Restoration (26 page)

I could hear her chair squeak and I pictured her seated in the one without casters, there in her office with books and pottery and paintings all around. Through the door at her back I could see a splash of golden light from the studio holding the four Asmore panels, now unfurled on tables and the floor. “Tell me about the painting,” I said.

She was quiet but for the rustling of papers.

“Rhys? Come on now, tell me what you’ve found under all that old paint.”

I’d barely finished when she put the phone down, ending the call.

Classes were done for the day, and after the last of the students had left the school grounds I went inside and found Rondell Cherry mopping the floor of the lobby where the mural had been. He pushed the knot of sudsy red rags between the chairs and over the bases of the heavy chrome platforms. He worked it under the sinks and the racks holding hair-care products. Because he was wearing headphones and listening to music, he didn’t hear me when I entered the room, nor did he notice when I tracked a few steps back into the hall, stood in the shadows against the wall and had a careful look at the replacement mural. Tacks driven into the edges appeared to be in place, and the seams that ran between the panels remained glued to the wall. The corn-yellow surface was perfectly hideous. It had been no small accomplishment, matching the appearance of the copy to the original, and yet she’d pulled it off. I felt a flood of admiration for Rhys and wished she were with me now to view her marvelous handiwork. “It’s you who’s the real artist,” I said under my breath, then walked into the room headed straight for Cherry.

“Government man,” he said, coming up to his full height, which in boots put him at no less than six feet seven inches. He tipped the mop handle against one of the chairs and removed the headphones, and we shook hands like old friends. “Where’s Miss Goudeau?” he said, throwing a glance in the direction of the hallway.

“Rhys had to work. I’m afraid it’s just me today, Rondell.”

He did a lousy job of hiding his disappointment. “And what brings you back, Jack? You’re not looking for another three-dollar haircut, are you?”

I told him I was hoping for a word with Mrs. Wheeler and he led me to her office down a corridor smelling sharply of Pine-Sol, its tiled
overlay still damp and shining. He knocked on the door and nudged it open when the old woman told him to come in. “Miss Wheeler, you remember Jack Charbonnet from a few weeks ago?”

“Come in, Rondell.”

“Jack Charbonnet,” he said again. “Used to write for the
T-P.”

“The
T-P?
What is that, Rondell?”

“The newspaper. The
Picayune.”

“How you doing today, Mrs. Wheeler?” I said, stepping around Cherry’s large, sweaty form and showing myself.

She was sitting behind a desk with a shopping catalog open in front of her. There were other catalogs on the desk, along with a small lamp, a telephone and an ashtray holding a smoldering cigarette.

“Jack Charbonnet,” she said. “Help me out here, Jack.”

“I came on Wednesday with Rhys Goudeau and got a haircut. We met afterward out in front.”

“You were with Rhys Goudeau,” she said, still not certain. “Come in, young man. Come in.” Rondell Cherry started to leave and Gail Wheeler said, “Isn’t it your boy’s ball game this evening, Rondell?”

“Just about got it done, Miss Wheeler.”

“You don’t want to miss his ball game, Rondell.”

“I won’t miss it. See you tomorrow, Miss Wheeler.”

After Cherry was gone she leaned forward with her forearms resting on the desk. She was wearing another polyester number, this one with a scarf around her neck instead of the usual sweater. Drifts of cigarette ash clung to the front of her blouse and the air above us was blue with smoke. “Them blacks sure do love their sports,” she said, in a conspiratorial whisper.

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I glanced out the window before looking at her again. She nodded and cocked her head back as she dragged hard on the cigarette. “Nothing they like better than playing ball.” She exhaled through her nose, the smoke coming hard from her nostrils. “I can put it out,” she said, and showed me the cigarette.

“That’s okay, Mrs. Wheeler. It’s your office.”

“You remember that song ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’? Somebody sang it. My husband Jerry used to change the words. He would say, ‘Smoke gets in my clothes.’ I’d say, ‘You can’t give me a better hint than that?’ He didn’t smoke, you see.”

“When it came on the radio?”

“What’s that?”

“He’d change the words when the song came on the radio?”

“The radio? No, I think that was one we put on the record player.”

“That’s a funny story.”

“Something I like,” she said, “I like that Rhys. I think she’s got a lot on the ball.” She put her hand on the base of the lamp, where the switch was, but she never did turn it on. “What is it I can help you with today, Jack?”

“It’s about Tommy Smallwood, ma’am. I wanted to talk to you about him.”

“Tommy Smallwood?” she said, then gave her cigarette such a hard suck that the end flared and crackled. “You’re going to have to help me with that one, Jack. Do I know him? No,” she said. “I don’t think I know a Tommy Smallwood.
Smallwood?
That sounds like one of them Indian names. Is he an Indian?”

“I don’t think so. He doesn’t look Indian.”

“Most Indians don’t look Indian anymore, but they’re still Indian. Same with your blacks. Or a lot of your blacks.”

“Ma’am?”

“I’m a man I sure the hell don’t want my name to be Smallwood. It has some negative connotations that could lead to what you might call self-esteem issues, you understand?”

“So you have no memory of ever having met Tommy Smallwood?”

“You see there. You mention it and I like to crack up. Bigwood, I could see. Now I could live with Bigwood.” She sucked again.

“You didn’t meet him?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said. “Well, not to my knowledge, I didn’t. I
met you before, hadn’t I, and I didn’t remember. You never can say for sure with Gail Wheeler, whom she’s met and whom she hasn’t met. Am I saying that right? Or is it ‘who’?”

“You said it right.”

“Whom I’ve met and whom I haven’t met,” she said. “I need to buy me a dictionary, that’s what I need to do.”

“Well,” I said, and patted my thighs with my open hands, “I guess I’ll go now and let you get back to what you were doing.”

“You’ll do what?” She crushed her cigarette in the tray and came out from behind the desk. “Listen here, Jack, you got something to get off your chest you don’t have no reason to hold back with Gail Wheeler.”

“It’s a delicate situation, Mrs. Wheeler. Tommy Smallwood’s a powerful man, and he’s a rich man, and I don’t want any legal problems. Besides, it’s not my habit to go around slandering people.”

“Doing what, now?”

“Slandering people. Saying things about them that might hurt their reputations.”

“Of course not. Now what did that sonofabitch go and do?”

“Mrs. Wheeler, let me just say this: If Tommy Smallwood comes around the school, you might want to keep an eye on him.”

“Oh, don’t tell me.”

“The man has problems. He’s a known… well, don’t make me say it.”

Past the dirty lenses I could see her eyes squeeze tight and burn with sudden purpose. “That no-good sonofa… What was his name?”

“Smallwood. Tommy Smallwood.”

“Oh, Jack,” she said. Her mouth started to tremble and she brought a hand up against it. “You were right to warn me. Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She left about half an hour later, picking trash off the ground as
she descended the steps. I was parked on the side street, slumped behind the wheel. On the sidewalk she stood gazing at the building, first at the roofline, then at the battered façade and the peeling broadsheets over windows with cracked panes. She flicked her cigarette out onto the lawn where grass had probably once grown and the hedges had leaves. When she brought her dusty little car around to Magazine Street she braked in front of the building and leaned down low in the seat. That look came over her face again.

I wondered if it had something to do with her late husband. Had he always made a point to stand at a window upstairs and wave down at her? Was that a little love game they played?

A truck came up behind her with a sharp horn blast, and she sped off.

I was tempted to walk out in front of the building and have a look for myself, but I knew there was nothing to see that I hadn’t seen before.

Almost an hour went by before Rondell Cherry emerged from the building. He pulled at a fist of keys on his hip, found the ones he needed and locked the doors. He was carrying his lunch pail and a newspaper, and as he started for the bus stop I rolled up beside him and let the passenger window down. He bent low at the waist and his face showed surprise when he saw who it was. “You got yourself a nice ride there, Jack.”

“Can I give you a lift home, Rondell?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine with the bus.”

He walked on and I came up beside him, having to brake to keep the car moving at his pace. “Rondell, I need to talk to you.”

He kept walking. “You need to talk to me?” He stopped and bent over again. “A man in a car like that needs to talk to
me?
What about, Jack?”

Horns sounded behind me and I said, “I think you know.”

“You think I know what?”

A car sped by me and then another; more horns wailed. “Tommy Smallwood,” I said. “You and Tommy Smallwood. How much money did he give you for the mural, Rondell? However much he gave you I can assure you it wasn’t enough.”

“You don’t know me to talk like that, Jack,” he said. “Now you and your fancy car can get on out of here. You’re going to make somebody wreck.”

“It isn’t enough, Rondell. I know Smallwood and it isn’t enough.”

“Go home, Jack. Go home if you know what’s good for you.”

“Listen to me, Rondell. I’m going to park on the next block over. Meet me at the restaurant across from the school, will you? The pizza place…”

“I got me a bus to catch. I got a wife and kids waiting at home.”

“The pizza place,” I said again. “Meet me.”

By the time I reached the restaurant he’d already seated himself at a table by the window. A waitress had taken his order. Presently she brought a couple of draft beers in cold mugs. He sat with his big shoulders slumped forward and his hands folded together. His headphones, silent at last, formed a collar around his neck. A nervous twitch worked at the corner of his mouth. “Ten grand isn’t enough?” he said. “How can ten grand for that thing that’s already ruint not be enough?”

I sipped the beer and tried to communicate understanding in how I looked at him. “It’s not even close,” I said.

“Not even close,” he repeated. “Then tell me how much is close, Jack?”

“A conservative estimate?” I said, silently issuing an apology to Rhys Goudeau even before I provided an answer. “On a bad day when it’s raining cats and dogs outside and the stock market is taking a tumble and there’s talk in the air of an economic recession? Even on a day like that—on the worst of days—in New Orleans at auction that painting would bring at least a million dollars.”

“A million dollars,” he said. He rocked a fist against the table and
sent beer tippling over the rim of his mug. “A million dollars? You have got to be kidding me.”

“I said at
least
a million. It could bring more, maybe a lot more. I suppose you have your reasons, Rondell. I suppose you’ve thought this through. I don’t have a wife and kids myself, but I know it must be hard. Add to that Mrs. Wheeler’s problems and those inspectors coming around and I can’t say I blame you.”

“You don’t blame me, do you?” he said, and his voice cracked. “You think that money’s for me? Jack, you think it’s for
me?”
He was so angry his hands were shaking. He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and removed a business card and slid it across the table. Scripted on the face was the name of a New Orleans lawyer. I knew the name. He’d recently represented a former governor of the state who’d been prosecuted in federal court for peddling influence. “You went to college,” he said, “then you bound to know what a retainer is? That money went to a retainer to make sure Miss Wheeler has herself a real lawyer. I met with the man today. That girl Miss Wheeler’s had working for her—this so-called niece? She might know her way around Lakeside Mall but I doubt she knows it around the legal system. I can’t let Miss Wheeler go to jail. No way.”