The Bayou Trilogy: Under the Bright Lights, Muscle for the Wing, and The Ones You Do (6 page)

“Of course, Blanchette,” he said softly, “I can well imagine that you wouldn’t want to share such fond memories of your own dear father.”

After wincing, Blanchette looked away, toward the captain.

“I’m thinkin’ somebody ought to be monitorin’ the radio, there, Captain.”

“Sure,” Bauer said. He waved from where he sat, surrounded by the regal brocade of a chair that could sleep two in a pinch. “That might be wise.”

“I’m sure of it,” Blanchette said.

As he went out the door, Crawford said, “My pleasure.”

When the door closed Shade said, “He’s a good man.”

“Damn near two of them is what I say,” Bauer cut in.

“Haw, haw.”

Shade looked about the room, trying to guess how many basketballs he could swap one of the ashtrays for. He wondered why he was there. No one seemed to want to ask him much.

“Shade,” Bauer was saying. “This is Detective Rene Shade.”

“Another familiar name,” Crawford said.

“I don’t think we’ve met.”

“I don’t recall it either.” Crawford poured two cups of coffee from a silver service that occupied a shelf above the piano. He handed a cup to Shade. “Black?”

“That’s fine.”

“I have to sleep soon,” Bauer said as he stared out the window at nothing.

When Shade had seated himself at the piano bench, disdaining the chairs that he did not feel qualified to touch his butt to with sufficient appreciation, Crawford leaned toward him.

“It’s a terrible thing that has happened to Alvin, poor man. It’s not as uncommon an occurrence as we’d all like it to be, I know,” Crawford started, then waved his hand. “What am I saying? You know about that better than I, I’m sure.” The involuntary spasms of the sorrowful gaze, the sympathetic condolence of the flimsy accolade, all were the memorized lines of a political actor. Mayor Crawford slipped into each with the ease of a pragmatic Olivier. “These burglars nowadays, Shade—what do you think, are they mostly junkies?”

“There are more burglars who are burglars than burglars who are junkies.”

“That sounds very informed. It doesn’t matter, I don’t suppose. Some river-rat Frogtowner sees an apple pie and a Ming vase in somebody’s window and decides he will by God kill for a pastry that size.” Crawford looked at Bauer, who squirmed, then chortled professionally. “But this, this is one burglar I want caught in a hurry. And it wouldn’t break my heart if it was before he sliced the pie and spooned the vanilla on top. Read me?”

An uncomfortable weight of recognition hit Shade.

“I don’t think this was a burglary. I think it was murder, straight up and simple.”

“What do you think, Captain Bauer?”

Bauer cocked his head and shrugged.

“It could’ve been a burglar and Rankin surprised him.”

“Not from the evidence,” Shade said.

“But it happens all the time, does it not?”

“Sure it does,” Bauer said.

“No,” Shade said. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Most murdered people get that way on purpose, not as some freak accident. I’m pretty sure it’s no Russian roulette sort of thing either, where you put a pistol to the
back
of your head and squeeze off
two
rounds. Nothing was taken from Rankin’s house, and he was whacked
while peeking at the tube with someone. Most people, when they surprise a burglar, don’t ask what channel they want to watch.”

Crawford caught Bauer’s eye and jerked a thumbs-up toward Shade.

“Good man, Captain,” he said, then turned back to Shade. “So you think Alvin Rankin was killed by someone close to him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And since he was a city councilman, maybe it all has something to do with that.”

“Seems possible.”

“Maybe we could start a little parade, eh, Shade?” When a response was slow in coming the mayor began to stalk about the room, lightly fingering various fine knick-knacks, gesticulating silently. “Sure, we could lead the media and the hearts and minds of all of Saint Bruno on an entertaining little trip through the local loony bin we call politics. That way we could get some bold block type asking who all is involved in the assassination of the black heir apparent. Wouldn’t that just be great?”

“It’d be the first parade I ever led, Mayor. Not my line.”

Captain Bauer wagged a finger at Shade.

“You know what you sound like? You sound like you miss walkin’ a beat, is what you sound like. We still have foot patrol way out at the Mall.”

Crawford held his hands in front of himself, a calming gesture.

“No need for that,” he said. “We can rise above that.”

Crawford walked to the coffee service and poured himself another cup. He did not fill the cup, but gracefully streamed three-quarters of a full load into the thin white receptacle, reducing the risk of graceless spillage.

“I remember it now,” Crawford said with an unconvincing snap of his fingers. “Frank Shade, over in the D.A.’s office—you two are related, aren’t you?”

“Francois is my brother.”

“That explains it. You’re the fighter.”

“Ex.”

“Just so,” Crawford said. “How could I forget—you cost me a hundred dollars once.”

“Hunh? I don’t recall that.”

“When you fought that stringbean black out at the Armory, the one who hit like King Kong.”

“Foster Broome.”

“That’s right. Foster Broome, from Trenton or Los Angeles, or somewhere like that.”

Shade’s estimation of the mayor’s shrewdness was in danger of being revised by this sporting revelation. Was he fool enough to have bet him seriously, or just to show faith in a hometown boy?

Shade smiled.

“That’s nice, Mayor. Not many backed me outside of Frogtown. And it was pride, not calculation, that had them behind me.”

“Oh, I don’t want to mislead you, Shade. I’m no knucklehead. I dropped a hundred betting you wouldn’t last past the third, and you stumbled your way into, what was it, the fifth?”

“The seventh.”

“Whatever. Broome was starting to slip.” The mayor smirked as if his contempt was, for people like Shade, an attainment of merit. “You must’ve been pretty sad yourself, getting your big chance and only lasting seven rounds.”

“Not really. It’s six and a half rounds longer than most men could’ve lasted.”

“I suppose that’s true. It sounds right. But then most men aren’t supposed to be professionals at that sort of thing, are they?”

“No, sir,” Shade said. He stood and placed the coffee cup on the bench beside him. “But they all act like they
could be
if they just had the spare time, and the guts.”

“And, of course, the neurotic need.”

“Starting to sound a lot like politics, isn’t it, sir?”

“What’s the matter, Shade—don’t you like politicians?”

“Sure I do. I ever get a mongrel that craps in the kitchen and won’t fetch I’m going to name him Politician.”

Captain Bauer stood with some effort, exhaling loudly, looking worried.

“I’m goin’ to step in right here, gents, and call time.”

Crawford raised a hand to halt him.

“Karl, when your assistance is required it will be requested.” Crawford sat and raised his cup, his dark eyes above the rim holding steady on Shade. When the cup was returned to the saucer balanced on his knee, he said, “You’re a half-assed detective and I’m mayor. We get into a public pissing contest, who do you think the judges will favor?”

“Whoever got them appointed might get a few breaks.”

“Oh, come on, what’s the big deal?” Bauer said. “So you don’t see eye to eye immediately, so what? We can work this out.” The big man pointed a thick finger at his subordinate. “Shade, save your salty tongue for family gatherings, hear me? And burglary is certainly a possibility to explain this, so what’s it hurt to follow it?”

“Just the headlines.”

“Is that so bad?” Crawford asked, suddenly smiling.

Shade, who knew a sinking boat when he was on it, kept silent.

“Mayor,” Bauer went on, “Shade and Blanchette will do their jobs. When there’s something solid we’ll have to go with it, but for now this angle is as promising as any.”

“Okay, okay,” Crawford said as his finger distractedly picked at lint on his robe. “My only concern is to avoid a lot of crazy speculation on who might or might not’ve had cause to be a party to Alvin’s murder. The I’ll-pull-on-my-asshole-and-print-what-comes-out kind of rumor-mongering guesswork can tear a town apart. It can spawn a multitude of head-high dark clouds for the innocent to walk under, if you know what I mean. That would be vicious and unnecessary.”

Shade watched Crawford’s face, interpreting facial fluctuations, eyebrow histrionics, and hand signals for any accidental tip-off of sincerity, but found none. He was neither surprised nor terribly disappointed that the mayor’s first concern was for his own welfare. That was understandable, even reassuring, for it was easier to deal with a venial professionalism that wore the traditional price tags of power, wealth, and
position than with some sincere, but combustible, altruism that sought only total victory or martyrdom.

“Why don’t I just get on with it, then,” Shade said.

“Fine idea,” Bauer said. “First rate.” He floated one meaty hand down to Crawford’s shoulder and patted him sympathetically. “He’s very good at street stuff, Gene. Really. We get a call that some Frogtown free-lancer has hit such-and-such a liquor store and by the time a squad car circles the block, Shade here has divined the perp’s route and is sittin’ on his stoop waitin’ for him.”

Crawford warped his mouth into a left-handed smile and raised his chin.

“A suspicious skill for a cop,” he said.

“But damn handy,” Shade replied. “Sometimes suspicious, but always damn handy.”

“This is the truth,” Captain Bauer said with a bob of his head.

The door beckoned from an attractive proximity, and Shade, following two curt nods, strode to it and out. He stepped onto an early morning lawn, the grass slicked back with dew, the air thick with natural pomade. He slid on the side of the terraced lawn, breathing deeply, his feet acting as skis on the wet slope to the driveway. He kept his balance all the way down, then leaned on the car hood at the bottom.

Blanchette sat watching him but did not gesture.

Shade found himself wondering if he wouldn’t be happier as a Catfish Bar regular, a neighborhood survivor with his own stool and a drink named after him, one who could meet the people he’d known for a lifetime without alien suspicions coming between them. Would his father come by more often, with a fifth of Old Bushmills and his Balabushka cue in the stiff leather case, inviting him along on debilitating but lively weekend romps, if he had not chosen sides?

Blanchette leaned his head out of the car window.

“Come on, Rene. Shake a leg, there, huh?”

When Shade was seated on the passenger’s side he said, “How, did you ever wonder if maybe, just maybe, we weren’t soldiers for the wrong set of lords?”

The full, stolid face of Blanchette shook, and his lower lip hid the upper.

“No,” he said. “Because we’re Frogtowners and we know better. We ought to anyhow.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I mean, we didn’t really have what it took for that other life, you know? Or we’d be there.”

“I hope that’s not the only reason.”

“Plus, plus we know, from knee-high on up, that all the assholes,
all
the assholes don’t wear blue.”

Shade grimaced, and nodded.

“Lest we forget,” Shade said. “We should write that down.”

4

T
HE SPITEFUL
heat of a summer turned sullen reached Voltaire Street early. Sun-faded blinds flapped up on dusty front windows as “Closed” signs were flipped and brown-bag lunches were stashed beneath countertops by optimists seeking coolness for their tuna fish. Delivery men, customers, and owners had gotten the message that the bad sun sent out and slowed to lessen the punishment that any hint of speed would draw. Summer was the mean season along the river, the air thick as syrup, and the sky a lowdown fog that held in the torture.

One floor above Voltaire, Jewel Cobb sat on the couch back, peering out the window. His hands were scratching beneath opposite pits, fingering the bumps that an odd rash had raised. Down home he’d’ve figured it to be poison oak, but up here he hadn’t a clue. One more thing not to like about cities, Jewel thought. Everything came at you in disguise in this human stew; people wore suits with ties and drove cars with huge stereos but they weren’t really rich; women wore shorts where the cloth never showed till it was above the swell of the ass, with little tit socks called tubetops on, but they wouldn’t go into the alley with a fella even if he showed ’em a wallet stuffed with cabbage. The only straight-up thing about cities was they looked unfriendly, and they were.

Clothes were an affectation in such weather, so Jewel pranced about the room uncovered. Suze still slept, her head beneath two pillows, snoring in the cave she always dug for her eyes.

Jewel drank a cup of coffee and stood before the mirror mounted on
the bedroom door. The reflection was not true, he noticed shrewdly. He was thicker than this looking glass would let on. Bulgier and tighter, much prettier around the face.

His shotgun leaned against the other end of the couch and Jewel whisked it up. It was a twelve-gauge pump with a midget barrel and a chopped stock. Duncan had given it to him the night before when he dropped him off.

Me an’ this, we’re gonna
do it
today, Jewel thought. He faced the mirror again. Wish I had a camera, one of those sixty-second brands. He spread his legs, then bent forward slightly to flex his thighs, sucked tight on his gut, and gripped the shotgun in a squeeze that ballooned his biceps.

It’d be a damn
pleasure
to get killed by that guy there in the mirror. That is, compared to
some
who you could get shot by. Damn straight.

But, Jewel reflected as he lay the shotgun on the dressertop, niggers were sly and crafty, with fancy pistols in their belts and razor blades in the tips of their sneakers. Have to be careful. Watch ’em close.