South, America Read online

  South, America

  A Jack Prine novel

  Rod Davis

  NEWSOUTH BOOKS

  Montgomery

  Also by Rod Davis

  American Voudou: Journey into a Hidden World (1998)

  Corina’s Way (2005)

  NewSouth Books

  105 S. Court Street

  Montgomery, AL 36104

  Copyright 2014 by Rod Davis. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by NewSouth Books, a division of NewSouth, Inc., Montgomery, Alabama.

  ISBN: 978-1-60306-315-9

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-60306-316-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013020424

  Visit www.newsouthbooks.com

  For Jennifer, Moriah, Hailey, and Noelle

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  “Seems, Madam? Nay, it is. I know not ‘seems.’”

  — Hamlet, Act I, Scene 2

  1

  The body was splayed out face down across a busted-up curb in the Faubourg Marigny, downriver of the Quarter but not quite in the Bywater. Weeds and a high fence lined one side of the street, decaying duplexes and a boarded-up grocery store the other. Two bone-thin brown dogs trotted over from a ripped-up garbage bag, but, seeing me, turned back.

  It was early, especially for a Sunday, not even seven. The autumn night had been cool and a thin fog put everything in soft focus, as if the city really were easy. My goal, or so I had thought, in the same way you think the sun will rise and set every day, was a big mug of Guatemalan at RJ’s, somehow surviving among the abandoned warehouses and urban detritus near the docks. I hadn’t slept well—maybe too much fun at the Blue Frog or too many worries about the practicality of my move here, or both.

  At first I figured the corpse for a drunk or a junkie, sleeping off another lost night. Then I got closer. I couldn’t see the face, buried as it was into the concrete and half-obscured by one arm, but the clothes were smart: black slacks, tan cotton shirt, simple Italian lace-up shoes. A small, slender figure, all but unobtrusive in other circumstances. He was black, but you could barely tell given the dull gray color of what skin I could see. I gently nudged his left side with the toe of my sandals. Nothing. I bent down and touched the small of his back with my fingers.

  I stared for a few moments. I knew the look on my own face: I’d seen it at crime scenes a dozen times back in Dallas when I worked the news. More than that when I was a first lieutenant working intelligence. Nobody ever likes to see the bodies. Whatever the reason. Nobody who’s not fucked up. I didn’t like to think about it. One thing I had learned hard—people are completely without sophistication around death. Completely.

  I heard something and stood up, but it was just the rattle of an old car with bad suspension somewhere in the distance. Given the hour, I was almost certainly the first person to have come by. Except for whoever left him that way, with the back of his head smashed flat, close-cropped hair a carpet of blood and whitish ooze.

  I hadn’t brought my cell with me but there was a pay phone up near a grocery on Franklin and I went to call. The receiver was spray-painted purple and crawling with turf codes, but at least the cord was intact and the line was good. I dialed 911 and told a dispatcher what I’d found, and where, and went back to wait.

  I was surprised how quickly a squad car showed, lights flashing but no siren. A young cop, strawberry blond, got out. He popped the nightstick from his belt and held it low in his right hand. He told me to step back, which I did, and asked for some ID, which fortunately I had in my jeans. He asked me what I did for a living and to keep things simple and mainstream I told him I wrote advertising copy. He looked me over fairly closely and then sort of relaxed. He gave me a cop name, initials only—J. F. Mallory.

  I told him how I’d come across the body. I could see him writing down a few things: “male,” “African-American,” “head wound” and so on. When I said all I knew he told me I could leave, but that he might need to get in touch and I gave him my home phone number. I walked away slowly, half-wondering if there were a story I could work up and sell. What I didn’t tell the officer was that while I was trying to figure out a line on my future I was doing some freelance writing and the occasional unlicensed PI investigation for a divorce lawyer/ex-Army buddy on the West Bank. But I didn’t want to hang around and take a chance that someday Officer Mallory might remember he’d seen me when I was down at the police station doing business, so I just headed back to my apartment. Another squad car pulled up. The place would soon be thick with onlookers.

  At home, I sidestepped a pile of unread magazines and went into the kitchen to fix the coffee I never did get from RJ’s. I was out of everything except a French Market chicory mix, but that was my favorite anyway—had been since I’d gone to college in Baton Rouge. Things seemed more straightforward then.

  I cleaned a few dishes and looked out the window into the courtyard. It was one of those Creole row-house duplexes common to the neighborhood, where the front half faces the street, and the rear unit is set back behind a garden. In this case a well-tended one, thanks to my landlords, Eula and Art Becker, a retired couple who relocated ten years ago from Memphis. He had been in the hotel business and she had been a public school teacher. They liked the city and had bought this place back when the Marigny was cheap and undiscovered. I guess Art had a good eye for a deal.

  We didn’t have a lot to do with each other since I was gone a lot or liked to work alone, but they had given me a fair rate for the back half and they always kept everything up, unlike some of the other places on the block. Case in point: the four-plex next door. Only one of the units was rented. The others were in such disrepair that it was a constant effort on all our parts to keep wandering junkies from squatting, especially in the two narrow one-bedrooms in back. Periodically, we’d chase them off, but they always left behind their needles, condoms, pizza boxes, and beer bottles.

  The owners of the mostly vacant place lived up North and Art told me the city couldn’t seem to do anything to make them shape up. If the absentee owners were to show up and any locals spotted them, I’m not sure what would have happened. Here, you watched for a while and then you found the best thing to do. It didn’t have to involve rules of law.

  I kept my own apartment as tidy as my mood permitted. An Uptown belle once dismissed my décor as Asian Southwestern—a haphazard combination of Mexican blankets, wood and leather couches, highly eccentric taste in tables, chairs, and dinnerware, and a bedroom with a futon and a Zen mat that I used about as much as a lapsed Catholic goes to Mass. Actually I did tend to look to Asia i
n my head, when it got all mixed up. On the other hand, Asia was where a big chunk of the mixing-up started.

  The living room next to the kitchen was also my office, with a wooden desk in one corner and a side bookshelf filled with things I thought I might need when I came here a year ago from Dallas. I’d worked for a TV station. I was a pretty good reporter and weekend anchor with a decent audience. But it’s a volatile profession. One day I got into an argument with my boss and slammed him against a newsroom wall. They don’t let you stay after that. Since he’d been throwing a punch at me at the time, the dust-up was kept out of the police blotter but not the grapevine. I walked away with a decent settlement “to pursue other interests.”

  I wasn’t sure what other interests were. I was paying the bills with the freelance and PI gigs and looking into maybe using some of my CBS-7 cash-out to open a specialized high-end tourist agency. Mostly I was laying low, trying to get a bead on what I would do if I could do anything I wanted. In New Orleans. Anno Domini 2000.

  All that’s a long way of saying that as uncertain as things were for me in the Big Easy, I felt a lot better and a lot healthier than I had in the Big D. And if you are getting healthier in New Orleans, you definitely know you were not doing well previously.

  The day passed in the usual routine. I put on WWOZ and listened to jazz while knocking out a few pages on a no-brainer story about Biloxi for a travel magazine. The real creativity was in making up an invoice to send to Ray Oubre, my lawyer friend, for photos I took of a Mr. Clive Tauberly with the wrong woman at a chic hotel on Gravier Street. Actually that’s where I had gotten the idea for a tourism business. “Weekends on the Wild Side”—something like that. By early evening I was sitting on a wobbly wrought-iron barstool with a cracked red vinyl cushion at Berto’s, a little tavern near Frenchmen. I spent several hours talking to Ben and Jerri, tourists from Florida who turned out to be not rich at all. At issue was whether the Sunshine State was part of the South, a question on which I could, and did, take both sides.

  I went home less hopeful about profiting off escapist-minded bourgeoisie, but bubbly with love for my chosen metropolis, sinking so determinedly into the mushy Louisiana earth, a lustrous and valiant spirit in the face of the mist-shrouded heavens. I wondered, rounding the corner to my apartment, what that dead man had been thinking about the last place he would ever see. If he’d had time to think of anything.

  I was filling out a quarterly income tax estimate the next morning when the phone rang. I almost let the machine answer. Interesting option, looking back.

  “This is Jack.”

  “Hello, Mr. Prine?” It was the kind of voice that makes you want to hear more.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you but my name is Elle Meridian and I’m at the police station where an officer named Mallory has kindly given me your number.”

  It was a clear voice, almost like a TV reporter’s. But softer. Southern, with an urban sharpness. It was full of sadness.

  “Oh. Yeah. Patrolman Mallory.”

  “I’m Terrell’s sister. Terrell Henry Meridian is the man you found. My name is Elle.”

  “I’m really sorry.” I scribbled her name and his on a notepad.

  “Thank you. I’m calling to ask if you would be kind enough to talk to me for just a few minutes, today if possible, before I have to go home and get things set up for the funeral.”

  I tried to piece it together as quickly as I could.

  “Mr. Prine?”

  “Sorry,” I said, to make up for what must have been a long pause. “But I’m not really sure what I could tell you.”

  “You found him.”

  “I know. That’s what I mean.” I could hear my own impatience. Seriously, I had no shot at running a tourist agency.

  “I’d rather meet you in person.”

  I tried for a much nicer tone. “Sure. I could see that.”

  “Is there a place easy for you?

  I suggested Napoleon’s. It’s in the Quarter but it’s the kind of rendezvous you can easily duck if you get into a bad meeting. Exits had been something I had been trained to think about long ago and old habits die hard. I said I would be there at six, but she asked for five, because she had a drive, and we ended up settling on four.

  I had forgotten to get her description but as soon as I saw her there was no doubt. A force radiated off her. Unless my gut was completely wrong it was primarily directed at me. She had short, light brown hair with small curls, a loose cotton dress, lavender, and a gold chain around her neck, which was smooth, strong, light caramel. Her small lips were bee-stung. What you might describe under different circumstances as kissable.

  As for me, Patrolman Mallory’s description had made it easy. I am pretty average of build and size, decent-looking enough to be on TV but no movie star and, now on the other side of forty, not likely to be. Also, a three-inch scar descends from my left ear to mid-jaw. On TV it looks rakish. It helps me remember what it feels like to almost have your head taken off in an alley in Seoul. All told, I was no problem to spot if you knew what you were looking for.

  She told me as much when I walked over and introduced myself. She motioned to the rickety vacant chair across the old wooden table. Outside, on St. Louis Street, tourists passed by, some peering inside the open doors to see if they dared come in. Horse-drawn carriages clopped along on their routine route. Across the street was a bar I hated, touting itself as once having been the site of slave auctions.

  We didn’t drink much. Just a Pimm’s Cup each, and they went down fast. I bit into the slice of cucumber and told her what I did, what I’d done. She asked if the scar was from the Army and I said yes. She said it was barely noticeable and I hoped so. She said she was a psychologist and guidance counselor at the University of Alabama, about four hours away in Tuscaloosa. We let the bios sink in a little. I noticed the afternoon light dancing across her almond-shaped, honey-brown eyes. There was quite a bit of awkward silence. Then she called the waiter and paid for our drinks. She said that she thought it would help with her grieving to see where her brother’s body had been found. She said she wanted to get the vibes from the place in the presence of the man who had come across him all dead like that.

  2

  We decided to walk rather than grab a cab, passing at a steady pace along the narrow sidewalks and around the tourists in front of the shops on Chartres. In a few minutes we were at Jackson Square in front of the cathedral. A weary man with a gray beard and paisley fatigues was playing guitar on a bench. Around him was the usual skirmish line of hustlers and shills who wanted to read your fortune or paint your portrait. I guess I could’ve asked her a few questions, but the purpose of our foray dampened conversational openings.

  At Esplanade, we turned up to Royal and then crossed over Elysian Fields. A few blocks farther was the street where I lived. I said so, but she wasn’t listening. Her breathing was growing irregular and rapid. When we got to Franklin, I knew she was trembling because her arm brushed mine and it gave me a shock. It was the first evidence that she was barely holding herself together.

  I stopped. “It’s just two blocks more.”

  “Aren’t you going to show me?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  We got to the street and turned the corner. Even though someone had cleaned up, the curb where he had bled out was stained.

  “Oh, Young Henry.” She broke from me to hurry to the obvious spot, bending down as she got closer like an airplane making a landing. She extended her right hand and touched the dark crimson patch. She picked up a pebble and rubbed it on the stain and then put the pebble in her small purse. She stroked the spot as if it were a stigmata and then stood up straight and backed away a couple of steps and stared at it.

  I lingered several paces back. It was like going to a stranger’s grave
.

  A delivery van passed. Elle didn’t move. Usually they’ll honk at you but this one didn’t. Elle was saying something I couldn’t make out. I assumed it was a prayer.

  After an interval she crossed herself and turned back to me. She looked like a woman you’d see in medieval religious paintings. Suffering, with grace. Then her features steeled. “Tell me what you saw.”

  I took a few steps forward. It was hard to know how to put it. I didn’t want to say more than I figured she could handle.

  “Same as I told the cop. He was just lying there. Not moving.”

  “But what else?”

  “I don’t know if you want to know this.”

  “I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  There was a silence.

  “So?”

  “So the back of his head was pretty flat.”

  “Like he’d been hit.”

  “Yeah. I mean, I’m sure he’d been hit. How else would it get like that?”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t go around and look at his face?”

  A warning light blinked in my mind. “I mean, I could see a little of it but it was mostly down against the sidewalk.”

  “Was there a lot of blood?”

  “I don’t know if you want to know all this—”

  “Just tell me.”

  I thought back. “Not all that much really. Mostly just in his hair and on his shirt.”

  “No big pool of blood or anything like that?”

  “No. Look, this isn’t anything for you to think about.”

  “Let me worry about what to think about.”

  “I just thought it would make you feel bad.”

  She looked at me with a flat affect. “Then what else?”

  “That was about all. I could see he was dead and I found a pay phone and called the police.”