Officer Jenkins is uniformed but shirt-sleeved. When I knew him he was a deputy sheriff in Bogalusa. He is older than I and heavy. His thick gray hair, gone yellow, is creased into a shelf by his hatband.
He looks at me for a while. “How you doing, Doc,” says Elmo mournfully, holding out his hand and not looking at me. He is embarrassed. He’s expecting me. “What can I do for you fellows?” he asks the two federal officers in a different voice. He doesn’t have much use for them.
“Just sign this, Officer,” says Providence Purvis, taking a paper from his pocket, “and the doctor will be out of our jurisdiction and into yours.”
“He was never in yours,” says Elmo, an old states’-righter. He is speaking to Louisiana Fats, for whom he seems to have a special dislike.
“I beg your pardon, Officer,” says Purvis crisply, pronouncing it perrdon. Midwest after all? “If you will consult the federal statute for ATFA detainees, I think you will find you’re in error.” Errr.
“Come back tomorrow and see the warden,” says Elmo, not looking at either one of them.
“But—” begins Louisiana Fats.
“Let’s go,” says Purvis.
They leave.
“Doc,” says Elmo, “what in hail you doing here?”
“I don’t rightly know. I’m tired. What time is it?”
“You look like you been rid hard and put up wet.”
“You got a room, Elmo? I’m tired.”
“I got the V.I.P. room for you, Doc. The one we keep for political refugees. The last occupant was the ex-President of Guatemala. You think I’ll ever forget what you did for my auntee, Miss Maude from Enon? You cured her after the best doctors in New Orleans tried and couldn’t.”
I remember old Miss Maude Jenkins. She had shingles. I often get patients after medical doctors and chiropractors strike out. She was over the worst of the shingles but still had pain which, with shingles, can be pain indeed. I perceived that she was the sort of decent and credulous woman who believes what doctors tell her. The other doctors had not bothered to tell her anything. I did what I seldom do, used hypnosis and a placebo, gave her a sugar pill and told her that the pain would soon get better. It did. It might have, anyway.
“Here’s what is going to happen, Doc,” says Elmo. “It seems you’re being held for some sort of parole violation. Tomorrow morning a Dr. Comeaux and a Dr. Gottlieb will come to see you and you’ll be taken care of one way or another. That’s about all I know. You going back to Fort Pelham?”
“I don’t know. Could I go to bed?”
“Sho now.” He takes me upstairs.
My cell could be a dorm room at L.S.U., except for the steel door and barred window. There’s even a student-size desk with a phone on it.
“Can I use the phone?”
“Sho you can. I’ve authorized it. Just dial direct. If it’s long distance, call me and I’ll fix it up. There’s some pajamas under the pillow. Left by the President of Guatemala. Silk. How about that?”
“That’s fine.”
“He jumped ship in Baton Rouge. Before him we had six Haitians. They were as nice as they could be. Highest-class niggers I ever saw. Three of them spoke better English than you or me. All spoke French.”
“Thanks, Elmo.”
“If you need anything, call me. Here’s my number downstairs.”
“I’m fine. Thanks, Elmo.”
After Elmo leaves, I call Lucy
“My God, where are you?”
“At Angola.”
“My God, I thought so.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not bad. Are the children all right?”
“They’re fine.”
“Lucy, did you get Claude out of Belle Ame?”
“No. I tried. They’re not answering the phone and the gate is locked.”
“I see.”
“My God, where have you been all night?”
“Making a house call.”
“Bob Comeaux has been looking for you.”
“I know.”
“He’s been calling all evening. He wants to see you tomorrow. Before the wedding.”
“He knows where I am now. What wedding?”
“At Kenilworth next door. You know. That fellow from Las Vegas bought it—Romero? Romeo? He had in mind an English manor house, but it looks like Caesar’s Palace. His daughter is getting married at noon. But Comeaux is mighty anxious to see you. He’ll be there first thing.”
“I know.”
“What are they going to do with you?”
“Probably send me back to Alabama.”
“They can’t do that!”
“They can.”
A pause. “You sound funny. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“I want you over here by me.”
“That may be possible later.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes. Can you be available tomorrow morning and have Vergil and your uncle available?”
“Sure. You mean—”
“I mean stay there. By the phone. We have to get Claude. It’s no good calling the police. Wait by the phone until you hear from me.”
“Sure. I will. Are you—”
“What?”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. A little tired.”
“You sound funny.”
“I’m fine.”
“Please—”
“What?”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
Sure enough, the pajamas are under the pillow. They are silk. The cot is hard but comfortable. The sheets and pillowcase are fresh.
I never slept better. There is something to be said for having no choice in what one does. I felt almost as good as I did in prison in Alabama.
IV
1. WEDNESDAY MORNING.
Bob Comeaux is striding up and down my cell. He is shaking his head mournfully.
“Son, you blew it. You really blew it.”
“How is that, Bob?”
He is on his way to the wedding at Kenilworth and is dressed in a kind of plantation tuxedo, a formal white linen suit with a long-skirted jacket, scarlet cummerbund, ruffled shirt, and scarlet bow tie. He carries a broad-brimmed panama hat. His sideburns seem longer. He looks like an old Howard Keel in a revival of Showboat.
I am sitting at my little desk. He sets his hat on the desk and brushes back his sideburns. He stands over me, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Tom, you’ve not only violated your parole—by trespassing on the shunt compound. Hell, like I told you, we can live with that. But now you’ve blown your security.”
“How is that?”
“We know that you and your friend, Mrs. Lipscomb—Dr. Lipscomb?—have accessed the NIH data bank on Blue Boy. We can’t have the cover blown on Blue Boy until we’re ready. Think of it as another Manhattan Project.”
“All right.”
“Now we have reason to believe you’re trying to shoot down John Van Dorn. Tom, we can’t afford to lose him. He’s a bit eccentric, but he’s our resident genius.”
“He’s a pedophile.”
“Look, Tom”—Bob Comeaux picks up his hat and, spreading the skirt of his jacket, rests a haunch on my desk— “I know there’ve been some reports of irregularities in the staff out there. But I’ve got some news for you.”
“Yes?”
“Belle Ame is closing down. Van is on his way to M.I.T. within the month. I knew we couldn’t keep him. But we picked his brain while he was here and we’ve got Blue Boy on track. Exit Dr. Van Dorn. End of chapter. End of problem.” He clears his throat. “I would think you of all people, Tom, would be glad of that.”
“I am.”
“Tell me one thing, Tom.” Bob Comeaux puts a hand on my shoulder.
“What?”
“Were your kids molested in any way?”
“No.”
“O—kay.” He stands up briskly.
“Look. I think I see a simple way out of this silly business.”
“Yes?”
“Just to show you what we think of you, you old turkey, we’re going to convene a little ad hoc meeting of the med-ethics parole board right here, today, in this room, and get this dumb-ass business squared away for once and all.”
“Where is Gottlieb?”
“He’ll be here. Two o’clock. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“We’re going to make you a proposition you can’t refuse, ha ha.”
“What?”
“You know, I think. We want you aboard. We’re losing Van Dorn, but if we can sign you on as senior consultant in cortex pharmacology, we’ll be ahead of the game.”
“And if I don’t?”
Bob is holding the panama at arm’s length, eyeing it, evening up the brim. “That would be your choice. It would be out of our hands.”
“Back to Fort Pelham.”
“Look, Tom. Tom, please turn around and look at me.”
I turn my chair around and look at him. He has put his hat on and is standing, feet wide apart, hands clasped behind his back.
“Hear this, Tom. I’ll make it short and sweet. We’re not talking about some bush-league medical project—fluoridating water to cure tooth decay. We’re not even talking about curing AIDS. We’re not even talking medicine, Tom. We’re talking about the decay of the social fabric. The American social fabric. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know—all the way from the destruction of the cities, crime in the streets, demoralization of the underclass, to the collapse of the family. I don’t have to tell you this, because you already know. What I’m telling you is that we’ll be here at two o’clock and that we need you.”
“All right. I’ll be here.”
He gazes at me, eyes going fine, then laughs. “Well, I’ll be damned. Gottlieb said you’d give me static.”
“No static. I’ll be here.”
He looks at me curiously. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You seem—”
“I’m fine.”
“Terrific!” He actually claps his hands. “I’ll be on my way. A wedding of the daughter of an old friend right down the road. At Kenilworth. Tom, I got news for you. There is still grace, style, beauty, manners, civility left in the world. It’s not all gone with the wind. You know who’s coming up for the reception? Pete Fountain and his Half Fast Band. And Al Hirt. Both are personal friends of mine. I wish you could join me.”
“So do I.”
He taps on the door for the guard. When the door opens, he steps out, but then, bethinking himself, steps back and waves me toward him.
“Tom, I want you to see something. Okay, Officer? It’s okay, Tom. Just step out here for a second.”
Standing on the top deck of the stranded crewboat, we look out over the vast prison farm. Rows of cotton, mostly picked, stretch away into the bright morning sunlight. Hundreds of black men and women, the men bare-chested, the women kerchiefed, bend over the rows, dragging their long sacks collapsed like parachutes. Armed horsemen patrol the levee.
“Listen, Tom,” says Bob Comeaux softly.
From all around, as murmurous as the morning breeze, comes the singing.
Swing low, sweet chariot, Coming for to carry me home,
“Isn’t that something?” Bob Comeaux almost whispers.
“Yes, it is.”
“It beats Attica and Sing Sing, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Why do you think they’re so content with their lot?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Yes, you could, if you thought of it—you of all people, with your knowledge.”
“I see.”
“They’re not only making restitution for their crimes, paying their victims, they’re enjoying it. Can you force anyone to sing like that?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you another little secret of our success.”
“What’s that?”
“We allow—ahem—conjugal visits.”
“Good.”
“Would you believe that some of them don’t want to leave and go back to the streets of New Orleans and Baton Rouge when they’ve served their time?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you love those colorful kerchiefs the women wear?”
“Yes.”
We shake hands. He holds my hand in a firm grip for a second, gives me a final level-eyed look. He’s quite handsome with his long sideburns, handsomer than Howard Keel. “Glad to have you aboard, Doctor. Guard!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lock this fellow up. He’s a dangerous character.”
2. I CALL ELMO on the desk phone.
“How you doing, Doc?”
“I’m fine, Elmo.”
“What can I do for you, Doc?”
“Elmo, I need to get out of here.”
Elmo sighs. “I’d like nothing better, Doc. But you know as well as I do we got to hold you for the ATFA. Doc, all you got to do is clear it with that doctor dude from Fedville and he can clear it with the feds.”
“I know that. I’m meeting with them this afternoon. But I need to get out now for a while.”
“Oh, I got you. No problem, Doc. We got exercise period coming up in a few minutes. You can walk the levee. No problem. It’ll do you good.”
“Thanks, Elmo. I appreciate it, but here’s my problem.” I tell him about Belle Ame, the Brunettes, and the sexual abuse, giving him all the technical details. I tell him dryly, as one professional to another, one cop to another cop. “The thing is, Elmo, I have a kid there and I think I’d better get him out. Now.” I don’t tell him the kid is Claude Bon.
There is a silence. I can hear the chair creak as he leans back.
“Goddamn, Doc.” The chair creaks again. There is a soft whistling. “You know, I heard something about that from the sheriff over at Clinton. I thought they had turned them loose for lack of evidence.”
“They did. But now Dr. Lipscomb has the evidence.”
Another whistling of breath through teeth. “Well, I mean shitfire, Doc. Why don’t I call Cooter Sharp over at Clinton and tell him to bust the whole gang? I mean all. I mean, when it comes to messing with chirren—”
“You can do that if you want. But they’ve tried that. And it will take time. And they’ll probably be looking for you, ready with their lawyers, and you’re going to run into problems of federal jurisdiction.”
“Yeah.”
“Elmo, I want to get the kid out of there. Now. We, you, whoever, can bring charges later.”
“Yeah.” The creaking becomes rhythmic. He’s rocking. “Yeah,” he says again and in a different voice. “Tell you what, Doc,” he says in a musing voice. He’s leaning back in his chair. “Tell you what. You go ahead and take your exercise. I’ll send up an officer to let you out the back gate. That will put you on the levee and batture, which is fenced off. What we got here, Doc, is a minimum-security holding facility—for illegals, politicals, suchlike. We’re not part of the high-security prison farm, you understand.”
“I understand.”
“Thing is, Doc, the fence is a joke. Anybody can get over it, under it. But the thing is, even the hard-timers know that nobody but a fool would try to make it out by the river. That’s the Raccourci Chute out there, and ain’t nobody, I mean nobody, ever made it out that way to live to tell about it. You understand.”
“I understand.”
“Now, what we got here, Doc, is a fenced-off exercise area for our detainees, about a quarter mile of levee. Just so you’ll know where you’ll be walking, the downriver end is fenced off. The patrol’s not going to bother you—they know the people here are mostly politicals. The willows begin down there at the batture corner of the fence. You might recall an old jeep road that deer hunters use that runs up from old Tunica Landing. I know you know where that is.”
“Yes.”
“T
hat’s about all I can tell you, Doc.”
“I understand. Thanks, Elmo.”
“For what? Enjoy your walk, Doc, but you be back here by two or my ass is in a sling. What I’m going to do now is send you up some breakfast. It’s staff breakfast. After all, you been up here before on forensic business and are entitled to staff. You also looking a little poorly, Doc.”
“I’m fine. Thank you, Elmo. Give my best to Miss Maude when you see her.”
“I’ll surely do that. She thinks the world and all of you.”
“One last thing, Doc.”
“Yes?”
“If you ain’t back here by two, it’s my ass.”
“I’ll be back.”
“It’s your ass, too.”
“I understand.”
Breakfast is at least four scrambled eggs, fried ham, a mountain of grits—the “big hominy” kind, which I haven’t seen for years—and hot chicoried coffee.
I eat it all. There is a glass of water. It reminds me of something. I call Elmo.
“One little question, Elmo. I’ll explain later.”
“Sho, Doc.”
“The breakfast was delicious. Where does the water come from?”
Elmo Jenkins laughs. “You noticed. Don’t worry about it, Doc. You not drinking river water. That’s Abita Springs water, right from our back yard, the best in the world, as you know.”
“I know. What do the prisoners on the farm drink?”
“That’s river water, treated so it’s safe, but I can taste the chemicals.”
“You mean from the Ratliff intake?”
“Right, Doc. Seems like you know this country around here.”
“A little.”
“Enjoy your walk, Doc.”
I call Lucy. She picks it up on the first ring. “Yes?” she says breathlessly. She’s ready. “Is that you?”
“Yes.”
“You all right?”
“I’m fine. Is Vergil there?”
“Right here.”
“Doc?” says Vergil.
“You all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“What are we going to do, Doc?”
“We’re going to get Claude.”
“Fine. How are we going to do that? I already tried. They’re all locked up and don’t answer the phone. You think we ought to call the police again?”
“No. Here’s what we’re going to do. You know where Tunica Landing is?”