A Stained White Radiance (19 page)

“Smart businessman that he is, Nig tells the broad that she either delivers up her brothers or he yanks her bond and she waits for her trial in the parish jail. Which is not what she envisioned for herself, because this broad is one beautiful hot-assed piece of equipment who the bull dykes will cannibalize. So Nig thinks he's got her and she'll have both her brothers in his office in twenty-four hours. But the broad pulls one on Nig that he doesn't expect.

“She says if he messes with her bond, threatens her again, or gets in her face about anything, she'll have a bedtime chat with Bobby Earl, and Willie and Nig's state license is going to be hanging out in the breeze. Nig checked it out. She's Bobby Earl's regular punch across the river. Once a week he's at her pad like clockwork. She brags it around among the lowlifes that she fucks him cross-eyed on the ceiling.”

“I'm not following you, Clete. Who cares? This doesn't get us any closer to Fluck, Gates, or Raintree. Tell Nig to give his story to the
Picayune
about election time.”

“Here's the rest of it. Nig says the broad's brothers are bikers and they were both in the AB in Angola and Huntsville.”

“I don't know if that's a big lead.”

“You got anything else? It's Thursday. Nig says
Thursday is poontang night for Bobby in Algiers. We tail him over there and see what happens. Come on, Bobby Earl's an amateur. We'll make drops of blood pop on his forehead.”

I looked out at the rain denting the trees and thought for a moment. The rain was blowing across the truck awning of the black man selling strawberries and watermelons, and in the south, against a black sky, lightning was striking against the Gulf.

“All right,” I said.

“Why all the thought?”

“No reason. I'll be at your apartment in about three hours.”

Clete had enough problems of his own and didn't need to know everything about a police investigation, I told myself. I called Bootsie and told her that I had to go to New Orleans, but I promised to be back that night, no matter how late it was. I meant it, too.

W
E USED
C
LETE
'
S
battered Plymouth for the tail. It was 7:30, and we were parked a block down the street from Bobby Earl's driveway; the sky was still black with clouds and rainwater ran high and dark in the gutters. Out on Lake Pontchartrain I could see the lighted cabins of a yacht rocking in the swell. Clete smoked a cigarette and blew the smoke out his window into the rain-flecked air. He wore his porkpie hat over the scalped divots and stitches in his head, and a purple-and-white-striped shirt and seersucker trousers that rode up high on his
ankles. He kept rubbing the back of his thick neck and craning his head.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Yeah, there is. I hurt from head to foot. Man, I must be getting old to let punks like that take me down.”

“Sometimes you lose.”

“You're always quoting Hemingway to me. Do you know what he told his kid when his kid asked something about the importance of being a good loser? He said, ‘Son, being a good loser requires one thing—practice.' ”

“Clete, we do it by the numbers tonight.”

“Who said different? But you got to make 'em sweat, mon. When they see you coming, something inside them should try to crawl away and hide.”

“There he goes. Try to stay a block behind him,” I said.

Clete started up the Plymouth's engine. The rusted-out muffler, which was wired to the frame with coat hangers, sounded like a garbage truck's. The white Chrysler headed up the street with its lights on and turned at the corner toward Lakeshore Drive.

“Don't worry, he's not going to make us,” Clete said. “Our man's got his mind on getting his Johnson serviced. I've got to scope out this broad. Nig says she looks like a movie star. When I was in Vice—”

“He's not going to Algiers. He's turning the wrong way.”

“He's probably picking up some rubbers.”

“Clete—”

“I didn't drag you down here just to fire in the well. Take it easy.”

We watched the Chrysler speed down the wet boulevard along the lakefront, then slow and turn through the iron gates of the yacht club. The taillights disappeared down a palm-lined drive that led to an enormous white glass-domed building by a golf course. Clete pulled to the curb and stared glumly through the windshield. The waves out on the lake were dark green and blowing with strips of froth. He breathed loudly through his nose.

“It's all right,” I said.

“The hell it is. I'm going to take that cocksucker down.”

“We don't need him to talk to the girl.”

“I don't know where she is. He meets her in different bars, then they go to a motel.”

“We'll give it a little while. Maybe he'll head over to Algiers later.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said. His eyes moved over the rolling fairways and oak trees, the parking lot in front of the main building, the sailboats rising and falling in their slips. “There's two or three exits to this place. We'd better park inside. I'm going to have a talk with Nig later about credibility. That's the problem with this PI stuff, you've got about the same clout as the lowlifes. I always feel like I'm picking up table scraps.”

We drove through the gate and parked at the back of the lot, where we could see the Chrysler two rows away, under a sodium lamp. Clete
reached into the back seat for his Styrofoam cooler, pulled out two fried-oyster poor-boy sandwiches, a can of Jax for himself, and a Dr Pepper for me. He kept brushing crumbs off his shirtfront while he ate. When he finished a beer he crushed the can in his huge hand, threw it out onto the parking lot, and snapped open another one. He squinted one eye at me.

“Dave, have you got something else on the agenda?” he said.

“Not really.”

“You're not going to see Joey Meatballs again and forget to invite your old partner to the party, are you?”

“Gouza doesn't rattle. We're going to have to take down somebody around him.”

“It's been tried before. They're usually a lot more afraid of Joey than they are of us. I heard he busted out a snitch's teeth in Angola with a ballpeen hammer. Every punk and addict and pervert in New Orleans knows that story, too.”

“How heavy do you figure he's into the crack trade?”

“He's not. It's pieced off too many times before it gets to the projects. Gouza's on the other end. Big shipments, pure stuff, out of Florida or South America. I hear his people distribute to maybe four or five guys in Orleans Parish, they make their profit on quantity, then they're out of the chain with minimum risk. Even the greaseballs won't go into the welfare projects. I had to go after a jumper for Nig at the St. Thomas. Two kids on the roof
filled up a thirty-gallon garbage can with water and dropped it on me, bottom end down. It missed me by a foot and flattened a kid's tricycle like a half-dollar. . . . But you didn't really answer my question, noble mon. I think you've got something else on the dance card and you're not cutting ole Cletus in on it.”

“This case has been all dead ends, Clete. When I learn something, I'll tell you. My big problem is the Sonniers. I feel like locking them all up as material witnesses.”

“Maybe it's not a bad idea. Taking showers with child molesters and mainline bone smokers helps get your perspective clear sometimes.”

“I couldn't make it stick. They weren't actually witness to anything.”

“Then let them live with their own shit.”

“I'm still left with a dead cop.”

We sat for a long time in the rain. The band of cobalt light on the horizon gradually faded under the rim of storm clouds, and the lake grew dark and then glazed with the yellow reflection of ballroom lights in the club. I could taste salt in the wind. I pulled my rainhat down over my eyes and fell asleep.

I see Bootsie when she's nineteen, her hair as bright as copper on the pillow, her nude body as pink and soft as a newly opened rose. I put my head between her young breasts.

When I awoke the rain had stopped completely, the moon had broken through a rip in the clouds over the lake, and Clete was not in the car. I could
hear orchestra music from the ballroom. Then I saw him, in silhouette, his wide back framed in the opened driver's door of Bobby Earl's Chrysler, his elbows cocked, both his arms pointed down toward his loins. He rotated his head on his neck as though he were standing indifferently at a public urinal. Even at that distance I could see the spray splashing on the dashboard, the steering wheel, the leather seats. Clete shook himself, flexed his knees, and zipped his fly. He cupped his Zippo in his hands, lit a cigarette, and puffed it in the corner of his mouth as he walked back toward the car and squinted up approvingly at the clearing sky overhead.

“I don't believe it.”

“You got to let a guy like Bobby know you're around,” he said, slamming the door behind him. “Ah, lookie there, our man scored after all. I think he's one of these guys who plans on marrying up and screwing down.”

Bobby Earl walked across the parking lot in a white suit, charcoal shirt, and white-and-black striped tie. A red-headed woman in a sequined evening gown held on to his arm and tried to step across the puddles in her high heels. Both she and Bobby Earl balanced champagne glasses gingerly in their hands. The woman was laughing uncontrollably at something Bobby Earl was telling her.

Earl opened the passenger door for her, then got behind the wheel. The light from the sodium lamp shone through his front window, and I saw his silhouette freeze, then his shoulders stiffen, as though
he had just become aware that a geological fissure had opened up below his automobile. Then he got out of the car, staring incredulously at his upturned palms, the wet streaks in his suit, the damp imprints of his shoes.

Clete started the engine, and the rusted-out muffler thundered off the asphalt and reverberated between the rows of cars. He turned out into the aisle and drove slowly past the Chrysler, the engine and frame clanking like broken glass.

“What's happenin', Bob?” he asked, then flipped his cigarette in a high, sparking arc, punched in a rock tape, and gave Bobby Earl the thumbs-up sign.

Bobby Earl's face slipped by the window like an outraged balloon. The woman in the sequined evening gown walked hurriedly back toward the clubhouse, her spiked heels clicking across the puddles.

A
LL MEN HAVE
a religion or totems of some kind. Even the atheist is committed to an enormous act of faith in his belief that the universe created itself and the subsequent creation of intelligent life was simply a biological accident. Eddy Raintree's votive attempt at metaphysics was just a little more eccentric than most. Both the gunbull in Angola and the biker girl in Algiers had said that Raintree was wired into astronomy and weirdness. In New Orleans, if your interest ran to UFOs (called “ufology” by enthusiasts), Island voodoo, witchcraft, teleportation through the third eye in your forehead, palm reading, the study of ectoplasm,
the theory that Atlanteans are living among us in another dimension, and herbal cures for everything from brain cancer to impacted wisdom teeth, you eventually went to Tante Majorie's occult bookstore on Royal Street in the Quarter.

Tante Majorie was big all over and so black that her skin had a purple sheen to it. She streaked her high cheekbones with rouge and wore gold granny glasses, and her hair, which was pulled back tightly in a bun, had grayed so that it looked like dull gunmetal. She lived over her shop with another lesbian, an elderly white woman, and fifteen cats who sat on the furniture, the bookshelves, and the ancient radiator, and tracked soiled cat litter throughout the apartment.

She served tea on a silver service, then studied the photo of Eddy Raintree. Her French doors were open on the balcony, and I could hear the night noise from the street. I had known her almost twenty years and had never been able to teach her my correct name.

“You say he got a tiger on his arm?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I 'member him. He use to come in every three, four mont's. That's the one. I ain't forgot him. He's 'fraid of black people.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He always want me to read his hand. But when I pick it up in my fingers, it twitch just like a frog. I'd tell him, It ain't shoe polish, darlin'. It ain't gonna rub off on you. Why you looking for him?”

“He helped murder a sheriff's deputy.”

She looked out the French doors at the jungle of potted geraniums, philodendron, and banana trees on her balcony.

“You ain't got to look for him, Mr. Streak. That boy ain't got a long way to run,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I told him it ain't no accident he got that tiger on his arm. I told him tiger burning bright in the forests of the night. Just like in the Bible, glowing out there in the trees. That tiger gonna eat him.”

“I respect your wisdom and your experience, Tante Majorie, but I need to find this man.”

She twisted a strand of hair between her fingers and gazed thoughtfully at a calico cat nursing a half-dozen kittens in a cardboard box.

“Every mont' I send out astrology readings for people on my list,” she said. “He's one of them people. But Raintree ain't the name he give me. I don't 'member the name he give me. Maybe you ain't suppose to find him, Mr. Streak.”

“My name's Dave, Tante Majorie. Could I see your list?”

“It ain't gonna he'p. His kind come with a face, what they get called don't matter. They come out of the womb without no name, without no place in the house where they're born, without no place down at a church, a school, a job down at a grocery sto', there ain't a place or a person they belong to in this whole round world. Not till that day they turn and look at somebody at the bus stop, or in the saloon, or sitting next to them in the hot-pillow house, and they see that animal that ain't been fed
in that other person's eyes. That's when they know who they always been.”