Thomas Adcock - New Orleans Noir

“I guess I’m thinking of how we used to mess over them young girls in Vietnam and it’s hard for me to imagine them growing up and coming out okay after all that stuff...”

“Well, if you live, you grow up. You got no choice about that. As for it being okay, who’s to say what’s okay?”

After another long pause, Tyronne looked at Rita. “Baby, there’s a whole lot I don’t know, but I know you’re okay and I love you.”

Tyronne’s love was disarming and sometimes uncomfortable. He was so honest about his own shortcomings and so accepting of hers. Rita used to wish she could start her life over with Tyronne, wish she had met him when she was fourteen instead of meeting Roger, wish she had gone with him in high school instead of Sherman and Bekay, wish she had waited for Tyronne to father Sammy. But what was the use of wishing? Life was what it was, not what you wished it to be. She should just count her blessings and feel lucky she and Tyronne had eventually hooked up.

The whole time they were discussing the girl on Channel 4, Rita had been standing next to the chair where Tyronne liked to sit while watching television. She bent and kissed him lovingly. “I love you back, Tee, with everything I got. I love you too.”

Everything I got, Rita thought to herself. The rub was, there were things she no longer had because they had been taken from her. Rita wished she had those missing things so that she could love Tyronne with everything, just like he loved her. But that was only a wish. The reality was both more complex and much more repulsive.

Clearly, Tyronne had never been molested as a child, so he still had some innocence in his loving. Rita had no innocence left. To Rita, the fierce reality of her childhood was unsparing and unforgiving. Rita was certain if Tyronne knew all the sad and sordid things that had happened to her and all the silly and stupid things that she had done to herself, no matter how much he loved her, he would probably leave her. Everything in Rita’s life told her, no matter what they said or how much they loved you, men didn’t tolerate their women making too many mistakes and indiscretions, especially if sex was involved. Tyronne was a man and, deep down, was probably no different.

Plus, Tyronne was nice and good-hearted, the very kind of man who always has a hard time dealing with people who fuck up over and over again. Tyronne got upset if she threw a Coke cup out the car window. Rita could imagine what would happen if he knew about some of the other things she had thrown out the windows of her life.

He believed that most people were basically good and a few people were evil-minded. Rita knew that everybody could go either way, it just depended on the circumstances and what they felt their chances were of getting what they wanted versus getting caught.

Rita paused briefly in the doorway and hoped everything would be all right for Tyronne. He deserved good things. He was a good man.

Even though he had killed as a soldier, Rita could tell, from the way Tee talked about his ’Nam experiences, that he would never kill anyone in cold blood nor would he understand being a cold-blooded killer, and that’s why right now she couldn’t share with Tyronne that she had decided she was going to kill Snowflake.

She wasn’t going to talk about it and she wasn’t going to think about it. She wasn’t even going to cook up no scheme about how she was going to do it. She was just going to do it.

Some things are best never said, Rita thought to herself as she passed through the front room. It’s bad enough we act on some of the evil thoughts and fucked-up desires we have, we don’t have to talk about them; or, at least, that’s how she rationalized walking out the door past Tyronne without telling him anything other than, “Tee, I got to get some air. Walk around some. I’ll be back.”

Tyronne looked at her. He ached to comfort her but knew her well enough to recognize that there were areas of her life she refused to allow him to touch. All he could do was wait, helplessly wait, until she was ready to open to him. “Rita, be careful.”

“I’m just going for a little walk.” If she stopped to say any more she might not do it. She had to do it now, while the smell of Sammy was still in her nose and the fuck-ups of the past were lingering in her consciousness.

Twelve blocks later, Rita stood in the gloaming looking at Snowflake’s house across the street. Lights were on. A Jeep was in the driveway and a fancy car was parked out front. She knew he was home.

Should she go knock on the door? Should she just stand and wait? Was it safe to just stand on the sidewalk? Maybe he was checking her out right now.

Sheltered by the darkening dusk, Rita simply waited for something to happen. A light shower began. She’d had the presence of mind to bring an umbrella and she raised it above her head. She stood in the rain for twenty-eight minutes, her eyes fastened to Snowflake’s house. Then she saw the door open. He was standing on the porch locking the door.

Rita quickly dashed across the street, holding the umbrella in her left hand and reaching into her dangling purse to pull out the revolver with her right. She had no plan. She was just going to flat-out kill him.

They almost bumped into each other as Snowflake ran toward his BMW. Snowflake had seen the woman running across the street in the rain but had paid her no mind until she was right on top of him.

“Paul Moore, this is for Samuel Deslonde.” Bam. The first shot caught him square in the chest. He had no time to react. The force of the bullet hurled him over the hood of his car. Rita stood over Snowflake and shot him twice more. Bam. Bam. Once in his right side and the other in the back of his right shoulder. He slid off the car, a bleeding heap of inert flesh in the street.

The rain was falling steadily. Rita froze momentarily. Not sure what to do now, she looked around. A few people near the corner were standing under a sweetshop awning, looking at her. She put the warm pistol back in her purse and swiftly walked away. No one said anything to her as she passed.

Rita took the long way home and did not stop until she was standing, wet and distraught but dry-eyed, in their living room. When she came in, Tyronne rose slowly. He had Gloria in his arms, she was sleeping. He gently set her down in the chair and rushed silently over to Rita.

He quickly surveyed her from head to toe, wiped her damp hair back from her face, and gathered her up in a huge embrace.

“Tee, I—”

“Shhhh, shhhhh. Don’t say nothing, baby. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. I don’t care. We’ll deal with it.”

“I shot Snowflake.”

There were so many questions he wanted to ask her. Had anyone seen her? Did anyone follow her? Had it been on the street or in a bar, or where? She had probably used his gun, which meant he could take the rap if it came down to that. Say he did it. Gloria needed a mama more than a daddy. Besides, probably wasn’t nothing going to happen. The cops never spent too much time looking for who shot a known drug dealer. No matter what happened, they would deal with it.

Tyronne hugged her tighter. “I don’t care. All I care about is you back here with me. Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it. Together.”

Rita buried her face in Tyronne’s shoulder and did something she had not done since she was fifteen and had a train pulled on her at a party. After that gang rape she had cried.

She cried and she cried. And she cried.

It felt good. Rita cried for twelve long minutes, tears rolling out of her eyes big as Cuff. When she finished, Tyronne was still holding her and whispering into her ear, “No matter what happens, we gon’ deal with it. We gon’ deal with it.”