Now Let's Talk of Graves (44 page)

And here he'd just decided that he was going to marry Nadine, had decided it while he was sitting eating her black walnut cake.

It was the only fitting thing to do, sort of a recompense for Church and all their bad blood and, truth be told, all the pain that business had caused other people. Why, everybody thought men were so tough, but he could still remember the look on Madeline's face that terrible day she'd run up on him and Church yelling about her out in front of the Pickwick. And Zoe. Poor Zoe. He'd felt heartsick about that little girl ever since. It was one of the things that made him so mean. Made him drink. Made him sometimes want to hurt people. Round and round went that little snotwad of shame about his selfishness, pinging off the walls of his brain. But now,
now,
because of Nadine, he'd seen the error of his ways. He had to. It was all closing in on him. He'd give Marietta her divorce, he knew she wanted it, wouldn't even put up a fight, wouldn't drag her through the mud like she thought he would, just give her and the kids their share, like an upstanding gentleman. He wondered if he'd ever see the boys again. Oh, God. Well, there was nothing for it but Do It Right. Then hope for the best. Dear Jesus, he was so sorry. He hoped some of Nadine's grace would rub off on him.

“Thanks,” he said to the back of the retreating Dana, who'd been standing there drinking her cup of coffee and studying him. “Thanks a lot for the messages.”

“You're welcome.” Then she gave him a funny look. Well, he never had been very nice to her. He'd try now. “How's the rehearsal going?”

She shrugged. “Fine. Everything's always fine when Nadine's doing it. Right on target.” And then she made a little gun with her hand like she was pointing it at a bull's-eye. Her idea of a friendly gesture. Pulled the trigger. Pow.

And she was gone.

Alone, he felt the pit of his stomach rise up again. The black walnut cake felt like a load of lead.

What was he going to do if Jimbo came over? Why wasn't Jimbo satisfied with the flying-lawn-chair TV publicity? The man was always wanting more and more. And what the hell was it now with the big spade? What was this crap about Chéri?

Then he saw Dana pulling that little trigger in her hand. That was it! Being sorry for the error of his ways was one thing,
but
there was no need to roll over and play dead.

So Maynard did his fat-boy boogie, out of the kitchen, down the hall to Nadine's private suite. He reached into the drawer of the bedside table, where she kept the .38 he'd given her. He'd taken her out in the woods and taught her how to use it. He'd said, sweet baby, you keep this. You never know. No way a gorgeous woman like you can ever be too safe.

He'd
wave
that .38 at Jimbo, that's what he'd do, scare the shit out of him. Let him know he couldn't push Maynard Dupree around anymore. Neither him nor that Mr. Black Person Washington.

*

Billy Jack said to himself: Run down the back steps of the Andrew Jackson. Now up the back steps of Mama's place.

Nobody would ever look for him here.

Those bastards. The nerve. Coming to his rooms like that.

Besides. He'd gotten it early—her surprise. He could feel the diamonds in the cross burning a hole through his pocket right above his heart, almost causing him a pain. On Good Friday. That was fitting, wasn't it? Fitting time to give the cross to her too. No need to wait till day after tomorrow, Easter Sunday.

Lavert and Harry were plastered up against the wall of Beulah Land Tabernacle, trying to figure out their best shot, when G.T. drove up, her siren blaring full blast.

“What the hell!” Harry waved his arms. “Turn that goddamned thing off.”

Arkadelphia lumbered out of the ambulance, brushing Sam off his lap as if she were a Kleenex he'd discarded and forgotten. “You could show a little more respect at the door to the Lord's house,” he sniffed at Harry.

“Sorry,” said G.T., speaking to no one in particular but giving the eye to Lavert.

Whose heart jumped like a startled deer. He wanted to run over and grab her up and tell her all about Lavert's and the dress she was going to wear and the food he was going to cook and the good times they were going to have forever and forever amen when he was brought back to the here and now by Harry and Sam. Standing in one another's faces.

*

Sam screaming: “You are supposed to be down at records checking out Billy Jack. I told you
I'd
talk to Nadine.”

“Oh yeah? Well, what about talking to her little boy instead? We went by his rooms, he skipped. Headed over here.”

“And what do you think we're going to find out, all of us barging in there like a SWAT team?” Sam flailed in Lavert's direction, ended up punching Harry in the chest.

“Hey!” Harry wanted to grab that arm and pull her close. Or throw her to the ground,
then
pull her close. A little wrestling would do this woman a world of good. “I guess you want to run this show too.”

“You bet your ass.”

He was right. She did. There were some times she just couldn't be a team player.

Harry threw both hands in the air. “Then take it, lady. It's all yours. We're out of here.” He jerked his head at Lavert. “Come on, man.”

Giving General Taylor a long, melting look, Batman followed his Robin.

*

Billy Jack stood behind the closed door up behind the baptismal. From the other side he could hear the choir singing “Are You Washed in the Blood of the Lamb?”

When first he'd thought of giving the cross to Mama, the picture in his mind was it would be private—just the two of them somewhere quiet. At lunch, maybe. But now that he was here, and there were all those people in there—well, why not? Wouldn't it be even better to make a
thing
of it? A presentation? A ceremony? Maybe he should have gotten her a crown—then it could be a coronation.

Well, but he hadn't. And he was here now. He closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

Now, here was his plan. He'd slide through the door, then he'd be way up in front of the auditorium and above all of them. It was like he'd be the centerpiece. And then—he hoped the big lights were on because they'd light him up and the diamonds would sparkle like sunshine—he'd hold the cross over his head. Or, maybe he'd hold it out in front of his face.

He tried it a couple of times, this way and that, practicing variations.

*

Arkadelphia and G.T. and Sam were still outside, standing by the ambulance.

“Arkadelphia, you stay out here,” said Sam.

“No way. You told me I could get her autograph.”

“Stay outside and watch for Billy Jack.”

“I don't even know what he looks like.”

“You most certainly do,” said G.T. “He's the little blond dude who jumped out of the ambulance that day out at the airport and left us with all that paperwork they're still hocking us about.”

“Oh. And what do I do if I see him?”

“Sit down hard on the siren.”

*

Maynard, the gun tucked into his gut where it hurt, was sitting upstairs in the balcony. He thought, now, if he was Jimbo, what would he do? Would he walk in the front door like an ordinary white man? Then Maynard remembered Jimbo in the cemetery, wiggling an empty boot, then jumping him, wrestling him to the ground. Naaaah. No way that bastard would just march in, then strut up to Nadine and say his piece, queer his deal with Nadine, get it over. He'd do something sneaky. Like what? Maynard stared at the choir while he was thinking, scanning their faces. But wait a minute! Who was that? It was Jimbo! He'd stake his life on it! Jimbo had sneaked into the choir and was waiting for him right there in the alto section. He could see him clear as day. That snake!

*

Sam whispered to G.T. as they slipped into a pew, “We'll sit right here and wait for her to finish.” Up in the front of the huge auditorium, Nadine's back was to them, her long blond hair streaming. She was leading the choir herself.

“Okay,” said G.T., “if that's what you think.”

“You have a better plan?”

“I don't know. I don't like it in here,” said the New Age voudou priestess. She sniffed the air. “There's something rotten in here. It stinks.”

“I don't smell any—”

*

Billy Jack was in position now. In the middle of everything, but above it all. All he had to do was push the button, and the blue velvet curtain would open. All eyes would rise up, and there he'd be—right behind the baptismal tank. He and the diamond cross would be dazzling.

“Hey, Mama, Mama, here's your precious son with your Easter present,” he'd sing.

*

“The odor of sanctity, maybe?” whispered Sam.

G.T. gave her a look. “More rotten than that. What are you going to say to this woman anyway?”

“Just you wait.”

Then the singing stopped. The choir seemed to be taking a break.

Sam stood, started up the aisle toward the front. It was a long walk. “Sister Nadine,” she called. “Sister Nadine.”

Nadine turned, hands on her wide hips.

*

Behind and above the choir loft, beneath a huge cross hanging on the front wall, a curtain slowly slid open to reveal the baptismal tank sunk flush into a niche in the wall like a giant aquarium.

On a narrow walkway behind the tank stood Billy Jack. “Hey, Mama. Mama.”

Nadine pulled her eyes away from Sam and turned back. For a second she was blinded by the glitter of something bright.

*

Harry and Lavert had crept up beside Billy Jack on the walkway. “Fly!” barked Harry from a crouch.

Lavert flew. He grabbed little Billy Jack, lifted him way up, then, holding him by the shoulders, dunked him into the cool baptismal water.

From the auditorium below you could see through the glass on the front side Billy Jack churning his little arms and legs, his blond hair waving like seaweed. Lavert held him under for a slow count of five, then dragged him up, sputtering. The diamond cross drifted slowly to the bottom.

*

Maynard had run down the balcony stairs, out the front door, and around the side of the auditorium. As he opened the side door, he realized the choir had stopped singing. He raced down hallways, turning right, turning left, to the door of the choir loft. He had to hurry before Jimbo got away!

*

“Leave my baby alone!” cried Nadine. “You're going to drown him! Help! Help! Lord Jesus, somebody help me!”

*

Sam thought she was going to have a heart attack. Men! Always cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, jumping into the fray, guns, bazookas—“Look at that!” she turned and yelled at G.T. “Would you look at that? Harry says he's leaving and now—”

*

Billy Jack stared up into the huge black face pressed right down on his, the face of death.

“Talk, motherfucker,” the face said.

“What? What?” he stuttered, then realized it wasn't Mr. Death, it was Joey the Horse's man—though maybe they were one and the same.

But what did he want? Oh, hell, why pretend? He knew, all right. He'd known down in his gut since that terrible day at the airport when Joey had sicced the jig on him. Joey knew he was opening other territories, dealing with the spics, getting himself squeezed by the DEA. But it was all Frankie Zito's fault. Frankie wouldn't ever let him near Joey. Wouldn't let him tell Joey how he
really
was a made guy. He bet if he ever had gotten close to Joey he could straighten all this mess out. Joey'd be glad to let him be one of
them.
Now it was too late. Now he was going to die. He knew he was going to die. Billy Jack's mind raced.

“It's confession time,” said Lavert in his very baddest voice.

Joey's man was right, thought Billy Jack. Absolutely right. It
was
time to confess, right here on the edge of a watery grave.

But where to start?

And then he was drowning again.

*

“Let him go! Let him go! Let him go!” Nadine was screaming. The choir was screaming. Sam was screaming.

G.T., on the other hand, thought Lavert was doing a right nice job. She liked men who took charge. Forget all that dicking-around shit.

*

“Why'd you run away?” Lavert asked.

“When?” sputtered Billy Jack.

“At the airport that day?”

“I—I—I was afraid.”

“Afraid of who?”

“Afraid of you. Afraid of Joey.”

Lavert laughed. “And now you know you were right to be.”

*

Maynard felt like he'd stepped into the middle of a bad dream. And in the dream was that Mr. Black Person Washington, who'd been driving the Spider, who'd warned him off Chéri. Now he was drowning Nadine's son in the baptismal tank. What the hell?