Sailor & Lula (57 page)

Phil grinned. “I like that, Pace. I like how your rebel brain works. You and your parents have much in common?”

Pace laughed. “Prob'ly more'n necessary, Phil.”

Sailor awoke at four A.M. from a vivid dream wherein he had taken a job as curator of the Museum of Opinion in Sweden. Located on a spit of land in the far northern reach of Scandinavia, the museum existed as a sanctuary for certain individuals whose ideas, as expressed either in some public form, such as books, newspapers or via electronic media, or simply by letter to the museum, were deemed by the curator as worthy of recognition and an open-ended invitation to reside in one of the houses maintained by the Foundation of Opinions.

In the dream, Sailor's position as curator entitled him to extend or revoke permits to the society of fellows, as museum residents were called, and to decide all matters of consequence. It was his opinion that counted the most. The only requirement of the fellows was that they regularly post their opinions on the Central Hall bulletin board, so that they could be discussed at mealtimes. Since the breakfasts, lunches and dinners were often—not unexpectedly—volatile affairs, residents were also provided foodstocks in their private rooms. Casual digestion was never a hallmark of the society.

Sailor picked up the pen and notebook he had lately taken to keeping on his bedtable and wrote down the essential belief of the Museum of Opinion as had been dictated to him in the dream: “A man alone is the epitome of conflict.”

He lay in bed thinking about the turns his life had taken. It was at such moments, usually in the middle of the night, that he succumbed to a very low opinion of himself. This condition always passed quickly, however, as it did now, and Sailor lay there, listening to Lula's even breathing. He picked up a pack of Camels and the matches that were on the table next to his notebook and lit a cigarette.

He had recently read a biography of Pierre Loti, the nineteenth-century French writer whose real name was Julien Viaud. Loti had dressed himself variously as a bedouin, a pasha and a circus acrobat, had converted to Islam, and conducted countless sexual liaisons with both men and women. “No matter what,” Loti wrote, “I am always a déclassé, playing a part.”

Sailor thought about what Loti had meant by that. When he was a boy, Sailor had for a time fantasized himself as a character called the Black Phantom, leaping from rooftop to rooftop to rescue persons in distress, then escaping without a word back into the darkness. It was a part he had invented, he realized now, to escape from the constant alcohol-fueled arguments waged nightly by his parents. That had been an ugly time in his life, Sailor thought, almost as ugly as the time he'd spent in prison, away from Lula and Pace.

It was Sailor's opinion that without the ability to escape inside the mind there would be even more murders and suicides than there already were. Hadn't he read somewhere that Sweden had one of the highest suicide rates in the world? Sailor took a hard drag on the Camel, then made a note to look up the meaning of the word
epitome
.

“My mama and Dalceda Delahoussaye used to meet like this at least four afternoons a week at Bode's in Bay St. Clement most all their lives. They was close friends for three quarters of a century, Beany, can you believe that? Even went to boardin' school together. Miss Cook's, in Beaufort.”

“Don't look now, Lula, but you and me is creepin' up on bein' friends for
half
a century ourselves.”

Lula shook her head. “It's a comfort and frightenin', both, you know.”

“I do know,” said Beany. “When I think about Madonna Kim turnin' thirty-one next month, it's like, how'd that happen? And Lance is thirty-seven!”

“Which makes Pace forty. Time gotten right out of control, Beany, no doubt about it. We're victims of longevity is what we are. By the way, Pace is comin' home next week.”

“To stay?”

“Uh-uh. He's workin' with a director out of Hollywood and they're comin' to N.O. for research, Pace said.”

“Pace livin' in L.A. now?”

“I guess.”

“That boy been about everywhere, Lula. 'Specially since he and Rhoda busted up.”

“Weren't the divorce I minded, it's that they didn't make no family. You know how much I been lookin' forward to havin' grandkids. You're damn lucky, Beany. You got six.”

Beany sighed. “Yeah, they're somethin' else, all right. Each of Madonna Kim's four is by a different father, and Lance's two are by his two wives. He's engaged again, did I tell you?”

“No. Who to?”

“Gal named LaDonna, capital L, capital D. She's twenty-two, blonde—natural or not I don't know, since I ain't met her—wants to be a singer of some kind. Lance told me they met in Phoenix two months ago when he was at the computer convention there.”

“What's her last name?”

“Flynn. Her daddy's Manny Flynn, guy Lance is thinkin' 'bout goin' to work for. Man built a software empire that's headquartered in Arizona. Lance'd have to move there, which he don't mind, seein's how he's burned out on Atlanta. Only thing, both his ex-wives, Zoe and Charlene Rae, are there, so it'd be tough on him and the kids. Also, don't know if marryin' the boss's daughter's a good idea or not.”

“Time'll tell.”

Lula and Beany Boyle were lingering over coffee following a salad lunch at Foissoner, their regular Thursday afternoon meetingplace in the French Quarter. The chef and part owner, César Foudre, was the father of Madonna Kim's next-to-last offspring, also named César, and he never allowed the ladies to pay. A tiny man with a thick red whiskbroomshaped beard, César came out of the kitchen and greeted them.

“Mesdames Boyle and Ripley, a pure
plaisir,
” he said, smiling, though his lips were well-hidden, “
comme toujours.
The
repas
was satisfactory?”

“We got most the rabbits beat, César,” said Beany. “It was fine.”

Lula smiled and nodded her agreement.

“I am teaching Little César how to cook,” said César. “It is like swimming, I believe. One is never too young to learn. He is four years old and already he can bake bread. By the time he is six, he will have learned the sauces.”

“That's swell, César,” said Beany, “maybe he'll teach Madonna Kim how to fry an egg.”

César laughed. “For this he will have to first master sorcery, not sauces!”

Beany and Lula laughed, and César excused himself.

“He's not such a bad fella,” said Lula, “and he has a good business. Too bad Madonna Kim couldn't settle down with him.”

“Lula, there's no use talkin' about my daughter's matin' habits. Soon as César pulled out, she hooked into Roberto Roatan, the jockey got banned for life after fixin' races at Louisiana Downs. Remember him?”

“Madonna Kim always has gone for short ones. You notice that?”

Beany raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

“Asked her about it once. She said little men are more intense.”

After they'd finished their coffee, Beany and Lula walked along Burgundy toward the parking lot across Canal, where they'd left Lula's car. At
Iberville Street, a giant black man waving an Israeli flag over his clean-shaven skull strode past them, shouting, “Jews is saved! Jews is saved! Great God Almighty, the Jews is saved!” Following close behind him, carrying short lengths of pipe and sawed-off bats, were a half-dozen skinheads wearing green tanker jackets, leather gloves and combat boots.

“Don't fret,” Beany said to Lula, “I don't go no place without a gun.”

Pace and Phil were sitting in the lobby of the Rinaldi waiting for Sailor and Lula. It was cold and rainy in New Orleans, early January, so both Pace and Phil wore tan Burberry trenchcoats, cowboy boots and Great White Hunter hats.

“I'll bet you fellas either in oil or from Hollywood.”

Pace turned around and saw Sailor's grin.

“Hey, Daddy!” Pace said. He jumped up and they embraced. “This here's Philip Reãl, my employer.”

Phil stood up and shook hands with Sailor.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Reãl. Hope Pace is givin' you your money's worth.”

“Call me Phil, and if it's all right with you, I'll call you Sailor.”

“You bet.”

“Pace is rapidly becoming indispensable to me, Sailor. I was very fortunate to have found him.”

“Where's Mama?” asked Pace.

“Waitin' in the car. She's dyin' to see you, son.”

The three men started together toward the main entrance but before they had gone three steps a shot rang out. Sailor and Pace immediately hit the deck.

“Phil!” Pace yelled. “Get down!”

Sailor grabbed Phil's left arm at the wrist and dragged him to the floor. Several more shots were fired and Sailor looked up just enough to see a tall white man wearing a New Orleans Saints jacket and a black woman in a red dress run across the lobby and out the door. The man and the woman each held a gun in their right hand and a black and white shopping bag in their left. Nobody in the lobby screamed or yelled. Like Sailor, Pace and Phil, they had taken cover and wondered what was going on. There was the sound of a vehicle's tires squealing, a brief roar of an engine, then silence. The inhabitants of the lobby cautiously came out of hiding, stood up and looked around.

“What in blazes was that all about?” asked Phil.

A doorman came running in and shouted, “They got away in a black Cadillac! Had a white woman behind the wheel!”

Sailor ran out, followed closely by Pace and Phil.

Two police cars zoomed into the hotel driveway and four cops got out with their guns drawn. The doorman who had made the announcement came out and repeated what he'd said. A young woman dressed in a dark blue business suit stumbled out after the doorman and collapsed on the top step of the hotel entryway. There was blood in her light brown hair and on the left side of her face. One of the cops kneeled down next to her.

“They took everything from the safe,” she said. “All the money and jewelry. Jeffrey's dead, the black girl shot him. The man hit me in the head with his gun.”

“Lula!” Sailor shouted at the cops. “They stole my wife! She was in the car!”

Two of the cops grabbed Sailor and shoved him up against a pillar.

“You say your wife was drivin'?” said one.

“I'm tellin' you,” said Sailor, “my wife was in the car they drove off in! She been kidnapped!”

“Hold him,” one cop said to the other. “I'll check out inside.”

“You sure your wife wasn't in on this deal?” asked the cop who was holding Sailor.

“You must be crazy!” yelled Pace. “Why don't you get after them thieves got my mama?!”

More squad cars pulled into the hotel roundabout and a dozen policemen leaped out. Half of them ran over to where Sailor was pinned against the pillar and pointed their weapons at him.

“Look,” Phil said to one of the cops, “this man didn't do anything! Some people robbed the hotel and used his car to get away. His wife was in it.”

Before Phil could finish his last sentence, the cop had him face down on the ground with a hammerlock on his right arm. Phil's hat fell off and rolled into the roadway.

“This is Philip Reãl!” Pace shouted. “The famous director!”

A cop pushed the barrel of his .38 into Pace's stomach and told him to shut up. The left side of Phil's face was pressed into the cold, wet concrete, and it was from this perspective that he watched the right front tire of a New Orleans police car crush his Great White Hunter hat that two days before he had paid $159 for at Banana Republic on Melrose.

“I hope you understand, Mr. Ripley, and you, too, Mr. Reãl, my men were just doin' their job. No harm intended, and you got my sincere-most apology for the rough stuff. What we gotta do now is make sure Mrs. Ripley's returned to you soon and safe as possible.”

Police Captain DuMont “Du Du” Dupre, who was in line to become commissioner when the current top gun, Eddie Fange, who had held the office for fifteen years, retired, looked carefully first at Sailor then at Phil, who were seated on folding metal chairs on the other side of the desk from the captain in his office at police headquarters in the new windowless Louis Armstrong City Government Building across from the Superdome on Poydras. Pace stood behind Sailor's chair, his right hand gripping his father's right shoulder. A telephone on the desk rang and Dupre picked it up. The folds of his fat, froglike face alternately contracted and relaxed as he listened and spoke.

“Yeah, Eddie, I heard,” said Du Du. “I told them Army boys we wasn't gonna touch it, which they was happy to hear. Shootin' cats in the head to study gunshot wounds don't bother me particular, but I can see how it's bound upset some folks. Uh huh. Let the politicians handle it, I agree. Yeah, Eddie, was about seven hundred felines altogether, 'cordin' our reports. Yes. Yes. They was anethesized, sure. Okay, Eddie, I just goin' refer 'em to the state hereafter. By the way, how your lung doin'? They gonna have to cut it more?”

Du Du winked his liquidy red left eye at Sailor and held up the index finger of his right hand.

“That good,” he said, nodding and rolling back his purple upper lip by pushing under it with his lower. “Best to hang on what little we got left so long as possible, I agree. You still got that Enfield .30-06 at Barataria? Right.” Du Du laughed. “You know it's same model old Delay Beckwith supposed to used when he shot Medgar Evers. Sure is. You might could get a price for it now. Okay, Eddie, you take care now.” Du Du hung up.