Liquor Page 20

  “Really?”

  “I wouldn’t say so if it wasn’t true. Try to relax. Go on with whatever you were doing. Make some more food.”

  “OK,” said Rickey, obviously wanting to believe him. “Thanks, Lenny.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Lenny hung up, and his tape machine automatically clicked off. Years ago, when De La Cerda first learned how Lenny taped all his phone calls, the lawyer nearly had a coronary. “Do you want to put weapons in the hands of your enemies?” he’d asked. “Is it your ambition to be indicted someday?”

  “I’m a restaurateur, not a don,” Lenny answered guilelessly. “Who’d want to indict me?”

  Even De La Cerda didn’t know the true extent of the tapes. No one did. There were things on them that could cause Lenny quite a bit of trouble if they fell into the wrong hands. To Lenny, the secure feeling the tapes gave him was well worth the risk. He still sometimes brooded about the way Chef Jerome had screwed him two decades ago in Portland. Nothing like that could happen to him now. He had proof of everything.

  “Lenny says he’s taking care of it,” Rickey told G-man.

  “What’s he gonna do?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Well, what if he’s gonna have the old man killed or something?”

  “Fine with me.”

  “Damn, Rickey. Don’t even say that.”

  “I mean it. Johnson’s a hateful old fucker. He’s not doing anybody any good, and he’s doing us harm.”

  “I know the guy’s an asshole,” said G-man. “I still don’t want him on my conscience.”

  “I’m so glad I wasn’t raised Catholic.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “Give them to us by the time they’re five years old, they’ll be ours forever,” Rickey taunted. He knew he was being obnoxious, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

  “Why don’t you shut up?”

  “I can’t. I’m too nervous about all this.”

  “Let’s go by the Apostle and have a drink.”

  That same evening—not terribly late, but just late enough that most people wouldn’t be expecting drop-in visitors—a pair of wide, tall, bald men knocked on Rondo Johnson’s door. One of the men was white and one was black. Otherwise they looked very much alike. Because of the hour, Mr. Johnson received them with even less grace than he had shown his earlier company.

  Unlike Rickey and G-man, this pair did not ask if they might come in. Without seeming to use any real force, they pried Mr. Johnson’s hands off the storm door and slipped past him into the dingy living room. There they stood looking around and wrinkling their noses. The surfaces of the room were covered in yellowing newspapers, choked ashtrays, and fingerprint-clouded drinking glasses. Mr. Johnson’s dog may have gone to the pound, but ancient evidence of him remained in the corners. “Nice place you got here,” said the big, bald white man, his voice rich with sarcasm.

  “Who the hell are you two goons? What you want?”

  “We’re from the neighborhood association.”

  “Like shit you are. I been living here forty years. I know everybody in the neighborhood association. They don’t come barging in my house at all hours.”

  “This is a different association,” said the big, bald black man. “We represent certain facets of the neighborhood with which you may not have familiarized yourself.”

  “What you talking about, boy?”

  “My colleague’s name is Mr. Reemer,” said the white man. “I’m Mr. Payne. We’re simply trying to explain our position to you. There’s no need to get ugly.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Johnson. No need for unpleasantness or hard feelings. You might say we come from an alternative neighborhood association—one favoring progress over decay.”

  “Alternative? This has to do with them two fruits that was here earlier, don’t it? This is about the restaurant.”

  “Is there a restaurant opening near here?” Mr. Reemer wondered.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Payne. “That’d be nice, though, wouldn’t it? A good restaurant could really help this neighborhood. Be a shame if one old crank tried to ruin it for everybody else.”

  “Nobody wants that place!” cried Mr. Johnson. “It’s gonna bring in a bad element !”

  Neither man answered him. Mr. Reemer pushed aside some newspapers and, rather reluctantly, settled down on the couch. “I hope this thing doesn’t stain my suit,” he said.

  “Hang on there, boy, don’t get comfortable. You got about two seconds to take yourselves out my house before I call 911—hey, what the hell you doing?”

  This last was directed at Mr. Payne, who had crouched down and reached under the telephone table on the far side of the room. “I can’t unplug this thing,” he said. “It’s so old it doesn’t even have a jack—the wire just goes right into the wall.”

  “Interesting,” said Mr. Reemer. “I haven’t seen one like that since my grammaw died.”

  “Oh well,” said Mr. Payne. “Sorry about this.” He wrapped one meaty hand around the telephone wire and yanked it out of the wall, but he must have pulled too hard, for the whole table came crashing over. The old rotary-dial phone emitted a weak jangle.

  “Hey!”

  “Gonna look like he tripped over the wire,” observed Mr. Reemer.

  “I guess so, yeah. We’ll just kinda lay him out by it.”

  “What you talking about?” said Mr. Johnson furiously.

  “Well, let’s think a minute,” said Mr. Reemer. “Say you were coming in from the kitchen—that evil-smelling room back there is the kitchen, correct? And maybe the telephone wire’s lying out in the floor, and you caught your foot in it. You could have a bad fall.”

  “Ought to be more careful,” said Mr. Payne.

  “A fall like that—it’s extremely dangerous for somebody with a heart condition. I heard the shock could kill them before they hit the floor. You OK, Mr. Johnson?”

  Mr. Johnson’s face had gone very red, and he was clawing at his shirt collar. As they watched, he heaved himself halfway across the room toward the defunct telephone, dropped to his knees among the newspapers, and fell headlong across a stack of old Thursday Food sections. The two men got up and knelt on either side of him, not too close.

  “I think he’s trying to say something,” said Mr. Payne. Mr. Reemer leaned over trying to hear the words, wincing as he caught a whiff of Mr. Johnson’s breath.

  “Meditation? I don’t think that’ll help, Mr. Johnson. It might have calmed you down some if you’d started years ago—maybe a little yoga, too—but I think it’s too late for all that.”

  “He’s trying to say ’medication,’” said Mr. Payne.

  “Well, pardon me, Mr. Elocution Lessons. He’s not speaking very clearly. How was I to know?”

  One of Mr. Johnson’s hands rose up and clutched at Mr. Reemer’s silk necktie. Absently, Mr. Reemer pushed it away. For a few minutes they just squatted on their haunches, watching the old man.

  “Is he still breathing?” said Mr. Payne finally.

  “Ye—no, no he’s not.”

  “Were we supposed to make him stop breathing?”

  “De La Cerda said it would be best to just scare him, but if anything happened because of his heart condition, we shouldn’t feel responsible.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Payne. “I hate feeling responsible. Let’s move him over by the phone and get out of here. This place stinks. It’s bad for my health.”

  “Hey, Payne, look at this.” Mr. Reemer picked up a business card that had fallen off the telephone table and handed it to Mr. Payne.

  “‘Michael Mouton,’” Mr. Payne read. “‘General Manager, Escargot’s at the Hotel Bienvenu.’ Isn’t this the guy De La Cerda wanted us to ask him about?”

  “It is, but we never got the chance. Nice of him to leave that where we could find it.”

  “You know what?” said Mr. Reemer as they were leaving.

  “What?”

>   “Man should have held onto that dog. A good dog can protect you.”

  “Not if somebody’s determined to get past it.”

  “I resent the implication,” said Mr. Reemer. “I’d never hurt a dog.”

  The weather was sufficiently hot that one of Mr. Johnson’s neighbors called the police to report an odor the very next day. People gathered on their stoops and watched the men from the coroner’s office bumping the black-bagged body down the steps on a gurney. “It’s a shame,” a woman told the neighbor on the other side of her duplex. “He was a fine man.”

  “Ummm-ummm, you know you telling a lie. He was a nasty old thing.”

  “I ain’t gonna speak ill of the dead. I was getting kinda tired of hearing him go on about that restaurant, though.”

  “Child, I know it. I don’t care about that restaurant. I was gonna vote against it at the neighborhood meeting just to shut him up. Now I don’t guess I will.”

  “Me neither. What we care anyway? They fixing it up nice. It’s one less place for the vagrants to set on fire.”

  “Yeah, you right,” said the second woman, glancing with ill-concealed relief at the slowly departing van. Rickey and G-man sat in the Apostle Bar staring at the pair of frosty green drinks that Anthony B had just set in front of them. The drinks were served in martini glasses and garnished with twists of lime peel impaled on cocktail umbrellas.

  “You getting fancy on us, Anthony?” said G-man.

  “What is it again?” asked Rickey.

  “It’s called Laura’s Limeade. She makes it with New Orleans Rum, the local stuff, and fresh lime juice and a dash of gin. It’s pretty good.”

  “Yeah, it is,” said G-man, sipping it. “It’s real good. This is what I always call a dangerous drink. The kind where you can’t really taste the liquor.”

  Rickey drained off a third of his drink, then reminded himself to slow down. He didn’t have time for another hangover. The drink was good, but it seemed vaguely girly to him; he’d been in the mood for a shot of Wild Turkey. He wasn’t really listening to the conversation until he realized that Anthony had asked him a question. “Huh?” he said, looking up.

  “G-man was just telling me about running the test kitchen. I asked about the other stuff. The licensing and all—it’s going OK?”

  “Oh,” said Rickey. “Well, it’s going kinda weird.” He found himself telling Anthony about Rondo Johnson’s complaint and their meeting with the old man. He wasn’t sure he should talk about it, but he was curious to get Anthony’s opinion. “I don’t know,” he concluded. “Lenny said he was gonna take care of it.”

  “Oh, Lord.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m not in the mood for this, Anthony. Oh Lord what?”

  “Well, nothing really. Only Lenny took care of somebody for me once, and the guy ended up in the hospital.”

  “I don’t believe you. Lenny wouldn’t get his hands dirty.”

  “Course not. He don’t do it himself. He hires people. Lenny’s my friend, but he knows some awful bad people.”

  “We might need some bad people on our side,” Rickey mused. “There’s enough of ’em on the other side, that’s for damn sure. Who’d he take care of for you?”

  “Aw, this guy was some kinda gang leader over by the St. Thomas project. Trying to shake me down for protection and everything.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He went to Charity with a broken arm and a couple teeth knocked out. Said he got jumped by two guys he didn’t know. Him and his crew never bothered me again.”

  “How’d you feel?”

  “What you mean?”

  “I mean, did you have a problem with it? You’re Catholic, right? Did you feel guilty that this guy got hurt because of you?” Rickey gave G-man a sidelong look. “Or did you figure, well, he wouldn’t have gotten hurt if he hadn’t started the shit himself?”

  “Know what I like about you, Rickey?” said G-man, finishing his drink. “You’re so subtle. I admire that.”

  Anthony wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t remember that I ever felt guilty about it. You think I ought to?”

  “No,” said Rickey.

  “Yes,” said G-man.

  Rickey smacked the bar, making the two martini glasses jump. “Why? Why should he feel guilty for protecting himself? Why should we?”

  “Because that’s not the way to solve a problem.”

  “What are we supposed to do, then? Buy a Mass? Say a novena?”

  “Dude, will you get off this Catholic thing? It’s not very attractive. I can’t help how I was raised, but I’m not Catholic any more, you know that. I just can’t believe you’re trying to convince me that it’s OK for Lenny’s thugs to beat up an old man so we can open a restaurant.”

  “Well, when you put it that way …”

  “What other way you want me to put it?”

  “I don’t know. Anthony, you got any more of that limeade?”

  G-man put his hand on Rickey’s arm. “I’m not gonna be involved in something like that, Rickey. I’m serious. If that old man ends up in the hospital or something—”

  “What?”

  G-man didn’t answer.

  “Well, what? C’mon, finish the sentence. If the old man ends up in the hospital, then what? You’d walk out on me? All because of some evil old bastard who’s probably working for Mike Mouton?”

  “I wouldn’t walk out on you.”

  “But you wouldn’t work with me any more?”

  “I wouldn’t work with Lenny any more. I couldn’t.”

  “Uh huh. Sounds like walking out to me.”

  G-man bowed his head. There were tears in his eyes. Through their blurred film, he saw the fresh drink Anthony had set in front of him, picked it up, and drained it in two swallows.

  “Probably it’ll all work out OK,” said Anthony. The words hung thin and implausible in the dark, smoky air of the bar.

  chapter 24

  It was five o’clock in the morning and Rickey was sitting on the porch. He’d spent the past two nights sitting here staring at the houses across the street, the occasional car bumping along Marengo toward Tchoupitoulas, and the tree branches moving against the purple summer sky. He couldn’t sleep and didn’t feel like lying awake in bed. He wasn’t drinking, didn’t even want to.

  They’d come home from the Apostle Bar, fallen into bed, barely spoken the next day. That had been bad enough. The day after that they’d started acting civil toward each other, which was worse. They had to be civil; nothing had changed with the restaurant, at least not yet, and there was still all kinds of work to do. They had to talk about who was going to the test kitchen, who’d call the flooring company about the mats that hadn’t arrived, who needed the car when, all the usual day-to-day crap that had seemed easy enough before. Rickey decided there was nothing more terrible than being reduced to basic civility with the person you loved most. Even flat-out fighting would be better than this limbo.

  He knew he was the only one keeping it going, too. G-man wasn’t mad at him, had in fact been giving him wordless, heartbroken, pleading looks that Rickey tried to ignore. But he couldn’t ignore the fact that G-man had essentially threatened to desert him and the restaurant. It was unthinkable that G-man would leave. It was unthinkable that he had even said such a thing. But he had, and even though it was all still hypothetical, Rickey couldn’t quite forgive him for it.

  Lenny claimed that the problem had already been solved. “There was no need for unpleasantness,” he’d said. “I just made sure the complaint will be disregarded. You’ll get your license.”

  Lenny must have paid somebody off. Surely G-man could live with that; it was the way business was done here. Maybe things would be OK now. Rickey was tired of the war going on in his heart, half of him pissed off and unwilling to capitulate, half of him wanting things to be like they’d been before, even if it meant scuttling the whole damn restaurant.

  The fron
t door creaked open behind him, and G-man came out carrying two steaming mugs. “I couldn’t sleep either,” he said. “I thought you might want some coffee.”

  “Thanks,” said Rickey, taking a mug. Their fingers touched briefly, their eyes met, and Rickey almost said something—he wasn’t sure what. Then the moment passed and he looked away. That was how it had been since the night at the Apostle. Horrible.

  G-man sat on the steps and picked up the newspaper that had landed there an hour ago. He paged through the sports section, found little of interest now that the NBA playoffs were over, glanced through the local news. Reading over his shoulder, Rickey saw that all the top stories seemed to deal with people who had died while fishing, swimming, or boating. Drinking and drowning was a major cause of death in summertime Louisiana. He was toying with the idea of making a tasteless joke about life jackets when G-man turned the page, sucked in his breath, and handed the section to Rickey. Rickey was pretty sure of what he would see before he finished scanning the page. It was the daily list of obituaries, and a blurry picture of Rondo Johnson glared out from halfway down the second column.

  “Oh, fuck,” said Rickey. He had reconciled himself to the idea of Johnson getting knocked around a little, but he’d never thought Lenny would have the man killed. He read further. “Wait a second, dude. It says he died of heart failure. He told us he had a heart condition, remember?”

  “And he just happened to keel over right after Lenny promised to do something about him?”

  “What you think Lenny’s capable of, anyway? He ordered the guy’s heart to stop?”

  “I think the paper’s not telling the whole story.”

  “And I’m starting to think you’re looking for a reason to turn your back on me.”

  G-man started to get up, then sank back onto the steps as if Rickey’s words were weighing him down. “How can you say that? I don’t even know how to answer that. I’m looking for a way to keep from turning my back on you, and you’re making it impossible.”

  “Impossible? You’re the one who threatened to walk out—”