DR07 - Dixie City Jam Read Free Page B

flip-flops, and put his bare feet on top of the
desk.
    'You trying to leave the dock early today?' I said.
    'Hey, I was in the tank all night. You ought to check that
scene out, mon. Two-thirds of the people in there are honest-to-God
crazoids. I'm talking about guys eating their grits with their hands.
It's fucking pitiful.'
    He pushed at a scrap of memo paper by his telephone.
    'I was a little bothered by something Nate Baxter said last
night,' I said.
    'Oh yeah?'
    'This vigilante stuff. He thinks you might be the man.'
    He drank out of his beer and smiled at me, his eyes filled
with a merry light.
    'You think I might actually have that kind of potential?' he
said.
    'People have said worse things about both of us.'
    '
The Lone Ranger
was a radio show, mon. I
don't believe there's any vigilante. I think we're talking about
massive wishful thinking. These hits are just business as usual in the
city. We've got a murder rate as high as Washington, D.C.' s now.'
    'Five or six of them have been blacks in the projects.'
    'They were all dealers.'
    'That's the point,' I said.
    'Dave, I've run down bond jumpers in both the Iberville and
Desire projects. Life in there is about as important as water breaking
out the bottom of a paper bag. The city's going to hell, mon. That's
the way it is. If somebody's out there taking names in a serious way, I
say more power to them. But I don't think that's the case, and anyway
it's not me.'
    He took a long drink from the beer. The inside of the bottle
was filled with amber light. Moisture slid down the neck over the
green-and-gold label.
    'I'm sorry. You want me to send out for a Dr Pepper or some
coffee?' he asked.
    'No, I've got to be going. I had to bring my boat up from New
Iberia for some work. It'll be ready about noon.'
    He picked up the slip of memo paper by his phone and rubbed it
between thumb and forefinger.
    'I ought to save you a headache and throw this away,' he said.
But he flipped it across the desk blotter at me.
    'What is it?'
    'That black broad, the sergeant who was in front of Calucci's,
called this morning. She didn't know how else to get ahold of you. My
advice is that you pitch that telephone number in the trash and go back
to New Iberia. Forget New Orleans. The whole place is just waiting for
a hydrogen bomb.'
    'What's the deal?'
    'She's a hard-nosed black broad named Lucinda Bergeron from
the projects who doesn't take dog shit from white male cops. That's the
deal.'
    'So?'
    'Last night she evidently got in Nate Baxter's face. So today
he's trying to kick a two-by-four up her ass. He wrote her up for
insubordination. He says she cussed him out. She says she's innocent
and you can back her up.'
    'She didn't cuss him out while I was there. In fact, she
really kept her Kool-Aid.'
    'Don't get sucked in, mon. Messing with Baxter is like putting
your hand in a spittoon.'
    I picked,up the slip of paper and put it in my pocket.
    'What do I know?' he said.
     
    I called the dock from the guesthouse
and was told that the
mechanic had gone home sick and my boat would not be ready until the
next day. Then I called the number on the slip of paper, which turned
out to be Garden District police headquarters, and was told that
Lucinda Bergeron was not in. I left my name and the telephone number of
the guesthouse.
    Batist was sitting on the side of his bed, his big, callused,
scar-flecked hands in his lap, staring out the French doors, his face
full of thought.
    'What's troubling you, partner?' I asked.
    'That nigger out yonder in the lot.'
    'That what?'
    'You heard me.'
    'What'd he do?'
    'While you was still sleepin', I got up early and went down to
the dining room for coffee. He was eatin' in there, talkin' loud with
his mout' full of food, puttin' his hand on that young white girl's
back each time she po'ed his coffee. Pretendin' like it's innocent,
like he just a nice man don't have no bad t'oughts on his mind, no.'
    'Maybe it's their business, Batist.'
    'That kind of trashy nigger make