My palm tightened around the receiver. “What I need is the letter.”
“Well, come over here in a nice pair of heels, and I’ll give you the letter,” he said. I heard a creak and a tap. I saw him leaning back in his red leather chair, putting his feet on the bureau in front of all the framed pictures.
“Give me the letter, and I’ll make you a martini,” I countered.
“Nope.” He chuckled. Maybe he really was drunk. If so, I needed to take advantage of it.
“Be here at six thirty,” he said.
“Three thirty.”
“Six,” he said. “Bye-bye, Josephine.”
It was a game to him. Just a little game. It was silly, really.
Then why did I have such a sick feeling inside?
TWENTY-SEVEN
Next to my dull exterior, it appeared newer than a new pair of shoes. The gold was so shiny it looked ridiculous on me. She’d had the watch engraved on the back: Jo is 18.—Willie.
With all that was going on around Mardi Gras, she still remembered my birthday. And I was keeping something from her, breaking what was most important to Willie—trust. I was relieved to see Cokie’s cab pull up to the curb outside the bookstore. He walked through the door carrying a cardboard box and started singing and dancing.
“I’d rather drink muddy water than let you jive on me. Josie girl, it’s your birthday, so don’t you jive on me.”
A birthday serenade from Cokie was tradition. It still made me blush.
“I don’t think Smiley Lewis would appreciate you turning his song into a birthday tune,” I said.
“What you talking about? Smiley would be honored. He’s gonna record that song one day. I’ll tell him to play it that way just for you tonight. Happy birthday, Josie girl.” Cokie smiled from ear to ear.
“Before I forget”—I slid the envelope across the counter—“Willie wants you to drop this off at the Pontchartrain.”
“All right, then. Now that we got business behind us, let’s talk about the business of your birthday. I see you got Willie’s gift. But who wants a big ol’ mess a gold when you can have this?” Cokie set the floppy box on the counter in front of me.
I loved Cokie’s birthday gifts almost as much as I loved Cokie. Never fancy, but always meaningful. And he always claimed it was a puppy.
“Now, be careful when you open it so he don’t jump out,” warned Cokie.
“You’ve fed him already, though, right?” I asked.
“Sure did. I fed him early this mornin’.”
I pulled back the flaps and peeked in the box. An aluminum thermos with a red plastic top. A map.
Cokie bounced with excitement. “That’s brand-new from Sears. The ad says it’ll keep your drink hot for near a whole day. You can even put soup in it, it says. But you’ll need to put coffee in it.”
“I will?”
“Sure you will. How you gonna make it over thirty hours with no coffee?”
“Thirty hours?”
Cokie put the box on the floor and brought out the map. “I got it all figured out. Even talked to Cornbread, and he confirmed the route.” He spread the map out on the counter in front of us. “See, we here.” He pointed to New Orleans on the map. “Now, follow me.” His dusky finger traced along a line he had drawn with a red pen. “First you’ll go through Mississippi, then Alabama, then on up through Georgia.”
My eyes jumped ahead. The red ink ended abruptly in Connecticut. “Cokie, you did this?”
“Me and Cornbread. He knows the routes from truckin’. I got the idea from Willie. Sometimes when I’m drivin’, she talks. She ain’t even talkin’ to me, she’s just talkin’, like thinkin’ out loud. Well, she was hotter than blue blazes because you told her you want to go to some fancy college out East. She go on, sayin’ you’re too salty for those schools, and I said, ‘Why not? Maybe those schools need a little spice. They’d be lucky to have Josie girl.’ Ooh, she got mad and said gettin’ into those schools is political and you ain’t got the politics to get in and so on. But you know what? I think you can do it. My only worry is how you’ll get up there. So I talked to Cornbread. He said I could try to take you in the taxi, or maybe he could find you a rig route and you could ride up with a trucker. And then we charted it out. But I wasn’t sure which school you gonna pick—’cuz they all gonna want you—so we stopped the trail in Connecticut. Over fifteen hundred miles. That’s some long road.” He patted the top of the thermos. “So you’ll need coffee.”
He smiled wide. He was so certain, his belief so absolute.
“Josie girl.” The smile faded from his voice. “Why you cryin’?”
I shook my head, unable to speak. I reached for the thermos and cradled it against my chest. Tears rolled down my face.
“Aw, you shouldn’t be cryin’ on your birthday.” He pointed to the map. “Where is it?” he asked softly.
“It’s Smith College in Northampton. Near Boston.”
“All right, then.” He pulled the red pen from his pocket and continued the trail from Connecticut into Massachusetts. “Boston. There.” He looked at me. “Why you frettin’, Jo? You not sure?”
I inhaled my tears in order to speak. “I’m sure I want to go, but I’m not sure it’s possible. Why would they accept me? And if they did, how would I pay for it? I don’t want to get my hopes up only to be disappointed. I’m always disappointed.”
“Now, don’t let fear keep you in New Orleans. Sometimes we set off down a road thinkin’ we’re goin’ one place and we end up another. But that’s okay. The important thing is to start. I know you can do it. Come on, Josie girl, give those ol’ wings a try.”
“Willie doesn’t want me to.”
“So what, you gonna stay here just so you can clean her house and run around with all the naked crazies in the Quarter? You got a bigger story than that.”
I held up the thermos. “And hot coffee for the journey.”
Cokie started to shuffle and sing. “I’d rather drink muddy water than let you jive on me. Josie girl, you goin’ to Boston, so don’t you jive on me.”
I hugged the thermos.
“All right, I better get to the Pontchartrain, or Willie will have my hide,” said Cokie. “I got somethin’ else.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a thin piece of newspaper, torn at the edges. “Cornbread got back from Tennessee. He gave me this. The rich man’s family ain’t satisfied. Apparently his watch and money were stolen, so they suspicious. They wanna do their own autopsy.” He laid the piece of newsprint on the counter.
TENNESSEAN’S DEATH SUSPICIOUS
The body of Forrest L. Hearne, Jr., 42, will be exhumed in Memphis on Monday for autopsy. Hearne, a wealthy architect and builder, died during the early morning hours of January 1 at the Sans Souci nightclub in New Orleans. Hearne and his two friends had traveled to New Orleans to attend the Sugar Bowl football game January 2. Hearne reportedly left Memphis with $3,000, but no money was found on his person when he died. The deceased was also missing his expensive wristwatch and Sugar Bowl tickets. Hearne’s death was attributed at the time to a heart attack. Dr. Riley Moore, Orleans Parish coroner, said Hearne collapsed in the club and was dead when the ambulance arrived.
“Josie.” Cokie moved toward the counter. “You okay? You’re grayer than a bottle of rain, girl.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“You really have to go tonight?” said Patrick. “I thought maybe you could come over for your birthday, say hello to Charlie.”
“Yes, I have to go. He’s going to give me the letter.”
“Why don’t I go with you? Maybe it’ll look more serious if I’m there.”
I liked the idea of Patrick coming. Then I thought about what Mr. Lockwell had said. High heels. He wouldn’t appreciate Patrick being there. And I knew better than to tell Patrick about his comment.
“Let’s meet up later at the Paddock. Smiley Lewis is playing tonight. Could you come after Charlie goes to sleep?” I asked.
“The Paddock’s so grimy. Besides, I can’t leave Charlie for too long. He’s been acting up. Miss Paulsen called asking to talk to him. She said she came by. You didn’t tell her about him, did you?”
“Of course not. I’d never do that.”