“We don't have no paper bags,” the old guy said, shoving the plastic bag he'd filled toward the man.
“Thanks for waitin', gentlemen,” the man said to Sailor and the other patron, picked up his bag and walked out.
“All I want's ten bucks regular,” Sailor said to the old guy. “Oh yeah, and a Mounds bar.” He took one off the candy and gum rack next to the register and handed the clerk a twenty-dollar bill.
“I ain't got my American Express card with me,” he said, “so I got to use cash. Hope that's okay.”
Sailor smiled at the old guy but the clerk kept a poker face and just gave him his change. The guy in line behind Sailor shook his head and grinned.
“That took long enough,” Lula said when Sailor got back to the car. “You forget my Mounds?”
Sailor tossed her the candy bar.
“I think the country done changed just a little while I was away, peanut,” he said.
Lula sank her small white teeth into the chocolate-covered coconut.
“You got to keep an eye on it,” she said as she chewed. “That's sure.”
By the time Sailor finished pumping the gas, Lula had polished off both sections of the Mounds bar.
“Hope you don't mind I didn't save none for you,” Lula said as Sailor climbed back into the driver's seat. “I was dyin'?”
BIRDS DO IT
“I love it when your eyes get wild, honey. They light up all blue almost and spin like pinwheels and little white parachutes pop out of 'em.”
Sailor and Lula had just finished making love in their room at the Hotel Brazil on Frenchmen Street.
“Oh, Sailor, you're so
aware
of what goes on with me? I mean, you pay
attention.
And I swear, you got the sweetest cock. Sometimes it's like it's talkin' to me when you're inside? Like it's got a voice all its own. You get right
on
me.”
Lula lit a cigarette and got up from the bed and walked over to the window. She stuck her head outside and craned her neck around but she couldn't quite see the river. Lula sat naked on the end of the table under the open window, staring out and smoking.
“Enjoyin' the view?” Sailor said.
“I was just thinkin' about how people oughta fuck more in the daytime. I don't think there'd be so much trouble about it if they did.”
“What kinda trouble?”
“Oh, I don't know. Just seems like people make more of a big deal out of it at night? Get all sorts of exotic expectations, I guess, and things go strange in 'em. It checks out simpler in daylight's what I think.”
“You're prob'ly right, sweetie,” said Sailor. He yawned, then threw off the sheet that had been covering him and stood up. “Let's go down and get somethin' to eat, okay? Otherwise, I won't make it past dark.”
Sailor and Lula sat at the counter in Ronnie's Nothin' Fancy Cafe on Esplanade, drinking double-size cups of Community coffee. Lula picked apart a giant jelly doughnut, licking the powdered sugar off her fingers. A man on the stool next to Sailor lit up a rum-soaked crook.
Sailor said to him, “My grandaddy used to smoke crooks. Wolf Brothers.”
“Used to cost seven cents apiece,” the man said. “Now they're five for a buck. Buck and a half some places. Want one?”
“No, thanks,” said Sailor, “not while I'm eatin'.”
“George Kovich,” said the man, extending a gnarled, liver-spotted
hand, the knuckles of which looked as if they'd been broken more than once. “You mighta heard of me.”
Sailor shook his hand. “Sailor Ripley. This woman is Lula Pace Fortune.”
Lula nodded and smiled at George Kovich.
“Pleased to meet you, young lady,” Kovich said.
“Don't know that I have,” said Sailor. “Should I know about you for anything in particular?”
“Was in all the papers a while back. Twoâno, three years now. I'm seventy-six, was only seventy-three then. Had a business in Buffalo, New York, called Rats With Wings. Killed pigeons for anyone who wanted 'em killed. Did
hand
somely,
real
handsomely, for three or four months, till I got shut down.”
“Why were you killin' pigeons, Mr. Kovich?” asked Lula. “Were you in the exterminatin' business?”
“No, ma'am, I was a housepainter, in the union forty-one years. I'm retired now, livin' with my sister, Ida. Ida moved down here twenty-five years ago, married an oil man named Smoltz, Ed Smoltz. He's dead now, so it's just me and Ida. I sold my house and moved down after the city of Buffalo put me out of business. Hell, RWW was doin' them a service, and they charged me with endangerin' the public.”
“Tell us about the pigeons, Mr. Kovich,” said Lula.
“They're useless pests. I've shot hundreds of 'em. My neighbors hired me to get rid of the pigeons that gathered on their roofs and porches and made noise and left droppings all over. I was doin' a job, a good one. Shot a hundred ten of them flyin' rodents just on my own in a couple of days. Neighbors asked me how come the spotted bastards didn't light on my house or my brother Earl's anymore, and I told 'em the truth. I shot 'em. Earl's gone now. Heart attack six months ago. His widow, Mildred, she still lives in the house next to mine. She's stone deaf but the racket the pigeons made drove Earl crazy. He could hear 'em even with the TV on. He owned a bar thirty years, the Boilermaker, on Wyoming Street. Earl's roof was a favorite spot for pigeons. They lit there day and night. I wanted to toss a grenade up there.”
“If your neighbors didn't mind,” said Sailor, “how'd you get put out of business?”
“Woman drivin' down the street spotted me on a roof with my rifle. She called the police and they came out and arrested me. Thought I was a sniper! Seventy-three years old! Boys at the VFW loved that one. Cops didn't understand about the pigeons, the damage they do to personal property. I used to complain to the city but they never lifted a finger. I was gonna put out poison, but I was afraid somebody's cat would eat it. Hell, I had six cats myself. So I used the twenty-two because it didn't make much noise and the ammo was cheap.”
“What happened on the charges?” asked Sailor.
“Guilty on a reduced charge. Hundred-dollar fine and ordered to desist. Pigeons carry diseases and muss up the place. You seen it. Plain filth.”
Kovich stood up and put some money on the counter. He was a large man, six two even though he was slightly stoop shouldered. For a man in his seventies he exuded a surprisingly powerful presence. He looked strong.
“It's a serious situation,” he said. “Not like the Turks and the Armenians, maybe, or the Arabs and the Jews, but I want people to remember me and what I've done and pick up where I left off. Somebody had to make a move. It was nice meetin' you folks. Ida's expectin' me.”
After George Kovich had gone, Lula ordered another jelly doughnut and more coffee.
“Once in the Variety Do-Nut?” she said to Sailor. “I saw a big ol' roach crawl across a creme-fill I was gonna take? When I told the girl workin' there about it she said she was sorry, but even though she wanted to, she just couldn't charge me any less for that one. If Mr. Kovich'd been there he prob'ly woulda just taken out his gun and drilled that bug on the spot.”
SPEED TO BURN
“ âI don't locomote no more.' ”
“What's that?” said Sailor. “You don't what?”
“I'm just readin' here? In the
Times-Picayune
?” said Lula. “About Little Eva, who sung that song âThe Locomotion' that was a hit before we was even born?”
“Still a good one,” Sailor said. “What's it say?”
“ âLittle Eva's doin' a brand-new dance now,' ” Lula read. “ â “I don't locomote no more,” said Eva Boyd as she wiped the counter at Hanzies Grill, a soul food restaurant in Kingston, N.C. It's been twenty-five years since Boyd, as teen-aged Little Eva, hit the top of the charts with “The Locomotion.” “I ain't into singin' over chicken,” the forty-three-year-old Boyd said in a recent interview. She still sings with a gospel group from her church and is considerin' makin' a record. “She sounds beautiful,” said waitress Loraine Jackson.'”
“Good to know she ain't quit singin',” said Sailor. “It's a gift.”
Sailor and Lula were sitting on a bench by the Mississippi watching the barges and freighters glide by. It was late evening but the sky was plum colored, soft and light.
“I don't think we should hang around too long in N.O.,” Sailor said. “This is likely the first place they'll come lookin'.”
Lula folded the newspaper and put it down next to her on the bench.
“I don't see what Mama can do about us,” she said. “Seems to me unless she has me kidnapped, there's no way I'm goin' back without you. And you'd just get popped for violatin' parole if you do. So, there ain't much choice now.”
“You know Dimwit Taylor, guy hangs around front of Fatty's Dollar-Saver?”
“Sure. He don't have no teeth and's always smilin' so ugly and sayin', âMan ain't lonesome long's he got a dog.' Only he ain't got no dog?”
“The one.”
“What about him?”
“You ever sit down and talk with him?”
“Not hardly. Always looks like he just crawled out of a pit. Smells it, too.”
“He used to be a ballplayer, professional, mostly on barnstormin' teams around the South. Told me once in Alabama, like forty years ago, he was playin' in a game against a black team from Birmin'ham had an amazin' young center fielder could grab anythin' hit his way. There wasn't no outfield fence at the field they was playin' at, so nobody on Dimwit's team could put the ball over this kid's head. He'd just spin, run out from under his cap and take it out of the air like a piece of dust. After the game, Dimwit talks to the boy, turns out he's only fifteen years old.”
“What's this got to do with us bein' on the run?”
“That's just it,” said Sailor. “Dimwit asked the kid how'd he know just where to head soon's the ball's hit, so he'd snatch it before it touched the ground. And the kid said, âI got the range and the speed to change.' Dimwit said the kid had it exactly right, and he made it to the big leagues, too.”
“So you figure you got the range, huh?”
Sailor laughed. “I do, peanut. I just got to trust myself, is all. And I got speed to burn.”
Lula pushed herself right up against Sailor and rested her head on his chest.
“I like how you talk, Sailor. And you know what? I believe you, I really, really do.”
LOCUS CERULEUS
On his first night in New Orleans, Johnnie Farragut sat on a stool in Snug Harbor watching the Braves lose again on TV, this time to the St. Louis Cardinals. A guy down the bar was complaining loudly about the ineptitude of the Atlanta team.
“The Cards ain't got a guy on the team can poke a ball past the infield, and the Braves still can't beat 'em,” the man shouted. “Murphy must be a saint, stickin' with this outfit. He could be playin' in New York, L.A., anywhere, makin' his two million on a winnin' club.”
“Maybe he likes the weather in Atlanta,” said someone else.
“Yeah, and Mother Teresa is carryin' her and Bishop Tutu's love child,” said the bartender.
Johnnie ordered his second double Black Label on the rocks and took out his pen and spiral notebook. He'd always wanted to be a writer, especially for television shows like
The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits
or
One Step Beyond,
programs that, unfortunately, were no longer on the air. Whenever he had an idea for a story, he wrote it down. Just now Johnnie felt a ripple in his locus ceruleus, the area of the brain from which dreams emanate. Johnnie had read about this, and he believed that the locus ceruleus was his center of creativity. He never ignored the signal. Johnnie took his drink and notebook and moved to a booth so that he could concentrate. Finding Sailor and Lula would have to wait.
A GOOD CONNECTION
by Johnnie Farragut
Harry Newman sat on a corner stool in Barney's Tavern, watching the ballgame on TV. An error by the Braves shortstop in the bottom of the ninth gave the game to St. Louis and Harry swore under his breath. He'd put a couple of Jacksons on Atlanta this morning on the long end of five to two; a good bet, he'd figured. Lousy luck was all it was, he thought. All the guy had to do was keep his glove down, flip the ball to second for the force, and that was it. Instead, the ball goes through, all the
way to the wall, two runners score, and that's the name of that tune.
Harry swallowed the last of his beer and slid off the stool. Barney came over behind the bar. “Tough luck, Harry,” he said. “You oughta know better. The Braves never have no good luck in St. Louis.” “Yeah, and I never have no good luck anyplace,” said Harry, as he headed out the door. “That guy,” Barney said to the customer who'd been sitting at the bar next to Harry, “he just don't know how to bet, is all. Loses ten times for every one he wins.” “Some guys are like that,” said the customer. “They never learn.”
Harry walked downtown, shuffling along, not sure of where he was headed. He almost bumped into someone, excused himself, looked up, and that's when he saw it: a bright yellow 1957 Buick convertible. It was cherry, in perfect condition, sitting in the front row of Al Carson's used-car lot. Harry went right to it and ran his hand over the right front fender, then stroked up and along the top. It was the most gorgeous automobile he'd ever seen.
“She's somethin', ain't she, Harry?” said Al Carson, who'd come up behind him. Harry didn't even turn around to look at the wizened little car dealer. He just couldn't take his eyes off the old Buick. “She sure is,” said Harry. “It looks brand-new.” “Just about,” said Al. “Only a fraction more than 15,000 miles on her in thirty years. A little old lady kept it in her garage. Only drove it to church on Sundays and to see her sister across town twice a month. Hard to believe, I know, but true.” “How much, Al?” asked Harry. “How much do you want for her?” “Three grand,” said Al. “But for you, Harry, make it twenty-seven fifty.” “I've got about forty bucks on me now, Al,” said Harry. “How about if you take that and I'll pay you a hundred a month?” “I don't know, Harry,” Al said, shaking his tiny bald head. “Your credit ain't been at the top of the list lately.” “Oh, come on, Al. I'll pay you. I will. I've just got to have this beauty.”
Harry walked around the car, opened the driver's side door
and got in. “Hey, what's this?” he said. “A telephone? They didn't have telephones in many cars over thirty years ago!” “Doesn't work, of course,” said Al. “Don't know that it ever did. Doesn't appear it was ever really hooked up to nothing. I bought the car from the old woman's son and he couldn't tell me about it, either. Just said he always thought it was odd, too. What'd the old lady need a phone in her car for, anyway?” Al laughed. “I guess I should charge you extra for it!”
Harry slid back out and handed his two twenties to Al. “Come on, Al. You can trust me for it. You know me. I ain't gonna go run nowhere and hide.” “You don't ever have enough dough to go nowhere!” said Al. “But I guess I can let you take it. Come on in the office and sign the paper and you can drive it out right now. She runs real good.”
Harry drove his cherry 1957 Buick all over town that day, showing it off to everybody, proud as could be. After cruising around the neighborhood a few times he decided to take it out into the country for a real spin, to cut it loose and see what she could do on the open road. Not far past the city limits it began to rain. Harry put on the windshield wipers and they worked just fine, humming away as they cleared the water from view. Harry gave the Buick the gun, hurtling along the highway like a yellow flame. Rounding a curve, however, the tires hit a slick spot and the Buick spun out of Harry's control. He fought to keep the car on the road but it wobbled, slid and finally flew off the side into a ditch. The impact knocked Harry out.
“This is the operator. How may I help you? Hello, this is the operator speaking. How may I be of assistance?” Harry came to slowly, awakened by the sound of a voice. Someone was speaking to him. But who? He shook his head, opened his eyes, and saw that the telephone receiver had fallen off the hook. “Hello? Hello? This is the operator. What number do you want?” The voice was coming from the car phone. Harry shook his head again. He thought this must be his imagination, that his head was full of cobwebs from the crash. But no, it was the operator talking.
Harry picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said. “Operator? I'm sorry, I...I've just been in an accident and I'm stuck in a ditch. I mean my car is stuck. I must have lost control in the storm and gone off the road. Yes, I'm all right, I think,” he told her. “Where am I?” Harry struggled around in the seat to look out the window. The rain had stopped. “About fifteen miles past the city limits, I guess. On the old Valley Road. Could you call a tow truck for me? Yes, certainly, Operator. I'll hold on.” Harry shook his head again and felt his shoulder, his legs. He seemed to be in one piece, not seriously hurt. Another voice came on the line. “Bud's Service Station? Right, yes, well, I've had an accident. She told you? Twenty minutes? Great, great. No, I guess I'll be here all right.” Harry hung up the telephone and stared at it.
Twenty minutes later a truck pulled up. The lettering on the sides of the doors of the cab said BUD'S TOW 24 HOURS. A large man, about fifty years old, with a two-day growth of beard and an unlit cigar stub stuck in his mouth, climbed down out of the cab and came over to where Harry was standing beside the Buick. The man wore a dark blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled partway up each meaty forearm. The name Bud was emblazoned above the left front pocket.
“They don't make these new buggies like the old ones,” Bud said, as he looked the Buick over. Harry laughed. “That's pretty good,” said Harry. “She was holding the road pretty well until that curve back there.” Bud grunted and bent down to look at the right front wheel that was twisted halfway around. Bud grunted again as he raised himself back up. “Yeah, I keep my daddy's old '36 Packard runnin',” he said. “Now that's an automobile that won't let you down so long as you take care of it. They just churn these babies out now in too much of a hurry. They don't make 'em to last. Well, let's see if we can get her out of this,” said Bud, as he walked back to the tow truck.
Bud had the Buick up and out of the ditch in ten minutes. “Hop up in the cab,” he told Harry. “We'll take her back to the station and get that wheel straightened out.” Harry and Bud
climbed into the truck and Bud started off toward town. He reached over and snapped on the radio. “Say,” he said, “I noticed that telephone in the car. You rig that up yourself? What is it, shortwave?” Harry nodded, confused. “No, er . . . yes, yeah, that's it.”
The truck radio buzzed as it warmed up and Bud fiddled with the dial as he drove. “Got to hear the game. Who're you bettin' on? The Braves or the Yanks?” “What?” asked Harry. “In the Series, it starts today, you know. I like Milwaukee myself. Spahn and Burdette are gonna be tough to beat in a short Series,” said Bud. “But I'm afraid of that crafty little lefty, Ford. I'm pretty sure of one thing, though.” “What's that?” asked Harry, still trying to figure out what was going on. “That bum Larsen won't pitch another perfect game like he did last year.” Bud laughed. “I'd bet the station on that!”
“But Larsen pitched his perfect game in the '56 Series!” said Harry. “That's right, pal,” Bud answered. “Like I said, last year. Probably nobody'll do that again in our lifetime, I'll bet.” Just then the radio kicked in, and the voice of Mel Allen, the New York Yankees' announcer, filled the cab of the truck. “Welcome to the broadcast of the World Series,” said Mel Allen in his unmistakable, mellifluous drawl. “It's a beautiful afternoon here on October second, nineteen hundred and fifty-seven, as the Milwaukee Braves and the New York Yankees prepare to do battle in the House that Ruth Built.”
Harry rubbed his head, unable to speak. Then he relaxed and began to smile, suddenly comfortable with the situation. “So whaddaya think?” asked Bud. “The Braves'll win it in seven games,” Harry said. “You can bet on it.” “That's what I wanted to hear!” said Bud, pounding a fist on the steering wheel. Harry just grinned and watched the road. As the truck passed the City Limits sign, Harry said, “I might put a few bucks down on the Braves myself. Yeah, I think I'll do just that.”