“Sure, it’s possible.” She paused again. “Or he’s Indian. They live along the east coast, near Honduras.”
“He looked more black.”
“Well, there’re Caribbean Creoles mixed in with the Indians. Yeah, and some have unusual names, you’re right, they got from Moravian missionaries. There was a Miskito Indian at the hospital, his name was Armstrong Diego.” She said then, “But when you told the colonel she wasn’t there, what’d he do?”
“Well, he didn’t believe me. Especially when the guy, Franklin, says I was there, he saw me. But he didn’t do anything about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I said, okay, take a look around. We go upstairs, the colonel sees Leo preparing a body and forgets all about Amelita.”
“It didn’t make him ill…”
“No, he loved it. But after a few minutes that was it, he left. Told Leo he had an appointment. See, when I first got there I thought Leo was gonna have a heart attack. He talked to Sister Teresa Victor on the phone this morning and then he and I talked and he did not know how to handle it. The colonel comes, Leo’s scared to death. Afraid to even look at him. The colonel leaves and Leo says, ‘He seems like a nice guy.’ ”
“He didn’t…”
“You have to understand, anybody that’d want to watch an embalming becomes Leo’s friend for life.”
“That was all? They left?”
“I guess he had to be somewhere. But the guy, Franklin… he was weird.”
“I have to learn how to lie,” Lucy said.
“You tell a big one. The bigger the lie, the better chance you have they’ll believe you.”
“But if they believe she’s alive and she’s not at your place, then she must be here. Bertie and his guys. He seems less of a threat if I think of him as Bertie. I found out he’s staying at the Saint Louis. You know where it is?”
“It’s in the Quarter. Very nice hotel, small.”
“Did you ever… pick up jewelry there?”
He said, “I don’t think it was a hotel back then,” picturing the open hallways on each floor that looked down into a center courtyard. Why didn’t the guy stay at the Roosevelt? “You talked to your dad, huh?”
“I called him this morning and apologized. Probably the most deceitful thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Yeah, but were you convincing?”
“He said, ‘Don’t give it another thought, Sis.’ I said, ‘If I decide to borrow one of your guns and shoot the son of a bitch, where would I find him?’ He thought that was funny, his daughter the nun turned reactionary. Or whatever I am, I don’t know. I put him down, criticize his business, his politics, but I used money he gave me to buy the car in León.”
“You shouldn’t have trouble with that. You don’t have to like him just ’cause he’s your dad.”
“But I do, he’s a nice guy… Except his values are all screwed up.”
“Wait’ll you meet Roy Hicks.”
There was a silence on Lucy’s end.
“If you’re having second thoughts, I can understand.”
“No, I want to meet him.”
“I might have another guy, too. The only problem is, he doesn’t have a place to live. But we can talk about that later. If the guy in the Chrysler comes to the door, don’t open it.”
“I won’t. But I’d like to get Amelita out of here tonight, if possible. There’s a late flight to L.A. with a change in Dallas. But we’d have to leave here by nine-thirty.”
“We’ll work it out. I’ll call you by eight.”
Jack had a couple of beers and an oyster loaf at the bar, talked to Mario on and off about nothing, and in between thought about the guy, Franklin, and his bluesteel automatic. That was one weird fucking guy. Jack finished eating and drove downtown.
Roy Hicks was putting together an array of pastel-colored drinks in stem glasses along the inside edge of the bar, topping them off with cherries, orange slices, and tiny parasols.
Jack watched him from the front end of the bar, near the entrance to the International Lounge, “Featuring Exotic Dancers from Around the World.”
The way Roy was concentrating, that hard jaw line of his clenched, Jack wouldn’t be surprised to see Roy finish making the drinks and then sweep them off the bar with one of his hairy forearms. Roy always wore short-sleeve shirts, even with the formal black bow tie and the red satin vest. The owner of the club, Jimmy Linahan, had told Roy he’d have to wear long sleeves with French cuffs, but Roy wouldn’t do it; he kept showing up for work in his short-sleeve shirts. Jimmy Linahan said to him, “I don’t want to have to tell you again.” Roy said, “Then don’t,” and went on making drinks.
Jack remembered that day, sitting on this same stool when it happened and Jimmy Linahan coming over to him. They had known each other since they were fifteen years old and used to swim off the levee in Audubon Park and get in fights with black kids or Italians, whoever happened to be there. Jimmy Linahan said, “What’s with this guy?” Roy had given Jack’s name as a reference.
Jack said to him that time, “Jimmy, if I were you I’d let the guy wear a jockstrap with sequins on it if that’s what he happens to show up in. A joint like this, you need Roy more than he needs you. And I don’t mean ’cause he was a cop and knows how to use a stick. Roy has a knack of getting people to agree with him.”
Jimmy Linahan came to appreciate Roy: the fact he never drew complaints or had to give refunds. Roy could put together a drink he’d never heard of without referring to the Bartender’s Guide. And if the patron said, “This isn’t a Green Hornet,” Roy would look at the patron and say, “That’s the way I make ’em, pal. Drink up.” And the patron would see Roy’s eyes, the dead dark stones in there, and say, ‘Mmmmm, it’s different, but good.” Or if the patron bought one of the Exotic Dancers from Around the World a split of champagne and made a fuss when he got a tab for sixty-five dollars, Roy would look at the patron and say, “I bet you can have the money out, plus tip, before I come over the bar. Huh?”
Jack could hear conventioneers behind him having fun, several tables of middle-aged men and women wearing big ID badges. There were a few thousand more of them out on Bourbon Street and it wasn’t yet eight o’clock. Roy was working days this week and would be off at eight.
One of the International girls took the stool next to Jack saying, “Hi, how you doing?” With an accent that would make her an exotic dancer from around the East Texas part of the world. She said, “My name’s Darla. You want to pet my monkey?”
Roy was at the cash register punching keys. He looked over his shoulder and said, “Hey, Darla? Get your hand off his dick. That’s a friend of mine.” He punched some more keys, took the check out of the register, and walked up the bar to the service station.
“He’s an old sweetie, isn’t he?” Jack gave her a nice smile as he said it. He had watched her perform, up on the stage back of the bar, the Exotic Darla naked except for a silver G-string and pink pasties centered on tired, impersonal breasts that looked too old for her. Poor girl trying to make a living. “I tell people,” Jack said to her, “if you’re ever behind Roy at a stoplight and it changes and he doesn’t start up right away, don’t honk your horn.”
The Exotic Darla said, “Yeah?” Waiting for him to continue.
So Jack said, “We were on a 747 one time going to Vegas, one of those junkets where everything’s included, the flight, the hotel… We’ve been drinking for about two hours, Roy decides he has to go to the bathroom. I’m on the aisle, so when I get up I decide, well, I may as well go too. We get to the back of the plane and see these little signs on all the lavatories, occupied. Roy goes over to the other side of the plane where there three more, but they’re occupied too, so he comes back. I’m standing there, he knows these three are occupied, he can see the little signs, but he tries the doors anyway, jiggles the handles. He stands there for about a half a minute and all of a sudden he kicks the door of the one I’m standing right in front of. He kicks it and says, ‘Come on, hurry up!’ The door opens like only about ten seconds later. This guy comes out, big guy, and gives me the dirtiest look you ever saw in your life. Not Roy, me, ’cause I’m the one standing there. The guy walks off, up the aisle, and Roy goes, ‘What’s the matter with him?’ ”