He nodded.
Of course Doo-Wop knew. He didn’t know what day or year it was, but he knew where I lived. Everyone knew. Pretty soon lost kids were going to start showing up at the door. Tourists from New Jersey out to see the real New Orleans.
Time to find new quarters, Lewis.
“I, uh …” my guest went on. “This is just between the two of us, right?”
Right.
“I have a regular job, you understand. French-bread bakery out on Airline. Been there five, six years. Take care of my family. But time to time I still play a chorus or two off the old song, you know? Friend from those days comes to you, bills gobble up the paycheck by the fifteenth, baby needs new shoes. You know?”
I knew.
“Figured you did.”
I hit us again with the Scotch. He nodded, acknowledgment and thanks. Took the obligatory ceremonial sip.
“Things go well, after a job the players want to step out, unwind some, have a drink or two. Long about the third drink sometimes they’ll get to talking. Just like at the bakery on breaks. Same thing.”
“Yeah.”
“One of those nights this guy Julio and I had hit it off good, and after the others went on home, we stayed there, place called El Gore-e-adore or something, drinking. Develops that Julio’s a real pro, this is all he does. Pulls a spot as wheelman one day, does a little strong-arm turn the next, maybe goes in as backup on a heavy job.
“By this time it’s, I don’t know, two, three in the morning, and Julio tells me this story that’s about all I remember the next day when I wake up.
“Couple days after that, I’m lifting a few with the Doo Man. You know how that man likes a good story. So pretty soon I get to feeling good, way one does, and I tell him the whole thing, what Julio told me. When I’m through he just nods. Then after a while he says, Good story. After a little more, he tells me: Needs footnotes, though. I just look at him. Have to identify your sources, he says. And I think: This man’s been hanging around those uptown college campuses too much.
“Anyhow, he says I’ve got to come see you.”
“And he tells you where I live.”
“Even buys me a drink. Paying for the story-you know?”
Oh yes. “And?”
“Well, it’s not much. Only worth one drink to the Doo Man, mind you.”
“This a commercial transaction?”
“No no. Not what I mean at all. I don’t want you to think this is some big thing. It’s just warm air, a breeze, cotton. I’m only here-wasting time I could put to better use-because Doo-Wop says you’re all right. Friend of a friend kind of thing, you know?”
“Meanwhile having a few friend of a friend kind of drinks.”
He nodded. “A few.”
“Maybe a few more?”
“Whatever the market will bear.”
I poured. He nodded. We sipped.
“There’s this hardass Julio worked with a couple times. Guess they went out unwinding after some turns too. Man’s day job is with a security service. SeCure Corps. Black-owned and-operated. I’ve seen their advertisements. They’re all standing on the steps of some building in tight suits and bowties. Look like a bunch of CPAs.
“And they’re all avowed nonviolents. So from time to time on this or that job-just to protect themselves-they bring in backup.”
“Bodyguards.”
“More like contract soldiers. World’s changing, you know? Whatever your beliefs, you either change with it or you go under. Disappear like the dinosaurs.
“Anyway. One of the people they use most often, a marksman, calls himself The Sentry. That’s how they get in touch with him-run a personal ad for ‘The Sentry’ in
“A sniper.”
“You got it.”
“He ever had to shoot?”
“Not yet.”
“Good luck.”
He nodded.
“How does he get paid, once it’s over?”
“Post office box. Yeah: it changes every time. And the one time SeCure Corps staked it out, some kid on a bicycle came pedaling up to collect. They didn’t hear from The Sentry for a while after that. When they did, he wondered if SeCure Corps truly valued and required his services.”
“And?”
“They backed off.”
“So this is a long-term association.”
“It’s got history, yeah.”
“Pay well?”
“Expect so. From all I hear, these guys are going flat out, full throttle.”
“You have to wonder just where the support’s coming from.”
“Few others wondering about that right along with you.”
Chapter Twenty
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?”
“Personnel, please.”
“May I ask in regard to what?”
“I’m calling to inquire about employment with your firm.”
“Then it’s Mr. Bergeron you’d be needing. Please hold. I’ll see if Mr. Bergeron’s in his office.”
He was, but it took us both a while to find out.
I was calling from a pay phone facing a Frostop on St. Charles. Icy mugs of root beer and some of the best hamburgers in town inside. One of your more fascinating processions outside.
A white guy minced past in denim miniskirt and pink tights through which you could see whorls of leg hair. Baby-blue sleeveless blouse above, breasts like those castanet-size finger cymbals Indian dancers use. His Adam’s apple stuck out a lot further. He kept brushing at the blond wig and catching himself just before he fell off three-inch heels. Arms suddenly out at his sides like a tightrope walker’s.
A young woman in high-collared white blouse, oversize spectacles, and a dress that swept fastfood wrappers from the sidewalk as she passed. Walking beside a pure Marlon Brando type in T-shirt, jeans, and scowl, a foot shorter than she was.
Unshaven older guy in a baseball cap with belly arranged just so over the Texas-shaped buckle of his belt, belly and torso encased like sausage in a black T-shirt reading
“Hello? Are you still there? Please hold, I’m trying to track down Mr. Bergeron.”
At least she didn’t switch me over to Hawaiian music or an arrangement of “Mack the Knife” for strings. Just a dead line with ghost voices far back, unintelligible, within it.
A thirtyish woman with bleach-blonde hair, bright red lipstick, tight cashmere sweater and full skirt came by. The Marilyn Monroe look, I suppose.
