next box.” Marcus drew three more boxes for the remaining lines containing twenty letters apiece, a smaller one- four by four-for the line containing sixteen letters. Then he began filling them with letters from the original sheet; from top to bottom.
By the time he’d finished, there was a dead silence in the room-soon broken by a small voice:
“It’s an advertisement for coffee. Like this.” Typhus Morningstar held up his multipurpose companion, a burlap bag originally made to hold coffee beans, manufactured and printed by the New Orleans Coffee Company.
Doctor Jack smiled at the boy. “How long you been standing there, Typhus?”
“Just a little while-but long enough, I guess. Front door wide open.”
Charley the Barber: “Shee-it!” Fishing through his pocket for keys, Charley scrambled towards the front door of the shop, cursing himself along the way for letting Trumbo’s disruption distract him from relocking.
Typhus turned towards the little gal whose arm was still slung around Buddy Bolden’s shoulder. “Daddy find out you in this place, he be mad,” he told her.
The girl flicked the short remnant of her still lit cigar at Typhus with impressive accuracy, her arm arcing wide for greater impact, yanking hard against Buddy’s neck in the process. “You tell Daddy and I’ll whoop you good, you little runt. You shouldn’t be out neither!”
Buddy winced, pulling away from the girl just enough to rub the afflicted side of his neck.
“I’m out
Diphtheria Morningstar’s anger instantly melted to worry. “Gone where, Typhus?”
“It’s why I’m lookin’. Not sure.”
Marshall Trumbo eyed Typhus’ bag and held out a hand, “May I have a look at that, son?”
Typhus hesitated, but obliged: “I need it back so don’t rip it er nothin’, mister.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Trumbo examined Typhus’ bag. It was cropped at the top and the printing was faded, but the last two lines were clear-and matched the last two lines of Marcus’ deciphering handiwork:
The bag smelled of river and fish, and Trumbo’s arms were covered with goosebumps.
Diphtheria spoke, looking at Typhus but pointing at Trumbo. “That man said Daddy went to the place with the sick Sicilian boy today, Typhus.”
Trumbo looked up from the bag and directly into Diphtheria’s pointing finger: “Your father?”
“You said, ‘the priest called Morningstar.’ That’s our Daddy.” Her eyes were tearing with worry. “But you said he left?”
“Yes, he left. I’m sure he’s all right, dear.” Trumbo’s eyes dismissed the girl’s concerns and returned to Typhus’ bag, as if mysterious answers might reside in its thick, rough threads.
Typhus gently pulled the bag from Trumbo’s hands, said: “When he left the house tonight he said he had to take care of something unfinished. Said it was a house call.”
“We best be going,” said Doctor Jack abruptly, no trace of a smile left on his smooth face. “You know the way, Mr. Reporter. You lead. Typhus-you come, too.”
“We’re coming, too!” said Diphtheria in a clearly nonnegotiable female tone, holding tight to Buddy’s arm. The young horn player resolved to his fate.
“All right then,” said Doctor Jack-and then, to no one in particular, “come if yer comin’ and stay if yer not. But let’s git gone.”
Marcus: “Well, I got me a date with a fish…”
“That’s fine, Marcus. Go get that fish. We’ll see you next payday.”
“Sir, if I may ask,” Trumbo began uncertainly. “If someone or something is trying to communicate through this child, why employ such peculiar method?”
“The method is the message,” replied Doctor Jack. “Whoever or whatever wrote those words wanted the attention of certain people, and those people happen to be here tonight. The civil war code was for the benefit of our friend Marcus. The coffee advertisement was for Typhus. Could be someone else in this room connected, too-just ain’t spoke up yet.” He glanced quickly at Beauregard, then away. “No matter about that. Time to go.”
Charley the Barber lifted the heavy wooden bar that secured the back door. “Y’all be careful, now. I don’t like the sound of all this. Not one bit.” The five made their way to the door.
“Wait.” Beauregard Church talking.
Doctor Jack turned, raised an eyebrow.
“I got something belonged to the father. Might be what this is all about. It’s in here.” Bo-Bo reached into his leather pouch containing odd items meant for luck. Pulled out an old tin.
The square tin was graced with the image of a little white girl collecting pink flowers from a field where no flowers grew, just an endless landscape of yellow wheat stalks. Above her head were the words:
And she was surrounded by more words:
Beauregard Church, longtime guard in the service of Orleans Parish Prison, was holding up a coffee tin in shaking hands. The tin was manufactured and printed by the New Orleans Coffee Company for the purpose of selling beans, but only Beauregard was aware that, at the moment, it contained the right hand of Antonio Carolla.
One of many odd items intended for luck.
The cells at Orleans Parish Prison are all exactly the same.
Eight feet long, four feet wide, and seven feet high. There is a barred door exactly two feet wide. The cot is also two feet wide. A bucket, for toilet purposes, is the prisoner’s sole companion, offering dubious and strong smelling inspiration for long hours in the dark.
It is always dark in the cells at Parish Prison. The cells are entirely without light, even of the artificial kind. Even when his eyes have adjusted to the complete lack of it, the prisoner cannot see from one end of the cell to the other. Can only smell his friend, the bucket.
