was the site both of the colony’s abattoir and powder magazine—and a depot for shipment after shipment of slaves newly arrived from Africa.
Dr. King had a dream. I at least had History.
Chapter Seven
I SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY MAKING PHONE CALLS and wondering. Maybe I should have stayed there at the Belright and called Vice. They wanted Sanders; maybe something in the scenario—whatever it turned out to be—would have led us to Cordelia. But Sanders himself seemed, as they said over at Jefferson Downs, a better horse.
Still, I didn’t really expect him to meet me. I figured it might take two or three times to convince him I was serious. And next time he wouldn’t be so easy to find.
I was half right.
Just as I was leaving the office to head for Jackson Square, the phone rang.
“Griffin? Sanders, Bud Sanders. I asked some people about you, man.”
I let it hang there.
“They said you’re crazy as shit. Someone told me you killed a man you didn’t even know up near Baton Rouge a couple of years back.”
“The girl, Sanders.”
“Look, give me some time—a day, right? I’ll do what I can.”
“Noon tomorrow, call me then or before. And Sanders?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t disappear.”
“Disappear, hell. I’m getting easier to spot all the time. Got cops sitting out in the alley waiting to go through my goddam garbage, my wife’s lawyers on me like fleas. Now I gotta have you burning my ass.”
“Reaping what you sow, Sanders.”
“And what about you, man? You ain’t no goddamn pope yourself, now, are you?”
“Noon. Tomorrow.”
I hung up.
And what about me? Back when I found Corene Davis I’d thought my anger, my hatred, was gone forever. I’d been on top for a long time now, even chipped off a little corner of the good life for myself. But it was a lie, a story that didn’t work, a piece of white man’s life, not mine; and now the anger and hatred were coming back. I had kicked that guy in the hotel room in the stomach. I had wanted to kill him, kill them both. Robert Johnson’s hellhound was nipping at my heels.
I tried a couple of numbers for LaVerne and didn’t get her, so I figured she was with a client. Not much wanting to be alone just then, not really alone, but not with anyone either, I drove over to Joe’s.
Happy hour was in full bloom. One guy had already zonked out, face down on one of the corner tables, but everybody kept buying rounds for him and lining them up in front of him. There were the usual jokes about Joe’s hard-boiled eggs. Two guys were throwing darts in the back, with a Playboy picture of Ursula Andress tacked to the board. Nipples were automatic wins.
Nancy asked me what it was going to be and I said it was going to be scotch. To see her, you’d think Joe was violating child-labor laws. She looked fifteen and was twenty-four, with three bad marriages already behind her and another (I’d met the guy, and there was no way) looming on the horizon.
She brought the scotch for me and an orange juice for herself. I’ve never known her to drink.
“How ya been, Lew? It’s been a while.”
“ Ça va bien, as our friends from the swamps say.”
“Yeah, I took French in high school. Had this teacher, one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever seen. He’d sit on the edge of the desk, throw his hair back, it was real long for them days, and he’d recite these poems and things. And I’d be looking at his pants the whole time, cause he wore them real tight, and you could see his dick laying there on his left leg. Looked absolutely huge.” She took a swig of o.j. “Found out later he was queer.”
“C’est la vie.”
“How’s Verne?”
“Fine, last I saw of her.”
“She working?”
“Guess so.”
She finished off the o.j. and rinsed her glass, put it mouth-down on a towel.
“I get off at eleven, Lew.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, well, like you say: C’est la vie . Such as it is. You want another, you let me know. That
Dr. King had a dream. I at least had History.
Chapter Seven
I SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY MAKING PHONE CALLS and wondering. Maybe I should have stayed there at the Belright and called Vice. They wanted Sanders; maybe something in the scenario—whatever it turned out to be—would have led us to Cordelia. But Sanders himself seemed, as they said over at Jefferson Downs, a better horse.
Still, I didn’t really expect him to meet me. I figured it might take two or three times to convince him I was serious. And next time he wouldn’t be so easy to find.
I was half right.
Just as I was leaving the office to head for Jackson Square, the phone rang.
“Griffin? Sanders, Bud Sanders. I asked some people about you, man.”
I let it hang there.
“They said you’re crazy as shit. Someone told me you killed a man you didn’t even know up near Baton Rouge a couple of years back.”
“The girl, Sanders.”
“Look, give me some time—a day, right? I’ll do what I can.”
“Noon tomorrow, call me then or before. And Sanders?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t disappear.”
“Disappear, hell. I’m getting easier to spot all the time. Got cops sitting out in the alley waiting to go through my goddam garbage, my wife’s lawyers on me like fleas. Now I gotta have you burning my ass.”
“Reaping what you sow, Sanders.”
“And what about you, man? You ain’t no goddamn pope yourself, now, are you?”
“Noon. Tomorrow.”
I hung up.
And what about me? Back when I found Corene Davis I’d thought my anger, my hatred, was gone forever. I’d been on top for a long time now, even chipped off a little corner of the good life for myself. But it was a lie, a story that didn’t work, a piece of white man’s life, not mine; and now the anger and hatred were coming back. I had kicked that guy in the hotel room in the stomach. I had wanted to kill him, kill them both. Robert Johnson’s hellhound was nipping at my heels.
I tried a couple of numbers for LaVerne and didn’t get her, so I figured she was with a client. Not much wanting to be alone just then, not really alone, but not with anyone either, I drove over to Joe’s.
Happy hour was in full bloom. One guy had already zonked out, face down on one of the corner tables, but everybody kept buying rounds for him and lining them up in front of him. There were the usual jokes about Joe’s hard-boiled eggs. Two guys were throwing darts in the back, with a Playboy picture of Ursula Andress tacked to the board. Nipples were automatic wins.
Nancy asked me what it was going to be and I said it was going to be scotch. To see her, you’d think Joe was violating child-labor laws. She looked fifteen and was twenty-four, with three bad marriages already behind her and another (I’d met the guy, and there was no way) looming on the horizon.
She brought the scotch for me and an orange juice for herself. I’ve never known her to drink.
“How ya been, Lew? It’s been a while.”
“ Ça va bien, as our friends from the swamps say.”
“Yeah, I took French in high school. Had this teacher, one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever seen. He’d sit on the edge of the desk, throw his hair back, it was real long for them days, and he’d recite these poems and things. And I’d be looking at his pants the whole time, cause he wore them real tight, and you could see his dick laying there on his left leg. Looked absolutely huge.” She took a swig of o.j. “Found out later he was queer.”
“C’est la vie.”
“How’s Verne?”
“Fine, last I saw of her.”
“She working?”
“Guess so.”
She finished off the o.j. and rinsed her glass, put it mouth-down on a towel.
“I get off at eleven, Lew.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Yeah, well, like you say: C’est la vie . Such as it is. You want another, you let me know. That
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