checks 'cause we cannery workers, and 'cause the
cannery ain't open, we ain't available to work.
"I went on down to see Mr. Terrebonne, but I never got past
Harpo Delahoussey. He's sitting there at a big desk wit' his foot in
the wastebasket, sticking a po'boy sandwich in his mout'. He go, 'It's
been explained to you, Willie. Now, you don't want wait round here till
next season, you go on down to New Orleans, get you a job, try to stay
out of trouble for a while. But don't you come round here bothering Mr.
Terrebonne. He been good to y'all.'
"'Bout a week later they was a big fire at the cannery. You
could smell sweet potatoes burning all the way down to Morgan City.
Harpo Delahoussey jumped out a second-story window wit' his clothes on
fire. He'da died if he hadn't landed in a mud puddle."
"You set it?"
"Harpo Delahoussey had a nephew wit' his name. He use to be a
city po-liceman in Franklin. Everybody called him Li'l Harpo."
"You think this is one of the peckerwoods?"
"Why else I'm telling you all this? Look, I ain't running no
more."
"I think you're living inside your head too much, Breeze. The
Giacanos use mechanics out of Miami or Houston."
"Jimmy Fig tole me I was a dumb nigger ought to be pimping and
selling crack. What you saying ain't no different. I feel bad I come
here."
He got up and walked down the dock toward his truck. He passed
two white fishermen who were just arriving, their rods and tackle boxes
gripped solidly in their hands. They walked around him, then glanced
over their shoulders at his back.
"That boy looks like his old lady just cut him off," one of
them said to me, grinning.
"We're not open yet," I said, and went inside the bait shop
and latched the screen behind me.
----
EIGHT
YOU READ THE JACKET ON a man like
Swede Boxleiter and dismiss
him as one of those genetically defective creatures for whom
psychologists don't have explanations and let it go at that.
Then he does or says something that doesn't fit the pattern,
and you go home from work with boards in your head.
Early Monday morning I called Cisco Flynn's home number and
got his answering service. An hour later he returned my call.
"Why do you want Swede's address? Leave him alone," he said.
"He's blackmailing you, isn't he?"
"I remember now. You fought Golden Gloves. Too many shots to
the head, Dave."
"Maybe Helen Soileau and I should drop by the set again and
talk to him there."
BOXLEITER LIVED IN A triplex built of
green cinder blocks
outside St. Martinville. When I turned into his drive he was throwing a
golf ball against the cement steps on the side of the building,
ricocheting it off two surfaces before he retrieved it out of the air
again, his hand as fast as a snake's head,
click-click,
click-click, click-click
. He wore blue Everlast boxing
trunks and a gauzy see-through black shirt and white high-top gym shoes
and leather gloves without fingers and a white bill cap that covered
his shaved and stitched head like an inverted cook pan. He glanced at
me over his shoulder, then began throwing the ball again.
"The Man," he said. The back yard had no grass and lay in deep
shade, and beyond the tree trunks the bayou shimmered in the sunlight.
"I thought we'd hear from you," I said.
"How's that?"
"Civil suit, brutality charges, that kind of stuff."
"Can't ever tell."
"Give the golf game a break a minute, will you?"
His eyes smiled at nothing, then he flipped the ball out into
the yard and waited, his sunken cheeks and small mouth like those of a
curious fish.
"I couldn't figure the hold you had on Cisco," I said. "But
it's that photo that began Megan's career, the one of the black man
getting nailed in the storm drain, isn't it? You told the cops where he
was coming out. Her big break was based on a fraud that cost a guy his
life."
He cleaned an ear with his little finger, his eyes as empty of
thought as glass.
"Cisco is my friend. I wouldn't hurt him for any reason in the
world. Somebody try to hurt him, I'll
cannery ain't open, we ain't available to work.
"I went on down to see Mr. Terrebonne, but I never got past
Harpo Delahoussey. He's sitting there at a big desk wit' his foot in
the wastebasket, sticking a po'boy sandwich in his mout'. He go, 'It's
been explained to you, Willie. Now, you don't want wait round here till
next season, you go on down to New Orleans, get you a job, try to stay
out of trouble for a while. But don't you come round here bothering Mr.
Terrebonne. He been good to y'all.'
"'Bout a week later they was a big fire at the cannery. You
could smell sweet potatoes burning all the way down to Morgan City.
Harpo Delahoussey jumped out a second-story window wit' his clothes on
fire. He'da died if he hadn't landed in a mud puddle."
"You set it?"
"Harpo Delahoussey had a nephew wit' his name. He use to be a
city po-liceman in Franklin. Everybody called him Li'l Harpo."
"You think this is one of the peckerwoods?"
"Why else I'm telling you all this? Look, I ain't running no
more."
"I think you're living inside your head too much, Breeze. The
Giacanos use mechanics out of Miami or Houston."
"Jimmy Fig tole me I was a dumb nigger ought to be pimping and
selling crack. What you saying ain't no different. I feel bad I come
here."
He got up and walked down the dock toward his truck. He passed
two white fishermen who were just arriving, their rods and tackle boxes
gripped solidly in their hands. They walked around him, then glanced
over their shoulders at his back.
"That boy looks like his old lady just cut him off," one of
them said to me, grinning.
"We're not open yet," I said, and went inside the bait shop
and latched the screen behind me.
----
EIGHT
YOU READ THE JACKET ON a man like
Swede Boxleiter and dismiss
him as one of those genetically defective creatures for whom
psychologists don't have explanations and let it go at that.
Then he does or says something that doesn't fit the pattern,
and you go home from work with boards in your head.
Early Monday morning I called Cisco Flynn's home number and
got his answering service. An hour later he returned my call.
"Why do you want Swede's address? Leave him alone," he said.
"He's blackmailing you, isn't he?"
"I remember now. You fought Golden Gloves. Too many shots to
the head, Dave."
"Maybe Helen Soileau and I should drop by the set again and
talk to him there."
BOXLEITER LIVED IN A triplex built of
green cinder blocks
outside St. Martinville. When I turned into his drive he was throwing a
golf ball against the cement steps on the side of the building,
ricocheting it off two surfaces before he retrieved it out of the air
again, his hand as fast as a snake's head,
click-click,
click-click, click-click
. He wore blue Everlast boxing
trunks and a gauzy see-through black shirt and white high-top gym shoes
and leather gloves without fingers and a white bill cap that covered
his shaved and stitched head like an inverted cook pan. He glanced at
me over his shoulder, then began throwing the ball again.
"The Man," he said. The back yard had no grass and lay in deep
shade, and beyond the tree trunks the bayou shimmered in the sunlight.
"I thought we'd hear from you," I said.
"How's that?"
"Civil suit, brutality charges, that kind of stuff."
"Can't ever tell."
"Give the golf game a break a minute, will you?"
His eyes smiled at nothing, then he flipped the ball out into
the yard and waited, his sunken cheeks and small mouth like those of a
curious fish.
"I couldn't figure the hold you had on Cisco," I said. "But
it's that photo that began Megan's career, the one of the black man
getting nailed in the storm drain, isn't it? You told the cops where he
was coming out. Her big break was based on a fraud that cost a guy his
life."
He cleaned an ear with his little finger, his eyes as empty of
thought as glass.
"Cisco is my friend. I wouldn't hurt him for any reason in the
world. Somebody try to hurt him, I'll
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