‘I know. I know.’ Alaysha felt the weight ease from her chest. Probably the sound a moment ago had been Jac going into his apartment; or perhaps he’d disturbed whoever was in the corridor,
Then, as she caught the shape of who was there, before he’d even looked up fully beyond the baseball cap peak partly obscuring his face — she went to ram it shut again.
She broke two fingernails clawing the chain back on, but she couldn’t get the door closed the last inch. Gerry’s weight was quickly against the other side, pushing hard.
‘So that
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Stock reaction, breathless from the exertion of pushing against the door, her mind scrambling for how he might have found out.
‘Yes, you do. And you sounded real pleased to hear it was him. Never answered the door that quick to me — even when we were at our hottest.’
‘What are you doing here, Gerry? You got my lawyers’ letter?’
‘Yeah, I got your smarmy fuckin’ lawyers’ letter.’
He thrust harder against the door as he said it, and she couldn’t hold it back any longer. It burst hard against the chain, rattling.
‘Is that Gerry, Mommy? Wh… why’s he being like that?’
Alaysha looked back at Molly a few paces away, pulling anxiously at a few strands of hair, trying to be adult to cope with the situation.
Alaysha’s anger surged, fuelling a white-hot adrenalin burst. She barged the door back an inch, felt the satisfaction of a grunt from Gerry as he took the impact.
‘I won’t have it, Gerry. I won’t have you coming round here terrifying Molly. We’re getting a court restraining order, yer hear? You come round here again — next stop for you is a jail cell!’
‘Yeah.’ Challenging, sliding into a mocking chuckle. ‘You do that, and you’re dead, babe. You’re — ’
Gerry broke off as Mrs Orwin’s door opened behind him. And, as he half-turned with the distraction, Alaysha managed to shove the door closed the last inch and flip back the latch.
There were a few words spoken between Mrs Orwin and Gerry that Alaysha couldn’t make out clearly beyond her ragged breathing and pounding heart. Last time Gerry called, Mrs Orwin had been late in opening her door; no doubt because she’d been watching some soap at 200 decibels.
Alaysha swallowed, holding her breath for a second, listening. Silence for a second, then a light tapping at her door. Gerry or Mrs Orwin? Alaysha looked through the spy-hole. Gerry was silently mouthing something which she couldn’t make out; obviously he didn’t want to audibly threaten with Mrs Orwin still looking on through the gap in her door. But shielded from Mrs Orwin’s view by his body, the signal he made with one hand was unmistakeable: a gun pointing, his thumb flicking down like the hammer striking.
Gerry brought his face closer as he mouthed a kiss goodbye, his features warped all the more by the fish-eye of the spy-hole.
Jac looked at the rain on the cafe window as he took the first sips of his coffee. Large splatters spaced a second apart — which had been enough to bring him in from the street — teasing, warning of the deluge to come. And when it did arrive a minute later, the patter building like the drumming of impatient fingers before finally bursting loose, Jac could hardly see the street beyond for the water running down the glass; everything became a blurred pastel grey.
‘Yo’ okay there, Jac? Maybe wanna ‘nother Po’ boy?’
‘No, I’m okay, Henny. Thanks.’
Then, as Henny saw him look thoughtfully back through the window. ‘Don’ worry. Mack‘ll sho’. He’s slow an’ sometime annoyin’ as hell. But he ain’ forgetful. Not yet, at leas’.’
Jac nodded and smiled again. ‘No problem. I’m here early because of the rain.’
Momma Henshaw, more affectionately, Henny, or sometimes Momma Henpeck, because of the cafe she’d run for the past twenty-five years, The Red Rooster. A regular Ninth Ward landmark, according to some of the locals Jac had spoken to, ‘An’ she one of yo’ best hopes fo’ information’ on anythin’ and everythin’ from ‘roun here. ‘Specially from years back.’
Jac’s enquiries hadn’t been getting far. The Bayou Brew was now Jay-Jay Cool’s. The new owner, Jay Cole, had been there three years and knew only the name of the guy he’d bought it from, not any of its history before that. ‘And I think he only had the place two years — so I ain’t sure how far back his recall would go, either. But I can give you his name and number.’
Jac took them, and phoned on his cell-phone minutes later. Miraculously, given his luck so far, it was answered on the second ring: but he too only remembered the name of the owner in turn before him, Rob Harlenson — who Jac had already discovered died two years ago from Bill Saunders, the only one of Durrant’s old pool-buddies he’d so far tracked down. He didn’t know the old staff or the head barman, hadn’t kept any of them on when he took over.
Jac was particularly interested in Mack Elliott, the old head barman from the Bayou Brew. With Harlenson dead, Elliott might be the only one to know about past staff records and rosters: just who might have been working the night Jessica Roche was killed, and whether that could possibly have been Durrant and his buddies pool night. Saunders didn’t know where he might find Elliott.
Jac looked at the other two names on his pad: Nat Hadley and Ted Levereaux. He’d phoned Hadley yesterday and was told by his wife that he worked night shifts. Jac had left his cell-phone number, but no call back as yet. The trail with Levereaux petered out at his last known address in St Louis; and, while it might be an unusual name, a search in all states south from Missouri to Louisiana had alone brought up one hundred and twelve, seventeen with initials E or T. Jac had phoned nine of the seventeen E amp; Ts before it got too close to midnight to be calling any more; and, if the phone was in Levereaux’s wife’s name, he’d have to trawl through all hundred and twelve.
Jac felt worn down by it all: the endless phone calls, delays, dead-ends, the head-shakes as he’d asked about Mack Elliott or any of the old staff at the Bayou Brew. And, as Durrant rightly pointed out, even if and when he did track them down, what on earth were they going to remember after twelve years? Jac had a sinking, desolate feeling that he’d still be tramping the streets of the Ninth Ward and making phone calls that went nowhere as they strapped Durrant down for his injection.
And as Henny had seen Jac’s hand shaking lifting his coffee cup, his gaze through the window weary and lost, she’d asked if he was okay.
The light was sinking fast through the window of The Red Rooster, as if mirroring Jac’s mood. He was only able to get to the Ninth Ward at lunchtimes and after work, as dusk was falling; now, second night there, the rain and clouds had smothered the remaining light even quicker.
The only brief spark of hope had appeared earlier, towards the end of his lunchtime visit when, sixth or seventh head-shake on Mack Elliott or the old Bayou Brew, someone finally pointed him towards Henny’s cafe. But Henny had already seen him through the window asking questions in the street, with one of her old regulars, Izzy, lifting a bony finger her way, and so she had one hand on her hip to greet Jac as he walked in.
‘What’s a white bo’ like you doin’ askin’ questions roun’ the Ninth Ward? Yo’ a cop, or y’jus’ got a death wish?’
‘No, I’m a lawyer.’
Henny arched one eyebrow extravagantly. ‘Oooh. Yo’
Jac explained about Durrant and trying to track down Mack Elliott or any of the old Bayou Brew staff.
Henny nodded thoughtfully, taking the hand from her hip and gesturing to a table. ‘Tryin’ to save Larry Durrant’s neck, put a differen’ complexion on it. But yo’ still wanna be careful askin’ questions roun’ the Ninth — whit’ bo’ in a nice suit an’ all. Yo’ might not be able to spit alla dat out befo’ someone takes yo’ head off with a shotgun.’
Henny gave Jac a potted guide to the Ninth Ward. Safe around the main jazz clubs on St Claude Avenue, but venture a couple of blocks either way and it was a dangerous no-man’s land, particularly at night and particularly if you were white.
