Southern Cross

'Looking at what?'

'The paint job. I heard about it,' Weed said. 'So I came to look.'

'Who were you talking to?'

'I wasn't talking.'

'I heard you,' Brazil said.

Weed had to revise. It took him a minute.

'I was praying to Jesus,' he said.

'About what?'

Brazil was trying to be mean, but Weed didn't think he really was.

'About all these dead people,' Weed said.

'How did you get here. You walk?'

Weed nodded.

'Nobody gave you a ride? You're by yourself?'

Weed shook his head.

'No to which?'

'Being here by myself,' Weed answered.

'Meaning you are here by yourself or you're not?'

'Yeah.'

'Yeah?' Brazil had to get it straight. 'You're here by yourself?'

Weed nodded.

'And you got in by climbing over the fence.'

'Huh?'

'I saw you. You grabbed the Victory Rug Cleaning sign and climbed over.'

'Why you think they advertise on a cement-tary fence? Who they think gonna get their rugs done? Dead people?' Weed tried to divert the conversation.

'Why did you climb over the fence?' Brazil asked him.

'It was quicker.' Weed was trying to act cool but his heart was attacking him.

'Why aren't you in school?'

'It's a holiday.'

'Oh really?' Brazil asked. 'Which one?'

'Can't remember.'

'I'm pretty sure today isn't a holiday,' Brazil said.

'Then how come there's no school?' Weed said.

Brazil didn't find Weed threatening in the least, but Brazil looked him over to make sure he wasn't carrying anything Brazil ought to know about.

'Then what are you doing way over here?' Brazil asked.

Brazil stepped closer to the statue to get a better look at Magic Jeff. He couldn't help but smile.

'I think it was one of those teacher work days,' Weed offered lamely. 'All I know is it was something, you know, something they was doing and we didn't have to go. And my mama had to go to work. So I'm just hanging, you know?'

'It would only take me a minute to find out whether you're telling me the truth,' said Brazil, who was distracted and upset that West had left him and hadn't shown up yet. 'What I ought to do is haul your tiny butt back to Godwin and let them deal with you. But guess what? All they'd do is suspend you and that would only keep you out of school longer, right? So that'd just give you what you want, right?'

'I don't want to be out of school!' Weed fired back. 'I'd be there now if…'

'I thought you said it was a holiday,' Brazil said.

Weed was horrified that he'd just tripped over his lie and landed flat on his ass. There was no going back. His eyes danced around, looking for some place to run.

'All right, Weed,' Brazil said. 'Let's get down to business.'

'What kind of business?'

'It's time for the truth,' Brazil said as Pigeon suddenly appeared, heading toward them, his gait listing and awkward.

'For one thing, your last name isn't Jones, now is it?" said Brazil, who could not see Pigeon at his back.

'No,' Weed said.

'It's Gardener, and your brother was Twister.'

Weed was speechless.

'Weed, tell me what the five's for?'

'Huh?'

'The five tattooed on your finger. Let's try that story again and see if it comes out better this time.'

Fear turned to panic. Weed's mind went blank.

'I told you before it don't mean nothing,' Weed said.

'I know it does,' Brazil persisted. 'The Pikes. The gang taking credit for painting the statue, right?'

Weed was beginning to shake, Pigeon right behind them. Brazil probably smelled him and suddenly spun around, hand on his gun.

'Don't go shooting me, I ain't worth it,' Pigeon said calmly as he eyed the statue. 'Now that's special.'

'Who are you?' Brazil asked Pigeon, relaxing his shooting hand a little.

'Pigeon. I've seen you before,' Pigeon said. 'Usually with some hot-looking lady cop. Can't be on the street as much as I am and not see everybody eventually.'

Pigeon studied the statue again. Weed wasn't sure, but he thought he saw admiration shining in Pigeon's eyes. For an instant, Weed felt joy.

'So,' Brazil said, 'either one of you got any idea who painted this statue to look like Weed's brother?'

Weed tensed.

Pigeon waited.

'Well,' Weed said in a tight voice, 'they was both eighteen. Maybe that's why somebody did it.'

Pigeon squinted at the inscription on the statue's base.

'What?' Brazil frowned.

'It says right there.' Weed pointed. 'The man in the statue was eighteen just like Twister was.'

'You need to recheck your math,' Pigeon said to Weed. 'Jeff Davis was eighty-one when he died.'

'What'd he do anyway?' Weed asked.

'Went to jail for a while,' Pigeon said. 'About two years, leg irons and the whole bit, as I recollect.'

Weed stared at the statue and got a frightened expression on his face. He wondered if leg irons were like big handcuffs and if he'd have to wear them, too. He didn't want to go to jail for two years. He tried to console himself by hoping Mr. Davis had done something worse than paint a statue.

'What you do to him if you catch him?' Weed said.

'Catch who?' Brazil asked.

'The one who did the paint job.'

'Can't say for sure. I'd have to talk to him first and find out why he did it,' Brazil replied thoughtfully. 'Whoever it is, your brother must be very special to him.'

'Lock him up right this minute,' Pigeon was quick to volunteer. 'That's what I'd do with him.'

'Naw,' Brazil replied. 'If all he did was paint this statue, what good would it do to lock him up? Better to get him to do something helpful to the community.'

'Like what?' Weed asked.

'Like cleaning up what he's done.'

'You mean getting rid of it? Even if it's good?' Weed said.

It didn't matter that his artwork wouldn't survive the first rain or spray of a hose. Weed couldn't stand the thought of cleaning it up himself. It would just kill him to wash Twister away.

'Doesn't matter if it's good,' Brazil was saying.

But it did to Weed, and he couldn't resist asking, 'You think it is?'

'I sure as hell think so,' Pigeon said. 'I think the artist ought to open a gallery in goddamn New York.'

'That's not the issue,' Brazil said to Pigeon. 'There's someone running around out there who's unusually gifted, I'll admit that. But this isn't the way to show it.'

'What does gifted mean?' Weed said.

'Special. Really good at something. You sure you don't know who might be doing this?' Brazil asked.

Brazil knew. Weed could tell.

'Come on, Weed, fess up,' Pigeon ratted on him. 'Remember what we talked about, huh? Remember the devil out there?'

Weed ran like hell, his knapsack flapping on his back. Two paintbrushes flew out and landed on Varina Davis's grave.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

At the Commonwealth Club, Hammer was losing her polish and becoming argumentative. She had not eaten breakfast and unwisely had washed down a Multi-Max 1 sustained release multivitamin, two Advils, two BuSpars and three tropical-fruit-flavored Turns calcium supplements with black coffee. Her stomach burned.

'I think we need to put things in perspective,' Hammer announced.

'I think there's exactly why we're doing it,' Ehrhart answered her.

'The point is not our reverence of monuments and a historic cemetery,' Hammer said, knowing she was venturing into an Indian burial ground.

'It's not a matter of reverence but of a far-stretching perception,' Ehrhart butted in. 'Hollywood Cemetery is a symbolism of the prospering advancement of culture that midway in the middle of the nineteenth century catapulted our marveling city into the twenty-fifth bigger of the others in America.'

'Anybody know how many big cities there were back then?' challenged Reverend Jackson.