years passed and I would not see her again until I came home from the war. In the meantime I committed myself totally to charcoal-filtered bourbon in a four-inch glass, with a sweating Jax on the side, and finally I didn’t care about anything.
Now she lived on Camp Street in the Garden District. Her married name was Giacano, the same as that of the most notorious Mafia family in New Orleans. I told myself that I should put her note away and save it for another time, when I could afford a futile pursuit of the past. But I seldom listen to my own advice, and that evening I rode the old iron streetcar down St. Charles under the long canopy of spreading oaks, past yards filled with camellias and magnolia trees, sidewalks cracked by oak roots, without having called first, and found myself on Camp in front of a narrow two-story white-painted brick home with twin chimneys, a gallery, and garden walls that enclosed huge clumps of banana trees and dripped with purple bugle vine.
She answered the door in a one-piece orange bathing suit and an open terry cloth robe, and explained with a flush that she had been dipping leaves out of the pool in the back. Her Cajun accent had been softened by the years in New Orleans, and she was heavier now, wider in the hips, larger in the breasts, thicker across the thighs. She brushed the gray straight up in her honey-colored hair, so that it looked as though it had been powdered there. But Bootsie was still good to look at. Her skin was smooth and still tanned from the summer, her hair cut short like a girl’s and etched on the neck with a razor. Her smile was as genuine and happy as it had been thirty years before.
We walked through her house and onto the patio and sat at a glass-topped table by the pool. She brought out a tray of coffee and milk and pecan pie. The water in the pool was dark and glazed with the evening light, and small islands of oak leaves floated against the tile sides. She had been widowed twice, she told me. Her first husband, an oil-field helicopter pilot, had flown a crew out to a rig south of Morgan City, then hit a guy wire and crashed right on top of the quarter boat. Five years later she had met her second husband, Ralph Giacano, in Biloxi.
“Have you ever heard of him?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, and tried to keep my eyes veiled.
“He told me he had a degree in accounting and owned half of a vending machine company. He didn’t have a degree, but he did own part of a company,” she said.
I tried to look pleasant and show no recognition.
“I found out some of the other things he was involved in after we were married,” she said. “Last year somebody killed him and his girlfriend in the parking lot of the Hialeah racetrack. Poor Ralph. He always said the Colombians wouldn’t bother him, he was just a small-business man.”
“I’m sorry, Bootsie.”
“Don’t be. I spent two years feeling sorry for Ralph while he mortgaged this house, which was mine from my first marriage, and spent the money in Miami and Las Vegas. So now I own his half of the vending machine business. You know who owns the other half?”
“The Giacanos were always a tight family.”
“I guess I can’t surprise you with very much.”
“Ralph’s uncle was a guy named Didi Gee. He’s dead now, but three years ago he hired a contract killer to shoot my brother. Jimmie’s doing okay now, but for a while I thought I was going to lose him.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Maybe it’s time to get away from your in-laws.”
“When you sell to the Giacanos, it’s twenty cents on the dollar, Dave. Nobody else is lining up to buy into their business, either.”
“Get away from them, Bootsie.”
Her eyes glanced into mine. There was a curious bead of light in them.
“I don’t understand this,” she said.
“What?”
“You’re telling me to get away from them. Then I’m hearing this strange story about you.”
I looked away from her.
“You hear a lot of bullshit in
Now she lived on Camp Street in the Garden District. Her married name was Giacano, the same as that of the most notorious Mafia family in New Orleans. I told myself that I should put her note away and save it for another time, when I could afford a futile pursuit of the past. But I seldom listen to my own advice, and that evening I rode the old iron streetcar down St. Charles under the long canopy of spreading oaks, past yards filled with camellias and magnolia trees, sidewalks cracked by oak roots, without having called first, and found myself on Camp in front of a narrow two-story white-painted brick home with twin chimneys, a gallery, and garden walls that enclosed huge clumps of banana trees and dripped with purple bugle vine.
She answered the door in a one-piece orange bathing suit and an open terry cloth robe, and explained with a flush that she had been dipping leaves out of the pool in the back. Her Cajun accent had been softened by the years in New Orleans, and she was heavier now, wider in the hips, larger in the breasts, thicker across the thighs. She brushed the gray straight up in her honey-colored hair, so that it looked as though it had been powdered there. But Bootsie was still good to look at. Her skin was smooth and still tanned from the summer, her hair cut short like a girl’s and etched on the neck with a razor. Her smile was as genuine and happy as it had been thirty years before.
We walked through her house and onto the patio and sat at a glass-topped table by the pool. She brought out a tray of coffee and milk and pecan pie. The water in the pool was dark and glazed with the evening light, and small islands of oak leaves floated against the tile sides. She had been widowed twice, she told me. Her first husband, an oil-field helicopter pilot, had flown a crew out to a rig south of Morgan City, then hit a guy wire and crashed right on top of the quarter boat. Five years later she had met her second husband, Ralph Giacano, in Biloxi.
“Have you ever heard of him?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, and tried to keep my eyes veiled.
“He told me he had a degree in accounting and owned half of a vending machine company. He didn’t have a degree, but he did own part of a company,” she said.
I tried to look pleasant and show no recognition.
“I found out some of the other things he was involved in after we were married,” she said. “Last year somebody killed him and his girlfriend in the parking lot of the Hialeah racetrack. Poor Ralph. He always said the Colombians wouldn’t bother him, he was just a small-business man.”
“I’m sorry, Bootsie.”
“Don’t be. I spent two years feeling sorry for Ralph while he mortgaged this house, which was mine from my first marriage, and spent the money in Miami and Las Vegas. So now I own his half of the vending machine business. You know who owns the other half?”
“The Giacanos were always a tight family.”
“I guess I can’t surprise you with very much.”
“Ralph’s uncle was a guy named Didi Gee. He’s dead now, but three years ago he hired a contract killer to shoot my brother. Jimmie’s doing okay now, but for a while I thought I was going to lose him.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Maybe it’s time to get away from your in-laws.”
“When you sell to the Giacanos, it’s twenty cents on the dollar, Dave. Nobody else is lining up to buy into their business, either.”
“Get away from them, Bootsie.”
Her eyes glanced into mine. There was a curious bead of light in them.
“I don’t understand this,” she said.
“What?”
“You’re telling me to get away from them. Then I’m hearing this strange story about you.”
I looked away from her.
“You hear a lot of bullshit in
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