I spent most of the next day chasing snipe. No one in any bar in New Orleans had ever seen anyone remotely resembling Treadwell’s son. Most of them couldn’t even be bothered to look at the snapshot. He had not registered at any of the employment services, applied for a driver’s license or library card (how’s that for desperation?), rented storage space or a postal box from one of the private facilities. No parking tickets had been issued to any vehicle registered in his name. Local credit and collection agencies had received no inquiries.
At four that afternoon I was sitting in a coffeehouse on Magazine, Rue de la Course, gulping my second large cafe au lait from a glass and watching downtown workers bolt for an early start out of the CBD. Nineteenth-century testimonials to the social position and restorative powers of coffeehouses, hand-lettered, hung on the wall at eye level, at least a dozen of them, most with cheap frames askew. It had been some time since anyone took note of them.
Because I could think of nothing else to do, yet remained more or less in function mode, I called Tito, and was surprised when he picked up.
“Hey,” he said. “I was gonna call you and couldn’t find that card you gave me. It’s here somewhere. Cause I heard from the guy you were asking about. Told me he got picked up in the Quarter a few nights ago and he’s been in jail all this time, so I guess it wasn’t him that tried to rip me off after all. You still got a message for him, I wanted you to know he says he’s getting out in the morning.”
“You be there a while?”
“What for?”
“Thought I might bring by some solid appreciation.”
“Hey. It’s a favor, man. Like I say, I heard about you. And besides, it’s the second week of the month. Got to go see my parole officer. Cute little thing. Always got a bow in her hair, different one each time. Great ass, for a white girl.”
“Has a lot of good advice for you, I bet.”
“Deep conversations. She know what it like here, no doubt about it.”
“Tito: thanks, man.”
“Just don’t forget, Lew Griffin. Next time, maybe I’m the one needs a favor, who knows. Happens.”
“It does indeed.”
I walked to Prytania, got a cab and gave the driver my home address. Halfway there, I told him to swing over to St. Charles and drop me at Louisiana instead.
I was working on pure intuition-maybe the closest thing to principle I had. Connections were being made, switches getting thrown, at some level not accessible to me. I only had to go with it, ride it.
I went up those stairs and into the kitchen as though it were my own. Heard the rasp and scuttle of someone else in the next room.
I stepped in and saw Treadwell’s kid bent over the mattress in the niche. Late sunlight threw a perfect print of miniblinds against one wall.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
How often does it happen, after all?
He straightened. “Who the fuck are you?” He came up and around and had a gun in hand. The.38 from under the chair cushion. I saw his eyes and knew what was going to happen.
The choice was clear: stand still and get shot straight on, or move and possibly, just possibly, minimize damage.
So instinctively I dove to the left. It felt as though someone had slammed the heel of his hand, hard, against my right shoulder. I was watching his face, then suddenly the back wall. Couldn’t feel my right side at all. Then I was out for a while.
I came to on the stretcher. Saw my father’s face upside down as they hoisted me into an ambulance. Lots of other faces watching.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” I told him.
“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “It’s not bad. Take some deep breaths.”
“I miss you, Dad.”
“We’ve stopped the bleeding. Try to be still. There’s a needle in your hand, for fluids, just a precaution.”
“You both were sitting on the car. You looked so young, so happy. What happened?”
“You’ve been shot, Mr. Griffin. You’re going to be okay.”
I caromed down a hall and into a room with bright lights overhead. An authoritative voice: the resident. Deferential ones: staff nurses. And one other.
“Mr. Griffin. Lewis. I know you can hear me. You’re going to be all right. Listen to me.”
A British accent. Wouldn’t you know.