Imogene in New Orleans Read online

  “Son of a bitch. That’s why he was carrying that duffle bag to the crime scene and that’s why he refused to help Glenway with the thefts this summer.”

  Allen put his arm on Neil’s shoulder, apparently trying to keep him from exploding. It didn’t work. Neil’s mouth convulsed as he spoke. “He could have killed Glenway, for all we know.”

  Jackson considered the possibility. “It may turn out that the person who stole the pieces also killed Glenway.”

  “Of course. By shutting up Glenway, Rogers could easily make a quarter million dollars from that art. Allen tried to get Glenway to hire a detective, but he wouldn’t do it. He did what he wanted to do and now look at him.” Neil hit the armrest on the lawn chair. The sun was going down over the park across the street from their house. “I’m calling my friend on the city council.” Neil picked his phone up, and Jackson grabbed it from him.

  “Not yet. Let’s not give the lieutenant any reason to think we suspect him of more than theft. Maybe we can figure out a way to use his theft to our advantage.”

  * * * * *

  The minute Imogene returned to Neil’s house in Lena’s Cadillac, Billy screamed at her in front of everyone. “You can’t go running off like that, Mama.”

  Without giving her a chance to say anything, the boys hauled her from the porch in a whirl. They all piled into the car and drove off.

  On the way to the hotel, she pouted. “Y’all are wrong to mistreat Mama like this. And in front of Neil and ’em. I ain’t done nothing but tried to help the Gilbert boy.”

  After they put the room in order, Imogene went to bed mad, pulling the fluffy covers in her Chez Hill bed so tightly that she looked like a mummy. She didn’t ask what had happened and wouldn’t touch the room service food Jackson ordered. She mumbled a lot when the boys explained that they were taking her to the Louis Armstrong second line parade in the morning. Not even the mention of Lena’s attendance would get her to look at them or her food. She went to sleep early while the boys watched television and fed Goose some very fine pieces of grilled chicken. Her early bedtime didn’t faze the bull one bit. Through every morsel, he remained unconcerned.

  After they finished eating, Jackson watched Billy pace the room, peek out the heavy curtains on the French doors, and then return to the peephole at the hotel door. “Billy, please take a nerve pill. The doctor prescribed them for times like these.”

  Obviously, Imogene running off and the thought of blackmailing the lieutenant had put Billy into a state. Stress pinched his face and he twitched when he sat on the edge of the bed. In just a moment he jumped up and paced again.

  “Will you quit worrying? If you don’t settle down, you’ll wake your mother.” Jackson fetched a glass of cold water and the pill bottle. He talked Billy into taking the pill and then tucked him into bed.

  It was a good thing Billy went to sleep, because Jackson woke up at 1:45 a.m., hearing what sounded like the door handle jangling. Wondering if someone was trying to break in again, Jackson hurried out of bed and peered out the window. All he saw was Lena’s Cadillac rumbling down Toulouse Street, away from the hotel entrance. He looked over at Imogene’s bed. A pillow stuck out from the sheets, where Imogene’s head should have been. He walked over and saw that she had bunched up the comforter in the shape of a body.

  Goose and Billy snored on, and Jackson saw no reason to wake them yet. Hearing more noise at the door, he tiptoed over and looked through the peephole. Imogene stood in the hallway, struggling to put her plastic card into the electronic lock.

  Jackson opened the door and spoke in a harsh whisper. “Where have you been, woman? It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning.”

  “Shut your mouth, son. Y’all don’t listen to Maw-Maw McGregor, but you ain’t the only ones in this city. I got people.” She scooted past him. He saw Glenway’s journal protruding from the top of her purse. She clutched her camera, holding it the way a running back holds a football, high and tight against her chest. He grabbed at the camera, but she went straight to the bathroom and closed the door. Jackson waited. Once he knocked softly, but she wouldn’t open up. In the night stillness he heard the crinkle of paper from inside the bathroom, then he heard the distinct whirr of the camera turning on and her trying to operate it by pressing several buttons.

  She mumbled, “This cockeyed contraption.”

  Jackson said, “What are you doing? Let me help you.” She didn’t answer the question or the six more he posed. He finally tired of the standoff. He crawled in bed beside Billy, thankful that his partner slept through it all, and waited there, ready at any moment to see her emerge.

  Twenty-One

  The first thing Jackson did upon opening his sleepy eyes was to sit up and look at Imogene, who lay in the other bed snoring, as if she had the cleanest conscience since Job. He snuck past her to the wall between her bed and the bathroom. He saw her suitcase zipped up in the small space beside the bed. He crept toward it and reached inside to pull out her purse. She flinched under the covers and he jumped back. He froze, completely still against the wall. She didn’t wake fully, so he removed the camera from her purse, which she had been clutching so fiercely when she reentered the hotel in the middle of the night.

  He tried to put all her stuff back the way he found it and then tiptoed over to brew a cup of coffee. When it was ready, he walked quietly toward the French doors, opening and closing them without anyone else stirring. He sat on the balcony, scrolling through the pictures she’d taken. “Are you kidding me?” He saw pictures of a dimly lit establishment and men dancing in their silk briefs, their glistening beach bodies on display. “Imogene Deal McGregor…”

  Jackson could tell his mother-in-law wasn’t as interested in taking pictures of the dancers but rather the people watching the dancers. He saw a guy in a mesh hat standing at the opposite end of a long bar. In one picture the man was clutching dollar bills and in another he was drinking beer from a tall cup. “Catfish,” Jackson said to himself.

  Imogene had also taken pictures of the second floor, the mezzanine, and the familiar faces of Buddy and Thurston, who leaned over the ledge and peered down at the dancers. The second floor was divided into two sections. The best seats were on the right side of a partition in a darkened room, directly above the performers. He couldn’t see any of the faces on that side, even though Imogene had tried to take a picture of the area. He held the camera to his face as the early-morning sun beamed down on him. He heard the French doors open, and he crammed the camera in his pocket just as Billy and Goose stepped out onto the balcony.

  “What are you doing?” Billy wiped his eyes, and Goose barreled out to give Jackson a morning sniff.

  Jackson took a sip from his coffee cup and said, “Admiring these courtyards.” He looked over into the enclosed space across the street. Dew hung on the ferns, sparkling in the morning sun.

  “Mama said someone’s stolen her belongings. She’s up and on a tear. I reminded her about the room being ransacked, but she’s not listening.” Billy sat down just as Imogene hobbled through the door to the balcony.

  “Boys, have y’all been goin’ through my thangs?”

  “How could we, Mama? We’ve been asleep.”

  Jackson met her angry glare. She studied him as if he’d just slapped her and run away. He glanced down and saw the strap to her camera dangling beside his leg. He jammed the strap in his pocket, but too late. When he looked back up, he realized she had seen it, too.

  “Son, you ain’t fooling—” Just as she began to accuse him, he pointed to a smudged ink stamp on her wrist. “Maw, what’s that say on your hand?”

  Imogene held out her arm, and Billy read the letters aloud: “TB.” The letters were inside a faint circle, and it looked like she’d tried to scrub off the imprint.

  “Where’d you get that?” Billy bent down and took a closer look. He scratched Goose, who was resting his belly on the cool balcony floor, his paws out in front like the Sphinx in Egypt.

  Imog
ene crossed her arms and looked out over the balcony onto Toulouse Street.

  “I’m not taking you to the parade today if you’re going to act up.” Billy sighed. “I’m tired of this.”

  “I ain’t actin’ up, son. Leave Mama alone. You’re worrying her sideways. I think I got this mark at Lena’s yesterday.” She studied the stamp. “Yeah, she had some sort of red something in her rest’rant. Why you always think Mama’s done wrong, son?” Billy shook his head and looked at Jackson. “Boys, if y’all would quit fussin’ at me and ruinin’ my trip, I’d tell you something you wanna know.” She patted her hair and scooted her chair closer so she could confer with them. “I believe Catfish is Lena’s boy, sure as morning, I do. She’s got a paintin’ of him on the walls in her kitchen. I was gonna tell you yesterday, but y’all pulled me away from Neil’s like I was a rotten child. That’s no way to treat kinfolk.”

  Jackson piped up. “Imogene, I saw that picture in her kitchen with Catfish’s likeness. He has her droopy chin and her gray eyes.”

  “Yep. And that ain’t the full of it. She was talkin’ about her son named ‘Leonard’ yesterday, and y’all know that man at the pirate shop said Catfish’s real name was Leonard. I tried to tell you.” She waited for the boys’ reaction. They just looked at her.

  “Y’all can talk about that gritty lawman all you want. He may’ve clobbered the Gilbert boy, but I ain’t sure. I got others in mind. But anyhow, don’t ever say Imogene Deal McGregor can’t catch a catfish, boys. Shoot, I was born in the woods.”

  * * * * *

  “Baby, we fixin’ to have a fine time. I do love a parade,” Lena said, holding Imogene’s hand as they approached Rampart Street. Jackson hurried to the corner, carrying chairs and a cooler. A good crowd had formed along the sidewalk and the concrete ledge that bordered Louis Armstrong Park. The anticipation was dizzying. The boys always attended the Christmas parade in Harristown and they loved it, but New Orleans had the big-boy parades and they rarely had the chance to attend a second line.

  They heard a brass tuba hit a deep note. A band approached, followed by dancers and men waving flags, the whole group filling up two lanes of the boulevard. What made this parade special was the wave, the second line of people, following the bands and dancers. It looked like a march, and in no particular order, bystanders and onlookers joined the parade and became part of it, forming the “second line.”

  Jackson saw a young African-American youth, who couldn’t have been older than ten, pedaling a bicycle. He held a full-sized trombone that ran the length of the bicycle. It was so long that he couldn’t hold on to the handle bars when he rode. Jackson slipped Imogene’s camera from her purse and snapped a picture of the kid. Lena watched Jackson.

  Neil bounced along the sidewalk. He said, “Down here, kids are as likely to pick up an instrument as a basketball.”

  “Dat’s true, Neil.” Lena clapped, ready for the band. As far as they could see, people crowded the streets. The wild notes of tuba and trumpet and trombone rattled and hummed through the trees. In the first group of musicians, there were kids as young as fourteen playing the tuba and one kid who probably couldn’t drive banging a bass drum. They stomped together in rhythm to the music. Two ladies had dressed up in what looked like princess outfits. They wore white gloves and socks with tassels.

  Just as Imogene and the boys reached the curb, the older black princesses came dancing past them, twirling their umbrellas in the sky. The umbrellas matched their dresses—frilly white with purple borders.

  “What a sight to behold. Ain’t that fine?”

  Lena said, “Imogene, I been knowing ’em since they was little.” She stepped out into the street and grabbed one of their arms. “Girl, whatchya doing?”

  “Miss Lena, ain’t it too hot for you? You oughta be in that cool praline shop.” The umbrella girl dabbed her face with a handkerchief.

  “No, baby. I was born in weather hotter than this.”

  “Come on.” The umbrella girl’s partner-in-costume shouted at her to go. As she walked away, she waved at them, twirling herself.

  Imogene looked amazed. “Ain’t she something?”

  “Oh, she something all right. I knowed her mama. She oughtn’t be showin’ all dat flesh.”

  Jackson saw Imogene clasp Lena’s hand harder as another wave of the second line brushed past. He put his wallet in his front pocket, thinking about Buddy and the characters on the street who seek unsuspecting tourists. Neil held the women close to him. “Ladies, this was Glenway’s favorite parade. We should enjoy this second line in his honor.”

  “Dat’s right. He had ’bout more fun than anybody at the second lines.” Lena stared down the road, as if she hoped Glenway would come waltzing toward her.

  Jackson backed up to be with Billy in the cool shade of an oak tree. Billy took a big swig from his water bottle and watched the umbrella ladies fade away in the bright, hot steam. It was one of those days in August where the road looks like an illusion, melting and changing shapes. Another band approached. This one was followed by a carriage filled with older members of the Zulu Krewe.

  “Look at all that peach.” Neil motioned for the boys to come down to the curb. Jackson set his chairs against the iron fence and they weaved through the crowd. “Look. Zulu always has the best throws. They used to toss coconuts—real, fuzzy fruit—until someone got their lights knocked out.”

  The men of Zulu all wore peach-colored suits and fedoras or Stetsons with matching fabric bands. They waved tall, coral-colored fans made from feathers. They were the most debonair group in the city.

  As Jackson and Billy watched, four of the Zulu members split off and walked figure eights from one side of the street to the other. They looked like peacocks strutting through the boulevard.

  Imogene slapped her leg. “Honey, what a sight.” One of the sharply dressed Zulu men had rings on nearly all his fingers, and when he laughed, it sounded like the city was laughing with him. His voice was deep and strong. His figure-eight Krewe partner brushed him on the shoulder, motioning him onward. As he started walking away, he laughed. Jackson watched Imogene step out to follow the man. Billy had given her medicine, but she still had a pronounced limp, as if she had only one and a half legs.

  Imogene lost Lena in the shuffle of the crowd, wandering after the Zulu man in his strut across Rampart Street. Jackson stayed a few steps behind her, but he got tangled up in a brass band. He nearly collided with a trombone handle, ducking just before the musician extended it to blow a note. Imogene slipped farther down the street.

  Jackson turned around to see Lena standing by herself, glancing up and down the parade. She said something to Billy and Neil, and they took off in the direction of Imogene and Jackson

  Jackson jumped the curb to avoid another musical run-in. Billy called out to him, “Where’s Mother?”

  Jackson stopped and waited. “She was just here.” He peered down Rampart and saw Imogene bouncing furiously through the crowd. “Something’s wrong, Billy. She can’t walk that fast on her own power.” He took off toward her and ran smack-bang into a big tuba player, who turned around and blew the horn right in his face. His ears rang. He stopped in front of the statue of Louis Armstrong and saw an entryway to some dilapidated shops across the street.

  Someone had forced Imogene into a corner. Jackson saw her sun hat shaking violently near a store window, but he couldn’t yet see who had accosted her. He sprinted toward her, jumping over the median and then over the curb. Imogene screamed and flailed her arms at a young man who wore overalls and a vaguely familiar hat. It looked like her face was bleeding.

  “Stop following me, old woman.” The young man leaned over Imogene, brandishing a gutting knife, the kind sportsmen use to clean fish.

  Jackson’s eyes watered as he ran, but now he recognized the mesh hat with fishing lures dangling. The man had his back to Jackson, so he sprinted toward the assailant, lowered his shoulder, and hit him squarely in the side. The momentum sent both men
crashing to the pavement, and Jackson hit Catfish in the face. Imogene started yelling at them in a trembling, terrified voice. “What the devil, boys?”

  Catfish heaved Jackson over and pinned him down with one hand. Jackson clawed at the man and tried to break free, getting another good lick in on the side of Catfish’s face. Lena, Billy and Neil rounded the corner just as Catfish reached for his knife on the pavement.

  “Leonard, don’t hurt him, baby. They my friends.” Lena looked frazzled, her Saints hat tilted to one side and her white hair poking out from beneath the rim. She was even more unstable on her feet than Imogene, but it didn’t stop her from hobbling over to her son. Catfish held his knife two inches from Jackson’s throat.

  Twenty-Two

  “Leonard, get dat damn knife outta Jackson’s face, boy.” Jackson heard Lena shuffling toward him. His yellow plaid shirt tightened around his neck as Leonard grabbed it. Jackson kicked his legs up, attempting to buck the assailant off, but Leonard was planted on him like an alligator on a muskrat.

  “No, Mama. This old woman’s been followin’ me for two days and it’s gonna stop right now, even if I have to kill her and this old boy too.” Catfish thrust the knife against Jackson’s chin. Billy reached into his satchel, removed the monitor from his blood-pressure cuff, took one step toward the overall-wearing assailant, and slammed the monitor as hard as he could against Catfish’s skull, knocking him and his knife to the pavement.

  Jackson grabbed the knife and, with all the power he could muster, kicked Catfish in the side. “What the hell are you doing, Catfish?” He jumped on the young man, who was trying to crawl away. Lena pulled on Jackson’s shirt, but Jackson wouldn’t stop, not even when both women made a considerable cacophony of protests that echoed in the Quarter.

  “Y’all both shut up, so we can hear something,” Billy said, picking up his monitor. He studied it and frowned at the new crack on the screen.

  “Turn him loose, Jack,” Imogene said.