Southern Nights Read online

  An item Ice D found fascinating was a strange poem Rufus Buck had written just before his execution on the back of a photograph of his mother he had always carried with him. Decorated with a cross and a drawing of Jesus Christ, the farewell poem impressed Ice D in a way he could not properly explain, even to himself. He had copied it from the book and kept it with him ever since. Before falling asleep in a cardboard box under a stairwell in an abandoned building on LaSalle Street the night he and Spit stole the pistols, Ice D lit a match and studied the poem for perhaps the fiftieth time.

  My, dream,—1896

  I, dreampt, I was, in, heaven,

  Among, the, angels, fair;

  i’d, near, seen, non, so handsome,

  that, twine, in, golden, hair;

  they, looked, so, neat, and, sang, so, sweet

  and, play’d, the, golden harp,

  i, was, about, to pick, an angel, out,

  and, take, her, to my, heart;

  but, the, moment, i, began, to plea,

  i, thought, of, you, my love,

  there, was none, i’d, seen, so, beautifull,

  on, earth, or heaven, above,

  good, bye, my, dear, wife, and, mother

  all.so.my.sisters

  RUFUS BUCK

  Youse. Truley

  I Day. of. July

  Tu, the, Yeore

  off

  1896

  H

  O

  L

  Y

  Father Son

  G

  H

  O

  S

  T

  virtue & resurresur.rection.

  Remember, Me, Rock, Of, Ages

  How could a man, black, white, or brown, D wondered, do such terrible things as Rufus Buck apparently did, and then express himself in such tender fashion? Ice D hunkered down in the box and closed his eyes. He could hear Spit Spackle snoring and groaning in his sleep in another box on the other side of the stairwell. The stench of stale vomit, rotting garbage, and urine invaded D’s nasal passages and he fought against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He had forgotten now whether Rufus Buck had been hanged or shot to death by a firing squad. Had Buck been set up, as El-Majik claimed, or had he committed those heinous acts? In the middle of the night, the fugitive had come to believe, either nothing made sense or everything did. It was in daylight that confusion reigned and the most terrible behavior took place. This was because darkness covered the planet most of the time and was the most natural state. Light became the border between night and night, and it was always, D decided, hell on the border.

  ALMOST PERFECT

  spit and ice d moved slowly through the crowd at the Krotz rally in the parking lot of the Lion’s Hall in Jefferson. The candidate had not yet appeared on the platform but Spit spotted El-Majik and his fellow demonstrators making their way toward the stage.

  ‘Catch that, D,’ Spackle whispered to his partner. ‘We got two birds and two sets o’ stones.’

  ‘Got that right,’ Ice answered, unsmiling, seeing his former mentor. ‘Gon’ be mo’ ’nough, bro. Mo’ ’nough.’

  The evening air was wet and sticky but both escapees felt cool. When Klarence Kosciusko Krotz jumped up in front of them, the assembled white trash went wild, whistling, shouting, and applauding. Crushed among them was Cleon Tone, who had positioned himself perfectly to accomplish his self-ordained mission, next to the speakers’ platform. Krotz waved at the people, leaned toward the microphone, and spoke into it:

  ‘“Judge me, O Lord; for I have walked in mine integrity. I have trusted also in the Lord; therefore I shall not slide.”’

  ‘You ain slidin’, but you dyin’!’ shouted D, as he fired up into the face of the former Great and All-Powerful Grand Beast, tattooing him with three bullets in the forehead: one each for the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

  Confusion ensued, and as the mob milled, D faded back into it. Spit snuck up behind the suddenly isolated El-Majik, the black separatist’s entourage straining forward to see what had happened, and popped him twice, once each into the lambda and obelion. Spit, too, quickly withdrew and headed for the meeting place that he and D had agreed upon prior to the rally. Neither of the assassins encountered any difficulties while making their respective getaways.

  The Reverend Tone stood in his place, stunned. He had not even removed his pistol from his coat pocket. Soon Tone found himself walking along LaBarre Road, headed toward the river. He went into a Quick Stop, bought a can of Sterno, a loaf of Wonder bread, a box of Blue Diamond matches, and an orange plastic cup decorated with the logo of the New Orleans Saints football team. Cleon continued to River Road, where he sat down, stripped open the Sterno, heated it with the use of a half-dozen matchsticks, then poured the liquid through three pieces of white bread into the Saints cup. Before drinking the contents, the fallen minister, his design of absolution destroyed, intoned aloud, ‘“Lord, I have loved the habitation of thy house, and the place where thine honor dwelleth. Gather not my soul with sinners, nor my life with bloody men in whose hands is mischief, and their right hand is full of bribes. But as for me, I will walk in mine integrity: redeem me, and be merciful unto me. My foot standeth in an even place: in the congregations I will bless the Lord.”’

  Later that night, Tyrone Atrevido, driving Presciencia Espanto and Sally Blaine along River Road toward the Huey P. Long Bridge, saw the crumpled dark form that was the collapsed preacher and stopped the car. Tyrone got out and examined the body.

  ‘Is he alive?’ asked Precious, peeking over her Ray-Bans.

  ‘He’s breathing, but barely,’ reported Tyrone.

  ‘Put him in the car,’ ordered the prophetess.

  ‘Sí, La Preciosa.’

  On a bus headed southeast out the St Bernard Highway, at Violet, a young white man wearing a Walkman who was seated directly behind Croesus Spackle and Demetrious Youngblood leaned forward and said to them, ‘You fellas hear ’bout the killin’s?’

  ‘No,’ said Spit, not turning around. ‘What killin’s?’

  ‘Krotz, one runnin’ for gov’nor. Him an’ El-Majik, come to heckle, both murdered over at the rally in Jefferson. Krotz’s campaign manager, man from Sardinia or somewhere, died, too. Heart attack. Heard it just now on the tubes.’

  ‘It’s a violent world we livin’ in,’ Spit said. ‘Ain’ a body safe, I reckon.’

  ‘“The wicked walk on ev’ry side, when the vilest men are exalted,”’ said the young man.

  ‘Amen,’ said Spit. ‘What you think, D? What you think the shape the world?’

  Ice D looked out the window at the ghostly moonlit trees flashing by.

  ‘Baby,’ he said, ‘it’s almos’ poifec’.’

  RUN TO EVIL

  the isleños came from the Canary Islands to Louisiana in 1778 and settled on Delacroix Island, a spit of land at the eastern tip of St Bernard Parish. The Isleños persevered despite repeated hurricanes and floods, and the families that remained were able to forge a living by trapping—mostly muskrats—during the late-fall and early-winter months, and fishing and crabbing the rest of the year. The clannishness of the Isleños is well known, and virtually all of the residents of Delacroix are related by blood or marriage. The entire population of the island—which is not really an island, except, perhaps, in cultural terms—has never numbered more than fifty or sixty since the 1930s.

  It was unusual, therefore, when Tombilena Gayoso, who had been born and raised at Delacroix before running off to New Orleans when she was seventeen, returned to the island four years later with a husband, Pace Roscoe Ripley, and reestablished with him her life among the Isleños. Ripley, who was in his mid-forties, joined Tombilena’s father, Rodrigue, and her brother, Campo, in the crabbing business, and also assisted them in the operation of a small bar they owned at land’s end called Tommy’s, named after Tombilena.

  Pace and Tombilena lived on a houseboat painted ‘haint’ blue, a popular color in south Louisiana, believed b
y many to keep spooks from entering the domicile. Though Pace had traveled widely during his lifetime—he had been born in North Carolina, raised mainly in the New Orleans area, and lived in Nepal, New York, and Los Angeles—he enjoyed the closeness of the Isleño community, even though he knew he would never be accepted completely by them. Tombilena’s father and brother needed another hand, however, so they made Pace welcome. The Gayoso mother, Feroza, had died of emphysema—she had smoked four packs of unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarettes every day for twenty years—six months after Tombilena’s departure, and the men were glad to again have a woman among them.

  When Spit and Ice D appeared early one morning at the door of Tommy’s, Pace sensed trouble. Campo, Pace thought, called white with black ‘piano keys.’

  ‘Sorry, boys,’ Pace said to them from behind the bar, ‘we don’t open until five in the afternoon.’

  The men came in anyway.

  ‘You open now, looks like,’ said D.

  ‘I’m just cleaning up. Come back later, if you want.’

  ‘You own a boat?’ asked Spit.

  ‘My wife’s family does. I don’t.’

  The two cons pulled out their guns.

  ‘Let’s get it,’ said Spit. ‘We need you to take us somewhere.’

  ‘Where might that be?’

  ‘Belize.’

  ‘We wouldn’t get that far. It’s just an old crab boat.’

  ‘Let’s try,’ Spit said.

  ‘Try this,’ said Tombilena Gayoso Ripley, who stood in the doorway holding a double-barreled Savage shotgun loaded with number four shot. She tossed her head so that her long, glistening black curls did not obstruct her vision. She pointed the weapon at the two strangers.

  ‘Fuck you, bitch,’ said D.

  Tombilena blasted him first. His head exploded, splattering Spit with blood, brains, and bone. Spit actually tried to shoot back, but the second shotgun shell shattered his auriculo-infraorbital plane before the index finger of his gun hand had received the relay.

  Pace poked his head up from behind the bar and saw his wife still standing in the doorway, smoke curlicuing out of the Damascus barrels of the fifty-year-old Savage.

  ‘“Their feet run to evil, and they make haste to shed innocent blood,”’ said Tombilena.

  ‘I’m with that good ol’ boy from Ferriday on this one,’ said Pace.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Jerry Lee Lewis. He said, “I’m too weak for the Gospel. I’m a rock ’n’ roll cat.”’

  They both laughed.

  SMART MOUTH

  ‘good evening, people, and welcome to Prostitutes Talk to Christ. I’m your host, Roland Rocque, the Smartest Mouth in the Deepest South, and if you are a regular listener you know by now that opinions expressed on this program do not necessarily reflect the views of radio station WJEW or its sponsors. If you haven’t tuned in to us before, well, now you know.

  ‘It’s one minute past midnight here in Kenner, Louisiana, and we’re broadcasting from the studios of WJEW, located on Airline Highway, one-quarter mile from the New Orleans International Airport. We afford an opportunity to the denizens of the seamy side of life who work in the area to stop by between tricks and give voice to the Lord via the airwaves. Prostitutes Talk to Christ is strictly nondenominational and open to hookers of every race and sex whether or not either can be satisfactorily determined and/or verified by medical science. Listeners are invited to call in with their comments to our free access line. Here’s the number: 1–800–555–WJEW. That’s 1–800–555–9539.

  ‘Okay, folks, here’s our first guest of the night. Come right in and have a seat. There you go. Well, that’s a conscience-raisin’ outfit you have on. My! Lavender taffeta, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, Rolan’, it is.’

  ‘And your first name is? No last names on the air, please.’

  ‘Rosetta, from Sicily Isl’, Louisiana.’

  ‘What is it you must tell Jesus, Rosetta?’

  ‘Well, Rolan’, firs’ off I jus’ wants to thank you fo’ what you doin’. Givin’ this oppatunity to airwave our inmost religious thoughts an’ all.’

  ‘Rosetta, it’s our pleasure and your choice.’

  ‘Righ’, okay. I ain’ rehearse nothin’ now, you know.’

  ‘Don’t be shy, dollin’. Go ahead.’

  ‘Lord, if you be listen, please unnastan’ I wouldn’ be doin’ no nastiness ’less it necessary feed my babies, which there be two: Oprah Winfrey an’ Paula Abdul, twin girls. They three now.’

  ‘How old are you, Rosetta? If you don’t mind my askin’.’

  ‘Nineteen, Rolan’.’

  ‘And you’ve been working as a prostitute for how long?’

  ‘Fo’ years, almos’.’

  ‘Speak to Jesus, Rosetta.’

  ‘Jesus, I don’ do no drug. I ain’ never wan’ my babies be strung up on the dope. Pressure be bad, though. Prince Egyp’, he my man, he like his ladies go fo’ it. Keep ’em control, you know. But Jesus, I tryin’ keep my min’ straight. I aks you an’ yo’ daddy help me an’ my babies stay off it. Gi’ me the strength, Jesus, resis’. That all I aks, Rolan’. Let me do my job without no jones.’

  ‘Thank you, Rosetta. I’m sure Jesus hears you. And if any of you out there in the Greater New Orleans area are hearin’ Rosetta and have a thing to say, call in: 1–800–555–WJEW. That’s 1–800–555–9539. I see the lines lightin’ up already, Rosetta. You bein’ hoid.’

  ‘Maybe one of ’em be Jesus, Rolan’.’

  ‘That wouldn’t surprise me, Rosetta. One day pick up and there’s the Son of God himself on the line. Let’s take this one. Hello, this is Roland Rocque, the Smartest Mouth in the Deepest South, with Rosetta on Prostitutes Talk to Christ. Who’s this?’

  ‘Roland? You do better for that nigger whore just shoot her and her babies, too. Put ’em straight out they mis’ry. They just livin’ off the good folks, folks right with God and country to begin with.’

  ‘Sir, I’m endin’ you right now. Sorry, Rosetta, that’s not typical of our listenin’ audience, I know.’

  ‘That okay, Rolan’. I know what kinds peoples is roamin’ free. They pays me let ’em come on my face, then go home to they wife ’cross the lake.’

  ‘Next caller, I hope you more enlightened than the last one.’

  ‘That was terr’ble, Roland. It’s callers like him should be shot, not degraded victims of society such as little Rosetta there. It was up to me, anyone who wasn’t in church on Sunday doesn’t have a good goddam reason they shouldn’t be deported. Send ’em to China, be force’ to speak Chinese, nothin’ but rice to eat, wear them plain-lookin’ clothes. What you think, Roland?’

  ‘I think it’s time for a break here, Rosetta, pay some bills. I know you gotta get back on the street, sweetheart, so I want to thank you for comin’ on the air tonight.’

  ‘Be my pleasure, Rolan’. Can I come back?’

  ‘Certainly, Rosetta, any time.’

  Pace Ripley sat in a wicker chair on the deck of his houseboat in Delacroix, smoking a joint and listening to the radio. His wife, Tombilena Gayoso, came out, looked at the water shimmering in the moonlight, stretched her arms over her head, and yawned.

  ‘You comin’ to bed, Pace?’

  ‘In a few minutes, Tommy. I’m listenin’ to this call-in show, Prostitutes Talk to Christ. You wouldn’t believe the shit people say.’

  ‘Mostly that’s all people do say, is shit. Bein’ more’n twice my age you must surely have noticed that by now.’

  Pace flicked his roach over the railing.

  ‘Roland Rocque got nothin’ on you in the smart mouth department, I’ll go that far.’

  ‘Come inside, babe, you can go as far as you like. I won’t stop you.’

  She switched off the radio. Pace stood up and took her in his arms.

  ‘Guess I’d better, before you bring out that old shotgun of yours.’

  Pace kissed Tombilena softly on the lips. She put her righ
t hand on his crotch and giggled as she felt him get hard.

  ‘Am I scarin’ you, mister?’

  ‘Honey, can’t you tell? I’m petrified.’

  SHADOW BANDS

  the white stretch limousine semicircled on the shells in front of Tommy’s Bar and stopped. Tyrone cut off the engine and got out. He looked around and scoped nothing moving other than a small, blueish mutt without a tail half-trotting around the channel side of the white wood building, its late-afternoon snooze having been rudely disrupted by the vehicle’s intrusion. Tyrone opened the left rear door and Presciencia Espanto stepped out into the weak gray light. A chain of cumulus clouds extended over the region, threatening rain but producing none for the past several days. It was mid-August and south Louisiana was unusually cool and dry.

  ‘Come out, Cleon,’ Precious said. ‘Check this place out.’

  From behind her sunglasses, the sky looked almost brown. The Reverend Tone, feeling better than he had in ten years following months of tender, loving care from the hands and body of La Preciosa, and dressed in a proper blue suit, emerged from the limo and stood next to her. Cleon had not had an alcoholic drink since being rescued from his Sterno funk by Precious. She had insisted on taking him home with her to Baton Rouge, and within two weeks they had become lovers. Sally Blaine, quite naturally, became insanely jealous and demanded that Precious choose between her and the fallen pastor. When Precious refused to expel Cleon, Sally left on an extended vacation, telling her that she would return only after the prophetess regained her senses.