Ghost of a Flea (15 page)

“Damn, man, this here ain’t nothing but a overgrown small town. Ever’body know your business. You bring trouble.”

“Got a load with me now, in fact. Thought you might help put me together with the people who need it.”

“So they live happily ever after.”

“Something like that.”

“Ain’t got much truck with other folks’ needs. Not a one of them’s ever he’ped me much.”

“I know that.”

“Think you know a lot, don’t you?” Someone was walking on the porch floor above us. Their floor, our roof. Rotted from rain, desiccated from heat, boards creaked, went swayback and threatened to give way. “But look at you. Come crawling up under here like some goddamn kid looking for answers, still think the world
got
answers for you. Ain’t no fortune cookies, you know. Break’m open, read what to do in there.”

We listened as footsteps paced back and forth above.

“Cold as a sonuvabitch down here,” I said.

“You get used to it after a time. Year or two. I been down here—hell, I don’t know how long I been down here. Man gets used to ’most anything…. You feelin’ trollish?”

“I don’t know what I’m feeling. Not my feet. And the fingers are going fast.”

“Shiiii. You a part-timer.” That was funny enough to say again. “Part-timer.”

“More ways than one,” I admitted. “But you’re not. And I figure you have to have seen my boy over there in the park.”

“One they call Dog Boy.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen him all right. Seen you with him, too.”

“Then you know how much he loves life.”

“I know how much he loves animals.”

“There’s a difference?”

Mister Bones shrugged. His breastplate rattled like Venetian blinds in wind.

“Someone’s been killing pigeons. Poisoning them.”

“Sure have. For a time now … You okay under here? You don’t look too comfortable. Noticed a blanket set out to dry on a porch across the way yesterday, probably still be there.

We could go get that for you.”

Moments limped by.

“I want to find them. The ones who are doing it.”

“They’re survivors, you know. Pigeons. You have to respect that.”

Even though he was looking out towards the park and couldn’t see me, I nodded.

“Like us,” he said. “You hungry, Griffin? Miz Miller up the way left a can of Vienna sausages out on the stoop for me last night. Be happy to share them with you, you want.”

THE STAIRWAY STANK of urine, beer, stale cigarette smoke and mold. Once, long in the past, there’d been carpeting. Fragments of green remained in patches, mostly beneath nailheads, like tufts of hair sprouting from old men’s ears. As I entered, someone let loose a bowl of water from the third landing, screaming
I told you not to come back here, goddamn it
! No one else on the stairway as the cascade came down and I ducked aside. A door slammed.

Each floor held six apartments,
A
through
F
, though in no apparent order.
A
might just as easily be the apartment nearest the stairs, or tucked away between
E
and
B
. A pencil eraser would have taken down most of the doors. Walls bore deep gouges, long troughs, as though trucks had been driven repeatedly into them over the years. Here and there plaster had come away in great statuelike chunks; elsewhere it clung on bravely. At one turning I put my hand against the wall and precipitated an avalanche of plaster nuggets, pebbles, powder. This went on for some time. Stairwell corners held stacks of gravid boxes, belongings for which residents had no room inside, presumably. Surprising that these hadn’t long ago been borne off. Posters of Sixties movies and rock shows hung alongside paintings of clowns and seascapes on landings. The whole stairway creaked and swayed like a suspension bridge.

I climbed to the fourth floor. Four’s about as far as it goes for most of New Orleans, outside downtown anyway. The city’s well below sea level, filled-in swampland for the most part, one of those triumphs of man’s imagination and will that the world periodically refutes with such rejoinders as floods and hurricanes. Then I came to 4-A.

This door wasn’t going to be taken down with an eraser. It fit the frame flush. No give to it, no space about the edges, no apparent weak spot. Door and frame both steel.

I knocked. It was like rapping knuckles on a boulder. Whole armies could be on the move in there, tanks, armored vehicles, transports, and I wouldn’t hear them.

Incredibly enough, the door opened.

A thirtyish man in cornrows wearing Tommy Hilfiger’s clothes, barrel-like shorts, oversize rugby-style shirt (I hoped Tommy had more), stood there. Skin color medium brown, eyes blue-gray. Brows and upper lip lifted at the same time, three birds taking flight.

“Those our bitches?” someone behind him said.

“Sure nuff don’t look to be,” the doorman said. Then to me: “What
chu
want?”

Taking that as an invitation, I pushed my way in. Doorman fell back, then recovered and came towards me, leg lifting for a karate kick. When the ankle came up, I grabbed it and twisted as I shoved it towards the ceiling, hammered a fist into his crotch. He went down as the others shot up off the couch.

I’d taken notice of the rock sitting by the door as I entered. Judging from roundness and polish, it had spent several human lifetimes in water somewhere perfecting itself. About the size of an orange and used as a doorstop, no doubt. The one who’d come up off the couch and started towards me went down hard when it hit him square in the forehead. I’d thrown underhanded, like a kid on a softball team. That left two of us on opposite banks with the river of a sky-blue couch between. This one was older, done up in high grunge: plaid shirt with sleeves flapping, long-sleeved T-shirt under, cord jeans bagged into camel’s knees and shiny with wear. Both hands came up, palm out. He stepped out from behind the couch shaking his head.

“Whatever this is, man—”

“You live here?”

He shook his head again.

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Guess I’d best be asking myself that same question ’long about now.” He looked down at the floor, from one to the other of the bodies there, then back at me. “Thing is, I went to high school with Pryor here, guy making that snoring sound? Not that we ever hung out back then, nothin’ like that. But this morning when I ran up against ’im at Hoppin Jon’s, suddenly he’s acting like we’re old-time bros.”

Picking up on my unvoiced question, he said: “It’s a bar and grill just off Claiborne downtown. Serves a kickin’ breakfast, so lots of night workers turn out, hospital workers, firemen, paramedics going off duty, camp followers. I pull graveyard shift at the coroner’s myself, have for years. So I’m sitting at the bar, just gonna have a quick one and head out, when Pryor comes up and says, Hey man, I know you. This here’s Levon, he tells me, my boy. We had a few drinks, scored breakfast, wound up back here. Next thing I know, you’re busting in.”

He still had his hands up. Now slowly he put them down.

“This over, man—or you just puttin’ in a new clip? Anything I can do to help convince you to let me walk out of here?”

“That could happen.” Briefly I told him what brought me there, about the boy, the dead pigeons.

“This bone man’s the one gave them up?”

“He sees everything that goes on in the park. One day these two, never been regulars before, take to hanging ’round, and they get to be like toothaches, just won’t go away. Turn up in the park with paper bags too small for lunches, anything like that, and leave empty-handed. Them boys weren’t proper, he said. Knew it from the first.”

“Proper?”

“What he said.”

“Well, they’re definitely bent. He got that right.”

“Finally one day he hauled himself out from under the house and followed them back here. Never did nothin’ like that before, he told me. Ain’t likely to again.”

“Not your typical concerned citizen.”

“Not the kind you usually hear about, anyway.”

We stood silently with that river of a couch beside us, bodies washed up on its shore. Behind him a diminutive arch showed a swatch of pinkish hallway.

“Anyone else back there?”

“Pretty sure not.”

“What is?”

He shrugged.

“Let’s go see.”

The hallway was about the size of a large man’s coffin. Bathroom directly ahead, bedrooms at either end. Barely enough wall space for the doors. We went left.

“Holy shit!” my companion said.

The entire back wall was paved with bird’s wings, single wings nailed there and spread, all at the same attitude and angle, one after another, a hundred or more. Like fish scales, covering the wall completely, floor to ceiling. Against the wall opposite, fifty or sixty cheap wooden cages were stacked. These contained the skeletons of birds.

I stood in the middle of the room trying to imagine such cruelty: where it would come from, why and how it would take this form. Had a vision of them starting out catching the pigeons, in the park or elsewhere, putting them in cages just to watch them starve to death. Then moving on to poisoning and scalping—collecting the wings we saw here. Finally letting the birds lie where they fell.

“You ever in the service?” my companion said.

“Yeah. Not long, though.”

“See action?”

“Not the usual sort.”

 “You were lucky.”

I nodded.

“Me, I thought anything had to be better than watching my old lady toss that same coin in the air every night, wait to see whether she’d kill herself with the drugs first or get killed by some scumball she brought home. I was sixteen. By the time I was seventeen and threw away my helmet, I’d drunk sixty or eighty cases of beer and thought the world was mine, you know? Drop me anywhere, desert, jungle, I’d
take
the damn place, it belonged to me. That was an attitude rankers could get behind. So off I went to ranger school. Picked up some skills there that don’t do a lot for my résumé.”

We were back in the front room by this time.

“Only place I ever saw anything like that,” he said, indicating the trophy room. “We’re cool, you and me?”

I nodded.

“Anything else you need here?”

Levon had pushed himself over to the wall and partway up it and leaned there clutching his privates. Pryor, turned facedown, was trying to get to his feet, pointed toes of his Western boots scratching at the floor.

“Think I’ll stick around a while, then, have a talk with these boys. Like in the old days. Put some of those skills the government taught me back to work? Recycle them, like.”

I kept expecting to come across a story about guys nailed to the wall, arms at least, but I never did.

That afternoon I stopped off at a friend’s place up on Carrollton. June Bug, everybody called him, another vet. He lived in a lean-to on the flat roof of an apartment house up that way, on a floor of tar that gradually liquefied as the day progressed, and he raised pigeons.

“Name’s Mr. Blue,” June Bug told me as we peered into the cage. I’m not sure I ever realized just how many shades of blue there are. The pigeon’s head was such a dark blue that it caught light and shone. Cerulean tipped its wings. Individual feathers were here dark, there light, powder blue, azure, aquamarine, indigo, no two of them alike. “And don’t you go tryin’ to change it, neither. Real thoroughbred, ain’t he?” The pigeon peered back out at me, cocking its head the way they do. Who the hell was I and what was I doing hanging around outside its cage? I’d brought a bottle of cheap brandy along. Mr. Blue and I left that and a fifty-dollar bill behind.

Dog Boy’s eyes when I introduced them were all I’d ever need as thanks. I’d stopped off at a pet shop on the way to pick up food, treats, cage-size avian equivalents of parallel bars and vaulting horses. You give someone a pigeon, you want it to be a fit pigeon. Mr. Blue looked every bit as pleased as the boy.

“Thank you, Lewis,” Lester said. I’d been doing my best to shuttle off unseen down the stairs, but Lester came hobbling after me. “Hope it makes a difference,” I told him.

I’d barely got home—to an empty house again, but no matter—when a call from Lester asserted that indeed it
had
made a difference. The boy’s up, moving around, he said, for the first time in weeks. “He and Mr. Blue are sitting by the window in his room, looking out. It’s a sight.”

The next call was from Don.

I’d managed to get out most of the first syllable, “Hel—” before he started in.

“How much you know about this Guidry character?”

“Don. Good to hear from you. I’ve been fine. And you? Jeeter fitting right in, Jeanette okay with it, they’re getting along?”

Silence at the other end.

Finally: “You through?”

“I guess.”

“So what
do
you know about Guidry?”

“Not a lot. Some kind of doctor, though I’m not sure he ever had much of a practice. He did have connections, though. Old money, I assumed. That whole underground Creole-society thing.”

“What I’m wondering about here is previous marriages—before LaVerne.”

“None that I know of. But you pretty much know what I know. He treasured Alouette.”

“So did LaVerne. Enough that, just to stay with her, she allowed her own life to be completely taken over by him.”

“True enough.”

“Guidry was well along in years when he and LaVerne hooked up. You think the wick stayed dry all those years?”

“Probably not, but—”

“No fucking way.”

For a moment I thought I heard steps on the porch. “Okay. So why do I get the feeling this conversation has suddenly gone multiple choice?” Key in the lock? Deborah? David? No. Just this old house breathing.

“Not that I have much of anything,” Don said. “Lots of blanks that need filling in. Like all our lives. Years of monthly payments stretching back to the Seventies, for instance—to Gladstone Hall, whatever that is. And something that looks suspiciously like a trust fund, though so far I haven’t been able to get in close enough for a good look. Administered by Guidry’s lawyers, at any rate. Firewalls thick all around. I’ll keep chipping away. Rick’s on it, too.”

He paused.

“You okay, Lew?”

“Tired. A little the worse for wear.” I filled him in on the party scene back at apartment 4-A.

“Getting kinda long in the tooth for that kind of action, my friend.”

“Tell me about it.”

 “You need me to come over there?”

“What for? Party’s over.”

“You don’t sound real good.”

“Nothing a few hours’ sleep won’t help. Say twelve or fourteen? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

We went back and forth a couple times more before hanging up. I snagged a Shiraz-cabernet blend from the kitchen pantry and sat by the front window, level of wine in the bottle and daylight outside falling at pretty much the same pace. I thought about Dog Boy and Mr. Blue sitting by their window watching this same night fall. Wondered if David might be looking out a window somewhere, where that might be if so, and what
he
might be thinking. Then, for whatever reason, I found myself struggling to recall ambition, wondering just why, year after year, I’d gone on pushing my way through all those cases, gone on fighting so hard for a handful of lost and damaged people, why I’d sunk myself and so much of my life into a handful of peripheral, forgotten books.

Light and wine both gone, I left those emptinesses behind and took my own upstairs to bed.

I was in a library and the library was on fire. I grabbed books at random off the shelves, stuffing them underarm. Had to save what I could, as many as I could. Down a corridor towards me strolled James Joyce, tip of a handsome malacca cane tapping the floor in front of him, shoes buffed to a high polish but severely down at the heels, eyes huge behind glasses. “Is there, sir, a problem?” The elevator door opened. Borges stood inside. His useless, boiled-egg eyes swept over me. He wore a well-appointed three-piece pinstripe suit, one black shoe, one brown. “Milton,” he said, “has anyone seen John Milton? He was just here. We were talking.” I scuttled towards the stairway, books spilling from my arms….

Whereupon the library’s fire alarm there in that fanciful land became my telephone here in this unregenerate one.

And whereupon, when my arm appeared to ignore the message sent it—simple enough directions, after all: reach out, pick up the phone—I panicked. I knew this lag, this recalcitrance. I’d had another stroke, and a worse one this time, no doubt about it. What should be currents pulsing down the wires of nerves had become a spray of welder’s sparks. Everything got worse. Always. The world’s single immutable law.