Out of the Easy(5)

“Buttons and bows,” said Willie, not even bothering to say hello.

“What?”

“The tune you were humming. It’s ‘Buttons and Bows.’ Look, I need a little peace before the walls start shaking. What the hell’s so important?”

“Cincinnati.”

There was silence on Willie’s end of the line. I heard the flip and flick of her sterling cigarette lighter and then a long breath as she inhaled and exhaled the smoke. “Who told you?”

“Frankie,” I said. “He found me after I left your house. I was on my way to the bookshop.”

“When’s he in?” asked Willie.

“Said he didn’t know, just that he was on his way and that he could be here already. Where’s Mother?” I asked.

“Upstairs. She’s been a giggling idiot all morning,” said Willie.

“You think she knows?”

“Of course she knows. I knew something was up. Dora said she got a phone call two days ago. She’s been a complete imbecile ever since.” I heard the long intake of breath, the hold, and then the flutter as Willie expelled the curling smoke from her nostrils.

“Cokie knows. He left me a note,” I said.

“Good. Cokie’s scheduled for a few drop-offs tonight. He’ll keep me posted. Are you at Sal’s?”

“Yes. Cokie said the Dukes of Dixieland are playing tonight at the Paddock, so I thought I’d—”

“Absolutely not. I don’t want you seen in the Quarter,” said Willie.

“But, Willie, it’s New Year’s Eve,” I argued.

“I don’t give a rip. You’re staying in—locked in. You understand?” she said.

I hesitated, wondering how far I could push it. “I hear Cincinnati’s in with Carlos Marcello now.”

“Mind your own business,” Willie snapped. “Come over in the morning.”

“It’s just—I worry about Mother,” I said.

“Worry about yourself. Your mother’s a stupid whore.” The line clicked and went dead.





FOUR


“Sorry about that,” I said to Patrick as I returned to the bookshop.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine, why?”

“You have red splotches on your neck. Here, your beloved society page is chock-full today.” He tossed the paper at me as I sat next to him behind the counter. His voice elevated to a prissy, nasal tone. “Miss Blanche Fournet of Birmingham, Alabama, who is spending part of her winter season in New Orleans, was the guest of honor at a luncheon given by her aunt and uncle Dr. and Mrs. George C. Fournet. The table was decorated with pale blue hydrangeas, and all the lovely guests had a perfectly boring time.”

I laughed and swatted him across the shoulder with the paper.

“Really, Jo. Your obsession with Uptown and the society page is ridiculous. When are you gonna realize that those women are just a bunch of pretentious old biddies?”

The bell jingled, and a tall, handsome man in a tailored suit entered the shop.

“Afternoon,” he said, smiling and nodding to us. “How are y’all today?”

The man’s accent was Southern, but not from New Orleans. His skin was deeply tanned, making his teeth and broad smile sparkling white, like Cary Grant.

“Fine, thank you. Visiting New Orleans for the holiday, sir?” I asked.

“Is it that obvious?” said the man, grinning.

“I’m sorry, I just meant—”

“No apologies. You’re correct. I’m just down from Memphis for the Sugar Bowl.”

“Do you play?” asked Patrick, eyeing the man’s height and broad shoulders.

“I did. Wide receiver for Vanderbilt. I used to come here with the team, and we’d duke it out with Tulane. Always loved it. New Orleans was a great place to get in trouble, and I did my fair share, mind you.” He gave a knowing wink to Patrick. “Y’all in school at Tulane?” he asked.

“I just finished up at Loyola,” said Patrick.

“And you, pretty lady?” The gorgeous man looked at me.

College? Yes! I wanted to scream. I’d love to go to college. Instead I smiled and looked down.

“She’s trying to make up her mind,” said Patrick, jumping in. “You know the type, so smart, they’re all fighting over her.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular today?” I asked, changing the subject. I casually put two fingers on the counter, signaling to Patrick. It was one of the games we played, trying to guess what type of book the customer wanted. My two fingers told Patrick I was betting a dime that Mr. Memphis was interested in history. Patrick closed his left fist. That meant he wagered sports related.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied, taking off his hat. His black hair glistened in the afternoon sun streaming through the front window. “Keats.”

“Poetry?” said Patrick.

“Ah, surprised, are you? Well, let’s not judge a book by its cover, now. Even football players like poetry,” he said.

“Of course they do,” I replied. “The poetry section is right this way.”

“I’ve got to run,” said Patrick. “Josie will take it from here. Keats is one of her favorites. Nice to meet you, sir.”