The Bayou Trilogy: Under the Bright Lights, Muscle for the Wing, and The Ones You Do (55 page)

“Oh, I’ve got to go,” John X. said. He walked to the door, pausing to cast one last look at Stew Lassein. His benediction was simple: “Que sera and so on, slick.”

13

L
UNCH
P
UMPHREY
put his tiny black boots on the windowsill and sat back with his hands behind his head, trying to put an exact number to the deaths he’d administered. The room was on the fourth floor of The Hotel Sleep-Tite, and from the window Lunch gazed out into the black night and wet streets of St. Bruno. A surly wind had kicked up, and rain howled against the window, spattering violently, the raw weather perfectly attuned to Lunch’s mood.

Number One had been the tavern owner in Marietta whose last words were “Wake up, Mac—closin’ time.” Number Two was the auxiliary cop who’d caught him coming out of an electronics store window at two
A.M.
, and Number Three was the woman who’d gone to the twenty-four-hour laundromat in the cool of the night and accidentally seen him blow the head off Number Two. She’d been holding a wide wicker basket of clean clothes, standing on the sidewalk, and when he approached she’d begged, which he hated, he hated begging, fear was in order, sure, even resistance, but begging merely made a victim’s last moments shameful, which is not the emotion you should want on your face when you are returned to Nature.

After Number Fourteen, an Italian fella in Daytona who’d been a thorn in the side of Angelo Travelina, Lunch lost interest in the arithmetic of murder. What was the point in adding them up when there would surely be more, possibly many, many more deaths to be harvested by him? At least one more of them, soon, too. Ol’ Paw-Paw. He was here, Lunch could feel it, hear the old man’s death song hummin’
in his veins. And most likely Randi Tripp, the ’Bama Butterfly, would be a bonus crop, and whew! but would he have that thrush warblin’ a few new tunes! And if that gaudy li’l girl was standing there, lookin’ like some sort of freak dwarf from the future, well, just call her dessert!

Lunch stood and stretched, looking around the hotel room. The room was decorated in Flophouse Classic, with lamps screwed to tables, tables bolted to the floor, and faded paintings of one clown in several poses nailed to the walls. This clown had a red nose, a tattered top hat, and grimed cheeks and clothes in each of the paintings, but in one he had a neckerchief bundle on a stick over his shoulder, in another he held a hand of cards, all jokers, and in another he drank an unknown beverage from a rusty tin can, the serrated lid still attached to serve as a handle.

Lunch shook his head at the squalor of the joint and decided that whisky and cocaine were in order. This place too closely resembled home, home with Granny and Aunt Edna, and anyplace that reminded him of home made him desperate to get high.

He patted a small bottle from his pocket, opened it, and pinched out a snort of blow for each nostril. He hoovered the powder and began to pace. He never should’ve let thoughts of home into his mind, for any jail he’d ever been in was kinder to him than home, more affectionate even—except for Rayanne. Rayanne—now he needed whisky to wash that name from his mind.

Lunch picked up the door key and his hat and left the room. The Hotel Sleep-Tite had a lounge on the first floor, and he’d fetch a bottle from there. He took the stairs down four flights, crossed the cruddy carpet of the lobby, and went into the lounge. There was a narrow bar and a bunch of tables with plastic chairs, and the lights were low and blue. The bartender looked about the age of a schoolboy, with curly blond hair, and his T-shirt sleeves were short so his muscles were on view.

“Give me a bottle of Johnny Walker Red,” Lunch said.

“We don’t have it,” the bartender said. “Wrong neighborhood. Plus, I’m not supposed to sell by the bottle.”

“State law?” Lunch asked.

“Profit motive, I think.”

“Ah.” Lunch pulled out a twenty and laid it on the bar. “Give me a bottle of what you got.”

“Ten more.”

“Ouch!” Lunch said. “But okay.”

He forked over another sawbuck.

The bartender set a bottle of House of Usher Scotch in front of Lunch. He leaned forward, and said, “You need a broad to go with that, amigo?”

“How much?”

“Fifty for normal stuff.”

“Room four ten,” Lunch said. “I’ll pay the money to
her
. And tell her to bring a magazine.”

“A magazine? What kind of magazine?”

“Any kind, it don’t matter. But tell her to bring one.”

“Twenty minutes,” the bartender said.

Lunch went back to his room.

Back in his room, as the rain battered down, Lunch went deep into the blow and Scotch, constantly pacing, drinking straight from the bottle, getting higher and higher until he felt like he was six feet overhead, hovering aloft with no wings, looking at himself from above.

“Rayanne,” he said.

Candlelight would be more appropriate, and historically accurate, but he didn’t have a candle so he tossed a Sleep-Tite towel over the lamp to soften the light. If he had a radio, he’d tune it to a shit-kicker gospel station, like the one back home, and listen to nasally delivered musical sermons on the topics of eternal love and eternal damnation, while banjos strummed and fiddles whined as an accompaniment.

Whew, but would that make his whole scene percolate!

When his door was knocked on, Lunch opened it. A black gal stood there, maybe nineteen, but she could pass for less. She wore white knee boots that glistened, and a snug red miniskirt. Her face was lean, and
her eyes were big round browns, which was all fine, but what made her seem like a sign from the other side was her hair, which was cornfield blond and not long, but plentiful.

“Oh, man,” she said, “is that a birthmark on your face?”

“Bruise. Car wreck.”

“Well, hi, then,” she said. “I’m Lushus.”

“That’s nice,” Lunch said. He staggered a little, waving the bottle. “But could you answer to Rayanne tonight?”

“Rayanne? Let’s see your money first.”

Lunch pulled a roll of green from his pocket.

“I got plenty,” he said. “Now what’s your name?”

Lushus came inside, then kicked the door shut with a white boot.

“Sugar—it’s me, Rayanne.”

“You got the Sears Catalog?”

“No, I ain’t got no catalog.”

“I said for you to bring a magazine.”

“Oh.” Lushus unslung her shoulder bag and reached inside. She pulled out a copy of
Vogue
. “I got this, sugar.”

“Well, now,” Lunch said giddily, “that’s the new Sears Catalog, Rayanne.”

“Just tell me what you want,” she said. “I think you have a certain story you want to think you’re in. That’s fine with me. Just tell me what you want.”

“Take a shower,” he said. “Leave your hair damp, but come out smellin’ of soap.”

“This is gonna cost.”

“I can pay. Here’s a C-note.”

Lushus snatched the money.

“Just tell me the story,” she said as she began to undress, “and I’ll be in it.”

“You’ll be in it,” Lunch said. “Don’t worry about that.”

Lunch looked away as Lushus stripped. When she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, he sat on the bed. He pulled out the bottle of powder and snorted. He could hear the whore sudsing
away in the shower. He bent over and unzipped his boots and slid them off. Then the shirt, then his trousers. Socks and bikini briefs stayed on. He lay across the bed, belly down, his face over the edge, the magazine on the floor before his eyes.

When Lushus came out of the shower, she asked, “What’s next?”

“We’re in a farmhouse,” Lunch said. “Way back off the hard road, down a rutted lane. Total boonies. Granny can’t pay the electric bill, so all we got is this candle. Now come here and cuddle on my back.
I
always turn the pages in the catalog.”

Lushus slid onto the bed.

“Lordy, but you sure got plenty of pictures on your body!”

“Not at this age I don’t.” Lunch opened the magazine. “Looky here, Rayanne—new clothes!”

Lushus spread herself over his body, skin on skin. She smelled of soap and her bones dug into his back.

“So pretty,” she said, not even looking at the pages. “I want one of those.”

“Rub through my hair, Rayanne. Pick through for lice.”

“Lice?”

“I don’t have lice at this age—I did then. Do it.”

The whore began to pluck her fingers through the killer’s hair.

“There’s one,” she said, and pinched his scalp.

“They made fun of me at school today.”

“Who did?”

“The Cranston brothers.”

“Oh, those boys are mean.”

“And Abel Young.”

“Him too? Why they make fun of you for?”

“You know why, Rayanne. My shoes and stuff.”

“Now that’s awful.”

“They said I wore stinky clothes and had head lice.”

Her fingers pinched his scalp again and again. “I’m killin’ them lice, sugar.”

“Looky here—cowboy boots.”

“I’ll get you cowboy boots—see if I don’t.”

“You always say that.”

“I will, sugar. I want things, too. Nobody ever says a nice thing to me neither.”

“I know.”

“I’m pretty, ain’t I? I’m a pretty girl.”

“Uh-huh.”

The whore lay her face to the killer’s neck, her hands at his shoulders.

“But I can’t sing good enough for the choir, so they won’t have me in it.”

“Someday I’ll kill them for you.”

“I know you will, sugar.”

Lunch reached a hand back and began to slide it over the cheeks of her ass.

“Can we?” he asked. “Granny’s asleep and Aunt Edna won’t hear us in this room.”

“I mean, listen here, I have feelings,
too
.”

“Blow the candle out.”

Lushus reached across and flicked the lamp off. In the dark, Lunch pushed up from beneath and rolled her over. He spread her legs, then lowered his lips to her left breast and began to suck. His lips sucked gently at her nipple, his lips moving softly, his little hands cupping both breasts.

“Let me slide you in, sugar.”

“Nuh,” he said. “We don’t do that. We just lay like this together.”

He continued to suckle at the whore’s breast while rain rattled the window, and her hands came up slowly in the blackness, clasped behind his head, and held on.

“We’ll always be together,” she said. “Always and always.”

Lunch greedily sucked and sucked, until it began to sound as if he were crying. Suddenly he pulled his mouth from the whore’s breast.

“Please, Rayanne, don’t never turn state’s evidence on me. Please, sis, don’t never do that.”

“Never,” Lushus said. “You’re too dear to me. You and me are all we have.”

He dropped his head onto her chest. His breath was warm on her skin.

“I’d have to kill you if you did that.”

His lips found a nipple in the dark, and Lushus once again held his head in her hands.

“Oh, sugar, this story is gettin’ too sad.”

The rains had ended during the night, and as a gray, pearly dawn arrived Lunch came awake, his senses sharp, and saw Lushus standing at the bureau, stealing his roll of green.

Her white knee boots shined, and her red dress fit her like a sheath. Her golden hair hung to her shoulders. She had the entire roll in her fist, preparing to take it all.

“Lookin’ for a match?” Lunch asked. He spun off the bed, shook loose Salem number one, and lit it with a butane lighter. “I can give you a light.”

“I’m not
stealin’
this, li’l brother,” Lushus said. She kept her back turned to him. “I thought I’d pay Granny’s ’lectric bill, sugar.”

“How nice of you.”

“Then,” she said, turning to look him in the face. “I was fixin’ to fetch breakfast for my
favorite
brother.”

Lunch nodded. All he wore was his black bikini briefs, his many tattoos on clear display, and as he advanced on the whore it was like a small private collection of bad art swaggering forward.

“Brother?” he said as he reached her side. “I look like a nigger to you?” He sidled close to her, then punched her in the belly. “If you were kin to me, I’d be a nigger.”

Lushus took the punch pretty well, then raised her fists and swung back at him. Lunch smiled, and punched her again. She sagged, and the money tumbled from her hand, fluttering to the carpet.

“You’re all the same,” he said. He grabbed hold of her blond hair, flicked his lighter, and held the flame to her thick locks. The hair ignited, and blue fire spread up the strands, crinkling, smoking, stinking.

“Evil!” Lushus shouted. Her hands rose to her blond hair, but the fire was too hot. She closed her eyes and ran to the bathroom, smoke and stink hanging in the air. She jumped into the white tub and put her head under the faucet, kneeling, and turned the water on. As the water doused the flaming hair, soaking her, the whore murmured and hissed.

Lunch stood in the doorway, calmly smoking, watching as the whore’s hair became a strange new, two-tone color: blond and burned.

“I ain’t got no sister,” he said.

14

O
N
S
UNDAY
mornings when the spirit was in her, a questing, vengeful spirit, Monique Blanqui Shade slipped into grungy clothes, heavy boots, and a frayed straw hat, and tromped down the tracks toward the Marais Du Croche swamp to slay a few serpents. There were rituals to the hunt. First she’d set the heavy black skillet on the stove, fry a mess of eggs in butter, layer Bermuda onion slices and mayonnaise on bread, and slide the eggs aboard to make hearty sandwiches. She would put the sandwiches in a sack and tie it to the belt loops on one hip, then place three cold beers in a plastic bag and lash it to the opposite hip. Then she’d select a sharpened cane from the collection in her closet, flip the Closed sign on the front door of the pool hall, and head for the dense thickets and muckish terrain where snakes abounded, slithering and hissing, just asking for it.

As she fried the eggs on this Sunday morning, her birthday, Monique stood before the stove, her long gray hair down, not yet braided, brushing against her ankles, and stole looks at the rollabed in the pantry where Etta lay, the girl already awake, but feigning sleep.