Sailor & Lula (43 page)

“It was them two punk cousins of Junior's,” said Zero, “the Rattlers, with another kid. They thought I was dead.”

Zero's massive ears flapped a couple of times, then he laughed.

“Third kid was the likeness of a fella I run into the other day,” he said, “an ex-con I done time with in Texas, name of Sailor Ripley. Would be somethin' if it turned out to be his boy, wouldn't it?”

“Know why the Good Lord created women?”

“Why's that?”

“Sheep couldn't do the dishes.”

The Rattler brothers both laughed hard. They were sitting in the pickup cab. Pace was riding in the back of the truck, his black cap pulled down as far as it would go. The plan was to hide out in Mississippi for a spell, close to Miss Napoleon's Paradise, so Smokey Joe headed the Jimmy north on Interstate 59 toward Meridian, where they'd connect to Highway 45 and shoot straight into Lookout World. Nobody would figure on their being with the Lord's Disturbed Daughters, the Rattlers thought, and this way they could spend some time with Mary Full-of-Grace.

“We'll stash the money with Mama,” said Lefty Grove. “It'll be safe there.”

“You sure, Lef?” said Smokey Joe. “She finds out, she'll just give it away.”

“I'll make sure she don't know she even has it. Hide it when she ain't lookin' in that old trunk from Grammy Yerma ain't been taken out from under her bed since she come there.”

Pace watched the Sportsman's Paradise roll away from under him. He considered the situation, not quite comprehending the fact that he and his semi-moronic compañeros were now officially fugitives from Gulf Coast Criminal Central. Pace had gotten into the deal in the first place based on his notoriety as the son of Sailor Ripley, the Texas killer and bandit. That was a sure-enough hoot, seeing as how Sailor had been caught during his first attempted robbery and the only killing he'd done had been an accident in North Carolina. Pace's daddy had never gotten away with a thing, but his reputation as a hard case, false though it was, had tainted his boy and pressured Pace into acting stupid. Maybe that was it, Pace thought, us Ripleys is simply dumb as they come. No good reason I should be speedin' away with these backyard chicken fuckers. Ought to be life weren't always more ornery a animal.

Pace wished he'd taken along his flask. A healthy hit of Black Bush would drop him over the edge just now. WELCOME TO LOUISIANA flashed by and Pace knew they'd crossed into Mississippi. Suddenly the sun faded and Pace looked up. Black clouds formed like Mike Tyson's fists were about to batter the planet. He pulled his windbreaker up over his head and closed his eyes. Is this what it felt like to you, Daddy, Pace whispered, when you were in the deep shit?

Poppy Papavero and Zero Diplopappus sat in the front seat of Poppy's powder blue BMW, which was parked next to the curb outside ARRIVALS at the New Orleans International Airport. Zero's head had a white bandage wrapped around it that pinned back his elephantine ears so that he looked like Chuck Connors as Geronimo in the movie based on the life of the Apache chief. Both Connors and the gangster had blue eyes, however, rendering any actual resemblance to Geronimo extremely dubious. Poppy puffed on a Monte Christo while they waited for his wife, Perdita, to arrive on a connecting flight from New York. She had been in Europe for three weeks, shopping and sight-seeing.

“Don't worry, Poppy,” said Zero, “we'll find these guys and get the money back. I got a good idea where they are.”

“Yeah? Where's that?”

“Up by Starkville. The Rattler mother's a crazy, been locked up in some home there for years.”

“What makes you think that's where they've gone?”

“They're kids. If they ain't with the papa, which they ain't—‘cause we checked, and that guy's plenty crazy, too—then they're with the mama. My guess is they go see her before goin' anywhere else.”

“Ah, they could be in Memphis by now, or Chicago.”

“I'll get 'em, Poppy, believe me.”

Poppy looked at Zero, took the cigar out of his mouth and grinned. “I do, Zero, I believe you.” He tossed what was left of the Monte Christo out the window.

Zero's eyes narrowed and half closed.

“I'm gonna fillet all three of 'em,” he said.

“Mm, mm,” said Poppy. “I can smell that deep-fried boy cookin' right now.”

At his house in Metairie, Sailor put the card Jaloux Marron had given him on the table by the telephone and dialed the number printed on it. Someone picked up after three rings.

“Night Talk. This is Cindy speakin'. Call me Cin. And what do you want to talk about?”

“Hello,” Sailor said, “I'd like to speak to Jaloux, please.”

“She's on another line at the moment. Would you like to talk to me, or would you prefer to wait? I'm sure I can tell you whatever it is you need to hear.”

“I'm sure you can, but I need to speak with her.”

“Hang on, then, honey.”

A radio station came over the line while Sailor was on hold.

“In other news, the state of Nevada has six hundred to seven hundred fifty new residents who are multiplying rapidly, but many of them may not live out the year. The Nevada Department of Wildlife has transplanted wild turkeys to western and southern parts of the state to establish the birds, which are not native to Nevada, in an effort to increase the population for hunting, a biologist involved with the project said today.

“‘The population is growing so fast I expect we might have a hunt by next year,' he said. ‘We'll probably set up isolated hunts. In the meantime, the birds are relatively visible and are tremendously spectacular to watch, especially during mating. When the male turkey struts, his tail feathers fan out with very colorful displays. And they're darn fast birds, too,' he added, ‘able to run as fast as a horse and fly as rapidly as smaller ducks.'

“According to this report, the transplanted turkeys are mostly of the Rio Grande variety, and they thrive on river bottom lands instead of the forests the birds usually enjoy. Most of these turkeys came from Amarillo, Texas.

“Nationwide, the turkey population has grown to four million after a low of thirty thousand at the turn of the century, when unregulated hunting, clearing and burning of native hardwood habitat and human encroachment threatened the species. By all accounts, the wild turkey has made quite a North American comeback.

“From New York City, where the only Wild Turkey you can find is in a bottle, comes another kind of news. A twenty-three-year-old woman, who was raped and robbed when she was trapped between a subway revolving-gate exit and a locked fence blocking the stairs to the street,
won the right to sue the Transit Authority for negligence. The woman, a television makeup artist, was on her way home at ten P.M. last July nineteenth, when she left the station through a one-way revolving turnstile and found the stairs to the street barred and locked. A man she asked for help came through the turnstile, produced a knife, and robbed and raped her. It is not clear how he got out, but police believe he had a key or squeezed over the gate.”

“Hi, this is Jaloux. We can talk now.”

Sailor was startled by the sudden switch from the radio to reality.

“Uh, hello, Jaloux. This is Sailor Ripley. We met the other evenin' in Inez's Fais-Dodo Bar and you give me your card.”

“Uh huh. What you want to talk about, Sailor?”

“I need some information, Jaloux, about my son, and I thought you might could help me get it.”

“What's his name?”

“Pace. Pace Roscoe Ripley. He's fifteen and I found out from a note he left me that he was involved in a robbery of funds belongin' to your boss, Mr. Papavero. I was hopin' to find out where Pace is now, if Papavero and his bunch got it figured out yet.”

“Honey, this is somethin' I
can't
talk about. I'm sure you understand.”

“ 'Course. I was just hopin' we could make a date to meet somewhere—anywhere, anytime—long as it's soon.”

“Give me your number, Sailor. I'll ask around and call you back.”

“Fine. It's 555-8543. I was thinkin' about callin' you anyway, Jaloux, you know? I mean, I had you on my mind.”

“Talk to you later, Sailor Ripley. You can tell me what I had on when you had me on your mind. Bye.”

She hung up before he could say, “Thanks, Jaloux.”

The boys stopped at Scooba's Cafe in Lookout World, population 444, to have something to eat after a long night on the road and before visiting Miss Napoleon's Paradise. Lookout World had been named by the daughter of Fractious Carter, Metamorphia, after his death in 1962 at the age of 101. Until then, the town was called Carter, having been owned, operated and maintained by him since its incorporation. Metamorphia was fifty-nine years old when her father died and she was his sole heir. She'd never married and had waited all of her life to get away. Before taking off, Metamorphia changed the town's name to what she shouted out at Fractious's funeral. “Look out, world!” Metamorphia cried as she walked away from the grave. “I ain't sixty yet!”

Nobody in Lookout World had heard from her for forty years, except for a picture postcard of the Halliday Hotel, Ohio and 2d streets, “Grant Stayed Here,” postmarked Cairo, Illinois, and dated October 2, 1969, which was received by Leander Many, Fractious Carter's lawyer, who was at that time ninety-four and about to be a terminal victim of emphysema, brought on, Many believed, by his lifelong penchant for the practice of onanistic asphyxia. Metamorphia wrote: “Bet you Bastards think I am Beyond Hope. Maybe your Right. Lester says I got a Head Start to Satan.” Neither Leander Many nor anyone else in Lookout World knew who Lester was.

Lefty Grove and Smokey Joe each automatically ordered hotcakes, grits with gravy, and chicory coffee, the same meal Tyrus Raymond Rattler ate every morning of his life since his sons could recall. Pace stared at the counter girl. She was about his age, under five feet tall, too skinny to lie on, with messy mud-red hair and bad acne. She looked like he felt.

“Come, boy,” she said, “already sunup in Lowndes County.”

“Grits 'n' gravy, is all,” Pace said. “And a Coke, you got one.”

“Got it.”

She went off to put in their order and Pace picked up a day old
Delta Democrat-Times
that was lying on the stool next to him. Sailor had told Pace how it had been his own daddy's practice to turn to the Obituaries
page first thing; it had become Sailor's habit, too, and now Pace searched for the death column. It was always interesting to read about other people's lives, Sailor said. It took your mind off your own.

JOE SEWELL, 91, HALL OF FAMER TOUGHEST TO STRIKE OUT was the top line. “Joseph Wheeler Sewell, the eagle-eyed batter who struck out only 114 times during a fourteen-year major league career, died on Tuesday at his home in Mobile, Alabama,” Pace read. “He was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1977 and was ninety-one years old when he died. Over eleven seasons with the Cleveland Indians and three with the New York Yankees, from 1920 to 1933, Joe Sewell struck out only three times in two seasons and only four times in two others. Umpires deferred to his judgment to the point where if he chose not to swing at a pitch, they would virtually always call it a ball.

“Mr. Sewell, who was born in the town of Titus on October 9, 1898, said that he developed his batting skills as a youngster in rural Alabama by repeatedly tossing rocks and lumps of coal into the air and belting them with a broomstick. No one in major league history who played as much struck out less, and Mr. Sewell played a lot. He entered the American League as a twenty-one-year-old replacement for Ray Chapman, the Indian shortstop who became the only big-leaguer to die in a game when he was struck in the head by a pitch thrown by Carl Mays of the Yankees. From September 7, 1920 until May 2, 1930, when he was kept in bed with a brain fever, Mr. Sewell played in 1,103 consecutive games.

“At five feet, six-and-a-half inches tall and 155 pounds, Joe Sewell compiled a career batting average of .312, including a high of .353 in 1923 and nine other .300 seasons. Most of his 2,226 hits were singles, but none was of the broken-bat variety. Aside from his record of 115 straight games without striking out in 1929, the most compelling evidence of Mr. Sewell's uncanny ability to put wood solidly onto the ball was that
he used only one bat during his entire major league career.
It was a thirty-five-inch, forty-ounce Ty Cobb model Louisville Slugger he kept in condition by seasoning it with chewing tobacco and stroking it with a Coca-Cola bottle.

“Mr. Sewell was a star football and baseball player for the University of Alabama, and led the school baseball team to four conference titles before joining the minor league New Orleans Pelicans in 1920. Before
that summer ended, he was on a World Series championship team as Cleveland beat the Brooklyn Dodgers.

“After his career ended, Mr. Sewell worked for a dairy and was a major league scout. In 1964, at the age of sixty-six, he became the Alabama baseball coach, winning 114 games and losing ninety-nine in seven seasons. His two younger brothers, Tommy and Luke, both of whom are dead, also played in the major leagues. Mr. Sewell is survived by a son, Dr. James W. Sewell of Mobile, a daughter, L.C. Parnell of Birmingham, ten grandchildren and fourteen great-grandchildren.”

The waitress brought the boys' breakfasts and set the plates down on the puce Formica counter.

“Need anythin' else, y'all holler,” she said.

“What's your name?” asked Smokey Joe.