4 Shelter From The Storm (12 page)

“Look, Wendell,” Edward began, but he was interrupted by Big Top bellowing from the bathroom, demanding clean clothes.

“Now he wants my clothes,” Edward hissed.

Wendell shook his head distractedly. “I wonder if I burned that roux,” he said.

Frustrated by his inability to formulate an escape plan, Edward went back to the living room where Monk was now snoring on the rug, ebony legs splayed out across the floor and a glass of ice cubes balanced on his rhythmically rising and falling stomach.

He went to the bedroom to retrieve his suitcase, planning to try to pawn off a pair of sweat pants and an old brown Chattahoochee River Race T-shirt on Big Top.

“Whadya mean, you can’t get us out of here,” he heard Rue saying into the phone.

“We don’t want to wait here too long.” LaRue looked up at Edward. “The place is too populated.” Addressing Edward, he said, “Get out of here until I’m finished.”

Edward left, after getting an eyeful of all the gold and jewels and silver spread out on the bed.

“How long are they saying the flood is going to last?” LaRue continued. “You wanna meet me tomorrow at the spot where we planned? … No, I can’t stick around here any longer. There were casualties… You’ll read about it in the papers… You gonna be at this number? I don’t want to deal with anybody else… Right.”

LaRue lit one of his hostage’s Camels and stood up. He tied the scroll up in the ribbon again and tossed it on the bed with the rest of the goods. He took a puff and decided to bring Monk and Big Top in to see what they had gotten. Let them each pick a piece, a stone or a bracelet. He didn’t see how they would live to show it off, and a little sparkle might inspire them to run the last leg of this race.

On Annunciation Street there is a warehouse where they make Mardi Gras floats all year round. It is never so busy, of course, as during the countdown to Carnival, and with water pouring in from the street it crawled with activity like a stirred-up anthill. The screams of power saws and the banging of hammers almost made it impossible for Chesterfield to have a two-way conversation on his portable phone.

“We’re taking them apart right now,” he yelled. “That’s right. We’re taking off everything within three feet of the ground. It’s flooding like hell here.”

“Sure we can get them back together,” he told the captain of the Krewe of Moravian Elves. “If you can make it stop raining, I can get you ready to roll in no time.”

On the shores of Lake Pontchartrain, at a bar called Champs, a woman named Monique and her bartender, Jimmy, were nailing sheets of plywood over the windows. It was raining torrentially, and the wind was blowing armies of dark green waves into the shore. They crashed rhythmically into the bar’s wooden dock and threatened to wash the slim woman and the pencil-thin bartender over the side.

“We’ll never get them all covered, boss,” Jimmy shouted, spitting out a mouthful of warm brackish water. His fingers were bleeding from where wind-borne plywood had ripped them. He had mashed a thumbnail with the hammer, and he had twisted his knee on the slippery planks.

“We will too, by God,” Monique replied between the ten penny nails clenched in her teeth. Her dress was torn. There was a cut above her right eye where she had fallen and struck the railing. “This goddamn lake is not getting into my goddamn bar.”

In the Irish Channel, at Mike’s Bar, the card game continued. Larry had drifted ghostlike from behind the mahogany bar to stuff some rags under the doorsill. The howling wind outside was drowned out by Bobby Darin singing “Mack the Knife” on the juke box. Judge Duzet was dealing down the river, and Mrs. Pearl was way ahead.

“Could we have something else to drink here, Larry, if it ain’t too much trouble?” Newt asked.

“You need to put in your fifty cents,” the judge reminded him.

“That’s right, Judge. You watch him carefully,” Mrs. Pearl said, lighting her Pall Mall. “Now deal me one of them Aces you’re holding under the deck.”

Rounding Algiers Point in the black of night, the tow boat
Prissy Ann
caught the wind broadside. Whitecaps slapped against the hull and broke over the deck, but it was the water and not the boat that gave way. A storm on the Mississippi River was nothing new to Captain Ambrose. His engines did not even hiccup, and his sturdy boat droned steadily on through the agitated dark sea.

A German Shepherd paddling furiously across Earhart Boulevard in the dark encountered something unexpectedly human. It was floating, and he pressed his nose through the wispy hair and against the cold cheek. The form smelled of the river and city streets. It smelled dead. Momentarily confused, the dog swam beside the body for a few yards, before letting it go its way while he went his.

“What do you think about when you’re practicing law?” Marguerite asked Tubby.

“What do you mean?” he asked. He was sitting at the room’s small round table looking at the dark through a crack in the curtain.

“I’m just keeping the conversation going,” she said.

Tubby pushed the curtains closed and swung around to look at her.

“I try to imagine a place where it’s always safe and warm. What do you think about when you’re keeping track of the market in pork bellies?” He had learned that Marguerite worked for a commodities broker.

“I think about going on a nice vacation.” She was on her stomach on top of the bed sampling macadamia nuts from a can she’d found in the mini-bar.

“Where else have you gone?” he asked.

“Oh, I went to Disney World one time, and there was a heat wave. And I’ve been to Cancun, but there was a hurricane and we had to go back to Mexico City, which I didn’t like. And then I came to Mardi Gras and it flooded.”

“You’re no stranger to natural disasters then.”

“Well, I haven’t had an earthquake yet, or a volcano, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that was in store for me next year.”

The telephone beeped softly, and Tubby jumped up to answer it.

“Yes?”

“Room service, sir. You asked us to call when we had the kitchen up again.”

“Oh, yes,” Tubby said brightly.

“I must tell you that the chef has abandoned the regular menu. He is serving tonight the following: as an appetizer, Crab Meat Imperial with Roasted Pecans, or shrimp fritters. For a soup we have a simple corn and potato, or a rich oyster and artichoke. For salad, we are serving only Boston Lettuce with pieces of walnuts. Our entrees are Oysters en Brochette with Mushroom Caps and Bacon, herbed chicken, or angel-hair pasta with a very light crawfish sauce. And the fish of the day is redfish.”

“Incredible,” Tubby exhaled. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “The cook is cleaning out the kitchen. We get
tout le bataclan
.”

Not familiar with that dish, Marguerite just raised her eyebrows.

“There are two of us,” Tubby said. “We’ll take both of the appetizers, both of the soups, two salads, the oysters en brochette and the chicken. You like pasta?” he asked Marguerite.

She nodded.

“And the pasta, too,” Tubby concluded. “Do you have wine?”

“Of course. May I recommend a bottle of the Loire Valley Clos de Varenne Savennieres to start, or the Chateau Val Joanis, 1997, from the Cotes du Luberon with your meal?”

“That would be just fine.”

“Both?”

“Yes, please.”

“Excellent, sir. Will that be all?”

“What else have you got?”

“We have some very wonderful strawberries, and they must be eaten. We have no way to keep them cool. Would you like a bowl?”

“Yes, I believe we would.” Tubby hung up and sank back in his chair, worn out.

“A good meal?” Marguerite asked.

“It might be fantastic. They’re cooking everything they’ve got.”

“How soon do you think it’ll take to get here?”

“I didn’t ask.”

She put the plastic cap back on her macadamias. She rolled over onto her back and raised one long leg to look at her toes. “What do we do while we wait?” she asked aloud.

Tubby studied her pale smooth ankle.

“Let’s watch a movie,” he said, reaching for the remote on the nightstand.

It turned out that the only one they hadn’t seen was
Penelope’s Secret
, for adults only.

“Let’s give it a try. Might learn something,” Marguerite said to herself, pressing buttons.

“You like naughty films?” she asked Tubby.

“Some are better than others,” he said. He really was not very well versed in this area.

The screen filled up with a man and a woman making love in a field of flowers on a hillside in France.

“Those black boots you wear are very strange-looking,” Marguerite commented.

Tubby laughed.

“And they’re too tight,” he said. “I’d take ’em off, but I don’t know if I can.”

“I might help you in a minute,” she said absently, engrossed in what was happening on screen. “How about a refill?” She waved her cup in the air.

“At your service,” Tubby said, rising to the occasion.

* * *

“Ta-da!” Wendell sang as he proudly set his steaming bowl of gumbo on the table. He had lit the candles and gotten Big Top and Monk seated. Rue was still in the bedroom, but his place was set with a knife, fork, and napkin.

“This is a very special Creole delicacy, created by a very high Georgia peach,” he said, standing back with clasped hands to admire his handiwork.

Monk and Big Top had both washed up and were outfitted in dry shorts from Edward’s suitcase. They both went “Mmmm” in appreciation. Monk had a splendid gold Rolex on his wrist. Big Top was wearing a gaudy diamond necklace. He secretly thought he might give it to Monk when they got back to their house trailer in Wiggins. Their misgivings about Rue and the fate of their mission had been partially laid to rest by these tokens.

Wendell crossed the room and tapped on the bedroom door.

“Won’t you sit down, Mr. Rue?” he called.

LaRue tried to resist the invitation, but the food smelled so good that he emerged from the back of the house. Sidling over to the table he joined the party.

“Will you do the honors,” Wendell asked Edward, handing him a new bottle of wine. “And I’ll make the plates.”

He put a big spoonful of rice into each bowl and ladled the gumbo over it. Steam rose from the table. He passed around a crisp loaf of French bread. “Now in just a minute I’ll bring out the main course,” he announced.

“We don’t usually eat like this on a job,” Big Top said.

Monk tasted his soup. “We don’t ever eat this good,” he said.

“What kind of a job was it?” Edward inquired.

The three robbers all ignored him.

“I think this is such fun,” Wendell said on his way back to the kitchen. “I have a pecan pie for dessert.”

* * *

The cart that rolled through the door of room 209 was covered with silver serving dishes.

Tubby had to flip on the light in the compact entry hall so that the waiter could see which way to push.

“I’m short of cash,” Tubby said.

“That’s all right, sir,” the uniformed attendant said, feeling an affinity for Tubby’s red toreador pants. “You can sign the back of the check and indicate your tip, and they’ll cash it for me at the bar.”

“That’s cool,” Tubby said and scribbled.

He wheeled the tray the rest of the way into the bedroom himself. The only light came from the flickering television set.

“Let’s spread it all out,” he suggested.

“I want the strawberries now,” she said dreamily.

“What we have here is a feast.”

She pressed the mute button and rolled over to see what lay hidden beneath the silver lids.

“Now we won’t know how the movie comes out,” Tubby complained. The back of a woman’s head filled the screen. She was pumping relentlessly on something fleshy.

Marguerite raised her eyebrows.

“That was a joke,” he said. “I think we should begin with the Savennieres.” He fondled the dark green bottle lovingly and used the point of the corkscrew to peel back the foil. “We can sit at the table if you like.”

“I’m comfortable here,” she said.

“Suit yourself.” He took a warm loaf of French bread, the shrimp fritters, and the artichoke soup with him and sat down in one of the chairs.

Marguerite ate a strawberry. “You’re looking at me,” she said.

“You make such a pretty picture,” he said. “Sort of like an oil painting.”

She extended one of her legs and admired her toes.

“I’m too hungry to pose,” she said, and sat up. She joined Tubby at the table.

He offered her soup and poured them each a glass of wine.

“Are you very successful at what you do?” she asked.

“I try to be,” he replied.

“Are you married? I suppose I should have asked you that before I let you into my room.”

“I’m divorced. Is that the right answer?”

“Children?”

“Three— all girls. The youngest is a sophomore in high school. The oldest goes to Sophie Newcomb. How about you?”

“I was married once, when I was nineteen. It was a big mistake, and it only lasted two years.”

“No kids?”

“No, thank God.”

Tubby tested the Boston lettuce salad with the pieces of walnuts.

“You like your kids?” she asked him.

“Yes, very much. I try to stay involved with their lives.”

“That’s a nice thing to say.”

“I didn’t mean it to sound nice. I’ve caused a lot of disruptions for them. But I suppose change is what life’s all about. They’re different people every week, it seems. I’m just trying to remain relevant.”

“Well, I think it’s nice that fathers care about their daughters. Mine wanted to, but he never understood how.”

“Where is he now?”

“He passed away last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay. You ever want to have more kids?”

“I guess I’m open to the possibility, if I ever, uh…” He shrugged.

“I know, met the right woman. You still love your wife?”

“Dining alone with a beautiful woman in a four-star hotel, I’d be a fool to say yes.”

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I’m not looking for compliments, you know.”

“Of course not. You don’t need to.”