Out of the Easy(28)

Pain surged at my temples. I held my pistol out to Willie. “Give me the shotgun.” As soon as it was in my arms, I began firing, pumping shell after shell. When the cans were gone, I started blowing holes in the fence.

“Stop! That’s my fence, you idiot!” yelled Willie.

I lowered the gun and looked at Willie, trying to catch my breath.

“Nice round,” said Willie. “What do you think those East Coast petits fours would say about that?”

I nodded. “Pretty salty.”

We drove to the nearest town for milk and eggs. I stared at the sunlight gleaming off Mariah’s hood and thought of Mother telling Cincinnati all about Charlie and Patrick’s house. Who could deliberately take advantage of a poor man like Charlie? And Charlie had done so much for us before falling ill.

Willie paid the store owner to let us make a phone call. She rang the house to check in. I heard the warble of Dora’s voice through the receiver but couldn’t make out the words.

“Tell ’em to come by tonight at ten. I can be back and ready by then,” said Willie. “Call Lucinda and have her bring a couple girls with her. No, of course not the redhead. I don’t need another catfight. Okay. All right. We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

Willie hung up the phone.

“Six johns from Cuba. They came by last year and dropped nearly five grand in four hours at the house. Dora said she put them off as long as she could, but they’re going back to Havana tomorrow. We have to go.”

I nodded and followed Willie out of the store and back to the car.

“Oh,” said Willie, stopping next to Mariah, “Dora said that Patrick’s called a bunch of times for you. He says it’s important.”





NINETEEN


“Take my bags to my room and then get out of here,” ordered Willie, handing me her things.

Girls in evening dresses paraded in front of Willie for approval. She checked their fingernails, looked at their jewelry, and asked if their brassieres and panties matched. They all wore a smear of glossy lipstick. Prostitutes had patent-leather lips, all except Sweety, who always blotted her lips.

“Welcome back,” said Dora, dressed in apple green satin with a huge bow that looked like a melted rainbow.

“What the hell is that?” said Willie.

“Something special for the rich Mexicans that are coming,” said Dora. She twirled around for Willie.

“They’re Cubans, not Mexicans! Go change into your velvet gown. You’re a prostitute, not a pi?ata, for God’s sake.” Dora sighed and started up the staircase. “Where’s Evangeline?” asked Willie.

“Sulking. Her big spender hasn’t been by in a while,” said Dora.

Mr. Lockwell. Maybe he really was scared to come back. But what if his appetite for pigtails trumped his fear of humiliation? I had to get that letter from him as soon as possible.

“What, are you just gonna stand there and gawk?” Willie asked me. “I said drop my bags and get out. Vacation’s over.”

I carried my suitcase, heavy with books, back to the bookshop in the dark. I watched for Cokie, hoping he might drive by and give me a ride. But he didn’t. Cars whizzed through the street, and music spilled out from the windows and doorways of each building I walked by. Cast-iron balconies sagged like sad, rusted doilies. I passed Mrs. Zerruda scrubbing her stoop in brick dust to ward off a hoodoo hex. Somewhere behind me a bottle broke on the sidewalk. Shady Grove felt a million miles away.

The bookshop was locked. The sign said CLOSED, but the lights were on. I made my way up the stairs to my apartment. A package leaned up against my door. My heart leapt when I saw Charlotte’s name on the return address. Taped to my door was a note from Patrick:

Please come to the house.

It’s Charlie.

I pounded on Patrick’s door and leaned over the railing to look in the front window. “It’s Jo!” I yelled.

The door flew open, and Patrick stood barefoot, clothes filthy, his face a wreck.

“Patrick, what is it?” I asked. I heard a yell from inside the house.

“Hurry.” He pulled me inside and locked the door behind me. The smell stopped me, as if I had smacked into a wall of rotting food and filthy diapers.

“Oh, Patrick,” I said, plugging my nose, “you have to open a window.”

“I can’t, then they’ll hear him. Jo, he won’t stop. It’s never been like this. He won’t snap out of it. He has no idea who I am. He’s terrified of me and won’t stop screaming. He only sleeps a few minutes at a time. I’m worried they’re going to haul him off to Charity. I haven’t slept for days, I—I . . .” Patrick’s chest puffed up and down in desperate breaths.

“It’s okay,” I told him, taking his hands. Patrick’s bloodshot eyes had sunk into deep wells of gray. The skin around his nose and mouth was mottled with red blemishes. What had been going on?

“Have you tried playing the piano?” I asked.

“The usual songs don’t work.”

“Have you given him the medicine?”

“I did, but now it’s gone and I can’t find it. I think he flushed it down the toilet. It’s all my fault.”

“Slow down, Patrick. Where is he?”

“In his room. If he sees me, he’ll go into complete hysterics.”