Delusion (16 page)

Pirate went to the minibar, poured two glasses of juice, handed them out. “How about a toast?” he said.

“Wonderful idea,” the reverend said.

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He raised his glass. Susannah raised hers. “Yo,” said Pirate. He drank his from the carton. Maybe Susannah wasn’t thirsty, because although she raised her glass, she didn’t actually drink. But the reverend did.

“To your future,” he said.

“Yeah,” said Pirate. “Twice as . . .” He left the rest unsaid.

“What was that?” asked the reverend.

“Nothin’.”

The reverend rubbed his hands together, like he was trying to warm things up. Pirate could see he was the enthusiastic type, like volunteers he’d run across on the inside. “While we’re on that topic,”

the reverend said, “what’s your thinking at this point?”

On that topic? Thinking at this point?

“About your future,” Susannah said.

Pirate took in a deep breath. It felt good, freedom air. “Take it slow,” he said. “Slow and easy.”

Susannah and the reverend glanced at each other. “Are there any people from the past we could help you connect with?” the reverend said. “Family? Friends?”

“Nope.”

The reverend nodded. “What do you see yourself doing two or three years from now?”

Pirate drew a blank on that one. Had he spotted the Jim Beam label on one of those little whiskey bottles? All at once, he remembered the Jim Beam taste, real fine.

“Should we go over the financial situation again?” Susannah said.

“Sure,” said Pirate. Had they been over it before? He put down the OJ carton, got ready to listen.

“As you know,” Susannah said, “we’re suing the state on your behalf. We’re in settlement talks now, but there are no guarantees.

Meanwhile, you’re being financed by a short-term loan from the Justice Project, to be repaid from the eventual settlement, if successful.”

She paused. “Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said Pirate. “This settlement talking thing—is the Jew—that other lawyer, handling it?”

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PETER ABRAHAMS

Susannah blinked. “No,” she said. “We have a monetary specialist for these negotiations. She’s very good.”

That sounded all right to Pirate. A Jew would have been better, of course, as everyone knew. But, hey! No reason this specialist woman couldn’t be a Jew. He almost asked.

“Anything else?” Susannah said.

“How much?” said Pirate.

“How much?”

“The settlement.”

Susannah sat back in her chair. Maybe she wasn’t as beautiful as he’d thought. It was also possible that his eye was tired; that happened, with just the one doing all the work. He closed it for a moment, massaged it with the base of his palm.

“Mr. DuPree?” the reverend said. “Are you okay?”

Pirate stopped massaging his eye, opened it, saw Susannah and the reverend, both blurry now, streaked, like the reception was bad.

“Susannah,” said the reverend, “is there any figure at all, however conservative, you might venture?”

“Not really,” she said. “We’re not quite in uncharted territory here, but it is pretty new.”

“Is there possibly a comparable case you could cite, just to give some idea?” the reverend said.

Susannah shot the reverend a quick glance, eyes narrowed. Was she pissed at him or something? This was hard to follow. “There was a case in Oklahoma last year, quite different—less time served, a college degree, some corporate experience.”

“So we would expect somewhat less for Mr. DuPree.”

“Correct.”

“Less than what?” said Pirate.

“The Oklahoma settlement came to a shade under five hundred thousand dollars,” Susannah said. “Before taxes.”

“Five hundred grand?” Pirate said; and now, at last, understood the end of Job, where people shower him with things—money, gold earrings, fourteen thousand sheep, all those camels, oxes and she asses. She asses—oh, yes, she anything with five hundred grand. He
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could do the math: five hundred grand was half a million dollars.

Pirate’s vision cleared.

“As I mentioned,” Susannah said, “we’re expecting considerably less, right down to the possibility of nothing at all.”

Pirate barely heard that. These Justice people were winners; wasn’t that obvious by now? Look at him: free, in the suite.

“All very promising,” said the reverend, rubbing his hands again.

“But in the meantime, you’re going to need some money.”

“Yeah?” said Pirate.

“For food, rent, routine living expenses,” the reverend said.

“Rent?” Why would he need rent? “I’ll just stay here,” Pirate said.

Susannah and the reverend shared another one of those private looks. Pirate was getting tired of that. Wasn’t five hundred grand worth more respect?

“Mr. DuPree?” said the reverend. “It’s my understanding that Susannah’s organization won’t be able to keep you in the hotel much longer.”

So I’ll just buy the fuckin’ place! Pirate kept that thought to himself. These were nice people, no doubt about it, but would he be spending time with them by choice? No way.

“To defray living expenses,” the reverend said, “we’ve been thinking of a fund-raiser.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Which also allows the community to give a little something back.”

“Back where?”

“Why, to you, Mr. DuPree.”

“Okeydoke,” said Pirate.

“Any thoughts on the fund-raiser?”

“I said okay.”

“Meaning where you’d like to have it, that kind of thing. A picnic, say, or a celebrity basketball game?”

“Celebrities?”

“Local celebrities.”

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PETER ABRAHAMS

Local celebrities? Picnic? “How about some music?”

“Music?”

“I used to play.”

“Oh? What instrument?”

“Guitar.”

“Love the guitar,” said the reverend. “Were you able to keep it up?”

“Inside?”

The reverend nodded.

“No guitars inside.”

“That’s a shame,” the reverend said, maybe not getting what could be done with guitar strings.

“Yeah,” said Pirate. “Red Rooster still around?”

“The club?” said the reverend. “I believe so.”

One of his best gigs, backing up a dude who was going to be the next Delbert McClinton. “Let’s have it there,” Pirate said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said the reverend.

He and Susannah rose. Susannah approached Pirate’s chair. “I’ll be saying good-bye,” she said.

Pirate got up; he had manners. Were they going to hug or something? Maybe he’d give her back a friendly pat. Susannah held out her hand. He shook it, such a tiny hand.

“I’ll be in touch about the settlement,” she said. “Good luck.”

“You, too,” said Pirate. “And, you know, mucho gracias.”

Pirate felt tired
after they left; they’d sapped his energy somehow, even though nothing had happened but blah blah blah. He opened the minibar and looked in: nothing left but the booze—beer, wine, whiskey—yes, Jim Beam—vodka, gin, Kahlúa. And booze was out; he’d given it up, had learned self-control. What exactly was Kahlúa?

Some coffee thing? Did it actually count as booze? Pirate was wondering about that when the phone rang. Hey! His first phone call.

He picked it up. “Yeah?”

“Alvin? Lee Ann Bonner here.” A little pause. “The reporter.”

“With the glasses?”

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She laughed; a nice sound—nice, in fact, to hear a woman laugh.

He tried to think of some joke, make her do it again.

“Did you get to see the piece?”

Whoa. Piece? What the hell was she talking about?

“The article I wrote—based on our interview.”

“Nope.”

“It’s getting a lot of comment.”

“Yeah?”

“All favorable.”

“Uh-huh.” This was one of those cordless phones, where you could walk around. Pirate walked over to the minibar, took out the Kahlúa bottle, tried to read the label. The writing was tiny; his vision blurred.

“What are you up to?” the reporter said. Pirate put the bottle back, real quick. “I was hoping I could take you out to lunch, if you’re free.”

Was it lunchtime? He was hungry, no doubt about that. “Yeah,”

said Pirate. “I’m free.”

“Cool car,” Pirate
said. He’d owned a convertible himself once, till it got repossessed. “Any chance of like putting the top down, Miss, ah?”

“Call me Lee Ann,” the reporter said. “Sure it won’t be too hot?”

“Nah.”

She put the top down, letting out a blast of cold air. Pirate got in.

“Seat belt, please,” she said.

He fastened his seat belt.

“How does Mexican sound?” she said, zooming off fast enough to sink him back in his seat.

“Mexican?

“For lunch. There’s a real nice place, Café Feliz, just opened up.”

“Well . . .”

“Don’t like Mexican? How about Italian?”

“Yeah. Italian.”

“There’s Vito’s on the west side.”

“Sounds good.”

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PETER ABRAHAMS

“But on the way, we’re going to play a little game.”

“What kind of game?” Pirate didn’t like car games—license plates from different states, spotting the most cows, all that shit. Did he look like a kid?

The reporter dug around in the compartment between the seats, handed him a strip of cloth.

“What’s this?”

“A blindfold,” she said. “Put it on.”

“Huh?”

“Just trust me.”

“Trust you?”

She touched his knee. “Come on, Alvin, you’re free now. Relax.”

A little touch on the knee, but it had a double effect on him: first, he missed what she said after that; second, he put on the blindfold.

“It’s just for a minute or two,” she said. “How about some music in the meantime?”

“Okay.”

“I hear you like country.” Then came George Jones: “Things Have Gone to Pieces.” Pirate felt the wind on his face. This was freedom, America, being young on the road. Only he wasn’t young anymore.

Pirate tried to figure out the chord progression, could not. He stopped listening, stopped feeling the wind, waited for whatever was coming next.

The car stopped.

“You can take off the blindfold.”

Pirate took off the blindfold.

“Notice the changes?” the reporter said.

Pirate looked around. They were parked at the end of a street, fac -

ing a path, and maybe a canal or something beyond it. “Changes?”

He didn’t get it.

“You don’t notice something missing?”

Pirate thought for a moment. “No people around, you mean?”

“The pier’s gone,” the reporter said.

“What pier?” said Pirate, starting to get annoyed. What the hell was she talking about? They climbed out of the car.

“Sure you don’t recognize the place?” the reporter said.

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“Is this part of the game?” he said. “I don’t think we’re in Belle Ville anymore. Besides that, I couldn’t tell you.”

The reporter laughed. “You win,” she said.

“How come?”

“Because this is where the old Parish Street Pier stood, where Johnny Blanton got killed. Now I know for absolute one hundred percent sure you didn’t do it.”

“This was a test?”

“Which you passed with flying colors. Let’s go eat.”

For a moment, Pirate felt even more annoyed, close to anger. He took a deep breath.
A test, only a test.
“Okeydoke.”

They got back in the car. The reporter turned the key. “Any idea who did kill him?” she said.

“Nope.”

“Because unless he’s dead, the real killer’s still out there.”

Pirate shrugged.

“Wouldn’t it be something to find out who?”

He started thinking about that.

They sat in
a booth at Vito’s, the fanciest restaurant Pirate had ever been in. He ordered what she ordered, the menu turning out to have so many Italian words, but not any he knew, like pizza and spaghetti.

“Feel like talking some business?” the reporter said while they waited for the food.

“What kind of business?”

She leaned forward. Not as good-looking as Susannah, none of that glowingness to her skin, maybe not good-looking at all, but there was something about her, like . . . hey! He got it: maybe she was available. Uh-oh. Her lips were moving, but he’d missed whatever she’d said.

“Uh, Lee Ann, right?”

“Right.”

“Can you say that again?”

Behind those weird glasses, her eyes were looking at him a little funny; just a little, not enough to mean she wasn’t available.

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“I’m thinking of writing a book,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“About you.”

“Me?”

“You, your case, what you’ve been through, your whole story.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “What’s your reaction?”

“How long?”

“How long a book?”

“Yeah.”

“Two or three hundred pages.”

“Sounds like a lot of work.”

“I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.”

“What’s the title?”

“Haven’t got one yet. Any ideas?”

He said nothing. She was watching him closely.

“I do believe you have a title,” she said. “Spit it out.”

“
This Is a Test, Only a Test.
”

Lee Ann sat back. “Wow.” She opened her mouth to say something more, but at that moment the headwaiter went by, followed by three or four customers. The last one, a big, blond guy in a dark suit, saw Lee Ann.

“Well, well,” he said. “The voice of the
Guardian.
”

Lee Ann smiled up at the blond man. “The
Guardian
has many voices, Mayor,” she said. Her eyes shifted to Pirate, back to the man, her smile spreading. Mayor? Was that his name, or was he maybe—

“Mayor?” she said. “Have you met Mr. DuPree? Alvin DuPree, meet Mr. Kirk Bastien, mayor of Belle Ville.”