The Long-Legged Fly

“I’ve heard of things like this happening in the States,” Vicky said, “but I di’n’t believe it, not really. I guess every country must have bloody buggers like these two, though.”

Everything was very still and quiet for a moment there.

“Shee-it, man,” the passenger told the driver. “She ain’t even a white woman, she’s a damn foreigner.”

They switched bottles once again and drove off.

“Welcome to the ghetto, Miss Herrington,” I said, and we fell against one another laughing, laughing as one does only after great tension has passed.

Back home, Vicky drew a tub and came back through the living room naked to pour herself a brandy.

“You ever wear clothes?” I asked her. She made a face at me and licked her lips.

I put on some Chopin, low, and checked the answering machine. This is Vicky, I’m out just now, please leave your name, etc., then the same thing in French. Sansom and Walsh had both called to see how things were going. Jimmi Smith wanted me to call him when I got in, didn’t matter how late.

I dialed and waited through six or seven rings.

“Yeah?”

“Jimmi?”

“Lew. Thanks for calling me back. You found out anything?”

“Not much. Not as much as I would’ve hoped for. But I do have a good lead and something may come of that. I’ll let you know.”

“Yeah, please do, and Lew-?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks. You’re a good man, don’t ever let no one tell you different from that.”

“Good night, Jimmi.”

I walked into the bathroom. Vicky was reading a novel; only her head and hands and two small knee-islands stuck out above water. I lifted her glass off the side of the tub and took a sip of brandy.

“Any calls for me?” she said.

I shook my head. “You want company?”

“This tub’s not big enough for the both of us, partner.”

“I’ll take one of Alice’s pills and make myself small.”

“O well. Perhaps the water will shrink you.”

She raised her knees and patted the water in front of her: “Right here, cowboy.”

Afterwards, just as we were drifting off to sleep, I asked her, “How many units would your head nurse assign to that?”

“Grrrrr,” she told me.

Since Vicky was going back on nights, we had a rare, leisurely breakfast together the following morning, stretching it out, over coffee, fruit, toast, boiled eggs and herring, to well over an hour. She had decided that she fancied a bit of shopping this morning. We rinsed and stacked dishes, and I dropped her off on Canal on my way to the loan company.

There wasn’t much, and what there was, was light-weight. I spent a few hours chasing leads around the downtown area and netted enough to call it a day (a slow day, mind you), then remembered that I’d forgotten to drop off the extra twenty I had promised Kirk Woodland and headed back out to Metairie.

A squad car sat outside Baker’s house and a cop opened the door when I knocked.

“What’s your business?” the cop said. He’d recently grown a mustache to make him look older. It hadn’t helped.

“Mr. Griffin. How did you know?” Baker said from across the room.

“You know this man?” Mustache said.

“A friend,” Baker said, and asked me again how I knew. Mustache stepped back and let me walk in.

“I didn’t,” I said. “Don’t. I was passing by and saw the chariot.”

“Denny’s disappeared, Mr. Griffin. Nothing like this’s ever happened before. I went around the corner for some milk and when I got back, he was gone. He never left the house when I wasn’t here.”

“He probably didn’t go very far, Mr. Baker. He’ll turn up soon. You have my number. Call if there’s anything I can do to help.”

“I hope you’re right, Mr. Griffin. And thanks.”

More from habit than anything else I took a few swings through the neighborhood. Seemed to be mostly older people, not many kids or much evidence of kids-swing sets, bicycles and the like.

There was a battered old gas station on one corner, the kind we used to hang around as kids, sharing precious bottles of Nehi and Pepsi, and I stopped there to fill up. Went into the cluttered, cavelike office to pay, half-blind in the dim light. A surprisingly young man sat between two room fans, sweating. I paid him, looked around at the cheesecake calendars and asked if by any chance he’d seen a kid go by in the last hour or two, a big kid.

Fear broke in his eyes.

“I ain’t touched no kids in years. It ain’t that I ain’t had the need, but I done learned, I ain’t going back inside for nothing. You guys gotta know I’m clean.”

“Hey, take it easy.”

He looked closely at me, squinting. “You ain’t a cop?”

I shook my head.

“Look like one,” he said.

“A friend up a few blocks, his son wandered off. Cops are up there now. I thought maybe I could help, just look around some, at least.”

“Wouldn’t be that big, retarded kid?”

I nodded.

“Cops are up there now, they’ll be down here soon enough.”

“If you’re clean, they won’t bother you.”

“Either I didn’t hear that, or you just look black.”

“Right,” I said after a moment. “Something I heard Jack Webb say, I guess. Dumb. But good luck.”

“Thanks. You too-finding the kid, I mean.”

He shut off the fans and began counting the money in the register.

I made another couple of pointless swings around the neighborhood, started back into New Orleans, remembered I’d again forgotten to drop off the twenty at Woodland’s, and turned around.

I was walking back to Woodland’s when I heard something, or thought I did, in the apartment that had been Cherie’s. I tried the door and it opened. Inside, Denny was sitting crosslegged in the center of the floor.

To this day I don’t know how he found his way there or got the door open. But I took him home to his father, who insisted we have a drink together (cheap bourbon he probably kept under the sink and dipped into once a year for eggnog) and thanked me several dozen times. I walked back to the apartments-I’d forgotten the twenty again- then retrieved the car and pulled onto I-10 just in time to renew my acquaintance with five o’clock traffic, one of the best arguments there is against a steady job.

I turned on the radio, listened to six tunes and moved ten feet. There was a new cold front coming through, due to hit about midnight. Some guy down in Austin had killed his neighbors’ barking dog, invited them over for dinner, and served “a delicious stew.”

Traffic eventually untangled, and I got home around six-thirty. Vicky had curried a chicken, marinated some raw vegetables and made trifle. Afterwards we sat for a long time over coffee. Vicky was talking about things she’d seen in the hospital, on the streets.

“There’s something centrally