Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead (14 page)

Mr. Desai nodded, confused.

“Yogi Bhajan's followers are vegans,” I said. “They eat no animal products. What would Sarafina get from a HappyBurger?”

Mr. Desai opened his mouth but nothing came out. His brown skin turned red.

“Even the french fries at HappyBurger have beef fat,” I said. “Even the onion rings have lard.
Even the french fries
, Mr. Desai.
Even the onion rings
.”

Mr. Desai burst into tears.

“Oh, Sarafina,” he cried. “Forgive me.”

He confessed. Constance broke the case. She'd thrown me a softball; all I had to do was catch it and not fumble.

One week later I committed to be her assistant. Three years later, she was gone.

I
GOT A SANDWICH
at Central Grocery and then flipped through records at a store on Decatur Street for a while. I bought a vinyl import of the Wild Magnolias'
They Call Us Wild
, a
Best of Shirley & Lee
CD, and a CD reissue of T.Rex's
Electric Warrior
, somewhat overpriced but irresistible. Down the street I went to a bookstore, where I spent an hour looking at crime novels and picked up a copy of Jamal Verdigris's
Advanced Techniques in Locksmithing
, a steal at two hundred and fifty. After six I went back to the grocery store where Vic had shopped.

At the counter was a long-faced African American woman in jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt, a bright red scarf around her hair. I would have guessed she was twenty-something if I didn't know she had children old enough to get into trouble. I introduced myself. She was Shaniqua. She said that the old woman, Florence, had told her about me.

“So no one knows what happened to Vic?” she said. The concern in her voice sounded real. “That's terrible. He ought to be laid to rest. I just assumed, you know. I'm sorry he's gone, I tell you that. He was so nice to us. He was always nice—just friendly, fun, always tipping everybody. And then what happened was that my son, Lawrence, got in some trouble with the law. It wasn't his fault. He didn't really do anything—it was his friends.”

“Of course,” I said. “Friends.”

“And Vic,” she went on. “I mean, I just asked if I could ask him a few questions. Just to clear some things up. I was a wreck. You know, it's all so
confusing
. Like what kind of charges they could bring against him, what was real and what they were just scaring us with. I mean, you just don't know
what
to think. And Vic, he just fixed it all up for us. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers and looked amazed. “Just talked to a few people and the whole thing just went away.”

“Wow,” I said. “So if you don't mind my asking, what were the charges?”

“Oh, let's see,” Shaniqua said, counting off on her long fingers. “Possession with intent to sell, possession of a handgun, driving with no license—what else? The big one, the scary one, was murder two. But Vic, he was like a magician. Just made it all go away.”

I asked if I could talk to her son, Lawrence. She gave me a long list of contact information that included two cell phones, a girlfriend's phone, a pager, and the number of a friend's house where he spent a lot of time.

“I mean, Mr. Vic,” Shaniqua said. “We are so grateful. He just made the whole thing go away. All that trouble. Just made it all disappear. Like,
poof
.”

“Poof,” I said.

“Poof,” Shaniqua confirmed. “
Poof
.”

I
MET MICK
for dinner later that night at a Middle Eastern joint on Magazine Street. That was the biggest change in New Orleans since I'd lived here: the dazzling array of Middle Eastern restaurants, at least a few in each of the busiest neighborhoods. That was a mystery itself, but one I could live without solving.

Mick had moved to the Irish Channel after losing his house in Mid-City. At first, he'd thought he would renovate or rebuild the house in Mid-City. But after a few months of dealing with contractors and insurance adjusters and copper thieves and one worker robbing him and another worker getting robbed and Mick's wife moving back to Detroit—after a few months, he decided to sell his house. It was bought by “an evil vulture-type real estate yuppie who probably wants to put in a disgusting fucking McDonald's there,” as Mick described him. “Or a Taco Bell.” But that was more or less how Mick described anyone who made more money than he did. Which, I was beginning to see, was almost everyone. Mick had done pretty well as a detective. As a teacher and a busy-as-a-bee volunteer, he wasn't exactly raking it in.

Now Mick was staying in a different apartment in the Irish Channel, the first one having had leaks and mice and neighbors who sold crack and carried guns. He'd gotten some insurance money, but not enough for a new house and new every
thing else. He'd lost
everything
in the flood; not just the things you think about, like a house and a car and maybe clothing and books and the good china. He'd also lost all of his socks and all of his utensils and his can opener and his kitchen spices and five packages of paper towels he'd bought on sale and some nice pens and his pillows and his sheets and his paper clips and some notebooks and a collection of tiki cups—all expenses he forgot to claim to the insurance company. Mick was lucky—not only was his house flooded, but most of the roof was blown off by the wind. That meant he got insurance coverage for some of his losses even though, like most New Orleaneans, he didn't have flood insurance.

“The thing is,” Mick said, eating his shawarma, “if they put a fucking McDonald's in there? A McDonald's where my beautiful house from 1911 with three fireplaces stood? My house, which is gone because of the failure of the federal levees? If those fuckers put a McDonald's in there, I'll just blow it up. I can do that, no problem. I mean, I'm not even worried about it.”

I figured he was pretty worried about it.

“You know that's exactly what they wanted,” Mick went on, jabbing a finger in the air. “That's been their fucking plan all along. Get out the poor, bring in the rich. Out with the black, in with the white.”

“I see that,” I said. “A poor black man like you just can't make it in this day and age. What with McDonald's pulling the rug out from under you.”

Mick scowled.

“It isn't about me,” he said.

“People always say that,” I said. “But it's always about them.”

“Please,” Mick said. “They've been
dying
to get their hands on this city. Did you see the plans? The plans they made? You can get them on the Internet. They got plans for the whole city, all divied up. Fucking
Trump
is talking about a deal on Canal Street. Fucking
Donald Trump
.”

“Right,” I said. “I'm sure the powers that be are
very
concerned with this place. I'm sure Trump and Rockefeller are ar
guing over it as we speak. Dubai has
nothing
on New Orleans. That's why they let it—”

“It's like Iraq,” Mick said, ignoring me. “They had this whole town bought and sold before it even began. Oil pipeline and everything.”

“Yeah,” I said. “They're all fighting over a swamp. A swamp with the highest murder rate in the country. There's nothing anyone wants more.”

Mick rolled his eyes.

“Oh, that reminds me,” he said. “I forgot. Guess what I found out?”

“The secret to life,” I guessed.

“No,” he said, looking a little hurt.

“The master key to riches,” I guessed again.

“No,” he said. Now he looked annoyed.

“I know,” I said. “I can be really annoying.”

“Yeah,” Mick said. “You really can be. I mean, this kind thing gets to you, you know?”

“I know,” I said. “It's like a disease. I can't stop.”

“I mean, this is why I pretended I was busy,” Mick said, excited now. “This is what the appointment thing was all about. I really need to prepare to see you. It's really difficult.”

“I know,” I said. “I'm working on being as stupid as everyone else but I'm not there yet. I'm hoping more drugs will help. They say they kill brain cells.”

Mick shook his head sadly. “The last thing you need is more drugs.”

“Okay,” I said. “So what is it?”

“Well, the main thing is the
sarcasm
,” he said. “It's like I can't say anything around—”

“No, I mean, what did you find out?” I asked. Now
I
was annoyed.

“Oh,” Mick said. “Jack Murray. He's still alive.” Mick took a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. “Last known address.”

“Nice,” I said. “Where'd you get that?” I hadn't expected him
to actually accomplish anything in his state. Depression can make people stupid, as I well knew.

“I know people,” he said, shrugging. But under the shrug he almost smiled. There was still a good detective in there somewhere.

Across the street from the restaurant, three big round people in shorts, showing white goose-fleshed legs in the gray cold, were taking pictures of a house covered with spray paint. It had the familiar X with cryptic numbers and letters in the hollows. Underneath was spray-painted in bright safety orange:
OWNER HOME!! DO NOT TAKE CAT!! WE WILL SHOOT!! CAT RESCUERS GO FUCK YOURSELF!! GO HOME CAT PEOPLE!! GO HOME!!! CAT PEOPLE GO HOME
!'

C
ONSTANCE AND SILETTE
never stopped writing, and on his last trip to the United States, Silette, his wife, Marie, and their daughter, Belle, spent three days in New Orleans with Constance. I have a photo of them under a tree in Audubon Park. It's hard to believe the photo was taken in 1973. Constance looked like she was in the 1950s, Silette was dressed for about 1912 in his high-necked suit and tie, and Marie was in Pucci and Paraphernalia, holding the squirming Belle in her arms. They stood around a huge live oak. It was a photogenic tree and kind of a famous one; two of its giant limbs swooped down to the ground before shooting back up to the sky, and the strange Silette-Darling clan gathered in front of one of the low branches.

Six weeks later, Belle disappeared.

At home in California I had the picture on my wall next to one from 1985: me, Kelly, and Tracy in front of a graffiti-strewn bar on the corner of First Street and First Avenue in Manhattan. We held out our inner wrists to show off our new tattoos, each with the others' initials. If you blow the picture up you can read the graffiti and handbills on the wall behind us.
AIDS IS GENOCIDE
, one of the posters reads,
CREATED IN A LABORATORY TO KILL THE BLACK MAN. GOD MADE ADAM & EVE, NOT
ADAM & STEVE.
NO YUPPIE SCUM ON THE LOWER EAST SIDE. ACT-UP
. MISSING FOUNDATION. 1933. PARTY'S OVER
.

Two years later, Tracy disappeared.

“What will fill the void left by the missing person?” Silette wrote. “Who will now breathe his air, eat his food, marry his wife? Who will fill the job that would have been his? Who will fill his seat at the university lecture, the football game, in the old armchair at home? Who will read his books? Wear his clothes? Watch his movies? And most important, who will attend to the mysteries that would have been his, and hold them until the missing person can return?”

I
N MY ROOM
that night I tried the numbers Shaniqua had given me for her son, Lawrence. This was the boy, corrupted by worthless friends, who Vic had saved from a legal jam.

One number was a fast food restaurant. Three were dead cell phones. One was a landline that rang and rang and rang and no one picked up and no answering machine came on and nothing happened.

I threw the I Ching again. Hexagram 62: Frightened rice.

Hexagram 62: Frightened rice. Burned rice is scared of the woman who cooks it. Dry rice is scared of the farmer who grows it. Well-grown rice brings nourishment. Well-cooked rice brings joy. Spoiled rice brings bitterness to the king. Bitterness in the king spoils the country. Treat rice kindly and the king will be well fed.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I called Leon to give him an update. He'd specifically requested an update every few days. I don't know why we PIs have to give constant updates. Scientists don't give updates. As far as I know no one asks a painter for an update, or a chef. But the private dick better give an update twice every week or people think she's slacking off.

“Good news, I hope?” Leon said.

“No,” I said. “No news at all. Which in this case isn't good. Sometimes no news is good news. But not now. Now it's just no news.”

I gave Leon a rundown of what I'd done, exaggerating my confidence in Andray Fairview's innocence.

“I'm going to talk to someone now,” I said. “I'm trying to track down a detective named Jack Murray. Last anyone heard he was in a rooming house in Central City. So that's today's plan.”

“And he might know something about Vic?” Leon said.

“Maybe,” I said. “It's possible.”

“They knew each other?” Leon queried hopefully. “They met?”

“No,” I said. “I don't know. Maybe.”

“If you don't mind my asking,” he said. “I mean, I'm not trying to tell you how to do your job or anything.”

Usually when people say that that's exactly what they're doing.

“I'm just wondering,” Leon continued. “You're always talking about seeing this person or trying to find that person. Couldn't you just call these people? Or e-mail them?”

“Well, Leon,” I began, “Leon, when I ask people questions, I'm actually not just looking for their answer. I'm looking for a reaction. Like when I asked you about your sisters. Do you remember that, in our very first meeting? When I asked you about your sisters? You said they were great but you lied, Leon, didn't you? You don't really think they're so great, do you? In fact, I think you don't like them very much at all, and you haven't for a long time, not since they left. You people here in New Orleans don't like it when people leave. And you know, I don't think they like you very much either, and do you know how I found this out, Leon?”