So we waited.
Patrick alternated watching the clock and watching Charlie. I cleaned the cuts on my fingers and tried to scrub the blood off the chair and the floor. You had to get at blood early, preferably with peroxide, before it set. I sat on my knees, raking the scrub brush over the spot. Maybe it would fade with time. Most homes in the Quarter had bloodstains anyway.
Cokie arrived within an hour. He took one look at me and reached for the wall to steady himself. “Josie girl,” he breathed. “Lord, you look like a butcher. You all right?”
I looked down at my blouse and pants. Cokie was right. I was one big smear of blood.
“I’m fine. Hurry, bring the first-aid box in here.”
Cokie gasped when he saw Charlie. “Oh, Mr. Charlie, what you gone and done to yourself? Jo, this looks bad. Willie’s sending an army doctor she knows. Maybe you best wait on the first aid until he gets here.” Cokie looked at Patrick. “You okay, buddy?”
“I can at least wrap up his head. That’s what’s bleeding the most.” I set to work on the bandage.
Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.
“The neighbors are probably all looking out their windows, trying to watch the show,” lamented Patrick.
“Don’t you worry about those neighbors,” said Cokie.
Randolph was a young army doctor who had seen a lot of action in France during the war. Randolph was also drunk.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“Nah, coffee makes me jittery. That’s not good for sewing. I’ll splash some cold water on my face,” he said, and went into the kitchen.
“Oh, great,” whispered Patrick.
Randolph came back and opened his bag.
“Do you have a license to practice?” said Patrick.
“If you wanted to interview physicians, you would’ve taken this old dog to the hospital. Since you’re not at the hospital, I’m thinkin’ you don’t have options. I’m probably your best bet right about now. Slap me across the face.”
“Excuse me?” said Patrick.
“You heard me. Slap me across the face. Hard. It’ll sober me up.”
Patrick hesitated. Cokie stared.
“Oh, for cripe’s sake. Do I have to slap myself?” yelled Randolph.
I cracked him across the cheek. Just like he asked. My hand stung.
The doctor shook like a wet dog and then set to work, asking what medications Charlie was on. He took out a bottle of chloroform.
Patrick was right. The neighbors would be talking. Could we really tell them that the cast of Charlie’s play included an army doctor, a quadroon cabbie, and a girl covered in blood? Charlie Marlowe never wrote horror, but somehow horror was writing Charlie Marlowe.
THIRTY-ONE
The men finally carried Charlie up to bed. I followed, taking his shoes and shirt. They laid him down and propped up his head with pillows.
The doctor looked around the room, his gaze stopping at the set of industrial locks on the bedroom door.
Patrick watched him carefully. “Thanks, Doc. Much appreciated.”
“He’ll be out for a while. You better get some sleep while you can. But I suggest you stay in here,” said Randolph.
“I’ll stay with him. You get some sleep,” I told Patrick.
“You can go home. I think you’ve done enough for one night.” Patrick stared at me, his face a mix of fury and fear.
“Patrick,” I whispered, trying not to cry.
He put his hand up and shot a glance at the doctor.
Randolph turned to Cokie. “I believe I have an IOU waiting for me. Willie said you’d take me to her house.”
Cokie nodded. “Come on, Josie. You ride with us to Willie’s, and I’ll take you home from there.”
“I want to stay. I need to help with Charlie.”
“I’m fine, Jo.” The slight tremor in Patrick’s voice made my heart ache. He wasn’t fine. None of this was fine. And it was my fault. Within a few short months, his father’s sanity had crumbled. Patrick had become a full-time nurse. He was willing, generous, and completely unqualified to heal his father, but desperate to allow him this lapse of dignity in private.
“I saw the piano downstairs. Do you play?” Randolph asked Patrick. He nodded.
“Music has been known to calm some of these guys. Their brain locks into it, and it shuts off some of the other reflexes. Just make sure it’s slow and pretty.”
Patrick turned to Cokie. “You should go out the front door, since your cab is in the street. You two can go out the back.”
“Josie girl, you can’t go out like that. You look like you been working the ax for Carlos Marcello. Patrick, give the girl some clothes.” Patrick left for his room. Maybe Sadie could help me get the blood out.
Randolph gestured with his head toward Patrick’s room. “Is he okay? Seems like he’s about to blow.”
“He’s mad at me. I turned my back on Charlie and he cut himself. It’s my fault.”
“Now, don’t go blamin’ yourself,” said Cokie. “He should’ve been home with his father instead of runnin’ round the city with his friends.”
“He was delivering books. He has to keep money coming in,” I said.
I rolled and belted the denims to make them fit and tucked the shirt in. I could smell Patrick on the clothes—a frosty pine scent—and somehow it was comforting. Cokie drove us to Willie’s. It was approaching midnight and the streets popped with Mardi Gras excitement. Cokie and Randolph talked about the war. Randolph predicted that US troops would soon be in Korea. I hoped he was wrong. We didn’t need another war.
Cokie’s cab pulled into Willie’s driveway.
“Go to the side door,” I told Randolph.
“What’s the new password?” he asked.
“Mr. Bingle sent me.”
Randolph went in through the side door as instructed. I got out of the car for some air, staying in the shadows so Willie couldn’t see me through the windows. Music and laughter spilled from the house and almost covered the sound of male voices arguing.
“Cokie, is someone back there?” We walked down the drive.
John Lockwell’s Lincoln Continental was parked in back of the house. The hood was propped open. Lockwell stood in his shirtsleeves looking at the engine and talking to another man.
“I’m telling you, John. Just leave it, and we’ll tow it in the morning.”
“Are you crazy? I’m not having my car towed from a whorehouse for the world to see. I told Lilly I’d be home by one A.M. tonight. Her friends have her convinced there’s a murderer in the Quarter.”
“You need a ride, sir? My car’s in the driveway,” offered Cokie.
“No, I need to drive my own car,” he insisted. I stepped out from behind Cokie.
Mr. Lockwell threw up his hands. “What are you doing here?”
“I was taking a walk. I live nearby.” The numbers flipped on the rotating counter of lies.
“Well, unless you can fix my car, you don’t need to be here,” he said.
“I know someone who can fix your car,” I said.
“You do? How quick can you get him here?”
I turned to Cokie. “Can you take me to Jesse’s?”
“Sure, but no tellin’ if he’ll be home,” said Cokie.
“I’ll be right back.” I turned and started jogging down the drive with Cokie. But then I stopped. “Wait, Coke.” I turned around and marched back to Mr. Lockwell.
“I have the best mechanic in the Quarter, and I can get him here pronto.”
“Then why are you standing there? Go!” said Mr. Lockwell.
I reached into my purse and grabbed the envelope. “This will save time. I’ll have you sign the recommendation now.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
I shook my head. I took the sheet out of the envelope and unfolded it against the driver’s-side window. “Sign here.”
Lockwell stood and stared.
“I’ll have your car fixed, and this will be done.” I pointed to the signature line.
“What’s this all about?” asked his friend.
Mr. Lockwell’s voice dropped. “Did you fool with my car, just to get this letter?”
“Of course not!”
He grabbed my wrist. “You better have a mechanic. If you’re hustlin’ me, kid, I swear I’ll find you and you’ll be sorry.”
“Josie, you okay?” called Cokie.
“I’m fine,” I called back.