Jac felt worn down by it alclass="underline" the endless phone calls, delays, dead-ends, the head-shakes as he’d asked about Mack Elliott or any of the old staff at the Bayou Brew. And, as Durrant rightly pointed out, even if and when he did track them down, what on earth were they going to remember after twelve years? Jac had a sinking, desolate feeling that he’d still be tramping the streets of the Ninth Ward and making phone calls that went nowhere as they strapped Durrant down for his injection.
Only thirteen days left now.
And as Henny had seen Jac’s hand shaking lifting his coffee cup, his gaze through the window weary and lost, she’d asked if he was okay.
The light was sinking fast through the window of The Red Rooster, as if mirroring Jac’s mood. He was only able to get to the Ninth Ward at lunchtimes and after work, as dusk was falling; now, second night there, the rain and clouds had smothered the remaining light even quicker.
The only brief spark of hope had appeared earlier, towards the end of his lunchtime visit when, sixth or seventh head-shake on Mack Elliott or the old Bayou Brew, someone finally pointed him towards Henny’s cafe. But Henny had already seen him through the window asking questions in the street, with one of her old regulars, Izzy, lifting a bony finger her way, and so she had one hand on her hip to greet Jac as he walked in.
‘What’s a white bo’ like you doin’ askin’ questions roun’ the Ninth Ward? Yo’ a cop, or y’jus’ got a death wish?’
‘No, I’m a lawyer.’
Henny arched one eyebrow extravagantly. ‘Oooh. Yo’ have gotta death wish.’
Jac explained about Durrant and trying to track down Mack Elliott or any of the old Bayou Brew staff.
Henny nodded thoughtfully, taking the hand from her hip and gesturing to a table. ‘Tryin’ to save Larry Durrant’s neck, put a differen’ complexion on it. But yo’ still wanna be careful askin’ questions roun’ the Ninth — whit’ bo’ in a nice suit an’ all. Yo’ might not be able to spit alla dat out befo’ someone takes yo’ head off with a shotgun.’
Henny gave Jac a potted guide to the Ninth Ward. Safe around the main jazz clubs on St Claude Avenue, but venture a couple of blocks either way and it was a dangerous no-man’s land, particularly at night and particularly if you were white.
Almost exclusively African-American, the birthplace of Louis Armstrong, Fats Domino and a long list of jazz greats through the years, on one side the Ninth Ward had a rich and proud cultural heritage; but on the other, its gritty underbelly was still dirt poor, and a place that half the city’s muggers, robbers and drug dealers called home. The police never ventured too deep into the lower Ninth at night unless they were two or three strong, hands close by their guns in readiness.
‘…And if yo’ were fool ‘nough to drift s‘far as Tricou or Dalery on the north side, presumin’ yo’ was still alive by dat point… you might s’well jus’ phone the funeral parlo’ befo’ yo’ get dere. Tell ‘em where t’pick up yo’ body.’
Jac smiled. Looked like he’d survived so far through ignorance and luck, with Henny’s cafe now at least one safe haven. And, most importantly, she did know Mack Elliott and where to get hold of him, and had phoned him to arrange a meeting at her cafe.
Duck Gumbo, Dirty Rice, Boiled Crawfish, Beef P’Boy — Henny’s was noted for its grass-roots Creole cuisine, her reputation stretching far beyond the Ninth Ward. No-frills but homely with red plastic tablecloths, a gospel version of ‘Praise You’ played in the background, one that Jac hadn’t heard before; the sort of place where you’d expect Aretha Franklin to suddenly stand up from a table and burst into song, or the Blues Brothers start doing somersaults through. Instead, Mack Elliott walked in, tall, rangy, slightly hunched over with age, or perhaps through constantly reaching down to greet people.
Henny called over to Jac that it was him, otherwise he wouldn’t have known. And as Jac stood to shake Mack’s hand, whether just hopeful thinking or the setting sun dipping below the cloud layer, he thought he saw fresh light hanging over Mack Elliott’s shoulder.
But what Jac didn’t notice as they sat back down and started talking was the dark maroon Pontiac Bonneville parked thirty yards back on the opposite side of the street. Nel-M sat inside, obscured by the fading light and the water running down his windscreen. He’d only started following Jac again earlier that day, but already he was beginning to wonder.
Alaysha couldn’t stay there any longer.
Every small sound: movement on the corridor, Mrs Orwin or someone else further along opening their door, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the muted sounds of neighbours from the floor above — twisted her nerves another notch tighter, made her worry that Gerry might head back to try and get in again. Or someone else threatening far worse.
She couldn’t shift that last image of Gerry from her head. The gun pointing, the trigger hammer going down.
It would be okay if Jac was there. Feel him hugging her tight, stroking her hair, consoling. They’d sink themselves deep into a bottle of good Chateauneuf… but still she wouldn’t be able to tell him everything.
She’d been listening out, but still no sounds of him opening his door or moving around. Where was he?
She felt alone, vulnerable, unprotected… unprotected!
As soon as the thought hit her, she turned to Molly. ‘Come on, Molly, we’re going over to your Granma’s.’
Halfway over to Carrollton in the taxi, Molly asked, ‘Am I staying at Granma’s tonight?’
‘No, no. I’m just picking something up there.’ Then, remembering that with all the fuss she’d forgotten to cook dinner. ‘And we’ll get a pizza on the way back.’
‘Yeah… yeah! Pizza! Pizza!’
Alaysha pulled Molly in close, her smile fading back to taut anxiety, unseen by Molly, as she nestled one cheek against her daughter’s hair.
Alaysha wondered if her mother still had the gun. An old Colt.38 she’d got hold of when she’d finally kicked out Alaysha’s father, fearful that he’d return any day to give her an even worse beating.
Same too now with Gerry, she’d explain. But again, she wouldn’t be able to tell her mother everything. That would have to stay her secret. Just her and Gerry’s.
Jac’s own breathing within the hood.
All he could hear. All he could feeclass="underline" his own hot breath bouncing back at him, stewing his pounding head all the more.
And the occasional prod with the gun in his back. ‘Move mo’fucker. Move! This way… yeah. What’s wrong — yo’ blind or somethin’.’
Brief chuckle; but one, from what Jac had seen of the two edgy, bug-eyed teenagers before the hoods were put on him and Mack Elliott, that could easily end with an impatient gunshot for stepping the wrong way or saying the wrong thing, or because the kids’ last few hours on their Gameboys had been frustrating.
Jac was beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea.
As Jac had half-expected, Mack Elliott hadn’t been able to recall which night Durrant’s pool game was the week of Jessica Roche’s murder. ‘Long time ago now… long time.’
‘I know. But I wondered if you might have kept a diary or anything with old work rosters that could give a clue?’
‘No. ‘Fraid not.’ Then, seconds later, his sullen thoughtfulness lifted. ‘Might be a chance of yo’ striking lucky, though. Might jus’ be a chance.’