Now Let's Talk of Graves (21 page)

It wasn't hard.

Things were going pretty good.

But then hotel security figured it out anyway and put the screws to Sharleen, who never had been a particularly loyal little girl. Though she was sure something in the sack. And Lavert always had been a fool for little bitty girls who liked to sit on top of him and scream.

Sharleen was a screamer all right. She was screaming at the top of her lungs when she snookered him into that last hotel room, had clean sheets already on the California king-size bed, said didn't he want to take a little jump. She was screaming her head off:
He's the one, the one made me do it, said he'd beat me up, big old boy like him, little thing like me scared to death.

His mama was wearing some pearls he'd given her, belonged to a fat white lady from Grosse Pointe, when they came to his house. She wouldn't look Lavert in the face for the longest time even when she came to see him on visiting days, like to have died of the shame of it.

That little incident cost him three years peeling potatoes in the 'Gola kitchen, the beginning of his culinary skills. But he hadn't been past the Monteleone since.

Now he was wondering what it was General Taylor Johnson was interested in up there. Pointing it out to that tall brunette he'd noticed that day, a month, couple of months ago, nawh, around Mardi Gras time, that was right, he and Joey were picking up Chéri at the airport. This brunette and her friend, a strawberry-blond kind of redhead, had been standing right there when that little bitty old white boy had pulled that stupid trick, fainted right there in the middle of the road.

He remembered because they had jumped into a cab like they were making a getaway. Like something out of a movie. He'd liked that.

Now, what was that brunette doing with G. T. Johnson, who he'd been in love with since that day—since she'd pulled up in her red ZZZ ambulance and carried that little white boy away.

He'd been trying to figure how to make a move on G.T. ever since.

He'd mentioned her to his mama, who knew her people, used to live around the corner from them in Slidell.

Everybody knew everybody else's kids then. Kid'd do wrong he'd get five or six whippings before he ever even landed on his own front porch, where his own mama'd be waiting for him with a belt already warmed up. His mama said she used to go to heaven 'n' hell parties with G.T.'s mama at the church. Both of them saints, buying a plate of chicken and a cold drink and going on in the church to read the Bible and sing gospel songs while the sinners sat outside with their plates, drinking beer and dancing to music on the record player. She said G.T.'s mama got to be a witch, did sand dancing, cured nosebleeds for chi'rren with a wet brown paper bag and a key on a shoestring. Her grandmama and her great-grandmama, that Ida, witches too. Said stay away from that girl. A witch and got hig
h-
falutin' ways. Talking about going to medical school. Ain't gonna have no use for the likes of you. Woman like that make you crazy. Carve you up for one of her cadavers, use your manhood in one of her voudous. No telling what she likely to do.

Well. That was all the inspiration he needed—besides having been struck by lightning the instant he'd first spied her. 'Specially now that he'd discovered that he could do more things than anybody thought a black boy, albeit ex-English major and ex-football player, and okay, ex-con, could do—cook in French and Italian, not to mention Cajun, creole, and soul, a thing that didn't depend on his size and strength, well, Lavert had some plans of his own. Of course, he had to get away from Joey the Horse first. But once he did that, he could sure use a little woman by his side.

Wouldn't hurt a man wanted to go into the restaurant business—where, he'd read in a magazine, 78 percent of them folded in the first two years—to have a woman could work a little magic.

Now, looking at G.T. across the street with this woman he'd also seen
almost
at the same time, the same place certainly, he took it for a sign.

A man dealing with a magic woman ought to start paying attention to signs.

He strolled toward them, slow, easy, man his size had to be careful not to rush up on people.

“Ms. Johnson,” he said in his nicest voice, holding out his hand. “It's good to see you again.”

Both women turned and looked at the towering black man. She'd seen him somewhere before, Sam thought, then noticed the white limo in the background.

At the airport.

Then, in her mind, she ran out the rest of the story that Harry told her, Chéri talking, this giant waiting with the little guy in his arms till G.T. came in her ambulance and picked him up.

“You two know each other,” she said.

“We've met.” Lavert smiled.

He had a great smile, Sam thought. Easily as good as Harry's. Now he was introducing himself, reminding G.T. of the airport incident.

“Oh, yes,” G.T. said.

“I trust you got the little man to the hospital safely,” Lavert said.

“Well, as a matter of fact, we didn't,” G.T. said. Then she started telling him about the little man's hauling ass, though she didn't say it that way, not knowing why she thought she ought to talk like a lady in front of this gangster man—'cause that's what he was, everybody knew about Joey the Horse, his reputation,
and
about his man. “You should have seen him running like a chicken with his head cut off right up the middle of the sidewalk.” Then G.T. laughed.

“Well, maybe that was good riddance,” Lavert said. “The boy was crazy, acting like that. Maybe he had rabies or something. You wouldn't want to get too close to that.”

“I've been up against worse than that,” said G.T., bragging a little. “But, you know, that little man got me in trouble. I'm still getting grief at the office about that file. There is nothing they hate more at ZZZ than a file that's not closed out. They'd rather see somebody die, zip that file right up 'long with the body bag than leave one hanging.”

And there it was, Lavert thought. Just like that. He smiled. “Why don't you let me take care of that?”

“I beg your pardon,” said G.T.

“I'll find out who that boy was and his”—Lavert searched for a word he thought she'd like—“disposition. Let me help you out.” It wouldn't even be that hard. He
knew
he'd seen that little dude before. Man in his position, he'd just do some asking around.

“Now, why on earth would you want to do that?” G.T. gave him a look from up under her lashes. Not so much that you could call her a flirt. Just a tad. Just enough.

There, thought Sam, was a girl who knew how to play a man like a fish. Though she wasn't even sure that G.T. knew she was doing it. It came to some women naturally, even some women who didn't know
anything
about magic.

And it was sure working a mojo on this big one, who was stumbling all over himself, reduced to a puddle of jelly.

“Well, I—I just thought it would be nice. Our folks knowing each other and all,” Lavert said.

“Our folks? What on earth are you talking about?” G.T. asked.

Then Sam listened with only half an ear. Lavert was talking about old times somewhere else, running his rap. G.T. was smiling, laughing. Oh yeah, I remember that.

Sam turned toward the Royal Orleans and saw the back of Harry, no mistaking that trench coat he thought made him look like a P.I., walking in the door, now up the steps. She watched a minute longer. Yep, now he was sitting at a table in the Esplanade Lounge, checking into his unofficial office.

“You ever have the beans and rice over to Eddie's,” Lavert was asking.

“Once, but it's too hard to find. I get lost every time I try to go over there.” G.T. shook her head like the very thought made her impatient. The beads in her braids made a clicking sound.

“What you do is”—now Lavert was the professional talking shop to a fellow driver—“you gotta remember Law don't cross no major streets, goes under 'em. You head toward the lake on Elysian Fields, make a U-turn under the bridge at I-10, double back, and turn right on Law. Eddie's 'bout four blocks, right-hand side. Ought to let me drive you sometime. Or even better,
I'll
make you some beans and rice—”

Nope, G.T. and Lavert didn't need Sam. They were doing just fine their ownselves.

Fifteen

ABOUT THREE BLOCKS away on Decatur, in a less than genteel bar called The Abbey, Billy Jack Joyner was floating Dixie beer on top of some primo toot, trying to concentrate on
The Racing Form.
But today nothing was working. He had a case of the mean reds.

He'd just gotten off the phone talking with Willie, the maître d' over at Patrissy's, who'd said somebody had come by looking for him.

Now, wuddn't that the pits? Like he didn't have enough on his mind. Like bi'nis wouldn't just flow like water if they wouldn't mess with him.

That was the one thing that still amazed Billy Jack about bi'nis. He'd always thought it was something hard. Something mysterious. Something that only people went to college knew how to do. Till he started his own little candy store. That's what he liked to call his coke bi'nis. Mobsters in New York worked out of candy stores. He read about that at LTI, the reform school in North Louisiana where he'd spent some very hard time when he was a kid.

Billy Jack had never wanted anything in his life as bad as he wanted to be a mobster.

That was why he hadn't minded so much when his mama wanted to leave Ruston, that little dump in North Louisiana where he was born. Even if New Orleans was lousy with niggers, he was thrilled to pieces to move there 'cause it was the home of the big man, Carlos Marcello. He didn't know then that the feds were about to fuck Carlos up and send him away.

Of course, Billy Jack was just a kid then, sixteen when he got out of LTI.

It was right after that his mama said, Let's go to New Orleans. She just knew she'd make the big time there. And sure 'nuf she had. There were no flies on his mama.

But then, there was
nothing
on his mama when she floated into his daydreams. He'd think about how she looked when he was a little bitty boy, was bad, and she used to chase him around the house in her altogether, swinging a switch, a flyswatter, a rolled-up newspaper, anything that came to hand. Once she'd jumped right out of the tub and came after him and his smartmouth with a wet washcloth. That's how he liked to think of her. Running. Wet. Bouncing up and down.

He'd told Frankie Zito about killing that Dr. Freiberg, called him Dr. Frisbee, shrink at LTI, what had said them terrible things about him and his mom. He told Frankie he could show him the newspaper clippings, of course they didn't have his
name
in them, but he did old Frisbee good, right before he blew Rustontown. Frankie said, History, do it again.

Black or white? Billy Jack asked. What they'd wanted had been nothing—taking a guy out, dropping him off the Pontchartrain Causeway.

So, he'd said, to Frankie. Now I'm a made guy.

Billy Jack hadn't liked it when Frankie laughed. Said you ain't got the blood, stupid. We'll let you do scum, we don't want to get our hands dirty. Make a few bucks. But you never be family. Don't ever make that mistake.

Make a few bucks, what a joke. He was making it hand over fist with his candy store. Not with scum, either. His business was strictly Uptown. You lived downtown of Lee Circle, call somebody else.

Business. Bi'nis. The thing that was truly so astounding about it was that it was so easy—just like selling Hershey's Kisses or ice cream sodas. The money flowed.

In fact,
that was the problem.

The coke bi'nis was so much like just being your ordinary insurance salesman that Billy Jack had been getting a little bored.

He needed more excitement to keep him from getting antsy, so he did a few things on the side from time to time.

Scared a few citizens. Hit a couple 7-Elevens, Pic'N'Pacs. He'd also fallen into the habit of going out to the track. Before he knew it, he was hooked.

A couple of times he took along Zoe Lee, one of his best customers. But he stopped doing that. It pissed him off that she'd always win. And she didn't even use a system.

Billy Jack had a system. It was all about numbers. He had it all figured out on his computer, had designed a special program in D-base. You could
buy
programs, sure, but they weren't for him. He entered in post positions, horses' birth dates, jockeys' birth dates, the odds, of course. And the date of the race. It was bound to work out.

Lots of times it didn't, though. That was the funny thing.

So now, for example, he was coming up a little short. Which is probably why Frankie was looking for him.

Things had been just a little slow lately. But that was to be expected, regular ebb and flow of bi'nis always slow during Lent, Uptown folks got holier than thou, cut down on their fun, and Zoe, who moved a lot of stuff, had punked out on him. She said she wasn't buying somewhere else, but he knew she was lying. She was on his list of things to do something about.