William Haggard - The New Black Mask (No 5)

After that odd enough, Dick’s a little more open about things. The elusive atmosphere dwindles; that is, his sneaky ratlike demeanor calms somewhat I find that regretful, but it’s easier on the both of us. For whatever reason, he has to trudge after me all over the city, I accept it and it becomes something of a routine. I have nothing to hide, and I finally begin to enjoy our little game. Dick, it seems, has a job to do, and I've never been one to interfere with any poor soul’s livelihood.

So we strike up sort of an unspoken agreement, and it’s fine after that. Dick doesn’t have to duck foolishly down any more alleyways, and I don’t have to keep worrying about losing him in the crowd, because a tailsman he’s not. From dawn to dusk he stays close. He comes to know my pattern so well, he can drop out at any moment, say, into a bar for a cool one, then merely check his watch and head across town to catch up with me. He walks only a short distance behind me now. He smokes, chews gum, and maintains his expression of utter boredom. After introductions, my customers also greet him, which he openly resents, but, being such a prominent part of my day, I begin to worry about his feeling left out We eat together at Lovebug’s counter, although he always makes sure there’s a couple of stools between us. One day I buy him lunch, and the next day, resentfully, he returns the favor, with Leroy telling me, “Kojak say tighten up, canman.”

“Just being hospitable,” I turn to him and say. He ignores me and busies himself looking through the toothpick jar for a clean one.

Saturday nights, as is my routine, we go to the movies. For years I’ve gone to this Cuban picture show up on Magazine. They show all the old stuff up there, double-feature westerns and adventures and coppers, which I enjoy. Of course everything’s in Spanish which, initially, I see drives Dick crazy. That first time, with Don “Red” Berry up there babbling away, he sort of looks over at me and shakes his head. But after that he loosens up. The following week is Gable night and, believe me, you can hardly get a seat because of it. The first one’s a real rough-and-ready and, halfway through, I glance over and see Dick cheering things on with the rest of them. He’s sharing his popcorn, and they’re all slapping him on the back like one of the boys. During intermission I find him talking pidgin English at the candy counter, buying everyone Snickers and cold drinks, then back inside they go.

After the show a funny thing happens. Dick saunters over and says, “Cuppa jake, canman?”

“Why not,” I reply. I figure this is the big moment, anyway, so I say, “Let’s go back to my place.”

Which shocks the hell out of Dick. He’s using his little finger to pick corn kernels out of his teeth when he hesitates, then catches himself and blends it real nice. “Machts nichts, canman.” Of course I’m confused with myself, then realize I’ve had enough and want to get everything out in the open where I can see it. The truth is no one knows where I live. Not a soul. Dick knows that from asking around and reacts accordingly. Oh, he’s tried to follow me home often, but I would just get him down into the warehouse district which I know like mom’s face, and cut him loose. One night Duke and Reese were tagging along too, and it was a regular night at Mardi Gras. I stayed on the streets an hour longer than usual because I was having so much fun. And the real killer was, just as I was ready to do my Harry Houdini, this crummy Camp Street special floats by, pushing his cart. Now, it wasn’t nearly the same, but I guess the three after me were too tired to see that, and, I’ll tell you, it was a sight to behold. There he headed up River Road, which just winds on and on forever, and those three right after him. Dick didn’t show up for a day or so and was sore as hell because of it

But now I’ve got a feeling about him. I don’t know who he is or why he’s doing this, but I don’t think he means me any harm. And, if he did, I would just pack up and move on, because, like I’ve said, I stay real close to the ground.

So I take him over beneath the big New Orleans bridge and show him my compound. It’s tall Cyclone fencing, and we slip in through this rear corner. Inside is a lot of weeds and bushes, and right in the middle is my camp. What it is, is this stack of oil-well pipe. There are a dozen sections and they’re huge, each one about three feet across. I imagine by now anyone's forgotten it’s even here, because, as I’ve said, I’ve never had any visitors.

With the street lighting nearby there’s a continuous mercury vapor glow over everything, and Dick takes his time looking around. Meanwhile, I fire up the Coleman and get our coffee ready.

“Bedroom, canman?” Dick asks, peering into one section of pipe. My folded linen and accessories are within.

“I move around,” I tell him. “Get bored with one hole and move on to the next.”

Dick finds my little fluorescent camplight and clicks it on. Then he’s rummaging through my book box, reading the titles. He finally pulls out one of my port bottles. “I figured you hit it,” he says with a sneer.

“Old habits,” I reply. “When I was, shall I say, respectable, evenings I would sit back in my recliner with some cold Jack London and warm ruby. It was pleasant.”

We sit there on a couple of cinder blocks, and Dick insists we have the port with our coffee. Then, afterward, we just sip on the wine, passing the bottle back and forth. Dick’s smoking one Lucky after another, and I don’t say a word. Soon he’s had enough and blurts out, “Canman, you’re something else.”

“What do you mean, Dick?”

“Name’s Blue,” he comes back. “Bob Blue.”

“Like Dick better.”

“Don’t care too much for Howard myself, canman.”

I nod and say, “All right then, what’s the scoop?”

And that's when he hands it across, and I’m just floored. It’s a letter, you see, from my sister Alice. Haven’t seen her since I took off, around twenty-two years ago. I was thumbing my way out of town the day the first Kennedy boy was murdered.

“You’re working for Alice?”

He motions for me to read the letter. Which is not the easiest thing for me to accomplish, but I do so.

Dear Howard,

May I introduce to you Mr. Robert Blue, a private investigator from San Francisco. Now I know he’s a little “different,” but a few others I contacted did not seem interested in my proposal, while Mr. Blue seemed genuinely excited about it. Anyway, he said he’d never been to New Orleans and would like to see it.

Howard, I asked Mr. Blue to locate you and see if you would return with him to stay with me. Now before you throw this letter back at him, let me have my word, and I will not consider doing this again. That is all I ask, my darling brother.

Now you’ve been sending me money about every month. For some reason you must have thought I needed it, but that’s not the case. I still have my art dealership and do very well with it, although I’ve cut back some on my workload. Howard, Harry died of a heart attack a few years ago, and the poor old bum’s insurance money would have easily seen my retirement, if that was my desire, so you see the situation. I’ve just been taking that “poor sister” dough you’ve sent me and banked it. There’s about forty-seven thousand dollars in there, last time I peeked, which is enough change for anyone’s fishing trip.

I’ve left you alone till now, Howard, because I knew that’s what you wanted. After your phone call, about 1965, I believe, I knew you had to run it out. Each of us deals with tragedy their own way, and you had that right. Honey, I’ve gone to bed every night these twenty-two years wondering what you’re up to. That, you see, was one of the things I asked Mr. Blue to do. I wanted to know, once and for all, what you were up to now. Whether you were happy and safe or what After that he was to approach you with this letter or get the hell away from you. So, if you’re reading this, he has called me and I’ve told him to see you.