“We’ve seen the worst of the worst, Clete,” I said. “Let’s get on it.”
“I got it.”
“Got what?”
“The feeling I couldn’t explain. When I woke up this morning, it was like I’d walked off a cliff and was standing on air. What’s a dream like that mean?”
“It means take it easy on the flak juice.”
“I wish I had all the answers,” he said. “Like knowing the mind of God. I’d love to get in on that.”
I made a mental note to write that one down.
We ran splashing across the yard to the front door and rang the bell, the wind blowing the rain in our faces. A thin, deeply tanned man in a white linen suit and a black silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar opened the door. His hair was copper-colored and streaked with gray and worn like a matador’s, pulled back in a pigtail; a gold cross and chain gleamed on his chest hair. “What can I do for you fellows?”
“We’re looking for Johnny and Isolde,” I said.
He looked over his shoulder, then back at us. People were drinking at a wet bar, and a couple of long-haired young guys with pipe-cleaner arms covered with all-blue tats were tuning their guitars on a platform. All of them looked half-wrecked. The house had a cathedral ceiling, the blond wood in the walls glowing against the darkness outside.
“Sorry, but who are you?” the man said.
“Friends,” I said.
“This is kind of a private gig, fellows.”
“We’re friends of Adonis Balangie,” I said.
“That’s cool. But that don’t cut no ice here. You got an invitation from one of the musicians?”
“Yeah,” Clete said.
“So who invited you?” the man said. He tried to smile.
“Guy who plays on Bourbon Street,” Clete said.
“The guy with no name on Bourbon?” the man in the white suit said. “Know him well. Come see us another time.”
A girl in a bikini leaned down and sniffed a line off the bar. The man with the pigtail followed my eyes. He started to shut the door.
Then I saw Isolde. She was wearing jeans low on her hips and flowers in her hair and a halter top over her breasts. The roses and orchids tattooed on her shoulder looked real rather than made of ink, as though they had been pressed flat and pasted on her skin. Her mouth opened with surprise when she saw me. She had changed since I’d seen her on the pier in a way I couldn’t explain. Her complexion glowed; her whitish-blond hair seemed thicker, her mouth waiting to be kissed. She walked over to us. “Let him in, Eddy,” she said. “That’s Mr. Robicheaux. He’s a friend of ours.”
“It’s an invitation-only party, baby doll,” Eddy said.
Baby doll?
“Come on, Mr. Robicheaux is one of the gang,” she said.
“What can I say? Come in, fellows. Don’t steal my ashtrays.”
Then we were inside, the door closed behind us. Through the picture windows, I could see the bay striped with foam, electricity dancing on the horizon, which was growing darker by the minute. At the bar, I saw two men who didn’t fit with the others. They wore green cargo pants and black T-shirts emblazoned with crossed white M-16s and military-style boots that were part leather and part canvas. Their stomachs were as flat as boards inside their belt buckles, their heads shaved.
Isolde gripped my upper arm with both hands. “I want to apologize for saying ‘fuck you’ on the pier,” she said.
“I considered it a compliment,” I said. “This is Clete Purcel.”
She touched his arm, too, as though sharing a secret message. I had the feeling Johnny Shondell wouldn’t be delivering Isolde to his uncle’s home. “It’s all so wonderful,” she said.
“What is?” Clete said.
“Everything,” she said. “We recorded an album at Muscle Shoals. I sing on three of the songs. Eddy’s company is going to sell them all over the country. Isn’t that right, Eddy? We’re signing the contract today.”
“Yeah, we better get on that,” Eddy said. “You fellows get yourself a drink.”
“You from the Bronx?” I said, smiling.
“Miami,” he said.
“Nothing for me,” I said.
“Same here,” Clete said.
Eddy circled his fingers around Isolde’s wrist as though he were picking up a dog leash. “Let’s get on it, doll. I got to get back to Fort Lauderdale tonight.”
Johnny Shondell waved at us from the bar, then headed toward us. He was sure a good-looking kid, the kind who seemed to float through a crowd of his peers rather than walk. It was no wonder the girls loved him, but I had a feeling he was a one-woman man. His eyes never left Isolde, even when he was shaking hands with us. Eddy was trying to get his attention. “Johnny, I got a business to run, here. Hey, what am I, a fire hydrant waiting for somebody to piss on? Look at me.”
“I got you covered, Eddy,” Johnny said. “We’re about to play a couple of numbers. Get the marimbas. You can play along.”
“The marimbas can wait,” Eddy said. “These guys can wait. The whole fucking world can wait. But the banks in the Islands do not wait. You hearing me, here?”
“Calm down, Eddy,” Isolde said.
“I’m telling you, I don’t got time for this,” he said.
“Put an ice cube in your mouth,” she said. “It’ll help you think.” Then she saw the look on his face. “You’re adorable, Eddy. Don’t be sensitive.” She kissed him on the cheek. His eyes were lumps of coal focused on nothing, his nostrils dilating.
“You own a record company?” Clete said to him.
“Do I own a record company?” Eddy said. He turned up his palms, as though he couldn’t fathom the question. “My house looks like I drive a bread truck?”
“Johnny, don’t you need a lawyer when you sign contracts?” I said.
“I’m the lawyer,” Eddy said.
“You?” I said.
“I don’t look or talk like a lawyer?” he said.
“Ole Miss?” Clete said.
“I went to law school in the Dominican Republic,” Eddy said.
“Can I use your bathroom?” Clete said.
“Through the hallway,” Eddy said. “Make sure you flush.”
But I knew the bathroom wasn’t on Clete’s mind. He had been glancing at the two men in cargo pants at the bar. He walked down the hallway and into the bathroom, then came back out and stood at the bar next to the two men, studying the bay through a picture window, his back to the men.
Johnny rejoined his musician friends and hung a Gibson Super Jumbo acoustic guitar from his neck, then went into Larry Finnegan’s “Dear One.” The keyboard and the rumble of the drums and the resonance of the Gibson and the four/four beat created a throbbing combination reminiscent of Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound. When Johnny finished singing, the room went wild. Johnny was way beyond good. He was painted with magic. His voice, his lack of pretense, his obvious love of music for its own sake, and his appreciation of Larry Finnegan’s tribute to the 1950s were like an invitation into a cathedral you never wanted to leave.
Isolde’s eyes were damp. Eddy had gone into the back of the house. Isolde and I were alone.
“You okay?” I said.
“I don’t want it to ever end,” she replied.
“The song?”
“All of it. I don’t want it to end.”