A black deputy walked me out the back door of the courthouse into the visiting room of the jail. The bars on the windows and the grid of iron strips on the main door were layered with both white and yellow paint. The room wasn't air-conditioned, and it was hot and close inside and smelled of the oil on the wood floors and tobacco juice that someone had been spitting in a box of sawdust in one corner. A white trusty in jail denims brought Jerry Falgout down a spiral metal stairs at the back of a dark hall and walked him into the visiting area.
His bottom lip was purple and swollen, and there was a crust of blood in one of his nostrils. He kept widening his nostril and sniffing as though he were trying to open a blocked nasal passage. At the corner of one eye was a long, red, scraped area, like a smear of dirty rouge. The trusty went back upstairs, and the deputy locked us in. Jerry sat across from me, his hands limp on top of the wooden table, his eyes sullen and pained as they looked into mine. I could smell the sour reek of his dried sweat.
"What's going on up there?" I said.
"It's a nigger jail. What do you think?"
"Were these black people you've been robbing?"
"I didn't rob nobody man. I was up here visiting my relatives."
"Cut the dogshit, Jerry."
"Come on, man. You think I'm gonna rob somebody, I'm gonna rob niggers in a welfare project? Some old lady got thrown down a stairs or something. She was already senile, now she's got a fractured skull, and she says I done it. The night screw is her nephew. So guess what he tells all the boons upstairs?"
"Sounds like a bad situation, all right."
"Yeah, you're all heart."
I looked at him a moment before I spoke again.
"You haven't hit the shower in a while, Jerry."
He turned his face away from me, and a small circle of color formed in one cheek.
"They got you made for stuff, partner?" I said.
"Look, man, I tried to get along. It didn't matter to me if they were colored or not. I tried to make a stinger, you know, a hot plate for these guys so we could warm up the macaroni in the evening. Then this big black bastard walks dripping wet out of the shower and picks up the pot, with his bare feet on the concrete floor. It popped him so hard he looked like somebody shoved a cattle prod up his butt. So he blames me for it. First, he starts throwing shit at me-macaroni and plates and tin cups. Then he starts grinning and tells me his cock is all charged up now. He says he's gonna take a white boy's cherry the next time I come into the shower. And then the other boons are gonna get seconds."
His face was flushed now, his eyes narrow and glistening.
I walked over to a rust-streaked sink against one wall and filled a paper cup from the tap. I set the water in front of him and sat back down.
"Is your mother going to go bond?" I said.
"She's gotta put up ten grand for the bondsman. She ain't got that kind of gelt, man."
"How about a property bond?"
"She ain't got it. I told you." His eyes avoided mine.
"I see."
"Look, man, I did five years in Angola. I did it with guys that'd cut your face up with a razor for twenty dollars. I seen a snitch burned up in his cell with a Molotov cocktail. I seen a kid drowned in a toilet because he wouldn't suck some guy off. I'm not gonna get broke by a nigger jail in some backwater shithole."
"You want out of here?"
"Yeah. You got connections with Jesse Jackson?"
"Save the hard-guy routine for another day, Jerry. Do you want out of here?"
"What do you think?"
"You robbed the mails, which is a federal offense. They'll file against you eventually, but I know somebody who can probably hurry it up. We'll get you into federal custody, and you can forget this place."
"When?"
"Maybe this week. In the meantime I'll call the FBI in Shreveport and tell them there's a serious civil rights violation going on here. That ought to get you into isolation until you're transferred to federal custody."
"What do you want?"
"Victor Romero."
"I told you everything I know about the guy. You got a fucking obsession, man."
"I need a name, Jerry. Somebody who can turn him."
"I ain't got any. I'm telling you the truth. I got no reason to cover for this cat."
"I believe that. But you're plugged into a lot of people. You're a knowledgeable man. You sell information. If you remember, you sold me and Robin for a hundred dollars."
His eyes looked out the barred window at the shade trees on the lawn. He brushed at the dried blood in his nostril with one knuckle.
"I'm floating round on an ice cube that's melting in a toilet," he said. "What can I tell you? I got nothing to deal with. You wasted your drive up here. Why don't you get those vice cops to help you? They think they know everything."
"They have the same problem I do. A guy with no family and no girlfriend is hard to find."
"Wait a minute. What do you mean no family?"
"That's the information at the First District."
I saw a confident mean light come back into his eyes.
"That's why they don't never catch anybody. He's got a first cousin. I don't know the cat's name, but Romero brought him into the bar six or seven years ago. The guy pulled a scam that everybody in the Quarter was laughing about. Some guys robbed Maison Blanche of about ten thousand dollars in Bottany 500 suits. Of course, there's a big write-up about it in the Picayune. So Romero's cousin gets ahold of a bunch of these Hong Kong specials, you know, these twenty-buck suits that turn into lint and threads the first time you dry-clean them. He stops business guys up and down Canal and says, 'I got a nice suit for you. A hundred bucks. No labels. Know what I mean?' I heard he made two or three grand off these stupid shits. After they found out they got burned, they couldn't do anything about it, either."
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know. I only saw him once or twice. He's the kind of guy that only makes a move once in a while. I think he ran a laundry or something."
"A laundry? Where?"
"In New Orleans."
"Come on, where in New Orleans?"
"I don't know, man. What the fuck I care about a laundry?"
"And you're sure you don't know this guy's name?"
"Hell, no. I told you, it was a long time ago. I been straight with you. You gonna deliver or not?"
"Okay, Jerry. I'll make some phone calls. In the meantime, you try to remember this laundry man's name."
"Yeah, yeah. Y'all always got to go one inch deeper in a guy's hole, don't you?"
I walked to the iron door and rattled it against the jamb for the deputy to let me out.
"Hey, Robicheaux, I don't have any cigarettes. How about a deck of Luckies?" Jerry said.
"All right."
"Put a piece of paper with how many packs are in the carton, too. That trusty helps himself."
"You got it, partner."
The deputy let me out, and I walked back into the breezy area between the jail and the courthouse. I could smell the pines on the lawn, the hydrangeas blooming against a sunny patch of wall, hot dogs that a Negro kid was selling out of a cart on the streetcorner. I looked back through the jail window at Jerry, who sat alone at the wooden table, waiting or the trusty to take him back upstairs, his face now empty and dull and as lifeless as tallow.