Out of the Easy(4)

“Just you wait,” he whispered, licking his teeth. “I’m gonna get you, Josie Moraine.”

I shook off the shiver.

“Hey, Motor City.”

I turned toward the voice. Jesse Thierry sat on his motorcycle, staring at me from across the street. Jesse was quiet and often spoke through only a nod or a smile. Sometimes I thought he was watching me, which was ridiculous, because Jesse Thierry would have no interest in someone like me. He might be quiet, but his looks were not. He was striking and edgy, in a way that made me feel uncomfortable. Others didn’t find Jesse’s looks unsettling. Tourists turned to look at him. He was constantly trailed by girls.

“You need a ride?” he asked. I shook my head.

“I want a ride, Jesse!” said a blonde next to him.

He ignored her. “You sure, Jo?”

“I’m sure. Thanks, Jesse.”

He nodded, fired up the bike, and sped away, leaving the girls on the sidewalk.

The noise faded as I turned onto Royal. The deep blue sign with gold lettering came into view, hanging from a wrought-iron bracket above the door: MARLOWE’S BOOKSHOP. Through the window, I could see Patrick sitting at the counter. The bell tinkled overhead as I entered the store, and the calming smell of paper and dust surrounded me.

“How is he today?” I asked.

“Today’s a good day. He knows my name. I think for a second he even remembered I’m his son,” said Patrick, leaning back on his usual chair behind the counter.

“Wonderful!” I meant it. Some days Mr. Marlowe didn’t recognize Patrick. Sometimes he swore at him, even threw things at him. Those were bad days.

“Your pal Cokie came by,” said Patrick. “He said to give you this.” He slid a folded piece of paper across the counter.

I opened it.

CINCYNATTY.

It was written in Cokie’s shaky handwriting.

“I didn’t read it, but I think he means Cincinnati,” said Patrick.

“You didn’t read it, huh?” Patrick had just turned twenty-one but still teased like a boy who milked girls’ pigtails at recess.

He smiled. “He doesn’t know how to spell it. Is he going to Cincinnati?”

“Mmm . . . must be. Did you save me a paper?”

He pointed to a copy of the Times-Picayune, neatly folded on my chair.

“Thanks. I’ll take over in a minute,” I told him.

“Really, Jo, the Picayune is so boring. They intentionally leave out news from the Quarter and . . .”

Patrick’s voice trailed off as I made my way through the tall shelves of books toward the squirrelly staircase at the back of the shop. I had kept my own apartment since I was eleven. It wasn’t really an apartment, not at first anyway. It was a tiny office with a bathroom attached. I had been sleeping in the bookshop since I was ten, when Mother started her fits and beat me with an umbrella for no good reason. I quickly learned she was happiest when I wasn’t around. So I’d hide in the bookshop just before close and sleep under the large desk in the office.

On my eleventh birthday, I crept up the stairs after the store was locked. The office had been transformed. The windows and walls had been washed. The desk was still there, but all the boxes were cleared out and there was a bed, a small dresser, and even bookshelves in the corner. Flowered curtains hung from a rod over the open window, and music floated up from Bourbon Street. A single key hung on a nail. A lock had been installed on the door and a baseball bat leaned up against the bed. We never spoke of the arrangement. I simply began working for Mr. Marlowe in the store in exchange for the lodging.

I unlocked the door and slipped inside, quickly bolting it again. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled up a floorboard underneath my bed, feeling around until my fingers hit the cigar box. I dropped the coins from Frankie inside and put the floorboard back in place. I crawled out from under the bed and snapped the drapes shut. Then I opened the note from Cokie.

CINCYNATTY.





THREE


“I’ll be right back,” I told Patrick when I came down into the shop.

“Aw, come on. It’s New Year’s Eve,” he complained.

“It’s only one o’clock.”

“But I’ve got things to do,” he said.

“I’ll just be a minute,” I told him, rushing out the door.

I ran across the street to Sal’s. Willie was a good customer at Sal’s restaurant, and he let me use his telephone when I needed it. Actually, Willie was a good customer at many places, and fortunately, those benefits extended to me.

“Hi, Maria,” I said to the hostess, pointing to the telephone at the back. She nodded.

I picked up the phone and dialed HEmlock 4673.

Dora answered after only one ring in her fake breathy voice.

“It’s Jo. I need to speak to Willie.”

“Hey, sugar, she’s resting.”

Resting? Willie never took naps. “Wake her up.”

Dora put the receiver down. I heard her shoes clack and then fade on the hardwood floor as she went to get Willie. I could tell by the way the backs slapped against her heels that she was wearing the red-feathered mules that she bought mail-order from Frederick’s of Fifth Avenue. I twisted the telephone cord, and it slipped between my fingers. My hand was sweating. I wiped the moisture on my skirt.