know his boat went down in that storm,” she said. “I know that’s what happened, I do. But sometimes …”
Sometimes.
Rourke turned into her and pulled her close, so he could lay his head between her breasts, and it felt so good. He thought he might have felt her lips in his hair, and then she pulled away from him and stood up. She took him by the hand and led him into her bedroom.
Her eyes were the golden gray color of pewter caught in candlelight. She had dustings of freckles on her breasts that were wet now from his tongue. He lay upon her, and as she looked up at him, her face was full of feelings and memories that he didn’t want to know. He wanted to stay wrapped up in her, lost in her, forever.
It had been them against the world, growing up poor and tough and running wild on Rousseau Street in the Irish Channel. Daman Rourke, Casey Maguire, Sean O’Mara, and Bridey Kinsella. The summer they were twelve, they went to Mamma Rae, the voodooienne, and for a dollar apiece she tattooed blue eight-pointed stars on the inside of their left wrists. She made up a charm and walked backward three times counterclockwise around a virgin’s fresh grave in the light of a waning moon, and then she pronounced them blood brothers for life. It hadn’t mattered that Bridey was a girl; she was one of them. They were all three half in love with her, even then.
Sean had been the one to marry her in the end, though, and he’d kept her until one Sunday two months ago, when he had taken his small trawler out onto Lake Pontchartrain for some spring evening fishing and hadn’t been seen or heard from again. If you didn’t know Sean O’Mara, you would say how he was a cop who’d gone bad, a boozer and a loser who had racked up big debts with his bootlegger and his bookie. You would say there were riverboats and trains leaving New Orleans all the time, and that sometimes the only way out from under was to start over.
Only if you grew up together in the hard-luck, hard-scramble neighborhood of the Irish Channel with him watching your back while you watched his, you would know that Sean O’Mara could run wild at times, but he would never run away.
Or this was what you told yourself on those nights when you lay in Sean O’Mara’s spool-turned bed, with Sean O’Mara’s wife. When strands of her long hair were caught on your chest, and you could feel the heat of her breath against your face.
“Bridey,” he said.
She sighed in answer and pressed her hip into his belly, and his throat closed up on some emotion he couldn’t name.
He had sat up with Bridey all that night, and several nights after, while they dragged the lake and the city’s underbelly of speakeasies and hot pillow joints, looking for Sean. He hadn’t meant to touch her, not even when she’d cried and asked him to hold her, not even when she had covered his mouth with hers in a kiss full of despair. For her, he knew, their touching was only a way of taking comfort from an old friend. For him it was a different sort of comfort—sweetly lonesome, edged with pain, like the wail of a saxophone. His own wife had been dead going on seven years. He had photographs to remind himself of what she’d looked like, but he had long ago forgotten the music her voice could make when she spoke his name.
He touched the woman who was lying beside him now, on the inside of her left wrist, where the small faded blue star was but a shadow, like a birthmark. “Bridey,” he said again.
A smile was beginning to grow at the edges of her mouth and eyes when the telephone rang.
He saw her face change, saw the hope flare like a struck match for just an instant in her eyes, and he looked away. She would always, he thought, be out on that swing, waiting.
“It’s probably only Mama,” she finally said when the bell had jangled a third time. “She has a hard time sleeping nights since Daddy died.”
He watched her rise naked from the bed and walk into the parlor, where the telephone rested on a narrow mahogany stand. She answered it with one hand and gathered her hair up off her neck with the other, and the movement arched her back and lifted her breasts. In the light cast by the parlor’s red-shaded lamp, her breasts glowed pink, like rare seashells.
He heard her say, “Yes, he’s here. Just a moment, please.”
He got up, glancing at the camelback clock as he passed by the dresser. It still lacked a couple of hours before dawn.
He went to her, their bodies brushing together, then parting. He took the handset from her and spoke into the receiver. “Yeah?”
Fiorello Prankowski’s voice, thick with static, came at him out of the night. “Day? We’ve got us another one.”
The dead man lay wet and bloated, facedown on the bayou bank in a web of green algae and swamp trash. Rourke had to pick his way through sucking, sour yellow mud, cattails, saw grass, and the remnants of a rotted pirogue. He really, really hated looking at dead things, and the night was ruining the hell out of his new shoes.
He squatted down next to the body and motioned to the young patrolman who was holding a lantern to bring the light closer. “You done?” he said to Fio, who’d been photographing the scene. “I want to turn him.”
The flash lamp on Fio’s camera strobed one last time over the black water and clawed branches of the dead cypress trees. “Yeah, yeah, do it,” he said. “Christ.” He shuffled a couple of steps backward, rubbing his nose. The stench was bad: thick and gray and fetid.
Rourke grabbed the dead man by the left arm and shoulder and heaved. The guy was strangely light, but soggy, as if he’d soaked up the swamp like a soft sponge. He landed on his back with a sodden plop.
“Shit!”
A baby water moccasin, its black head flaring, darted out of the gaping hole of the dead man’s open mouth. Rourke jerked backward, his heel slipping on the wet ooze, and he almost fell on his butt. The snake slithered out of the corpse’s mouth and around his throat to disappear into the canebrakes.
“Jesus,” Fio said.
“Get some light back over here,” Rourke said to the rookie cop, who had dropped the lantern in the mud. Rourke leaned back over the body. He thought at first the man’s throat had been cut, and then the light caught the glint of a piano wire buried deep in the white, poached flesh.
“A professional hit,” Fio said. In the tangle of weeds and abandoned trotlines wrapped around the dead man’s legs was a thick rope with a frayed end. The rope’s other end was tied in a bowline knot around one thin, twisted ankle. “Looks like he’s been in the swamp at least a couple of weeks, maybe more. You recognize him, what’s left of him?”
The face had begun to undergo adipocere from so much time in the water, turning bloated, grotesque, the color of yellowed old wax. But a lurid birthmark the size and shape of a cauliflower flared up the man’s neck and over his right cheek, and memory clicked in Rourke’s mind: of a round, chinless face marked by that terrible purple stain and made even uglier by a flattened nose pitted with acne scars and small, cement-colored eyes. You couldn’t tell if they’d seen any truths at their moment of the death, those eyes, because the crawfish had been at them.
Rourke searched the past for a name. “Could be a kid from the Irish Channel, name of McGinty. Vinny McGinty. If it’s the guy I’m thinking of, he tried to make it as a prizefighter a couple of years
