Step to the Graveyard Easy Read Free Page B

to the limit now and then. Hewalked out eight hours later with over six hundred dollars in winnings. And a lesson learned.
    Baton Rouge. Still moving south, loosely paralleling the river on its twisting path to the Gulf of Mexico.
    New Orleans.
    The French Quarter. Gutbucket jazz, hot and lowdown, at Preservation Hall and the smaller clubs. Street-corner hornmen in Jackson Square. Jambalaya and peppery crayfish and foaming mugs of Cajun beer. Crowds, ancient crumbling buildings, a sense of history as palpable in the sultry air as the mingled smells of beignets and fried andouille sausage, garbage and humanity and Old Man River.
    On the afternoon of his third day there, Cape was walking along a relatively quiet section of Dauphine Street. Ahead was a woman in her sixties, alone, big leather bag slung over her right shoulder. As the woman passed by one of the overhanging lace-work balconies, somebody jumped out of the shadows and made a lunge for the bag. Kid no more than twenty, long greasy hair, face like a pitted fox’s. The woman resisted. He punched her in the face, bringing a spurt of blood, tore the bag loose, and took off running.
    Cape chased him. Flash-frozen one instant, rushing ahead the next. The kid zigzagged across the street, up one block, down another. A couple of other people had seen it happen, were giving pursuit and yelling, but only Cape stayed close. The kid dodged into an alley; Cape went in after him. Halfway along, the kid stopped suddenly and swung around. A thin-bladed knife glinted in his hand.
    Cape slowed, but he didn’t pull up or veer off. Pure instinct kept him moving in a straight line, even when the kid made a jabbing motion with the knife. He feinted right, avoiding another jab, came back left, and knocked the knife arm out of the way. At the same time he kicked the kid squarely in the crotch.
    The kid went down, squealing and writhing. Cape stepped hard on his wrist, grinding down until pain-clenched fingers opened around the knife. He kicked it out of the way. Then he threw his weight down on the skinny body, caught hold of the kid’s throat, and held him like that until help arrived.
    Later, one of the cops who showed up said to him, “That was a pretty brave thing you did, Mr. Cape.”
    “I didn’t think about it, just did it.”
    “Still, it took a lot of guts.”
    Maybe so. Guts he hadn’t even known he had.
    Another lesson learned.
    Shreveport.
    Fort Smith and over into Oklahoma.
    Tulsa.
    Downtown, early evening, he met a man named Luther Babcock who sold religious novelties. Mini-Bibles with solid brass-bound covers, standard Bibles encrusted with rhinestones and bejeweled crosses that glowed in the dark. Crucifixes containing “guaranteed genuine healing water from the world’s most blessed shrine” and bearing the words “Lourdes, France” embossed in pure gold leaf; crucifixes with the entire Lord’s Prayer written in miniature and a telescopic magnifying crystal in the center so you could read every word. Inspirational books, pamphlets, and videos, a life-size portrait of Jesus on gold-threaded velvet, a devotional music box that played “Amazing Grace” and two other hymns, a translucent Jesus night-light made out of ivory-colored plastic.
    “The God game, my boy. Spreading the Word in small but significant ways to all the lonely sinners. A blessed profession, walking hand in hand with the angels. Enriches the spirit at the same time it enriches the pocketbook. Yessir, you do God proud, and he’ll do you proud in return.”
    Babcock was drunk when he said it.
    Five minutes afterward, he put his hand on Cape’s thigh and offered to perform oral sex on him.
    Back down south through Dallas, Austin, San Antonio.
    Corpus Christi.
    One-night stand in his Gulf-view motel room with a bonily attractive twenty-something named Kristin. Safe sex; she insisted on it. Later, Cape woke up and caught her fully dressed with his wallet in her hand. She gave him a sob story about