Heaven's Prisoners (12 page)

“Not for me. I think I’d like to go out and blow the shit out of some tin cans and bottles right now.”

I stood up from the bed and put on my shirt and pants.

“Where are you going?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Come back to bed, Dave.”

“I’ll lock the front door on the way out. I’ll try not to wake you when I come back.”

I slipped on my loafers and went outside to my truck. The few black clouds in the sky were rimmed with moonlight, and shadows fell through the oaks on the dirt road that led back into New Iberia. The bayou was high from the rain, and I could see the solitary V-shaped ripple of a nutria swimming from the cattails to the opposite shore. I banged and splashed through the muddy pools in the road, and gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my fists were ridged with bone. When I went across the drawbridge, the spare tire in the bed of the pickup bounced three feet in the air.

Main Street in New Iberia was quiet and empty when I parked in front of the poolroom. The oaks along the street stirred in the breeze, and out on the bayou the green and red running lights of a tug moved silently through the opened drawbridge. I could see the bridge tender in his little lighted office. Down the block a man in shirt sleeves, smoking a pipe, was walking his dog past the old brick Episcopalian church that had been used as a hospital by federal soldiers during the War Between the States.

The inside of the poolroom was like a partial return into the New Iberia of my youth, when people spoke French more often than English, when there were slot and race-horse machines in every bar, and the cribs on Railroad Avenue stayed open twenty-four hours a day and the rest of the world was as foreign to us as the Texans who arrived after World War II with their oil rigs and pipeline companies. A mahogany bar with a brass rail and spittoons ran the length of the room; there were four green-felt pool tables in back that the owner sometimes covered with oilcloth and served free gumbo on, and old men played
bourée
and dominoes under the wood-bladed fans that hung from the ceiling. The American and National League scores were written on a big chalkboard against one wall, and the television above the bar always seemed to have a baseball game on it. The room smelled of draft beer and gumbo and talcum, of whiskey and boiled crawfish and Virginia Extra tobacco, of pickled pig’s feet and wine and Red Man.

The owner was named Tee Neg. He was an old-time pipe-liner and oil-field roughneck who looked like a mulatto and who had had three fingers pinched off by a drilling chain. I watched him draw a beer in a frosted schooner, rake the foam off with a ladle, and serve it with a jigger of neat whiskey to a man in denim clothes and a straw hat who stood at the bar and smoked a cigar.

“I hope you’re here to play pool, Dave,” Tee Neg said.

“Give me a bowl of gumbo.”

“The kitchen’s closed. You know that.”

“Give me some
boudin
.”

“They didn’t bring me none today. You want a Dr. Pepper?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Give me a cup of coffee.”

“You look tired, you. Go home and sleep.”

“Just bring me a cup of coffee, Tee Neg. Bring me a cigar, too.”

“You don’t smoke, Dave. What you mad at, you?”

“Nothing. I didn’t eat tonight. I thought your kitchen was open. You got today’s paper?”

“Sure.”

“I’m just going to read the paper.”

“Anyt’ing you want.”

He reached under the bar and handed me a folded copy of the
Daily Iberian
. There were beer rings on the front page.

“Give those old gentlemen in back a round on me,” I said.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

“You don’t have to do that, Dave.” He looked me steadily in the face.

“So I’m flush tonight.”

“Okay, podna. But they buy you one, you go behind the bar and get it yourself. You don’t use Tee Neg, no.”

I shook open the paper and tried to read the sports page, but my eyes wouldn’t focus on the words. My skin itched, my face burned, my loins felt as though they were filled with concrete. I folded the paper, dropped it on the bar, and walked back outside into the late-spring night.

I drove down to the bay at Cypremort Point and sat on a jetty that extended out into the salt water and watched the tide go out. When the sun came up in the morning the sky was empty and looked as white as bone. Seagulls flew low over the wet, gray sand flats and pecked at the exposed shellfish, and I could smell the odor of dead fish on the wind. My clothes felt stiff and gritty with salt as I walked back to my truck. All the way back to town my visit to the poolroom remained as real and as unrelenting in its detail as a daylong hangover.

Later, Batist and I opened up the bait shop and dock, then I went up to the house and slept until early afternoon. When I woke, it was bright and warm, and the mockingbirds and blue jays were loud in the trees. Annie had left me two waxpaper-wrapped ham and onion sandwiches and a note on the kitchen table.

Didn’t want to wake you but when I get back from town can you help me find a horny middle-aged guy with a white streak in his head who knows how to put a Kansas girl on rock ‘n’ roll?

Love,
A.

PS. Let’s picnic in the park this evening and take Alafair to the baseball game. I’m sorry about last night. You’ll always be my special guy, Dave.

It was a generous and kind note. I should have been content with it. But it disturbed me as much as it reassured me, because I wondered if Annie, like most people who live with alcoholics, was not partly motivated by fear that my unpredictable mood might lead all of us back into the nightmarish world that AA had saved me from.

Regardless, I knew that the problems that had been caused us by the plane crash at Southwest Pass would not go away. And having grown up in a rural Cajun world that was virtually devoid of books, I had learned most of my lessons for dealing with problems from hunting and fishing and competitive sports. No book could have taught me what I had learned from my father in the marsh, and as a boxer in high school I had discovered that it was as important to swallow your blood and hide your injury as it was to hurt your opponent.

But maybe the most important lesson I had learned about addressing complexity was from an elderly Negro janitor who had once pitched for the Kansas City Monarchs in the old Negro leagues. He used to watch our games in the afternoon, and one day when I’d been shotgunned off the mound and was walking off the field toward the shower, he walked along beside me and said, “Sliders and screwballs is cute, and spitters shows ‘em you can be nasty. But if you want to make that batter’s pecker shrivel up, you throw a forkball at his head.”

Maybe it was time to float one by the batter’s head, I thought.

Bubba Rocque had bought a ruined antebellum home on the Vermilion River outside of Lafayette and had spent a quarter-million dollars rebuilding it. It was a massive plantation house, white and gleaming in the sun, the three-story Doric columns so thick that two men could not place their arms around them and touch hands. The front gallery was made of Italian marble; the second-story veranda ran completely around the building and was railed with ironwork from Seville and hung with boxes of petunias and geraniums. The brick carriage house had been expanded to a three-car garage; the stone wells were decorated with ornamental brass pulleys and buckets and planted with trumpet and passion vine; the desiccated wood outbuildings had been replaced with a clay tennis court.

The lawn was blue-green and glistening in the water sprinklers, dotted with oak, mimosa, and lime and orange trees, and the long gravel lane that led to the front door was bordered by a white fence entwined with yellow roses. A Cadillac convertible and a new cream-colored Oldsmobile were parked in front, and a fire-engine red collector’s MG stuck out of the carriage house. Through the willows on the riverbank I could see a cigarette boat moored bow and stern to the dock, a tarp pulled down snugly on the cockpit.

It was hard to believe that this scene clipped out of
Southern Living
belonged to Bubba Rocque, the kid who used to train for a fight by soaking his hands in diluted muriatic acid and running five miles each morning with army boots on. An elderly Negro servant opened the door but didn’t invite me in. Instead, he closed the door partly in my face and walked into the back of the house. Almost five minutes later I heard Bubba lean over the veranda and call down to me, “Go on in, Dave. I’ll be right down. Sorry for our crummy manners. I was in the shower.”

I let myself in and stood in the middle of the front hall under a huge chandelier and waited for him to come down the winding staircase that curled back into the second floor. The interior of the house was strange. The floors were blond oak, the mantelpiece carved mahogany, the furnishings French antiques. Obviously an expensive interior decorator had tried to recreate the Creole antebellum period. But somebody else had been at work, too. The cedar baseboards and ceiling boards had been painted with ivy vines; garish oil paintings of swampy sunsets, the kind you buy from sidewalk artists in New Orleans’s Pirates Alley, hung over the couch and mantel; an aquarium filled with paddle wheels and plastic castles, even a rubber octopus stoppered to one side, sat in one window, green air bubbles popping from a clown’s mouth.

Bubba came down the stairs on the balls of his feet. He wore white slacks and a canary-yellow golf shirt, sandals without socks and a gold neck chain, a gold wristwatch with a diamond-and-ruby face, and his spiked butch hair was bleached on the tips by the sun and his skin was tanned almost olive. He was still built like a fighter—his hips narrow, his stomach as flat as a boiler plate, the shoulders an ax-handle wide, the arms longer than they should be, the knuckles as pronounced as ball bearings. But it was the wide-set, gray-blue eyes above the gap-toothed mouth that leaped at you more than anything else. They didn’t focus, adjust, stray, or blink; they locked on your face and they stayed there. He smiled readily, in fact constantly, but you could only guess at whatever emotion the eyes contained.

“What’s happening, Dave?” he said. “I’m glad you caught me when you did. I got to go down to New Orleans this afternoon. Come on out on the patio and have a drink. What do you think of my place?”

“It’s impressive.”

“It’s more place than I need. I got a small house on Lake Pontchartrain and a winter house in Bimini. That’s more my style. But the wife likes it here, and you’re right, it impresses the hell out of people. You remember when you and me and your brother used to set pins in the bowling alley and the colored kids tried to run us off because we were taking their jobs?”

“My brother and I got fired. But I don’t think they could have run you off with a shotgun, Bubba.”

“Hey, those were hard times, podna. Come out here, I got to show you something.”

He led me through some French doors onto a flagstone patio by a screen-enclosed pool. Overhead the sun shone through the spreading branches of an oak and glinted on the turquoise water. On the far side of the pool was a screened breezeway, with a peaked, shingled roof, that contained a universal gym, dumbbells, and a body and timing bag.

He grinned, went into a prizefighter’s crouch, and feinted at me.

“You want to slip on the sixteen-ounce pillows and waltz around a little bit?” he said.

“You almost put out my lights the last time I went up against you.”

“The hell I did. I got you in the corner and was knocking the sweat out of your hair all over the timekeeper and I still couldn’t put you down. You want a highball? Clarence, bring us some shrimp and
boudin
. Sit down.”

“I’ve got a problem you might be able to help me with.”

“Sure. What are you drinking?” He took a pitcher of martinis out of a small icebox behind the wet bar.

“Nothing.”

“That’s right, I heard you were fighting the hooch for a while. Here, I got some tea. Clarence, bring those goddamn shrimp.” He shook his head and poured himself a drink in a chilled martini glass. “He’s half senile. Believe it or not, he used to work on the oyster boat with my old man. You remember my old man? He got killed two years ago on the SP tracks. I ain’t kidding you. They say he took a nap right on the tracks with a wine bottle on his chest. Well, he always told me he wanted to be a travelling man, poor old bastard.”

“A Haitian named Toot and maybe a guy by the name of Eddie Keats came to see me. They left a few stitches in my mouth and head. A bartender in Smiling Jack’s on Bourbon told me he sicked them on me by calling one of your clubs.”

Bubba sat down across the glass-topped table from me with his drink in his hand. His eyes were looking directly into mine.

“You better explain to me what you’re saying.”

“I think these guys job out for you. They also hurt a friend of mine,” I said. “I’m going to square it, Bubba.”

“Is that why you think you’re sitting in my house?”

“You tell me.”

“No, I’ll tell you something else instead. I know Eddie Keats. He’s from some toilet up North. He doesn’t work for me. From what I hear, he doesn’t put stitches in people’s heads, he smokes them. The Haitian I never heard of. I’m telling you this because we went to school together. Now we eat some shrimps and
boudin
and we don’t talk about this kind of stuff.”

He ate a cold shrimp off a toothpick from the tray the Negro had placed on the table, then sipped from his martini and looked directly into my face while he chewed.

“A federal cop told me Eddie Keats jobs out for you,” I said.

“Then he ought to do something about it.”

“The feds are funny guys. I never figured them out. One day they’re bored to death with a guy, the next day run him through a sausage grinder.”

“You’re talking about Minos Dautrieve at the DEA, right? You know what his problem is? He’s a coonass just like you and me, except he went to college and learned to talk like he didn’t grown up down here. I don’t like that. I don’t like these things you’re saying to me, either, Dave.”