Out of the Easy (20 page)

Patrick turned to Cokie. “You should go out the front door, since your cab is in the street. You two can go out the back.”

“Josie girl, you can’t go out like that. You look like you been working the ax for Carlos Marcello. Patrick, give the girl some clothes.” Patrick left for his room. Maybe Sadie could help me get the blood out.

Randolph gestured with his head toward Patrick’s room. “Is he okay? Seems like he’s about to blow.”

“He’s mad at me. I turned my back on Charlie and he cut himself. It’s my fault.”

“Now, don’t go blamin’ yourself,” said Cokie. “He should’ve been home with his father instead of runnin’ round the city with his friends.”

“He was delivering books. He has to keep money coming in,” I said.

I rolled and belted the denims to make them fit and tucked the shirt in. I could smell Patrick on the clothes—a frosty pine scent—and somehow it was comforting. Cokie drove us to Willie’s. It was approaching midnight and the streets popped with Mardi Gras excitement. Cokie and Randolph talked about the war. Randolph predicted that US troops would soon be in Korea. I hoped he was wrong. We didn’t need another war.

Cokie’s cab pulled into Willie’s driveway.

“Go to the side door,” I told Randolph.

“What’s the new password?” he asked.

“Mr. Bingle sent me.”

Randolph went in through the side door as instructed. I got out of the car for some air, staying in the shadows so Willie couldn’t see me through the windows. Music and laughter spilled from the house and almost covered the sound of male voices arguing.

“Cokie, is someone back there?” We walked down the drive.

John Lockwell’s Lincoln Continental was parked in back of the house. The hood was propped open. Lockwell stood in his shirtsleeves looking at the engine and talking to another man.

“I’m telling you, John. Just leave it, and we’ll tow it in the morning.”

“Are you crazy? I’m not having my car towed from a whorehouse for the world to see. I told Lilly I’d be home by one
A.M.
tonight. Her friends have her convinced there’s a murderer in the Quarter.”

“You need a ride, sir? My car’s in the driveway,” offered Cokie.

“No, I need to drive my own car,” he insisted. I stepped out from behind Cokie.

Mr. Lockwell threw up his hands. “What are you doing here?”

“I was taking a walk. I live nearby.” The numbers flipped on the rotating counter of lies.

“Well, unless you can fix my car, you don’t need to be here,” he said.

“I know someone who can fix your car,” I said.

“You do? How quick can you get him here?”

I turned to Cokie. “Can you take me to Jesse’s?”

“Sure, but no tellin’ if he’ll be home,” said Cokie.

“I’ll be right back.” I turned and started jogging down the drive with Cokie. But then I stopped. “Wait, Coke.” I turned around and marched back to Mr. Lockwell.

“I have the best mechanic in the Quarter, and I can get him here pronto.”

“Then why are you standing there? Go!” said Mr. Lockwell.

I reached into my purse and grabbed the envelope. “This will save time. I’ll have you sign the recommendation now.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

I shook my head. I took the sheet out of the envelope and unfolded it against the driver’s-side window. “Sign here.”

Lockwell stood and stared.

“I’ll have your car fixed, and this will be done.” I pointed to the signature line.

“What’s this all about?” asked his friend.

Mr. Lockwell’s voice dropped. “Did you fool with my car, just to get this letter?”

“Of course not!”

He grabbed my wrist. “You better have a mechanic. If you’re hustlin’ me, kid, I swear I’ll find you and you’ll be sorry.”

“Josie, you okay?” called Cokie.

“I’m fine,” I called back.

Lockwell moved closer. “Did you hear me? You’ll be sorry.”

I nodded.

Mr. Lockwell took a pen from his shirt pocket. “God, I can’t even read this. It’s too dark back here.” He looked at me. He looked at the car. He scribbled his signature. “There. Now, hurry.”

“Come on, Cokie.” I took off down the driveway with the letter and jumped in the cab. I held up the piece of paper. “Cokie, don’t tell Willie about this.”

“Josie, what are you up to? This is crazy. You don’t even know what’s wrong with his car. Maybe it can’t be fixed. Maybe Jesse don’t have the parts. It’s after midnight. Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe he’s not even home. Then what you gonna do? That man is waitin’, and he don’t want to be messed with.”

I stared at the signed letter. I didn’t want to be messed with either.

• • • 

Lights were on at Jesse’s. I ran up and pounded on the door. The hinges creaked. A woman peeked out.

“What do you want?”

“Good evening, ma’am. I’m a friend of Jesse’s. Is he home?”

“Go away, it’s too late to be out. Nothing good ever happens after midnight,” she hissed.

“Who is it, Granny?” The door swung open. Jesse stood shirtless in his jeans, holding a bottle of milk. The bottle was sweating. So was his torso.

“Hey, Jo.” Jesse looked at my clothing and raised an eyebrow.

“Jesse, I need a favor.”

• • • 

It took less than ten minutes for Jesse to start the engine.

“You got a card, kid?” Mr. Lockwell said from the window, between pulls on his cigar.

“A card?” Jesse asked.

Lockwell threw a green bill at me from the car. It hit my knees and landed on the driveway. “You’re lucky he was able to fix it. Get yourself a dress. I want to see some high heels, Josephine.” He drove away.

Jesse stared at his boots.

“It’s not what it sounds like,” I said, kicking the money away from my feet.

Jesse looked up. I saw his eyes float over my shoulder toward the house. A rich man in back of a brothel threw money at me and told me to get a pair of high heels—I knew exactly what it sounded like. I didn’t want Jesse to think of me that way.

“Looks like he’s pretty well-to-do.”

“He’s my friend’s uncle.” That sounded bad too. Jesse knew Willie’s girls were called nieces. “Jesse, can I tell you something?”

He nodded.

“I asked Mr. Lockwell to give me a recommendation for college. He didn’t want to, but I convinced him.” Oh, that sounded even worse. “Wait, it’s not like that, either. I know he comes here to Willie’s, and he gave me the recommendation so I wouldn’t tell my friend’s aunt, his wife.” I reached in my purse and pulled out the envelope.

Jesse’s face brightened. “So you’ve put the pressure on the nasty goat, huh? Well, in that case, you’ve earned it.” Jesse grabbed the money and flicked it to me.

I laughed. Lockwell was a nasty goat. “You take the money. You fixed the car.”

He grabbed his toolbox, and we started the walk home, back down the driveway.

Jesse talked about cars and dirt racing. After a few blocks, his voice became nothing but a warble of sounds in my ear. So much had happened. Charlie, Patrick, Lockwell, and Willie—I saw her staring out the window as Jesse and I left her driveway. Had she seen me talking to Lockwell? Had she seen him sign the recommendation? When was she going to break open the game and admit she knew I had Mr. Hearne’s watch? Jesse stopped walking, and I realized we were at the bookshop.

“You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.”

“Yes, I—no, I haven’t. I’m sorry, Jesse. I’m just so tired.”

“Okay, tired girl, let me tell you a secret.”

I didn’t need any more secrets. I had enough of my own. I looked up at Jesse.

“Uh-huh. There you are, all tired, standin’ in your boyfriend’s clothes, but here’s the secret.” Jesse moved in close. “You like me.”

“What?” I moved my face from his, trying to restrain what felt like a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. My body seemed to react involuntarily around Jesse. It made me nervous.

“Yep, when you were in trouble, you went running, but not for your boyfriend. You came runnin’ for me.” Jesse backed away slowly, smiling. “You like me, Josie Moraine. You just don’t know it yet.”

I stood at the door, watching him step backward. He nodded and smiled his Jesse smile. He did have nice teeth.

“Oh, and Jo?” he called from halfway down the street. “You’re welcome for the flowers.”

Jesse turned and walked away, his laughter and toolbox fading into the darkness.

THIRTY-TWO

I was late. Two hours of sleep was worse than no sleep. I felt queasy, and the pressure behind my eyes from crying had turned into a headache. I had cried about Charlie and how my negligence nearly killed him. I cried about letting Patrick down. I cried about lying to Willie, manipulating Mr. Lockwell, not being forthright with Charlotte. I cried about Mr. Hearne’s death and the pathetic fact that I clung to a dead man’s watch because a respectable person had felt I was decent and not useless. I cried about lying. If I poured all the lies I had told into the Mississippi, the river would rise and flood the city. I cried about forgetting to thank Jesse for the flowers and cried even harder that he thought I liked him. Did I like him? Sometimes it felt as if I was trying really hard not to like him. It was all worse than wrong.

Fat Tuesday approached. Willie’s house would be a fat disaster. The thought of sweeping up sin made my head throb. I walked into the house and smelled it right away. Bourbon. Someone had spilled it. Not a glass, but a bottle. That would be a half hour. There was something else. Wine. I hoped it wasn’t red. That would be forty-five minutes, maybe more. I couldn’t be certain. I wasn’t certain of anything anymore, except that New Orleans was a faithless friend and I wanted to leave her.

Sadie wrenched my arm, yanking me into her wiry frame as soon I stepped into the kitchen. She sobbed, making groaning sounds into my shoulder and then began unbuttoning my blouse.

“Sadie, stop. What are you doing?” I pushed her away, hard.

She looked at me, her brows twisted in confusion, her face swollen with crying. She reached into the sink and held up my blouse from the night before.

I had forgotten my bloody clothes in Cokie’s car. He had left them for Sadie. The poor woman probably thought I was dead.

“Oh, Sadie, no. I’m fine. Really.” I opened the neckline of my blouse and held my arms in the air, showing her both sides. “I’m not hurt.”

Sadie collapsed into a chair and kissed the cross hanging from her neck.

I sat down at the table to try to calm her. She was in a pool of prayer so deep she didn’t even respond. That’s when I caught sight of the headline on the table.

MEMPHIS TOURIST’S DEATH
DECLARED MURDER

I grabbed the paper.

Tennessee state officials have declared that knockout drops given in the Sans Souci on Bourbon Street killed Memphis tourist and former football star Forrest Hearne. Jefferson Parish investigator Martin Langley confirmed to the New Orleans
Times Picayune
that an autopsy in Memphis confirmed the cause of death. Hearne, a beloved and successful Memphis resident, died in the Sans Souci during the early morning hours of New Year’s Day. The death was initially ruled a heart attack, but the victim’s wife became suspicious when she realized several items were missing from her husband’s person, including cash and an expensive wristwatch. Examinations of the body were performed in Tennessee by a Memphis coroner and later confirmed by a Louisiana state chemist. Both tests revealed unmistakable evidence of chloral hydrate. The drug, often referred to as a “Mickey Finn,” is tasteless, colorless, odorless, and fatal in large doses. The Memphis chief investigator bitterly assailed the city of New Orleans for the lack of diligence local administration showed in the initial ruling of cause of death.
The Memphis Press-Scimitar
further reported that administering knockout drops to tourists of visible affluence is a widespread practice in the French Quarter, where the nightclub is located. Evidence in the case will be turned over to the New Orleans city police department.

Forrest Hearne hadn’t died of a heart attack. Someone had slipped him a Mickey.

• • • 

I knocked on Willie’s door, hoping she’d be in the bath or too tired to talk.

“Come in.”

Willie looked as tired as I felt. A pad of onionskin paper was balanced on her lap. She always recorded the night’s receipts on onionskin. It could be burned, swallowed, or flushed if the cops came by.

“God, I need that coffee. I feel like a bag of smashed assholes.”

It sounded like she had swallowed a handful of rusty nails. “I’m sorry. I was late this morning, Willie. I haven’t even been upstairs yet. But I’ll hurry.” I set the tray on the bed.

“Sit down, Jo.”

I turned Willie’s desk chair toward the bed and sat down.

“Cokie told me what happened last night. He was so proud of you, said you were great in the pocket. Really brave. Randolph told me the same thing, said it was practically a slaughterhouse scene, that Patrick was about as useful as a rubber crutch, but you took control. I saw the welt where you knocked Randolph across the face.” Willie laughed.