“What’s your name ma’am?” asked Vodka.
“Mrs. Dennis Robicheaux.”
“How about we take you to where you can find your son? O.K.?”
Bryant couldn’t stop staring at the boy’s body and was shaking ever so slightly, tremors in his hands, which hung at his waist as if he was an outmatched gunman waiting to draw. She started singing. Daddy Mention joined in, calming her. “Soon now, very soon, we are going to see the King.” Once Mrs. Robicheaux was in the boat, Bryant cradled her head so she couldn’t look back. Daddy Mention patted one of her arms, Wilson the other.
She said, “He’s a good boy and he likes school, which is good, because I paid a lot for it. Almost all the money his daddy left.”
She refused water and food, telling them, “Save it for my son.” Her feet were raw and blistered from walking on the roof shingles. She and Daddy Mention starting singing again, their voices as one, loud and melodic—“Soon now, very soon, we are going to see the King”—and Achilles hummed along, wishing he knew the words.
At the Red Cross station, she refused to get on the gurney; she was a strong woman. The Red Cross nurses called two soldiers who were stationed there, and still it was a challenge to move her without capsizing the boat. She stiffened, and they lifted her like pallbearers, dropping her on a soldier, who collapsed under the weight. Mrs. Robicheaux resumed struggling, thinking she was still on the boat, clutching Vodka’s wrist. “My son, my son. Baby, you promised me. Don’t leave him here to die. He can’t swim. He’s afraid of the water. Even when he was baptized he cried all night.”
She collapsed, her soaked body quivering with each sob. Curling into a fetal position, she kicked her shoebox into the water. Achilles managed to grab it before it sank, but several of the photos were wet. Daddy Mention was studying the sky, biting his lips. Vodka’s mouth was pursed, like he had bitten something sour. Wilson kept wiping his eyes. Bryant was blinking like he had salt in his. The soldiers on the platform were breathing heavy, one with his hands on his knees. The other one pointed his weapon at Achilles. “What about him?”
“What the fuck about me?” yelled Achilles. “You couldn’t even handle her.”
“He’s with us,” explained Vodka.
“He better watch his attitude.”
“You need to watch talking about me like I’m not here.” Achilles thrust his chest out. The soldiers fingered their rifles.
“He’s a two-timer, and he’s helping us out here.”
The soldiers lowered their rifles.
It was decided that they’d get Achilles a badge, a nametag, something, anything. As Vodka said, “Otherwise, it’s like someone finds your pit bull walking the street and they just want to put it to sleep.”
“I know that’s right,” said Daddy Mention. “A zigga can take one look at you and see you’re nothing but trouble.”
And it wasn’t even noon.
Nola had lost the extra pounds she’d gained over the years and fit back into her prom dress: the high ground of the French Quarter, the original borders, where Charlie 1 spent their nights crawling up her skirt to hang out at Jock-Os on Bourbon Street.
Up and down the strip, the few people who were out moved in clusters and bumped into each other, though the street was nearly vacant. A street preacher, who had often stood outside St. Jude, warned them alclass="underline" “Repent, repent. Fold yourself into the wings of the Lord.” He had a new sandwich board. The front read, The Lord Has Spoken, And You Have Not Listened. Don’t Make Him Tell You Again. On the back were Bible verses, mostly from Genesis and Revelations. Inside the bar, the whole company gathered and played pool and shot the shit in the back room. When gunfire went off, everyone scrambled to write their name on a dollar and toss it in a hat. The money was divided between those who correctly guessed the caliber of the weapon. Vodka played one dollar, to save face it seemed, Bryant played none, and Daddy Mention always played five and usually won. As he explained, “I’m from West Oakland.” They were just like his old crew. Bryant was Wexler, Vodka was Wages, and Daddy Mention was Merriweather; he even slapped his hands on the table every time he stood, like he’d had enough.
And passing through the bar to the bathroom, the snippets of conversation were just what Achilles remembered. Sometimes you have to backhand these heifers on the ass. Ugly girls give better head. This dude running around like he was on fire, well, he was on fire, but … His ass could be his mouth and you wouldn’t know the difference. Jesus loves NASCAR. The obsessions were the same as well. Charlie 3 was upset because they hadn’t seen anyone except two Israeli commandos doing private security in Uptown. Charlie 2 bragged about seeing some Darkwater guys shoot a cat, though they couldn’t agree on whether it was alive before that moment. Darkwater was a private security firm that employed ex-special forces. Decked out in all black, they weren’t dressed to blend but to intimidate.
“Cat, zero. Darkwater, one,” said Daddy Mention.
“Those guys are assholes,” said Bryant. It was the first time he’d raised his voice, which was unusually deep for such a small, wiry man.
Vodka said Jesus was his commander in chief and he wouldn’t soldier-of-fortune for Darkwater or any other crooked mercenary outfit that lured away good soldiers trained on the U.S. dime. Wilson said he’d work for Darkwater, or any other private security firm, because they paid more per week than he earned in a month.
“That’s right, working for those dead presidents. Fuck the live one,” said Daddy Mention.
“That’s our commander in chief,” said Wilson.
“He’ll be my commander in chief when he’s on a twenty-dollar bill,” said Daddy Mention. “Until then, he can’t do shit for me, though I’d let Laura rub lotion on my ass.”
“That’s sick,” said Wilson. “She’s like forty.”
“Exactly. Think about it. When was the top last down on that convertible? It would be like a virgin.”
“I don’t know about the face,” said Wilson.
“Lying like you care about faces, after that skank you pissed back in Columbus,” said Vodka. “Put a sheet on her head and pretend you’re ripping up some magic carpet. Tell him something, Achilles. You know.”
Achilles said, “After your first month, any T&A is going to look good because you’re never going to see them together unless you pay one to raise her shirt while you’re paying another to raise her skirt. You’ll fire a rocket if you see two oranges bouncing in a sack. Vodka’s right. Put a paper bag on her head and call it a burka.”
Vodka laughed. “Like the Ain’ts, ain’t it?”
“You’re all right,” said Daddy Mention.
They were all “all right.” They fit like keys. They were down like four flat tires. But Achilles couldn’t help but wonder what Ines would say if she heard him talking like this, if she heard his soldier’s humor. And the more he thought about it, it wasn’t funny. The Darkwater guys they’d seen that day had offered to take Achilles off of Vodka’s hands. “We’re headed to the kennel,” one said.
It took a moment for Charlie 1 to realize the Darkwater guys were pointing at Achilles. Vodka explained, “He’s not a looter, he’s with us.”
He’s with us, not he’s one of us, Achilles thought. Then, Stop reading into everything, like Ines!