“Yep. That one ol' formula 'bout to make him a rich man. He's talkin' about settin' up a Gator Gone Foundation that'll make funds available to poor folks been victims of gator and croc attacks who're in need of ongoin' medical treatment.”
Lula returned with the beer and handed it to Sailor, who drank half of it right away.
“Thanks, honey,” he said. “Sure build up a thirst overseein' that shippin' department. You know we're gonna build us our own warehouse in Gretna?”
Lula sat down on the zebra-striped hideaway.
“First I heard. Beany ain't said nothin' about it.”
“Yeah, the Algiers location can't hold us, and besides, makes more sense to own than rent.”
“Best thing we coulda done is settle here, Sail. New Orleans give us a whole bunch more opportunity than we ever coulda got back in North Carolina.”
Sailor took another swig of Dixie.
“Not the least of which is bein' a thousand miles away from your mama. We never woulda had a chance in Bay St. Clement, peanut. Not with Marietta on my case.”
“She's calmed down now, darlin', since she seen how swell a daddy you been to Pace. Also your workin' so hard for Bob Lee and everythin'.”
“Wouldn'ta made it this far is all I know.”
The telephone on the front hall table rang. Lula got up and answered it.
“Ripley home. Hi, Beany. Uh huh, Sail too. God don't make men the way He used to, like Mama says. Madonna Kim got over her cold yet? Uh huh. Suppose I might could. Lemme ask God's almost-best piece of work.”
Lula tucked the receiver into her breast and turned toward Sailor.
“Honey? Beany'd like me to 'comp'ny her to Raquel Lou Dinkins's house for about a hour? See her brand new baby, Farrah Sue. You-all be able to survive without me that long?”
Sailor tipped the bottle and drained the last bit of beer, then nodded.
“Hell, yes. Me'n Pace'll get us a pizza or somethin'. Where is that boy, anyway?”
“Went huntin' this mornin' with Coot Veal, your buddy married his mama.”
Lula put the phone back to her mouth and left ear.
“Want me to drive?” she asked Beany. “Uh huh. See ya in a minute.”
Lula hung up, picked up her purse and car keys from the table, went over to Sailor and kissed him again on the top of his head.
“Sweetheart, you know what?” she said.
“What's that?”
“You losin' some hair right about there.”
“Where?”
“Kinda in the middle toward the back.”
Sailor felt around on his head with the fingers of his right hand.
“I can't feel nothin' missin', Lula. Anyway, it can't be. Nobody in my fam'ly went bald. Not my daddy or his daddy or my mama's daddy.”
“None of 'em lived long enough to go bald, darlin'. Don't worry about it, just a small patch is all. I gotta go.”
Sailor jumped up and dropped the beer bottle on the floor.
“Goddammit, Lula! You just gonna run out and leave me after tellin' me I'm goin' bald?”
“Bye! Back soon!”
Sailor watched Lula go out the front door, heard her open and close the door of her new Toyota Cressida station wagon and start the engine. He went over to the hall mirror and leaned his head forward while attempting to look up into the glass, but he couldn't see the top of his head. He turned sideways, tilted his head toward the mirror and rolled his eyes all the way over, but that didn't work, either. The front door slammed and Pace came in.
“What you doin', Daddy?” he said. “And where's Mama goin'? What're you all twisted around for?”
Sailor bent forward toward the mirror again, angling off slightly to the right.
“Take a look, son. Am I losin' my hair?”
Pace stared at Sailor, then shook his head slowly.
“More likely you're losin' your mind, Daddy. We gettin' a pizza for supper?”
RATTLERS
The Rattler brothers, Smokey Joe and Lefty Grove, non-identical sixteen year old twins who were named by their daddy, Tyrus Raymond Rattler, after the two men his daddy, Pie Traynor Rattler, considered to have been the two best pitchers in major league history, tooled through Gulfport along Old Pass Christian Road in their Jimmy, trading swigs off a fifth of J. W. Dant. They were headed back to New Orleans from Biloxi, where they had gone to pay their respects to the memory of Jefferson Davis on his birthday. Smokey Joe and Lefty Grove had taken advantage of the school holiday to visit Beauvoir, the last home of the Confederate president. The federal holiday officially honored the birth of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., who happened to have been born on the same day as Jeff Davis, a convenience appreciated by the Rattlers.
Their mother, Mary Full-of-Grace, had been institutionalized for the past six years in Miss Napoleon's Paradise for the Lord's Disturbed Daughters in Oktibbeha County, Mississippi, and the Rattler boys had considered visiting her but decided the drive was too far for the short time they had. Besides, Lefty Grove reasoned, she wouldn't recognize them for who they were. The last time they'd gone up with their daddy, six months before, she'd called them the apostles James and John, sons of Zebedee. Sometime during the twins' seventh year, Mary-Full-of-Grace became convinced that she was in fact the Holy Virgin, mother of Jesus. She'd insisted that the people about her were not who they pretended to be and that every man she encountered desired to sleep with her. Tyrus Raymond took her to several doctors during the following two years, but her condition worsened, resulting finally in the diagnosis of a breakdown of a schizoid personality, with the recommendation that she be institutionalized as a hopeless case.
“What you think about Mama?” Lefty Grove asked Smokey Joe, who was behind the wheel.
“What you mean, what I think?” said Smokey Joe, reaching out his right hand for the bottle.
“Mean, you got a notion she ever gonna recover her mind?”
“Ain't 'xactly likely, how Daddy claims.”
Smokey Joe took a quick swallow of Dant and handed the fifth back to his brother.
“You finish it, Lef'. I be dam see the road.”
“Want me to drive? I feel good.”
“Feelin' good and drivin' good ain't the same. I'll handle her home.” Lefty Grove put his red and yellow L.A. Gear high tops up on the dashboard and sucked on the bottle.
“ 'Bout Ripley?” said Smokey Joe. “Figure to trust him?”
“You mean on the deal, or just keep his mouth shut?”
“Either.”
“Need a third, Smoke, you know? Pace a good boy.”
“Mama's boy, you mean.”
“Least he got him a almost sane one.”
Smokey Joe snorted. “What you mean, almost sane?”
“Like Daddy said when he come home after deliverin' Mama to Miss Napoleon's, âAin't one of the Lord's daughters got a firm grip on life.' He put a extra pint of fear in their blood, makes 'em more uneasy than men.”
“Daddy ain't naturally wrong.”
“Uh-uh,” said Lefty Grove. “He's a Rattler, by God.”
IN BED WITH THE RATTLERS
Pace stared out the window of his room at the maple tree in the backyard. A blue shape flashed from branch to branch. Pace raised his right hand, formed his fingers into a gun and pointed the barrel at the flitting patch of blue.
“Bam!” he said, bouncing the tip of his index finger off the glass. “You done bought the farm, Mister Jay.”
Pace lowered his hand and relaxed his fingers. He heard the downstairs telephone ring.
“Son!” Sailor shouted. “Phone for you!”
“Comin', Daddy!”
Pace stood up, pushed his feet into a pair of thongs, walked downstairs and picked up the telephone receiver from the hall table.
“Pace Ripley speakin'.”
“Hey, boy, how you?” said Lefty Grove Rattler. “What you been up to?”
“Oh, hi, Lefty. Nothin' special. Went duck huntin'.”
“Got you a few birds, huh?”
“Naw. Weren't a good day.”
“Been thinkin' 'bout what we discussed?”
“Haven't had time, tell the truth.”
“You still like the idea, though, don't ya? Better'n workin' at Popeye's.”
“Know that, Lefty Grove. I like it, sure. Mean I'm in, I suppose.”
“Knew we could count on you, Pace. Smokey Joe'll be glad to hear it.”
“Thought he don't like me.”
Lefty Grove laughed. “He don't like nobody much, even me. Ain't to worry.”
“I guess I won't, then.”
“There you go. Meet us at Nestor's Sandwich City on Magazine, tomorrow evenin' at six.”
“ 'Cross from Jim Russell's Record Shop?”
“Got it right and tight tonight, Pace Roscoe.”
“How you know my middle name's Roscoe?”
“Us Rattlers is straight from the gate to the plate, boy. Got to know who you're dealin' to, well as with. Abyssinia.”
Lefty Grove hung up and Pace stood in the hallway holding the phone to his left ear.
“You still on the line, son?” Sailor shouted from the kitchen.
Pace put the receiver back in the cradle.
“All through, Daddy.”
“Come on in, then,” said Sailor, “have a piece of your mama's pecan pie. You been lookin' skinny.”
Pace massaged the back of his neck with his right hand. His head ached and he needed a drink.
“Back in a minute, Daddy,” he said, and went out the front door.
Pace sat down on the bottom step and rested his head and arms on his knees. The Rattlers were dangerous, sly boys, all right, and now he was about to climb into bed with them. At first Pace had thought they were joking when they proposed that he join them in knocking off the shakedown drop in the Quarter. Lefty Grove explained to him how each Thursday afternoon at three o'clock the weekly protection money from the businesses in the French Quarter was delivered to an idle caboose on a sidetrack near the Bienville Wharf. The collection remained there, cared for by two men, until approximately three forty-five, when a private armored car came to fetch it. Pace was both scared and excited by the idea of committing a crime. Something inside him wouldn't allow Pace to resist the promise of the thrill.
A cousin of the Rattlers, Junior Broussard, had worked for Carmine “Poppy” Papavero, the Gulf Coast rackets boss, for four years until Junior's death a couple of months back. Junior's wife, Manuela, had shot him, Lefty Grove said, during an argument about Junior's friendship with a woman named Jaloux Marron, a hostess at one of Papavero's nightclubs. Until then Junior had been in charge of the protection haul. Lefty Grove and Smokey Joe had overheard their cousin talking about the setup with their daddy, Tyrus Raymond, and decided to snatch the cash if they could. Junior being out of the way made things easier, Lefty Grove explained, because they wouldn't have to kill their own cousin if they were forced to. Three guns were better than two, the Rattler
brothers figured, and Lefty Grove had tapped Pace to complete the trio. The deal was set to go down next Thursday. Today was Sunday. Pace had four days to make up his mind.
“What you doin' sittin' out here?” Sailor asked from behind the screen door.
Pace lifted his head. “Just thinkin', Daddy.” He stood up. “Guess I'm a little tired. Me and Coot got out early this morning'.”
“Well, come have some pie. Your mama'll be insulted we don't make a major dent in it.”
DOWN TIME
“Daddy?”
“Yes, son?”
“You never have talked much about the time you done in prison.”
Sailor sliced into his wedge of pecan pie with one side of his fork, scooped up the piece, delivered it to his mouth, chewed and swallowed. Pace sat across the table from him, holding a fork in his right hand, ignoring his own piece of pie.
“Not much to say, I guess, Pace. Jail time is down time far's I'm concerned. You don't come out any different than how you went in, 'cept older. That's if you come out at all.”
“How many times you been in, Daddy?”
“Twice.”
“Once for manslaughter and the other for armed robbery, that right?”
“Correct. Didn't mean for the first to happen. Just a bar fight with a slime-bucket named Bob Ray Lemon was botherin' your mama. I was nineteen years old and didn't know no better'n to knock the sorry son of a bitch cold. He didn't get up and they stuck me in a work camp up on the Pee Dee River for two years. I'd had me any kind of lawyer I wouldn'ta done a minute.”
“What happened the other time?”
Sailor put down his fork and shook his head.
“That was my mistake. Lucky I'm even here to talk about it. Your mama and me was tryin' to get to California from North Carolina, runnin' from your grandmama, Marietta, and her detective friend, Johnnie Farragut, who she'd signed on to track us down. Marietta didn't like the idea of her fine and only daughter takin' up with a ex-con such as myself. Lula met me at the gate the day I got my walkin' papers from Pee Dee, and we took off in her old white Bonneville convertible. Made it as far as West Texas when we about run out of funds. That's where I went over the line.”
Sailor stood up and walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, took out two bottles of Dixie beer, shut the door, came back over to the table,
handed one to Pace and sat back down. He popped his open and took a long swallow.
“How you mean âover the line,' Daddy?”