Ghost of a Flea

“No. I came home, had a few drinks-”

“I can tell that.”

“-but couldn’t sleep.” Guidry’s Proustian fugues had taken root in me. My mind became a city dump, trucks pulling in every five minutes, barrels of refuse tumbling over one another, vermin swarming. “I started off thinking about apartments I’ve lived in. Next it was bits and pieces of books.”

“Yours?”

“And others’. Before long, I’d moved on to remembering old friends. And after that I was all over the place. Thinking about my first trumpet, of all things. My parents got it off some friend they said had played with the territory bands back in the Forties. Looked to be made out of pot metal and kept falling apart at the struts, it’d just come open like a book in the middle of songs. Or a yellow nylon shirt I had as a kid. You could see right through it, and the thing was light as a scarf, light as breath itself. For a week or two that was the coolest thing I’d ever seen, coolest thing I’d ever owned.

“Then I remembered a school project, seventh grade, maybe. We were reading Great Expectations and had to do something to ‘illustrate or dramatize’ Dickens’s imagination. But it wasn’t Dickens’s imagination that interested me, and I went right to the heart of what did. In my father’s workshop I built a small platform, like a stage set, divided in half. One side showed things the way Miss Havisham saw them: the wedding veil, the cake and so on. And the other half showed what it was all really like. Cobwebs, the rotted gown. At the time I couldn’t have had any idea that I was defining a vital space for myself, recognizing that a kind of zone or crawl space existed between those two worlds.”

“I see. And this is what you called to tell me at three o’clock in the morning, Lewis?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“I’m not sure…. I think I may have called to tell you that I’ve lived there ever since.”

Her laugh was as light and airy, as much a miracle, as my nylon shirt.

“Of course you have.”

Chapter Thirty

At first I couldn’t think why I knew the place, then remembered: the ex-ranger back at the pigeon hunters’ apartment.

Hoppin Jon’s. From outside it looked like a cement bunker. Inside, it was one room the size of a dance hall or bowling alley. At the far end, a low brick wall set off kitchen area and cooks; a round bar stood dead center. Otherwise the floor space was broken only by homemade tables of whitewashed wood, some of them small, others picnic-size, pushed about the floor into casual combinations and collisions. Even now, at breakfast, the place smelled, as so many New Orleans restaurants do, of fried shrimp.

Three dozen or so patrons sat, stood or milled about. Looked a little like a prison yard during an eclipse. Most of them had plates of food, all of them had drinks. The drinks came in what appeared to be honest-to-God jelly glasses. Terence Braly was at a communal table halfway in. Santos had remained behind at the door as we entered; now he leaned easily against the wall, looking around with no expression on his face. Don had kept moving to take position in the rear, near bathrooms and whatever exit they or the kitchen might offer. When I sat down by him, our boy’s friends all found their feet and went away. Most of them no doubt saw me come in with Santos and Don and figured us all for cops. The others just had feelers out-kind of work they did, they developed feelers-and knew when to (as Chandler said) be missing.

“Excuse me,” he said. White, five-six or right around there, dark hair with tight curls. Pushing thirty but hanging back in the breezeway. He still had on his hospital uniform. He’d unzipped the green top. A ribbed undershirt showed beneath; his employee badge, alligator-clipped to the collar, flapped underarm. White pants bore a permanent crease you could use to slice bagels. Shoes white too, Reeboks, recently polished but with traces of grime and possibly dry blood around eyelets and seams. “Do you mind?”

Smiling, I said nothing, and moved still closer to him. Sensed, as though they were my own, heartbeat and respirations increasing.

“I know you?”

“Nope.” I reached over and picked up his glass. Took, as my old friend O’Carolan and several centuries of traditional singers might say, a healthy dram. Put the glass back exactly where it had been, in the ring it came out of. “Okay, one question down, nine to go.”

“Man,” he said, drawing the n out to its breaking point, “that’s my fucking drink. You wanta get out of my face here?”

“No. Eight.”

He took a long breath. Maybe a change of tactic was in order. “Look, man, whatever your thing is, can we get into it some other time? Been a long night, I’m just not up to this.”

“Those old folks do take their toll, don’t they?”

He braced himself from glancing at me and instead looked off, something he’d seen tough guys do in movies. Eyes stayed there in the middle distance when he spoke.

“Man, whoever you are, I don’t have anything you need, you know? And what I do have, you don’t want.”

But he was crimping. Part of the reason he did the work he did and hung on to it was that it allowed him a control wholly absent from the rest of his life. Whatever tension or danger he faced, whatever bad guys, the weight of authority bulked behind him, the deliverance of routine bore him up. Now he found himself face-to-face with one of those bad guys outside the palace grounds, no one else around, rules gone south.

I put my hand over his, joints bulky as pecans beneath my palm, and bore down. When he tried to pull away, for a moment I bore down still harder, then let him withdraw.

“Maybe I could buy you a drink,” I said. “Several drinks.”

Cage door left open, free at last, free at last, his eyes came back to me.

“Okay. Tha’d be all right.”

“Canadian Club and 7-Up, right?”

“Sweet…. Don’t worry, man. I saw your posse, I ain’t going nowhere. They step back long enough to let me have a piss, you think?”

“Absolutely. Nod to Cerberus as you go by, guy in the yellow shirt. Best keep your distance, though. He recently got shot. It’s made him edgy.”

“I hear you.” He started off towards the back as Don and I exchanged glances. I snagged a CC-and-7 and a brandy at the bar, waited for Terence back at the table.

“Alouette says hello,” I told him, pushing the drink his way.

He picked it up and took a long pull. “Damn that’s good. Guess I’m screwed, huh?”

“Sure looks that way.”

“So how’d you find me?”

“Does it matter?”

He shrugged.

We’d flagged his name, along with others, on the list of employees sent us by Dr. Ball. He’d been an orderly at the psychiatric facility in Fort Worth, assigned for the most part (a call to Dr. Ball’s Miss Eddington disclosed) to back wards, when Tony Sinclair was there, and left shortly thereafter. Over the next several years, as Rick was able to track, his name showed up on rosters at half a dozen or more facilities in Louisiana, Alabama and Texas. Now he worked at a geriatric hospital here in the city. Most human resources records are elliptical, Rick said, and in a kind of code, but it isn’t a hard code to read, and what it comes down to is that Terence had started getting too close to his patients, identifying with them, claiming communication and levels of interaction no one else ever witnessed.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“I’m willing to believe that.”