The Sound of Building Coffins (23 page)

Malaria considered arguing but didn’t want to appear rude or disrespectful, and so she only returned the smile in kind. Larry refilled Marcus’ suddenly-empty shot glass without being told.

“
Let me ask you something, Malaria.” Marcus meant to go somewhere with this talk of his own sanity or lack thereof. “When you look in that kid’s eyes, what color are they to you?”

“
You mean Jim?”

“
That’s right.”

A pause. “Well, I guess I’d say fishy blue.”

“
Fishy blue. That’s good. It means he ain’t got his sights on you. Not yet, leastways. Do you know what color I see in those eyes?”

“
Upstairs you said ’red like summer cherries.’”

“
That’s right. Red. Red as can be.”

“
Glowing red? Like lamplight?” She was mildly fascinated by the notion of seeing whatever it was Marcus saw, even if it was a thing imagined.

“
No. Like
painted
red. Dull in color, like dried blood against old smoothed wood. But red just the same.” He reached for her hand again. “Malaria, I’m usually just fine with folks thinking me a fool, an old feller with a wild imagination and strange ideas about the world, but I need to come clean with you about certain things—and for good and particular reason. Now try to keep an open mind ’cause some of this gonna sound damn strange.”

“
All right.”

“
That Jim Jam Jump kid ain’t quite human, darlin’, and he done latched onto yer brother Dropsy. This is a very serious thing.” His eyes told her he meant it. “Dropsy’s a good kid, but this association gonna get him hurt. Or worse. So you need to know certain things.”

Now he had her full attention. She had never liked Jim, though she couldn’t exactly say why—she just felt a hollow, sinking feeling whenever in his presence. It made her very nervous the way Dropsy followed the kid around, even seemed to idolize him.

“
What kind of certain things?” She failed to conceal the worry in her voice and so Marcus softened his tone.

“
Well, dear, neither you nor I were in that house on that night, but we both have an idea what happened there. And I happen to know there’s a lot more to it than what’s been said around town in the barbershops and sewing circles and such.”

Malaria understood which night he referred to. The night her father died—and almost took Typhus along with him. The night a demon was supposedly cast out of one-year-old Dominick Carolla, the boy currently known as Jim Jam Jump.

“
Some folks say that boy was suffering from an illness, others say from demons. But I know it warn’t exactly neither.” An avalanche of irrelevant laughter erupted overhead—Marcus waited for it to pass before wheezing in a deep breath, then out, then continuing on. “The thing inside that child was invited by hoodoo most foul, brought on by that crazy old fool Malvina Latour. She set that thing into motion, brought it into this world many years back, before you was even born—and it was meant for me, that thing. Meant to right a perceived wrong I done against her kin.”

“
What kin?” She’d heard many stories about Malvina the Vodou mambo over the years, but this one was new to her.

“
I can’t get on that right now, and it don’t rightly matter by this late date anyhow.”

Malaria watched a bead of sweat roll down his cheek that could have passed for a tear.

“
What matters is this: that old Malvina didn’t know then what it was she brought on, don’t know now neither, and likely won’t know never. It was a
djab
, that thing. Now,
djab
is a Haitian word that translates as ‘demon,’ but really just means any kind of unruly spirit with a need to be kept in check by Papa
Legba
and Mama
Ayizan
—if allowed into this world at all. Whatever it might be or might not be, it don’t see itself as no demon. It sees itself as some kinda savior of the human race. And, hell, maybe it is.” He glanced over by the piano to avoid the burn of her eyes. “But its methods are suspect.”

Unnoticed by any in the saloon, Outlaw told a silent tale of caution and dread beneath the piano bench with wildly expressive ears.

“
But my daddy cast that demon out.” She never really believed those old stories, but when the nights got black enough she sometimes wondered. “That’s what they say at least.”

“
It was Typhus cast it out,” he corrected. “And took it into himself. Yer daddy just hung up in the crossfire. But those two boys each got a part of it that linger on. Jim got the part what means harm. That kid was too young to fight it off or even know what was happening. He been living with that thing so long now he can’t see no other way, he’s become what it made him. I ’spect it’s too late for that boy now. But Typhus was older, smarter, more skilled in spiritual matters. I suspect he’s having a tough time with it in his own way, though.” His eyes returned to meet hers. “Malaria, this gonna be hard to hear but important, so try and take stock. I believe this thing to be more dangerous than some old demon. I’m afraid we’re talking about a danger so strong as to bring about a change in the weather. This thing means to clean the world of sin if it can, and the tryin’ won’t be kind nor pretty.”

“
Clean the world of sin,” she echoed under breath. Malaria found herself fighting a powerful urge to laugh out loud. The urge passed quickly. “I thought you said this thing was after you in particular, Mr. Marcus.”

“
No, that was the plan of the mambo alone. The thing in Jim couldn’t give a hang about that crazy witch’s vendetta against a beaten old gravedigger like me. But it knows
that I know
, and so it’s got its sights on me. I know this to be true when I look into those red eyes. And I plan to keep my sights on it, too—I mean to watch its
every
move. Now, don’t be scared ner overly worried, but you need to you keep an eye on it yerself—because this thing has positioned itself as a direct threat to your kin.” He let his voice deepen nearly an octave before finishing: “Malaria, promise me that if those eyes ever go red on you that you’ll be careful.”

“
I promise,” she lied.

*

The strange confessions of Marcus Nobody Special had gotten Malaria to thinking about the dual forces that had set her life so firmly and cruelly on its current course; the forces of father and of God. Of what she’d hoped to learn from both or neither her whole life long—and how those lessons had remained so maddeningly unlearned yet so dearly paid for. Tonight she suffered new clarity as she came to realize such answers might come if only she dare indulge a secret wish to fail them both.

Being the oldest in a family of orphans had carried with it certain responsibilities. Her father’s death had effectively preordained the rest of her days—or so she’d believed—handing down a life sentence with no hope of recourse or appeal, a sentence allowing her only to give of herself and never truly to receive.

Now here she was, standing at a crossroads of regret and thankless servitude, with no sign of relief or rescue for as far as the eye could see. This had been her lot in life. Never having had time nor inclination to find a man—let alone a child—for herself, never having closely considered the possibility of a career or a higher purpose, never having confided to a soul on earth that all she’d ever wanted was to sing.

The bitterest pill was that her commitment to self-neglect went wholly unnoticed—certainly unchallenged—by the ones she’d loved most, the very beneficiaries of her sacrifice. They seemed content to accept her love as a matter of course and get on with their own lives. She assumed her eventual death would be deemed a similar matter of course; briefly to be mourned, soon to be forgotten. She would outlive none of them.

Marcus had been right about Diphtheria. She’d made her mark on the world. She was a beautiful and well-respected commodity at the world-famous Arlington Hall, had gotten her own listing in the Blue Book, had even borne a child by the locally famous musician Buddy Bolden. It was a grand life she’d been permitted to lead.

Malaria’s existence was ordinary and unadventurous by contrast. At her job she served drinks. At home she served the family; fretting over their well-being, their successes, their disappointments, their fears. Making sure there was always enough to eat. Worrying about Typhus and his lovesick ways. Keeping an eye on Diphtheria’s boy when his mama was otherwise disposed; off having fun, making her own way, acquiring the things she desired and doing so without guilt or shame.

Tonight Marcus had brought her a new concern regarding Dropsy and his unwholesome affiliation with Jim Jam Jump. But it was more than a mere item of concern to her now, it was a new twist on an old tune, an idea that instantaneously fermented in her mind a challenge of lifelong principles regarding duty and honor, principles thrust upon her at such a young age by her long dead father and his invisible God.

Tonight she understood the attraction of things unsafe. It was true there was something insidiously not right about Jim, something evil and dark—but she saw also a thing exciting and seductive. Like a hurricane party or a jazz funeral, an embrace of some fast-coming and brilliantly inevitable (if unjust) end, an open invitation to the last and wildest party on earth, a high stakes gamble with neither certainty nor hope.

A new name on an old and forgotten dance card.

Though she’d previously believed herself doomed to always do right in her life, she now discovered a secret part of herself deeply attracted to Marcus Nobody Special’s drunken fantasy of evil and intrigue, to this unnamable adventure he’d painted of the world barreling like a comet towards imminent destruction in the form of a mean little boy.

Chapter twenty-nine

King Tat

Faithfully responding to Jim’s signal, Dropsy Morningstar dutifully made dramatic reappearance—huffing and puffing with artfully-artificial dread. In between huffs:

“
Sorry little fella. Ain’t a doctor on the whole block, but I sure did look. Best ya climb on my back and let me take ya to the Charity Hospital. Ain’t too far, I reckon.”

Walter, still intent on displaying concern for his new young friend’s welfare (but not so much that he’d sacrifice learning a game as intriguing as this “tat”), worked his own angle in Dropsy’s direction; “Boy, it would seem I owe you an apology for handling you so roughly earlier. Our new little pal has declared you quite the hero.”

“
No, sir,” Dropsy offered with exaggerated humility. “Just doin’ what anyone’d done. No more’n that is what. No more a’tall.”

“
Well, have a seat and let me buy you a drink just the same. The patient is in good hands, the bleeding done stopped.”

Jim displayed his handkerchiefed leg to Dropsy in confirmation.

“
Young man’s ’bout to treat us to a local dice game. You ever hear of a game called tat?”

“
Well, who hasn’t, sir? Best game of dice ever was, the tat.”

“
That’s what I been hearing.”

Dropsy changed the subject for sake of authenticity: “You sure you okay, little fella?”

“
Feelin’ just fine,” Jim answered with a sleepy smile. In fact he was feeling downright warm.

“
Ain’t been drinking, have ya?” Dropsy persisted. “Skinny little guy like you might get sick is what.”

Walter answered defensively on Jim’s behalf. “Young Nick’s had a little snort is all. Just to ease the pain. Medicinal purposes only, you understand.”

“
Well, all right.” Dropsy yielded to the clearly-better-educated-white-man’s-expertise-in-such-matters, as was proper.

“
How ’bout that game, now?” The Man Who Loved Mavis sounded eager to lose his shirt.

“
Well, then…” Jim slurred, clutching the three dollars. “I’m thinking this might be my lucky night. Got my life saved by this kind niggra, met you nice fellas, now I got me three whole dollars and might turn it into more.”

“
That’s right, son,” Walter affirmed. “Luck has smiled on you today. Unless you count getting bit by that dog.”

“
Yes, indeed,” agreed The Man Who Loved Mavis.

“
Nuff talk, now,” continued Walter. “How about them rules, young Nick?”

“
This is the game,” said Jim. “We put this little sugar dice in a hat.” Skinny offered his brown bowler in response. “Each player takes a turn shaking it three times, then the first man up gives it a roll. Then everyone gives it another good shake before the second man gives it a roll—and so forth and so on. After everyone’s had three turns at rollin’, ya just add up the number of dots each player got—and the one with the most wins the buttons or straws…I mean, the dollar bills.”

“
Nice little kiddy game is what we got, then,” said Fat Tommy.

“
Kiddies and simple niggers, I guess,” said the Man Who Had Not Yet Spoken, whose most remarkable trait was his very unremarkableness.

Dropsy, with slight indignation: “That ain’t the way I’m used to playing no tat. Skipped over the most important rule is what.”

“
What might that be, Hero?” spat The Least Remarkable Man. Dropsy noted the man spoke with the venom of a dyed-in-the-wool nigger-hater.

Without looking Least Remarkable in the eye, Dropsy replied, “Winner buys a round of drinks for the table.”