Delusion (36 page)

Veronica looked up, her eyes meeting Nell’s. “Clay glances around real quick, doesn’t see Bobby, doesn’t see anyone, on account of the parking lot’s deserted, late at night, the rain. He goes over to the Dumpster by the ribs place, tosses something in, closes down the lid. Then he gets in his car and drives away. Seems strange to Bobby. Bobby’s a curious man, a detective, right?” Veronica turned and began picking up the broken glass, dropping it in a trash pail in the cupboard under the sink.

“It was the tape?”

“Bobby brought it home,” Veronica said. “Showed it to me. I told him one thing—it’s not staying in this house.”

“Why did he keep it secret? Out of loyalty to Clay?”

Veronica gave her a strange look, a look that said
no
and more besides. “Bobby liked his job,” she said. “Liked the life we were having.”

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“But an innocent man went to jail,” Nell said.

Veronica made that sound again, half laugh, half snort.

“I don’t understand,” said Nell.

Veronica shrugged. “What did all the folks involved have in com -

mon?” she said. “Except Bobby.”

All white. That was easy, maybe too easy. “Why did Bobby keep the tape?”

“I told you—insurance.”

“Was he planning to use it on Clay someday?”

Veronica’s back stiffened.

“Did he know who the real killer was?” Nell said.

No answer.

“Was it Clay?” Nell said.

Veronica spoke quietly. “Bobby was never sure.” She dropped the last piece of broken glass into the trash.

Nell drove home,
saw the cruiser still outside, no one in it. She parked in the garage, went upstairs, entered the office. Timmy had the old computer on the desk now, was playing some primitive-looking video game on it. He turned.

“Have a nice rest?” he said.

“You got it working?” Nell said.

“Oh, yeah,” said Timmy. “Sixty-four kilobyte CPU! Hard to believe.” He rose. “I’ll be heading back outside.”

“Thanks, Timmy.”

“Hey.”

Timmy left. Nell sat at the old computer. A few seconds later, she’d opened jbletters.doc.

Mr. Kirk Bastien

Vice President, Operations

DK Industries

Dear Mr. Bastien:

I am very disappointed by your response in the matter of the
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PETER ABRAHAMS

pending ship canal construction plans. As I indicated in my
earlier letters and phone calls, my computer modeling (see
attachment to my letter of July 2) demonstrates that the Canal
Street floodgates, as designed, are insufficient to withstand
a direct hit from a category 4 hurricane and above, or even
a category 3 on a rising tide. The position you seem to have
taken—that all the various permitting agencies have given
their approval—does not change this fact. Furthermore, their
approvals do not appear to take into account recent surveys,
which, although still partial, indicate a worrisome “funnel
effect” under certain conditions. I would add also that the
computer modeling techniques employed by your engineers
are flawed and out-of-date. Your failure to take these findings
seriously leaves me no alternative but to begin contacting all
relevant agencies—and possibly the press—myself. Let me add
that I was taught by two scientists presently employed by the
Army Corps of Engineers.

Sincerely,

Johnny Blanton

Nell checked the date on the letter, July 21, twenty years ago: two days before Johnny’s death.

C H A P T E R 32

Pirate poked his head around a corner, got a partial view of the Ambassador Suites: three cruisers parked outside. No go. That was bad. Why? Because his Bible was in there, in his rightful suite, and his fingers itched for the gold tassel.

A door on one of the cruisers started to open. Pirate ducked back into the alley, real quick, like an animal. Why not? That was how they were treating him. Something was very wrong. Wasn’t he supposed to end up with twice what he had before? And what about his book,
Only a Test
? What was going to happen to that, now that they’d killed his partner? Someone beat her head in, and the worst part?

That same bitch, Nell Jarreau, was going to finger him for it, do him bad for the second time. No second time in Job, oh, no: and that was the word of God. Therefore ungodliness was doing the talking for the moment, and all rules were suspended. Pirate hunkered down behind a pile of wreckage from the flood and waited for nightfall, his fingers itching for the gold tassel.

Pirate slept. And in his sleep he dreamed, not a nightmare or even one of those anxious dreams, but instead something wonderful. In this dream he had both eyes and a Rickenbacker, and he could play.

He ripped through dazzling solos on “Devil Woman,” “You Don’t Know Me,” “He Stopped Loving Her Today.” Norah gazed up adoringly.

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PETER ABRAHAMS

. . . .

Pirate woke. Late-evening
sky, full of wild colors: it reminded him of the cover of a gospel album an old neighbor biddy had had when he was a kid. That sky—the sky on the album, the sky above this crappy town—was what heaven looked like. For a few moments, he just lay there in the flood wreckage in a peaceful, quiet mood, watching heaven grow dark. Then various memories started trickling back, and the situation he was in took its hard shape in his mind. Lots of different—what was the word? factors?—but one sure thing: he wasn’t going back to prison. That was out, stone-cold out.

He sat up, felt something in his pocket. What was this? The address book, leather cracked with age,
University of Texas
in gold on the front. He realized that Lee Ann had left it to him, her very last act before dying. So it must be important, right? Pirate remembered her face at the end: reduced to one eye, just like him. They were partners, all right. Someone—
bastard,
she’d said—had to pay. But bastard: What kind of a clue was that? Bastard meant just about everyone.

He’d never killed anyone in his life, but, oh boy.

Pirate moved toward the street, got close to the cone of a street-light, stopped short of stepping into it. He saw a single cruiser parked outside his hotel. That was the way they thought: he wasn’t coming back. What else were they thinking? Pirate didn’t know. He opened the address book, his inheritance from Lee Ann. This time he didn’t leaf through, but examined the thing with care, starting at the first page. And right away he learned something: this was Johnny Blanton’s address book. Pirate knew that because at the top of the first page it said:
My Address Book;
and in the space underneath was written
Johnny Blanton.
Below that he saw a crossed-out address in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, and under that a West Side address in Belle Ville and in parentheses:
Nellie’s folks.

He had Johnny Blanton’s address book. It had to be important.

But to who? And then he remembered something Norah had said:
I’ve
tried to get to know him from his writing.
Here in this book—beat-up, the writing faded, like in a real historic document—had to be his
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friends, business associates, whatever: a handy little guide to Johnny Blanton’s life.

Pirate heard a distant siren. He walked down the alley, away from the Ambassador Suites. The first crossing street was Peach, run-down in the old days, run-down now, not well lit. He spotted a convenience store partway down the block, one of those convenience stores with a couple gas pumps and a pay phone outside.

Pirate, staying in the shadows, made his way to the pay phone. A light pole stood over the pay phone, but it wasn’t working. Pirate had Joe Don’s number on a scrap of paper in his pocket. He dialed it. The phone rang a few times, then went to the message machine. “Um,”

said Pirate. “It’s, like, me. I’ve got, uh—”

At that moment, he heard a funny little sound, like a reverse click, and Norah spoke. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” Too late, Pirate thought:
What if she knows about Lee
Ann?

“Sorry about that,” Norah said.

“About what?”

“Screening,” she said. “We’ve kind of been screening our calls a bit.” She laughed, a high little laugh, close to a giggle. Was she stoned? “What’s new with you?” she said.

A question like that had to mean Norah wasn’t in the know. Pirate could picture the scene: Norah and Joe Don rolling around in that fixed-up barn of his, then maybe taking a little spin in the Miata to cool off, followed by back to the barn and more rolling around. He could picture it vividly, although nothing like that had ever happened to him. Was it too late?

“Not much,” he said. “One little thing you might be interested in.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I think I can help you some with that . . . quest of yours.”

She laughed again; yes, stoned for sure. “I have a quest?”

Now she was starting to piss him off. Did he have time for this?

Night had fallen and the moon hung in the sky, a sliver-type moon with pointy ends, like devil ears. “Thought you did,” Pirate said.

“Like you told me the other night—finding traces of your father.”

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PETER ABRAHAMS

Her voice changed, got more serious. “Yes,” she said. “You’re right. You can help me?”

“It just so happens,” Pirate said. A cruiser pulled around the corner, drove down the street, not fast. Just as it neared the convenience store, two big black guys appeared on the far sidewalk, and the cop turned his head to look at them.

“Still there?” Norah said.

He lowered his voice. “Just so happens I managed to lay my hands on his old address book.”

“My father’s address book?”

“From back then,” Pirate said; although what sense did that make?

When else would it be from? But Norah didn’t seem to notice—he heard her suck in her breath just the tiniest bit, kind of in surprise, a sound ninety-nine out of a hundred would have missed, but not him, not with his hearing. “Has all his friends in there,” he added.

“Business associates. Whatnot. Care to see it?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “When would be—”

“How about if you swing by, pick me up right now?”

“Sure that’s all right?”

“Huh?”

“Convenient for you,” Norah said.

“Yeah, it’s convenient,” said Pirate.
I’m at a convenience store, for
Christ’s sake.
“I’m out for a walk right now. How about meeting me on Peach Street?” He named the next corner.

“Peach Street?” said Norah. “That’s not a very nice area.”

“Shaking in my boots,” said Pirate.

She made that giggling noise again. He felt pretty good.

Pirate heard thunder,
very far away, maybe someplace in Texas; that was the kind of hearing he had. A few seconds after that, he felt a raindrop, then another. He looked up: the devil moon was gone.

Headlights shone a few blocks down Peach Street, low and close together, small-car-type headlights. As they came closer, Pirate stepped out of the shadows. The car—yes, the Miata, top up, wipers
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on—pulled over. Pirate opened the passenger-side door, got in; only then noticing that Joe Don, not Norah, was behind the wheel.

“Hey,” said Joe Don.

“Where’s Norah?”

“Back at the place. She’s a little tired.”

“Yeah? You two been busy?” That just popped out; Pirate regretted it right away, at least a little bit. On the other hand, why did he have to pussyfoot? Where did that get you?

Joe Don’s eyes shifted toward him. “Not too much,” he said.

“Been traveling some—we spent a day in Baton Rouge.”

“What’s up there?” Pirate said.

Joe Don turned a corner, headed north. A cruiser sped by in the opposite direction. Headlight beams shone for a moment on Joe Don’s face, with its prominent cheekbones and perfect skin; all very clear to Pirate—Joe Don was on his good side. “Fact is,” he said, “I got a bit lucky.”

“How so?” said Pirate.

“Dude from Swampland Records heard me down at the Rooster,”

Joe Don said. “They signed me to a contract.”

Pirate wasn’t following. “To do what?”

Joe Don laughed; maybe a happy, innocent laugh, but Pirate didn’t like it at all. “To make a record,” he said.

“You got a record deal?”

It was raining harder now, drops splashing up off the hood. “Not with EMI or anything like that,” Joe Don said. “Swampland’s just a little indie label, but they got big plans.”

Pirate sat, silent and still, watching the wipers. His dream came back, the dream with him up onstage, reeling off solos, rippin’ and rockin’, on fire. “I had this dream,” he began, then stopped himself.

“Yeah? What happened?”

“Guitar dream. I was playing out of my fuckin’ mind.”

“Never had a dream like that,” Joe Don said, slowing down for a red light. “And one little thing, Pirate. I heard you were playing the Rick.”

“How’d you hear that?”

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PETER ABRAHAMS

“Doesn’t matter,” said Joe Don. “Maybe it sounds goofy to you, but I’ve got a thing about the Rick. A superstition, like.” There was a silence. “We square on that?”

“Sure thing,” Pirate said.

Joe Don stopped at the light. He looked like he was getting ready to say something nice and friendly, back to being pals. Pirate pivoted his upper body around, toward the door, just loading up, then swung back the other way, elbow leading, with all his strength. And that was a lot. His elbow caught Joe Don square on that beautiful cheekbone, and made a satisfying crunch. “Square enough?” Pirate said, but probably not; there was barely time to think the thought let alone say it before his right fist, continuing the same movement, landed on the same cheekbone, exact same spot. A real crusher. And once more. Why not? Pirate felt tremendous—what was the word? something from a Bob Dylan song?—release. But that last blow had been selfish, unnecessary, because it was clear Joe Don was no tough guy, no fighter. In fact, Joe Don wasn’t doing much of anything. Pirate leaned across his motionless body, opened the driver’s-side door, pushed him out. Joe Don’s head made a coconut sound on the pavement. Somehow Pirate got himself across to the driver’s seat, slid it back to the right position for a big guy like him, and was all set to go when the light turned green. He thought of looking back in the rearview mirror but decided against it.