Midnight In The Garden Of Good And Evil Part 5

"You're serious, aren't you?" said Joe. His laugh turned into a curious smile. He looked toward the bar, where Moon Tompkins was pouring vodka into a row of four tall gla.s.ses.

"Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned," he said. "I wouldn't have thought old Moon had it in him."

"How in h.e.l.l did you ever let him in here as bartender?" Darlene asked.

"Emma hired him. I guess he didn't put the bank job on his resume."

Darlene lit a cigarette. "I suppose you heard about the armed robbery at the Green Parrot restaurant last week?"

"Uh-huh."

"Moon did it."

"Oh, come on!" said Joe. "Are you sure about that?"

"Positive."

"But wait a minute," said Joe. "How could you know it was Moon? They haven't caught the robber yet."

"I know," said Darlene. "I drove the getaway car."

Joe had nothing against convicted bank robbers-or getaway drivers either-but he felt foolish entrusting his cash register to a dedicated thief. Moon was using the most rudimentary of all scams-making more drinks than he rang up-and when he did ring up drinks, he often propped the check on the cash register so it hid the numbers. "You can bet he's pus.h.i.+ng the No Sale b.u.t.ton whenever he does that," said Darlene, "and slipping twenty bucks in his pocket."

Joe decided that the wisest thing to do would be to catch Moon in the act, confront him quietly, and allow him to quit without a fuss. He would not tell Emma anything about it, because the idea that she had been in business with a bank robber might give her a heart attack. Joe asked two friends to come to the bar the following night and keep careful count of all the drinks Moon served. During the day, however, word leaked out that later that night Moon Tompkins would be caught with his hand in the till at Emma's, and by the time the bar opened a festive crowd was clamoring to get in and watch the sting unfold as if it were a sporting event.

"Good gracious, we're having a lively night," said Emma. Customers ordered drinks at a furious rate, hoping to encourage Moon to steal more than he had ever stolen before. The more drinks they ordered, the merrier the mood became, and by midnight it seemed that Emma and Moon were the only people in the bar who were unaware of the sting in progress.

The customers called out their orders: "Hey, Moon! Gimme a stinger! stinger! Ha-ha! What better drink for a sting than a stinger!" Ha-ha! What better drink for a sting than a stinger!"

"I'll have a Rob Rob Roy, Moon!" Roy, Moon!"

A half hour before closing, Moon took the trash barrel out to empty it in the dumpster and never came back. When Joe stepped behind the bar and opened the cash drawer, it was empty. Moon had cleaned it out.

Moon's disappearance did nothing to dampen spirits at Emma's. It only served to heighten the level of hilarity. At closing time, there was nothing Joe could do but tell Emma what had happened, that Moon had taken all the money and run.

"My goodness me!" said Emma. "Did he really?"

"I'm afraid so," said Joe. "And I guess it's a good thing we're rid of him, because it seems he's done this kind of thing before. He's a bank robber."

"Oh, I know all about that," said Emma.

"You knew?" knew?"

"Why, of course," she said. "Moon told me about it when he first came looking for a job. He didn't try to hide it, and I told him I admired him for that. I thought he deserved a second chance in life. I think everybody does. Don't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Joe.

Emma got into her car and then pulled out onto Bay Street, headed for Statesboro.

As was his custom at this hour of the morning, Joe led a few friends back to his house, where, according to the fire captain's report later in the day, someone dropped a lighted cigarette into a wastebasket shortly before dawn and caused the fire that nearly gutted the house.

Joe was the first to smell the smoke. He ran through the house rousing people from beds and sofas and herding them into the street.

"Is everyone out?" the fire captain asked.

"Everyone I know about," said Joe.

"You mean there might be people in your house you don't know about?"

"Captain," said Joe, "there have been times when there were people in my bed bed I didn't know about." I didn't know about."

It was widely a.s.sumed that Joe Odom had set his house on fire to collect the insurance money, even though he no longer owned the house. Joe's landlords asked him to vacate the premises at once, not so much because of the fire but because Joe had never paid them any rent. A week later, Joe took what furnis.h.i.+ngs he could salvage and moved into a large Federal-style brick townhouse at 101 East Oglethorpe Avenue, a few blocks away. His new next-door neighbors were Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Bell. Mr. Bell was the retired chairman of the Savannah Bank, former president of the venerable Oglethorpe Club, and a respected historian. Mrs. Bell was an intellectual and a member of a distinguished Savannah family. In view of his august new neighbors, Joe's friends antic.i.p.ated that life at his new home might perforce be a bit more modulated than it had been at 16 East Jones Street.

And perhaps it was. But before long, neighbors began to notice that visitors were pa.s.sing through the unlocked front door of 101 East Oglethorpe Avenue in a steady stream, that tour buses were pulling up in front at noontime, and that pleasant piano melodies could be heard spilling out of the house day or night but especially at times when the city was otherwise utterly still.

Chapter 7.

THE GRAND EMPRESS OF SAVANNAH.

An unnatural calm descended over Jones Street after Joe Odom's move to Oglethorpe Avenue. No longer could Joe's sweet serenade be heard floating over the garden walls. In the stillness, it occurred to me that it was time to buy a car. I wanted to see more of the environs of Savannah, but I proceeded carefully in the matter of wheels.

Savannahians drove fast. They also liked to carry their c.o.c.ktails with them when they drove. According to the National Inst.i.tute of Alcoholism and Alcohol Abuse, more than 8 percent of Savannah's adults were "known alcoholics," which may have accounted for the disturbing tendency of motorists to run up over the curb and collide with trees. The trunks of all but one of the twenty-seven oaks that lined the edge of Forsyth Park on Whitaker Street, for instance, had deep scars at fender level. One tree had been hit so many times it had a sizable hollow scooped out of its trunk. The hollow was filled with pea-size crystals of headlight gla.s.s that glittered like a bowl of diamonds. The palm trees in the center of Victory Drive had the same sort of scars, and so did the oaks on Abercorn.

I had never owned a car. Living in New York I hadn't needed one, but the idea appealed to me now. If I was going to drive a car in this environment, though, it would have to be a very big and heavy one. It would probably have fins.

"I'm in the market for an old car," I said to Joe. "Something big and roomy. Nothing fancy."

An hour later we stood looking at a 1973 Pontiac Grand Prix. Its metallic-gold body was dented and flecked with rust. The winds.h.i.+eld was cracked, the vinyl roof was peeling, the hubcaps were missing, and the engine was well into its second hundred thousand miles. But it ran well enough and it was big. It did not have fins, but its hood was so long it looked like the foredeck of an ocean liner. The man was asking $800.

"It's perfect," I said. "I'll take it."

Now I was completely mobile. I drove south of Gaston Street (breaking Joe's second rule). I took excursions into South Carolina. I sailed past the trees with the scars on them and shared the road with drivers who sipped from traveler cups and lurched from lane to lane. I felt perfectly safe in my rolling metal fortress, rusted and dented as it was. Nothing and no one could get to me, and nothing and no one did-with one very notable exception. Her name was Chablis.

When I first laid eyes on her, Chablis was standing by the curb, watching me intently as I parked my car. She had just come out of Dr. Myra Bishop's office across the street from where I lived. Dr. Bishop was a family pract.i.tioner. Most of her patients were conservatively dressed black women. Those whose gaze happened to meet mine usually nodded solemnly and moved on. But not Chablis.

She was wearing a loose white cotton blouse, jeans, and white tennis sneakers. Her hair was short, and her skin was a smooth milk chocolate. Her eyes were large and expressive, all the more so because they were staring straight into mine. She had both hands on her hips and a sa.s.sy half-smile on her face as if she had been waiting for me. I drew up to the curb and rolled to a stop at her feet.

"Ooooo, child!" child!" she said. "You are right on time, honey." Her voice crackled, her hoop earrings jangled. "I am she said. "You are right on time, honey." Her voice crackled, her hoop earrings jangled. "I am serious. serious. I cannot I cannot tell tell you." She began moving slowly toward me with an undulating walk. She trailed an index finger sensuously along the fender, feeling the hollow of each and every dent. "Y-e-e-e-s, child! you." She began moving slowly toward me with an undulating walk. She trailed an index finger sensuously along the fender, feeling the hollow of each and every dent. "Y-e-e-e-s, child! Yayyiss Yayyiss ... ... yayyiss yayyiss ... yayyiss!" She walked on past me and continued all the way around the car, inspecting its condition and laughing. When she got back around to me, she leaned in the window. "Tell me somethin', honey," she said. "How come a white boy like you is drivin' a old, broken-down, jivea.s.s bruthuh's heap like this? If you don't mind me askin'." ... yayyiss!" She walked on past me and continued all the way around the car, inspecting its condition and laughing. When she got back around to me, she leaned in the window. "Tell me somethin', honey," she said. "How come a white boy like you is drivin' a old, broken-down, jivea.s.s bruthuh's heap like this? If you don't mind me askin'."

"It's my first car," I said.

"Oh! I hope I didn't hurt your feelings. If I did, I'm sorry. I truly am. I did not mean to do that. I just call it out, baby. Whatever way I see it, I just call it out."

"No, that's okay," I said. "I'm just practicing my driving skills before I go out and buy a Rolls-Royce."

"Aw right right, honey, I can dig it! You are traveling in disguise, baby, you are incognito. Yes, I can dig that, child. I surely can. And you know, honey, when you drive a car like this, you don't get n.o.body f.u.c.kin' with it. Ain't no stereo for n.o.body to rip off. Ain't no fine paint job for n.o.body to scratch up with no key, honey."

"That's true too," I said, opening the door to get out.

"Oh, child, don't you be doin' that!" she said. "Don't you be haulin' a.s.s with me standin' out here like this!"

"But I live here," I said.

"That's okay, baby. You can practice your driving skills some more on the way to takin' me home. Okay? 'Cause Miss Myra's shots is gettin' ready to kick in, honey. I can feel 'em. I am serious. And these feet are about wore out."

There seemed to be no doubt in the young woman's mind that I would take her home. I mumbled something on the order of "Well, sure," but it was unnecessary because she was already getting into the car when I did.

"I live downtown by Crawford Square," she said. "It won't take but a few minutes." She settled into the seat and looked at me. "Ooooo, child, you are some kinda handsome! If my boyfriend wasn't living with me I would hit on you for sure. I am serious. I like my white boys, and that's what I have plenty of waiting for me at home, thank goodness. My boyfriend is blond and beautiful. Hunk for days, honey. He satisfies my every need."

We pulled away from the curb.

"I'm Chablis," she said.

"Chablis? That's pretty," I said. "What's your full name?"

"The Lady Lady Chablis," she said. She turned sideways in the seat, pulling her knees up and leaning back against the door as if she were sinking into a luxurious sofa. "It's a stage name," she said. "I'm a showgirl." Chablis," she said. She turned sideways in the seat, pulling her knees up and leaning back against the door as if she were sinking into a luxurious sofa. "It's a stage name," she said. "I'm a showgirl."

She was beautiful, seductively beautiful in a streetwise way. Her big eyes sparkled. Her skin glowed. A broken incisor tooth punctuated her smile and gave her a naughty look.

"I dance, I do lip sync, and I emcee," she said. "s.h.i.+t like that. My mama got the name Chablis off a wine bottle. She didn't think it up for me though. It was supposed to be for my sister. Mama got pregnant when I was sixteen, and she wanted a little girl. She was gonna name her La Quinta Chablis, but then she had a miscarriage, and I said, 'Ooooo, Chablis. Chablis. That's nice. I like that name.' And Mama said, 'Then take it, baby. Just call yourself Chablis from now on.' So ever since then, I've been Chablis." That's nice. I like that name.' And Mama said, 'Then take it, baby. Just call yourself Chablis from now on.' So ever since then, I've been Chablis."

"A cool white wine for a cool black girl," I said.

"Y-e-e-e-s, child!"

"What was your name before that?" I asked.

"Frank," she said.

We had stopped for the light at Liberty Street. I looked at Cha-blis again, very carefully this time. She had a small, feminine frame and delicate hands and arms. She carried herself like a woman; there was nothing masculine about her. Her big dark eyes were watching me.

"I told you I could dig bein' in disguise," she said. "I'm in disguise twenty-four hours a day. I am incognito."

"So you're really ... a man," I said.

"No-no-no," she said. "Don't you be callin' me no man! Uh-uh, honey. Y'mama worked too hard to grow her t.i.tties. She ain't no man." Chablis unb.u.t.toned her blouse and proudly revealed a medium-size, perfectly shaped breast.

"This is real, honey, it ain't silicone. It's what Dr. Bishop's shots do for me. Miss Myra gives me estrogen shots, female hormones, every two weeks. And in between, I take estrogen pills. They give me b.r.e.a.s.t.s and soften my voice. They slow down the growth of hair on my face. They make my body smooth all over." Chablis slid her hand from her breast down to her lap. "And my candy shrinks, honey, but I still have it. I ain't havin' no operation, child. I ain't studyin' that."

We were now crossing Liberty Street. Chablis's blouse was still wide open, exposing her breast not only to me but to half a dozen pedestrians. I had no idea how far she intended to go, but I feared the worst. I kept one eye on the traffic, the other on her. The back of my neck began to feel warm. "You don't have to show me your candy," I said. "Not here, I mean. I mean, not now. Or ever."

Chablis laughed. "Oh, I'm embarra.s.sin' you. I'm makin' you all nervous."

"No, not really," I said.

"Child, don't lie to me. Your face is turnin' ray rayyid." She began to b.u.t.ton up her blouse. "But don't worry, I ain't no stripper. At least now I know you ain't gonna be callin' me no man."

We pulled into Crawford Square, one of the two squares in Savannah that fell within the black section of town. Of the city's twenty-one squares, it was one of the smallest and most picturesque. It was surrounded by humble wooden buildings. In its center, instead of a monument or a fountain, there was a small playground. A huge, gnarled live oak spread its branches over a small basketball court where several boys were playing. Chablis pointed to a neatly restored four-story wooden house on the far side of the square.

"Y-e-e-e-s, child," she said. "Miss Myra's shots are startin' to do their thing. I'm feelin' that boost of energy. I'm gettin' that surge of femininity. Got to go and be with my boyfriend, now, 'Cause in a couple of hours I'm gonna feel like the b.i.t.c.h of all time. That always happens too. I get to feelin' like the last b.i.t.c.h on earth, and until that pa.s.ses I cannot stand to be touched."

Chablis stepped out of the car. "Thank you for bein' my chauffeur and everything," she said.

"My pleasure," I said.

"You should come and see the show sometime. I put my face on, and I get into my gowns."

"I'd like to see that."

"'Cause, right now, y'see, I'm just little old Chablis. Just a simple girl. But when I get it together, I turn into The Lady The Lady Cha-blis. And I'm good, child, real good! I'm a beauty queen, you know. I been crowned in four beauty pageants. I've got t.i.tles. Lots of 'em. Right now you are lookin' at the Grand Empress of Savannah! That's who you had in your car today." Cha-blis. And I'm good, child, real good! I'm a beauty queen, you know. I been crowned in four beauty pageants. I've got t.i.tles. Lots of 'em. Right now you are lookin' at the Grand Empress of Savannah! That's who you had in your car today."

"Well, I'm honored," I said.

"Miss Gay Georgia, too, I won that one also. And Miss Gay Dixieland and Miss Gay World. I've been all of them, honey. I am serious, child." The Grand Empress turned and ascended the steps of her house. As she did, she put an extra measure of swing in her hips, an extra bounce in her stride.

It was not until I was halfway home that I realized Chablis had forgotten to tell me where it was she performed her act. If I had put the slightest effort into it, I could have found out. In a town the size of Savannah, there could not have been more than a couple of nightspots that featured drag shows. But I let it go. Not that Chablis didn't fascinate me; she haunted me. And she was definitely a she, not a he. I felt no tendency to stumble selfconsciously over p.r.o.nouns in her case. She had removed any trace of masculinity, and in that s.e.xual limbo of hers she was a disturbing presence, one that challenged all the natural responses. A few weeks later, the telephone rang midmorning.

"Ooooo, child, I am some kinda mad at you! You ain't come to see my show!"

"Is this Chablis?" I said.

"Yes, honey! I just been to Miss Myra for my feminine booster shot."

"Would you like a ride home?" I asked.

"Well, yay yayyiss. I guess I done trained you right."

I came downstairs and we got into the car. "I would have come to see you," I said, "but you didn't tell me where you did your show."

"I didn't?" she said. "I'm at the Pickup, honey. That's a gay bar on Congress Street. Three nights a week. Me and three other girls. You may not be into drag shows, but you'll never know the real Chablis till you see me shake my b.u.t.t and run my mouth up on that stage. And the way things are goin', you ain't gonna get the chance if you wait much longer."

"Why not?" I asked.

"'Cause I'm fixin' to read my boss, and I might even do it during the show tonight. I always say whatever comes into my head, and I never know who or what it's gonna be about. Anyhow, my boss ain't on the top of my list right now. Him and me is about to have words."

"On the subject of what?" I asked.

"Money. My salary's two hundred and fifty dollars a week, but I ain't complainin' about that, 'Cause it's for only three nights' work, and with tips it gives me just enough to live on. But I'm the only one that gets a regular salary. The other girls get twelve dollars and fifty cents a show, and that's d.a.m.n pitiful. Last week, two shows had to be canceled when the D.J. didn't show up, and we were standing there with our faces all made up and our gowns zipped, and the boss didn't give those girls a dime. Oh, child, he's gonna hear from me!"