“Yes, suh.”
“Camp Number Nine is us.”
“It is and it ain’t, boss.”
The guard read both sides of the paper bag, then shook a Camel loose from his cigarette pack and slipped it into his mouth. He laughed to himself and handed the song lyrics back to Junior. “I ain’t a big judge of poetry, but I’d say keep this one.”
“Thank you, suh.”
“To wipe yourself with. You never cease to entertain me, Junior,” Posey added.
At morning bell count two days later Andrea LeJeune got out of her Ford convertible at the camp’s front gate, wearing a polka-dot sun dress and dark glasses and a blue bandanna tied tightly on her head, the wind whipping her dress around her legs.
“We’re taking Junior to a recording studio in Crowley, Mr. Posey. Make sure he brings his guitar and his harmonica and a sack lunch. Y’all will follow me in your truck,” she said.
Jackson Posey involuntarily looked toward the big house. “Mr. LeJeune at home, ma’am?” he asked.
“No, he’s not, and I resent your asking,” she replied.
Junior wrapped his Stella in a blanket, tied string around the belly and the neck, and slipped his E-major Marine Band harmonica in his shirt pocket. Before they left the camp, Posey put chains on Junior’s ankles and handcuffs on his wrists, and set the guitar in the bed of the truck. As they drove away Junior looked out the back window at his friend Woodrow flinging a bucket into the bayou on a rope under the gaze of a mounted gunbull.
Then Junior and Jackson Posey were on the highway, driving through a long tunnel of oak trees behind Andrea LeJeune’s purple convertible, the broken sunlight flicking by overhead, the wind cool in their faces.
“You gonna make the big time, huh?” Posey said.
“Don’t know about that, suh.”
“Think it’s coincidence she’s taking you to Crowley?”
“I ain’t following you, boss.”
“That’s where she meets a man I wouldn’t take time to spit on. Castille LeJeune should have invested some of his money in a chastity belt. Know the difference between rich people and us?” Posey said.
“No, suh,” Junior answered.
“They don’t get caught.”
When they pulled into the Crowley town square Andrea LeJeune parked her car next to one of the old elevated sidewalks and went inside the dime store, one with a popcorn machine in front, to use the pay telephone. Then they drove out into the countryside again, through rice fields that were separated by hedgerows, to a white-painted, flat-top building constructed entirely of cinder blocks that was located inside a grove of cedar and pine trees like a machine-gun bunker.
This was the same primitive studio where a few years later Warren Storm and Lazy Lester would record and Phil Phillips would cut the master for “Sea of Love,” which would sell over one million copies. The equipment was prewar junk, the resonator for Junior’s acoustic Stella a chunk of storm sewer pipe with a microphone on the other end. But each person working in the studio knew who Junior Crudup was, and his identity as both a black man and a convict seemed to melt away as the session progressed.
He recorded eight pieces, the last of which was “The Angel of Work Camp Number Nine.” As he sang the lyrics he looked through a greasy side window and saw her by the front fender of her convertible, talking to a tall white man who had just gotten out of an Oldsmobile with grillwork that resembled chromium teeth. The white man was thin, dark haired, his crisp shirt tucked tightly inside his seersucker slacks. He rested one foot on the bumper of his car and removed a blade of grass from the tip of his two-tone shoe, then took his car keys from his pocket and inserted his finger through the ring and spun them in the air.
He drove away toward town in his Oldsmobile and Andrea LeJeune followed him. Junior’s voice broke in the middle of his song and he had to start again.
Later, Junior and Jackson Posey rode back through the town square of Crowley, past the colonnaded storefronts and tree-shaded elevated sidewalks inset with iron tethering rings, past the dime store with a popcorn machine in front from which Andrea had made a phone call.
Junior was hunched forward on the seat, his wrists cuffed, the chain between his ankles vibrating with the motion of the truck, his expression concealed from Jackson Posey.
“I’ll show you something,” Posey said, and cut down a side street and out onto a state road, past a shady motor court that featured a swimming pool in back and a supper club in front. Posey slowed the truck so he and Junior could have a clear view of the stucco cottages inside the trellised entrance.
“Don’t need to be seeing none of this, boss,” Junior said.
“There’s his Oldsmobile. There’s her little Ford. What do you reckon he’s doing to her right now?”
Junior stared at the tops of his cuffed hands and did not speak again until they were back at the camp.
But his day was not over. Just after supper Jackson Posey came for him again. “She wants to see you,” he said.
“Wore out, boss.”
He was alone, sitting on an upended Coca-Cola box in the corner of the dirt yard, next to the fence topped by five strands of barbed wire tilted back at an inward angle, his guitar still wrapped with a blanket and tied with string on top of his bunk inside. The sun was only a smudge on the western horizon and the lilac-colored sky throbbed with the droning of cicadas.
“Get your skinny ass up before I kick it up between your shoulder blades,” Posey said. “One other thing?”
“What’s that, boss?”
“You tell her I drove you past that motor court today, I’m gonna take you out to a stump, nail your balls to it, and leave you there with a knife. Ain’t storying to you, Junior. I seen my daddy do it when I was a boy,” Posey said.
But Junior did not get up from the Coca-Cola box. “I ain’t playing no more today,” he said.
Posey raised his fist and knocked him to the ground.
“Whup me or put me on the bucket. I ain’t going to play no more,” Junior said.
“I don’t have to whup you. I’m gonna do it to Woodrow Reed instead,” Posey said.
On the way to the house of Castille and Andrea LeJeune, Junior wondered what he had done in this world to earn the grief that seemed to be his daily lot.
He waited on the patio with his guitar and harmonica for Andrea LeJeune to come downstairs and through the French doors. When she emerged she was still wearing the polka-dot dress she had worn earlier. Her face looked haggard, somehow thinner in the evening light.
“I wanted you to know the producer at the studio called to say how thrilled he was. I’m just sorry I didn’t get to hear you perform,” she said.
“I understand, ma’am,” he replied.
“I have to go away, Junior. But I’m going to do everything I can to see you released from prison. What happened to your head?”
“Fell down the steps,” he replied, his face empty.
She gave a long, hard look at Jackson Posey standing by the pickup truck in the driveway. “Come in the house,” she said.
“That ain’t a good idea, Miss Andrea,” Junior said.
She walked to the edge of the drive. “Mr. Posey, Junior is coming into the living room for a few minutes. We’re not to be disturbed,” she said.
“I cain’t allow that, ma’am.”
“You can’t what?” she said.
She stared him down, then turned on her heel and marched inside her house, curling one finger for Junior to follow her.
“Sit down,” she said.
“Miss Andrea, Boss Posey ain’t an ordinary man,” Junior said.
“I’m going to call every week and have someone check on you. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
“It don’t work like that.”
She sat down in an antique chair with an egg-shaped crimson pad inset in the back and folded her hands in her lap. “The producer said you wrote a song called ‘The Angel of Camp Number Nine.’ Is that about me??
??
He hesitated, then said, “Yes, ma’am, I reckon it is.”
“That’s one of the most touching compliments I’ve ever received. I’d appreciate it very much if you’d play it.”
He slipped the guitar over his neck and began to sing:
White coke and a red moon sent me down,
Judge say ninety-nine years, son, you Angola bound,
It’s the Red Hat Gang from cain’t-see to cain’t-see,
The gunbulls say there the graveyard, boy,
If you wants to be free.
Lady with roses in her hair come to Camp Number Nine,
Say you ain’t got to stack no mo’ Lou’sana time,
Gonna carry you up to Memphis in a rubber-tired hack,
Buy you whiskey, cigars, and an oxblood Stetson hat.
Miss Andrea is an angel drive a li’l purple car,
Live on cigarettes, radio, and a blues man’s guitar—
Even before he looked through the front window and saw the automobile of Castille LeJeune approaching the house, he knew there was something terribly wrong. Andrea LeJeune’s face seemed repelled, as though someone had touched it with a soiled hand.
“You don’t need to sing anymore,” she said.
“Ma’am?”
“What you’ve done is very nice, but I don’t think this song needs to be recorded.”
“I don’t rightly understand,” he said.
“This particular composition would probably be better deleted from your recording session. I think that’s clear enough, isn’t it?”
He felt his mouth pucker as though a nerve ending had been cut in his face. From outside he heard a car door slam, then footsteps on the gallery. He lowered his eyes. “Why ain’t it supposed to be recorded?” he asked.
“I don’t think I should have to explain that to you,” she replied.
His throat felt as though he had swallowed a handful of needles. “I’m ready for Boss Posey to take me back now,” he said. He pulled the Marine Band harmonica from his shirt pocket and set it on a flower-patterned couch by the French doors.
“I’m not in the habit of having people return gifts to me,” she said.
“I’d really appreciate it, ma’am, I mean appreciate more than anything else in the world, if you could just yell at Boss Posey for me, tell him I’se on my way,” Junior said.
Just then Castille LeJeune opened the front door and walked into the living room, a Panama hat hanging from his fingertips, his mouth twisted in an incredulous smile.
“Please explain it to me, or I’ll have to conclude I’ve either lost my mind or walked into the wrong house,” he said.
I heard the cell phone ring on the front seat of my truck. I went outside and picked it up.
“Where are you?” Helen Soileau’s voice said.
“Pecan Island.”
“What are you doing at Pecan Island?”
“Interviewing a man who did time with Junior Crudup.”
She exhaled her breath into the phone. “We’ve got a submerged car in West Cote Blanche Bay. The driver’s still in there. A witness says he heard firecrackers going off before the car went into the water. Then the car drove off a pier.”
“How about sending someone else?”
“Dave, your separate itinerary ends right now. Get your butt over there.”
“Soon as I can,” I said.
“Not good enough.”
I turned off the ringer on the cell and went back inside to finish my interview with Woodrow Reed.
Chapter 17
Mr. LeJeune and Miss Andrea had a big fight that night,” Woodrow said.
“How do you know?”
“My cousin was the maid. She tole me later, that was after I was out of the joints, she tole me Mr. LeJeune went crazy that night. He picked up Miss Andrea’s clothes off the flo’ and smelled them.”
“He did what?”
“He smelled her clothes and knowed she was messing around on him. He was yelling all over the house, saying his wife went to bed wit’ a nigger. My cousin was so scared she run out the do’ and hid in the trees down by the bayou. She said Mr. Castille come crashing out of the house and drove his car down to the work camp.”
“Looking for Junior?”
“No, suh. He was after Boss Posey. A man like Castille LeJeune don’t go after a nigger convict. It was Boss Posey he took it out on.”
“I don’t understand. Jackson Posey knew Junior was innocent, that Andrea LeJeune was having an affair with a man in Crowley.”
“What was Boss Posey gonna say? ‘Your wife been sleeping wit’ another white man and I knowed about it and I ain’t said nothing’? Boss Posey was caught, just like Junior. Boss Posey was gonna save his job and his ass only way he knew how.”
Woodrow Reed stopped his account, his hands fixed rigidly on his thighs, staring at me with his flat, sightless eyes. The pupils were overly large, like black dimes, as though they contained thoughts and remembered images that were bursting inside his head.
“Save his ass how, Woodrow?” I said.
“I got great shame about this, Mr. Robicheaux. The story of Judas ain’t only in the Bible. Thirty pieces of silver can come to you in lots of ways.”
He looked at me a long time while fireflies sparked in the darkness outside and moths thudded softly against the screens, then he told me the rest of it.
Two weeks passed at the camp, and still there was no rain, only heat and dust blowing from the fields and dry lightning at night and the rumble of distant thunder over the Gulf. Cigarettes thrown from automobiles and pickup trucks started roadside grassfires that spread into the cane, and after sunset Woodrow and Junior sat on the front steps of their cabin and watched the dull red glow inside the clouds of brown smoke on the horizon.
Junior no longer played his guitar or sat in on bouree games or sassed the guards. Until lock-up he loitered in the corners of the yard, or sat on his upended Coca-Cola box, which everyone now called “Junior’s box,” or sat on the steps with Woodrow, staring at the empty dirt road that led down to a small general store by the drawbridge.
“You tearing yourself up over somet’ing that was never real,” Woodrow said. “Miss Andrea is a nice white woman. But that’s all she is. She ain’t sent down by God to take care of Junior Crudup.”
“Shut up, Woodrow,” Junior replied.
“Sure, I can do that. Then you can talk to yourself ’cause everybody else around here t’inks you done lost your mind.”
Woodrow took a worn pack of playing cards out of his shirt pocket, shuffled them, then cupped and squared them in his palm. “Here, I’m gonna give you one of my readings. Won’t cost you a cent,” he said.
“Don’t be giving me none of your truck,” Junior said.
But Woodrow went ahead and turned the cards over one at a time, placing them in a circle in the space between him and Junior. “See, there’s you, the one-eyed Jack. Slick, wit’ a li’l thin mustache, got the mojo going on the rest of the world. Up top there is the queen of hearts. Guess who that is. Over here is the king of diamonds. Guess who that is. Notice the king and the queen ain’t interested in whether the one-eyed Jack is playing pocket pool wit’ himself or not. What that mean, Junior, is that rich white people don’t care about what goes on down here in this camp.”
“Ain’t got time for this, Woodrow.”
Woodrow peeled three more cards off the deck and snapped them down in a vertical line traversing the circle. “See, there’s the joker, right over the head of the one-eyed Jack. That means our man, the one-eyed Jack, is a full-time fool. Sure you don’t want to rename your song ‘The Dumbest Nigger in Camp Number Nine’?”
But Junior only stared at the fires and brown clouds of smoke on the horizon and the buzzards that were slowly descending in a vortex toward a woods on the far side of the bayou.
Woodrow put three cards down on the step in a horizontal line, completing a cross inside the circle. Junior expected another ridiculing remark
but instead there was only silence. He glanced sideways at Woodrow. “Why you got that look on your face?” he said.
Woodrow started to scoop the cards up. But Junior held his wrist. “Answer me, Woodrow,” he said.
“It’s just a card trick. Been playing it on people for years. Don’t none of it mean anyt’ing,” he replied.
Junior peeled loose a card that was cupped inside Woodrow’s palm. “How come you trying to hide the Jack of spades?” he asked.
Woodrow rubbed one eye with the heel of his hand and stared sadly at the bayou. “It’s Boss Posey, Woodrow. Lawd Gawd, it’s Boss Posey. Why you gone and done this to yourself?” he said.
Then he rushed away to be by himself, leaving his deck of cards scattered on the steps.
The next day Junior received a contract in the mail from the recording studio. He sat on the edge of his bunk and read the letter that accompanied it, then walked to the fireplace and held a match to the letter, the contract, and the envelope they came in and watched the pages blacken and curl into ash on the hearth. The next morning at bell count Junior stood unshaved and dirty in the front row of men who were about to go into the fields to trench firelines around unburned cane and shovel dirt over stubble that was still smoldering. Jackson Posey looked at the puffiness around his eyes and sniffed at his breath. “Where’d you get the julep?” he said.
“Don’t remember, boss,” he replied.
“Woodrow, run back to the shed and bring me a case of them empty pop bottles,” Posey said.
Woodrow started toward the rear of the camp.
“I said run, boy.”
“Yow, boss,” Woodrow said.
He ran to the shed and lifted a wood case of Royal Crown Cola bottles by the handles and closed the door behind him with his foot, the bottles clinking between his hands. Then, as though a choice lay before him that would forever define who he was and the place he would inhabit in the world, he hesitated. On the perimeters of his vision he could see the LeJeune home high up on the slope, built to resemble a steamboat, surrounded by live oaks and palm trees; he could see a bulldozer and scooped out hole between the camp and the house where a damaged gas storage tank had just been removed; he could see the soot and brown smoke blowing out of the fields, the buzzards circling in the sky, the barbed wire that surrounded the camp, the tin roofs of the cabins already expanding against the joists with the heat of the day, the hard-packed clay smoothness of the yard, the gunbulls and trusty guards already mounted on their horses, most of them armed with double-barrel, cut-down shotguns whose steel was the color of a worn five-cent piece, and in the midst of it all, Woodrow’s best friend, Junior Crudup, drunk on julep made from yeast, raisins, and cracked corn boiled in a syrup can, about to be destroyed by his own pride.