The Cottoncrest Curse (34 page)

Louis Martinet leaned back in his chair. “How unusual. Aren't you jurisdictionally impaired in these environs?”

Bucky stared blankly at the question.

Tee Ray, however, snapped back. “We don't need none of your puton airs. Just answer our questions, and we'll leave. You know a Negress named Jenny. She used to work here before she went to Petit Rouge to work for Colonel Judge Chastaine. Right?”

Louis Martinet didn't flinch in the slightest at Tee Ray's offensive tone of voice. He looped his fingers calmly in the lapels of his vest. “And the basis for your authority to start this interrogation is what, exactly? I note that you, sir, do not carry a badge, even one from a distant parish. I note that your attire does not contain the usual accoutrements of a duly appointed official. I am curious, therefore, of the precise nature of the legal authority that gives you the right to act as my interrogator.”

Tee Ray snarled, “When I come back with—”

Bucky interrupted again. “He don't have to come with no 'gator or any other kind of creature. We got the law on our side. That badge proves it!”

Tee Ray shoved Bucky aside. “You don't got no right to stall. We're gonna be back first thing tomorrow morning. And when I come with a gun and an Orleans Parish sheriff, you're gonna answer my question. Ain't no nigger lawyer gonna put on airs with me!”

Louis Martinet just smiled gracefully. “You know, language can be an interesting tool. Nouns can be subjects or objects. Verbs can be active or passive. And adjectives? They can be descriptive, or they can be decorative, or they can be derogatory. I think, if I were you, I would be cautious in using imprecations in the issuance of purported legal threats.”

Tee Ray, his face crimson, strode out the door, calling back over his shoulder, “Gonna be sorry, nigger. Real sorry.”

Bucky snatched his badge from Martinet's desk and left quickly as well.

As Bucky and Tee Ray were winding their way down the crowded street, Louis Martinet finally got out of his chair. Standing in his doorway, he called out after them, in a loud voice that all could hear, “Remember, I'm a believer in equal protection for all. So, if you two of the Caucasian persuasion need effective legal counsel to protect your rights, you just come right on back.”

The crowd's cascading laughter followed Tee Ray and Bucky as they quickened their pace on their journey back to Canal Street.

Jenny, her ear pressed against the library door in the back of Louis's office, sighed. She had to get to the cemetery tonight. They would come back. It wasn't safe.

Jenny hoped Jake would be at the cemetery. Regardless, she could not return here in the morning. She could not put Louis in that kind of danger.

She had to find Jake and tell him what she knew. Then the two of them would have to leave Louisiana as soon as possible.

“You want me to get Sooley to fetch you a fix-up, sugar? You give me another four dollars, and I'll get you anything you want. And then,” she said, spreading her legs wide, “I'll give you anything you want, sugar.”

Bucky sat on the bed, his eyes taking in the sight. Outside the third-floor window of the tiny room, it was dark. The candle in the dirty lantern cast a dim glow over the room, but it was more than enough.

“What's your thirst, sugar? Coso's got monogahela. He got whiskey. He got rifle knock-knee and vinum and copus cup. Any kind of bracer you want. It'll send you over the bay and get you squiffed for sure.”

Other than whiskey, Bucky didn't recognize any of the terms she was using, but he felt sure it was all about alcohol. He felt squiffed already. He had given two dollars to the Italian downstairs who ran the Red Chair. For his money Bucky had been given a drink and a choice of the girls. He didn't want any of the blacks or mulattoes. He wanted only a white girl. He took the whitest one in the room, the young skinny one with straight black hair and a pale expression. They had come upstairs, and it was over before he knew it. Back they went downstairs again. Another two dollars, another drink, and up they went.

Bucky was beginning to get the hang of this. They had made a third trip downstairs, and the Italian said he could have the skinny girl for the rest of the night for five dollars, but all the drinks after the next one would be extra. Bucky had dug the fiver out of his pocket and paid it right then and there. He had flung back the whiskey as he had seen the other men at the bar do, choked on it but kept it down, and then had taken the girl back upstairs.

They had done it again. She was now lying on her back. Her tiny breasts glowed in the candlelight, and the soft hair between her legs glistened.

“Come on, sugar. You gonna look or you gonna do it? You paid for it. Might as well get your money's worth. But, hell, the least you can do is buy me a drink.”

“I'll buy you anything you want.” Bucky walked over to spot on the floor where he had flung his clothes and picked up his pants. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a wad of money. “See, I got lots. Raifer done give it to me, and I'm in charge. Ain't nobody, Tee Ray or no one else, gonna tell me what to do and when to do it. Ain't no one gonna tell me I got to wait until the job is over to come here to Faubourg Tremé. Right?”

“Whatever you say, sugar.”

“My name is Bucky. You can call me Bucky if you want. And what's your name?”

The skinny girl on the bed giggled, her naked body twitching as the giggles turned into a laugh. “ 'Bout time you asked, sugar. They call me Betsy.”

“Betsy. That's a beautiful name.”

“Come on, sugar, you got a roll there. Gimme four, and I'll get us both enough monogahela to last us until dawn.” She slid out of bed and sidled up next to him, grabbing him firmly in the crotch. “I can see that you're ready. A little bracer, and we'll both go strong for hours.”

Bucky had imagined what this night would be like. He had imagined it for years. But it was better than he had dreamt. It was better than the riverboat ride down the Mississippi from Parteblanc. It was better than anything.

He let her stroke his naked crotch while he unfurled four dollars from the roll. He could hardly pay attention to what he was doing because what Betsy was doing to him was so wonderfully distracting. The roll of money was getting smaller and smaller, but he didn't care. Other parts of him were getting larger and larger.

As soon as the bills were freed, however, Betsy snatched them from his hand and stopped fondling him. She went over to the door quickly and walked into the hall without a stitch on.

“Sooley,” Bucky could hear her calling out. “Sooley girl, where are you?”

“Here Miz Betsy,” a young child's voice responded.

“You go take this threefer down to Coso and have him bring me back a bottle of that stuff I done like. He knows what it is.”

“Yes, Miz Betsy,” the young child replied and scuffled away.

So what, thought Bucky, if Betsy sent only three dollars down for the liquor and kept a dollar for herself. It was worth it.

Bucky turned to gaze out the window. He wanted to remember every part of this night. He wanted to remember every curve on Betsy's body, every corner of the room, and even the view out onto the street below.

A gas lamp on the corner showed groups of men in twos and threes drunkenly weaving deeper into Faubourg Tremé, stumbling from bar to bar. A couple of them had passed out already in the street, mere dark shadows on the ground.

But there was one man moving in the opposite direction. He wore a long black coat and carried a broad-brimmed black hat in his hand. As the man passed under the street lamp, Bucky got a good look at his face and gasped.

Bucky grabbed the window and flung it open. “Hey, you! The Jew Peddler! You stop right there. You're under arrest!”

Jake looked up to see a naked Bucky yelling at him from the window.

It had been a foolish mistake not to keep Zig's hat on. Jake had been so careful until now. He had stayed in the room Antonio had given him all throughout the day, leaving only after it was good and dark. He had gone down the back stairs and out the back entrance to avoiding running into anyone.

To be spotted now by Bucky meant he didn't have much time. If Bucky was upstairs, Tee Ray had to be somewhere near.

Jake pulled his hat down tightly on his head and started to run as fast as he could.

Bucky was screaming at the men on the street to stop the runner, that he was a criminal.

No one on the street below paid Bucky the slightest bit of attention.

With his body half out the window and his attention on the street, Bucky didn't notice that, inside the room, Betsy was going through his pockets. She took almost all of his money and, wrapping the remaining bills around a scrap of fabric so it looked like a full roll of cash, stuffed it back into the pocket of Bucky's pants and let the trousers fall to the floor next to his shirt.

She put the money under the mattress and then lay back on the bed, legs wide open, and cooed, “Sugar, you gonna spend your night sticking your thing out the window or sticking it in me?”

Bucky's feet hurt inside the rough boots. He hadn't had time to put on his socks as he dashed out of the bedroom and down the steps of the Red Chair and out onto the street. He ran at a gallop, trying to button up his shirt as he went, holding his coat in his teeth. His belt buckle was still unfastened and it flapped with each step, slapping against his bare stomach.

The Jew Peddler was a good two blocks ahead of him.

Bucky redoubled his efforts. He let his coat drop and tried to lengthen his stride, ignoring for the moment the way the boots chaffed his toes, raising blisters that Bucky was sure would be bloody before he had finished.

Bucky felt he was starting to gain on the Jew.

Jake took a moment to glance behind him as he turned a corner down a narrow alleyway. He could see Bucky panting heavily as he ran.

Several blocks away the customers and ladies of the Red Chair, in various stages of undress, who had leaned out the windows and watched the spectacle, now turned back to their other activities as the figures disappeared from view and promptly forgot about them.

The alleyway that Jake had entered was paved with broken and uneven bricks. Running was difficult here, but Jake moved swiftly. Any hesitation would be disastrous.

Nearing the last thirty feet of dark alley, Jake prepared to slow down slightly so he could turn right at the corner and head uptown. One more block, he figured, then take another right, go a block, and then turn left uptown once more. Uptown, away from Faubourg Tremé and away from the French Quarter. Uptown, toward the Garden District and Lafayette Cemetery.

Bucky saw the Jew duck into the alley. Between his gasps for breath as he ran, Bucky felt confident. That black hat and long black coat can't disguise the Jew. This Jew can't disappear by wearing black at night. Bucky knew what he looked like and now knew what the Jew was wearing.

Bucky ignored the pain in his feet and toes as well as the pain in his lungs. He was running faster than he ever had run before. He would capture the Jew.

Bucky could see it all. He would be a hero. He would be on his way to having Raifer's job. No one would ever laugh at him again. No one would make fun of him. Respect. He would get all of their respect. He would have earned it.

Making the turn into the narrow, dark, alley, Bucky saw the outline of the Jew at the other end, his wide-brimmed hat on his head, the ends of his long coat flaring out as he started to bear right down the next street. The Jew was slowing down.

Bucky knew he could overtake him. He had never taken such wide steps. He had never sprinted as quickly as he did now. His boots seemed to bound over the uneven bricks.

There was a fire in his chest with each breath. Bucky ignored it.

There was a squishing in his boots each time they hit the ground. The blood was coating his feet. Bucky ignored it.

His right foot was turning numb. Bucky ignored it.

His thigh muscles ached, his calves started to knot up, and he could hear his pulse rapidly throbbing like loud drums in his ears. Bucky ignored all of this.

Hearing the sound of pursuit getting nearer—Bucky's heavy panting and the hollow ricocheting of his thick heels on the bricks—Jake pushed himself harder, picking up speed. From his years of pulling the heavy cart for miles around the countryside, Jake had built up vast endurance. He could run like this for several hours if he had to. And he had to do it now. Jake ran faster. He could outrun and outlast Bucky.

Bucky saw the Jew turn the corner.

The wind rushing through his wild hair, Bucky gave it all he had and veered right as he neared the corner.

There was a strange sensation in Bucky's rapidly numbing right foot. It wouldn't seem to obey him. As his body turned right, his foot did not. The toe of the boot had caught in one of the broken bricks.

Bucky heard, before he felt it, a crunching sound from his right ankle.

The boot stayed wedged in the brick as Bucky's foot pulled free of it.

Bucky was in mid-stride, and his momentum carried him forward. He couldn't avoid coming down on his now shoeless right foot.

Now the pain came.

Bucky collapsed onto the ground as his ankle gave way, and he screamed in agony.

Hearing a yell behind him, Jake continued running, further quickening his pace.

Today

“So, there I was, flat on my back, shotgun in my face.

“The man at the other end of the gun had a full head of white hair and a gray stubble of a beard. His belly strained against the buttons of his shirt and poured over his belt.

“His blustery face was lined with wrinkles, his thin, angry mouth carved beneath dour jowls. Kind of like the energy of his life had been spent on envy and hate, and these emotions had been etched permanently on his features.