Out of the Easy (18 page)

He smiled wide. He was so certain, his belief so absolute.

“Josie girl.” The smile faded from his voice. “Why you cryin’?”

I shook my head, unable to speak. I reached for the thermos and cradled it against my chest. Tears rolled down my face.

“Aw, you shouldn’t be cryin’ on your birthday.” He pointed to the map. “Where is it?” he asked softly.

“It’s Smith College in Northampton. Near Boston.”

“All right, then.” He pulled the red pen from his pocket and continued the trail from Connecticut into Massachusetts. “Boston. There.” He looked at me. “Why you frettin’, Jo? You not sure?”

I inhaled my tears in order to speak. “I’m sure I want to go, but I’m not sure it’s possible. Why would they accept me? And if they did, how would I pay for it? I don’t want to get my hopes up only to be disappointed. I’m always disappointed.”

“Now, don’t let fear keep you in New Orleans. Sometimes we set off down a road thinkin’ we’re goin’ one place and we end up another. But that’s okay. The important thing is to start. I know you can do it. Come on, Josie girl, give those ol’ wings a try.”

“Willie doesn’t want me to.”

“So what, you gonna stay here just so you can clean her house and run around with all the naked crazies in the Quarter? You got a bigger story than that.”

I held up the thermos. “And hot coffee for the journey.”

Cokie started to shuffle and sing. “I’d rather drink muddy water than let you jive on me. Josie girl, you goin’ to Boston, so don’t you jive on me.”

I hugged the thermos.

“All right, I better get to the Pontchartrain, or Willie will have my hide,” said Cokie. “I got somethin’ else.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a thin piece of newspaper, torn at the edges. “Cornbread got back from Tennessee. He gave me this. The rich man’s family ain’t satisfied. Apparently his watch and money were stolen, so they suspicious. They wanna do their own autopsy.” He laid the piece of newsprint on the counter.

TENNESSEAN’S DEATH SUSPICIOUS

The body of Forrest L. Hearne, Jr., 42, will be exhumed in Memphis on Monday for autopsy. Hearne, a wealthy architect and builder, died during the early morning hours of January 1 at the Sans Souci nightclub in New Orleans. Hearne and his two friends had traveled to New Orleans to attend the Sugar Bowl football game January 2. Hearne reportedly left Memphis with $3,000, but no money was found on his person when he died. The deceased was also missing his expensive wristwatch and Sugar Bowl tickets. Hearne’s death was attributed at the time to a heart attack. Dr. Riley Moore, Orleans Parish coroner, said Hearne collapsed in the club and was dead when the ambulance arrived.

“Josie.” Cokie moved toward the counter. “You okay? You’re grayer than a bottle of rain, girl.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

“You really have to go tonight?” said Patrick. “I thought maybe you could come over for your birthday, say hello to Charlie.”

“Yes, I have to go. He’s going to give me the letter.”

“Why don’t I go with you? Maybe it’ll look more serious if I’m there.”

I liked the idea of Patrick coming. Then I thought about what Mr. Lockwell had said. High heels. He wouldn’t appreciate Patrick being there. And I knew better than to tell Patrick about his comment.

“Let’s meet up later at the Paddock. Smiley Lewis is playing tonight. Could you come after Charlie goes to sleep?” I asked.

“The Paddock’s so grimy. Besides, I can’t leave Charlie for too long. He’s been acting up. Miss Paulsen called asking to talk to him. She said she came by. You didn’t tell her about him, did you?”

“Of course not. I’d never do that.”

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone, Jo.”

“I promise! I love Charlie just as much as you do,” I told him.

“Some of the neighbors are suspicious. I told them that he’s completely absorbed in writing a play and sometimes reads it aloud, acting the parts.”

“That was smart. He did spend thirty-five days inside writing once,” I said.

“Yeah, but I don’t know how long they’ll buy it. I like Miss Paulsen, but she’s pretty nosy. And her brother’s a doctor. All we need is for her to get a look at Charlie and call for a straitjacket.”

“Don’t say that. Have you written to your mom yet?” I asked.

“I had told her about the robbery and the beating, but she doesn’t know how bad it’s gotten.” Patrick shuffled some papers on the counter. “Say, Jo, I keep forgetting to ask, do you have that inventory report? The accountants need it for taxes.”

“Your accountant is part of the Proteus Krewe for Mardi Gras. He’s not thinking about tax season right now.”

“I know, but I want to have it in advance. I’m tired of always doing things last minute. And I hate to ask, but do you think you could do me a favor and stay with Charlie for a couple hours tomorrow night? I’ve got some books coming in around dinnertime, and I want to turn them around and deliver. We could use the money.”

“Sure, I’ll stay with Charlie.”

“Thanks, Jo. Jeez, now I feel bad. Your redneck Romeo, Jesse, gets you flowers for your birthday, and I can’t even go with you to the Paddock.”

“Flowers?”

“You didn’t see?” Patrick rolled his eyes. “Step outside and look at your window.”

I walked into the street and looked up toward my apartment. Balancing in the wrought-iron window box was a bouquet of pink lilies. How had Jesse gotten them up there?

I had never received flowers and didn’t own a vase, so I propped them in a glass on my desk. The fragrance quickly filled the small space. Staring at the lilies, I felt a mix of happiness and apprehension. Unless it was Cokie, gifts from men weren’t free.

I put on the same dress I had worn to Lockwell’s office before. It was the only nice dress I owned. I tied a red scarf around my neck onto my shoulder, trying to make the outfit look different, and combed my hair over to the side to tame the puff from the humidity. For some reason, my hair always looked best right before bed, and what good was that?

I looked down at my feet. Pretty shoes for a letter. Sex for a string of pearls.

Was there a difference?

TWENTY-NINE

My heels echoed across the deserted marble floor of the lobby. Six o’clock on Valentine’s Day and so close to Mardi Gras, everyone was out chasing hearts. When I reached the eighth floor, the reception desk was empty. A trickle of perspiration slid between my shoulder blades in a single stream and landed at the base of my spine. I grabbed a magazine from the reception area table and fanned my face. The temperature outside was only seventy, but I had tried to walk fast. I lifted my arm and fanned the orbs of sweat in my armpits. Was I hot or nervous?

“Now, that’s the best use of that magazine I can think of.”

I looked up. A man in a gray suit with a briefcase stood near the reception desk.

“I think they reduce the cool air after hours. Are you here for someone?” he asked.

“Mr. Lockwell.” I nodded, adding, “I’m a friend of his niece.”

“I think he’s back in his office. Big day for him. Another nice deal. I’d show you back, but I’m late to meet the wife for dinner. Go on through.”

I walked by the rows of desks toward Mr. Lockwell’s mammoth office. Each step was more difficult and my toes began to cramp. This was a mistake. Mr. Lockwell’s voice rose in volume as I approached. He was giving dates and dollar figures. Large sums. He said the deal was signed today and his attorney had just left the office with the contract. I stood outside the door. I heard him hang up the phone and knocked on the door frame.

“Come in.”

The office was a haze of cigar smoke.

“Well, hello, Josephine.” Mr. Lockwell grinned and walked around his desk toward the door. His greedy eyes immediately locked onto my feet.

My stomach twisted. I felt the taste of humiliation rise in my throat. He stared at my feet. “What the hell are those?”

“They’re called loafers. Brown loafers.”

“I know what they’re called, but that wasn’t the deal,” he said.

“Show me the letter first.”

“Show you the letter?”

“Yes. Show me the letter and then I’ll show you the high heels.”

He leaned back against his desk. “Is that the only dress you own?”

“This isn’t about the dress. This is about the letter.”

“And the shoes,” he added.

“Yes, and the shoes. So, show me the letter.”

“Oh, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? I love that game.”

I swallowed hard and stared, trying to keep from throwing up.

He ran his hand through his hair, a habit from his youth, no doubt, before his hairline began its slow retreat at the temples. His fleshy midsection challenged the buttons on his dress shirt. He wasn’t ugly, but if he picked a flower, I was fairly certain it would die in his hand. Mother might find him attractive. For some, a bloated bank account improved a man’s features.

“Well, you see, Josephine, today was one of those great days, but great days are often really busy days. So I don’t exactly have the letter.”

I nodded. “I figured that was likely. That’s why I didn’t sashay in here wearing the shoes. That would be called a negative ROI.”

“ROI? Return on investment?”

“Exactly, a bad investment of my time and self-respect, not to mention money, on a pair of shoes I’d never wear. Durable goods, Mr. Lockwell.” I motioned to my feet. “Practical and high yield.”

“Jesus, I should hire you. Are you looking for a job?”

“I’m looking for a college education. Smith. Northampton.”

Mr. Lockwell laughed, pointing his finger at me. “You’re good, Josephine. You just may have earned your letter. And with a little spit shine, you could earn a lot more, if you know what I mean.” My face must have conveyed my disgust. He rolled his eyes. “Or you could work in an office. Are you eighteen?” he asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Why don’t you come by on Friday?” he suggested.

“I’m not interested in a job. I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Lockwell. In the interest of time, why don’t you give me a sheet of your letterhead? I’ll type up the recommendation and bring it by for your signature. Discreet and effortless.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, I really want you to work for me.”

“A diploma from Smith would make me a more desirable hire.”

“Honey, you’re already a desirable hire . . . in a dirty Cinderella kind of way. Call me John.”

“On second thought, Mr. Lockwell, give me two sheets of letterhead. Best to have a backup.”

THIRTY

Once I fed a new ribbon into Charlie’s typewriter, it worked without issue. Charlie sat across from me at the kitchen table in his stained undershirt, staring at the typewriter. I spoke to him as if he understood everything. My biggest fear was that the old Charlie was in there somewhere trying to communicate, but a synaptic disconnect made his behavior erratic. Some responses were still there. If you put him in front of the steps, he’d walk up or down. But then it was hard to get him to stop. There were moments when his eyes flashed with clarity or when his head turned at conversation. But the sparks were gone as quickly as they came.