Sailor & Lula (38 page)

“Hush and listen!”

“In New Orleans this morning,” said the television news reader, “federal agents took into custody reputed organized crime king Marcello Santos on charges of conspiracy to commit murder and murder of his alleged mistress, Mona Costatroppo, in Chicago last week.”

Videotape came onscreen showing Santos, his hands cuffed in front of him, being taken out of the backseat of a black car and led by FBI men up the steps of a courthouse. His sunglasses were askew, as was his toupee. He was obviously shouting something at the reporters following him, but it was impossible to hear what he said. The news reader continued:

“Santos, known as ‘Crazy Eyes' because of an unusual congenital opthalmic condition that causes his eyes to frequently change color and appear unstable, became the head of the Pericolo crime family following the death of Pietro ‘The Sicilian Salmon' Pericolo in 1962. According to noted organized crime authority Hieronymous Bernstein, author of the best-selling book,
From Fear to Uncertainty: Behind the Breakdown of the Mafia
, the Pericolo family, which controls rackets across the southern United States, especially along the Gulf Coast, had its foundation in Palermo under the leadership of the legendary gangster Lupo Sanguefreddo, who was assassinated while having a shave in the barbershop of the Egyptian Gardens Hotel in Miami Beach in 1939. Sanguefreddo was fighting a deportation order at the time of his death.”

Marietta turned off the set.

“Don't know how they can get away with sayin' all that stuff about a man never been convicted of a thing!” she said. “Do you believe he done it, Dal?”

“You mean had Mona Costatroppo killed?”

Marietta nodded.

“Hard to say. That kind of woman digs her own grave.”

The telephone rang and Dal picked it up.

“Hello, Johnnie. Yes, we just watched it on the news. She's all right. Yes, I will. She talked to Pace and he's fine. Yes, okay. Bye.”

Dal hung up and said, “Johnnie wanted to know if you'd heard about Santos. Says he'll be back around six. I'm goin' to the Daughters at two. You comin'?”

“Might as well. They'll all want to know about Pace.”

“Don't be worryin' too much about your old buddy Marcello. He'll find a way out, like always.”

“Ain't it somethin', though, Dal, how it's just one weird thing happens after another?”

“Stay tuned,” said Dal, opening the front door. “I got a powerful hunch there ain't never gonna be a end to it.”

“It's the terrible truth, Jimmie. They are transferring Santos to Chicago tomorrow for the arraignment. No bail is being allowed until after the charges are brought. And even then, who knows? Our attorney here in New Orleans, Irving Bocca, says there is no guarantee the Chicago judge will grant bail, no matter what amount. The government wants him bad, and they figure this is their best shot. I don't blame them, either, for thinking that. You know Marcello wanted to take care of this business himself, and I believe he acted too hastily, though I know nothing of the details.”

“Who is handling the case in Chicago for him?”

“Louis Trifoglio. The father, not the son.”

“Good. So, you know how to proceed?”

“
Conte pure su di me
. Jimmie, you can count on me.”

“You have my blessing, Carmine. Have you settled things yet with Tiger Johnny?”

“Yes.
Ci comprendiamo
. I am certain we understand each other.”

“You know, as far as I am concerned,
è un buon' a nulla
. He is good for nothing, like all of the Ragusas.”

“
C'è voluto del bello e del buono per convincerlo
. It took some convincing, but things will be all right.”

“If you say it, it must be so.
Ciao
, then, Carmine. You will keep me informed of Marcello's circumstances.”

“Of course, Jimmie. I will. I am grateful for your blessing.
Ciao
.”

Both Jimmie Hunchback, in New York, and Poppy Papavero, who was sitting in Santos's chair in the office of Bayou Enterprises, hung up. Poppy had been entrusted to run the organization in Marcello's absence, regardless of how long that might be, and he was pleased with the knowledge that Santos's associates had agreed without debate about his capability. He picked up the receiver again and dialed Perdita's number.

“Yes?”

“Perdita, my pet, things are good, under control. While Marcello is
away, I am in charge. Now listen, I've been thinking about us, what we should do.”

“Do about what?”

“I think we should get married. What do you think of that idea?”

“Heard worse.”

Poppy laughed. “Does that mean you say yes?”

“Sure, it's what you want.”

“It is. I know of a good house to buy, in a good place; a modest yet spacious house in a convenient location. It belongs now to Irving Bocca, who is willing to sell.”

“Where's this house?”

“Metairie. It will be perfect, Perdita. We won't know anybody there, and nobody will know us.”

After an unusually late supper, Bob Lee excused himself and said he had to go back to the office to take care of the paperwork he'd ignored during the excitement of the last few days, and Beany took Lance and Madonna Kim upstairs to put them to bed, leaving Lula, Pace, and Sailor at the dining-room table. Lula had told Beany not to worry about the dirty dishes, she'd heated up more of the Community coffee Sailor had taken such a liking to, and poured them each another cup. During the time Lula had gone into the kitchen for the coffee and come back, Pace had put his head down on the table and dozed off. Lula sat next to Sailor and together they watched their son sleep.

“Well, peanut, I'd like to believe we got us a fightin' chance.”

“You'd best believe it, Sail. Look at that little boy breathin' there. If he ain't worth the effort won't never nothin' will be. Pace and us both just come through the worst scare we've ever had, and I guess to hell we've had a few in our short lives. It's one thing your gettin' yourself in deep shit with bad actors like Bob Ray Lemon in North Carolina and Bobby Peru in Texas, but now you got a fast-growin' son needs you. Reverend Willie Thursday back home in Bay St. Clement says a boy without a father's a lost soul sailin' on a ghost ship through the sea of life.”

“It ain't my intention to let you and Pace down, and I won't be playin' no chump's game again, neither. Speakin' of the past, though, I seen Perdita Durango.”

“Here in New Orleans?”

Sailor nodded. “Didn't figure on tellin' you this, but someone took a potshot at me in the shoppin' center by the Gator Gone office the other day. I'm pretty sure it was Perdita. I made Bob Lee swear he wouldn't say nothin' about it.”

“But, Sail, why would she want to shoot you?”

“Maybe she thinks I'm out to get her for runnin' out on me and Peru. I'm the only one could I.D. her for the caper. I also spotted her on the street last week when I was leavin' Hattiesburg. She was with the same blue BMW squealed away from the shootin' in the shoppin' center.”

“Sweet Jesus, honey. What're we gonna do about this?”

“Don't panic, peanut. I'll just have to keep the eyes in the back of my head open. Prob'ly Perdita was aimin' to warn, not kill, makin' sure I knew it was her had the drop on me. I wouldn't say nothin' to the cops, anyway.”

“Sail, this unpredictable scary behavior don't almost improve my peace of mind.”

“I know it, but you're my baby Lula, and at least we're in it together again. You, me, and Pace, that is. Reverend Willie Thursday won't be preachin' no ghost ship sermon concernin' our son.”

Lula leaned over and kissed Sailor below his left ear.

“I love you, Sailor Ripley. I always figured we'd find our way.” Sailor grinned and put his left arm around Lula, pulling her closer to him.

“Peanut, it was just inevitable.”

Piero Aldobrandi, unhelmeted, was wearing the black cuirass and the red commander's scarf and carrying the baton which linked him forever to this scene of carnage. But the figure, turning its back to the spectacle, relegated it to the mere status of landscape, and the face, strained by a secret vision, was the emblem of a supernatural detachment.

—Julien Gracq,
Le Rivage des Syrtes

“The best thing you can hope for in this life is that the rest of the world'll forget all about ya.”

Coot Veal shifted his shotgun from right to left and checked the fake Rolex on his right wrist. Buford Dufour had bought the watch for forty bucks in Bangkok when he was in the air force and sold it later to Coot for fifty.

“Half past four,” he said. “ 'Bout time to give it up, I'd say.”

Pace Ripley pulled a brown leather-coated flask from the left hip pocket of his army surplus field jacket, unscrewed and flipped open the top and took a swift swig of Black Bush that he'd filched from his daddy's bottle.

“Want 'ny?” he asked Coot, holding out the flask.

“Naw. I'll get mine shortly.”

Pace recapped the flask and put it back in his pocket.

“What you mean, Coot, hopin' you get forgot?”

Coot Veal, who was fifty-eight years old and had never been farther away from South Louisiana than Houston, Texas, to the west; Mobile, Alabama, to the east; and Monroe, Louisiana, to the north; who never had married or lived with a woman other than his mother, Culebra Suazo Veal, who had died when Coot was forty-nine; grinned at the fifteen-year-old boy, his friend Sailor Ripley's son, and then laughed.

“Mean it's not in a man's interest to let anyone interfere with or interrupt what's there for him to do.”

Coot pulled out a pistol from his hip holster and held it up.

“This here's a single-shot Thompson Contender loaded with .223 rounds. Not the biggest gun in the world, not the best, either, but it suits me. Read about a Seminole brought down a panther with one in the Everglades.”

Coot replaced the pistol in its holster.

“Zanzibar slavers over a century ago called the gun the Sultan of Africa. The world's still ruled by weapons, Pace. They're what separates the operators from the pretenders.”

Pace looked out over the marsh. He and Coot hadn't had a fair crack at a duck all day. Water had somehow leaked into his high rubber boots and soaked his woollen socks.

“Okay, Coot,” he said, “let's hit it. Gettin' skunked like this is insultin'.”

Pace and Coot were riding in Coot's 1982 Dodge Ram pickup, headed home to New Orleans.

“You think I should go to a hooker, Coot? I mean, before I start in on regular girls. To have me some experience.”

Coot laughed and spit out his open window. Pace uncorked the flask and swallowed some Bush.

“Tough call, kid,” said Coot. “Only time I used one I was about your age, maybe a year older. My daddy, Duke Veal, had fashioned me a shoulder holster to wear when I was playin' Chicago gangster. I had a old Chinese target pistol was missin' the firin' pin and stuck it in the shoulder holster. Put on my Sunday suit coat over it and marched down to Rampart Street. Wanted to take off the coat in front of a woman, impress her, so she'd think I was a real racket boy.

“I found me a big, tall red-headed gal and followed her upstairs to her crib. Price was three dollars, plus one or two for the room. Four or five dollars altogether. It was about all the dough I had at the time, but I was convinced this was my best idea to date and I was goin' through with it, hell or high water. Made damn sure she saw me take off my jacket, but she was a seasoned whore. Didn't bat an eye or laugh at me, neither one. Just laid there on the bed with no kind of look at all on her face. I left the holster on, only took off my pants. Did the deed, stood up, put my pants and coat back on and got out of there. Woman never said a word about the gun or nothin' after I give her my money. Haw! How's that for a backfire?”

“You ever tell your daddy 'bout it?”

“Duke? Hell, no. I had, he woulda kicked my sorry ass to Memphis. Duke Veal didn't take kindly to throwin' away good money on bad women.”

“Guess you're sayin' I oughta save mine.”

Coot nodded and turned on the headlights.

“Might be best,” he said. “But I think I still got that old shoulder holster around someplace, you decide you need it.”

“That you, Sail?” Lula shouted.

Sailor Ripley let the screen door slam shut behind him.

“No,” he said. “It's Manuel Noriega.”

Lula came into the front room from the kitchen and saw Sailor slump down into the oversized, foam-filled purple chair that Beany and Bob Lee Boyle had given them last Christmas.

“Who'd you say? Barry Manilow?”

“No. Manuel Noriega, the deposed president of Panama.”

“Uh-uh, you ain't him. You got too good a complexion.”

Lula went over and kissed Sailor on the top of his head.

“Long day, huh, Sail?”

“You know it, peanut. Gator Gone's goin' great guns since the envir'mentalists got that new reptile protection law passed. Ever' fisherman in the state of Louisiana needs it now. You up to fetchin' me a cold Dixie?”

“No hay problema, esposo,”
Lula said, heading toward the kitchen. “Bet even Bob Lee never figured his gator repellent'd go this good.”