Note: Copyright Graeme Smith, the owner of this site.

Chapter 1

Dead Man Walking

Let me tell you about the night I died.

I was livin’ in—well. It don’t matter none. Some half assed place ten miles past the intersection of nowhere and who-gives-a-damn. I’d bummed round some after Momma left, and it was just one more stop on the way to someplace else. Another room in another boardin’ house that put the nasty into shack-nasty, and another job doin’ somethin’ not-quite-illegal for someone who mostly paid when payday was due. Which, the night I died, was why I had a pocket full of cash. It was Saturday night, and I’d just got paid. I’d have been all ready to be a fool about my money, but every girl in town was workin’ a higher class of table than any I could afford to sit at. So I was doin’ the one thing I could do without knockin’ on a door with a red light in the window.

I was walkin’.

The thing with walkin’ from no-place to nowhere is it don’t matter where you end up. So I stayed out of the parts of town with alleys the tourists we didn’t get would have been warned not to go down, and I stayed out of the parts where the three cops we did have would have bum rushed me for whatever I had in my pockets, and to keep the folk with a little money still spendin’. Mostly that meant I stuck to the edge of town, and mostly that meant the rail tracks. Besides. Nobody out there could hear me killin’ cats with my sax. But tonight, I was doin’ something different. I’d thrown away the notes, thrown away the sheets, and I was just lettin’ my fingers, my lips and my mouth see if they could work things out between them. And it didn’t sound like no ‘Kidd’ Jordan, or no ‘Jelly Roll’. I had no idea what it was, but it weren’t no cats and it sounded kinda cool. So I let my fingers, lips and sax keep negotiatin’, and I walked the lines. I walked them, and they took me to the track-yard. Or they would have. They didn’t, because that was where I found me.

I found my body.

Of course, it wasn’t actually me. But damn, whoever it was sure could have passed for me. If they still was able to do anythin’ apart from just bein’, well, passed, that is. No signs of a fight. No knife wounds, no bullet holes. Just a hog on its side, and some guy who could have been the brother I didn’t have lyin’ there. So I checked his wallet. And if anyone had been watchin’, they might have seen an eyebrow raise. ‘Cos he had a wallet, sure enough. And in that wallet was a driving licence. And on that licence? My name. My name, and my address. And I checked me, and I checked him, and one of us was sure and certain dead. I was pretty sure it wasn’t me—but the drivin’ licence, it said different. And some days—some moments—well, they only come but once. Like Momma used to say—choose it or lose it. Mind, she always used to add ‘but either way, it’s gonna cost you’.

So I did it. I took my own wallet out—and I switched it for his. And I took my own keys out—and I put them in his pocket. And I grabbed the hog lyin’ there on its side—and I kicked it over. And I gunned the throttle, and I was gone. I figured the cops would find ‘me’—or someone would—and nobody would give a damn.

And Momma was right. There’s always a price. Either way. I was just damned if I knew what it was.

Not then.

And that was it. The night. The night I died. But there was somethin’ else I didn’t know. Not then. Because I didn’t know Momma was right. But they wasn’t just comin’.

They’d found me.

***

From Fifth on Nowhere-and-Who-Gives-a-Damn to someplace else that might actually matter is a long road. Or a short one—they’s both the same really. Not in miles, maybe, but in place. One’s a place you was in only because you wasn’t anywhere else, but you ain’t in no more, and one’s a place you’s in now, and don’t know if you’ll stay—but don’t know if you want to quit quite yet. New Or-leens (that ‘Nawlins’ shit is for tourists, and if I didn’t know what I was, I knew I wasn’t no tourist)? New Orleans was my latest ‘someplace else’. Like the song thing, there’d been a few places in between where I’d been and where I was, but now ‘was’ was ‘am’, and someplace else was here—riding a street car and listening to click become clack and clack become click.

If you’re in New York, you take the A Train to Harlem. Not that I’ve ever been in New York, but if it was good enough for the Duke, it’s good enough for me. There ain’t no A Train in New Orleans and there ain’t no Harlem, though Rampart Street comes close, and if the Iroquois ain’t no Apollo it’s still the first place in the world to ever run concert jazz. But there ain’t no A train, so I ain’t on it. In New Orleans, it’s streetcars. First ride I ever did the day I got here was the Loyola, straight from Union Passenger. I had no damn idea where I was goin’, and that wasn’t so smart, but that’s another story. Today? Today I’m doing tourist while I look for somewhere’s that ain’t a crate under a bridge to sleep. And tourist means the St Charles, which is the oldest continuously operating street car in the world, or the Canal Street, which may not be old but it’s over five miles long, and at least I can close my eyes a while. Which is just fine, or would have been. Because I swear, my eyes ain’t been closed but a minute, when it starts.

“Hey. You know it, now show it Jomy-Jo. You gotta throw me somethin’ sha. We passed us some good times, ya heard me? Why you freezin’ me?” The guy two seats in front looks three bits of nothin’ much, not that I’m any better. He’s got some muscle, but not like it came from hard work, and the only thing looks like it needs freezin’ on him is an ice wash in a cold river. His arm is round the girl’s shoulders, but from where I’m sittin’ it looks more chain than charm.

“Fuck you Bobby. We weren’t never no thing, an’ you know it. So you can take that arm back and get the hell off this car Or I’ll…”

“You’ll what, sister?” I see the arm tighten. Fingers grab hair and start to pull. “You’ll nothin’. You’re comin’ back by my house, and it’s not dodo we’re gonna be…”

Damn. Or, like, yeah. Fuck. Other people’s business is other people’s business, but Momma had rules, she did, and this broke every one of them. I open my eyes, and check my left sleeve. I get up. I go forward the two seats and I lean past the guy, ignoring him. “Hey Jomy! You still up for tomorrow? I’m blowing Jackson Square, and it gets kinda lone…”

“Piss off fuck boy. She’s…”

I don’t move, keeping my eyes on hers and smiling. I let the blade on my left arm slide into my hand and, covered by my body, I set the point against his throat. I stay low, but I know he can hear me. “Like she said. Fuck you Bobby. And if you don’t get up out of this damn seat and get off this damn car I’ll save her the trouble.” I press the blade a little harder. “Like, now Bobby-boy. Tell her your Momma’s waitin’ an’ you gotta go.”

He blanches, just a little. I figure he knows I mean it. Me? I don’t know if I do—but I don’t know if I don’t either, and that’s good enough for me. It’s apparently good enough for him to. He looks at me, and I ease the knife. He gets up, heads for the front. I look at her. “Hey. Look, I’m sorry if… well. I’m sorry. I’m sure you can take care of yourself, but it looked…” I slip the blade back, though I know she’s seen it, and shrug. I start to stand, to go back to my seat.

She reaches, grabs my hand. “Where you goin’?” She’s smiling, and it looks like maybe it’s not just for any other passengers wondering if they should call the cops.

I grin. “Depends. Is this seat taken?”

She grins back. “Depends. You sittin’ in it? And you gotta stop sounding like a tourist. That’s ‘Depends, cher’ in New Orleens.”

I sit down. “Cher? Shouldn’t I at least buy you dinner first?”

“Sha, after what you did, I’ll call me well past dinner. And yeah. Cher, or maybe sha. Sit down. We can talk all ‘bout it for a ways.” I sit. “Sha, arm.” I raise an eyebrow. “Round my shoulders, dummy. We know each other, right? And I’m cute. And I’m going to come see you blow down at Jackson tomorrow. I swear—you’d better blow real fine, or we might not stay the real good friends we already are, right?” I check, but she’s still smiling. So I drape my arm over her shoulders. “That’s better. So what brings you to our fair city? You ain’t no Yankee, but you ain’t from round here neither.”

She’s smart. Or I’m obvious. I’m not sure which makes me most nervous. Not that girls make me nervous, right? Yeah—riiiiight. I tell her ‘bout Momma’s place, about my sax. Not everything about Momma, and not about me being dead an’ all. But maybe, I hope, enough. “So now I’m sleeping under bridges, riding the cars lookin’ for somewheres to live I can actually afford. Crystal helps with dollars, but…”

“Crystal?”

Now it’s her raised eyebrow, and I wonder if I’m ready to admit I like the almost-jealous in her tone. I smile, and point back to the seat I was sat in before I was in this one. “Crystal. My sax.”

“Ohhhhhhhhh. Your sax. Well, you shouldn’t leave a girl all alone and unprotected, now should you?” I grin, go get Crystal and come back. She smiles. “So. You’re looking for somewhere to stay, right? Short or long?””

“Er—huh?”

She shakes her head. “Short term or long, dummy. You passing through, or staying around?”

I shrug. “Damned if I know yet.” I decided to take a chance, and look at her, smile. “Longer is looking better than it was right now.”

“Hey. Cool those jets some, OK?” I look, but at least she’s smiling. “Well, at least until we get off this car.” She winks. I wonder if she’s teasing. Then I shrug again, this time inside, so she can’t see. Knowing my luck, maybe she’s just working the night shift, but in daylight. “Now that’s not nice.” I look up, and she’s shaking her head. “It’s OK. I get it. But I swear, if you ever want to keep a secret, you’d better put a sack on your head. I can see it in your face. No, I’m not working a Corner.” She grins. “Hell, if’n I was, you couldn’t afford me. But—long or short?”

I shrug again. “Well, I guess long until I know it’s short, maybe?” I take a chance—again. I look at her, and grin. “Though maybe I wouldn’t be upset with long.”

She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “Men.” She raises an eyebrow. But she’s still smiling. “And boys.” I probably blush—but I pretend I don’t. Er—didn’t. One of those. She nods. And grins. “So. Let’s go with long, at least for now, shall we? I think I might just know someone.”

***

I look round the room. It’s neat, it’s near a street car stop and it’s got a window overlooking the street—and I really have no idea which street, or which stop. Or street car. We just kept walking, and she seemed to know her way. I figure maybe I should have asked, but I figure I can work it out. The dollar price is right—but I’m figuring there’s another price too. Because maybe she’s a bee—but maybe she’s a gator. And maybe that makes me a friend—and maybe? Maybe it makes me lunch. I see Jomy-Jo walking down the steps. I grab Crystal.

***

The couple get off the street car. He slings his sax over his shoulder. He doesn’t look at her, but his other hand lifts slightly, then drops. She grins, shakes her head—and takes his hand in hers. They walk—though they stop at store fronts, and their path takes sudden turns. As evening falls, they come to a Creole townhouse in the French Quarter. She stops him, takes him up the steps. She knocks on the door. It opens, and she talks to the woman who opens it, pointing at him. As she points, she moves slightly left, blocking the woman in front of her from his view. The woman shakes her head. She looks scared. The girl sighs. Her hands lift, and her fingers start to dance in front of the woman’s eyes. Her lips move, but if he could have heard her, he wouldn’t have recognised the words. The woman’s eyes glaze. The girl waits—but nothing happens. She curses, spits—then her fingers and lips move again. The woman’s eyes clear. She smiles and nods. The girl calls him, and the woman takes them inside. After a while, the girl comes out. She looks round, both ways, and starts walking. She doesn’t seem to notice him as he comes out of the townhouse, his sax over his shoulder. She walks, fast and straight, looking back every now and again. He ducks into alleys, into stores, and she doesn’t seem to see him. She gets to a corner, takes out her phone, makes a call. He leans on a wall, his lips to his sax, his fingers moving slowly, gently. She doesn’t see him. A guy comes up the street. He’s got some muscle, but not like it came from hard work, and he still looks like he needs a long swim in a cold river to get even close to socially acceptable. She gives him a wad of folded bills. The sax player nods to himself, pulls the slouch hat further down over his face. She looks both ways, but she doesn’t see him. She walks—the sax player follows. She gets to a shotgun house, just outside the French Quarter. She goes inside. The sax player nods to himself, a last few idle notes drifting on the air. He slings his sax—and leaves.

***

Jomy opens the door, walks in. For a moment, it’s like she can hear something—a sax. She looks round, but there’s nobody there. She shakes her head, and goes in. On the mantle over the fireplace is a stick of incense. She lights it, and speaks words to the air, words that make the same air round her shiver. She waits, tilts her head, as though she’s listening. “I found him Memaw. Right where you said.” She waits. She smiles. “Yeah, Bobby did the thing, and he came right on up.” She grins. “You never said he was cute.” She waits. She blushes, then her smile drops. “Yeah, Memaw. Just like we said. He’s gonna be easy.”

In a shadow behind her, a bee buzzes. As the girl leaves the shotgun, the bee flies into the night. If bees could laugh, it would have—but they can’t. So it didn’t. Probably…