I used a black Magic Marker to address it, then applied the stamps and gave it a seal. LaDuke had a look at my handiwork and laughed.
“It looks like a kid did this,” he said. “Like it’s first grade, and you just learned how to write and shit.”
“What, you could do better?”
“Man, I can barely see it.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”
I set the alarm, locked the place up. The two of us walked out the door. Dawn had come, the sun was breaking over the buildings, and the bread men and the icemen were out on the streets.
“Shit,” I said, shaking my head as we moved down the sidewalk.
“What?” LaDuke said.
“I was just thinking of you sittin’ in a movie theater, not knowing if it’s the man or the woman givin’ you a hard-on. I mean, it’s really hard to believe.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have told such a sensitive guy like you. I know you’re never gonna let me forget it. But believe it or not, you’re the first person I ever unloaded this on. And I gotta tell you, just letting it out, I do feel a little better.”
“You’ll get through it, LaDuke.”
“You think so, huh.”
“It’ll pass. Everything does.”
I dropped the envelope in the mailbox on the corner. LaDuke slipped, stepping off the curb. I grabbed him by the elbow and held him up. We crossed the street and headed for the Ford, parked in a patch of clean morning light.
TWENTY
I woke up a little after noon. I was spread out on top of the sheets, soaked with sweat, still dressed right down to my shoes. My cat was lying sphinx-style on my chest, kneading her claws through my shirt, her face tight against mine. Starved for food or attention, it didn’t matter which. I got up and opened a can of salmon and spooned it into her dish. The smell of the salmon tossed my stomach and I dry-heaved in the kitchen sink. I stripped, climbed into the shower, stood in the cold spray, going in and out of sleep against the tiles. When I stepped out, the phone was ringing, so I went into the living room and picked up the receiver. Boyle was on the line, thanking me for the previous night’s tip.
“You get anything?”
“Nothing human,” Boyle said. “All the warm bodies were long gone by the time Vice secured the warrant. They found a whole bunch of tools, some lighting and equipment, a camera that had been blown to shit. Looked like someone had quite a party in there, from what I understand. I guess they were in a hurry clearing out.”
“I guess.”
“You sound a little tired,” Boyle said.
“It’s hot in here, that’s all.”
“Heat wave moved in this morning. Say it’s gonna be up around a hundred the next few days.”
“I’m working a shift this afternoon, so I’ll be out of it.”
“Uh-huh.” Boyle cleared his throat. “The porno operation in that warehouse-that have anything to do with the Jeter murder?”
“No. I thought it did, but it didn’t. I got in there, saw what was going on, and got out. Then I called you.”
“Right,” Boyle said after a meaningful pause. “Well, I guess that’s it. Take it easy, Nick.”
“You, too.”
I hung up the phone, got myself into shorts and a T-shirt, and headed down to the Spot.
Mai was behind the stick when I walked in. She gave me a wave, untied her apron, and walked out the front door. I stepped behind the bar. Happy, Buddy, Bubba, and Mel were all in place, snuggled into their stools, drinking quietly under the buzz of the air conditioner and the Sonny Boy Williamson coming from the deck. Buddy asked for another pitcher, his lip curled in a snarl. I drew it for him, placed the pitcher between him and Bubba. Happy mumbled something in my direction, so I fixed him a manhattan. I placed the drink on a bev nap in front of him, and he burped. The smell of Darnell’s lunch special drifted my way. I replaced the blues on the deck with an Impressions compilation, and the intro to “I’ve Been Trying” filled the room. Mel closed his eyes and began to sing. Looking through the reach-through to the kitchen, I could see Ramon doing some kind of bull-jive flying sidekick toward Darnell, Darnell stepping away from it with grace, the two of them framed beneath the grease-stained Rudy Ray Moore poster thumbtacked to the wall. I knew I was home.
Anna Wang came in from the dining area, leaned on the service bar, and dumped out her change. She began to count it, arranging it in sticks. I poured a cup of coffee for myself, added some whiskey to the cup, and took it over to Anna. She reached into the pocket of my T and found a cigarette. I gave her a light. She exhaled and shook a bunch of black hair out of her face.
“Welcome back.”
“Thanks.”
She grinned. “How you feelin’, Nick?”
“Better now,” I said, holding up the cup. And I did, too.
“Phil came in first thing this morning. Said there were enough Camels in the ashtray to service the Egyptian army.”
“Yeah, that was me. And LaDuke. Was Phil pissed?”
“Not really. At least you set the alarm this time.”
Anna pize'27'›
She said, “So how’s Jack?”
“He’s fine.”
“Tell him I said hey, will you?”
“Sure, Anna, I’ll tell him.”
Happy hour was on the slow side, but I had plenty to do, restocking the liquor and arranging the bottles on the call shelf to where they had been before I left. Evening came and my regulars drifted out like pickled ghosts, and then it was just me and Darnell. I locked the front door and drove him back to his place through the warm, sticky night. He didn’t mention the warehouse affair, and neither did I.
Back at my place, Lyla had phoned, so I phoned her back. She wanted to come over and talk. I said that it was probably not a good idea, and she asked why. I said it was because I didn’t want to see her. She raised her voice and I raised mine back; things just went to hell after that. The conversation ended very badly, and when it was done, I switched off the light and sat at the living room table and rubbed my face. That didn’t amount to much, so I went to the bedroom and lay down in the dark and listened to the purr of my cat somewhere off in the apartment. It seemed like a long time before I fell asleep.
Jack LaDuke phoned early the next morning. Roland Lewis had been found dead beneath the John Philip Sousa Bridge: one bullet to the head.
TWENTY-ONE
The autopsy delayed the funeral, so it wasn’t until Monday that Shareen Lewis put her son in the ground. Roland made the Roundup in Saturday’s Post, with a corresponding death notice in the obits giving out the funeral home’s location and burial particulars. There had been a dozen gun kills that weekend, so column-inch space was at a premium, and even for a young black male, Roland’s death received very little ink. He had spent his whole life wanting to be large, but in the end his public memorial was two generic sentences buried deep in Metro; he was
