The Saint Louisans (38 page)

“This is Looby,” Sky said to Antje, “one of my crew. Just came from the river store. Chow. Sundries. Time to go. Headin' south, ain't we?”

“Sure, Skipper,” Looby cackled. “Going 'way south.”

“When we get down there we'll be in the thick of Mardi Gras. Pierce, you and your wife are welcome to come.” He winked at Antje. “This is a tough girl. She'd love Mardi Gras.”

“Yeah, it'd be an adventure,” Pierce smiled, “but we have to get back to Berlin. That's also an adventure.”

“Berlin” Antje said, “is Mardi Gras. A dark Mardi Gras.”

Sky stepped into the raft. “That's the best kind.” He sat next to the canned goods and Coke. I looked at Sky.

“Thanks.”

“Good luck with the old lady. Hope she goes quick. Give my best to Jama.” Looby started the motor, and the raft turned.

“She's still in shit,” I called out.

Sky shouted back. “Our daughter always lands on her feet.”

The raft zipped off to
The Cahokia
. I turned and felt the river's chill, like a cold hand to my neck.

It was time to meet Saul.

Between the old court house, a modest dome famous for the Dred Scott case, and the city courts building is a large green square, a kind of tennis court scooped out between high rises. AT&T is on one side, where Lindy Squared was obliterated, and on the other side, an octagonal-shaped bank of
dark, sleek glass that always looks brown, as if squares of the Mississippi had been frozen into shiny cubes. Next to it is a particularly ugly building Saul calls a pie slice on stilts. The green square has been many things: a building, a parking lot (natch), and now a quiet lawn, recalling Laclede Town's abandonment where I saw the crows flock. It rests for now until something else will be built there. Now it's a tennis court, yes, but also an oblong space like the chunkey field at Cahokia, where the ball game had been played between the high mounds. In the garden's middle, Saul sat alone, wearing a heavy bridge coat, like those worn by naval officers. A serious, cold weather coat … very un-St. Louis. He looked like the Flying Dutchman on shore leave. My heart raced as I approached and could've cried when he caught me up in an embrace.

Tourists, the ever increasing flocks of Chinese, flowed near us, photographing and no doubt staking out which parts of downtown they'll take when America can borrow no more and they foreclose on us. Saul glared at the bank, its brown glass squares of frozen Mississippi.

“Marc Anthony Hollis, right?”

“That's what Rainer said.”

“A body,” Saul almost groaned. “It's too damned weird to be funny or sad. Sort of like a three-D Jewish joke.” He sighed. “My man Barrett did his footwork. Lucas's adventures in drug dealings had a larger audience than you'd think.” He frowned. “You dug up this body by yourself?”

“That we did. Pierce, Antje, and Sky.”

Saul looked away. “Sky. The ex-husband.”

“We needed someone to help dig.”

“Yeah. The ex. Then Doc. Where do I fit in, Lee?”

I sensed for a moment the spurt of resentment Saul has about our relationship. I talk too much about Doc. God knows I never talk about Sky, but he was here, was drafted by me, and there it is. My hand closed in on that wall of navy cloth covering him.

“I'm so sorry. Saul, but I needed someone to do scut work. Someone I could trust. Sky was there at Ike's funeral. One thing led to another. Are you angry?”

A calm in Saul's eyes dismissed his chagrin, and he looked at me; not smiling, but thoughtful.

“For a nasty, immoral second I was. Doc was a great guy, and his death was sad and tragic. Really. I know he'll always have a place in your heart. Lee,
I love you. I love the way you listen to my ranting. Not many people put up with it, and you've got stability. It's something I envy.”

“Stability? That's a hoot. Have you looked at my life lately?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Come on. You're pretty stable. You put up with a lot from me.”

Around us the air was damp with the scent of snow. Saul rubbed his forehead. “Okay, we must be some kind of second-hand match. Used goods, but the mileage is great. Now I'm talking like a lousy salesman. Like the kind of salesman I was for three weeks during semester break. Kiss?”

We did. And meant it. The wet air didn't matter. Saul looked up, saw a flake or two spiral down. He smiled and brushed a thick one off my shoulder. “So you dug up a body. Please don't tell me it's Corn Mother.”

“Antje said no. The skeleton was modern. Asian.”

“All right. Look, I'll go back to Barrett, dig into my fantastically shrinking nest egg to buy some knowledge. This Marc Anthony Hollis has to be somewhere. Well, big maybe, but finding him might help. How's Margot?”

“She's sinking.”

He lowered his head.

“Pierce and Antje are going back. I'll see them off, and we'll get this woman's identity solved.”

“Yeah, I'll go kick Barrett.”

More snow flecked down like coconut shavings.

When Pierce, Antje, and I went into my apartment house's lobby, we met an indignant Jama as she shot out of an armchair, simmering.

“You screwed it up, and I hope you're happy.”

I frowned. “What did I screw up?”

“Hey, Jama.”

“Hey, big bro'. Antje.
Ampelmannchen
.”

Antje yawned and nodded. “We dug up a body.”

Jama raised her eyebrows. “You dug up Corn Mother?”

Pierce spoke. “It was a woman. No Corn Mother.”

This made Jama clench her fist, then look at me. “This makes you happy?”

“This has hardly been a pleasure trip for me.”

“Okay, Mom. Now, I want an answer.”

I trooped to my apartment. “An answer about what?”

“At my talk in New Town. Those two men in black.”

“Sky and I thought they were Mormons.”

Jama snarled. “One of them was. Both of them were IRS.” She flung up her arms. “They shut me down! All of my funds.”

“Kiddo, it wasn't me.”

“It's so like you, Mother. You had to be a jackal. You can't stand to see me succeed.”

“I've been waiting thirty years for you to succeed at something, and could we lay off the ‘jackal' thing?”

Pierce nodded. “Come on, Jam. Back off. Mom's had no time. We've had a busy night.”

Jama stamped her foot. “Fifty-seven thousand dollars!”

I huffed and put my key in the door, but it creaked open. All of us looked into Yul's contented face as he purred happily in Rasheed's lap. With two Semitic-looking men standing behind him, Rasheed wore a long overcoat and cologne that filled the room. His fragrance was balance due.

“Hello, Jama,” Rasheed nodded. “We have a plane to catch.”

Childe Fantastical wasn't impressed. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Rasheed set Yul down and gave him one last languorous stroke. He rubbed against me. Yul, that is. Rasheed only smiled in that Joel Cairo way. “A private jet, free of your government's degrading security checks. My sheik has every convenience on board. As you well know. As we pass over your Appalachian Mountains, we shall discuss your repayment. There is a spa near Haifa that has dozens of clients everyday. My, you will be busy.”

“Look,” Jama frowned, “I need more time.”

“Time is the one thing you lack.” The man on the right closed in. Pierce stepped forward. The other man pulled an automatic from his jacket, gently shoving Pierce, Antje, and me to one side.

“Please do not interfere,” Rasheed warned us. He grabbed Jama's wrist. She jerked it away.

“Get your hands off me!”

Rasheed grabbed her arm. Jama's open palm smacked into his jaw. “Hey! Fuck off!”

In the movies, Rasheed would have crumpled, but he only shook his head, smiled, and got Jama in an armlock, staying away from her teeth and whipping hair as she wriggled. Rasheed nodded to me.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Bridger.”

A sharp click unraveled his smile. Kenyatta had quietly opened his door and now the barrel of his nickel-plated .38 touched Rasheed's ear, matching Kenyatta's metallic stare.

“I crash here,” he said slowly. “I don't like shit going on where I crash.”

Rasheed's men pointed their guns. Kenyatta ignored them as Rasheed lowered his voice. “This does not concern you.”

Kenyatta grunted. “Here's what we're gonna do. We all gonna be cool. You put them pieces away, step away from the ladies. Let go of the 'ho. Everybody's gonna do it slow, and we all gonna be cool.”

Rasheed's smile evened out. “Yes. We will be cool.”

“So let's see it, motherfucker. Let's see some cool.”

Rasheed muttered to his men, and they slowly replaced their pistols. He turned Jama loose. She rubbed her wrist and snarled at Rasheed's arctic demeanor. Ken's barrel moved from Rasheed's head, but was still inches from his chest.

“Jama,” Rasheed warned, “I will see you again soon.”

“Go on,” she sneered. “Scram.”

In wordless motion, Rasheed and his goons walked down the hall. When we heard the exit door click, I pushed open my door.

“Everybody in.”

When I closed the door, Yul immediately rubbed Ken's leg. He glared and pointed his pistol down.

“Pussycat, you're pushing it with me.”

I picked up Yul and set him in the chair Rasheed had occupied, then sighed. “Thanks.”

Ken only grunted and uncocked the trigger. Again, I noticed the star engraved above the grip.

“Lady,” he said, “I see guns around where I crash, a little bell goes off.”

Jama had already helped herself to one of my chocolate mints. I looked back at Ken. He scratched his beard, shook his head, and then ducked back into his apartment without another word.

My apartment was a full court press of packing and zipping as Pierce and Antje prepared for the return flight to Berlin. Jama lounged on the couch.

“Hey,” Pierce said to Antje, “got room for my briefs?”

“Give.” She took his Euro jocks and stuffed them next to her panties.

“I got to call Pixar,” said Jama. “I know someone over there, and three months ago at Development I was pitching
Lallah Rookh
. I mean, come on: An elephant. Passion. Tragedy.”

Pierce offered his gentle smile. “Yeah. A thinking man's
Dumbo
.”

“Screw you.”

“That's how you pitched it at Lionsgate. Remember?”

Not liking to be reminded of that, Jama sighed and leaned back.

“I almost had them a year ago. I was at a party in San Bernardino. I shared a couch with Robert Downey, Jr. He'd just got out of rehab, and when I pitched it, I told him how Gavin, my male lead, is an opium addict. Who's kicked the habit. Who saves the Union. Robert was crazy about the script. For two weeks, everyone wanted to do it. Loved it.” Jama blew out her cheeks. “Then no one wanted it do it. Hollywood.” She grumbled and stared. “The one place in the world where you die from encouragement.”

Antje looked in the mirror, shook her hair, and pulled out a compact. “Why can't someone do
Ampelmannchen
? He'd make a good film.”

An insider's sigh from Jama. “I told you, Ants. A film's gotta have three things. A hero, a romance, and a villain.”

Antje gave her lips a light gloss. “There's
Ampelfrau
. She wears braids instead of a hat.”

“Villain?”

Antje shrugged. “Traffic.”

“Mom,” said Pierce, “call us tomorrow. Let us know.”

“Sure. This has been a hell of a visit.”

“Yeah. It'll get two stars in my diary.” Pierce looked down at the floor, bent under the table, and came up with Antje's calipers. “Here. Yul was probably playing with them.”

The calipers were stuffed into a baggage pocket. Yul hissed at his new toy being stolen and pawed at the bag.

I'd wanted a last, quiet dinner with Pierce and Antje, maybe lounging at the airport before they joined the line. No way, not with Rasheed prowling outside, and my having to track Saul's source. As my head began to churn a slow migraine, Antje winced and gripped her belly.

“
Ach. Kindlein
.”

I moved closer. “Okay?”

She nodded as Pierce put his arm around her. “Yes. Just moving.”

Jama came and pressed her head against Antje's belly, her smile the kid grin I remembered from bubble baths and dancing class.

“That's so cool.”

Antje nodded. “It is very cool.”

My purse gurgled. I fished for my cell and opened it, listened, then closed it.

“Saul's on his way down the street. He's found the guy. I hate to dump you kids off at Metrolink.”

Pierce shrugged. “It's okay, Mom. You got housekeeping to do here.”

My heart stung. Then I looked outside, looking for Saul. Rasheed and a goon waited in a shiny new rental. “Jama, come on. As long as you're with me and Saul, you're safe.”

“I keep telling you. Rasheed's a drama llama.”

Saul pulled up.

“Let's go.”

In the car, Saul nodded to Jama. Polite but cool, as if Jama was Sonia, Jr. “Barrett's got some info on this Marc Anthony Hollis. And a name.”

In front of Union Station, cabbies clustered like bowling pins, waiting for fares. While they joked and smoked, Saul and I watched. He pointed. “Clarence Tuthill. He's our man. Number three.”

Cabbie ethics are stern on each hack taking the fare as it comes, so we waited for the first two to find fares as we stood across the station, where bronze statues of a naked Missouri and Mississippi river are ready to fly into each other's arms. When it was unveiled in 1940, it was called
The Marriage of the Waters
, but the Mrs. Grundys of St. Louis roiled. Marriage? Without clothes? No license? What the heck's going on? It was quickly renamed
The Meeting of the Waters
… a fluvial first date.