“Psst. Hey, girl.”
An old man in rags and carpet slippers peeked out from one of the doorways in front of me. I clutched my purse and stepped off the sidewalk into the street. He began to follow me, croaking nonsense.
“Hazel is under the table.” He giggled from a foot behind.
I quickened my pace and heard the sudden halt of his slippered footfall. It was replaced by an eerie singing.
“Thou art lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine,” he crooned.
Maybe I should have waited until daylight. My hair was wet and I began to shiver as I passed Dewey’s soda shop. It glowed warm and pink. I was nearly to the corner when I heard door hinges creak behind me.
“Jo!”
I turned. Jesse was jogging toward me.
“Hey, Jo. Where ya goin’?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Where was I going? What could I tell him? I looked down at Jesse’s denims, cuffed wide over his black motorcycle boots, and tried to think. “I’m . . . meeting a friend.”
“Kinda late, isn’t it?”
I nodded, wrapping my arms around my wet sweater.
“Wanna warm up for a second?” He motioned with his head toward the soda shop.
My eyes pulled to the happy pink glow on the corner. “Well . . .”
“Aw, come on, Motor City. It’ll be quick. You’re shivering.”
I looked down St. Peter into the darkness. “Okay, just real quick.”
I fixed my hair in the ladies’ room and tried to blot myself dry with the thin handkerchief from my purse. When I returned, a cup of hot cocoa sat on the counter next to Jesse. I slid onto the vinyl stool. Jesse’s soda glass was empty.
“Have you been here long?” I asked him.
“I was just about to leave and then I saw you. I had to get out of the house. My granny was driving me crazy. She’s tryin’ to plant a hex on our neighbors to make them move. They’re loud and keep her up at night.”
“Really? What’s the hex?”
He rolled his eyes and pushed the hot cocoa closer to me.
“Oh, come on, Jesse. Tell me. I don’t believe in that stuff anyway.”
I didn’t believe in it, but I did have a gris-gris bag in my purse that Willie’s witch doctor insisted I carry.
“Nah, it’s just crazy stuff,” he said, trying to wipe what looked like motor oil from his fingers with the napkin.
“Oh, and I don’t understand crazy?”
He smiled. “All right, then.” He spun toward me on his stool and planted his boots on opposite sides of my legs. He leaned in close. I smelled his shaving tonic and tried to steady my face, which seemed to be pulling toward the scent.
“She has this spell she swears works to get rid of people. She finds a dead rat, stuffs its mouth with a piece of lemon dipped in red wax. She pours a teaspoon of whiskey on the rat, wraps it in newspaper, and then puts it under the neighbor’s porch.” He raised his eyebrows.
“I haven’t heard that one.” Jesse was funny and surprisingly easy to talk to.
“She’s really superstitious, but that’s New Orleans.”
“Yeah, that’s New Orleans.” I shook my head.
He tipped his soda glass slightly, watching the last of the liquid crawl up the side. “But would you ever leave?”
I looked up. Jesse was staring at me. “I mean, do you ever think of leaving New Orleans?” he asked.
Did he know? I wanted to tell him yes, but it didn’t feel right. He already knew about Mother. Perhaps that was why he brought it up. I stared down at the counter. “So are you the first one in your family to go to college?” I asked.
“Yeah. My dad’s still in the pen. He talks about getting out, but I know that’s just talk.”
“What’s he in for?”
“Gambling . . . and other stuff. He’s never been out for more than a couple months before he gets arrested again,” said Jesse.
“Your dad isn’t tied with Carlos Marcello, is he?” I thought about Detective Langley saying one of Marcello’s men had been involved in the shooting out in Metairie. I wished it had been Cincinnati.
“Aw, heck no. Marcello’s the big time. If you’re tangled with him, you don’t end up in jail, you end up dead. My dad’s just your average Crescent City crook. This town will eat you up if you’re not careful. But I won’t be here forever. After all, do I really seem like a flower salesman?”
“Well, hello there, Jesse!” Two attractive blondes linked arm in arm approached us at the counter.
“Hey, Fran,” said Jesse over his shoulder, though still keeping his eyes on me. “Do you like flowers, Motor City?”
“My mom loved the roses she bought from you last week,” said the girl, nudging closer to Jesse.
“I’m glad.” Jesse turned to them and spoke in a mock whisper. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’m kinda busy, trying to woo this gal here.”
I laughed, trying not to snort hot chocolate through my nose.
“Doesn’t look like she’s interested,” said Fran. Jesse’s face clouded.
I slid off the stool. “How rude of me. Please, have a seat. We don’t need two stools.” I pulled myself onto Jesse’s lap. The blondes stared. I slung my arm over his shoulder and gestured toward the vacant stool.
“Is that car running yet, Jesse, or are you still riding the Triumph?” asked Fran.
“Still riding the motorcycle, but the Merc’s comin’ along.”
“It’s gonna be fantastic,” I said, swishing Jesse’s straw against the soda residue in his glass. “High-pressure heads, dual carburetors.”
All heads snapped to me.
“Jo’s originally from Detroit,” said Jesse. “The Motor City.”
“How cute,” said Fran, boring holes through me with her stare. “Jo from Detroit and Jesse from Dauphine.”
“Actually, I’m from Alabama,” said Jesse.
“But that doesn’t sound as good,” said Fran.
“I think that sounds real good.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “After all, girls, you know what they say about boys from Alabama.” I nodded slowly.
Fran’s mouth dropped. She had two fillings on the right side. Her friend started to giggle uncontrollably. Fran pulled her toward the door.
I watched the girls saunter away in their expensive coats and pink lipstick. As soon as they were out the door, Jesse started laughing.
“Impressive. High-pressure heads, huh?” he said.
“I read about it in a hot-rod book we had in the shop.”
“It’s a game for them,” he told me. “Slummin’ with Jesse.”
“What do you mean? She seemed interested in you.” I looked at Jesse. He wasn’t stylish or sharp like Patrick. He was rugged, quietly mysterious. Jesse had blue eyes, spicy brown hair, and a deep scar near his right ear. Despite an injury to his foot when he was young, he had played baseball in school.
“Come on. They’re not interested. They’re just flirting with a guy from the Quarter so when they get older, they can say that they once played the other side of the tracks.”
“Yeah, telling stories while they drink highballs at their bridge parties.”
“Exactly,” said Jesse. “They’ll talk about the time they went slummin’ in the Quarter—”
“With the handsome flower vendor.”
“Who ruined their reputation forever,” he whispered in my ear.
Jesse’s warm mouth near my ear made something quiver in my stomach. A nervous feeling took over and I jumped down from his lap. “Sorry, I’m probably breaking your legs.” I sat down on my stool and smoothed my skirt.
“Don’t worry. A handsome flower vendor can handle it.” Jesse looked at me.
“What?” A
flush of heat pulled across my cheeks.
“You said ‘with the handsome flower vendor.’”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, you did, and now you’re blushing.” Jesse grinned. “But don’t worry. I know you didn’t mean it. You were just playin’.” Jesse fiddled with the napkin under his soda glass. “The friend you’re meeting tonight, it’s the guy from the bookstore, right?”
I was so warm and comfortable, I had forgotten all about it. The watch. The detective. The lie to Jesse. I wished I could tell him the truth, but what would I say? Actually, Jesse, I’ve got to run. I’ve got a dead man’s watch in my purse, and his widow and the police are looking for it. You know how these things are, with your dad in jail and all.
I just nodded. “Yes, I’m meeting Patrick. I should probably go.” I opened my purse.
“No, I’ve got it, Jo. Please.”
“Thank you, Jesse.” I smiled.
“How ’bout I walk you there,” he said, putting the money on the counter and standing up. “It’s dark.”
“Oh, no. I’m fine.”
He nodded, and his smile faded. “Sure. Great to see you, Jo. Have a good night.”
“Good night, Jesse. Thanks again for the hot chocolate.”
I walked down St. Peter and then over to Eads Plaza, trying to decide where I would do it, where it might be the darkest, and where no one would see me. The drizzle had stopped, but the sky was still black and thick with foamy clouds. A rat nibbled on wet trash in the street. It stopped and stared at me. I thought about Jesse’s granny stuffing its mouth with a lemon. I crossed the road and made my way down to the edge of the riverbank. My shoes slipped on the wet gravel, and I stumbled, nearly falling. I pretended to walk casually, glancing over my shoulders to see who might be around. A couple stood kissing near the water’s edge. I walked past them, hoping they would leave.
The wind blew, and the tarty smell of the yellow Mississippi lapped against my face, lifting the ends of my hair. I heard the cry of a saxophone down the bank and could see the twinkling lights of the steamboat President, with all the paying guests making merry. I stood and stared out at the water, wondering how far I’d have to throw the watch so it wouldn’t wash back up onshore. I should have tied the watch to a rock, to make sure it would sink and stay lodged at the bottom. Something behind me crunched and I spun around.
I squinted but saw nothing through the black. I thought of all the tales of ghosts on the Mississippi, of Jean Lafitte and the headless pirates who haunt the riverfront. I turned and faced the water. I opened my purse.
I reached in and grasped Forrest Hearne’s watch, telling myself to throw it into the river. Somehow I imagined I could feel the inscription With Love, Marion, stinging my fingertips, begging me not to throw something so full of beauty and affection into the muddy Mississippi. That’s what had happened to Forrest Hearne on New Year’s Eve, though, wasn’t it? A beautiful man was stolen, sucked down into the muddy filth of the Quarter.
The words of Dickens hovered in my head:
I have in my heart of hearts a favorite child. And his name is David Copperfield.
The watch was now burning my hand. I looked out to the water and thought of Forrest Hearne and his kindness, Mother and Cincinnati, Willie, the girls, Patrick, Charlie, Jesse, and Cokie.
And I started to cry.
TWENTY-THREE
The doors opened and I stepped inside. “Eighth floor, please.”
The elevator operator slowly turned to me.
My hands went cold. “Mother?”
Her face was gray and lifeless, her mouth ringed with scabs. She slowly shook her head and laughed. The laugh I hated.
“Oh, no, baby girl,” she hissed. “No eighth floor for you.”
She grabbed the handle and jammed it forward. I felt the elevator drop and plunge violently. We were falling and Mother was laughing wildly. The scabs on her mouth cracked and began to bleed. Trails of blood ran from her mouth and down her neck, soaking into her buttercream Orlon uniform. I screamed.
And that’s how I woke up. Screaming.
The screams were still bouncing inside my head as I cleaned at Willie’s, still echoing between my ears as I walked back to the bookshop. Every few minutes, the screams would be mingled with the ticking of Forrest Hearne’s watch. I had returned it to its hiding place in the shop.
And Mother. I couldn’t erase the vision of her ghoulish face, the blood. I worried that something had happened to her on the road. I wished she’d write and then I wondered why. Things would be simpler without Mother in New Orleans, simpler without me wrapped in the shadows of her black heart and childish mind. But I wished I’d hear from her anyway.
I changed out of my cleaning clothes and walked downstairs to the shop. The door was open, and Patrick was unloading a box of books at the counter. He moved slowly, and his shoulders frowned.
“How’s Charlie?” I asked.
“The same.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just tired. Did the cops find you yesterday?” asked Patrick.
“Of course they did. You told them I’d be on Gravier Street. Why did you tell them where I was?”
Patrick eyed me, confused. “I figured you’d want to help. I know you thought Mr. Hearne was a nice guy, just like I did. Don’t you want to find out what really happened to him?”
“It’s not any of my business. What do I know about Mr. Hearne? I’ve only been interested out of curiosity.”
Patrick shrugged. “And? How did it go with Mr. Lockwell?”
“I told him I was there on your behalf, that you wanted his daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“Sure, then you can marry the kitten-killing brother, and we’ll be one happy family. But seriously, what happened?”
“He made me wait over an hour, so I told the receptionist that I’d just visit him at home. He then appeared instantly and escorted me to his office, which, for the record, is larger than this store and has a full bar.”
“Of course,” Patrick said.
“So I made him a couple martinis, and after a bit of uncomfortable conversation, he agreed to write the letter.”
“Wow. So you did it. That’s great,” said Patrick.
I nodded and motioned to the boxes on the counter. “What’d you get?”
“Yves Beaufort died. He had a large collection of Victor Hugo that Charlie always wanted. I have to go back for the rest, but I’m dreading it. When I arrived this morning, the widow was in a black negligee. Said it was her mourning attire. She told me she would give me a discount if I fixed her sink.”
“Ew. Isn’t Mrs. Beaufort near eighty?”
“Eighty-two and doesn’t look a day older than ninety-five. And what do I know about plumbing? The things I do for Victor Hugo, huh?”
The door opened and Frankie sauntered into the shop. He put his hands on his hips and looked around.
“Frankie! You finally came to buy a book.”
“Hey, Yankee girl.” He folded a stick of pink chewing gum into his mouth, smelling the foil wrapper before crushing it and shoving it into his pocket. “Not looking for books, just looking for you.” He nodded to Patrick. “Hey, Marlowe, how’s the old man doin’?”
“He’s swell, thanks,” said Patrick.
“So, Jo, I heard that you were at the clink yesterday. Everything all right?” asked Frankie.
“Darleen told you?”
“I didn’t say who told me. Everything all right?”
“Yeah, everything’s fine, Frankie.”
“They askin’ about your momma?”
“No, why would they be asking about Mother?” I said.
“They were asking about the guy who died on New Year’s Eve,” said Patrick. I looked at him and furrowed my brow. He
didn’t need to volunteer any information.
Frankie looked from me to Patrick, his jaw working the gum. “The guy from Memphis. Right. The cops come here, too?” he asked Patrick.
Patrick didn’t respond. Frankie looked at me.
“Forrest Hearne bought two books at the shop the day he died. They asked me if I thought he seemed sick when he was at the store. I told them that he seemed fine. That’s it.”
Frankie leaned on the counter and spun one of the books toward him. “Victor Huge-o.”
“It’s pronounced Hugo,” said Patrick. I had to stifle a laugh. Mispronunciation was one of Patrick’s pet peeves.
“Oh, yeah? I knew a guy named Hugo once. Still owes me a ten spot.” Frankie flipped open the book and began riffling through the pages.
“Please, the spine. It’s very old,” said Patrick, carefully taking the book. “Can I help you find something else?”
“Nah,” said Frankie, standing up and cracking his knuckles. “So, Jo, got anything Willie should know?”
He looked at me in that typical Frankie way. It was impossible to know what he knew, but I had to assume whatever he did know he told Willie, and Willie paid him handsome for it. Guilt crawled over me again. I should have told Willie about the watch. I had never kept anything like this from her. But Frankie couldn’t know I had the watch. The only thing I could be sure of was that Frankie knew more than I did.
“No, I don’t have anything for Willie. I’ll let you know if I do,” I told him.
“Yeah?” He smiled and cracked his gum. “And will ya let me know how long you’ve been seein’ Jesse Thierry?”
Patrick spun around. “You’re seeing Jesse Thierry?”
“I’m not seeing Jesse Thierry,” I said.
Frankie grinned. “No? Word on the street is that you were sittin’ in his lap last night and he was whispering in your ear.”
I hated this town. Who was watching me? I stared at Frankie. Had he told Willie?
“Where did this happen?” said Patrick.
“I’m not a gossip man, Marlowe—I’m an information man.” Frankie held out his hand for payment.