated by the ways people do business, Marietta. When they discuss large sums of money they lower their voices, they whisper. It don't matter whether the sonofabitch'll be dead or too old to spend the money he might make eventually from a deal, it's the
thought
of it that counts. The reverence, the absolute reverence some people have for money amazes me. For the mere mention of large sums, as if the money would disappear if they referred to it in less than the most respectful terms. I tell ya, Marietta, the only two things anybody seems to be interested in anymore are money and losin' weight.”

Johnnie and Marietta were drinking coffee in a booth in the Bad Bull truckstop diner in Biarritz.

“Johnnie, all I care about right now is Lula.”

A waitress came over and refilled Johnnie's cup. Marietta covered hers with her right hand.

“I'm fine, honey,” she said to the waitress, who was about seventeen years old. “Don't she remind you of Lula?” Marietta asked Johnnie. “She got the same buttery skin.”

The waitress smiled and put their check on the table and walked away.

“Listen, Marietta, there really ain't no point in your hangin' out on the road like this. I 'preciate the fact you enjoy my company and all, but until I got some more concrete information to go on, you're just wastin' your time.”

“I'd go crazy sittin' home. Least this way I'm
doin'
somethin'.”

Johnnie sighed and sipped his coffee.

“Truth is,” he said, “I'm gonna give this squirrel hunt about another couple days, is all. Week, maybe. I got work waitin' on me in Charlotte. Maceo in San Antonio can keep after it and I'll be callin' people around the country might be able to help out. You can bet Sailor's parole officer's reported him missin', too.”

Marietta's eyes filled with tears and her nose began to run.

“Marietta, you're drippin' in your coffee.”

Johnnie handed her a napkin. Marietta took it and wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

“I hate feelin' helpless, Johnnie. I hate it worse'n anything. Dal was against my comin', too.”

“We'll hang in a touch longer, like I said. Maybe we'll run onto a lead right quick.”

“I got to use the ladies' room.”

Johnnie took his notebook out of his pocket and looked over what he'd written the night before in the motel. He'd decided to write about his childhood, beginning with his earliest sexual memories.