Out of the Easy(49)

“Of course you were. Hell, I’d be scared, too. Cokie said you thought it was your fault. That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Charlie’s obviously more pickled than any of us knew. I set up a trade with Randolph. He’s going to check on Charlie every couple days for a line of credit with Dora.”

“Thank you, Willie.”

“Now, Randolph can’t write prescriptions—he’s got problems of his own. I’ll still have to get those from Sully. But at least he can monitor and let us know what he needs.”

“The neighbors are probably becoming suspicious,” I said.

“Tell them Charlie’s in Slidell visiting a friend. I don’t want him in the mental ward with all the nut jobs,” said Willie. “Charlie’s a dignified man. Always helped me when I needed it. Randolph says the outbursts will pass, and he’ll go quiet.”

“You mean his fits will pass?”

Willie took another sip of her coffee. “Cokie also told me that you fixed Lockwell’s car.”

“I didn’t. Jesse Thierry did.”

Willie nodded. “Well, you sure made Jesse look like a hero. But I guess that’s why you did it. You’ve been seen around town together. You like him.”

She stated it as fact, just like Jesse did. It annoyed me. And who had told her I was seen with Jesse? It had to be Frankie.

“Jesse’s a friend, Willie, nothing more. He talks about cars and dirt racing.”

“Oh, right, and you’re on your way to becoming a Rockefeller. I forgot.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, don’t worry. There are lots of nice girls who will be happy to take your sloppy seconds. Hell, the Uptown women gawk at him like he’s sex on a stick. Jesse’s a good kid, even if he’s too lowbrow for you.”

Willie had a way of making me feel ashamed of myself without even trying. I watched her unfold the newspaper. She looked at the headline, then at me, then back at the headline. She coughed and continued reading. “So, someone slipped the Mick too fat. Killed him, eh?”

I nodded.

Willie read aloud from the story. “‘The Memphis Press-Scimitar further reported that administering knockout drops to tourists of visible affluence is a widespread practice in the French Quarter, where the nightclub is located.’ Such crap. They’re painting us all as thieves! Next we’ll be voted the most dangerous city, and that’ll grind tourism to dust.”

Willie slapped the paper down in fury. She got up, lit a cigarette, and began pacing in front of the bed, her black silk robe flowing loose around her.

She pointed at me with her burning cigarette. “This is gonna get bad, Jo. People will demand a cleanup in the Quarter. This fella was high cotton. Every Uptown wife is going to see this and think of her own husband. They’ll lock ’em down. The police will turn up the heat. They’ll be on the house like a bitch on a bone. Business will suffer.”

“Do you think they’ll catch the person who did it?”

Willie didn’t respond. She paced, sucking nicotine. She stopped and turned to me. “Don’t you talk to anyone. If someone comes asking questions, you tell them you know nothing. You come straight to me.”

“Who would ask me questions?”

“The cops, idiot.”

I looked down into my lap.

“What, they already came around?”

I nodded. “Like I told you, Mr. Hearne came into the shop and bought two books the day he died. The police wanted to know what he bought and if he seemed unwell. I told them that he bought Keats and Dickens and that he looked fine.”

“What else?” Willie took a hard pull on her cigarette. I watched the paper burn back.

“That’s it.”

“Well, that’s plenty. They could call you to testify.” She spun around toward me. “Was Patrick there? Did he see Hearne?”

“Yes.”

“Patrick will take the stand. Not you.”

“Willie, what are you talking about?”

“Shut up! Get out and get to work. You’re late. Dates will come knocking early, wanting a fix before Mardi Gras. And put some cold water on your face. It’s fat from all your boo-hooing. You look like Joe Louis in the twelfth round.”





THIRTY-THREE


I slept through Mardi Gras.

I used Patrick’s fan from the shop to mask the noise. We always complained that fan was loud, but on the floor next to my bed, it was perfect. I slept for fourteen hours, not waking once, not even to think about the Smith application.

I had mailed it the day before Mardi Gras, including a crisp ten-dollar bill for the application fee. I often thought about opening a bank account and loved the idea of having printed checks, but Willie didn’t trust banks or bankers in New Orleans. She said they were the wildest men in the house, and she wasn’t going to let them pay her with her own money. She also didn’t want anyone tracking her earnings.

The clerk at the post office said the envelope would arrive in Northampton by February 27. She had looked at the address on the envelope, looked at me, and gave a pitiful smile. She was probably thinking, “Oh, you’re not really trying to get into Smith College, are you? I heard they’re hiring at Woolworth’s on Canal.”