The Saint Louisans (19 page)

Jama defiantly reached into her bag and spread a handful of photos on the coffee table like a royal flush. “Here. Me and Shana. By the Wat you knew. There. On the elephant we rode. It was an elephant taxi. See?

Pierce shuffled the photos like they were a dead man's hand. “Yeah. Cool.”

Sky rubbed his neck, a sign he was angry but trying not to lose it. “Jesus Christ, kid. How the hell—”

I closed in. “Where did you get the money. Are you dealing?”

Jama folded her arms. “No, Mom. I'm not a junkie. Not a pusher. Sorry to disappoint you. I just wanted to see some elephants.”

Sky guffed at the photos. “We got a zoo for that.”

“Yeah, Dad, but those are African elephants. Thai elephants are really neat. They're so laid back. We saw monks in orange robes. I mean, they were like Sunkist oranges that go to church. See this snap? That elephant's trunk got a banana out of my purse. I mean, they are so—”

I went face to face with Jama. “Can it right now, Jama. You stole from me. Again.”

“I'll pay you back. Hey, you can cut my allowance—”

“How much?” I was near a heavy boil as she looked away. “How much?”

Pierce nudged Jama. She shrugged. “Just a couple of thousand. I mean, we got a super bargain fare, and at the hotel, I used the credit card, and in Thailand, you eat real cheap, and it's all so boss—”

“My money, Jama. You stole from me again. What credit card?”

“The guy at the bar made one for us.” She rose. “Look, I'm tired, okay? We'll talk about it when you've cooled down.”

As Jama walked past me, I grabbed her shoulder. “Don't you walk away from me. You stole from me! You used a forged passport, a forged credit card!”

She pulled away. “So what? So fucking what?”

“Hey,” Sky stepped forward, “you don't talk to your mother like that.”

“Oh sure, Dad. That's for you, huh? I need a rest. From my parents.”

I pointed to the stairs. “Go to your room. You're grounded. Forever.”

Jama smirked. “You aren't going to ground me. I just wanted to get out of this stupid city. Hey, I could have lied. Shana wanted to spend another day, but I said no way, we gotta get home.” She said this as if she was arguing her case in front of a judge.

“Go to your room.”

Jama threw her bag at the wall. “Screw you!.” She zipped to the back door and was out into the alley.

“Jama!” I screamed as I followed her to the patio. “Come back here!”

“Jackal!” she taunted from the alley. “Jaaack-alll!”

I came back in and slammed my palm on the wall. A bulb fell off the tree. “Pierce. Go after her.”

He looked down. “Gee, Mom. She's not coming back until she wants to, and she really fights.”

“Okay, just … be with her. Please?”

Pierce snatched his jacket and sped out the patio and up the alley.

Sky plopped on the sofa and leafed through the photos. “Shit. That kid. Elephants, f'r crissakes.”

“What?” I glowered at Sky. “That's all you have to say?”

He waved his hand. “She pulled it off and got out before she got in too deep.”

“Too deep? Oh, for God's sakes, Sky. You never back me up.”

Sky shifted into Hoosier. “Goddamn it. I'd like to throw her against the wall, but it's done. Anyway, she's got luck. Bulls her way through anything.”

I sat on the couch. “Oh, thank you, loving father. It wasn't your money. It's never your money she steals.” I rubbed my forehead, claws out.

Sky tossed the photos on the table. “Okay, my kid's safe. I'm outta here.”

The front door closed. On the floor, Jama's bag had spilled dirty underwear, jeans, tops and sarongs. By the cookies were photos of Jama and Shana, both in sarongs and gaudy necklaces, mounted on an elephant, mugging for the camera. I kicked the table.

That had been so many years ago, and yet every Christmas that night haunts me. The night Jama hated me. And I hated her. Now, the car was starting to warm up.

“Okay,” Saul said, “are we better now?”

“Not yet.” I kissed him, enjoying the way he held me, the sense of security and wisdom matching warm air flowing from the heater's round teeth.

“Look,” he said, “go to bed. Get some sleep. I hate to bring you back to the present.”

“Oh, please do. You got to talk to Abby.”

“Ah, she's a vocal hemorrhoid. About this intruder at the mansion. Watch yourself, okay?.”

“What?” I almost smiled, “you think I'm a target?”

“Probably not, but Terri and Pierre could have some kind of agenda. There might be dirty tricks.” He frowned. “I should go inside with you.”

“Come on. I'm perfectly safe.”

“Just to be on the safe side—”

My fingers touched his cheek. “No. You've been great this evening. Really, I'm safe and secure. I have an attack Siamese, and I've bribed him with copious amounts of salmon. You need to do your skat with Abby. Call me later.”

I waved to Saul as he drove off, barely balancing my shopping bags.

The pass card came out of my purse and waved before the reader. The red dots greened, and the door clicked open.

I walked down the hall, ripe with evergreen wreaths on doors, except the Seidel's, whose dull brass mezuzah was bordered in cheerful blue. A saxophone jaunted up and down the scales, courtesy of Kenyatta.

I stared at my door as the sax died. There was loud rustling on the other side. Oh, my God.

Another bump, and my heart pumped a gusher. I swallowed and stepped back, fishing for my cell phone. A third bump must have been in my drawer next to the door. I jumped back into Ken's door. That thump made the sax stop. He opened the door.

“What the hell you doing?” He scowled.

“There's someone in my apartment.”

“Sonsofbitches in this place?” He was ready to erupt. “Motherfuckers in here?” He stepped back, reached into a drawer. I gaped at the snub nose in his hand. I saw a red star just above the grip, matching Macys.

“What the hell? You carry?”

Ken almost sneered, eyes on the door. “This is St. Louis. Everyone carries.” Another bump in my apartment.

“I'm calling the cops.”

“Right now, I
am
the cops.”

Ken firmly moved me back along the wall. I kneeled down, calling 911 as he slowly unlocked the door. The rustling inside changed to a dull thump. As I whispered my address to the dispatcher, he swung open the door and shouted.

“Freeze!”

A shiny object sailed past Ken and dented his door. It was a fruitcake sent to me. He charged. “Get the fuck outta here!” He roared.

My apartment exploded in what sounded like a tag team match between two rhinos. I waited for the gun to go off. It didn't. As I cowered, Yul came out and rubbed against my leg, quite used to anarchy. I peeked around, and through a shaft of light saw the Christmas tree sprawled on the floor as if it was sleeping one off.

I caught a flash of blue and red lights bleeding into my front window, car doors slamming. Cops.

Ken had the intruder cornered. “Settle the fuck down!” He commanded. I switched on the lights as Yul rolled in the hallway.

Ken raised his eyebrows. Mine shot to the ceiling.

There, snarling, and wild-haired, was Jama.

“What the fuck? What's the big idea pulling a gun on me?”

This the Childe Fantastical's greeting after two year's silence. She writhed and shook her mass of thick brown hair, a firecracker dressed in black. I simmered, no less explosive.

“What's the big idea trying to rob me?”

Jama rolled her eyes. “You think I'm ripping you off? You're sick.” Boots clumped on the stairwell to the door. Cops.

“Ken, ditch the gun. Yourself, too.”

He scowled but shoved the pistol back into his pocket, knowing that cops responding to a burglary and seeing an armed black man would only throw gasoline on an already bright fire.

Having once bragged to me of his noisy youth in the Civil Rights movement, Ken was hardly a cop lover.

Jama advanced. “You called the cops on me? The fucking cops on me?”

“Shut up.” I stared back at Jama, who almost snarled, hair over her eyes.

A bitter Ken snarled. “So, the kid's back, huh? When am I gonna see my three bills, huh?”

“Hey,” Jama said to Ken, “did you a favor.”

His aimed, sharpened eyes showed me Ken wanted to say more. A lot more, but three cops, like uniformed Magi were advancing down the hall. He picked up the tin.

“I oughta keep this. You got enough fruitcakes in your pad.”

With that he slammed his door. Yul in my arms, I waved to the cops. They stopped and stared as I explained it was all a silly mistake, ha-ha-ha; that sort of thing.

They'd file no report, which was for the best. When cops have to do paperwork, they really get pissed, and that means an obligatory bust. They looked into the apartment just to be sure, Ma'am, facing Jama's cheery little wave. Their radios crackled about juveniles raising hell in a Chinese take-out joint two blocks down. They stomped out the exit as tenants peeked out their doors.

I locked the door, dropped Yul on the couch as I straightened the tree. Jama plopped on the couch, boots settling into one of my throw pillows, naturally.

Jama said as she stretched on the couch. “That was Shantelle, not me. She took him to the cleaners.”

I searched for the angel. It was under the couch, and I stood on tiptoes to place it back on top. “You did get three hundred out of him.”

“Old guys are so easy,” she sighed. “Hey, Nerisha put a curse on him, and I had to get him in touch with Shantelle. I was only the go-between.” She reached for an orange in the fruit bowl. “Getting rid of curses don't come cheap.”

I righted the easy chair, then turned to face Jama's obscenely calm face.

“I don't know who or what you're running from this time, but I want you out. I'm trying to be as civil as I can, but leave.”

Her eyes glittered at my genteel hostility, if hostility can be that. “Just passing through, Mom. I won't bother your happy little home.”

“Where's your luggage?”

“It's someplace,” she said casually. “Guess I'll take my chances at the shelter.”

“Spend a night there, you'd be fencing the blankets and cots.” I sighed and dropped into my easy chair. “Okay, but I want you out in the morning. First thing.”

“Yeah, right.” Jama sighed. “Crack of dawn and all that.”

There was the usual arctic silence between said Childe and myself. I wondered what fantastic tale of life in the film industry she'd regale me with this time. “Pierce said you were in Berlin.”

“I was passing through. Antje's really getting that watermelon belly look.” Jama fished in my box of gift holiday chocolates, and settled for a hazelnut nougat. “Two months ago, I got off that Lifetime gig. HBO was shooting a Virginia Dare film in India, and I hooked up with the assistant of production at a party in Sloane Square, and did courier work. I'd take the dailies from location to Mumbai, jet to London and get them to the studio and print them out, then jet back the Beta tape to the set.”

As I searched the fridge for a strong adult beverage, I wondered about the story. “Don't they have Bollywood for the tech stuff?”

“Sure, half a day away in Delhi, but the director's paranoid about losing the film. The Babus get careless.” She looked up. “Any vodka?”

I took the bottle of Liebfraumilch and a glass with me as I prepared to go up stairs. “Help yourself to what's in the fridge, but I want you out of here before I'm up. If anything is missing, I'll press charges, and the computer's upstairs. No, you can't use it.”

“Mind if I use the phone?”

I took the phone from its receiver and cradled it next to the wine. Jama leaned back and sneered at me. “Of course not.”

In bed, I caught up on my messages, made a quick check-in call to Margot, then called Saul. Downstairs, the TV burbled a quick dialogue of channel surfing.

I wombed and fetaled my way into the blankets as the Liebfraumilch kicked in and took me in its arms.

The next morning I faced Margot in the drawing room. She reclined on the couch. Saul sat next to us. Margot leaned closer.

“Then?” she asked.

I stretched and inhaled the aroma of the bean. “Then, Yul jumped in my face for the feline alarm clock thing. When I went downstairs, the kitchen was a mess of empty eggshells as if we'd had an omelet seminar.”

“On the counter, all the spoons were laid out in careful order, Post-its listing them to let me know she hadn't stolen them. A Jama joke, har-de-har-har. On the paper were the words: ‘for the Jackal.'” I sipped, observing Margot's quiet introspection. After all, Jama is her new semi-granddaughter,
God help me. My eyes turned to Saul as he crunched a biscotti. Margot forced a polite smile.

“Oh, I've seen and heard worse, and I'm quite fond of sordid gossip. It's almost an emetic for me. Why does Jama call you a jackal?”

I set the cup and saucer down. “It's an old thing.”

“A deep wound? I want to know. After all, she is my granddaughter.”

Margot's kind voice seemed to plead for a grandchild. The less Jama got involved in the Desouche family, the better. “It's best you have nothing to do with her.”

A quick wince in her eyes reminded us of her increasing pain, but she waved off my approach, anxious for history.

“Tell me,” her voice soft and genteel as velvet, “why you are a jackal.”

“It started with King Tut. Back in the seventies, and flamed when the exhibit came to Chicago. I Amtraked the kids up, and we gorged on Tuttery.”

Margot smiled. “Yes, Philip and I went there.”

“Also, I discovered the Chicago skyline at night. It was like smooth jazz. I'm a view person, and I loved staring at canyons of light from the 96th floor of the Hancock building. Pierce was absorbed in Lake Michigan's sea of ink. The sky looked like it dropped to earth.”