The Passenger (The Passenger, #1)(27)

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When he came back in the afternoon he had a mattress and a couple of bags of groceries. He parked in front of the bar and got out and carried the mattress in off the truck. Josie watched him from behind the bar. The mattress was something of a struggle but nobody was getting up to help. He stood it against the cigarette machine and turned. What am I going to owe you? he said.

Hell, Bobby. Get moved in. I aint worried about you.

All right.

Oiler was in here huntin you.

Did you tell him I was moving in?

No. He told me.

Jesus.

He shouldered his way through the patio doors and labored up the stairs with the mattress. When he’d carried everything in he went out and drove the truck down Decatur until he found a parking spot. Then he walked up St Philip to his little apartment and let himself in through the gate and put the key in the door and pushed it open. One more door to close forever. He stepped in and switched on the light. He stood looking at the clothes he’d left on the bed and then he walked into the kitchen. In the bathroom he turned on the light and bent and carefully pulled open the bottom drawer on the right. He’d left a round ballpoint pen in the center of the drawer with the cap off so that it would roll and when he eased the drawer open the pen was lying against the front edge of it. He shut the drawer and walked back into the front room and went out and locked the door and went back down to Decatur Street. He stopped at the corner and got a paper and walked down to Tujague’s.

It was five oclock on a Sunday afternoon in November and he was the sole patron. A few people at the bar in the other room. A waiter came with a loaf of bread and a plate of butter. He poured water from the antique glass carafe on the table and went away.

There was no menu. You ate what they brought. He had shrimp remoulade and then a soup of seafood and rice. The broiled brisket served with a horseradish seafood sauce. He had a glass of white wine and a fillet of seabass and he drank coffee served in a glass. A group of tourists came in. The place seemed to have a calming effect on them. Western knew the feeling. They looked at the photographs on the walls. The hundreds of two-ounce bottles of liquor displayed. He ordered another coffee and a dish of vanilla ice cream. By the time he left it was almost seven oclock and he walked back to the Seven Seas. There was a note from Red and he put it in his pocket and climbed the stairs and fed the cat and went to bed.

In the morning when he drove down to Belle Chasse it was still gray early light. He parked the truck and walked across the yard. Past the training tank and the steel buildings. He unlocked the metal door and walked back to the operations room and turned on the lights and switched on the hotplate and got down the coffee and the filters.

Oiler came in around six thirty. I figured it was you, he said.

Yeah? How’d you figure that?

I just figured it would take you a while to get to where you could actually sleep in that looney bin. You get moved in okay?

Yeah. I’m all right.

What happened? You have more visitors?

Several more, probably. My dancecard is pretty full.

Oiler poured a cup of coffee and stood stirring it with a plastic spoon. So is that why you moved?

Yeah. It was probably time anyway. Jimmy said I was overdue.

Jimmy would know.

I hope not.

Did you know that he was an old hardhat diver?

No. I didnt know that.

It could be a look into the future. You might ought to think about that.

I hear that a lot. I’m surprised nobody’s come calling on you.

Did I say that?

What, the missionaries?

The missionaries.

You didnt tell them where we hid the missing passenger did you?

No. They tried to beat it out of me but I kept mum. Finally they hooked up a one-twenty to my balls but I just gritted my teeth.

I hate it when they do that.

What time are you all leavin?

We’re not going till tomorrow.

What happened?

Cant say.

Do you think that plane is still out there?

I dont know. It would take a goodsized crane to haul it up and a goodsized barge to load it onto.

I’m guessing they’d be doing this at night.

You still scanning the newspapers?

No. I gave it up.

Oiler reached and got the coffeepot and poured his cup and put the pot back. This whole thing could just go away you know.

Wouldnt that be nice.

But you dont think it’s going to be nice.

Probably I dont.



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In the morning they drove downriver in Red’s old Ford Galaxie.

What have you got in this? A three-ninety?

No, it’s got a four twenty-eight. I’m going to try to find some CJ heads for it. I’ve got a cam that I never put in. You dont fool with cars anymore.

No. I gave it up.

You still got the Maserati.

Yeah. I dont drive it enough. Which worries me. The headgaskets begin to go and you get water down in the piston liners and they start to rust. Among other things.

Why that car?

I dont know. It’s not as fast as a Boxer. Or a Countach. But it’s better built. Things dont fall off of it. Mangusta? Maybe. Goodlooking car. Nothing can outbrake it. There’s a lot you could do with that 351 but you’d have to put a bigger transmission in it. And of course the 308 wont outrun a fat man. Plus they’re hard to find. So, Bora. The suspension is soft? Not really. It only leans so far. And I suppose you get used to all that Citr?en nuttiness. The subject is really aesthetics. The Bora is the prettiest car. That’s it. Over and out.