The Bird Boys Page 14

  J.T. Davies sank. Jim Anderson bobbed to the top of her final list. He had a friend. And the birds. Could be a coincidence. People did have friends and pets. But then there was his reaction—the man’d creased forward from the breastbone, and when he straightened, it was with a cough, and his tanned face was longer.

  Delpha’s head was yellow and green and hopping and flying. She was dying to tell Phelan she’d found Rodney.

  Well, she was 98 percent sure she’d found him, but Mr. Wally, the business teacher at Gatesville, always cautioned them not to rush: “Think slow, act fast.” So maybe it was best her boss was off scouting in the waterlands today. There might be a way to nail down that last 2 percent. She’d visit the Wertman’s shop. Check out the proprietors, and see if they’d known an Anderson back in New Orleans.

  Or as they kindly said out here in the free world: two birds, one stone.

  XXVII

  DELPHA WAS SWEATING at her desk in the morning when Phelan walked in and sniffed at the office’s roasting air, underlaid with an element of mildew. He spread his hands out in front of him, saying, “What the hell, Calvin?”

  “Well, good morning to you,” she said. “Calvin called. Said he had to drive over to Orange and pick up a part there ’cause the one he brought didn’t work. Be back soon as he can.”

  “I hope that’s five minutes.” Phelan shook loose the knot in his tie, slid it off, and unbuttoned his collar. “Gotta make a call. Then let’s catch up on our business.”

  “Got somebody to see. Maybe I could do that now, then we could catch up?”

  Pretty sparkly smile, Phelan noted as he nodded. Delpha, already holding her purse, headed for the door. Something going on.

  Well, he’d find out soon enough. Phelan held the line, waiting for his uncle to answer, grimacing at the defunct AC unit. Least E.E. wasn’t mad anymore, he didn’t think. Having his uncle mad at him had been like a slow-mo heart attack.

  “Guidry.”

  “Mornin’, E.E.”

  “You again.”

  Like a beekeeper gingerly removing a tray from the hive, Phelan set aside this ambiguous greeting. “Callin’ cause I got something for you. Give me three of your precious minutes if you will.”

  “Throw me somethin’.”

  “You might send a couple guys out, watch for a boat docking in the middle of the night, carrying more than shrimp.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Tom. Now you gonna tell me how you come to make that suggestion.”

  Phelan was quiet. “Not news to you, is it?”

  “Less say, there are certain operations at work, yes. And recently, very recently, so I wanna know how’d you hear about it. What’s your interest here, Mr. P.I.?”

  “Simple business. A wife that wants to keep her man at home. He’s making monopoly money, and she doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what he’s doing, but she knows he needs to be stopped from doing it.”

  “That is one smart wife.”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “Think he’s running dope?”

  “Think he was, she said he used to stay gone a while on trips. Now just overnight.”

  “You don’t know anything else? ’Cause if you do, you betta say so yesterday.”

  “Few names like Phil and Waffle and Ding-ding, sound like clowns for kiddies. But listen, my guy’s an upholsterer. Strictly amateur. My source called him a cheese weasel.”

  “Source.” E.E. laughed huh. “You takin’ this serious, Tom.”

  “It’s my business. I don’t, who will.”

  “My crystal ball tells me you ‘bout to aks me for somethin’, and I’m gettin’ a picture of what it is.”

  “’Magine you are. The wife tells me when he’s going out, I tell you, and you let me take my upholsterer home. You get the rest of the operation. The crew, the load, boat or trucks—whatever it is.”

  This was a first-rate trade, and Phelan knew not to say so to the Chief of Police. He knew to pile on. “’Course I’ll tell you when it’s going down anyway, you know that.”

  “Yeah you betta. ’Specially now I know you know.”

  “There’s that. You agree?”

  “You can have the upholsterer. Call me the minute the wife calls you.”

  “You bet.” Phelan tossed up his ballpoint and caught it. Didn’t say another word. He’d heard steam building, and he was not about to step into it. Again.

  There was a clangy crash from the other end of the phone line.

  “I’ll be goddamn,” E.E. burst out, “if this ain’t some Key West shit come to Texas. Oh, I can see it.” Clang. “These Texas boys, their granddaddies cooked shine, their daddies ran shine, they heard the stories ‘bout outrunning and outgunning the revenuers, they heard the rock n roll songs, they gonna get in on it. They all swashin’ and bucklin’ on the high seas. Dodging the law, fanning wads of cash in the mirror. You smoke that stuff in Vietnam?”

  Wiping off the sweat at his temple, Phelan recalled: With booze you lose, with dope there’s hope. Always ripped or always stoned made it a year I’m going home.

  He told the sort-of truth. “Once or twice.”

  “Well, now you on civilized land. Now you back in the U.S. of A. Nixon’s got him a whole chart. Marijuana’s not Fritos, cher, it’s a Schedule 1 drug. Schedule 1. You want the skinny, come by the station and read the reams of info they sending us. Lemme tell you, Tom. When those trucks roll in or the pirate ships sail in, however they’re hauling it, maybe we can’t get ’em all, but we’ll get some of ’em. They gonna find out it’s not Tinkerbelle waitin for ’em at the dock.”

  Clang. “Fuck Florida.”

  The phone flat-lined.

  Ear ringing, Phelan came and stood in his doorway, ready to report yesterday’s work to Delpha. Nobody behind her desk. It had skipped his mind that she was gone.

  A knock on the door interrupted his disappointment.

  Ben’s hesitant entrance was trailed by an odor of chemistry lab. He stepped in wearing a weathered blue work shirt, holey jeans, and a spooked expression. Hair looked like it hadn’t been combed since his last visit. He was carrying an oversize manila packet and the black folio.

  Ben nodded. It was an agreeable nod, but he also looked like he might throw up.

  “So—” Phelan tipped his head—“what you got?”

  “The blow-ups. Plus something else. But here, look.” Ben whipped the photos out of the manila packet and slapped two onto the desk. The first seemed to show a gray slab that featured protrusions and indentations; it met a haze of gray and darker shapes. The second had the same protrusion, but its angles were marked by a pencil applied with force.

  “Look, nine centimeters to the tip, almost four around the curve, see?”

  “See those numbers. But that’s close to double life-size, isn’t it?” Phelan had figured out the main object was a nose.

  “Right. I got ears and jaw on another sheet.” Ben flicked down another weird photo beside the first. This one was color, pinks and grays, connected to a complicated black structure. A nose, glasses.

  “Not as fuzzy as I thought they’d be. This one’s the closest angle to mine. OK, now look.” The next photograph was another print of the color photo, only measured and marked. “Tip’s a little bit longer or fatter, one, because the measurement’s off a little, but, man, they’re close. See, check out the shapes. If you can’t see it, Tom, think of geography, like these are hills or something.”

  “No, no, man, I’m seeing it.” Phelan put his finger on the color one. “This is my client.” Then he tapped Ben’s black and white. “And this, this is yours. Who is he?”

  Ben flipped out a black and white eight by ten—a man in a bucket hat. With a tripod for his camera. He was standing back from the instrument, back of his hand to his forehead, as though he’d just wiped sweat off. The hat was tipped up. He had hair.

  “Him. Probably your man’s brother. Or the closest one to your color shots anyway. Figure the odds.”

  “Do
ne that. So my client told us the truth about his brother’s bird-watching habit. Here’s the brother with a family resemblance.” Phelan cheered, clapped the boy on the shoulder. “I’ll find him out there, track him home, and end of case. What he does next is his own call. All right, Ben. A plus for this class.”

  Ben’s shoulder had no give, and his face had no A-plus joy, but Phelan charged on, “I’ve got your picture, I’ll find him. You’re off the clock, kid. Go home, write out your bill, and pat your own back. Got it?”

  “Tom…”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “No problem. No, I mean, problem, but…” Ben licked his lips.

  “Spit it out.”

  “Don’t know if this is the man you’re looking for, but…hot in here, isn’t it?” Seemed the boy became aware of and simultaneously forgot this fact about the office. “Last evening I drove over to the wetlands at Anahuac. Thought I might spot your guy. Wasn’t there, but I hung around. Before sunset is when all the birds fly in—and early in the morning. Tons of birds, and there’ll be lots more next month. The light, the water quality. It’s incredible. You know.”

  “Not really. But go on. Excuse my manners. Take a seat over in the blue chair, you want.”

  “No, I’d get something on it. I need to show you these.” He offered the black folio to Phelan.

  Phelan took it and sat down behind Delpha’s desk. He pushed aside her paper piles and unlatched the folio. Eight by ten photograph of gray reeds, above their straight edge, a blur, a thick litter of salt and pepper against the pale gray sky. Next, a shot of low ponds ringed with white birds, in between, patches of field where black birds and white birds stood or flapped in the grass.

  “Ground’s mushy. I laid down a tarp and lay out flat. So I wouldn’t scare ‘em off. Still got wet.”

  Water, land, birds descending, far bank of clouds.

  Birds, feet out, wings back-stretched for a water-landing, behind them reeds, grasses on the land, far to the left side of the scene a low white sun stippled with black flecks. Other birds coming in.

  “What? These’re pretty, I can see that. But—”

  “Look at the next one, Tom.”

  The birds that had been landing now navigated the water, and the focus was raised to the bank, where more birds milled, facing every-which direction. The reeds were darker than gray now. “Look at that,” Phelan said. At the far left of the picture, in a break in the reeds, stood a sunlit doe, her hooves at the waterline and her head lifted and turned toward the rest of the shot, ears flaring. She looked ready to run.

  “No. Over there.”

  Phelan transferred his gaze to the picture’s right side. One tall fattish bird with a long bill stood by itself, facing back toward the deer, though too far away to see it. Behind the bird was a hump from which extended a thick branch that grew long and then…

  “What’s that darker thing?”

  “Keep going,” Ben said. His hands were now tucked in his armpits.

  In the next shot, the long-billed bird stood as before, except now it more nearly faced the camera, and Phelan could just make out the paddle-shape of the end of its bill that rested on its feathers. The hump was taller and the branch raised into the sky. But blurred. Phelan snatched up the next one, pretty sure what he’d see.

  The photographer had caught the branch—some kind of sword—just as it fell onto the bird, and the upper part of the branch was bifurcated—two arms. The dark hump, which had to be a man, was compressed again.

  Ben had captured a few frames of a man in the wetlands murdering a bird.

  “Chopped the everlivin’ shit out of him, didn’t he?”

  “Little pieces. I think. I didn’t go look.”

  “Machete?”

  “Maybe. You tell me.”

  Phelan squinted. “Blade’s straight. Bayonet. Christ.” In the following photo, some few features of the hump could be discerned. Two lighter specks in the black. Eyes. Below them, a white glint…teeth.

  “Why in hell didn’t you take him close-up,” Phelan said softly.

  “I know, I know!” Ben’s face was anguished. “My friend was using his zoom for class. If you’re mad, I understand. Man, do I.”

  The boy dug the heels of his hands into his temples and clamped his head. “And I didn’t even shoot him leaving.”

  “See him well enough to describe him? Concentrate.”

  “I don’t know, old? I didn’t budge, Tom. Just a big fat chicken. You probably want to fire me now. Go ahead.”

  A cloud of mortification and vinegar sulfide wafted toward Phelan, who drummed his fingers soundlessly, absorbing, calculating. Finally said, “You stayed up late to develop these. Didn’t you?”

  Ben’s arms dropped. “Pretty near all night.”

  “OK then. There’s chicken, and then there’s stupid. Might be, just might be, I don’t know—you’re not either. Best thing you could a done was not move a fuckin’ inch. I’m not gonna fire you. Next job you do for us, I’mon buy you a movie camera.”

  Ben’s head whipped up so fast he had to steady his wire rims, and his mouth flew open. He practically bowed at the door.

  XXVIII

  THE DOOR TINKLED as she entered Wertman’s. Toward the back, sitting on a tall stool, was a trim white woman in a navy blue suit that could have been tailored in 1950. White lapels. Double-stranded pearl choker. She tipped her gray head, and Delpha nodded back.

  She hoped to pick up information that could airtight-prove Anderson was the Rodney they were looking for. Before she talked to the proprietor, though, Delpha wanted to examine the shop, ringed with glass cases. Like Xavier Bell’s world, this shop. Or so he’d claimed.

  Nothing on the counters that might be slipped into a pocket, a purse. The walls were hung—up high, beyond grabbing distance—with swords, muskets, rifles, paintings, and maps. The sword nearest Delpha had a hilt carved from yellowing ivory in a spiral pattern. Its scabbard hung below, two thick rings on it. So it could be attached to a horse? A belt? Its blade was straight, but the next two swords were curved. She leaned in to read the cards beneath—an artillery saber, leather and wire hilt, Civil War. An older—1818—and less graceful saber, next. Then a very long rifle, French. A Civil War carbine and one from before the war, with fancy brass in its stock. Each gleamed softly, dustless.

  The cases guarded pistols, labeled and priced coins of all kinds from Greek to Indian Head nickels, and jewelry in fussy, old-fashioned settings.

  The walls nearer to the saleswoman featured framed maps. One seemed to be a map of a lake with low, pointy hills surrounding, but Delpha wasn’t sure. Its writing was not in English. Funny faces formed its margins, fat-cheeked men spitting. A map of Africa, brave little sailing ships blowing toward its pink coasts.

  “May I help you?”

  “Oh, I’m just looking.” Delpha craned her head. “Your shop is kept so nice. You must use one of those dust mops on a long stick.”

  The lady’s lips twitched. Close-up her pretty white lapels were ivoried with age. One was adorned with a small pin in the shape of a butterfly made from ice and frost.

  “Oh, yes. My brother is very particular.”

  “That would be Mr. Wertman? Who used to do business in New Orleans?”

  “Yes, our parents did. Now. What may I show you? Not, I think, a sabre.”

  Delpha shook her head. “Who buys those?”

  “Collectors. Long-time customers. Also now, home decorators. But you, Miss—a pair of pearl earrings, you’d like to see maybe?” She tapped the case in front of her, where two fat pearls nestled in midnight black velvet. Not white, not quite pink. Delpha didn’t intend to even look at them.

  “Oh, no…I—”

  “Try.” Smoothly, the woman set the box on the counter, followed by an upright mirror. One second the earrings were in the case, the next they were before Delpha’s eyes. The woman held up one of the pearls, and Delpha saw that it dangled from a short gold chain.

  �
��I couldn’t. I never pierced my ears.”

  “Ears…” The woman waved away ears. “Anyone can pierce. Hold them and—see.”

  Her voice was warm. She must not get many customers, Delpha thought with sympathy, and then, as ridiculous a thing as she had ever done, she hooked her hair behind her ear and held one of the glossy pearls to her left lobe. It felt cool. So close, she saw that the pearl was one of those shades of dawn before the sun hikes into the sky. First out of jail, she’d memorized those shades from the backyard of a halfway-house, and later, out in front of the New Rosemont. She let the pearl drop on its fine chain. It swung merrily, a tiny, lighted globe.

  Delpha had wanted a lot and daily: to be free, to have a room that belonged only to her, not to be told what to do, not to hear other people—to disappear them, to pick her own food to eat, to walk near water and under the sky, see spring coming by the change in the light, have a beloved arm enclose her waist. In prison, a section of her brain was watching, one was judging, and another, a big, hard-working section, was withstanding. Though she didn’t have command of it, there was a dead section she tried not to add to. Most all sections knew how to yearn. A pearl, she had never yearned for. Not even in the top hundred things. But yearning, she knew, lay coiled in a lidless case, so it could spring out at any time.

  She put the second pearl to her right ear. Its luster touched her like a voice. “Are they from the ocean?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.” The lady leaned toward her.

  Delpha cleared her throat. “Real pearls?”

  “You are in Wertman’s, young lady. Only real, we sell.”

  Delpha’s chin slanted. An adjustment had just occurred, a shift in perspective, as she understood she had not been in a store like this before. This lady with the frost pin was a different deal than most people that ran a cash register: she had a connection with the items she sold, and she enjoyed handling them.

  “How much would these cost?”

  “Genuine freshwater pearls. Not treated in any way, their color will not fade. Eighteen carat, the gold. Forty dollars. And—for three more, a deposit, these studs you can take.” Her palm appeared with two ball-and-post earrings. “These are stainless steel. Use them for six weeks after your ears are pierced. Return them, we refund the three dollars. A very fair price.”