The Bird Boys Page 11

  Delpha climbed five steps, not thirty-nine, into the Rosemont. An unusually rowdy crowd of TV-watchers was carousing in the lobby. Shouts hurled toward her. Blinking against several voices, she made out that Billie Jean King had just won the Battle of the Sexes tennis game against Bobby Riggs in the Astrodome.

  “Girl’s a bearcat!” Mr. Finn announced.

  “She’s a phonus balonus!” a sour-faced Mr. Nystrom barked.

  In the pause that followed that opinion, Mrs. Bibbo said, “She clobbered the blabbermouth.” Why hadn’t Delpha been here to watch?

  “Damn,” Delpha said, “forgot.”

  The match was everywhere in the news, and she’d meant to watch. Well. She hiked her thumb in sisterhood with Mrs. Bibbo, went on into Oscar’s post-dinner, off-limits kitchen. Tubs of dishes, crusted pots and lids, skillets, and crumby pie pans piled, the linoleum greasy and splotched.

  Her stomach was eating itself. She put two fat slices of tenderloin, some gravy, a pile of black-eyed peas on to reheat. If there had been biscuits and slaw, these were gone, but Oscar had reserved her a pale yellow slice of lemon icebox pie with the graham cracker crust, the last in the pan. Perched on a stool at the chopping table, Delpha ate the pie first, saliva squirting with the sharp savor of lemon. She tamped up the crumbs, licked the fork, eyes closed. Oscar used real lemons and grated some peel on top. When you hoped in prison for anything good to come, you never thought of lemon icebox pie. But it was not a trifle. Right now, in this all-by-itself moment, lemon pie was the way.

  She finished off the tenderloin and black-eyed peas. Delpha drank a glass of water straight down, then tied on an apron and took hold of the first tub of dirty dishes. All hers to set right. Her own kingdom of straw to spin and a new set of tools to hand: scrubbers, Hobart, broom, mop, Lysol, and muscle. She’d be here a couple hours. Made for a long day, yes it did, but the idea of weeks, stacked up against fourteen years, put a lopsided smile on her face.

  There was this commercial the radio shouted over and over: SSSaturday Night! SSSaturday Night! Gold-en Triangle RRRace-way! Might she want to go to that raceway sometime—sweat in the bleachers, wave off the diesel exhaust, shield her ears from engine noise and crackling loudspeakers? Only because she could. But not yet.

  What would she do on Saturday? She might could walk down to the Jefferson Theatre and see the picture show. Might could take a bus out to the Gateway shopping center and stroll through some stores, maybe that nice one, The White House. Look in every window. Ride the bus back. Later, sit on a bench by the port and gaze at the moonlight water and the ships. Or she could put some gas in the Dodge—she did have those keys—and drive down to Boliver. Cross the swing bridge that she and Isaac had crossed back in summer, when the roadside was scattered with primroses.

  XXI

  WHY IS IT you touch one woman she feels ordinary like a cousin or a nurse who checks your blood pressure or some lady at the bank who trips and you catch her elbow—but you touch another woman, and she’s live current? Phelan suspected the answer might have to do with him, but that avenue remained murky, and he let it stay that way.

  OK, chemistry, what was that? Horniness, for sure. Partly her shape, the way the waist sets in, the lift of her breasts, if she smiles at you, how she smiles at you, what she means by it, not that you know, but sometimes you do.

  The day he met Delpha, no smile until she understood she was hired.

  He considered the idea intermittently while also drinking Miller High Life and watching the Braves. Game was broadcast from the climate-controlled Astrodome, subtracting fifteen degrees from this Saturday’s eighty-seven, and adding that shazam neon scoreboard Houston worshipped. Fans were warming up for rambunctious. Closeup of the bullpen and Dave Robert’s heater colliding with the mitt like a round from a bolt-action rifle.

  The Braves went down 1-2-3 in the first inning. Second verse, same as the first. Astros had magnets in their gloves. Top of the third, all right!, Casanova homered, Garr singled and, little wings sewn onto his cleats, stole second. Died there. Phelan grumbled. He should be rooting for the Astros, home team ninety miles away, but they didn’t have Henry Lee Aaron.

  April 1954, the year Tommy Phelan was ten, the year Joe DiMaggio married the goddess—Coach Peterson distributed uniforms after practice. Bobby Peterson got 6, which’d been Stan the Man’s number, and his twin Casey got 7, Mantle’s. Naturally. Their dad was coach. When Ron Whitaker got 3, the Babe’s number, he did about twenty somersaults across the field. Phelan, standing farthest from the coach, ended up with number 44. That was neither good nor bad—he’d seen the card of a player named Cavaretta, racked up some MVPs during the war—but Phelan was not kissing dirt over him.

  There were things about Delpha that made contemplation complicated. That day when he’d touched her, a charge surged through him, belly, dick, thighs—just from the skin-to-skin. That was a complication. And the major thing was that they worked together and that was working out excellent as far as Phelan was concerned, so best there be no complications. He could make a mistake, their beneficial association could go south. This was one of the major things, anyway. That was it—his brain pinpointed the core problem: Delpha had several major things.

  In the second, Hank had grounded out, but top of the fourth, he’d be up again. Phelan was already leaning forward, squashing his hands together. George Herman Ruth had blasted 60 homeruns in 1927 alone, his all-time stood at 714. Mr. Aaron had racked up 711 career homeruns, and was reaching for 712, but Roberts the pitcher was a southpaw, and Hank hit the righties.

  Here he came. Crowd noise jacked up, the passionate chatter in Phelan’s living room jacked up. Settling in over the plate. Those hands high, letting two go by before his hip and front foot slid forward, bat came down fast…wham, grounder. Short hustled, scooped, burned it to first. Phelan kicked the coffee table, and his green aluminum ashtray hopped face down onto the carpet. Shit. He went and swept ashes into his hand so they wouldn’t burn down the duplex, dumped them back in the ashtray, face locked on Baker. Single. Johnson and Lum singled and Johnson got squeezed between second and third. Helms and Rader having way too much fun, heckling him every doomed step: take off toward third/toss, run back toward second/toss, try for third again/toss, tag you’re it, dugout, baby, and don’t you come back no more no more.

  Phelan sprawled back on the couch, ashing it, having forgotten about his dirty hand.

  Starting in 1955, jersey number 44 had raised from nothing to OK and eventually to great because a Milwaukee right-fielder with that number started making big noise with his bat. Eleven-year-old Phelan’s spot was also right-field. He was heartened by the novelty: luck had befallen him. That felt good. Even though Aaron was colored and he was not, he hung on to 44. When he found out that Henry Aaron had the same birthday as he did, the connection took on voodoo. Hank’s swing could cause Thomas Phelan’s brim to overflow.

  He himself, even by eighteen, was just your average hitter. No call to strut, no need to cringe. His talent appeared to be right field. Tommy Phelan caught balls. He ran into board fences catching balls. He flipped over chainlink. Trampled parents in the bleachers. Dived and nabbed the ball on the fly, grass-surfed on his face for a few yards. Tripped and fell, twisted and caught it bare-handed. Once climbed a wall like The Fly and pushed off, launching his glove up to the ball. It wasn’t exactly athletic prowess that made him an entertaining outfielder. Tommy Phelan just didn’t like to give it up.

  Top of the fifth, Casanova up again. Fly ball. Left fielder ranged back back back and plunk into his glove, damn. Bottom of the inning, the Astros’ Metzger tripled, drove in two runs. Their game now. Cedeno popped up to center, and Watson’s dinky grounder was slurped up and smoked to first. Skinny Metzger got stranded out in thirdland. Astros trotted in, the Braves out.

  A major thing about Delpha was her history, prison, the violence she’d suffered and done. What had happened, he reconstructed, was Ben the photographer had turned the doorknob too
slow, and Phelan had put his hands around Delpha’s waist to throw her out of the way of any Rodney that might be on the other side of the door. Backward from that was the day they’d argued over Miles’ bill, and he had laid his hand on her shoulder. His thought, prompted by the dictionary lesson over “requisite,” was that Delpha had had more than enough Rodneys already. He’d laid his hand on her shoulder, facing her, like he was between her and the Rodneys. He didn’t have the right. And face it, Clark Kent, who said she needed your help?

  She had looked at his hand, he noticed that.

  Top of the sixth. Phelan put down his Miller and sat forward, elbows on knees, ordering and cajoling Perez to get on base. Perez singled. Phelan went to work on Evans, Evans singled.

  Here he came.

  When Hank entered the batter’s box, Perez was dancing away and back to second, needling Roberts the pitcher, and Phelan was streaming patter at the screen. Hank took some practice swings, holding the bat a little closer to his chest than usual. Settled in, hands high behind him as Roberts let loose, throwing hard. Hank’s hip moved, his front foot stepping out, hands coming down and around, power of the shoulders, chest, power from the torso feeding the swing, craaack! Legs far apart now, back heel off the dirt, the man stretched out, head up-tilted, watching it fly. Left, lofting to leftfield like a goddamn bald eagle, going, going—Phelan was hollering—that ball was gone! Number 712, up in the bleachers. The scoreboard ready for it, flashing 712! AARON IS NOW TWO AWAY FROM TYING RECORD AND 3 FROM 715!

  Henry made the bases. Not until he rounded home did Phelan fetch another beer, clink it with an empty, and pull the injured coffee table back so he could plop his feet on it. He was flooded with the old familiar feeling that a smidgen of Hank’s homer was Tom Phelan’s, too. Silly, but that’s the cool way it worked.

  A pounding on his door, and burrhead Clarence, his fiftyish neighbor in the duplex, pumped a blast of bourbon into Phelan’s face and ragged at him for hollering, every word of which Clarence was forced to overhear through their shitty common wall, Phelan should know—

  “Hey, sorry, just got carried away.” Phelan’s post-homer smile lingered.

  Clarence’s mouth was round as a drain-hole. What kinda messed-up shit was it that Phelan was over here rooting for goddamn Atlanta Georgia instead of the Houston Texas Astros, for Christ’s sake? And rooting for a tar baby to beat The Babe’s record? Sure couldn’t call himself a true blue Texan. Was he even a real American? Huh?

  An instant concentration bunched behind Phelan’s forehead. He slapped open the screen door Bang, knocking Clarence back, and filled up the doorway.

  “Man, what you see when you don’t got a Claymore.”

  The drain-hole puckered. Clarence jabbed him the bird and stalked back to his place. Couple seconds, his door exploded shut. The old turd must have got a running start and hit it with both hands. Well, his deposit money.

  Phelan threw himself back on the couch. Fucking Clarence. Hacked his buzz right off.

  Baker, Johnson, and Lum hit flies the Astros hoovered into their gloves. Snooze-city at the Astrodome till Mr. Aaron rotated up again top of the eighth—and fouled out. The Braves pulled him, and that was the game.

  There would be no Number 713 today.

  XXII

  DELPHA DID NOT go to the Jefferson Theatre to see the picture show on Saturday or stroll the stores or drive down to Boliver to fish. She did none of those things, and not only because she didn’t want to see the September roadside bare of primroses. What she did, she did because, like Fayann with the anatomy book, she was interested.

  Angela was off on Saturdays. Little round Opal trundled over a cart of old New Orleans phone books in a battered cardboard box. Delpha glided the heavy chair into the library table, sat down, and lifted the top phone book, the most recent, from the pile. She counted on the businesses and the business pages to find the shops like Xavier Bell’s. Those she wrote down, even if a proprietor’s name was not provided. She worked backward to the oldest telephone book, 1919, whose mildewed cover was illustrated with a naked manangel standing atop the world, loops of cable dipping to hide his private section.

  Then she turned to the musty, yellowed city directories for additional information. These directories, which began to be published a good many years before the invention of the telephone, compiled city residents alphabetically by surname. They did not separate out businesses but did give a citizen’s profession and current address. By noting duplicated addresses, it was possible to see at a glance who lived with who. Would she come upon a Xavier Bell and a Rodney Bell, merchants, both residing at the same address in 1920? Both working at a shop on, say, Tchoupitoulas St.?

  She found Charles Bell, fireman, and Bell, Merthel L., Mrs., boarding house, at different addresses and in different years. She ran her finger down Babcocks, Bethancourts, Broussards, Blancs, Blanks, and Blanques. Finally, Delpha had seven pages of shopkeepers who were even loosely associated with selling antiques, used goods, firearms. She ripped these pages off the tablet, set them to her right side, and began a new page. On this one she consolidated, so that names appeared only once with a parenthesis of dates for years of business.

  She finished. And neither Xavier nor Rodney Bell had appeared as a shopkeeper on this new list, which she’d labeled Merchants.

  Abruptly, noisily, Delpha scraped back her chair. She took a hike around the library to cool off her inflamed face. Past the other tables, the card catalog, patrons lugging books to the front desk, up the broad stairs to the kiddie section where silence did not rule. Children were milling and chirping. Mothers huddled with each other in a row of wooden school chairs. On the other side of the stacks were the miniature painted chairs with the straw seats. On one sat a maybe four-year-old girl dwarfed by an upside-down picture book titled DICK AND JANE Guess Who. A smirking girl around ten was slapping the book shut, snickering when the teary four-year-old squeaked “Stop it, Debbie!” and jerked it back open. As Delpha passed, she slowed to backhand the big girl’s hands away from the book and flip DICK AND JANE rightside-up in the grasp of the small one. She stalked on, past a cloudy aquarium and back down the stairs.

  Guess Who. No shit.

  Scooting up her chair again, she glowered at the new Merchants page. Delpha told herself that just because the Bells weren’t on it, that didn’t mean the brothers weren’t there under some other name.

  But it did mean—100 percent, truly, positively, and for a fact—Xavier Bell had lied about his name.

  His own name.

  Still frowning, she sat back. After a bit, the sunlight entering through the cross and crown window mellowed. A new thought had occurred: not that Phelan Investigations had wasted tons of time because Bell had lied.

  The lists had worked.

  After Homebuyers, Mrs. Guidry’s, Brothers, and now, Merchants, she’d discovered their client’s lie. She sat up straight again.

  Why make up a fake name if you just wanted to find your brother before you died? Why hamper your private investigator when you’d paid him a bunch of money? And if you were the brother, why move all around leaving a string of aliases—unless you’d done something so cursed you had to keep running? She remembered the peculiar, temperature-changing sensation she’d gotten as she led their client into Phelan’s office. Maybe both Bell brothers were dangerous.

  Careful with the old directories’ loosened pages, Delpha placed the slim booklets back in their elderly box, standing them up in order. When she finished, she flexed her cramped right hand. So this was her Saturday, and she found that she didn’t mind missing a matinee. Or staring at skinny mannequins through a store window. All right, there was no shopkeeper named Bell in New Orleans during these years. So which surname on her lists would turn out to be the brothers’? One of them would. This was the strategy of the lists: they were nets—Xavier and Rodney could not escape them all.

  Delpha realized she was humming.

  Froggie went a-courtin’ and he did ride, uh huh<
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  Froggie went a-courtin’ and he did ride, uh huh

  Froggie went a-courtin’ and he did ride

  Sword and pistol by his side

  Uh huh

  XXIII

  ARRIVING AT THE office early on Monday, Phelan stopped short, surprised to meet the first user of the aqua pillow-chairs, which Delpha had pushed apart and angled slightly toward each other. Chafed brunette, breathing barely-tamped fire, high color on her cheeks. Petite woman, swallowed by a man’s XL denim workshirt. A not-quite-toddler perched on her jeaned thigh: wisp-haired tuffy in overalls with fat, bare feet—slobbering on his fist.

  Delpha said, “This is Cheryl Sweeney. She’s kinda in a hurry to talk with you. Let me show you into his office, Cheryl.”

  Cheryl Sweeney had already shot up from the chair, her left arm hefting the child around the middle, horizontally. He didn’t seem to mind. Her right hand crushed Phelan’s. “Hi, I’m not really in a hurry, I just move this way. Caroleen Toups is my mother’s cousin. She told Mom about you, and Mom told me. I have a problem named Frank.”

  At “Frank,” the tuffy tuned up and had to be relocated to a shoulder, from which he glared at Phelan as his mother entered the office, headed to a client chair.

  “Can I get you some coffee or a Coke, Cheryl?” Delpha asked, following. The baby rared back and wailed. Delpha’s hand reached toward him and drew back. “Get him anything?”

  Cheryl would take a Coke, and as for the baby, she disappeared him under her blue shirt-tent. The wail broke off. Silence. Mild smacking. Definite sucking noises. Delpha took one look at Phelan’s blighted face and set off to buy a Coke.

  His potential new client turned her head as Delpha left, tossing back a raft of long, dark hair. She whipped around when the door had shut, started in right away, fast and grim. Woman approaching thirty, her prettiness suppressed by the hard lines of purpose, black eyeliner with a little tail on each side, lipstick worn off the heart of her lips.