Sailor laughed. “Got a point there, Coot.”
Coot stood up. “Gotta take a leak, too,” he said, “while I still got the chance. How you doin', Pace? Stayin' out of trouble?”
“Mostly.”
“All a man can do,” said Coot.
JALOUX
Inez's Fais-Dodo Bar had been a fixture on Toulouse Street in the Quarter for more than thirty years. The original owner, Inez Engracia, had been shot to death by a jealous lover six months after the place opened. Inez's heir, her sister Lurma, sold out to Marcello “Crazy Eyes” Santos, the organized crime king of the Deep South, who was now serving a life sentence in the Federal Correctional Institution at Texarkana for conspiracy to commit murder and the murder of his mistress, Mona Costatroppo. Mona had been killed in a hotel room in Chicago, where she was waiting to testify against Santos as part of her participation in the Federal Witness Protection Program. The Crazy Eyes Gang and its holdings, legitimized as Bayou Enterprises, were being overseen in Santos's absence by Carmine “Poppy” Papavero. Papavero had invited Bob Lee Boyle to have a drink with him at Inez's to discuss the possibility of Bayou Enterprises becoming involved in the distribution of Bob Lee's Gator Gone repellent and related products. Bob Lee knew better than to reject outright Papavero's overture, so he accepted the meeting and asked Sailor to accompany him.
“You know more about this kind of thing than I do, Sail, that's why I wanted you to come along.”
Bob Lee and Sailor were walking along Toulouse toward Inez's at nine o'clock in the evening. They'd left Bob Lee's Grand Prix in the parking lot of Le Richelieu on Barracks Street, where Sailor knew the attendant, Fudge Clay. Fudge's brother, Black Henry, had been at Huntsville with Sailor for two years until another inmate had carved up Black Henry in the shower room, the result of miscommunication concerning a sexual question.
“What the hell I know, Bob Lee? Only thing is to listen to the man, hear what he has to say and take it or don't take it from there.”
The two Gator Gone representatives turned into the Fais-Dodo and Sailor immediately spotted Carmine Papavero. The Gulf Coast mob boss, wearing his signature burgundy blazer, was seated at a large corner table with three other men. Papavero's photograph had appeared often
enough in the local newspapers and on television since he'd replaced Marcello Santos that even Bob Lee, who made no effort to keep up on current events, recognized him. As Sailor and Bob Lee approached his table, Papavero rose to greet them. He was a large man, his belly strained at the single-buttoned sports coat, and he wore a wide yellow tie decorated by a hand-painted pink flamingo.
“Mr. Boyle, I believe,” said Carmine Papavero, reaching his thick right hand toward Bob Lee, who took it quickly into his own and participated in a solid shake.
“Yes, sir,” said Bob Lee. “And this is my colleague, Mr. Sailor Ripley.”
Papavero withdrew his right hand from Bob Lee's and thrust it at Sailor, who reciprocated.
“A pleasure, Mr. Ripley. Please, sit down both of you.”
Two of the men who had been seated at Papavero's table got up and walked away, allowing Bob Lee and Sailor to take their chairs. Papavero did not bother to introduce the man who remained, an extremely thin, blue-skinned individual with a pinhead and creaseless ears the size and shape of dieffenbachia leaves. Bob Lee looked once at the man and did not look at him again. Sailor recognized the man instantly as the former inmate at Huntsville who had stabbed Black Henry Clay, Fudge Clay's brother, to death in the shower room. He was not certain if the man, whose name was Zero Diplopappus, recognized him.
“You fellas need drinks,” Papavero said, and signaled a waitress who stood near the table, her only duty while it was occupied by Carmine and his group.
“Dixie,” said Bob Lee.
“Two,” said Sailor.
“Two Dixies,” said the waitress. “Anybody else need anything?”
Zero Diplopappus's ears waved once, as if a sudden breeze had sliced through the room, but he did not speak. Papavero did not reply and the waitress walked away.
“Mr. Papavero, sir,” said Bob Lee.
“Please, call me Poppy. All of my friends do.”
“I just want you to know, sir, that I agreed to meet with you out of respect, not because I'm interested in changing my arrangements for product distribution.”
“That's fine, Mr. BoyleâBob LeeâI understand, and I appreciate your candor. But I am in a position to make you an offer, a generous offer, on behalf of Bayou Enterprises for fifty-one percent of the Gator Gone Corporation. You would be retained, of course, as director of the company. Name your price.”
“Can't do it, Mr. Papavero.”
“Poppy, please.”
“I just don't want to sell Gator Gone. It's all I have. I invented the repellent and started by manufacturing it and shipping it out of my garage. I worked real hard, along with Sailor here, to build up the business. We just now got it goin' good, and I ain't ready to give it up. Don't know that I'll ever be.”
The waitress brought the two beers, placed them on the table along with two glasses and left.
“Mr. Ripley, is it?” Papavero said to Sailor.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why don't you take your beer over to the bar and drink it there. I'd like to discuss this business in more detail with Bob Lee here, a little more privately, if you don't mind.”
“I don't mind,” said Sailor. “Okay with you, Bob Lee?”
Bob Lee nodded and Sailor stood up, picked up his Dixie and went over to the bar. Zero stayed in his seat.
“You a friend of Poppy's?”
Sailor turned around and saw a young woman, no more than twenty-two, with short, white-blond hair, wearing long purple and pink parrot earrings. Her small cat's eyes were clear green.
“Just met him.”
“I'm Jaloux Marron. How about you?”
Sailor smiled. “I'm nothin' of the kind. But my name's Sailor.”
Jaloux Marron smiled, showing uneven, very white teeth.
“Hey, Sailor, buy me a drink?”
“Buy you a beer's about it. I ain't rich.”
“Good enough.”
Jaloux gave the high sign to the bartender, caught his eye and pointed to Sailor's bottle, then at herself. The bartender nodded, cracked open a cold Dixie and set it in front of her.
“How you like N.O.?” she asked Sailor.
“Pretty much. I live here.”
“No kiddin'? You look too decent.”
“First time anybody accused me of that.”
“Guess there's more to you than meets the eye.”
“You meet my eye just fine, Miss Marron.”
“Just Jaloux'll do.”
“Everybody's damn informal around here.”
“It's that kinda place. You want to go someplace else, get some room service?”
Sailor laughed. “Can't do it.”
“Guess you really are decent.”
“Really married, anyhow. You know Papavero?”
“Sorta. I work for him, just like everyone else.”
“I don't.”
“Yeah, you-all're too decent.”
Bob Lee came over and touched Sailor's arm.
“Let's go, Sail,” he said, and headed for the door.
Sailor took a long drink of Dixie, then said, “Been swell meetin' ya, Jaloux. You're a good-lookin' lady, if you don't mind my sayin' so.”
“Don't never mind that kinda talk, Sailor. Be nice to see you again, especially when you ain't feelin' so decent.”
Jaloux took a card from a small sequined handbag and held it out to Sailor.
“Don't lose this, okay?” she said.
He took the card and read it. The words NIGHT TALK and a telephone number were printed on it. Sailor looked into her little green eyes.
“Try not to,” he said, and walked out of the bar.
“What d'ya think?” Sailor asked Bob Lee as they headed toward Barracks Street.
“Think it's time to go home, watch âFishin' Hole' on ESPN.”
At the parking lot, Sailor decided not to say anything to Fudge Clay about seeing Black Henry's slayer in the Fais-Dodo, and he didn't exactly know why.
DOWN TO ZERO
“We ain't gonna need no masks,” said Smokey Joe, “because they ain't gonna be nobody left over to identify us.”
“Don't mention that little fact to Ripley, brother. Might could weird him out.”
Lefty Grove and Smokey Joe Rattler were sitting in their Jimmy, which was parked on Decatur Street near the corner of Esplanade, waiting for Pace. Lefty Grove zipped open the green Tulane Wave athletic bag that was on the floor between his feet, removed a Black Magic sheath-sprung switchblade and put it into his pants pocket. He took out two Colt Pythons, stuck one in his belt and handed the other to Smokey Joe.
“Where'd ya find these nifty partners?” Smokey Joe asked.
“Skeeter McCovery brung 'em back from Mobile last month. Skeeter says there's more weapons per square mile in Alabama than there are wanted men in Florida, which is sayin' somethin'.”
“Well, he ain't no liar and he done a job or two. You figure on Ripley packin'?”
“Don't see a need for it. We got enough to put out all the lights.”
The Rattler brothers sat and smoked Marlboros. Lefty Grove was wearing a powder blue tank top with the words HAVE YOU HUGGED A COONASS TODAY? stenciled on the front, black Levi's with the bottoms rolled twice, and a pair of brand new Head tennis shoes without socks. Smokey Joe wore a black tee shirt emblazoned with a rubberized image of Michael Jordan executing a reverse dunk, the rubber part of Jordan's dangling tongue torn off, faded Lee Riders ripped at both knees, and green Converse high tops without socks. Both boys planned to wear red and white cotton handkerchiefs tied around their heads to cover their hair. Tyrus Raymond, their daddy, had told them that people are more easily identified by their hair, both color and style, and by whether or not they have any, than by any other common characteristic.
“How many years Daddy been considered dead now?” asked Smokey Joe.
“ 'Bout twenty, I believe. Why?”
“Don't know. Just thinkin' how his name bein' engraved on that Vietnam Memorial in Washin'ton is kinda spooky.”
“Daddy don't mind. Far's the government knows he's long gone, so he don't have to pay no taxes or nothin' forever. Pay for ever'thin with cash the way he does, use out-of-state driver's licenses and not registerin' nothin' in his name means he's about free as any man can be. Bein' declared legally dead has all the advantages of bein' really dead without none of the drawbacks, such as
bein'
dead. Long as you're alive, you ain't got nothin' to worry about.”
“Seems to me, only way a man got nothin' to worry about is if he
is
dead. Long as you're alive you got problems, Lef', even if all the governments of the world got your account cancelled. Devil got your name down's a differ'nt story.”
“How's that?”
“That ol' boy make you wish you was back on earth payin' your neighbor's taxes, I'm right convinced.”
“Ain't wise makin' reference to no devil around Daddy, you know. He'll think it's Mama's blood talkin'. There's Pace Ripley comin' now.”
Pace walked up to the passenger side and nodded.
“Nice afternoon for a armed robbery, Ripley, don't ya think?” said Lefty Grove.
“Cloudy day like any other.”
The Rattlers wrapped the red and white kerchiefs around their heads, knotted them at the back and got out of the truck. Pace had on a plain white tee shirt, an unzipped beige windbreaker, blue Wranglers and red Air Jordans with tube socks.
“You carry this,” said Smokey Joe, handing Pace a canvas mail sack. “Just do what we talked over and one day we'll three be eatin' Big Macs on Mars.”
Lefty Grove slapped a black Baltimore Orioles baseball cap on Pace's head.
“Wear this,” Lefty Grove said, “so they can't see your hair.”
The Rattlers carried the Pythons stuffed into the front of their pants with their shirts over them. Pace followed behind as they made their way across the railroad tracks by the wharf. It was three-twenty-five on a
Thursday afternoon when they boarded the discarded brown caboose. Zero Diplopappus saw them first, but there was no conversation. Smokey Joe shot Zero in the head at point-blank range and didn't wait for him to go down before facing the other protector of the take and holding the Python in front of his eyes. The money was on a table in large, brown paper shopping bags. Pace shook the contents of each bag into the canvas mail sack while Lefty Grove guarded the door. Nobody spoke. When all of the money had been collected, Pace slung the sack over his right shoulder and exited the caboose with Lefty Grove. Smokey Joe grinned at the man he had covered.
“You're all dead,” croaked the man, whose name was Dewayne Culp. Dewayne Culp's skin was yellow and heavily wrinkled, and he had an enormous Adam's apple that ascended and descended inside his thin, withered neck like a rickety elevator in a decrepit hotel.
“Uh-uh,” said Smokey Joe, before he pulled the trigger again, “you are.”
The three boys were in the Jimmy headed east on Chef Menteur Highway when the two armored car guards entered the caboose. One of them bent over Dewayne Culp, took one look and stood up. The other guard helped Zero Diplopappus to his feet and handed him a handkerchief, which Zero used to wipe away the blood on his face from where he'd been grazed by Smokey Joe's bullet.