Sailor & Lula (37 page)

Sailor opened his eyes and saw the crowd of people gathering around him. He scrambled to his feet and brushed himself off.

“Come on, Bob Lee,” he said, “let's go find my boy.”

Guadalupe DelParaiso had lived at the same address all of her life, which was seven months more than eighty-six years. She had never married, and had outlived each of her sixteen siblings—nine brothers, seven sisters—as well as many of her nephews and nieces, and even several of their children. Guadalupe lived alone in the downstairs portion of the house her father, Nuncio DelParaiso, and his brother, Negruzco, had built on Claiborne Avenue across the street from Our Lady of the Holy Phantoms church in New Orleans. The neighborhood had undergone numerous vicissitudes since Nuncio and Negruzco had settled there. At one time the area had been home to some of the Crescent City's most prominent citizens, but now Our Lady of the Holy Phantoms, where the DelParaiso family had worshiped for forty years, and where Guadalupe and her sisters and brothers had attended school, was closed down, and the street was littered with transient hotels, beer and shot bars, pool halls, and the drunks, junkies and whores who populated and patronized these establishments.

Guadalupe rented the upstairs rooms in her house by the week. She made sure to get the money in advance and kept a chart on the wall in her kitchen listing the dates the rent was due for each room. Guadalupe would rent to singles only, and not to women or blacks under the age of fifty. She had not left the house in four years, depending on her bachelor nephew, Fortunato Rivera, her sister Romana's youngest son, who was now fifty-two years old, to bring her groceries and other supplies twice a week. She paid Fortunato for what he brought her on Wednesdays and Sundays, and gave him a shopping list for the next delivery. Guadalupe had not been sick since the scarlet fever epidemic of 1906. The doctor who attended her at that time told her mother, Blanca, and Nuncio, that Guadalupe's heart had been severely damaged by the fever and that he did not expect her to live beyond thirty. It was Guadalupe's oldest sister, Parsimonia, however, who succumbed to a weak heart at the age of twenty-nine. As the years passed, Guadalupe only became stronger in both body and mind.

Guadalupe was making up her list for Fortunato, who would be coming the next day, Wednesday, when she heard a pounding noise, like the stamping of feet, coming from the room above the kitchen. She had rented the room almost a week before to a soft-spoken, polite but bedraggled-looking young man whom, she believed, worked for the railroad. The young man had seen the ROOM FOR RENT sign in the front window and had taken what had once been her brothers Rubio, Martin, and Danilo's room immediately. He paid Guadalupe a month's advance because, he told her, it looked like the kind of a place his mama, Alma Ann, would have been pleased to occupy. Guadalupe had not seen the young man since the day he'd rented it.

This pounding disturbed Guadalupe; she could not concentrate on her grocery list. She went into the pantry, picked up her broom, brought it back with her to the kitchen and bumped the end of the handle several times against the ceiling.

“You stop!” she shouted. “No noise in Nuncio's house or you get out!” The pounding did not stop, so Guadalupe put down the broom, left her part of the house and walked slowly up the stairs. She stopped at the door to the young railroad worker's room and listened. She could not hear the pounding as distinctly from the hallway as she could in her kitchen, but she heard it and knocked as hard as she could on the door with her left fist.

“You stop! You stop or leave Nuncio and Blanca's house!”

The pounding continued and Guadalupe removed her keychain from the right front pocket of her faded rose-colored chenille robe and unlocked the door. The single overhead sixty-watt bulb was burning, but there was nobody in the room. The noise was coming from the closet, so she opened it. A body hurtled past Guadalupe so fast she did not see who or what it was, and by the time she turned around, it was gone. Guadalupe had been tremendously startled; suddenly she felt faint, and staggered to the cane armchair. She sat down and attempted to calm herself, but she was frightened, thinking that the shadow that had rushed out of the room had been the ghost of her severely disturbed brother Morboso, the one who had hanged himself in that closet. It had been Parsimonia who discovered Morboso swinging there, and it was this incident, Nuncio and Blanca believed, that had damaged Parsimonia's heart
and led to her premature death. The ghost of Morboso DelParaiso was loose, Guadalupe thought. Perhaps he had driven away the young railroad man, or even murdered him as he had the pretty young nun, Sister Panacea, whose body Nuncio and Negruzco and Father Vito had secretly buried after midnight on October 21, 1928, in the garden of Our Lady of the Phantoms. Guadalupe rested and remembered, seeing again what she could not prevent herself from seeing.

Pace ran down the stairs and managed to turn the big gold knob on the front door by holding it between the bottom of his chin and his neck. He ran a block down the street before he stopped in front of an old Indian-looking guy who was leaning against the side of a building sipping from a short dog in a brown paper bag.

“Untie me, mister!” Pace shouted at him. “Get my hands loose, please!”

The Indian's eyes were blurry and he seemed confused.

“A crazy man kidnapped me and tied me up!” Pace yelled. “I just ran away! Help me out, willya?”

The Indian held out his half-pint of wine, as if he didn't know what to do with it if he assisted Pace.

“Put your bottle down on the ground and undo this here knot,” said Pace, turning around and showing the Indian his hands.

The old guy bent over and carefully deposited his sack on the sidewalk, then straightened up and tugged on Pace's hands until they were freed.

“Thanks a lot, mister,” said Pace, tossing away the strip of bedsheet Elmer had used to bind him. He reached down and picked up the Indian's short dog and handed it to him. “Don't know if God loves ya,” Pace shouted, “but I do!”

Pace ran along Claiborne until he saw a police car parked at the curb. He went over to the car and stuck his head in the open window on the passenger side.

“Evenin', officer,” Pace said to the policeman sitting behind the steering wheel. “I'm Pace Roscoe Ripley, the boy got kidnapped in the park the other day? Are you lookin' for me?”

Federal Bureau of Investigation agents Sandy Sandusky and Morton Martin stopped into the Lakeshore Tap, a tavern on Lincoln Avenue about a mile from Wrigley Field. In another hour or so, when the Cubs game ended, the place would be packed; at the moment, the two agents were the only customers. They sat on adjoining stools, ordered drafts of Old Style, and drained half of their beers before Sandusky said, “Is there a field office in North Dakota?”

“Where in North Dakota?” asked Martin.

“Anywhere.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because that's where we're going to be transferred to unless we can nail whoever ordered the hit on Mona Costatroppo, that's why.”

Both men took another swig of beer.

“We know it was Santos,” Martin said.

“The man hasn't had a rap pinned on him once. Never done time, Morty, never had a speeding ticket.”

“If we can locate the shooter, we got a chance.”

“He's in the sports book at Caesar's Palace right now, a hooker on each arm, betting trifectas at Santa Anita with the fee.”

“So what do we do, Sandy?”

“Buy bigger overcoats.”

Sandusky swallowed the last of his draft and climbed down from his stool.

“Order me one more, Morty. I'll call the office.”

Sandusky came back five minutes later, a big grin on his ruddy face, and slapped Morton Martin on the back.

“Give us a couple shots of Chivas,” Sandusky said to the bartender.

“What's up?” asked Martin. “Santos turn himself in?”

“Not quite, but Detroit picked up the hammer.”

“No kiddin'. I thought you told me he was in Vegas juggling bimbos.”

“Where I'd be.”

The bartender brought two Scotches and Sandusky slapped down a ten.

“Keep the change,” he said. “Looks like I won't need a new overcoat, after all.”

Sandusky handed a glass to Morton Martin, tapped it with his own, and said, “To Tyrone Hardaway, a.k.a. Master Slick, resident of Chandler Heights, Detroit, Michigan, product of the Detroit public school system, who just couldn't keep his mouth shut or the blood money in his pocket for more than twenty-five minutes.”

Sandusky and Martin knocked down the Chivas.

“Apparently, this Hardaway was letting all of his homeboys know what a big man he was, working for the guineas. He was buying gold chains, leather jackets and primo drugs for everyone in the neighborhood while bragging about the fresh job he'd done in Chicago for the famous Mr. Crazy Eyes. Somebody snitched on him, of course, and the Bureau brought him in no more than an hour ago. They say he told them that Santos's people forced him to whack the broad; otherwise, Tyrone said, the organization was going to move him off his turf and let another gang handle the crack trade.”

“I know J. Edgar Hoover always said there was no such thing as organized crime in this country, but I'd bet Tyrone is telling the truth.”

Sandusky laughed, and motioned to the bartender. After both men had refills, Sandusky held up his glass and admired its amber contents.

“To the truth!” he said.

“Yes, Mama, he's here with us now, and he's doin' fine.”

“Put the boy on the line, Lula.”

Lula handed the phone to Pace.

“Hi, Grandmama. Marietta, I mean. How you?”

“Pace, darlin', you call me Grandmama all you want. We been so worried! Your Auntie Dal and Uncle Johnnie been with me the whole time, waitin' for news. Your mama says you ain't got a hair out of place. Tell me what happened.”

“I escaped, is all. The man left me tied up in a closet and when someone opened the door I ran out of there fast as I could. Bo Jackson couldn'ta caught me. I was flyin'!”

“Who was this man? Did he harm you?”

“Crazy kid, not too much older'n me, really. Name was Elmer Désper-somethin'. He was searchin' for a friend, he told me. His mama died on their farm and after he didn't get along with his daddy and brother, so Elmer killed 'em. Least that's what Sailor said. Elmer's dead, too. Found him this mornin' with his head blowed off. He didn't really hurt me none, only tied up my hands when he put me in the closet. I got a wino to undo me after I escaped.”

“What a terrible time for you! Is Sailor intendin' to stay with y'all for a while?”

“I hope so, Grandmama. He's my daddy.”

“I'm just so pleased you're safe, sweetie pie. I'll see you real soon. Let me have your mama again. Love you.”

“Love you, Grandmama.”

Lula took the phone.

“Mama, I want you to know Sailor and I've decided to try to stay together. We got a lot of talkin' to do and things to work out, we know, but we both think it'd be best for us and Pace if we can be a fam'ly.”

“Lula, you know I only want what's best for you and my grandboy, so I hope you know what you're doin'. This ain't the proper moment for
us to get into this, what with Pace just bein' found and all, but I got a strong opinion on the matter, as you could imagine.”

“Yes, Mama, I can. We're all gonna stay here with Beany and Bob Lee while Sailor and I figure out what to do. Bob Lee's offered Sail a job at the alligator repellent factory, and Beany'd like me to take care of Madonna Kim and Lance when she enrolls in the St. John the Baptist College of Cosmetology in Arabi. There's plenty of room here, and if things work out between me'n Sailor, we'll find our own place.”

“Well, Lula, I've promised Dal I'd hold my tongue until we're all calmed down from the kidnappin', so I will.”

“Mama, it
is my
life.”

“Johnnie got some business to attend in N.O. next week and he's asked me to come with him. You can't believe what a rock Johnnie's been for me these last few days.”

“You oughta marry him, Mama, before you get too old to enjoy yourself.”

“Lula, hush. I expect we'll be stayin' at the Sonesta.”

“Separate rooms?”

“ 'Course, separate rooms. Listen, Lula, I'm thinkin' I'll attend the Daughters meetin' this afternoon, now we got Pace safe, so I'll say bye. I'll let you know when Johnnie and I'll be in.”

“Okay, Mama.”

“Keep a eye on my grandboy, now. Love you, Lula.”

“Love you.”

Marietta was hanging up when Dalceda Delahoussaye came in through the back door like a fireball.

“Marietta! I been dialin' you like mad!”

“I was talkin' to Lula, honey, and Pace. He ain't hurt and he sounds fine. Man who took him's dead.”

“Lula told us he was fine last night!” Dal shouted as she raced through the kitchen into the front room.

“Needed to hear his precious voice. Dal, what are you doin'?”

Dal had switched on Marietta's nineteen-inch Sony Trinitron and was flipping the dial.

“What I was callin' you about was Santos. What number's that all-news channel?”

“Eleven, I believe. What about Santos?”

“He's been arrested! Look, here it is.”

“Arrested? What are you ravin' about?”