“Oh. You mean where is it? I done spent the money way back.”
“What about the envelope?”
“One of those big ones,” he says, drawing a box in the air. “Overnight.”
“Which service? FedEx, UPS-”
“I can show you. I still got it somewheres.”
“Well,” Gene says, “that’s more like it.”
Bourgeois hops out of his chair to go and fetch the envelope. Right then I see something in his eyes. Gene sees it too, putting a hand out to stop him. The ex-con ducks under the arm, though, springing straight into Gene. Pushing him off-balance. They lock up, staggering backward. Toward the exit.
Gene topples onto the ground. Bourgeois scrambles over him, bolting out through the open door. I kick it into gear.
As I try to cross over him, Gene rolls. My foot catches on the crook of his knee, nearly forcing me face-first into the walkway. But I regain my balance in time to see Bourgeois hoofing it across the boulevard.
“Go get him!”
I run after him. Over my shoulder I hear Gene struggling back to his feet.
“I’ll get the truck,” he calls out, a note of pain in his voice.
Bourgeois has a head start. And twenty years on me at least. At first it looks like he’s gonna leave me in the dust. I don’t even know why the boy’s running, but I run after him.
I can’t remember my last foot pursuit. My legs can’t, either.
Before long my chest is pounding and a wheezing sound is coming from my throat, and the distance between me and the ex-con keeps getting longer and longer. I expect the truck to roll up anytime, relieving me of the task, but I listen in vain for the roar of the engine.
Bourgeois pauses, then zigzags back across the boulevard, heading for the houses on the far side. He turns to see where I’m at. I pick up some speed. He loses his footing and sprawls onto the pavement.
I kick my legs harder, willing myself forward. As he gets up, I get a glimpse of his face under the streetlight, the features twisted with fear. Why is he running? He takes off down one of the driveways. As I reach the yard, I see him lifting himself over the back fence.
There’s no telling where Gene is, but I yell as loud as I can, hoping he can hear me.
“Fontenot! We’re going over the fence!”
It takes me two tries to grip the top of the fence. I hook my leg over and roll across, landing awkwardly on one foot. I hit the ground. When I pick myself up, my side is damp with mud. I keep running, then climb a second fence, cursing the fact that I didn’t bring a change of clothes with me. And all for nothing. I can’t even see him anymore.
I look around me and pause. I find myself standing at the end of a long row of aboveground sepulchers. The cemetery stretches out before me as far as the eye can see, pitted white marble crypts rising to eye level and higher, like an ancient city recessed into the mud.
Bourgeois lopes between them maybe fifty yards ahead, one hand clamped to his side. He’s in some pain, too. That gives me satisfaction, anyway. I start after him, but my limbs turn to lead. My toe catches on the edge of a cobble and I’m on the ground again, this time for good.
I lie there a second, breathing hard, then get up on one skinned knee. Gene is nowhere to be seen. Off in the distance, Bourgeois gives a cry of mingled pain and exhaustion. I’d yell back, but I can’t catch my breath.
The mausoleums crowd around, and the night grows quiet except for the sound of my breathing and the song of some far-off nocturnal bird.
I retrace my steps and find Gene leaning against the truck with one leg tucked against the other, his hand clutching his raised knee.
“I think I blew it out,” he says, panting.
“Why’d he take off like that?”
“I forgot to ask him on his way out.”
I start toward the house. “We should take a look inside.”
“Without a warrant?” he says, sneering through the pain.
“I’m concerned about that minor in there.”
“Yeah, right.”
The nephew is watching TV in his shoebox of a bedroom, knees tucked under his chin. I mutter a few reassurances, asking where his mother is, but the boy gives no reply. I pull the door shut. In the next bedroom, there’s a nude girl lying facedown on the bed, her outstretched wrist tied to the post with a knotted T-shirt. I crouch by her head, feeling her neck for a pulse. Her skin is feverishly warm to the touch.
“Are you okay?”
I switch on the bedside lamp, then lift her eyelid. Her pupil is just a pinprick. Her lips part and she whispers something.
“What did you say?”
“Is he gone?”
She’s bleeding from one nostril. There’s blood on her legs, too. At the doorway, the nephew makes a sound. He stares at the girl, then at me.
“Is this your mama?” I ask.
“My mama ain’t no whore.” He goes back to his room.
Gene hobbles in as I untie the girl’s wrist. He pulls a blanket over her, then goes back into the hallway to call an ambulance. The girl rubs her hand. She sits up, pushing her legs over the edge of the bed. She looks no more than seventeen, eighteen.
“I gotta get going,” she says. “I’m gonna be in trouble.”
“Just sit still. There’s an ambulance coming.”
She tries to stand, but she can’t. I brush a sweat-damp curl out of her eyes and she recoils.
“You gotta let me go, mister.”
From the hallway, Gene snaps at her: “Don’t make the man repeat himself.”
The girls goes docile, tugging the blanket around her, and I feel like giving Gene’s knee a kick. I step back from the bed, realizing that all this time I’ve been treading on the girl’s torn clothes. I bend down and start to gather them, but there’s no point. A couple of joints are stubbed out in the ashtray under the lamp, but there’s something more powerful in the girl’s system than weed.
“You’re gonna be okay,” I tell her.
“I am not.”
The ambulance arrives, along with an NOPD patrol car. Gene stays put in the hallway, hiding his limp as he gives the uniforms a rundown. During the course of questioning, the suspect fled. Instead of pursuing, we secured the scene to ensure the minor’s safety, and in the course of this discovered the girl. One of the uniforms recognizes her and goes over while the paramedic is taking her vitals.
“Remember me?” he asks. “I ran you off the corner last week.” He looks at me, noting the state of my clothes. “She’s got a couple of priors for solicitation, but she’s all right.”
“I’m gonna get in trouble,” the girl says.
“Don’t you worry about that, Cher. Just let the doctor have a look.”
Gene motions me out of the room. In the yard, he checks his watch and gives me a gloomy look.
“You gonna write on this, or am I?”
“Your patch, your lead.”
“I knew that was coming.” He hobbles over toward the back of the ambulance. “Let’s see if there’s anything stronger than aspirin in here.”
“Gene.”
“Just kidding,” he says, throwing up his hands. “Let’s get going. Those boys can handle everything from here on out.” He rustles in his pockets and tosses me the truck keys. “You’re gonna have to drive, I’m afraid.”
Back on his patio with a homemade ice pack resting on his knee, Gene slurps the dregs of his fourth or fifth beer, tossing the bottle into the yard with a sigh. Beside me the grill still radiates heat. I stretch out, legs crossed at the ankle, feeling childish in Gene’s oversized sweat suit. My clothes are slowly revolving in his dryer, all except for my jacket, which hangs from a peg near the front door.
“Not bad for one day, huh?” he asks. “If you’d known when you got up this morning you’d interrupt a rape in progress-maybe worse-and chase some degenerate through the St. Louis cemetery, I bet that would have put a spring in your step.”
“At least I know now why he ran.”
“We’ll pick him up soon enough.” He reaches into the cooler for another bottle, finds there aren’t any, and stares longingly toward the kitchen. “You gonna make me get up?”