Antarctica (13 page)

Jeremiah Ezekiel Devereux is my name. My old man was a Bible freak, but we won't go into that right now. People just call me J.E.; Butch did too, but I don't suppose that matters much. I was born October 9th, 1943, in Baton Rouge General, and we moved into 16 Kramen Street, Confucius, when I was five years old. I been living here ever since.

You'll just want to know the facts: what happened, what was said. If I'd only known, I would have stayed put that night. I'd have said I had a kidney stone or a toothache, or I was a woman having a baby and gone back to bed; but the fact was, I wanted to go. I wanted to get out on that water as bad as he did, and I wasn't about to let a small thing like instinct change my mind.

I knew Butch was no angel; I could tell that right off. And he didn't pretend to be no angel, neither. He told me about the time he came home and shot up the TV with the .22 just because he didn't like the news, but he said he was drunk. He said there was nothing worse than having guns in the house when you're drinking. He said he got rid of all the guns. I believed him. I figured he was just drunk, and I know strange shit happens when
you've finished a bottle of bourbon. And man, he could drink. Believe me.

It was around 3 a.m. when he called. I don't rightly remember the exact time. Butch called out of the blue, said, remember me? I said sure, knew the voice right off. He asked was I game for a fishing trip, said he found my number, said he wanted to get down river and be out on the water before daybreak, was I interested? I didn't see nothing peculiar about that. I just figured he was in the mood to get out there on the river, get the city out of his blood. Hell, I get calls like that all the time. Fishermen sleep odd hours. I didn't think nothing of it. I told him where I'd be, where my boat was at, and he said he'd find his own way down the Delta where I told him. He said if I'd bring the gear, he'd take care of the rest. Butch said he was looking forward to it. He didn't sound drunk at the time. The cops asked me about credentials. They asked me what was Butch's last name. I didn't know his last name. I'm a fisherman; I don't ask you for no driving licence 'fore you get on my boat.

Well, my truck was parked out front and it so happened that Perot was sitting on his porch nosing around, minding everybody's business, like usual. Perot's my neighbour. It could start snowing in July and Perot would just take down your registration. Snoopy bastard. He used to be a cop – I mean a police officer, see – got some kind of dishonourable discharge; but he keeps an eye on everything that goes on round here. He still thinks he's on the force. He's still tight with his
buddies 
down the station, I suppose. But he saw me. He nodded at me when I got in the truck. We didn't say nothing, but we nodded. He was wearing a ugly
Hawaiian
shirt with short sleeves when I saw him. Ask his wife what he was wearing that night. Anyhow, that man lives for the force. He wants his badge back real bad. If he thought he could get his nose back inside a station, he'd let niggers in his house and say they was white ponies.

It was still dark when I reached the river. Butch was where he said he'd be. He'd shaved his beard off since the last time I seen him, looked like he'd bin up all night. I showed him the boat and he said she was real nice. I told him hang a minute, I was gonna tune into the weather forecast on the truck radio; but Butch said he didn't want no radio on, said we was going fishing and we was going to forget about every damn thing in the world, and that was that. I didn't think nothing of it. I just thought he was impatient to get out there. He did have his hunting knife, but that ain't unusual for a man who's going fishing.

The first time I saw Butch he was stone drunk. I'd come down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, shacked up with this brother-in-law, who had a top-floor apartment in the French Quarter. I just went down there for a good time, you know how it is. Carnival. Butch came into the picture on the Sunday afternoon. I remember it was Sunday because the people was coming out of the
cathedral
. I was walking round before the parades started,
watching what was going on, stuff like that. Thinking back, I still don't know for sure what took me down the street Butch was on. I was on Bourbon Street earlier, checking out the strip-joints. Oh, don't get me wrong, I didn't go in there or nothing. They charge $6 for a beer in those places, so I'm told. Butch is good-looking, that's for sure. I'd've called him a lady's man, ain't that a laugh? He's about my height, but his hair is real black and he wears this straw hat, the kind they sell down the market, spray-painted black with a purple feather in it. He was just standing there on the street, singing. He wasn't the only one; there was a bunch of guys: a Negro with a horn, some beatnik guitar player, a washboard lady, but they had a piano out there too on wheels, and some skinny, weird-looking guy plucking a bass. Butch was up front. I don't remember the exact song but man, he sure could sing. It was one of those Cajun tunes and he was singing in French, but it had that Zydeco feel to it too. That's the drunkest I ever seen anybody. I was thinking: I hope a breeze don't come and knock that guy over till the song's done. That's how drunk he was. There was a little crowd bunching up, see, tourists. I saw a bunch of dollar bills in the sax case and Butch was wearing that black hat, and grinning. Great Jesus, that grin. And his voice was syrupy, with that rough edge good singers have. You know what I mean.

When he was done, I stuck my hand in my pocket looking for change and I realised this kid next to me – couldn't have been more than six inches away – had this
big fat boa looped around his shoulders. I'm scared to death of snakes. That nasty snake was as close to me as you. God's truth. Come to think of it, that's what I remember most about that day. The way that snake coulda bit me, 'cos of Butch.

I saw him in a bar later on, bought him a drink, told him he could sing good, told him where I grew up. Turned out he knew Confucius; some uncle of his lived up here. I introduced myself proper, told him what I did, told him he'd be welcome up any time, we'd go out on a boat trip. Gave him my number on a barmat and that's how it come about he called me.

Well, to get back to the story, Butch and me loaded the gear into the boat. You had to watch where you put things 'cos it ain't a big boat and it could've toppled over, so we had to balance it right and Butch is a big man, weighs over 200lbs, so we had to get it right first off. He had the cooler with all them beers too, don't forget.

It was still dark, but the light was breaking. The shrimping boats were going out round that time. They seen us. Butch told me to put on the life jacket on account of it being so dark. Said if I fell over there'd be no telling how he'd find me. I remember thinking that was real thoughtful. I know Butch can't swim – he'd told me about how he nearly drowned out here – and that don't sound like the type of thing a man on the edge might do, but there's no knowing. So we just jimmied up the motor and went down river. It was cold round
then. There was waves from all the big boats slapping against the stern. I'm lucky I don't get seasick; some people turn green.

Butch is a drinking man. Soon as we got down river he started drinking. He started cracking those cans like he just got in from the forty days 'n' nights. At first I didn't think nothing of it. I thought he was down with woman trouble. And there was women. I mean those ladies got in line for Butch after they heard him sing. Shit, I nearly got in line myself! Like I said, I thought nothing of it. I knew he did crazy things when he was drunk, so saying crazy things made sense, I guess. I mean, we've all felt like killing our old lady one time or another. We was fishing, see. Don't forget about the
fishing
. Butch has a good arm, a nice cast. He had pliers for the catfish. Every time he hooked a cat he'd reel it in and hold its mouth steady with the pliers and unhook him that way. Throw him back in. That's so the buggers won't sting him, see. Butch's got a good head on his shoulders, thinking up stuff like that. And he's the one who thought of the spark-plugs too, using old
spark-plugs
for weights. Butch has brains. You gotta take that into consideration. I pulled in a few nice bass: must've weighed six or seven pounds apiece. I hooked some kinda strange fish I never seen before too. It was over two, maybe three feet long, like an eel, but it wasn't no eel. Didn't have the colour. Butch took it off the hook and broke its spine. I heard it crunch, you know, like kindling. He was grinning. That scared me, the way he
did that, like he had a taste for that kind of thing.

After a while he stopped baiting his lines, started talking about her being a two-bit whore, all that. Said it wasn't so much that she did it, but who she did it with that stung the most. At first I was wishing he'd just shut up and quit scaring the fish. Then he started calling her a bitch, said he loved the bitch, said he lit the gas hob and held her hand over the flame, and still she lied. I didn't try to change the subject; he was all fired up. Butch said he should have locked the door when he was going out. Said he should have put a barbed-wire fence around that house years ago. Said it served the bitch right. Those are his words.

I never been to his place but once. I stopped off at the Decatur Lounge where his gig was one night and we went back to his place. She was there. Caroline was her name, but he called her Lina. She was real young. She was a good fifteen years younger than Butch. And pretty too. She was making her own sausage. That lady could cook alright. She had long red hair and she didn't shave under her arms, I remember that. And she had all kinds of herbs growing in pots out on the balcony. There was this Billie Holiday poster hanging on the wall. Billie Holiday with a rose behind her ear, if I remember right. Butch didn't even introduce us. Maybe the trouble was starting right around then, I don't know. But she was a pretty lady. I introduced myself and she handed me a beer from the ice-box, gave me a big smile like him being an ass-hole was nothing unusual. Any man with
eyes could see she was pretty. I never laid a hand on that little woman. I never did. I drank my beer and made small talk and ate the lady's food and that's all. I never touched her. I was brought up on my commandments good and proper. Coveting my neighbour's wife ain't one of the one's I ever broke.

It got hot out there. When it's calm, the sun reflects off the water, and throws the heat back up at you. Butch took off his hunting vest and I noticed he had blood on his shirt. I asked him if he had an accident and he said he had a nose-bleed. I hadn't anchored the boat and we was drifting out towards the Gulf. Some porpoises swam right past us. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to make him any madder than he already was. Maybe that was my mistake, because I think he forgot I was there. I think he was talking to himself half the time. And you should have heard the things he was saying.

He burnt her hand on the gas flame, I know that much. Things got out of hand. Apparently she made a stab at him with a ice-pick. He said the gun went off too soon for his liking. But he said he made the bitch bleed proper. He was shooting his mouth off. He said that whore turned her last trick. He said she'd never tell another lie to nobody. He turned real quiet when the beer dried up. I never seen Butch quiet. Maybe that's why I wasn't inclined to believe it at first. I guess you could say I was in some kind of denial, but you know how you hear these crazy things on the news: some guy blows his old lady's head off with a double-barrel
shotgun
,
stuff like that? Well, there's always some little old lady from next door comes on, saying how the guy was always such a quiet man, how he never caused any trouble in the neighbourhood. Like I said, I never saw Butch when he wasn't shooting his mouth off, or singing, so when he went all quiet, I got jumpy. I knew then it was true. It wasn't just a big row they'd had and he wasn't just making it up, even though I knew he was a
first-class
liar. I knew he'd killed the little lady with the hair under her arms.

And there I was, almost out to sea, no land in sight, sitting in a boat with a murderer.

Butch didn't even pretend to be interested in fishing when the beer dried up. There wasn't a breeze out there and the bugs was eating us alive. Butch threw the
empties
overboard and let them drift out to sea. I was
sweating
and he was sweating too. I could smell him. I could smell myself. I could hear his boots creak. We didn't have any food. I should have picked up on that earlier, how he didn't bring all the stuff like he said he would, but it was dark when we went out. He went all quiet on me. I could hear his guts rumbling; that's how quiet it was. We sat there like that with the water slapping the boat for a long time. The sun came up right over our heads and sloped down the other side.

I'd say that was around two or three in the afternoon when I saw the boat, a little fishing boat like one of them ones you'd hire out for the day. They anchored further down river, these guys, but Butch had the rudder,
moved off before they cast the first line, got the hell outta there. Got outta sight. There were no birds. I remember thinking that was strange. I tried to think what I had in my pockets. But all I had was a cigarette packet and my wallet. I didn't even have a pocket knife. Butch was sobering up, going back over everything he said in his mind, I guess. He was smoking them
cigarettes
, staring out into space. He didn't offer me one and I was too shaky to light my own. I had to think fast. I put myself in his shoes. I wondered what I'd do if I'd just done in my old lady and I was out there with a guy like me. Butch didn't know enough to trust me. He could've slit my throat and weighed me down with the outboard motor. Nobody would've known any better. But he didn't want to take a chance on being seen. He was
waiting
till dark – that's what I figured. Nobody would find me until morning at the very earliest. Hell, they might never find me. And you have to wait forty-eight hours or something before you can file a missing persons report, not that there was anybody to report me missing.