Claire DeWitt And The City Of The Dead Part 28

He put down the gun. When he did, the dog settled down on the ground, sticking her legs in front of her and settling her head in between. She looked like a carpet.

I reached slowly into my purse and took out my picture of Vic Willing. I handed it to Frank.

Frank took the picture of Vic and looked at it. Then his face crumpled, every soft point closing in.

"Holy s.h.i.+t," he said. He looked like I'd punched him. He stumbled over to the steps to his house and sat down.

The dog came and sat next to him and looked at him. Frank scratched the top of the dog's head.

"You come on in," he said finally. "I don't know if I can help you. I don't know if I can do it. But I'll try."

Inside the house the walls were gone behind the blue tarp, but the supporting beams were in place. I heard the hum of a generator. A few shop lamps were hung up here and there, and a big TV was in the corner. The light coming through the tarp tinted everything blue.

Frank sat on a cable spool and gestured for me to sit on another. I did. The dog sat at Frank's feet. I explained that I was a private eye and I was investigating what had happened to the man in the picture.

"What do you need to know?" Frank asked.

"Everything," I said. "Everything you remember."

Frank nodded his head and collected his thoughts before he began. I had the feeling he didn't get many guests.

"That man," Frank began. "He saved so many. I don't even know how many wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. Boatload after boatload."

I nodded. I didn't see any reason to tell Frank about the rest of Vic's life. I figured he'd seen more than enough vice and squalor for one lifetime.

"What happened after that?" I asked. "After he rescued all those people?"

Frank looked at me. "You don't know?"

"I don't know," I said. I thought I knew, but I wasn't sure.

"I thought-" Frank said. "I thought you knew. I thought you were here to find out who did it. Like a murder mystery on the TV."

"Who did what?" I asked.

"Who shot him," Frank said. "That man was shot dead. Saw it with my own eyes. I thought you here to find out who shot him."

"I am," I said. "That's exactly it. I'm here to find out who shot Vic Willing."

I didn't tell him I had only just learned that myself.

Frank made us some tea-tea crystals mixed in bottled water-and he started from the beginning.

"It started with this woman, this fat lady. She gets off a boat-see, there was like this little kind of sh.o.r.eline where we was getting people off boats and sending the boats back out. So this lady gets off a boat. And she's crying, 'Claude, Claude, Claude.' And this guy-your guy-he says, 'Who's Claude? Who's Claude?' You know it's all dark, and it's just crazy out there. Just people all over the place. Just crazy. Like h.e.l.l. So this guy, your guy, he says, 'Who's Claude? Where'd you leave him?' I don't know where he came from, or how he got there. That, I can't tell you about. I mean, it was just chaos down there-dark, hot. People dropping like- "Anyway. So this lady, she says"-Frank imitated the woman's voice-"'My bird. My bird, I left him on the roof in his cage. My little bird, I gotta go back for him. He's my baby. They forced me into the f.u.c.king boat without my baby, but I ain't going anywhere without him. I'm not leavin' him.'

"And everyone else is just ignoring her. But that guy, he says, 'A bird? You left your bird?' And she says, 'Yeah, my bird. I had him for thirty years. I love him so much.' She's crying and wailing. She says, 'He needs me. He needs me. I can't leave him. I can't leave him like this.' So your guy, he gets in a boat-there's boats all over, washed up from wherever-and he goes and then he comes back with that bird, a little parrot, and two people too. And dogs, two or three dogs."

Frank stopped a minute and looked down.

"Some people," he went on, "they wouldn't take animals. They didn't mean-" He looked at the dog, as if he didn't want to discuss such things in front of her. "They just didn't understand. They thought they was doing the right thing. They didn't mean nothing by it. But some people, they wouldn't leave without their animals. And I can understand that. I really can. Some of 'em got help and some of them didn't. Some stayed with their animals and, you know. And I got to say, I understand that. Because when you love something, well. You know. But a lot of people just didn't get it.

"So that guy. He goes out, and every boat he comes back with two or three people and a whole bunch of animals. Dogs, cats, whatever. He's taking all the ones everybody else left behind. He bring one boatload back, he go right out and get another. He ain't eat nothing, hardly even drink any water. Like a f.u.c.king machine," Frank said. "Boatload after boatload.

"Then one trip, he come back, and he got on out of the boat. And I heard-well, I thought I heard a gunshot. I heard something, but I wasn't sure what it was. I looked around and I didn't see anything. But then he, your guy-he'd just got off the boat and he had this kid in his arms, this boy. And he kind of like-I thought at first the kid was too heavy, and he couldn't hold him up, you know. The kid kind of fell out of his arms and he kind of like stumbled and then-" Frank waved his hand in the air, imitating a man falling down.

"He just like crumpled right down," Frank said. "It all happened fast, like-" He snapped. "Like that. Of course, I knew what that was. I looked around and I seen a kid run off. Thug, long hair. Dreadlocks, kind of. White s.h.i.+rt, big pants. You know, like all of 'em wear. Didn't see his face. Didn't see much at all, you know, with the light. But one of the searchlights came down and I got a real good look for just, just about a split second. I didn't see his face, but I can tell you: thin, about five-seven, dark skin, hair like that, like all the thugs wear, tattoos. You know what they look like."

Frank shook his head. He looked angry, and confused.

"These kids. Shootin' each other over nothing, shooting everyone they see. I mean, when does it end? When does it stop? A man like that, like some kind of a hero-and just this week, that musician, that mother with her baby just over there, and, what, seven, eight more. Ten? I mean, I seen a lot of people die. I went from Iraq to New Orleans and then they called me back again. But something like that-something like that, it sticks with you, you know? But I'll testify, sign an affidavit, whatever. I'd like to see whoever did this pay. I really would."

Frank looked at me. I couldn't look at him.

"I don't know what's worse," I finally said.

"Out of what?" Frank said, confused.

"I don't know if it's worse to tell you the truth," I said. "Or keep lying to you."

Frank sat up and frowned.

"I'll take the truth," he said.

I told Frank the truth. I told him who killed Vic Willing, and why.

"You still willing to testify against him?" I asked when I was done.

Frank's face darkened, like a shadow had fallen across it.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm gonna have to think about that one."

I nodded. I hoped he wouldn't.

We sat and didn't look at each other.

"The thing about the truth," Frank said after a while. "It's never just what you want it to be, is it?"

"No," I said. "Doesn't seem that way."

Frank made us some more tea. We drank it and talked about how he was rebuilding his house: a little bit at a time, with lumber "borrowed" from houses nearby. For the first time I noticed that the walls, few as they were, were good old cypress, the joints fitted tight. The beams that I'd a.s.sumed to be leftovers were solid cypress too, and the floor was hard, finished heart pine.

"Gonna be some place," I said.

Frank nodded, and stopped frowning.

"It is," he said. "It really is."

"So," I said when we finished our tea. "Do you know what happened to Vic's-do you know what happened to his body?"

Frank looked away.

He nodded.

"The thing was," he said, "there was nowhere to put them. Not just him but a whole lot of people, gone" He meant dead. "Nowhere to put 'em. So one of the other rescue crews, these Indian guys, these black Indian guys-we gave him to them, we asked them to-"

He stopped and sighed and drank some tea.

"The Indians," he began again. "They put them in a boat and took them-well, I don't know where. They took them somewhere and, you know. Gave 'em, like, a burial. Each and every one, they promised me. Man I know from Central City. He's the Witch Doctor for the White Hawks. They know how to do it right. Put each one where they belong, someplace special. Like a burial at sea. They know chants, songs. How to do things right. And did something so, you know, they'd be okay. So they wouldn't keep floating back. So they'd just be gone. It wasn't for us," he rushed to add. "Not for us. For them. To do the right thing."

I nodded.

We were done. I tried to give Frank some money, but he wouldn't take it. I thanked him and then he thanked me in return.

"What for?" I said.

"For telling me the truth," he said. "I know it ain't easy."

He stopped and deepened his frown.

"People like you and me," he said. "We can take it. Not everyone can. But I'd rather have the truth, ugly as it is, over every beautiful lie in the world. Because I seen too many times where the lies end up. Here. There. And sometimes I think people like us, people like you and me-we holding on to it for everyone else. Holding on to it so when everyone is ready, it's there. And it ain't easy, holding on to it. Not with all the good-looking lies all over the place. Not with everyone goin' around with their have a nice day and thanks for calling and don't worry about the levees and all that. It ain't always easy."

"But it's worth it," I said.

"Yeah," Frank said. "It's worth it."

On the way out, before I got into my car, I saw a copy of De- tection poking out from under a bucket of plaster on what was left of the porch.

53.

BY THE TIME I'd finished with Ninth Ward Construction it was after seven. I called Mick. We met at a different Middle Eastern restaurant on Magazine Street for dinner.

I told him I'd solved the case. He wasn't too happy with my solution.

"That could have been anyone," he said. "That description could be one of a thousand boys."

"But it wasn't anyone," I said. "It wasn't a thousand boys. It was one person. You know that."

"I don't know anything," Mick said, scowling.

"There's a difference between not knowing," I said, "and not wanting to know."

Mick frowned. We finished our meal quietly. We were like people grabbing a bite to eat after a funeral. But it was something worse than a funeral for Mick. It wasn't someone he knew who had died. Everyone knows that's gonna happen someday. You prepare for it, even expect it.

But Mick had lost something he hadn't even known he had. He'd been counting on a happy ending. But there is no such thing. Nothing ever really ends. The fat lady never really sings her last song. She only changes costumes and goes on to the next show. It's just a matter of when you stop watching.

The hard part was waiting for the next show to start after everyone was lying on stage with their heads chopped off. But he'd make it.

"Promise me you won't do anything until tomorrow," Mick said when we left. "Just sleep on it. Think about it, okay? Promise me."

I promised.

Then I went and did something.

54.

I FOUND ANDRAY on his regular corner. The sun was just going down. He and some other boys were in various stages of lounging on the steps of the abandoned lavender Victorian behind them. A slow day in the world of low finance.

Andray came over to my truck. He had a tight, forced smile on his face. I rolled down the window and he stepped up and leaned inside.

"What up, lady," Andray said with his forced smile. "What you still doing here?"

"You did good," I said. "Really, really good."

He didn't say anything. He dropped the fake smile. From the look on his face I guessed he was hoping I was talking about something else.

He shook his head and turned, ready to run. I put my hand on my gun.

"Don't even think about it," I said. "You know I'll catch you. It's over."

"f.u.c.k," Andray said, twisting and turning as if he were fighting the very air around him. "f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k."

"You almost had me beat," I said. "First you drew the attention on you. You left your prints in Vic's house. Made sure I knew you knew him. Did everything you could to make me look at you and not the real killer."

Andray stopped twisting and turning and looked angry and didn't say anything.

"And that was," I said. "Wow. Kind of brilliant actually. Because who would think, huh? You were betting that there wouldn't be enough evidence to arrest. And this being New Orleans, even if you were arrested, you'd be out in, what, thirty days? This town can't convict a murder case with ten eyewitnesses. You sure didn't have to worry about leaving your fingerprints at the scene. It was just enough to distract everyone from the real killer.

"But then I showed up," I said. "And you didn't know people like me-people who actually solve mysteries-really exist, did you?"

Andray looked furious.

"You told everyone you knew not to talk to me," I went on. "You led me wrong every chance I gave you, and you weren't really out getting diapers that night, were you?"