Blossom (14 page)

69

I
SAT AT THE kitchen table. Blossom stood next to me. "Let's have a look at that hand."

Blood across the knuckles, one finger sliced cleanly. "Wash it off in the sink. Cold water, no soap. Make sure the blood runs clean."

She dried off the hand, spraying some stinging stuff across the open cut, put a butterfly bandage in place. "Won't even leave a scar," she said.

"You were a nurse once?"

Her turquoise eyes searched my face, a smile rippling across her wide mouth. "No. No more than you're a real estate speculator. Be right back."

70

W
HEN I HEARD the rush of the shower, I knew she'd be a while. I cracked a wooden match into fire, lit a smoke. No ashtray on the kitchen table. I went looking. Four small clay pots on the windowsill, clogged with thick greenery. Looked like parsley. A twig planted in each one, standing tall and clean above the growth. Looked closer. Thick–bodied black–and–white–striped caterpillars, one in each pot.

I opened the dishwasher. No ashtrays, but I found a drinking glass. Opened the tap, poured a half inch of water inside. It'd do.

Blossom came back inside, wearing a tightly belted pink terry–cloth robe, a towel wrapped around her head.

"You want some coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"A beer?"

"No."

She busied herself with making coffee, pouring ground beans into a filter. The beans came from a plain white bag, no brand name. Somebody had handwritten Kenya AA on the side.

A motorcycle snarled in the street. Mother calling her kids inside for dinner. Dogs barked conversationally. Safe sounds.

She sat across from me, cradling her heavy white coffee mug in both hands, unselfconsciously plucking at the opening of her robe. At home, unhurried.

Maybe I couldn't mend a broken wing, but I could outwait a stone. Tossed my cigarette into the water glass and settled down into myself.

"You're not curious?"

"About what?"

"About why I asked you to come and talk to me. About what I said about you not being a real estate speculator."

"Curious enough to take the ride."

"But…"

"I can't play a hand until it's dealt."

She tapped long fingernails on the tabletop. "I've been here six weeks. Summer's almost over. Then I'll have to go."

I watched her. Laugh–lines around her wide mouth. Trace of crow's–feet next to her eyes. Harder lines. Her skin was as clean and clear and glowing as a young girl's, but she was older than I first thought. Even at ease, her back was straight, shoulders squared.

"I'm not a nurse. Never was. I'm a doctor. Just finished school. I start my internship in late September. Back home. In West Virginia. Pediatrics."

I lit another smoke.

"You're not surprised or…".

"Or I was raised in places where you don't show much on your face."

"Yes. I saw that the first time you came in the diner."

"And ex–cons don't put together real estate deals?"

"That's not how I know. How I knew. I wasn't sure why you were here until I saw you with that boy. Lloyd. That's his name, isn't it? The boy they thought did those killings?"

"They were wrong."

"I know. His name was in the papers. People only remember killers, never who they killed."

I dragged deep on my cigarette. Her face was contrasts: huge eyes, a tiny nose, that broad slash of a mouth. So different from the way she looked in the diner. I locked on her eyes, my voice gentle, like reading a menu I wasn't trying to sell. "Merrilee Marshall, Tommy Deacon, Rose Joanne Lynch, George Borden."

Two fingers stroked her cheek. "Why?"

"There's a dead sheep in the meadow. All cut to pieces. Wolves make different marks than mountain lions. And humans, they make their own marks."

"Sherwood told me. Told me you were looking for the sniper."

"He questioned you? The people at the diner?"

"No. Rose is…was my sister. My baby sister. There's three of us. Mama said we were her garden. Violet, me, and Rose. She was seventeen years old. Came up here to spend the summer with some of our kin before she started college. Just to have some fun, see someplace new. When we heard she was killed, we thought they had the killer. But then…things changed. Couldn't be sure. So I came up here myself. To look around. The way my mother would have wanted."

"Why the waitress job?"

"I just followed the pipeline. The migrant pipeline. My people have been coming out of the hills into the steel mills forever. I didn't want to work in an office, didn't have much time. The diner was the first job I saw open, close to the ground."

I thought about how the diner was at the nerve center of everything that had happened, a checkpoint in the human traffic pattern. Wondered about accidents, coincidence. "But Sherwood, he knows?" I asked her.

"He knows Rose was my sister. He knows how blood runs, that man. He said he'd keep me in the picture, tell me what's going on."

"He think Lloyd did it?"

"No. I don't think he ever did. After the boy first got arrested, he told me it would be a tough case to make. But then he got scared."

"Scared?"

"That I'd fix it myself. Make it right if the jury wouldn't." Shrugging like that was ridiculous. "Anyway, I think he told me about you to kind of settle me down. He said you were a private investigator."

I nodded.

She smiled.

I imitated her shrug, watching close.

"But you're in it?" she asked, a trace of metal in her voice.

"I'm in it."

"And you can find him?"

"I don't know. I don't know where to look. That's where my brother comes in. But I know who I'm looking for."

She regarded me steadily, her eyes doing a diagnosis she never learned in medical school.

"I believe you do."

71

W
E TALKED AS soft darkness filled Blossom's kitchen, night filtering in slow, not dropping like a New York curtain

"You want something to eat?"

I looked at my watch. "Can't. I have to meet some people. Get to work."

"It'll only take me a minute to get dressed."

"These people…I can't bring a guest, you understand?"

She leaned forward, elbows on the kitchen table. Her robe billowed open. My eyes never left her face.

"I understand. Be sure you do. I told you some things, but there's a lot you don't know. About me. Ways I could help. Places I could go."

"I'm not cutting you out. Whoever this guy is, he comes out at night. Before I go where he is, I have to do some day work."

"I'll give Leon notice."

"Why don't you just walk out? You don't need the money, right?"

"That's not the way I was raised. I'll give him notice. Then we'll go around together, you and me."

72

I
PULLED INTO Virgil's block, feeling the eyes. A safe neighborhood, if you were a neighbor.

The house was built in Indiana working–class style—the back door opened into the kitchen. Virginia came to the door when I knocked—I saw Rebecca fussing over the stove over her shoulder.

"Hello," the child said gravely.

"Hello, Virginia. Is your mother at home?"

She looked at me the way women have been looking at me for years. Stepped aside to let me in.

"You want some supper, Burke?" Rebecca asked, not turning around.

"If it's not too much trouble."

"Already cooked. You like chicken and dumplings?"

"Sure."

"Coming up. Virginia, go tell Daddy his brother is here."

Virginia ignored her, rummaging in the refrigerator.

"What did I tell you?" Rebecca asked, her voice sharp.

"Daddy will want a beer anyway.

"Is that right, Miss Know–It–All?"

"Oh, Mama. You
know
Daddy likes it when I bring him a beer."

"Daddy'd like it just as much you brought him a nice glass of apple juice."

The kid giggled, pulled a can of Pabst from the shelf, expertly poured it into a tall glass, creating a perfect head. Marched off to the living room.

Rebecca put a plate of steaming food in front of me. Glass of ginger ale. "Virgil said you don't drink…"

"It's true. Thank you. Your daughter is beautiful."

"That's her mother's blood," Virgil said, coming into the kitchen, a beer in one hand. His son at his side. Looked like the boy grew another couple of inches since I saw him last. Sat down across from me.

"Where's Lloyd?" I asked him.

"Out in the garage. I set up a heavy bag for him. The boy's turning into King Kong."

"He rescue any more waitresses lately?"

"Not that I know of."

Junior stood at his father's shoulder, eyes wide. Watching the stranger.

"Was he always such a big boy?"

"Nine pounds and change at birth. The baby doctor we take him to, he's the team physician for the junior high over to Hobart. Said we ought to move there before Junior turns ten. Says we got a natural–born linebacker here."

"Looks like it to me too. You want him to play ball?"

Virgil lit a smoke, blew a puff at the ceiling. Talking to me with words meant for his son. "He wants to play ball, that's okay with me. But he don't
have
to. Back home, there wasn't but two ways—the mines or the mills. Football, basketball…that was a way out for some. You know the other ways. But my son, he's not gonna need that. He wants to play ball, his old man'll come out, watch him crack some heads. He wants to be an actor, I'll watch him up on the stage. Don't matter. Whatever he does, we'll be proud of him. Right, Reba?"

Rebecca walked over, kissed the boy on the top of his head. "Of course."

The kid squirmed, turned red. His father gave him a look, telling him it was just one of those things he'd have to put up with. Virginia watched both of them intently.

Virgil saw her watching. Laughed. "Virginia, your little boy's growing up, huh, darlin'?"

The girl frowned. "Oh, Daddy!"

Virgil turned to me. "Virginia, she about raised Junior when he was a baby. Couldn't do enough for him. Used to dress him up, take him for walks in the stroller. The boy's getting his growth now. He don't want to mind his sister like he used to."

Virginia stalked off into the living room, stopping only to plant a kiss on top of the little boy's head just like her mother had done.

Tinkle of piano keys. Warming up. Then the concert started. "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" was her opening selection.

"Who taught her to play?"

"She just picked it up somehow. Used to sit next to me on the bench when I was playing. One day, she just starting hitting those keys."

"Virgil, you're not fooling nobody," Rebecca said. "You notice how his chest just went out about a foot, Burke? Virgil used to play the piano for that child when I was still carrying her. Music was the first thing she heard in this world."

I ate my chicken and dumplings, sipped my ginger ale, listened to their love. Wondered what it would be like…me.

Then I remembered why I was there. Visiting Day.

73

L
ATER THAT NIGHT, I stood in the yard with Virgil. The house quiet and dark behind us.

"You know that waitress? The blonde one Lloyd jumped in to protect?"

"Yeah."

"She's kin of one of the little girls who got killed. Came up here looking for the shooter."

"She think Lloyd's the one?"

"No. Says even Sherwood never thought so."

"Sure acted like he did."

"He's a cop. That's the way they play. The good ones, they don't let their instincts get in the way."

"How come you know about this woman?"

"She told me."

Virgil grunted, waiting.

"I need a gun," I told him.

"Figured you might."

"You got some?"

"Not what you want. Some of 'em even registered."

I gave him a look.

"Reba, she ain't no ex–con. All nice and legal. Where we come from, people're raised on guns. No big thing. Ain't a house in this neighborhood you won't find at least a deer rifle, shotgun, something like that."

"The shooter, it all goes right, he won't even see me coming, but…"

"I got it, brother. I'm not much for that psychology crap you was always studying in the joint, but I know two things for sure about this boy. He's one sick puppy. And he's got him some serious firepower."

I worked it around in my head. When I was hijacking, I had guns stashed all over the country. In safe–deposit boxes. Paid ten years' rent in advance. That's when I lived in hotels, went South for the winter. Before I had a home. It wasn't worth going back.

"I need a pistol," I told Virgil. "A cold one. I use it, I'm gonna lose it."

"Tomorrow night, I'm playing with my band. Over in Chicago. You come along, okay? Your kind of music." He dragged on his smoke. "Reba's coming with me tomorrow. Virginia can take care of Junior. You come along. I'll make a phone call. After my set, we'll step out to the back, meet a man. Get you what you want, okay?"

"Can I bring a date?" I asked him.

74

W
E PICKED UP Blossom at her house, paid the tolls through Hammond, and took the Skyway into Chicago. Virgil directed me past Rush Street until I found a parking place right around the corner from his club.

It was a big joint for a blues bar, but not enough seating capacity for the high–dollar acts. Still, Chicago's a blues town and sometimes you get lucky—Virgil said he caught Buddy Guy and Junior Wells there once and they weren't even on the bill.

Virgil went out back to get ready. Rebecca, Blossom, and I found a little round table near the back. The waitress was wearing a black body–stocking with an apron tied in front.

"There's about a half hour before the next set. You all want something to eat?"

I ordered a roast beef sandwich and ginger ale. Blossom asked for a plate of sliced red cabbage, radishes, carrots, and two hard–boiled eggs. The waitress gave her a strange look. "Anything to drink?"

"You have bottled water?"

"We don't even have bottled beer."

"Just a glass of seltzer, then."

Rebecca had a hamburger and a glass of red wine.

The waitress was just clearing the table when they started to set up on the little stage. I watched the musicians, wondering what this was going to be. A strange collection. Tall man with a gospel singer's face was hooking up an electric fiddle, like Sugarcane Harris used to play. Steel guitar, Virgil at his piano, drums. A rail–thin black man who looked old enough to be a runaway slave sat on a stool cradling a slide guitar on his lap. Fresh–faced chubby kid wearing dark glasses stood to the far side, a cartridge belt of harmonicas around his waist. It took the front man a while to make it to the microphone. He had a chest big enough to play solitaire on, a head the size of a basketball, thick long hair swept back from his forehead in crashing waves. He was standing on metal crutches, the kind that angle about halfway up. A massive upper body on useless legs.

They never announced the name of the band. The electric–fiddle player cranked up a low floating scream. The drummer laid down a hard sharp track underneath as the harp player barked his way in, waiting for the piano man to travel along the high keys. The chesty guy on crutches took them through a gambler's version of "Mary Lou." Like the way Ronnie Hawkins used to do it, but with the harp man doing the backup voices. He gave us "Suzy Q" and a nasty twist on "Change in the Weather." I couldn't put any name to it but the blues. Virgil's piano was a magic thing—sweet water flowing over crystal rocks, breaking and falling, spooling out a ribbon of purity across the bottom, climbing again. He and the fiddle player laid down a carpet of neon smoke, the slide guitar man lancing through, long fingers high up on the neck, counterpointing the harp, bending unreal notes between them like playing jump–rope with metallic strands. The steel guitar cried to itself.

Rebecca's voice: "My Virgil can
play
, can't he?"

Blossom: "You couldn't get closer to the Lord in church."

Then the band went into its own stuff. Telling the truth. Nightclub women and working girls, cocaine and do–without pain. Hell's hounds, jailhouse–bound. Dice players and pimps. Cheating wives and gunfights. Don't mind dying. Hard times and hard people.

The baby spot hit the players as they each took a solo, the singer saying each man's name for the crowd as they played.

They finished the last number. The slide guitar worked the bass notes, with only Virgil's piano helping him along. The man on crutches talked to us.

"Men, you ever have a good woman? I mean a
gooood
woman…the kind of woman who'll stand up when she has to and stand by while you do time? You know what I mean. A woman who can give that good love, that real love? Answer me if I'm telling the truth!"

They answered him. Tapped their whiskey glasses together, yelled "That's right!" up at the stage, groaned their encouragement.

"And you threw her away, didn't you? You let her go. You gave up a used Cadillac for a new Ford, you know what I'm saying?"

They knew.

"You ever want just
one
more chance? Well, listen to me now. The electric fiddle worked under the harp this time, the chubby kid welding the notes into new shapes. The man on crutches came through the music like a fist punching through a door, his cobalt voice nailing the crowd.

I've done you wrong
So many times
Treated you cruel
Played with your mind
I know you're leaving
And I'll miss your loving touch
But won't you listen just one more time?

Woman, don't you owe me that much?
I drank and I gambled
But you always let me come home
Yes, I drank and I gambled
But you always let me come home
You always forgave me
Till you heard that little girl on the phone

A woman in the crowd screamed something up at the stage. The singer bowed in her direction and went back to work.

I lost my job, even went to jail
And you always stayed by my side
When I lost my job, and I went to jail
You always stood up, right by my side
But you saw me with that other woman
You swore your love had died

First you said you'd kill her
And then you changed your mind
Yeah, you said you'd take her young life
But then you changed your mind
You threw my clothes in the street
And told me to stay with my own kind

He hit us with verse after verse, telling his story. Telling the truth. When he got to the end of the road, he had us with him.

I need you for my woman
I need you for my wife
You know I need you, woman
Lord knows I need my wife
But if you won't send an answer
I guess I don't need my life

He finished the set with a razor–wire version of "She's Nineteen Years Old." In case there were any tourists in the audience.

The crowd wouldn't let him off the stage. A woman in an electric–blue dress stood up, holding a beer glass in one hand, shouted something at him I couldn't hear.

The bandleader's voice came back at her through the mike. "Maybe I can't run the hundred–yard dash, darlin', but I'm still a sixty–minute man."

He owned the crowd. "One more," he said. And meant it. The drummer switched to brushes. Virgil intro'ed off the bass keys. A piano doesn't have special notes inside it like a guitar, but Virgil played them special. The slide guitar stayed low with him.

"God Bless the Child."

The band held the fort as the singer slowly moved himself off the stage. Then it went dark.