“So they say.”
“And a relative of yours, by any chance?”
“A cousin, as it happens. Tito’s never there in the afternoon. That would be a good time for you to drop by.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do.”
I thanked him and said I’d see him soon, looking at the clock over the bar as I left. Almost five. My seminar students had walked long since. But it was still afternoon, at least.
I caught a cab at Jackson Avenue, had the driver take me up St. Charles to Louisiana and got out there. Walked two blocks to Baronne. I saw the building as soon as I turned.
It was a shade of blue not found in the natural world. The texturing on its plaster sides reminded me of Maori masks. Two cars and a pickup truck were stacked up in the driveway alongside like planes waiting for takeoff clearance, but they’d been waiting a long time.
The railing at the top of the stairs was hung with towels and a washcloth, an orange cotton rug, a shirt on a hanger. I knocked at the screen door, waited a moment, then opened it and knocked on the glass of the door inside. When there was still no response, either from within or from curious neighbors, I pulled out an old plastic ID card I keep for this very purpose and slipped the lock.
The door opened directly into the kitchen. A quarter inch of leftover coffee baked to black tar on the bottom of its carafe. Grease half filled the gutters around the stove’s burners. The whole apartment smelled of cat, equal parts musk and pee, with the heady, sweet reek of marijuana beneath. Furnishings were minimal, cast-off clothes in abundance.
I found some Baggies of grass and crack stashed among provisions-mostly unopened jars of spices, sacks of flour, sugar and baking soda, and canned goods like corned-beef hash and stew-and put them back. I found a.38 under the cushion of one of the chairs in the living room and put that back too.
Off to one side was a windowless, odd-shaped little room of the sort often seen in these huge old places that have been chopped into apartments again and again. A mattress had been crammed into it. One corner was bent back like a dog-eared page where the room took a sudden turn; an edge lapped over the baseboard. A nylon athletic bag lying on the mattress had been used as a pillow. I opened it and found in a manila envelope stuffed with scraps and folds of paper an expired Washington driver’s license issued to Marcus Treadwell. Most of the rest was people’s names and addresses, with notations in a tiny, precise script, in what I presumed to be a code.
I stepped back into the living room and discovered that the.38 was no longer under the cushion. It was now in someone’s hand, and pointed at me.
“You must be Tito.”
He nodded.
“I’m a friend of Carlos.”
“Carlos don’t live here, man.”
“I know. I was just down at the bar talking to him. He thought you might be able to help me.”
“What you need help with?”
“I’m looking for something.”
“Just something for yourself? You don’t look like a user, man. And I don’t do wholesale, know what I mean?”
I shook my head. “Not drugs.”
“I’m willing to believe that.”
“The guy who’s been sleeping here.”
“What you want with that pile of shit?”
“Just to talk.”
“Yeah? Well, you find him, I want to talk to him too, but I won’t be talking long.”
“Guess you guys didn’t hit it off.”
“Hey, I thought he was okay, you know? Till I come home yesterday morning and find him with the back of the crapper off, going after my stash. I’d already moved it, but that don’t matter. But I guess he heard me coming, ‘cause he was out the window and gone in about half a second. Wouldn’t have thought the boy could move that fast.”
“You saw him?”
He shrugged. “Who else would it be?”
“Listen, are you going to shoot me or not? Cause if you’re not, I’m going to reach into my pocket for a picture.”
“Nah, man, I ain’t gonna shoot no one.” He stuck the gun in a back pocket.
“This the guy?”
“Yeah.”
“And you haven’t seen him since yesterday morning?”
“No.”
“What time?”
“Nine, ten, something like that. He try to rip you off too?”
I shook my head.
“You got a message for him, that right?” Tito said.
“More or less.” I handed him a card. “If you do see him again, think about giving me a call.”
“There money in it?”
“You never know. For now, let’s just say it will be much appreciated.”
He looked at the card, then up at me. “Lew Griffin. I heard of you. People say you used to be bad.”
“I used to be a lot of things.”
“Yeah. Know what you mean.”
“I might drop by again tomorrow or the next day, just to check, if that’s okay.”
“Sure. You do that, Lew Griffin. Just don’t forget to lock up again when you leave.”
He grinned, gold bicuspid flashing. I suddenly remembered that my father had one just like it.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Walsh and Richard Garces were coming for dinner that night. I’d done most of it ahead, a cassoulet and flan, and Alouette was in charge of the rest. When I stepped through the door at seven-twenty I found them all sitting together in the living room. Richard had a glass of wine, Walsh a tumbler of bourbon, Alouette one of those prepackaged wine cooler things. No one got up, but three faces swiveled toward me.
“There goes the party,” Garces said.
“And the neighborhood.” Alouette.
“Buck seems to be stopping here.” Walsh.
“What would you like, Lewis?” Alouette again. I followed her out to the kitchen, pulled an Abita out of the fridge. The kitchen was warm and full of wonderful smells.
“Everything set?”
“Cassoulet’s heating, bread’s in the oven with it, salad’s made except for the dressing.”
“You’ve been watching reruns of Donna Reed.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Anything I can do?”
“Go sit down, drink your beer and talk to the guys. I’ll throw this stuff together.”
“You sure?”
“Shoo.”
It had felt good being in the kitchen again last night, preparing for this, and it felt good now sitting with friends, talking about nothing in particular, anticipating more of the same. I laid my head back, felt tensions go out of my body. My mind rippled with stray thoughts, then became still water.
“Had a call from a friend of yours today,” Walsh said. “Sergeant Travis up in Mississippi. Asked how things
