Imogene in New Orleans Page 13

  Fifteen

  “Help, somebody, help.” Jackson grabbed the fence and tried to pull himself free from Rogers. He twisted around as he called to Neil’s house, ten feet from him. Only the jasmine seemed to hear him. He had one advantage. He was on Neil’s side of the fence and Rogers was still on Lena’s. The sound of Rogers battling with Jackson and the metal fence created a unique sort of screech. Jackson jerked himself from one side of the bushes to the next. He felt Rogers’s hands slipping on his sweaty shirt. If he hadn’t just spent time in the sweat lodge of Lena’s attic, he wouldn’t have had a chance. As soon as Rogers tried to grip his shirt again, Jackson burst forward. He tripped and rolled into a rain barrel, which Neil and Allen used for their plants. He hit the barrel with a thump.

  “Aww, dammit. Hold there.” Rogers tried to cross over into Neil’s yard, but he couldn’t get his big frame squeezed through. He struggled, caught in a maze of bushes and metal wire.

  Jackson saw Billy run to the edge of the porch and peer to his left to see him lying on the ground beside the house. Rogers looked like a rabid dog, shaking and growling in the bushes. “Who is that, Jackson?”

  “It’s Rogers. He’s stuck.” Jackson rubbed his head, which throbbed from his collision.

  “Well, get up! He’ll get unstuck soon enough.” Billy smacked a storm shutter.

  Jackson shook himself as he popped to his feet. He saw Neil and Allen join Billy at the edge of the porch, and he ran passed them. He sprinted so fast that his friends and partner looked like those bystanders who watch marathon runners from the road. He saw their hands pointing toward the park and egging him forward. They could very well have been clapping and passing out cups of water as Jackson ran.

  Neil yelled, “Take the streetcar.”

  On previous trips, Jackson and Billy had stayed at Neil’s and taken pleasant morning walks to catch the streetcar. This was not one such pleasant walk for Jackson, as he was already sucking wind by the time he made it three hundred steps, passing through the basketball court in the park across the street. He heard Imogene crying out from Lena’s shop window, “Rogers is free, son. He’s got a-loose.”

  He sped up at these words, heading for St. Charles Avenue, several blocks from his current position. He passed the blue Garden District mansion where he and Billy stopped abruptly to question Imogene about Glenway’s will. He remembered parking the car in front of the house and he longed for his automobile. He turned around to see Rogers two blocks behind him and gaining. And like the dinner bell for a hungry man, the blesséd sound of the streetcar rang out to Jackson.

  He watched as a student on a mountain bike headed unwittingly for the lieutenant. Rogers flashed his badge at the student, who wore his headphones and wasn’t paying any attention to the gruff lawman. The lieutenant stepped in front of the path, bringing the cyclist to a sudden, complete stop. Rogers barked at the youth, and before the young man responded, Rogers had grabbed the bike and started pedaling toward his intended target.

  Jackson hurried across the boulevard into the “neutral grounds,” what visitors call the median. The streetcar rang its bell as it rumbled down the grassy path.

  Rogers biked into a stream of cars, stopping all the traffic in front of him. Cars honked; Rogers yelled and then waved his hands. Jackson ran toward the streetcar that had just passed. The last time Jackson and Billy had visited, Neil had driven them down St. Charles around dusk and they had watched the sun fading behind those mysterious mansions lining the street. He couldn’t admire them for even a moment in his current situation. He had to hustle. He turned to see Rogers pedaling with a fury.

  “Dammit, Miller!”

  Jackson panicked. He knew if he didn’t catch the trolley, he would be overtaken by the brute. When the conductor hit the brakes, Jackson was less than a half block from the stop. He heard Rogers in the background. The lieutenant’s voice got louder with each moment. “Miller! You stop right there.”

  The traffic had only slowed the lawman, but he was spinning like a maniac again in a short time. A line of passengers waited to board the green trolley. “Oh, come on. Come on,” Jackson said, pumping his arms to catch the ride.

  The last passenger embarked at the stop. Jackson reached the back door and jumped inside.

  The driver yelled, “That ain’t the place to board, pal.”

  Jackson flashed his transit pass to the driver, who flicked his wrist as a sign. He walked to the front and slid his pass in the meter. The driver told him to sit down. As they began moving, Jackson heard Rogers call out, “Stop this here!”

  The driver looked at Jackson through his rearview window and said, “Lemme guess. Is this your friend?”

  “No, I…don’t know who he is.” Jackson hurried to a seat.

  The man looked out the window as Rogers rolled up to the vehicle. Jackson ducked his head behind a big fellow sitting in front of him, disappearing in the crowd of the midday trolley.

  “You got a stowaway on your car.” Rogers nearly flipped over his handlebars trying to stop the bicycle.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” said the driver, allowing the trolley to rumble forward gently.

  “Do you think I stutter?” Rogers asked.

  “You do seem to have a certain ferocious way of speaking. More like you’re spitting your words,” the driver said.

  Jackson blessed the dirt that Rogers had such bad manners and poor interpersonal skills, but he stared at the mirror that gave the conductor a view of all passengers. The man looked in the mirror. Jackson gave the most humble, pleading look he could make. He clasped his hands together and shook his head.

  “What the hell are you doing, fellow? Look at me when I speak.”

  The driver bristled at this command, then glanced at Jackson once more and said, “Sir, everyone on this car has a pass.” The streetcar behind them sounded its bell. It started squealing as it slowed down. “I’m on a schedule.”

  “I don’t care if you’re the director of transportation.” Rogers began dismounting from the bike, but the driver let his trolley move forward, watching anxiously as the car behind approached.

  “I’m a lieutenant of the New Orleans Police. You’ll stop at once.” The driver didn’t hit full speed, but he didn’t stop either.

  “You don’t look like a cop. More like a dude in a suit on a bike. I’ve seen odder things here.” Rogers reached in his inner pocket for something, but it was too late. The driver sailed along St. Charles Avenue, mumbling, “If he wants me, I’m not hiding.”

  Jackson slid back to the window and watched as Rogers searched the ground for something. He wondered what it could be. He decided to ride the car as far as it would take him. The breeze from outside had never felt better. He pulled the window down completely and leaned back in his seat. As they approached the French Quarter, they passed the enormous statue of the general. He checked behind him to see if Rogers was near. An unmarked sedan trailed the streetcar. It looked like Rogers’s car, a black Crown Victoria. He felt his pulse quicken and his stomach tingle as he stared at the vehicle. If Billy had been there to check it, his blood pressure would have bounced fifteen points. He slumped in the seat and tried to think of a plan. He decided that if it was Rogers, he would let the streetcar dump him off at Canal Street and then he’d escape New Orleans on the ferry to Algiers. He could get away from Rogers and pay Buddy a visit at the same time.

  The streetcar felt like it made thirty stops in between the Garden District and the French Quarter. Each stop seemed like an hour, and the unmarked vehicle behind them kept trailing until finally they reached Canal Street. Jackson waited to exit with a group of passengers. He couldn’t tell if the car had stopped with the trolley, so he took the opportunity to run.

  He jumped in front of traffic at the first intersection and then made the light at the next and kept going. Eventually, he reached the river’s edge and the ferry to Algiers. It was on schedule to arrive at 4:15 p.m. He didn’t want to stand out in the open, just in case Roger
s was near. Instead, he hid behind a short wall until his time came. His phone rang once, twice, and then four more times. He couldn’t get distracted with Billy’s calls. He kept his focus on the ferry and the surrounding area. At every moment, he waited for the Crown Victoria to roll into view. He needed the rest; he didn’t have it in him to run again. The vessel neared the bank, inching closer and closer to a stop. The moments it took to reach the pier were miserable.

  As soon as cars began streaming onto the vessel, he readied himself to move, keeping his eyes open for Rogers. Because pedestrians rode for free, there was always a line of people ready to board the boat. He waited until all of them had walked aboard. He scanned the parking lot one last time, took a deep breath, and made a dash for the boat. As he approached the edge of the ferry, he heard someone yelling at him. He glanced up and saw the attendant waving his arms at Jackson. He kicked up gravel trying to slow down.

  “Hey, be careful. You don’t need a running start. We’re in no hurry.” The attendant grinned, but Jackson hopped on the vessel, scooted past, and headed straight for the building in the center. He found an empty stall in the restroom and stayed there until he felt the boat moving. His phone had eleven missed calls, nine from Billy and two from Neil. He put his phone back in his pocket, peeked outside the stall, and decided to give the open air a chance. Before walking outside, he approached the windows in the building to scan the deck for Rogers.

  The river breeze washed over him. He saw the magnificent views of the city and the bridge connecting Algiers Point to New Orleans. He marveled at the crescent shape of New Orleans as the ferry traveled nearly parallel to the curve in the Mississippi River. He crept along the building from one end to the other and couldn’t see the lieutenant’s car anywhere. There was one blind spot at the back of the ferry, but he couldn’t risk being out in the open to investigate. He stayed near the building instead, right next to the door. He massaged his neck and shoulders and closed his eyes as the tension from his muscles let up, resting his head on the side of the building. He fastened his sunglasses so no one would recognize him, enjoying the warm breeze, feeling like Samuel Clemens himself. Midway through the journey, the boat neared the bridge. A young couple and their kids fed the seagulls from the edge.

  Beyond the birds, he could see the steeples of the St. Louis Cathedral from the park where he’d lost Imogene and found Thurston. The sun shone on the water, turning its deep brown into a golden orange. He felt free.

  And just as he took a deep breath and exhaled, someone pushed him up against the building. He felt a strong forearm dig into his back. He tried to turn around to identify his assailant but received a sharp elbow to his spine. He grimaced. “Stop it. What do you want, Rogers? I’ll go with you; just take your arms off me.”

  “This ain’t Rogers, cuz.” The raspy voice hissed in Jackson’s ear. “You don’t remember me? You chased my ass all over the Quarter this morning.” He swung Jackson around and slammed him up against the wall. Jackson recognized the handsome hustler Buddy, who spewed, “You make one noise and I’ll throw your ass in the river.”

  Sixteen

  “I ain’t got whatever you’re after, cuz.” Buddy pressed his arm against Jackson’s neck. He still wore his sweatshirt from earlier in the day, but he looked away so all Jackson could see was the tip of the hustler’s chin and the blue hoodie.

  “How do you know what I’m after, Buddy?” Jackson wrestled Buddy’s elbow away from his Adam’s apple and caught a glimpse of his face.

  “You’re wantin’ me to tell you about Glenway.” Buddy spit on the deck.

  Jackson nodded. “Of course I am. He was my friend, and someone beat him to death. Let me see your face.”

  Buddy pulled back the hood. He had a black eye and a swollen lip. It appeared someone had punched him since their last meeting. Buddy had a strong face, like a weight lifter’s. It looked made for punching. Aside from his run-in with a fist, he had a scruffy, stubbly face, which improved his sex appeal and probably his business prospects. He had light blue eyes with a hint of green about them. Under his sweatshirt, he wore a plain white wifebeater T-shirt.

  Buddy lightened his grip so Jackson could breathe a little easier. He asked, “Where are you going?”

  “A friend’s house,” Buddy said, looking around to see if they were being watched. The young couple feeding the seagulls took a break and were standing on the edge of the boat. As soon as the father turned around to see the pair, Buddy released Jackson and forced him to sit on the bench beside the door.

  Jackson lowered his head and whispered, “Oh, horse hock, Buddy. Unless that ‘friend’s house’ you’re referring to is Glenway’s. I know you guys live in Algiers. You and Glenway share a house—or you did—up until Thursday night…when you killed him.”

  Buddy grabbed Jackson again and pushed him against the bench. “I ain’t killed him, you understand? Why you think I ran this morning? Exactly ’cause of this. I knew the police’d be after me soon’s they found I lived with him.”

  The West Bank came into focus as they neared Algiers, and Jackson felt some relief at the sight of dry land, seeing as how the hustler had him in a rather immovable position, penned against the bench. “What are you gonna do, Buddy?”

  “What do you mean, cuz?” He squeezed the back of Jackson’s neck, not in a sweet and loving way, the kind of way he squeezed Billy’s, but the way one would squeeze a rag to remove excess water.

  Jackson winced. “I mean, what are you going to do with me, especially now that I know about you?”

  “You don’t know shit, cuz. You don’t know me. You don’t know what Glenway was like with me. I ain’t even picked up tricks since I met Glenway last spring.” Buddy’s face was so close to Jackson that he could see a silver filling on one of the hustler’s yellowing teeth.

  “Well, good for you.” Jackson felt a bead of sweat rolling down his back. “Could you please stop squeezing me? I can’t run. I’ve got nowhere to go.” Jackson looked at the muddy river in front of him and thought about taking a swim in order to escape. Buddy released a little pressure from his neck and Jackson inhaled the humid air.

  His phone began ringing. He tried to silence it through the cargo pockets on his shorts, but as it rang, it got louder. Buddy stuck his hand in Jackson’s pockets and retrieved the phone. “Is this the police, cuz? Are they following me? I knew it.” He thumped the wall beside Jackson’s head and answered in mid-ring.

  “Who the hell is this? Billy? Billy who? No, you can’t talk to him, not until you tell me what he wants.” Jackson tried to grab the phone away from the hustler, who blocked the takeaway with his arm. “Oh, he’s fine…Were you the other one chasing me today...? Yeah, this is Buddy…No, I won’t tell you where we’re at.”

  Jackson started yelling, “Billy, I’m all right. We’re on the boat to Algiers. Going to see Buddy’s house, where Glenway was living. Tell Neil—”

  Buddy pushed Jackson to the deck. “Shut your mouth. You’re yelling in my ear.” He covered his ear and spoke into the receiver. “Listen up.. I’m keeping this phone for a while until I figure out what to do with your Jackson. If you call the police, you won’t like what happens.”

  Jackson said, “Give me that.” He lunged for it and Buddy pushed him away, hanging the phone up and sticking it in his blue jeans pocket. He grabbed Jackson again and forced him to sit down. “You stop actin’ up or you’ll have to swim your way back. I swear, cuz. Cool it.” The ferry sounded its horn, which meant it was approaching the dock.

  “All I want to do is see where my friend Glenway lived.” Jackson was tired, frustrated, and he needed water. The Mississippi River didn’t look as calm now that Buddy had him cornered. It looked a little sinister, coming around the bend. He couldn’t appreciate what was ahead at Algiers Point, the charming community with its white picket fences and rustic homes painted like those of small waterfront communities in New England. No, he could only concern himself with the strong cologne of the hustler and
his even stronger grip. “Can I please see where you live? I don’t have any weapons. You’ve got my only means of communication. What could I possibly do to threaten you?” Jackson’s cheeks were red from the stress and struggle with the hustler.

  “I’m keeping your cell while you’re over here. Don’t try anything funny, cuz, or I’ll maul your ass to the ground,” Buddy whispered, smelling like cigarette smoke and sweat.

  “Duly noted, Buddy. Now, take your hand off me and let me breathe.” Jackson slid over a few feet from Buddy on the bench. He rubbed his neck, which Buddy had twisted around like dough. The ferry stopped and they disembarked, walking up the slight incline to the streets of Algiers.

  Just as the Mediterranean separated France from the country Algiers, so did the Mississippi separate New Orleans proper from Algiers Point. The neighborhood had a strange mix. It looked seedier and more laid-back all at the same time. Many artists lived on the peninsula, with greenery everywhere and the most beautiful and exotic plants. The French influence was heavy in Algiers, as if the air above the water had carried as much ambience as it could across to the little neighborhood. There were more dilapidated buildings in the community, but Jackson and Buddy passed homes with completely manicured properties, too, and wild ferns growing out of baskets on the porches, as if they were a part of the architecture. Many of the buildings had rich, ornamental detail, wood trim hand-carved by craftsmen and artisans years ago. The community almost had the look of an ailing beach town on some forgotten coast.

  Buddy walked faster. He crossed the street to the sidewalk and then removed his hood, as if only there did he feel comfortable enough to show his face. After a few minutes, he took off the jacket completely, exposing his wolf tattoo.

  Jackson looked at it and then remembered a painting in Glenway’s studio with an inscription at the bottom: “To B.” The painting had a hazy, abstract background, which meant it may have been unfinished. Created in charcoal, it looked like a sketch or a first draft. Glenway had finished the vague outline of a creature perched on a mountain. The individual didn’t have a face, but its limbs were composed in such a way as to suggest both man and beast. It had sharp, jagged teeth almost floating from the end of its face. Jackson recognized the teeth on Buddy’s arm, as the wolf teeth gleamed in the sunlight. They looked to be painted by Glenway himself.