Gone South (37 page)

His public was calling for him. Ranting at him, to tell the truth. Pelvis squared his shoulders, tucked his chins, and turned away from the audience. He said to the piano pounder, “You mind if I sit there?” and he slid onto the chair when it was gladly vacated. Pelvis cracked his knuckles, looked at the dirty keyboard with its sad and broken ivories, and then he put his fingers down and began to play.

A strain of classical music came from the rickey-tick piano. The room was shocked silent, and no one was shocked more than Flint. But only Flint recognized the music: it was the stately opening chords of Chopin’s Prelude Number Nine in E major, one of the soul-soothing pieces he listened to daily on his car’s cassette player.

They let him play about ten seconds of it before they regained their senses. Then a second bowl of gumbo hit the piano and a half of a hamburger flew past Pelvis’s head and a roar of dissatisfaction went up like a nuclear blast. “We don’t want that damn shit!” yelled a man with a face as mean as a scarred fist. “Play us somethin’ with a
tune!”

“Hold your horses!” Pelvis shouted back. “I’m just limberin’ up my fingers!” He was as ready as he would ever be. “All right, this here’s called ‘A Big Hunk o’ Love.’ ” And then his hands slammed down on the keyboard and the piano made a noise like a locomotive howling through a tunnel in red-hot, demon-infested, sex-dripping, and god-forsaken Hades. His fingers skittered up and down the keys in a blur of motion, the sound’s power kicking all the jeers and hollers right out the swinging doors. Pelvis threw his head back, sweat shining on his face, his mouth opened, and he started bellowing about asking his baby for a bigga bigga bigga hunka love.

Flint’s mouth was open, too; his jaw had dropped in amazement. Eisley’s speaking voice might mimic Elvis, but his singing voice was something altogether different; though there were husky tones of the King’s rockabilly Memphis in it, there was also the guttural moan of a rusty chain saw that suddenly broke into a startling, soaring, and unearthly high —
bigga hunka hunka luvvvvvvv
— more akin to the operatic wail of Roy Orbison. Watching Eisley beat that piano to pieces like a demented Jerry Lee Lewis and hearing his voice rattle the ceiling and then rumble the floorboards again, Flint realized the truth: onstage Eisley was a lousy Elvis, but that was like saying a ruby was a lousy diamond. Though Flint hated that kind of redneck thunder, though it made the skin crawl on the back of his neck and made him long for a good set of earplugs, it was clear that Pelvis Eisley was no imitator of a dead star. The man, whether he knew it or not, was an honest-to-God original fireball.

Dan followed a spoonful of the spicy gumbo with a drink of beer, and he regarded the Presley clone flailing at the piano.
Hunka hunka big olllll’ love,
the man was growling. Murtaugh’s gun had pulled a few inches away from Dan’s ribs. The bounty hunter’s focus was riveted on his companion. It flashed through Dan’s mind that if he was quick enough, he could bring the beer mug down across the side of Murtaugh’s head and run for the back door.

Do it, he told himself. Hit the bastard and run while there’s still time.

He took another swallow of the bitter brew and held the mug ready to strike. On his forearm the ropy muscles tensed, making the tattooed snake undulate.

A
SECOND PASSED.
T
HEN ANOTHER.
Do it! he thought, and he stared at the place on Murtaugh’s skull that would bear the blow.

A third and fourth seconds went by.

No.

It was a strong voice. The voice of reason.

No, Dan decided. I gave my word, and I’ve caused enough misery. There’ll be no more of it.

Murtaugh’s head suddenly swiveled, and the pale blue eyes fixed on him.

Dan lifted the mug to his lips and drank the rest of his beer. “Your friend’s not half bad.”

Flint looked at the glass mug and then his gaze returned to Dan’s eyes. He had the feeling that danger had just slid past like a silent shadow. “You’re not thinkin’ of doin’ somethin’ stupid, are you?”

“Nope.”

“If you don’t want to wear the bracelets, you’d better not be. I want to keep this as quiet and clean as I can.”

Dan had wondered why Murtaugh was doing his best to hold the gun out of sight, and why he hadn’t told the bartender who he was. “You afraid somebody else’ll snatch me away from you if they find out about the money?”

“People hear what I do for a livin’, they don’t usually welcome me with hearts and flowers.”

“Listen, I didn’t mean to kill Blanchard,” Dan said. “He drew a gun on me. I had the guard’s pistol in my hand, and I —”

“Do us both a favor,” Flint interrupted. “Save it for the judge.”

Pelvis finished the song with a wail and a series of chords that threatened to demolish the piano. As the last notes were dying, another thunderous noise rose up: the whooping and applause of his audience. Pelvis blinked out at them, stunned by the response. Though he used to play piano in a blues band when he was a lanky boy with a headful of wavy hair and big ideas, he was accustomed to standing behind an electric guitar, which he couldn’t play very well but after all it was the King’s instrument. He was used to hearing club managers telling him he needed to rein his voice in and keep it snarly because those high tenor notes didn’t sound like Elvis at all, that’s what the customers were paying for, and if he wanted to be a decent Elvis impersonator, he was way off the mark.

Here, though, it was obvious they were starved for entertainment and they didn’t care that he wasn’t twanging an electric guitar or that his voice wasn’t as earthy as the King’s. They started shouting for another song, some of them beating on their tables with their fists and beer mugs. “Thank you, thank you kindly!” Pelvis said. “Well, I’ll do you another one, then. This here’s ‘It’s Your Baby, You Rock It’.” He launched off on another display of honky-tonkin’ fireworks, and though his hands were stiff and he knew he was hitting a lot of clams, all his training was coming back to him. The fiddler picked up the chords and began sewing them together, and then the accordion player added a jumpy squeal and squawk.

“Hey!” Burt shouted at Flint over the music. “He done any records?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, he ought to! He don’t sound much like Elvis, but a fella plays a piano and sings like that, he oughta be doin’ some records! Make hisself a lotta money that way!”

“Tell me,” Flint said, “how do we get out of here? Back to a road, I mean?”

“Like I told him” — Burt nodded at Dan —” supply boat from Grand Isle’ll be here tomorrow afternoon. That’s the only way out.”

“Tomorrow
afternoon?
I’ve got to get this man to —” He paused and tried it again. “We need to get to Shreveport as soon as we can.”

“You’ll have to wait for the supply boat. They’ll take you to Grand Isle, but that’s still a hell of a long way from Shreveport. See, there ain’t no roads ’round here for miles.”

“I can’t stay here all night! Christ almighty! We’ve got to get back to —”
Civilization,
he almost said, but he decided it wouldn’t be wise. “Shreveport,” he finished.

“Sorry. I’ve got a radio-telephone in the back, if you need to let anybody know where you are.”

Smoates needed to know, Flint thought. Smoates needed to hear that the skin was caught and on his way back. Smoates would be asleep right now, but he wouldn’t mind being awakened to hear —

Hold it,
he told himself. Just one damn minute. Why should he be in such a rush to call that freak-lovin’ bastard? Right now he, Flint, was in control. He didn’t have to run and call Smoates like some teenager afraid of his father’s paddle. Anyway, if Smoates hadn’t weighed him down with Eisley, he would have finished this thing yesterday. So to hell with him.

Flint said, “No, I don’t need to call anybody. But what are we supposed to do? Stay here until the boat comes?” He didn’t know if he could stand smelling his own body odor that long, and Lambert wasn’t a sweet peach either. “Isn’t there someplace I can get a shower and some sleep?”

“Well, this ain’t exactly a tropical resort.” Burt’s cigar stub had gone cold, but he still kept it gripped between his teeth. Now he took it out and looked at the ashy tip, trying to decide if it was worth another match. “You talkin’ about one place for all of you? Or you want somethin’ separate for the lady?”

“I’m not sleepin’ in a room with them!” Arden was still dazed and heartsick by what she’d heard about the Bright Girl. In her arms the little bulldog longingly watched Pelvis. “I’d rather sit in here all night!”

“How much money you got?” Burt asked Flint, and raised his eyebrows.

“Not much.”

“You got a hundred dollars?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Burt said. “The big boys — the execs — keep a couple of cabins to stay in when they come visit down here. They don’t want to get dirty stayin’ in the barracks with the workin’ crews, see. I know who can pick the locks. Fifty dollars apiece, you can have ’em for the night. They ain’t much, but they’ve got clean cots and they’re private.”

“There’s fifty dollars in my wallet,” Dan offered. Sleep on a cot — clean or dirty, he didn’t care — sounded fine to him. It occurred to him that this was the last night he’d sleep without bars next to his mattress. “I’ll pay for her cabin.”

“Yeah, it’s a deal.” Flint brought out Dan’s wallet and his own and paid the money.

“Fine. Wait a minute, lemme listen to this here song.” Pelvis had started a slow country-western tearjerker called “Anything That’s Part of You.” His audience sat in rapt, respectful silence as the broody piano chords thumped and Pelvis’s voice soared up in a lament that was painful enough to wet the eyes of hardcase roughnecks and bayou trash prostitutes. “I swear,” Burt said, “that fella don’t need to try to be Elvis. You his manager?” He looked at Flint.

“No.”

“Hell,
I’ll
be his manager, then. Get out of this damn swamp and get rich, I won’t never look back.”

“Arden?” Dan had seen the corners of her mouth quivering, her eyes glassy with shock. It was going to be tough on her, he knew. She’d put so much blind faith into finding the Bright Girl, she’d sacrificed everything, and now it was over. “You all right?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

“You mind steppin’ aside?” he asked Flint, and the bounty hunter saw Arden’s obvious distress and moved from between them. Dan stood close to her. His heart ached for her, and he started to put his arm around her shoulders but he didn’t know what comfort he could give. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wish you could’ve found what you wanted.”

“I — I can’t believe she’s dead. I just can’t.” Her eyes suddenly glistened with tears, but just as quickly she blinked them away. The bulldog licked her chin. “I can’t believe it. Jupiter wouldn’t have told me wrong.”

“Listen to me,” Dan said firmly. “Startin’ from this minute, here and now, you’re gonna have to go back to reality. That means back to Fort Worth and gettin’ on with your life. However bad things look, they’ve got to get better.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know what tomorrow’s gonna bring. Or next week, or next month. You’ve gotta go day by day, and that’s how you get through the rough spots. Believe me, I’ve been there.”

Arden nodded, but the Bright Girl was a candle she could not bear to extinguish. It struck her how selfish she’d been, consumed by her own wishes. From the moment the man in the dark suit had set foot into this cafe, Dan had been on his way to prison. “Are
you
all right?” she asked.

“I believe I am.” He offered her a faint, brave smile when inside he felt as if he’d been hit by a tractor-trailer truck. “Yeah, I’m all right. This was gonna happen sooner or later.” His smile faded. “I saw my son, I said what I needed to say without bars between us. That’s the important thing.” He shrugged. “At least where I’m goin’ I’ll have a roof over my head and hot food. Won’t be much worse than the V.A. hospital, I guess. Anyhow —” His voice cracked, and he had to pause to summon the strength to continue. “Like I said, you go day by day. That’s how you get through the rough spots.”

“Miss?” Burt put his elbows on the bar and leaned toward her. Pelvis had finished the slow, sad number and was getting up from the piano to take his bows, sweat dripping from his chins. “I know who could tell you if there was ever anybody livin’ on Goat Island or not. Cajun fella they call Little Train. He was born ’round here. Sometimes he takes the execs huntin’ and fishin’. Sells us fish and game for the cafe, too, so he gets all ’round the swamp. If anybody would know, it’d be him.”

“Arden?” Dan’s voice was quiet. “Give it up. Please.”

She wanted to. She really did. But she was desperate and afraid. This would be her final chance, and she would never come this way again. Even finding the Bright Girl’s grave would be an answer, though not the one she wished for. She said, “Where is he?”

“Lives on a houseboat, anchored ’bout a mile south of here. Keeps to himself, mostly.” He stared at her birthmark, his gaze following its ragged edges. “I’ve got a motorboat, and I’m off shift at six
A.M.
I need to run down there to see him anyhow, put in an order for some catfish and turtle meat. If you want to go, you’re welcome. And I can carry two people, if
you
want to go along.” He was speaking to Dan.

Dan saw the need in Arden’s eyes; it was a painful thing to witness, because he knew she stood at the very edge of sanity. He had to turn away from her, and when he heard her say “I’ll go alone,” it was clear to him that she’d placed one foot over the precipice.

“Okay, then. Whatever suits you. Hey, fella!” He grinned at Pelvis, who was making his way to the bar through a knot of backslappers. “You ’bout knocked hell outta that piano, didn’t you?”

Pelvis said, “Thank you, ma’am” as he took Mama back into his arms, and Mama trembled with love and attacked his face with her tongue. He was breathing hard, and he felt a little dizzy, but otherwise he was okay. Sweat was pouring off him in rivers. “Can I have some water, please?”