"Then he stretches his legs out and looks me in the eye like he's just taken my soul out of my chest with a pair of tweezers. So I say, 'Doc, you're one clever guy. But there're certain things you don't say to certain guys unless you've gotten your own ticket punched a couple of times. I've got the feeling you're short on dues. And when you're short on dues and you run off at the mouth with the wrong people, you ought to expect certa
in consequences. What that means is you get the shit stomped out of you.'"
Tony sat down on a beached cypress tree that was white with rot. The sand was littered with jellyfish that had been left behind by the tide. Their air sacs were pink and blue and translucent, their stingers coated with grit.
"So he stops smiling," Tony said. "In fact, his mouth is looking a little rubbery, like he just stopped sucking on a doorknob. I say, 'But don't sweat it, Doc, because I don't beat up on fruits. But if you ever talk to me like that again, or you talk to other shrinks about me, or you put any of this dog shit in your files, somebody's gonna pull you out of Lake Pontchartrain with some of your parts missing.'"
Tony breathed the salt wind through his nose, then popped the air sac of a jellyfish with the tip of his boot.
"Yeah, I guess that really solved your problem," I said.
"You cracking wise with me, Dave?"
"I just don't know what I can tell you. Or what you want from me."
"Tell me how come I don't get any relief."
"I never figured out all my own problems. I'm probably the wrong guy to talk to, Tony."
"You're the right guy."
"I think you want forgiveness. From somebody who counts. The psychiatrist didn't count because he hadn't paid any dues."
"Who's gonna hand out this forgiveness?"
"It'll have to come from somebody who's important to you. God, a priest, somebody whose experience you respect. Finally yourself, Tony. A psychiatrist with any brains would have told you that."
"A guy like me is going to a priest?" He grinned and scraped out long divots in the sand with his boot heel. In the quiet I could hear the hiss of the waves as they receded from the beach. Then he cocked his eye and looked up at me from under the brim of his safari hat. "Hey, don't be offended. You know stuff. You know more than any shrink."
"You inflate my value, Tony."
"No, I don't. You're an all-together, copacetic motherfucker, Robicheaux."
His head nodded up and down, one eye squinting at me as though he were fixing me inside telescopic sights.
"You've got the wrong man," I said.
That evening Tony and Paul and I ate supper by candlelight in his dining room. We had boiled early potatoes, string beans cooked with mushrooms, and lamb glazed with a sauce made from orange marmalade; the burgundy that Tony drank must have cost fifty dollars a bottle. The tablecloth was Irish linen; in the center was a crystal bowl of water filled with floating camellias. The dessert was a choice of chocolate mousse or French vanilla ice cream or both.
Later, while Tony and his son watched television, I strolled through the grounds behind the house in the twilight. The Saint Augustine grass was thick and stiff under my feet, the flower beds absolutely weedless, the dead banana leaves and palm fronds trimmed back daily so that everything in Tony's yard looked green and full of bloom, regardless of the season.
But what was life like for most people in New Orleans that year? I asked myself. Or what had become of the city itself in the last five years?
Even a tourist could answer those questions. The bottom had dropped out of the oil market and the economy was worse than it had been anytime since the Depression. Cardboard boxes and sacks of raw garbage sat on the sidewalks for days, humming with flies; derelicts and bag ladies rooted in trash cans on Canal for food. The homicide rate had reached an average of one murder a day. If your automobile was burglarized, or all its windows smashed out with bricks, you probably would not be able to get a policeman at the scene for an hour and a half. The St. Louis Cemetery off Basin, which had always been one of the city's most interesting tourist attractions, was now so dangerous that you could enter it only on a group tour conducted by an off-duty police officer. The welfare projects—the St. Bernard, the St. Thomas, the Iberville off Canal, or, the worst of them all, the Desire—were spread throughout the city, and within them was everything bad that human society could produce: rats, cockroaches, incest, rape, child molestation, narcotics, and sadistic street gangs. Black teenagers armed with nine-millimeter pistols and semiautomatic assault rifles made large profits trafficking in crack, and they would kill absolutely anyone who tried to stop them. A black leader in the Desire project announced publicly that he was going to run the drug dealers out of the neighborhood. Two days later he was gunned down by a pair of fifteen-year-old kids, and while he lay bleeding on the sidewalk they broke his ribs with a baseball bat.
I sat on a stone bench by Tony's clay tennis court and watched the twilight fade in the stillness. The western sky was the dull gray color of scraped bone. One of the gatemen turned on the flood lamps that were anchored in the oak trees along the outer walls, and the fish ponds, the birdbaths, the alabaster statues on the lawn, seemed to glow with a humid, electric aura as though the coming of the night had no application to Tony's world.
I could see him through the glassed-in sun porch, watching television with Paul, his face laughing at a joke told by a comedian. I wondered if Tony ever thought about life in New Orleans's welfare projects or that army of teenage crack addicts who cooked their brains for breakfast. I thought he probably did not.
I called Bootsie twice that evening. She wasn't home either time, but the next morning I was up early and caught her at six. Her voice was warm and full of sleep. "I've been trying to get hold of you," I said.
"I've been out of town."
"Where?"
"Over at Houston. At Baylor."
"At the hospital?"