I shrugged. “Why send it in the first place? Maybe he thought he was covering his tracks somehow, maybe he sent copies to world leaders, stuck them under windshield wipers at the nearest mall. Who the hell knows? We think he may have been trying to make it look like an engraving.”
“Okay. There’s anything here useful, the lab’ll find it.” He held the paper up close. “That flytrack at the bottom some kind of signature?”
“I’m pretty sure it says William Blake.”
“Tiger, tiger guy?”
I nodded. “Poetry was kind of a sideline for him, though. By trade he was an engraver. In his spare time he talked to angels.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Home I went, then, in due time, limping and scuttling. There on my island, I sat watching lives go on. Rain had come on like the fury it was, slamming away at houses and cars, lifting lawn appliances to abandon them half a block down and two across, slapping pedestrians to the ground. And everywhere the cold, attacking as much from within as without.
Yes, Mr. Joyce.
Meanwhile, the good ship Rick Garces came calling at my island. Never a lack of friends or good food when Rick’s involved. This time, it was simple fare: polenta with wild mushroom sauce. Then he compensated with a salad of endive, baby green spinach, a handful of what looked like purple weeds, and slivers and bits of jicama, sweet cactus, sour German pickle. The mix of people, predictably, was as offbeat as the salad.
A couple of gay activists from NO AIDS arrived first, a longtime pair oddly enough, given that one (in vintage Capri pants and chambray shirt) was male, the other (wearing Fifties sharkskin suit and saddleback shoes) female. All night long they stood side by side, a preponderance of sentences beginning “Eddie [or, conversely, Edie] and I …”
Next came a lawyer “down from Tulane, way down,” working as he did exclusively pro bono cases. He sported the uniform of old New Orleans money, gray-and-white seersucker suit, starched shirt, bow tie. Luckily, he said, he’d been relieved of the burden of making a living and so was able to practice a purer form of law. And what better use (smiling) to which to put his family’s ill-got money?
In fairly rapid succession, then:
A reporter in blue blazer and torn jeans from the
An emergency-room doctor whose color and fixed expression put one in mind of a Halloween pumpkin. In her wake trailed a retired FBI husband who, with half a bottle of wine and a brandy or two inside him, began telling tales of agents getting drunk on stakeouts and losing the car, reporting it stolen or sending in other agents the next day to investigate. Once an agent had managed to get transferred out of a particularly onerous assignment only when he accidentally blasted a hole in the car’s roof with the standard-issue shotgun, precipitating a rash of such accidents, first throughout the state, then on into Mississippi, Alabama and beyond.
A painter of “how things might have happened in history” and (perhaps the most laid-back guy I’d ever seen) one who sold collectibles, Hopalong Cassidy lunchboxes, Gilbert erector sets and the like, in the weekend flea market downtown.
George, from whom knives protruded quill-like at boot top and waist (though our journalist suggested the knife handles might well be scarecrows, like those false beepers sold nowadays) and who ran a tattoo, excuse me, body art, shop out on the edge of Kenner. He’d been in the Quarter for a quarter of a century, a fixture there, till gentrifiers dragged him to the ground. No sense of tradition at all, those people, absolutely none at all-when tradition, that sense of history, is what made this city great. At one point, George said, better than 95 percent of prisoners had tattoos; from their body art you could tell within a year or so when the con had gone up on his first stretch, and where. Older, proletarian tattoos had always been formulaic, iconographic-blue dot, enwreathed heart, initials-while contemporary middle-class ones edged towards the pictorial and profuse. Might even say decadent. As a culture we’ve spent so long promoting hostility to whatever exists as the only honorable stand, too often hostility’s all that’s left, a bottle with nothing much inside. Still (George, hefting his mug of herb tea, asked us all) does anything better represent man’s stubborn insistence to be himself and truly alive, to find beauty in the world and, if he can’t find it, create it?
A rookie homicide detective, Angela, shaped like a barrel with eyebrows painstakingly plucked then drawn back in a high arch.
A thirtyish guy, Louis, Louie, maybe Luis, who’d just opened a bookstore specializing in used textbooks. School bookstores had long held an unchallenged monopoly, repurchasing texts again and again at bargain- basement prices and reselling them at penthouse premiums. It wouldn’t last, he knew that, but for a while he’d be able dramatically to undercut the schools and still pull a fair profit. And even once this passed, he’d be left with the satisfaction of knowing he’d done good work-ah, America!
Dennis, bald except for a gray, limp ponytail sprouting off the back of his head, who taught drawing and design at three community colleges and served as part-time docent for the Delgado.
Danny and Steve. They ran an uptown B amp;B catering to gays and offered up, everyone said, breakfasts so good that guests got up an hour early just to enjoy them.
Phillip, who’d gone through the master’s program in social work with Rick. He worked at the state hospital over in Mandeville, had for years.
Charles, a waiter at Petunia’s who, whenever he was able to clear time, played clarinet with a local klezmer group, string bass with a pickup blues band meeting each weekend on Jackson Square. That group’s washboard player frequently spilled out of her top. The group was very popular.
Towards ten that night, things began trailing off. God, we were old. Ten o’clock and the party’s over. Pots of polenta gave out as had mushroom and roux earlier; plates of cheese, andouille sausage, toothpickspeared peppers and olives faded away; folks reaching into honeycombs of beer and wine bottles came up empty, which given our diminished tolerances was probably just as well. With Rick I saw the last few stragglers to the door, then put on Charlie Patton cranked high as we began stacking dishes, glasses, coffee cups, ashtrays.
“Thanks for letting me use your place, Lew.”
“My pleasure. Great meal, fine company.”
In the next room, slurring his words majestically (as I generally did these days, following the stroke), Patton saddled up his pony.
“You want, you’re not into this right now, too tired to deal with it, we could leave it. I’d be glad to swing by early, before work, take care of it then.”
“Just as soon get it done. I’m fine. Help me wind down some.”
We worked away, Patton’s guitar plucking at the edge of our world, calling up strong feelings I had no name for, feelings that, once summoned, I knew, would be slow to go away. Cleanup mostly done, we knocked off to share half a bottle of Australian Shiraz-cabernet I’d tucked away for safekeeping in the vegetable drawer, sitting together for the most part wordlessly, before Rick headed home. I was stacking a final few plates on towels, long ago bereft of drainer space, when the phone rang.
I made my way to it, shouted Hang on! Just a minute! and, carrying the phone with me, Deborah’s cordless, went to turn down the music.
“Sorry.”
A pause. “Mr. Griffin.”
Maybe I should have left the music alone. Go back now and crank it up.
“I apologize for calling so late. I wanted to say how sorry I am to hear of your recent difficulties.… Our bodies
I wrung out the dishrag and draped it on the windowsill to dry. More accurately, probably, to mildew.
“I was pleased to hear that. If there’s anything I can do … As you know, I’ve had considerable experience
