The Bayou Trilogy: Under the Bright Lights, Muscle for the Wing, and The Ones You Do (23 page)

Taking over all the night action and daylight graft of an entire redneck town—that was something big. And The Wing was the crew to do it, too. With himself in charge, why, only bad luck could mess it up.

The Wing was a white prison gang, a loose nationwide cartel of sorts that kept in touch via three-to-five jolts and visitation privileges. Though not as strong as The Aryan Brotherhood or The Brown Mafia or The Locked-Up Muslims, The Wing had dirty fingers that could pull triggers on both sides of those high federal walls. Federal prisons
served as a kind of criminal headhunter’s service bringing hoods and hustlers from all parts of the nation into contact, and this led to frequent yardbird seminars on how we did this in Chicago, L.A., Boston, or Louisiana, and how it will work
even better
next time now that this rap has highlighted the flaws in the gambit.

As the bayou sounds shrank from the growing light, Jadick felt strong. Dean and Cecil were in the front room, snoring in each other’s arms, but ready to back any play he made. The Wing planned for him to raise the financing with Wanda’s help, then in a short while, Ronnie and a dozen others would be paroled, sprung from joints across the country. They’d roll right over this Auguste Beaurain asshole. No question about it. Things would be changed then. Some members of The Wing held odd religious opinions that not only did not rule out a life of crime, but, in fact, made it seem a holy path to trod in the service of a truly deciphered Lord. None of that shit mattered to Jadick for he merely wanted to be with a strong set of movers, and if what he was up to was in any way religious, he knew that he was only on the muscle end of that theology, looking for a way to shake down the future.

“Mornin’,” Wanda said. She came onto the porch carrying the rags her shiny shorts had become. She took a seat next to Jadick. “I’ll make biscuits and gravy.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, man,” she said, “I’m drippin’.” She began to swab at her crotch with the shorts, her head down. “Emil, I wonder what my husband thinks about all I’m doin’ for him.”

“Pun-kin,” Jadick said, staring out across the backwater mire. “I don’t see how Ronnie could be anything but proud of you.”

4

F
ROM THE
winging city pigeon’s vantage point the neighborhoods of St. Bruno looked like a fist clutching at the lifeline that was the big greasy river. There, to the south, perched on a few modest mounds, was Hawthorne Hills, a reserve for the tony, where neocolonial was the favored architecture and attitude. The next thing upriver was the south side, a downtrodden but proud throng of streets, where the architecture had been inspired by the simple square, to no one’s aesthetic pleasure. There was a vast midtown to be seen from an avian perspective; the seat of government was there by day, in the center of a warehouse district, and by night it was the preferred falling-down spot for winos and otherwise addled seekers. Up the hill from the river was Frechette Park, a surprisingly well-kept sprawl of greenery, and next to it Pan Fry, the longtime black neighborhood where the housing was HUD approved and roundballs of various sizes and snowcapped schemes offered the dreamy ways to better quarters. On down the hill, sprung up from the wet land, there was Frogtown, the white-trash Paris, where the wide brown flow of rank water scented all the days, and every set of toes touched bottom.

And down below, in the formative stage of the day, on a Frogtown street of frail frame houses, Detective How Blanchette stood on the porch of one rented to Miss N. Webb, and pounded against the door.

Presently the thick, inner door cracked open and Rene Shade bent around it, just his head showing behind the screen.

“How.”

“Sorry, Rene. We got business.”

“Come on in.”

Shade backed into the living room, a space dominated by several travel posters of America with Italian writing on them, and a huge Persian rug with a path worn diagonally across the rich intricacies. Shade wore only a black T-shirt and he collapsed groggily onto a couch and bent over to strap on his ankle holster.

“I still feel hammered,” he said. “I don’t know where my pants are.”

Blanchette held out a pair of khaki trousers, then threw them at his partner.

“I found ’em on the porch, you pervert.”

“Oh, yeah,” Shade said, red-eyed and smiling. “Now I remember.” He stood and stepped into the pants, then, just as he latched the buckle he said, “Hey, my vacation starts in about an hour, How.”

“ ’Fraid not.”

“ ’Fraid
so
,” Shade said. “We’re off to the Ouachitas to feed fish to the eagles, sleep in the mud.”

How Blanchette was sandy-haired and ruggedly chubby, with an innocent moon face and a cynical manner. Porkpie hats had never gone out of style with him and he was now, as usual, in his black leather trench coat which he believed trimmed twenty pounds from his shadow. His shirt and slacks were part of a large acquisition he’d made of fire-sale plaids, and he smoked a ten-cent panatela.

“The Captain canceled it,” he said. “We’ve got some serious business at hand.”

“It can’t be serious enough to keep me here when the trout are biting.”

“Rene, a cop got whacked. Shot four times, he was, then dumped in front of St. Joe’s emergency room.”

“Who?”

“A Patrolman Gerald Bell—know him?”

“Not really. Maybe if I saw him.”

“Well, I just did and he don’t look like anybody anymore.”

Shade rubbed his fingers on his cheeks, then pulled his hands up and straight across his hair.

“I don’t want to wake her,” he said. “I’ll leave a note.”

“Do it quick,” Blanchette said, then raised his nose and elaborately sniffed the air three times. “And get in there and wash your face, too. You smell like yesterday’s fish.”

Blanchette drove the city-issue Chevy and Shade followed him in his own blue Nova. They went crosstown to the south side where Gerald Bell had shared a home with his father.

The small square white house was at the very dead end of Nott Street, perched just above a wide ravine. Old refrigerators, rusty tin cans, and assorted trash of varying vintages littered the ravine, making it an attractive playground to boys and disease.

Shade and Blanchette went up the gray slab steps to the side door which they knew from long experience would open directly to the kitchen. The inner door was swung back and through the screen they heard music and smelled a wonderful, simmering aroma.

Before they could knock a voice from inside said, “Uh-oh, who the hell are you guys?”

“Police, Mr. Bell,” Shade said, “can we come in?”

“Gerry’s not here, fellas,” Ray Bell said. He walked over and stood close to the screen. He was a short old sport, with thin white hair, a messed-up nose that undoubtedly had an interesting story behind it, and a retiree’s pleasant paunch. “He must have scored some poon last night. I been waiting for him to drag on in.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Blanchette said.

Bell’s lower lip drooped.

“Oh,” he said, and let them in. They showed him their shields and he nodded absently, then took a seat at the small kitchen table. He slapped a radio and killed the country music. A heavy black kettle steamed on the stove, and the bubbling red sauce in it filled the air with a savory scent. “Is he dead?”

“Yes, sir,” Shade said.

Blanchette went over toward the sweet sauce and stood near it, then lowered his head and inhaled, his eyebrows raising with approval.

“You know,” Bell said as he watched the kettle, “that sauce, why, it seems like an omen. Bad luck, I guess. You know, Ramona, the wife, she died a year ago, right about where you’re standin’. Too many years of bacon I guess. That’s what they say anyhow. All that grease. We was raised on the stuff, or worse. You know what was cookin’? Right, that sauce. I was cookin’ up some of that sauce ’cause I wanted a ham basted slow and she come in here and said, ‘Can I help?’ and keeled over practically dead before I could even answer. It makes me feel like I’m to blame for not pickin’ up the signs from God, ’cause today is the first time I made up a batch since then.” He lowered his head and growled sadly, like a wounded thing. “Oh, fellas, there’s a bottle of Rebel Yell in that cabinet, there. Be good to me.”

Shade fetched the bottle and set it in front of Bell.

Bell unscrewed the lid and took a tentative sip of the bourbon, then raised it again and chugged. After lowering the bottle he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What happened to my boy?”

“Shot to death,” Blanchette said. He was taste-testing the red sauce, slurping off the ladle. “Don’t know where he was killed but his body was dropped off at St. Joe’s. He’d been dead a couple of hours already.”

“Christ almighty,” Bell said. “Man, I’ve got to wonder who’d have the stones to do that on a cop. Don’t you all wonder that?”

“He was in civvies.”

“Well, sure.” Bell took another drink. “He was off duty.”

Shade sat at the table across from Bell. Last night’s cocktail fog was slowly evaporating and he was finally beginning to feel awake.

“I didn’t know your boy,” he said, “but we can’t have this, Mr. Bell. Nobody wants to stand for cops getting whacked out like street slime.”

“I know that,” Bell said. “I was raised up here, in this town, and I always have noticed this strange thing that when a St. Bruno cop gets powdered, pretty soon after that one or two or even three street studs turn up, shot dead tryin’ to escape. I know the drill, Detective, and don’t change it now.”

Blanchette, the dripping ladle in his hand, said, “Did your kid tramp
his dick across private property, stuff like that? I mean, whoever took him off made him wince a good bit first.” He licked the spoon, then ran his tongue over his lips. “Could’ve been a pissed-off husband type.”

“I resent that,” Bell said. His eyes had a sad, shiny look to them. He shoved up from his chair and took the ladle away from Blanchette. “I resent that comment about my dead son ’cause he wouldn’t screw no married woman. Not unless he won the tail in a Hold ’Em game, at least.” He put the big spoon into the kettle and began to stir. “If it was anything that got him in a jam that’s what it’d be—the gamblin’.”

“Was he a big gambler?” Shade asked.

“Naw, but he kept tryin’ to be.” Bell reached above the stove to the spice rack and selected a bottle of ground cayenne and shook it over the sauce. “If he won today he lost tomorrow. He was searchin’ for consistency but it eluded him. I would reckon he was the sort of gambler all the
real
gamblers are always glad to see at the table.”

“So he was a regular loser, uh?”

“He didn’t call it that.” Bell was now grabbing spice tins at random, and dumping what would certainly be an original and zesty blend into the sauce. The big spoon scraped against the kettle gratingly. “No, he didn’t call himself a regular loser. He said he was a fella with a system.” The old man looked older, and weak and weepy. “Oh, you boys have took my legs out from under me.” He turned and leaned against the counter, the ladle held at midthigh, dripping long red streaks down his legs. “I’m goin’ to tell you all some stuff you’ll know pretty soon anyway. Gerry, I think he owed money or something. I heard he stood shotgun at crap games and such. This is what I heard but he wouldn’t answer me when I brought it up. He only said, ‘We both like to eat, Pop.’ ” Bell noted the streaks sliding down his legs and set the ladle on the stove. “You fellas, you’re local, you know how it is. It’s the same as always. Most everybody around here’ll bet on which is the dry side of a raindrop or what hydrant a dog’ll piss on. Gamblin’ has always been more or less open here.”

“Look,” Shade said, “we won’t do anything to make your boy look bad.” Shade pulled the Rebel Yell near and sniffed the whiskey, then screwed the cap back on. “What aren’t you telling us, Mr. Bell?”

“Aw, I heard something else. I was at Johnny’s Shamrock awhile back and some of the talk there was about Gerry.”

Blanchette lifted the ladle, smelled the blindly spiced sauce, and poured it back.

“Spit it out, sport,” he said. “What were they gabbin’ about at The Shamrock?”

“Now you, you’re a rude motherfucker, ain’t you?” Bell said. He pointed a gnarled finger in Blanchette’s face.

“My mother’s dead,” Blanchette said, smiling slightly as he generally did when called a name. “The rest of it is personality.”

“I see,” Bell said. “A defective.” He dropped his hand back to his side. “What I heard at The Shamrock was that Gerry, Gerry, maybe, possibly, had took a little battin’ practice on some Frogtowner’s kneecap.” Bell raised his hands and spread them. “He’s gone now, ain’t he? But that’s what they were sayin’.”

Shade stood up from the table and passed the whiskey to the trembling, sagging man.

“They say who it was?” he asked.

“Um-hmm.” Bell gulped a slug of sour mash, and sniffled. “Willie Dastillon—know him?”

“Like a dog knows fleas,” Shade said. “We’ll check it out. You got any relatives who can sit with you today?”

“You better believe it,” Bell said. “You cops better straighten this out before we do. I was pretty tough once.”

“Naw, shit,” Shade said, “none of that. Have a wake, or whatever, belt out some prayers, but don’t get in our way. Your boy was one of ours, mister. We’ll take care of it.”

“Go do it then.” Bell faced the stove and the boiling sauce and shuddered, then lifted the hot kettle barehanded and slopped the whole bucket into the sink, splattering the walls and counter top. He put his quickly blistering hands beneath cold tap water and said, “I ain’t eatin’ today.”

Grif’s Grubbery was a breakfast and lunch place set under a warehouse at the city market, in midtown. There was no sign out front, but forty
years of word-of-mouth had caused the steps leading down from the street to become worn and smooth. It was a cozy, triangular room, with a short counter at the apex and long, communal tables in the open area.

Shade and Blanchette sat at the counter in the poorly lighted room. Grif Rosten, the owner, leaned his lanky, knobby self over the counter at the other end where he was using his side of a three-way conversation to lecture two young teamsters on the Haymarket Riot, the Reuther brothers, and other topics they deemed musty and evinced no interest in. Grif had boxcarred into town in the thirties from the West Coast where he claimed to have known Harry Bridges, Max Baer, and oriental ways of love. Though his historical and cultural hectoring resulted in frequent offers of bus tickets back to Oakland, the food kept the diner packed.