The Last Detective (11 page)

“He loves you.”

“Oh, that's too perfect. God knows what's happening to Ben, but it's all about him to you.”

Pike considered her.

“You don't like me.”

“I don't like the way violence follows you; you and him. I've known police officers all my life, and none of them live like this. I know federal and state prosecutors who've spent
years
building cases against murderers and mob bosses, and none of them have their children stolen—in
New Orleans,
for God's sake, and none of them draw violence like you! I was out of my mind to get involved in this.”

Pike considered her, then shrugged.

“I haven't heard the tape. All I know is what Starkey told us. Do you believe it?”

“No. Of course not. I told him so. Jesus, do I have to have that conversation again?”

She blinked, then crossed her arms, holding tight.

“Go
ddamn
it, I hate to cry.”

Pike said, “Me, too.”

She rubbed hard at her face.

“I can't tell if that's a joke. I never can tell if you're joking.”

“If you don't believe those things, then trust him.”

She shouted now.

“It's about
Ben
. It's not about me or him or you. I have to protect myself and my son. I cannot have this insanity in my life. I am
normal!
I want to be
normal!
Are you so perverted that you think this is normal? It isn't! It is insane!”

She raised her fists as if she wanted to pound his chest. He would have let her, but she only stood with her hands in the air, crying.

Pike didn't know what else to say. He watched her for a time, then turned off the lights.

“Turn them on after I'm gone.”

He let himself out. He slipped down the stairs and through the shrubs, thinking about what she had said until he was alongside the Marquis. The windows were down. Fontenot was hunched low behind the wheel like a ferret peering over a log. Here was Pike, ten feet away, and Fontenot didn't know. Pike hated him for it. Fontenot had seen Elvis come out of Lucy's apartment, and Pike hated him for having seen his friend in such pain. The empty moments that swirled around Pike filled with rage. Their growing weight became a tide. Pike could have killed Fontenot ten minutes ago, and thought about killing him now.

Pike moved closer to the Marquis. He touched the rear door. Fontenot didn't know. Pike slapped the roof, the sound as loud as a gunshot. Fontenot made a startled grunt as he jumped, and scrambled under his jacket for his gun.

Pike aimed at Fontenot's head. Fontenot went completely still when he saw Pike's gun. He relaxed a bit when he recognized Pike, but he was too scared to move.

“Jesus Christ, what are you doing?”

“Watching you.”

Fontenot's face floated at the end of Pike's gun like a target balloon. Pike tried to speak, but the wave of heavy moments drowned his voice into a whisper and threatened to carry him away.

“I want to tell you something.”

Fontenot glanced up and down the sidewalk like he expected to see someone else.

“You scared the shit out of me, you motherfucker. Where'd you come from? What in hell are you doin'?”

Pike emptied the moments as they washed over him. He fought the wave back.

“I want to tell you.”

“What?”

The moments emptied. Pike had control. He lowered the gun.

Fontenot said, “What is it you wanna say, goddamnit?”

Pike didn't answer.

He melted into the darkness. A few minutes later he was once more in the rubber tree, and Fontenot still didn't know.

Pike thought about Lucy and Elvis. Cole had never told him very much, either, but you didn't need to ask if you looked closely. The worlds that people build for themselves are an open book to their lives—people build what they never had, but always wanted. Everyone was the same that way.

Pike waited. Pike watched. Pike was.

The empty moments rolled past.

12
            

Family Man

H
is name was Philip James Cole until he was six years old. Then his mother announced, smiling at him as if she were giving him the most wonderful gift in the world, “I'm going to change your name to Elvis. That's a much more special name than Philip and James, don't you think? From now on, you're Elvis.”

Jimmie Cole, six years old, didn't know if his mother was playing a game. Maybe it was the uncertainty that made him so scared.

“I'm Jimmie.”

“No, now you're Elvis. Elvis is just the finest name, don't you think, just the finest name in the world? I would've named you Elvis when you were born but I hadn't heard of it yet. Go ahead and say it. Elvis. Elvis.”

His mother smiled expectantly. Jimmie shook his head.

“I don't like this game.”

“Say it, Elvis. That's your new name. Isn't it exciting? We'll tell everyone tomorrow.”

Jimmie started crying.

“I'm
Jimmie
.”

She smiled at him with all the love in the world, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed his forehead with warm, sweet lips.

“No, you're Elvis. I'm going to call you Elvis from now on and so is everyone else.”

She had been gone for twelve days. She did that sometimes, just up and left without saying a word because that was the way she was, a free spirit she called it, a crazy head case he had heard his grandfather say. She would vanish and her son would wake to find their apartment or trailer or wherever they were living that month empty. The boy would find his way to a neighbor where someone would call his grandfather or his mother's older sister and one of them would take him in until she returned. Every time she left he was angry with himself for having driven her away. Every day while she was gone he promised God he would be a better boy if only she'd come back.

“You'll be happy being an Elvis, Elvis, just wait and see.”

That night, his grandfather, an older man with pallid skin who smelled like mothballs, waved his newspaper in frustration.

“You can't change the boy's name. He's six years old, for Christ's sake. He
has
a name.”

“Of course I can change his name,” his mother said brightly. “I'm his mother.”

His grandfather stood, then sat again in a wide tattered chair. His grandfather was always angry and impatient.

“That's crazy, girl. What's wrong with you?”

His mother pulled and twisted her fingers.

“There is
NOTHING
wrong with me! Don't say that!”

His grandfather's hand flapped.

“What kind of mother runs off like you, gone for days without a word? Where do you come up with this crazy stuff like with this name? The boy has a name! You should get a job, for Christ's sake, I'm tired of paying your bills. You should go back to school.”

His mother twisted her fingers so desperately that Jimmie thought she would pull them off.

“There is
NOTHING NOTHING NOTHING
wrong with me! Something's wrong with
YOU!”

She ran out of the tiny house and Jimmie ran after her, terrified that he would never see her again. Later, at their apartment, she spent the evening working with a small oil paint kit she had bought at the TG&Y, painting a picture of a red bird.

Jimmie wanted her to be happy, so he said, “That's pretty, Mama.”

“The colors aren't right. I can never make the colors right. Isn't that sad?”

Jimmie didn't sleep that night, fearful that she would leave.

The next day she acted as if nothing had happened. She brought Jimmie to school, marched him to the head of his first-grade class, and made the announcement.

“We want everyone to know that Jimmie has a new name. I want all of you to call him Elvis. Isn't that a really special name? Everyone, I want you to meet Elvis Cole.”

Mrs. Pine, a kindly woman who was Jimmie's teacher, stared at Jimmie's mother with a strange expression. Some of the kids laughed. Carla Weedle, who was stupid, did exactly what she was told. “Hello, Elvis.” All of the kids laughed. Jimmie bit his tongue so he would not cry.

His teacher said, “Mrs. Cole, may I speak with you, please?”

During lunch that day, a second-grader named Mark Toomis, who had a head shaped like a potato and four older brothers, made fun of him.

“What do you think you are, a rock and roll greaser? I think you're queer.”

Mark Toomis pushed him down and everyone laughed.

Three months earlier, his mother disappeared in the middle of summer. Like every other time she went away, Jimmie woke to find her gone. Like all the other times, she did not leave a note or tell him that she was going; she just went. They were living in a converted garage apartment behind a big house then, but Jimmie was scared to ask the old people who lived in the house if they knew where his mother was; he had heard them yelling at her about the rent. Jimmie waited all day, hoping that his mom hadn't really left, but by dark he ran crying to the house.

That night, his Aunt Lynn, who spent a lot of time on the phone whispering to his grandfather, fed him peach pie, let him watch television, and snuggled him on the couch. She worked at a department store downtown and dated a man named Charles.

His Aunt Lynn said, “She loves you, Jimmie. She just has her problems.”

“I try to be good.”

“You
are
a good boy, Jimmie! This isn't about you.”

“Then why does she leave?”

His Aunt Lynn hugged him. Her breasts made him feel safe.

“I don't know. She just does. You know what I think?”

“Uh-uh.”

“I think she's trying to find your father. Wouldn't that be great, if she found your daddy?”

Jimmie felt better after that, and even kind of excited. Jimmie had never met his father or even seen a picture of him. No one talked about him, not even his mom, and no one knew his name. Jimmie once asked if his grandfather knew his dad, but the old man had only stared at him.

“Your stupid mother probably doesn't even know.”

Jimmie's mom stayed gone five days that time, then, like always, returned without explanation.

Now, all these months later, that evening after her twelve-day absence and the announcement of Jimmie's new name, Jimmie and his mom were eating hamburgers at the tiny table in their kitchen.

He said, “Mommy?”

“What is it, Elvis?”

“Why did you change my name?”

“I gave you a special name because you're such a special little boy. I like that name so much I might change my own name, too. Then we would both be Elvis.”

Jimmie had spent most of the past twelve days thinking about what his Aunt Lynn told him that summer—that his mom was searching for his daddy when she went away. He wanted it to be true. He wanted her to find him and make him come home so that they could be a family like everyone else. Then she wouldn't go away anymore. He worked up his courage to ask.

“Were you trying to find my daddy? Is that where you went?”

His mother stopped with the hamburger halfway to her mouth. She stared at him for the longest time with a harsh cast to her eye, then put down her hamburger.

“Of course not, Elvis. Why ever would I do something like that?”

“Who's my daddy?”

She leaned back, her face playful.

“You know I can't tell you that. Your daddy's name is a secret. I can't ever tell anyone your daddy's name and I won't.”

“Was his name Elvis?”

His mother laughed again.

“No, you silly.”

“Was it Jimmie?”

“No, and it wasn't Philip, either, and if you ask me every other name that ever was I'll tell you no, no, no. But I will tell you one special thing.”

Jimmie grew scared. She had never told him anything about his father, and he suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to know. But she was smiling. Kinda.

“What?”

She slapped the table with both hands, her face as bright as an electric bulb. She leaned close, her face playful and gleaming.

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes!”

His mother seemed alive with an energy that she could not contain. Her hands kneaded the edge of the table.

“This is my gift to you. My one special gift, a gift that no one else can give to you, only me.”

“Please tell me, Mama.
Please.”

“I'm the only one who knows. I'm the only one who can give you this special thing, do you understand?”

“I understand!”

“Will you be good if I tell you? Will you be extra-special good, and keep it a secret just between us?”

“I'll be good!”

His mother sighed deeply, then touched his face with a love so gentle he would remember it for years.

“All right, then, I'll tell you, an extra-special secret for an extra-special boy, just between us, forever and always.”

“Between us. Tell me, Mama, please!”

“Your father is a human cannonball.”

Jimmie stared at her.

“What's a human cannonball?”

“A man so brave that he fires himself from a cannon just so he can fly through the air. Think about that, Elvis—flying through the air, all by himself up above everyone else, all those people wishing they could be up there with him, so brave and so free. That's your father, Elvis, and he loves us both very much.”

Jimmie didn't know what to say. His mother's eyes danced with light as if she had waited her entire life to tell him.

“Why does he have to be a secret? Why can't we tell everyone about him?”

Her eyes grew sad, and she touched his face again in the soft and gentle way.

“He's our secret because he's so special, Elvis, which is both a blessing and a curse. People want you to be ordinary. They don't like it when people are different. They don't like it when a man soars over their heads while they stand in the dirt. People hate you when you're special; it reminds them of everything that they aren't, Elvis, so we'll keep him as our little secret to save ourselves that heartache. You just remember that he loves you and that I love you, too. You remember that always, no matter where I go or how long I'm away or how bad times get. Will you remember that?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“All right, then. Now let's go to bed.”

Her crying woke him later that night. He crept to her door where he watched his mother thrash beneath her sheets, speaking in voices he did not understand.

Elvis Cole said, “I love you, too, Mama.”

Four days later she vanished again.

His Aunt Lynn brought Elvis to his grandfather, who took the newspaper outside so that he could read in peace. That night, the old man made them potted meat sandwiches with lots of mayonnaise and sweet pickles, and served them on paper towels. The old man had been distant all afternoon, so Elvis was scared to say anything, but he wanted to tell someone about his father so badly that he thought he would choke.

Elvis said, “I asked her about my daddy.”

The old man chewed his sandwich. A dab of white mayonnaise was glopped on his chin.

“He's a human cannonball.”

“Is that what she told you?”

“He gets shot out of a gun so that he can fly through the air. He loves me very much. He loves Mommy, too. He loves us both.”

The old man stared at Elvis as he finished eating his sandwich. Elvis thought he looked sad. When the sandwich was gone, the old man balled his paper towel and threw it away.

“She made that up. She's out of her fucking mind.”

The next day, his grandfather called the Child Welfare Division of the Department of Social Services. They came for Elvis that afternoon.