Imogene in New Orleans (11 page)

Ten

Jackson saw Buddy run in between two trumpeters, who stood in front of the Cathedral and the Cabildo, a beautiful old building with Spanish arches and stucco walls, made famous as the site of the Louisiana Purchase’s transfer in 1803. Jackson yelled for him to stop. “We just want to ask you a few questions. Why are you running?”

Buddy made a right turn past the museum and headed away from the river and toward Chez Hill.

The boys sped up, but Buddy stayed fifty steps in front of them. Jackson huffed, “He’s guilty of something or else he wouldn’t have taken off. I didn’t even have a chance to accuse him.”

Billy clopped along as best he could. “Why don’t you stop running and see if he’ll do the same?”

Jackson was afraid to try it. He kept going as Buddy hoofed it through intersection after intersection. After a few moments of pursuit, Jackson realized that hustlers were generally in good shape. He had seen several hanging around the Southside of Birmingham. They spent a lot of time in cars, just not driving them. Their mode of transportation was their johns or their feet. Buddy was no different. He had a long stride, which Jackson would have admired if not currently sucking in as much of the humid, subtropical air as his body would allow.

As Buddy pumped his arms, the sweatshirt fell off his shoulders, revealing a sporty clean wifebeater and the tattoo of a wolf on his right arm. The white soles of his sneakers bounced off the cobblestone street. He wore a pair of blue jean cutoffs, frayed at the thigh, and a bandana in his back pocket. At a quarter past ten o’clock, the music was already streaming from some of the bars and restaurants along the route. The souvenir vendors prepared their storefronts and carts, several times obstructing Jackson’s sight of the fleeing hustler whose wolf tattoo seemed to gallop on his arm.

Jackson felt his legs burning. He cried out to Buddy, but the crowds were gathering in the streets and on the sidewalks. Buddy sped up, putting a greater distance between himself and the boys. Billy eventually had to stop running. Jackson heard the sound of his partner’s feet trail off, and he turned around to see Billy standing in the middle of Bourbon Street. Jackson kept going. He passed an establishment called the Tool Belt, which had a rainbow flag hanging from its exterior. It was obviously a gay establishment, and he made a mental note of it.

He got as close as three car lengths to Buddy when he crossed an intersection and ran straight into a mime, a street performer painted entirely in gold and taller than eight feet. He could not have weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds. He looked like a flagpole with arms. Jackson knocked off the mime’s gold top hat during the fall. The performer fell to his side. Upon landing, he overturned the gold-painted shoe box.

The mime didn’t say a word during or after the fall, but Jackson could tell how the performer might speak by the grunts and sighs he released into the humid air. He hopped back to his feet because people were watching the aftermath of the collision.

Buddy made a sharp turn down a side street, and Jackson hobbled around the same corner. His legs felt numb. He couldn’t breathe. He was exhausted. Buddy ran down the road, turned into another street, and vanished as if he had never been there, like another ghost from New Orleans’s past.

Jackson bent over, resting his hands on his knees. It took him a moment to catch his breath, and when he did, he walked into a bar and bought a bottle of water. It was one of those daiquiri shops that allowed college students with fake IDs to purchase booze. He retraced his steps back toward Billy. The street smelled faintly sour and sweet, as if the fruity drink mixers had spoiled. There was a hint of bourbon, too, the way his dorm room had always smelled after a weekend. He paused at the intersection where his partner had stopped running, but he couldn’t see Billy anywhere. Instead, he saw the steeple at the St. Louis Cathedral, and began heading for it when his phone rang.

“Where are you, Jackson?” Billy spoke in quick, wispy syllables.

“I’m coming back to the Square. I lost Buddy ’cause I ran into a mime painted in gold. He was eight feet tall, and now I’m covered in bright speckles. I look like a—”

“Listen, Jackson. Mama’s gone.” Billy sounded very nearly as if he could pop.

“What do you mean? Hey, calm down. I doubt she’s gone. Where are you?” Jackson hurried down the street.

“I’m calm. I’m calm,” Billy screamed. “Just meet me at the horse statue in the park.”

* * * * *

When Jackson approached the edge of the square, Billy was frantic, pacing in circles around the statue of Andrew Jackson on the horse. He had to be restrained to quit his repetition. They started asking people if they had seen an old woman with a camera, a hat, and sunglasses, one who looked the very picture of an eccentric Hollywood star from its grand era.

Jackson took the opposite side of the park from Billy, approaching every stranger in sight to describe the senior citizen to them. He wasn’t paying attention to his partner. He had taken the half of the park farthest from Café du Monde and therefore the side where he had seen Buddy. He followed St. Peter’s Street to stop people until he got to the famous Cabildo, where they had chased Buddy around the corner. He waited until one of the trumpeters finished his tune. The musician had been playing since before the chase. He must have seen everyone come and go.

“Naw, man, I ain’t seen ’em here. Wanna drop an Andy Jackson in my case?” The trumpeter motioned to the three twenty-dollar bills he had already collected.

“No,” Jackson said.

“You cheap, man.” The musician shook his head and started looking for another tourist to mark.

“How about an Abe Lincoln instead?” Jackson reached in his wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “First, you have to play the song about the saints marching. It’s one of Imogene’s favorites. Maybe it’ll draw her out of the crowd.”

“Naw, only an Andy Jackson will get you that, brother.” The musician grinned a wide grin.

“Forget it, then,” Jackson said and started putting the bill back in his pocket.

“A’ight, man. A’ight. You get the morning discount.” The trumpeter blew the first notes of the song. It sounded so good in that early-morning sun, with the Cathedral in the background and the clean smell of freshly cut grass coming from the park. He would have enjoyed watching those visitors marching around the square like they were in sync with the brass, but Imogene’s disappearance set him on edge. He put his money in the case and then reached in his wallet and took out another Honest Abe to double the musician’s pay. “Keep your eye out for a funny little woman with gray hair and sunglasses. She’s got a hat and a limp.”

The trumpeter winked and then he cocked his head into the air, as if playing to the sun. Jackson walked toward a couple sitting on the bench opposite the musician. He asked them about Imogene. They said they hadn’t seen her. He didn’t want to panic, but he did start to worry more. He kept stopping passersby who looked as if they had been hanging around for a while. No one knew a thing.

He circled back to the sitting area where he first sighted the hustler. He saw a familiar person lying on a park bench, sprawled out, wearing the striped shirt that his partner had been wearing all morning. As he walked closer, he noticed the rubber tube to the blood-pressure monitor resting on top of his partner’s belly. “Good grief.” He hurried toward the bench. “Hey, Billy.”

Billy didn’t move. Jackson knew his partner was having a spell, probably thinking he was about to die.

As he approached, he saw the glucose monitor in his other hand. “What are you doing?” Billy put his index finger to his lips and whispered that his “TMJ was kicking up.”

“Well, kick it down, dammit. Your mama’s lost.” Jackson scanned the park.

Billy closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear it anymore—the stress and the caffeine, the sweating out in the subtropical heat and his mother missing.

Jackson said, “Come on, you—”

Billy held his hand in the air, which silenced Jackson’s appeal. He then gave Jackson a very curt and serious shake of the head. Jackson knew it was useless to try a pep talk. Billy jiggled his empty bottle in the air, so Jackson went to fetch more water. As he was walking to a lemonade vendor on the street corner, he passed by the man with the sores on his body, the same one who had spoken with Buddy before the chase. The man wore navy blue church socks and old sneakers. He didn’t look up from his book. Jackson nodded at him, but the man did not return the gesture or even appear to notice Jackson. Maybe he wasn’t a cruiser, Jackson thought. Maybe he was just a reader who happened to know hustlers. Nonetheless, the man did not invite a conversation. Jackson took two bottles of water to his still-prostrate, suffering partner, and then he got his nerve up to talk to the reader. “Excuse me, sir?” The man looked up but didn’t speak. “Sorry to disturb you, but I saw you speaking with a young man by the name of Buddy.”

The man placed his finger in his book and said, “The ‘young man’ you chased through the park moments ago?”

Jackson couldn’t quite tell if the reader was going for rude or sarcastic. He didn’t let the ambiguity stop him from asking more questions. “Is his name ‘Buddy?’”

“Yes, yes, indeed. And you know this how?” the man said, squeezing his book and tightening the muscles in his arm.

Jackson showed him the postcard of Glenway’s advertisement for the art event with Buddy as Bacchus. “Is Buddy a hustler?”

The man nodded nonchalantly. “I believe some would call him a hustler.” He opened his book again and turned the page.

“Do you know where Buddy hangs out?” Jackson moved closer to the gentleman, who immediately crossed his legs and screwed up his face into a frown. Jackson stared until he made eye contact.

“Are you looking for a date?”

Jackson stepped backward. “Oh. Oh, no. My date is lying over on the bench there.” He pointed at Billy.

“Hmm. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t date Buddy. I’m afraid he’s a touch—”

“Dangerous?” Jackson interrupted.

“Yes, I suppose,” the man said, removing his reading glasses from his nose. “You should be careful chasing after that one. He could be very…shifty.”

“That’s all right.” Jackson wanted more information. “Do you know where Buddy went? I mean, where he usually goes?”

The man sighed. “Buddy has a few places he likes to shadow around, looking for money, mostly bars, places that stay open all night. Two of his main haunts are Lafitte’s and Bayou Tavern. He also likes the ballet.”

“The ballet?” Jackson raised an eyebrow, trying to understand why a hustler would frequent the ballet. “That’s nice, I guess. A little odd, though...”

“Not Baryshnikov’s ballet,” the man said, smiling. “The young men jiggling, dancing, that type of ballet.”

Jackson still looked puzzled.

“You know, exotic dancing.”

“Ohhh. The ‘ballet’ indeed.” Jackson felt green. He had never heard a strip club referred to as “the ballet.”

“Yes, well,” the man said, “the real name of the place is the Tool Belt. That’s the bar where the boys dance.”

“Really? I just passed the Tool Belt right before I lost Buddy.”

“Buddy knows these streets well.” The stranger rubbed the spine of his book.

“I can imagine. Well, sir, thank you for your information. I’m Jackson Miller.”

“Jackson Miller, huh? I’m Thurston.” The man’s eyes brightened. “I see. No wonder…”

“No wonder what?” Jackson stared at the book Thurston was reading. It was an old book by Sherwood Anderson based partly on his life in New Orleans. Jackson remembered the “TH” from Glenway’s journal and began immediately looking Thurston up and down, noticing the bald head and the ornate walking stick leaning against his leg. He sat on the bench beside Thurston, who had not yet answered him. “So, Thurston, you knew Glenway Gilbert?” Jackson was in arm’s reach of Thurston, close enough to grab the man—Hawaiian shirt, cane, and all, if need be.

Thurston slammed the book and glared at Jackson, who remained calm and focused on the curious man.

Jackson lowered his voice. “Glenway Gilbert had nicknames for his lovers and acquaintances. If you know Buddy well enough for him to stop and chat, then you must know Glenway. Are you the person he called ‘TH’?”

Thurston picked up his cane by its silver knob and stood to leave, but Jackson grabbed him. “You’re not leaving. Not until you answer my questions.”

Eleven

Jackson stared at Thurston close enough to see the scabs on his legs, which he was bathing in the sunlight in the square. “Tell me. Are you the ‘TH’ from Glenway’s book?”

Thurston scowled at Jackson’s hand, which was becoming white from holding Thurston’s arm. He squirmed around to get free, twisting his body until his shirt began ripping.

“Okay, okay. I knew Glenway well enough. Everyone knew of Glenway. I guess you could say I knew of him too. I doubt Glenway Gilbert wrote about me.” He shifted his eyes around the square nervously and then looked over Jackson’s shoulder. “Before you started chasing Buddy, weren’t you and your date there looking for the elderly woman in the sun hat?”

“Yes. We were.” Jackson surveyed the park again, as he had been doing during the entire conversation.

“I saw her hop on a tour bus with a lively group about an hour ago.” Thurston watched the corner where the carriages and tour guides crowded together, right across the street from the Café du Monde.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier, Thurston? Just look at my partner, lying on the bench over there suffering.” Billy was halfway between them and the street, motionless on the bench with a damp towelette draped over his face, covering everything from his nose up.

“I was just reminded of the fact because there she is.” Thurston pointed to the side street.

Imogene stood in the front of the tour bus surrounded by what looked like a cortege of followers. Jackson jumped up and ran to greet her. By the time he reached the corner, Imogene was stepping off the vehicle. The woman beside her grabbed her hand and whispered something. Another woman yelled when Imogene descended, waving at the passengers and bowing her head as if she were a celebrity. “Imogene, I hope you find your man. If we see him, we know where to find you. At Chez Hill.”