Ravens (8 page)

“You just walk in?”

“Mostly people call.”

“But you
could
just walk in?”

“You could.”

“And how many people would work there at a time?”

“Well, just one, mostly. Or they had it rigged so a call would come in and get switched to your own phone. But I didn’t have
a phone, ’cause I was staying at the motel. So I went in. Sundays and Mondays.”

Shaw’s eyes were incandescent.

He held out his cup and Tara filled it. He sat there holding the cup close to his lips but not drinking. He’d forgotten to
drink. He was lost in thought and had a little smile working. She could guess the story that was unspooling before his mind’s
eye: the meeting of two strangers, a lost lamb and a kindly shepherd. He started laughing, and Dad must have thought he was
laughing at the idea of a Christian crisis line, because he said, “No, we really helped some folks, we really did.”

Shaw said, “Oh, God, I
know
you did. I know you saved souls. You saved mine.”

Burris,
the old city cop, was at Trudy’s Café on Newcastle Street, waiting in line for the cashier. Rose Whittle was right behind
him; they fell to talking and she asked him what he thought about the jackpot news. He said he didn’t know what she meant.

She was astonished. “You really don’t know? The Boatwrights won the Max-a-Million jackpot.”

Long awkward moment. Finally he asked her, “Which Boatwrights we talking about here?”

“Mitch and Patsy.”

“Is this a prank?”

“No, sir.”

“How much was in the jackpot?”

“Huge. Like three hundred million. More.”

“Rose. Tell me the truth.”

“That is the truth. Well, I guess it’s only a rumor. But I believe it.”

Rose had a demonic streak of white in her hair, and voodoo fingernails an inch and a half long, and knew everything about
everybody — not through voodoo but because she worked Dispatch at the Brunswick police. If Rose was crediting a rumor, it
was probably solid.

Stupidly then, insufficiently, Burris responded, “Wow.”

Then he attempted a little smile.

Then he exhaled slowly and said, “Well that’s just great.”

He paid, fumbling the change, and went out to the blinding street where everything was white, erased, and the fumes that came
off the asphalt were so hot he felt they might carry the hat off his head. On the way to his cruiser, he passed the Chief
of Police, who was headed into Trudy’s with a couple of city commissioners. The Chief was a young guy. He had an abundance
of hair. He gave Burris the slightest of nods, then murmured something to the commissioners. Whatever he said amused them.
Burris hadn’t heard it, but it was probably, “Well, here comes Deppity Dawg,” or “Well, if it ain’t Deppity Dawg,” or something
like that. Why did the Chief call Burris Deppity Dawg? Burris wasn’t sure. It had been his tag for years. Maybe owing to his
years of faithful police service. Or his jowliness, or because he was such an entertaining idiot.

He nodded back at the Chief.

Keeping his shoulders at the proper angle of hunchment. Limping to his cruiser and getting in and driving away. Give ’em a
show of debasement and get the hell out of here. He drove to his favorite hiding place on Rt. 17, near the Spur, behind a
mess of oleanders, and raised dutifully his radar gun. But today was a lucky day for speeders in Brunswick, Georgia, because
he wasn’t even looking at the numbers. All his thoughts were on Nell Boatwright. Now she’ll be lost to me forever. Her son
Mitch will buy her a mansion in the south of France, and she’ll have tea with duchesses and play seven-card stud with Bea
Arthur who will adore her drawl and her crazy piercing laugh, and she’s lost to me. It’s finished now. I’m done and I just
ought to own up to that fact.

Tara
had to drive Shaw over to Nell’s. She begged him not to make her do this. She said, “I can’t lie to Nell. She’ll know something’s
wrong. Please.”

But he wouldn’t listen. “I’ll have to meet her sooner or later. Why not now?” He tucked his pistol into the holster that fit
against the small of his back, and put his dull corduroy jacket on over it, and they went off together, in Tara’s Geo. They
went by way of Norwich Street, which seemed to fascinate him. He told her to slow down so he could look at things: the down-at-heels
bodegas and money order stores and old men sitting under oak trees playing dominos. Then they left the Mexican neighborhood
and came to the black neighborhood: custom-wheels shops and Marvin’s Grocery, and one storefront church after another. Shaw
read aloud their names: “Fisher of Men Ministries.” “Healing & Deliverance Bible Institute.” “Christ’s Church for the End
Times.”

“Jesus,” he said. Laughing. “What a great town.”

She drove and kept silent.

“Tara,” he said, “are you worried?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be.”

“I know I’ll give it away.”

“No. I’d kill you in front of her. Wouldn’t be that hard on you, but for her it’d be better if she’d never existed. Like her
whole life was just the build-up to this suffering, and she’ll regret every minute of it, everything she ever did because
it all leads up to watching you die. I’m sorry to say it so bluntly. But you have to fool her. You
have
to. So you will.”

Shaw
looked at her for a while. Then he turned away and watched the city go by and thought: what
I
have to do is keep this fire going. This furnace of black flames. Be unafraid to have it inside me. Be willing to create
every horror. Fear becomes discipline becomes profoundest love, and if I don’t hold these people to the highest standards,
everyone’s life will turn into shit. If I’m timid, or irresolute, it all goes to shit. For all parties involved. Everything
rests on my shoulders here.

Romeo
awoke to the sound of a car outside Wynetta’s trailer. Christ, what’s this, a boyfriend? He went to the window. In the drive
was some kind of official van, from which a black man in white uniform was emerging. He didn’t look to be a boyfriend. He
looked like he had business here.

Romeo gave Wynetta a shake. “Someone’s here.”

She growled in her throat and turned away.

He pulled his jeans on. Through the window he saw the black man lower a ramp from the side of the van, then roll out a wheelchair.
In the chair was a child, all bundled up: the oddest-looking child Romeo had ever seen. Frail and hairless, Victorian, consumptive-looking.

Romeo shook Wynetta again.

She opened one eye. “What the
fuck
?”

“Hello?” called the black man from outside the door. “Hello? I have Mr. Santos here.”

That finally roused her. “What? Oh my God. Wait!”

She grabbed her bra from the floor. It was a full harness, an iron maiden, and it took her a while to get it all fastened.
Then she struggled to get her shorts on, and her T-shirt, and opened the door.

The black man was standing there, with the child cradled in his arms.

“Daddy!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

The child rasped, “I’m not. Dying. In that place.”

Close up, Romeo could see it wasn’t a child at all, but a withered old man. The black man — evidently his nurse — carried
him to the bed and laid him down.

Said Wynetta, “He checked out of the hospital?”

“Marcus? What do they. Call it?”

“AMA,” said the black man. “Against medical advice.”

“That’s,” said the old man, “me.”

Wynetta said, “You gotta go back, Daddy. I’m supposed to go to Tifton today. With Jesse.”

“Well. Good.”

“But I can’t just leave you.”

“You can.”

“You’re too sick!”

“I’m fit. As. A fiddle. Except for the. Dying.” He gave Romeo a wink. “Son. What’s your name?”

“Romeo.”

“Mine’s. Claude. Santos. Pleased. To meet you.”

Lifting his hand from the bed. Romeo held it a moment, then stepped away when the nurse came back in with his IV setup. The
man had a deft touch. He coasted his thumb along Claude’s wrist till he found a tender spot, then slid home the catheter tip.
Claude never winced but was stoic throughout. Nor did he rebuke his daughter for her whining.

She said, “Dad, what are we gonna
do
?”

He replied mildly, “How about. Tennis?”

“Come on, Daddy. Be
responsible
.”

“OK. I’ll chop. Firewood. I’ll clean. The gutters.”

His grin was toothless but went from ear to ear.

He asked Romeo, “Is that really. Your name?”

The sudden fixity of his gaze made Romeo blush. “Well, my mama knew what a lover I’d be.”

“Ha! You’re Italian?”

“Half. I’m Polish on my dad’s side.”

Said Claude, “I’m Portuguese.”

Romeo smiled.

Claude said, “My grandfather. Came here. For the fishing. First to Darien. Then Brunswick. He had. Shrimp boats. Him and my
uncles.”

“Did you work on the boats?”

“Oh yes. My grandfather. Would stand. On the dock. And say, ‘
Galo pequeno. Quem o ama? O pescador. Idoso. Ama-o!
’ ”

“What does that mean?”

“It means. ‘Little Rooster! Who loves you? The old. Fisherman loves you!’ ”

Wynetta whined, “Daddy, I gotta take you back to the hospital.”

“He carried. A netting needle. Made from bone. In his pocket.”

“Could you say it again?” said Romeo.

“Say what?”

“What he told you.”

“Oh.” Claude tucked his chin down and cocked his elbows. “
Galo pequeno! Quem o ama? O pescador. Idoso. Ama-o!
” He was a childlike wraith posing as an old fisherman posing as a roosterish kid. This pierced Romeo.

“Could you say it again?”

But Wynetta had had enough. “I’m taking you back, Daddy.”

Said Claude, “No, no.”

“I
got
to.”

“This. Is where I’m. Dying. Right here.”

Romeo saw that it was time to go. He had no business here. “Well I guess I got things to do. Nice to meet you though. Both
of you.”

He went out into the blazing day, got in the Tercel and drove off — and then the Brunswick stench hit him. Gone, instantly,
was ‘The old fisherman loves you.’ He shifted forward in his seat and set his face grimly and drove back into the city of
Brunswick without seeing anything.

Tara
poured the Madeira while Nell showed Shaw her toys: the singing buck, the trophy fish, the sunflower who dipped coquettishly
toward the windowlight and sang, “On the Sunny Side of the Street.”

Shaw laughed. “At last! Technology produces something useful! Where’d you get these, Nell?”

“Well, the buck I got at Wal-Mart’s. I went to Dollar but they don’t have ’em yet. You play poker, young man?”

“Sure.”

“You play pot-limit seven stud? Or just that TV crap?”

He grinned. “I guess I play pot-limit seven stud.”

She said, “We don’t cotton to Tedious Hold’em around here. Where you go all-in on a pair of nines and cross your fingers and
pray? There’s more skill in Bingo. But if you’re up for
poker
let’s get to it.”

Tara downed her Madeira right away, while she was still standing by the sink. Then she refilled her glass and set her face.
Remember how much you love her. Think of nothing else.

She brought the glasses to the table. Shaw toasted Nell’s cats. Nell told him all their names, and he toasted them again.
Then he looked at Tara, and Tara told her first lie: “Shaw’s an old friend of Daddy’s.”

“What, dear?” Nell was hauling the coin sacks off their shelf in the china closet, lugging them to the table.

“I said Shaw’s an old friend of Dad’s. He was just passing through and he called Dad, and the two of them went in on the jackpot
tickets together.”

Nell poured out a mound of coins, and started counting it. She told Shaw, “We like the feel of
money
. Chips are for sissies. Sell you twenty dollars’ worth, that good?”

“Grandmother,” said Tara, “you’re not listening.”

“I’m not?” She kept counting. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I’m saying Shaw paid for half of our jackpot tickets. The day we won.”

“Oh. Well then, how come he doesn’t get half the jackpot?”

“He does. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Are you listening?”

Finally Nell looked up. “You’re saying what?”

Do not lower your eyes.
“Shaw gets half of everything.”

Nell’s gaze narrowed. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Because Dad didn’t tell
us
. He was afraid Mom’d be mad.”

“I
bet
she’s mad. I bet she’s screaming her head off.”

“Well. She is. But fair is fair.”

If it’s to save her life, it’s not really a lie.

“Well,” said Nell, “if your mom ain’t mad, I am. You’re telling me we’re only
half
-gazillionaires?” She turned to Shaw. “
You
get the rest?”

He said, “I’m sorry.”

“You little punk. I already had that half-gazillion
spent
. I was gonna buy Brunswick — turn the whole town into my private putt-putt course. You like putt-putt golf? Wait, you gotta
see my polar bear.”

The bear was on top of her refrigerator. When Nell switched it on, it swung a golf club and sang, “It Don’t Mean a Thing If
It Ain’t Got That Swing.” Shaw chuckled. Nell exploded with laughter. Then she shuffled the cards and dealt out a hand.

“I’m winning it back right now,” she announced. “All of it. Every penny you stole from us. How much was that again?”

Shaw coughed and murmured, “Um. Pre-tax? Something like. A hundred fifty-nine million?”

“Well, get ready to lose it.”

She bluffed right out of the gate. Tara had an ace showing and another ace in the hole, so she stayed with Nell’s bets for
two more rounds, and even drew a third ace. But when Nell threw forty dollars into the pot, Tara figured her for a straight,
and folded. Nell raked in. Shooting Tara a sharp critical look. Tara knew she was in trouble. She was playing too timidly.
Was she playing so timidly that Nell would guess something was wrong?