So did Ines, so earnest. Ines pressing her tits together like a pin-up girl. Ines shaking her ass like a popcorn pot. Ines, reaching back and spreading her cheeks like a porn star, sighing when he enters her, and how he loves to enter, watching the look of surprise on her face. He wanted to lick her from navel to nookie, make her crow and caw, flap her arms and fly off the bed with delight. He wanted to bend her over, crack her cheeks, wedge his nose into the arch with the asshole for the keystone, and feel her fat ass like a velvet vise clenching his cheeks as she came. He would. Yes. He would.
CHAPTER 9
FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, ACHILLES DIVIDED HIS TIME BETWEEN DRIVING the neighborhood where he’d gotten into the fight and doing the heavy lifting at St. Jude. It was difficult to say which was more frustrating. Since the screening, Ines had taken to calling him Mr. Conroy. Mr. Conroy, can you help Dudley move these books? Mr. Conroy, would you mind assisting Mabel with the heavy pots? Mr. Conroy do you have time to help Mabel sort these clothes? But Mr. Conroy would not be broken. He had nothing if not endurance, and the patience of a sniper to boot. Besides, she said Mr. Conroy with such a smile.
The neighborhood where he’d had the fight was a different matter. There, they actually stopped smiling when he showed up, like he was a teacher entering the room carrying final exams. Old women waved him off with a shake of the head, kids ran away, teenagers ignored him. He even tried dressing in a hoodie and Army surplus fatigues. The response was the same. Achilles didn’t understand what about his demeanor led anyone to think that he was a cop, but the third time he was accused of being one, it occurred to him to call Morse.
Wages advised him against contacting the detective, explaining that if anything happened to the residents of the boardinghouse, the police would blame Achilles. “I hate to pull the wings off your fly, but these motherfuckers are dirtier than dealers. They’ll shoot you in the back and sprinkle crunch on you. They’ll run you over, and call it suicide by cop. They’ll pressure you for cash, then arrest you for trying to bribe a public official. You aren’t from here. Avoid them. In New Orleans, people go into crime so they’ll have some protection from the police.”
“All cops aren’t dirty,” said Achilles.
Wages shook his head, “That’s what I always liked about you, Brother. You rock that suburban optimism.”
When he arrived at the police station, Achilles was surprised to hear Morse tell him the same thing. Achilles had barely started telling him about the camelback when the detective raised his hands and mouthed Not here! as he offered to take Achilles to lunch at the Bluebird Diner next door to the station. In a back booth, Morse explained that it was best to stay away from a scenario involving arson, a corpse, and a one-eyed man. “I don’t doubt they had it coming, but …”
“I didn’t start that fire,” said Achilles.
“I’m not saying you did—” Morse paused while the bottom-heavy waitress took their orders. Judging by their banter, she knew Morse and liked him. Morse stared wistfully as she walked away.
“I should have never divorced her. Anyway, kid, the first piece of advice is never order a chicken salad sandwich in a place that serves real food. Would you ask for a massage when offered a blowjob?”
Achilles nodded his understanding. That’s why the waitress at Seaton’s always looked funny when he ordered. Morse called his ex back over to the table and, arm around her waist, changed Achilles’s order.
“Eat well. No one’s here for the weather. New Orleans has traditions, like red beans and rice on Mondays, always.” Morse explained that Mondays were washdays, so a slow-cooking meal left time to do the wash. The beans could stay on the pot all day, simmering, seasoned with the leftover ham or sausage from Sunday night’s dinner.
When the food came, Morse attacked it like a soldier who’d been marching all day. He applied Tabasco until red pools formed at the edges of the plate, licked his fingers like chicken bones, and sopped up sauce with scraps of bread. Achilles felt comfortable to do the same, except for the hot sauce. The vinegary smell burned his nostrils. Achilles also declined to wipe his plate with the bread, which his father had always described as countrified.
While they ate, Morse explained that Achilles needed to keep a low profile. “When it’s gang related, one guy kills another, killer goes to jail. Two birds.”
It made sense. Let the troublemakers fight among themselves, and clean up the mess after the fact. It wasn’t too different from Afghanistan, in theory. What was unusual was the patience with which Morse explained himself. In the past, Achilles had twice been pulled over by cops who were irritated that he didn’t immediately hang his hands out of the window and drop the keys. His opinion was solicited whenever Ramirez made a slow-jam CD for his girlfriend, who was black. He’d been expected to know where the good soul food restaurants were that time they visited DC. Morse was different. He spoke as if Achilles had no idea what was going on in the city, and the more Morse talked, the more Achilles believed him. Morse’s point was simple:
“You get into a tussle with a gangster, your record says gang-related as far as the department is concerned. Forever. Then your face goes into the bang-book, the binder that every beat officer memorizes. If you so much as run a stop sign, and you’re in that book, you’re going to jail. And that’s if you get a record and not a toe tag. What if a gang leader catches wind that you’re in that book? You’re either with him or you’re on his hit list. And kid, the way you present yourself, it’ll be the hit list. You open your mouth and everyone knows you’re not from here. Your parents brought you up good. You sound white. I’m okay with that, but to some people you sound like a victim. This city is consistently ranked as a murder capital. In 1994 there were 421 murders. Even we were shocked. After that, who is left to kill? That record hasn’t been broken anywhere in America. Over one a day. At that rate, it isn’t even front-page news anymore. You’ll get the Saints’ scores before you find out who was shot. Understand?”
Achilles nodded. New Orleans was even more dangerous than DC, and he knew what Morse meant by some people.
“This isn’t Scared Straight. I know you been shot at before and I’m sure you can handle yourself, you got some guns on you and some serious experience. But this is different. You’re not Charles Bronson. The city is safe unless you wander into exactly those few areas you keep visiting. So, if you get any more ‘leads,’” he made air quotes, “talk to me. About this green camelback, because you’ve already filed that report, I’ll send someone to investigate a possible sighting.” Morse gave him his cell phone number, and a piece of paper with “Spirit House” written on it.
“Spirit House?”
“You got this?” asked Morse, pointing at the check as he stood.
“Sure. Spirit House?”
“They took in a family who lost everything in a fire a couple weeks back. A family with three little girls. Sounds like it might be the Harpers from your green camelback.” He clapped Achilles on the back. “I’m in a good mood today. My son got shot. Only in the leg, and it will heal fine. But it’s enough that he’s coming home early, on his own two feet. I’m sure your mother wants to see you do the same.”