Moth
One of the very few lights from Lew Griffin’s dark and violent past has flickered out. His one-time lover, LaVerne Adams is dead - and her daughter, Alouette, has vanished into a seamy, dead-end world of users and abusers - leaving behind a crack-addicted infant and a mystery.
Abandoning his former career for the safe respectability of teaching, Lew Griffin now spends his time in an old house in the garden district - determined to keep his distance from the lowlife temptations of the New Orleans night. But an inescapable obligation to an old friend is drawing the tormented ex-PI to danger like a moth to a flame. And there will be no turning back when his history comes calling and the dying begins again.
James Sallis
has published fourteen novels, multiple collections of short stories, essays, and poems, books of musicology, a biography of Chester Himes, and a translation of Raymond Queneau’s novel
Saint Glinglin
. He has written about books for the
L.A. Times, New York Times
, and
Washington Post
, and for some years served as a books columnist for the
Boston Globe
. In 2007 he received a lifetime achievement award from Bouchercon. In addition to
Drive
, the six Lew Griffin books are now in development as feature films. Jim teaches novel writing at Phoenix College and plays regularly with his string band, Three-Legged Dog. He stays busy.
Novels Published by No Exit Press
The Long-Legged Fly – Lew Griffin Book One,
1992
Moth – Lew Griffin Book Two,
1993
Black Hornet – Lew Griffin Book Three,
1994
Death Will Have Your Eyes,
1997
Eye of the Cricket – Lew Griffin Book Four
, 1997
Bluebottle – Lew Griffin Book Five,
1998
Ghost of a Flea – Lew Griffin Book Six,
2001
Cypress Grove – Turner Trilogy Book One,
2003
Drive,
2005
Cripple Creek – Turner Trilogy Book Two,
2006
Salt River – Turner Trilogy Book Three,
2007
The Killer Is Dying,
2011
Driven,
2012
Renderings
What You Have Left: The Turner Trilogy
A Few Last Words
Limits of the Sensible World
Time’s Hammers: Collected Stories
A City Equal to my Desire
Sorrow’s Kitchen
My Tongue In Other Cheeks: Selected Translations
Ash of Stars: On the Writing of Samuel R. Delany
Jazz Guitars
The Guitar In Jazz
The Guitar Players
Difficult Lives
Saint Glinglin by Raymond Queneau
(translator)
Chester Himes: A Life
A James Sallis Reader
Moth
‘James Sallis is doing some of the most interesting and provocative work in the field of private eye fiction. His New Orleans is richly atmospheric and darker than noir’
– Lawrence Block
‘If you like Walter Mosley, then Sallis walks the same streets, but the walk is faster, the streets darker. Buy this book’
–
Crime Time
‘An intelligent, enigmatic book … engrossing and disturbing’
–
New York Times
‘Another walk on Louisiana’s wild side … even stronger than
The Long-Legged Fly
’
–
Kirkus Reviews
‘An outstanding novel’
–
Booklist
‘A mind and a talent of uncommon dimensions’
– Harlan Ellison
‘Sallis is a rare find for mystery readers, a fine prose stylist with an interest in moral struggle and a gift for the lacerating evocation of loss’
–
New York Newsday
‘Sallis is an unsung genius of crime writing’
–
Independent on Sunday
‘James Sallis is a superb writer’
–
Times
‘James Sallis – he’s right up there, one of the best of the best… Sallis, also a poet, is capable of smart phrasing and moments of elegiac energy’
– Ian Rankin,
Guardian
‘[A] master of America noir…Sallis creates vivid images in very few words and his taut, pared down prose is distinctive and powerful’
–
Sunday Telegraph
‘Sallis’ spare, concrete prose achieves the level of poetry’
–
Telegraph
‘Sallis is a wonderful writer, dark, lyrical and compelling’
–
Spectator
‘Sallis is a fastidious man, intelligent and widely read. There’s nothing slapdash or merely strategic about his work’
–
London Review of Books
‘Unlike those pretenders who play in dark alleys and think they’re tough, James Sallis writes from an authentic noir sensibility, a state of mind that hovers between amoral indifference and profound existential despair’
–
New York Times
‘carefully crafted, restrained and eloquent’
–
Times Literary Supplement
‘James Sallis is without doubt the most underrated novelist currently working in America’
–
Catholic Herald
‘Sallis writes crime novels that read like literature’
–
Los Angeles Times
‘Allusive and stylish, this stark metaphysical landscape will leave a resounding impression’
– Maxim Jakubowski,
Guardian
‘The brooding atmosphere and depth of characterisation mark this as superior mystery fare’
– Simon Shaw,
Mail on Sunday
‘I’m brought back, yet again, to my conviction that the best American writers are hiding out like CIA sleepers, long forgotten fugitives from a discontinued campaign’
– Iain Sinclair,
London Review of Books
‘Classic American crime of the highest order’
–
Time Out
To the memory of
Chester Himes
Father, the dark moths
Crouch at the sills of the earth, waiting.
—J
AMES
W
RIGHT
Chapter One
I
T
WAS
MIDNIGHT,
IT
WAS
RAINING.
I scrubbed at the sink as instructed, and went on in. The second set of double doors led into a corridor at the end of which, to the left, a woman sat at a U-shaped desk behind an improvised levee of computers, phones, stacks of paperwork and racks of bound files. She was on the phone, trying simultaneously to talk into it and respond to the youngish man in soiled Nikes and lab coat who stood beside her asking about results of lab tests. Every few moments the phone purred and a new light started blinking on it. The woman herself was not young, forty to fifty, with thinning hair in a teased style out of fashion for at least twenty years. A tag on her yellow polyester jacket read Jo Ellen Heslip. Names are important.
To the right I walked past closetlike rooms filled with steel racks of supplies, an X-ray viewer, satellite pharmacy, long conference tables. Then into the intensive-care nursery, the NICU, itself—like coming out onto a plain. It was half the size of a football field, broken into semidiscrete sections by four-foot tile walls topped with open shelving. (Pods, I’d later learn to call them.) Light flooded in from windows along three walls. The windows were double, sealed: thick outer glass, an enclosed area in which lint and construction debris had settled, inner pane. Pigeons strutted on the sill outside. Down in the street buses slowed at, then passed, a covered stop. Someone in a hospital gown, impossible to say what sex or age, slept therein on a bench advertising Doctor’s Book-store, getting up from time to time to rummage in the trash barrel alongside, pulling out cans with a swallow or two remaining, a bag of Zapp’s chips, a smashed carton from Popeye’s.
I found Pod 1 by trial and error and made my way through the grid of incubators, open cribs, radiant warmers: terms I’d come to know in weeks ahead. Looking down at pink and blue tags affixed to these containers.
Baby Girl McTell
lay in an incubator in a corner beneath the window. The respirator reared up beside her on its pole like a silver sentinel, whispering:
shhhh, shhhh, shhhh.
LED displays wavered and changed on its face. With each
shhhh,
Baby Girl McTell’s tiny body puffed up, and a rack of screens mounted above her to the right also updated: readouts of heart rate, respiration and various internal pressures on a Hewlett-Packard monitor, oxygen saturation on a Nellcor pulse oximeter, levels of CO
2
and O
2
from transcutaneous monitors.
Baby Girl McTell
Born 9/15
Weight 1 lb 5 oz
Mother Alouette
I could hold her in the palm of my hand, easily, I thought. Or could have, if not for this battleship of machinery keeping her afloat, keeping her alive.
The nurse at bedside looked up. Papers lay scattered about on the bedside stand. She was copying from them onto another, larger sheet. She was left-handed, her wrist a winglike curve above the pen.
“Good morning. Would you be the father, by any chance?”
Reddish-blond hair cut short. Wearing scrubs, as they all were. Bright green eyes and a British accent like clear, pure water, sending a stab of pain and longing and loss through me as I thought of Vicky: red hair floating above me when I woke with DT’s in Touro Infirmary, Vicky with her Scottish
r
’s, Vicky who had helped me retrieve my life and then gone away.
Teresa Hunt,
according to her nametag. But did I really look like an eighteen-year-old’s romantic other?
Or maybe she meant the
girl’s
father?
I shook my head. “A family friend.”
“Well, I had wondered.” Words at a level, unaccented. “No one’s seen anything of him, as far as I know.”
“From what little
I
know, I don’t expect you will.”
“I see. Well, we are rather accustomed to that, I suppose. Some of the mothers themselves stop coming after a time.”
She shuffled papers together and capped her pen, which hung on a cord around her neck. There was print on the side of it: advertising of some sort, drugs probably. Like the notepad Vicky wrote her name and phone number on when I found her at Hotel Dieu.
Tucking everything beneath an oversized clipboard, Teresa Hunt squared it on the stand.
“Look, I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “Someone should have explained this to you, but only parents and grandparents are allowed—oh, never mind all that. Bugger the rules. What difference can it possibly make? Is this your first time to see her?”
