The Saint Louisans (28 page)

“They enjoy the nun?” asked Rasheed.

“No. The Raggedy Andy doll. People love that. Tourists can't get enough of it. I had a Raggedy Ann.”

Rasheed's smile was slow, an afternoon shadow across a sundial. “Yes. To remember childhood innocence. It is sad we cannot discuss God. I would like to, but first there is business. You have less than a month.”

“Less then,” I echoed. Somewhere beyond the door, traffic whispered like when Mom—Lena May Sikes, my
faux
mom—blew in my ear, making me squeal. “I'm glad you like the cathedral. I can see it relaxes you.”

“It does,” Rasheed nodded. “The peaceful world of a contemplative and a dignified structure. Meant to last for ages. I admire it.” His smile barely rose. “Someday, it will make a beautiful mosque.”

He walked out the door, beginning to eat the pizza I gave him. By a shrine, red candles waved like seismograph needles.

Saul's Hyundai chugged along Grand. I stared out the window at the usual dose of St. Louis morbid. “I can't believe it.”

He nodded. “Believe it. Barrett checked over at FBI. At the penis.”

Meaning the new federal courts building, a high rise called “The Pink Penis” due to its rounded phallic crown. On the outside, floor after floor of pillars are meant to remind us of classical temples, but they look like jail cells. Perhaps a symbol of what the federal government does best to its citizenry.

“Rasheed is a visitor in good standing. State said leave him alone, so the feds are sitting on it.”

My arms folded tighter. “A terrorist.”

“The sheik is a pal, we need the oil and airspace, so in the interests of the state, Jama is flushable.”

My sigh made a spot of fog on the window. Saul tried to be good-natured. “Look. Jama always lands on her feet.”

“That cliche may have reached its shelf life.” I stared at the white steeple of St. Alphonsus Liquori, the ‘Rock' of St. Louis.

Saul continued. “Even Faust had an escape clause. Now, if only the mansion had one. But, I fear it's a waste of time. Vess Moot's in with Pierre. Wrecking the mansion is his baby.”

The Other side of the Rock was Fifth district, where police rookies are filtered into the ghetto, although to hear cops in the ER tell it, it's less filtering than being dumped onto Omaha Beach.

“True,” I said to a glum Saul, “but I want to talk to him. Get the skinny from Vess face to face. I was his nurse. We kind of rapped.”

“Okay,” Saul said, “and I'll check with Margot's attorney. He's working with me to declare the mansion a historical landmark. I can see you meeting with Vess, but why a rematch with Dan Smatters?”

“See if he has a price or a conscience. Then we'll meet the mayor.” I looked out to the street. “Is there anything else Barrett's found out about Lucas? Something that may tie in?”

“What, the drug use? He ran with the usual unsavory crowd. There may be something.”

“Go on.”

Saul flipped open a small notepad. “The night of the VP ball. That fiasco in '72. We know Lucas wasn't there. He was seen in a neighborhood north of here. There was a shooting that night.”

“A shooting? What? Robbery? Drug deal gone bad? Did Lucas shoot someone?”

“No, but a dealer. A Marc Anthony Hollis. Disappeared that night. Vanished.”

“Murder?”

“Vanished. Someone made Lucas a block away, speeding back to the mansion, but it's cold. No link. No reason to see a connection, but I'm asking Barrett to dig into the files.”

It had a sidebar feel to it, but if street mayhem involved Lucas, it was getting my interest, and I could tell Saul's as well. I touched my head and closed my eyes. Saul's hand touched my shoulder.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Just a headache. I've been getting them since Jama's return. Time to see Vess.”

I got out of the car, clutched the collar of my cape as Saul drove off. I was a block away from St. Louis U. It was between classes, so the area was bustling with students. Brooding overhead was the Continental Building. Built in the twenties, its twenty-two stories the Goliath of the neighborhood, a ceramic slab of skyscraper Gothic topped by a mast to secure visiting airships, which was very state of the art then. Airships docking overhead, ready to unload travelers just in time to catch a show at the neighboring Fox seemed to make
sense when Lindbergh was the Jazz Age Daedalus. The top beacon flashes blue and red lights after dark. Why? To warn of an approaching airship? St. Louisans never get around to changing things. A part of our psyche still waits for the Hindenburg to dock. Maybe the lights show we're not sure if we're a red or blue state. Missourians and schizophrenia. The Desouche mansion lay two blocks north.

I entered the Continental. It's been abandoned for years, except for one office whose shiny brass doors I brushed past.

The headquarters of Vesuvius Moot's Coalition for Urban Transformation was spacious and baroque. Posters of Josephine Baker and Ella Barnes, local girls of color who made good, lit up the gilt and marble. The secretary greeted me like warm broth. Above her desk a poster exuded and warned: A CUT of the Action: Now!

When I was ushered into his office, Vess nodded to me as he kept spieling on the telephone. He'd changed his stripes through the years. From a leopard sleek foot soldier of CORE desegregating lunch counters to a defiant Black Panther toting guns inside a church service, Vess made a name for himself. He demanded the Veiled Prophet Ball be abolished. A month later, he included the white race. Years later, he went collar and tie to fight against the city's closing Homer G. Phillips hospital, the major hospital on the North side. I remember buses and lamp posts plastered with stickers, thick as cicadas when they returned: Save Homer G! To the black community, it was their hospital, and Vess stoked resentment over its closing.

It certainly helped his ambitions, and Vess's stock rose. He went to tailored suits, ready to run for mayor. Until one night … the night old Vesuvius and I crossed paths in the ER.

We were piled up like the top forty of human suffering. Moving past rows of sick and injured, Norine, my hefty fellow nurse, rushed to a DO two friends dragged in. When asked for information, the ‘friends' split. The DO sank against the wall. Our last available orderly rushed to Norine's side. Before I could assist, red lights flooded the doors as paramedics wheeled in Vess. He was flanked by cops, his clothes bloody and ripped where medics applied dressings. Hemmings was the chief medic, pug-nosed and built like a bantamweight. On breaks between action, we did movie trivia and notes on bars.

“Two shots,” Hem said as we trotted to the OR, “foot and chest.”

“Blood?”

“Needs transfusion. He's lost fifteen pints.”

That could kill. I was already shouting for plasma. Vess's eyes were pale. “Mutha … mutha …” was all he could mutter. He was going into shock. “Come on, Moot,” I said, “stay with us.”

“Yeah,” Hem was quick, “You're a badass. Trashed the Prophet. Sent his veiled ass packing.”

Vess uttered a low grunt, then opened his eyes. We'd called him back. The OR was waiting as Hem and I did the one-two-three and lifted Vess onto the table. Hem and I walked out as the OR team huddled over Vess.

“So,” I rubbed my hands, “did you get a chance to make it to Squeaky's?”

“Did I ever,” Hem smiled as a man was wheeled past us into the oxygen unit. “They got Raki. Turkish hooch. You gotta serve it with water and milk, then it turns white. ‘Lion's Milk,' they call it.”

Hem had been stationed in Izmir. I nodded as I wrote on the clipboard. “Good buzz?”

“Best, but it takes a while. Anyway, the joint's another Cinderella.”

Back then, St. Louis bars closed early. Late night boozers had to cross the river. I nodded to Hem as he jogged to his partner, another call crackling on their radio.

“Off to the races,” he called back.

A day later I went into Vess's room to check his chart. Tubes were attached to his arms and chest like plastic roots. Vess's eyes opened slow and mean, like Gort's slit in
The Day the Earth Stood Still
.

“‘Ey. Nur … se?”

He talked like a record on slow speed. I smiled. “Good. You're talking. You've been out of ICU for two hours. The chest wound wasn't that deep.”

His chest heaved. “Fo …”

“No. Only two shots.

Vess blinked. “Fo.”

“Tunnel vision. Gunshot wounds do that. You took one in the chest and foot. Reports said eight shots were fired. Good thing whoever fired had bad aim and not tunnel vision.”

“So … I gonna … 'kay?”

“Not yet. Bullets have a lot of bacteria. You've got a real chance of sepsis. We're fighting that.”

“Sep—” Vess swallowed. “Sepsis? So foot … 'kay?”

“No.” I fluffed his pillow. Vess nodded thanks. “Foot wounds are worse because feet are delicate. They don't heal easy. If gangrene sets in, you're in trouble.” Vess frowned, forcing himself to listen, to become the mighty force he was before the shooting. “If it's any consolation, getting shot in the ass is better. It's nice, fleshy, and away from any vital organs. Makes our job real easy.”

Vess sunk back and almost broke into a smile. “Ass. Yeah. Nex' time …”

“Let's hope there won't be a next time.”

A long sigh. “Yeh. We on … same page.” His eyes studied a medication chart like it was a message from Mars. “Why no doc?”

“I'm telling you what the surgeon told you three hours ago, but the anesthesia hadn't worn off, and you were still wonky.”

Vess blinked. “Honky?”

“Sorry. Docs tend to shoot the info by you, and scoot. Nurses, Vess. Our role is Miltonic. We explain the ways of God to man.”

He pointed to the pitcher. I poured a glass of water, and held it as he sipped, his eyes rolling in relief. I continued, “We also explain the ways of man to God. The cops want to talk to you. We're giving them five minutes.”

After I checked his bandages and leakage, I pulled up the bed pan. “I bet you're ready. Good interrogations always do well on an empty bladder. Usually aides do the scut work, but I'm your angel, and I'm in the mood.”

I slid the pan under the sheets.

I was back in present time, and beheld Vess as he was now. As he talked on the telephone. No man is a hero to his valet, and it's ditto for nurses. Vess's eyes shifted as he hung up. His once slender, Malcolm X frame was now portly, a U-boat turned cruise ship now covered in a tan suit. He was adorned in rings, bracelet, and designer watch. If there had been sunlight, he would have glittered. Vess's smile to me was perfunctory, an obligatory small glass of sherry offered the visitor, the good stuff saved for those with power and money, of which I had neither.

“Well, Nurse Lee. It's been a long time since we've had a chance to catch up. Happily.”

I nodded, remembering his speech a year after he was released from my ward. ‘You see, my role is like that cat Milton. I explain the ways of God to man. I explain the ways of the Man to God, 'cause what the Man does don't make no sense to anyone's universe.' Recalling this cheerful paraphrase made me smile. Vess didn't.

“This is about the mansion. And Juneteenth.”

“Vess, why does it have to be there?”

“Of course, since you're a brand-new Desouche, you'll fight me.”

“There are many places to build Juneteenth.”

“Places where people of color stay where they belong.”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“Look, Lee. This city has been divided into strict lines.” Vess reached for a dish of M&Ms on the desk, clawed a half dozen, and popped them into his mouth. Swallowed. “You know about redlining. Where bad areas were written off to be bulldozed. Most of them African American. I'm sure Saul filled you in on that, like he does everything.”

“Yeah, I know. Saul's a good filler-inner.”

“Segregation was extended to the hospitals. Back then, patients of color were kept in basements.”

“So you're using your muscle to settle scores? That's not righteous. Look, the mansion is an anchor for the neighborhood.”

“Sure, for one rich family. You'd want to do what, restore it? Live there?”

“I'm not going to live there. The mansion could be a focus for the community.”

Vess almost chuckled. “We don't need a museum. We need land. Anything you or Saul want are band aids. It's an ER situation for our community.” He leaned back. “Forgive my using that term.”

“It's a good term, and I didn't sue you for copping Milton.”

A hearty laugh came from Vess. Outside the window, I saw four crows soar, knowing where they would go. Shifting his weight, Vess continued.

“A long time ago, you nursed me back to health. Now it's my turn to be nurse, and it's for the city. It needs Juneteenth.” He steepled his large fingers, fingers happiest when they grasped, pointed, made fists. “If you fight me, you're fighting a cure.”

“You're calling me a reactionary.”

“I'm saying you're on the wrong side of history.”

“Okay, Vess, but I'm curious. Why an alliance with Smatters? Your interest in Sonia and her Corn Mother gig?”

“Does that surprise you, Lee? That I'm interested in history?”

“Corn Mother is an excuse for wrecking the mansion.”

Vess picked up a newspaper on his desk, folded to page three reporting Sonia's theory. “I'm no scholar. I'm the first to admit that. But I like these Cahokians. They were also people of color, and were here a long time before—”

“Whitey?”

Vess's smile was a steaming hot corn muffin with lots of melted butter. “Western Civ. We're so obsessed with it. Your people see all these new types drift into the city … Mexicans, Asians, Bosnians … they see less white, and to many, it's decline and fall. Maybe St. Louis isn't ending.” His eyes brightened. “Maybe with the end of white dominance and a world of diversity, the history of this city is just beginning. God said, ‘Let there be light,' and light illuminates, gives birth to color. You see, history starts with color. As it always has.”