Out of the Easy(67)
“In my room. I don’t wear it often. It’s a bit fancy.”
“You should give it to me, then. I’d wear it all the time.”
“I had a nice watch comin’ to me once, but your momma lost it,” said Cincinnati.
“I didn’t lose it!” snapped Mother. “Evangeline must have stolen it. I told you that a million times.”
“Or maybe Crazy Josie found it, sold it, and bought herself a nice watch.” Cincinnati stared at me.
“Mine was a gift.” I looked at Mother. “For my eighteenth birthday.”
“Ooh, you’re legal now.” Cincinnati snickered.
A uniformed police officer appeared in the doorway, greeting a friend at a nearby table.
I stood up. “Have a safe trip to California, Mother.” I leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Please send me your address so I can write to you.” I walked as fast as I could without jogging. As soon as I was outside, I pulled my gun from under my skirt and ran.
The heat from Cincinnati’s hand hung on my thigh, and the evening air crept in through the knife slice in my blouse. I ran past the Sans Souci and thought of Forrest Hearne, sitting dead at the table.
Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
FORTY-FIVE
His words were stuck in my head, running on a repeat loop. The kid’s slick like me, not stupid like you.
The fact that Cincinnati thought I resembled him in any way sickened me. It made me want to run and hide. When I was a child in Detroit and terrors chased me, I would run to my hiding spot, a crawl space under the front porch of the boardinghouse we lived in. I’d wedge my small body into the cool brown earth and lie there, escaping the ugliness that was inevitably going on above me. I’d plug my ears with my fingers and hum to block out the remnants of Mother’s toxic tongue or sharp backhand. It became a habit, humming, and a decade later, I was still doing it. Life had turned cold again, the safety of the cocoon under the porch was gone, and lying in the dirt had become a metaphor for my life.
Shady Grove was my tunnel under the porch now. But it was too far to run to all the time. When I returned to the shop after running from Cincinnati, I found a piece of paper on the floor under the mail slot.
Is it official? Are you Massachusetts instead of Motor City?
Jesse
I wanted to be Massachusetts. I still wanted to believe it was possible, that my wings, no matter how thin and torn, could still somehow carry me away from a life of lies and perverted men. I wanted to use my mind for study and research instead of trickery and street hustle.
I thought about visiting Jesse, but felt guilty. Was I thinking of him only because Patrick didn’t want me?
? ? ?
“Your mother’s in way over her head,” Willie said the next morning. She handed me the black book to put in the hiding box behind the mirror. “She thinks she’s tying into something glamorous, that she’s a gangster’s moll and her boyfriend’s some Al Capone. That horse’s ass thinks he’s big time, pulling favors. He’s a flimsy pawn, too stupid to realize the hand’s on his own back now.”
The black hand. That’s what Willie was talking about. In New Orleans, a black handprint meant you were marked, a threat for all to see unless you complied with the mob and whatever Carlos Marcello wanted. I saw one on a door once, on Esplanade. It gave me gooseflesh, knowing the person’s life was in danger, wondering how someone could be so stupid to mess with the mob.
“Mother wanted to stay and have dinner at Commander’s Palace tonight,” I told Willie.
“Are you kidding me? We better hope, for all our sakes, that they’re halfway to California by tonight,” said Willie. She settled against her pillows. “I think I’ll sleep another hour. I’ve earned it.”
I opened the door and prepared to take the coffee tray back into the kitchen. The echo of a gusty belch bounced in through the door.
“What the hell was that?” said Willie, reaching for her gun.
“It’s just Dora. She’s drinking soda water, says she has gas from the red beans and rice she ate after the johns left.”
Willie waved the gun in the air. “I swear to you, I’m an inch from selling her to P. T. Barnum. You hear me?” She stuffed the gun back under her pillow and lay down. “Get out. Tell Dora to take her gas leak up to her room or I’ll send a wagon for her.”
I walked into the kitchen. “Willie says to take your gas leak up to your room.”
“Well, I can’t sleep, hon. I need to get this out.” She waved a hand at me. “Jo,” she whispered, pointing to Sadie, whose back was turned at the stove. Dora took a gulp of soda water and swallowed hard. A few seconds later a thunderous burp rattled the kitchen. Sadie nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned, furious, and started beating Dora with a wooden spoon. Dora ran from the kitchen laughing, her trail nothing but a whirl of shamrock satin.
Sadie took the tray from me. “Sadie,” I whispered, “I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”
She looked at me with a puzzled expression.
“For your contribution, the money you gave Cokie.”
She put her hand up and shook her head. That meant the conversation was over. But I caught her smiling as she put the dishes in the sink.