Louis Maistros - The Sound of Building Coffins

so careless

“Sure, Typhus,” said Hattie. “Cook it up. That’d be nice.”

Without another word, Typhus lit the stove and placed the fish in the center of a large pan. He didn’t gut or dissect the fish, but left it whole. Neither did he grease the pan or bother to search the kitchen for herbs or spices. In a few moments the fish was gently hissing on the pan, filling the room with its smell.

It was not a fishy smell. The smell was the sweet perfume of sunny days and freshly cut grass, of dreams lost but renewed. The smell of long lost children splashing in a fresh water pool on a hot, clear day.

When the cooking was done Typhus retrieved a white plate from the cupboard over the sink. He pulled the meat from the bones without a knife; the flesh of it fell away easily. After carefully placing the bones back into his burlap coffee bag, Typhus proceeded to cut the meat up into small, bite-sized cubes on the plate.

The squares melted in Hattie’s mouth so smoothly that she barely needed to chew. She ate silently as Typhus made mono-directional small talk, West stacking buttons by the door, oblivious. The flavor of it was sweet and light, tasting vaguely of fine chocolate and cotton candy. It didn’t weigh heavily in her stomach and she was able to eat it all, save for the last bite which she left on the plate. To make it disappear entirely would have felt rude to her somehow. She put the fork down and leaned back in her chair, watching the gentle rhythm of Typhus’ lips as he babbled on. Her hand ran over her belly and she imagined movement there. A kick?

yes, a kick

Vague feelings of guilt washed over her heart at the sensation. She had no right to feel whole. No right to feel safe. No right to believe everything would be all right and always had been. She was perfectly aware that no catfish on earth tasted like cotton candy or chocolate or any of the things that gave comfort and joy to small children.

But all of these things were true. At this moment, they were all true.

She went on watching Typhus’ talking head, not hearing a word, watching the quality of his smile. Watched as he got up and made for the door. Didn’t hear him mumble strange words as he left:

“ They gave it to me, but I gave it back the best I could.”

West scooped up his buttons and carefully placed them in his pocket. He was a little hungry and the fish smelled so good that he stealthfully snatched the last square of meat from Hattie’s plate, popping it into his mouth before leaving. What had been sweet on Hattie’s tongue was bitter to his own, but he swallowed it just the same.

Typhus and West were gone. Hattie lay down on the couch, belly full, alone.

Feeling fine. Not understanding why, not caring why.

Fine

By “fresh-face clip-joint” Jim meant a concert-saloon or barrelhouse where the outsiders were clean. By “clean” he meant they were foreign enough to have little or no previous knowledge of Jim and Dropsy’s special bag of tricks.

Of course, the short-con routines of Jim and Dropsy were commonplace enough within the local criminal community of Orleans Parish, and the boys knew they could count on the support of their criminal brethren in a pinch. A general truth of the South was this: Your neighbor may be your enemy in the now, but when a Yankee came to town, The People of the South Stood United For Better Or For Worse.

“Where we headed to, Jim?” Dropsy was pooped enough to jump into the first dive with lights on, but Jim being a young man with a distinct sense of purpose in nearly everything he did would no doubt have something more particular in mind.

“How’d you feel about paying a visit to your dear brother-in-law, pal o’mine?”

“Guess so,” Dropsy sighed, too tired to throw up a challenge. Dropsy knew Jim’s dream was to graduate from the rat killing business up to the music business, so Buddy had become something of a hero to him. It seemed Jim was always looking for an excuse to see that mean-spirited drunken scoundrel play that damn cornet.

Buddy’s band was indeed playing a fresh-face clip-joint tonight-having recently retained weekly work at the Odd Fellows Hall, located at the corner of South Rampart and Perdido. Situated two floors above the Eagle Saloon (and sandwiching the Eagle Pawnshop & Loan Company directly below), Odd Fellows was a concert-saloon masquerading as a private society club peopled mainly with local musicians, gamblers and thieves. “Exclusive invitations,” however, were often issued to potential marks spotted by lookouts in the saloon below. These hand-picked suckers might as well have worn signs begging “SHAKE MY TREE”-their reliable presence constituting substantial cash flow to the local criminal economy. With plenty of suckers to go around for everyone, the resident smooth operators didn’t mind if Jim and Dropsy stopped by to pick a few berries of their own-as long as the boys minded their manners and didn’t horn in on someone else’s game. Many of the old hands even found it charming to watch the youngsters in action. As an added bonus, Dropsy’s oldest sister, Malaria, worked at Odd Fellows as a waitress on most nights. A fellow couldn’t have too many allies nearby and on hand in this business.

As the alley behind Marais Street opened out onto Perdido, Buddy’s bleating horn could be easily detected from four blocks away. Jim filled Dropsy in on the details of the night’s scheme as the two walked in the general direction of Buddy’s noise, Dropsy listening and nodding along the way.

The boys strolled casually through the front door of the Eagle Saloon-a few heads turning warily in their direction before nodding with recognition-and proceeded to climb the straight, narrow stairwell located at the rear of the bar and leading upwards to Odd Fellows. Upon reaching the top platform, Jim gave Black Benny a nod. Benny was a truly frightening individual who acted as doorman, bouncer and occasional house drummer. Jim greased the big man’s palm with a five-dollar bill before sticking his head through the entranceway for a quick survey of the crowd.

“Easy pickins tonight,” grunted Benny. “We’ll call this fiver a down payment depending on the take at the end.” This was not a suggestion but a statement of fact.

Even Jim knew better than to dicker with Black Benny. “Of course, my good man. Just a hint of greater things to come, this humble fiver.”

Jim yanked his head back into the stairwell and presented his partner with a broad smile. “Dropsy, my friend, I believe Mr. Benny is dead-on correct in his summation. If I’m not mistaken, I’ve spotted a party of five been awaitin’ on our arrival. Probably ruin their good time if we failed to give ’em a good goin’ over. Let us not disappoint, old pal. Shall we?”

Dropsy couldn’t help but give up a grin. “Well then, let’s have at ’em, Jim Jam Jump, Amazin’ Champeen Ratboy of Orleans Parish and Surroundin’ Terri-trees.”

A switch flicked on in Jim’s brain that lit his face with instant agony. Faux-misery in place, Jim pushed past Black Benny:

“ Oooh -my leg! Somebody get a doctor! That dog done got me! Mad dog is what! Foamin’ and snappin’ and done got me good ! Saved by this fine gentleman here, the bravest niggra I ever knowed! Ooohhh ! The pain! The pain !”

The air of the hall was a heady residue of things consumed, a living thing shaped by the racket produced by King Bolden’s Band. Supporting Jim from around the shoulders (as recently instructed during the duo’s Perdido Street stroll), Dropsy tugged his dramatically limping cohort through the crowded hall.