Wading Home_ A Novel Of New Orleans Part 17

"How long's it been since Tokyo?"

"Six weeks maybe. Right after the storm."

"You had any pain since then?"

"None to speak of."

Grady got up and slapped his credit card down on the counter for the waitress. He looked at Julian. "If anybody can get through this, you can, man. You know, I always knew you were the best. Between us, I mean."

Julian's eyebrows flew up. Was he serious? Was he serious?

"What do you mean?"

Grady put two dollars in the waitress' tip bowl. "Well, you know, you always had mad technique, man. You were the cleanest player I knew. I had to bust my chops to keep up with you."

Julian felt his face flush. "Oh, I think it was the other way around."

"You kidding." Grady laughed sardonically. "Whatever, man. Bottom line, though, you just got to get back up on that horse. Get your juice back. You're a trumpet player, man. You know how we do."

Julian had to laugh. It was a line from their youth. You know how we do! Fake it 'til you make it. You know how we do! Fake it 'til you make it. Even Mr. Martrel had told them that, sometimes teasing and joking with them about the trumpet player's colossal ego, and how sometimes a little BS-bravado, he called it-was just...necessary. Even Mr. Martrel had told them that, sometimes teasing and joking with them about the trumpet player's colossal ego, and how sometimes a little BS-bravado, he called it-was just...necessary. Act like you know what you're doing. Get everybody to believe it, and eventually, you will. Act like you know what you're doing. Get everybody to believe it, and eventually, you will.

Grady grabbed Julian's hand and shook it. "Go get your ax, man. I'ma give you five minutes."

Grady went to the bandstand and Julian went to his car. The black asphalt of the parking lot shined like patent leather from the light shower that had just ended, as the semi-dark sky held the pale, gray wash of high, formless clouds. Water hung in the muggy air, the dampness coating his skin like dew. He looked up at the sky and thought about just driving back to his room, but opened the trunk and pulled out the horn instead. He took it out of the case, felt the cool bra.s.s in his warm hands. By the time he got back to the bar, Grady was just finishing up "Round Midnight."

Applause and whistles filled the room, and then Grady spotted Julian at the door. "Y'all are in for a treat this evenin'!" Grady told the dozen or so people sitting at the tables and the bar. "Tonight, I want y'all to welcome my homeboy from New Orleans, Blue Note recording artist, Julian Fortier!"

More applause and a few more whistles from the surprised patrons accompanied Julian's slow stride to the bandstand, and as soon as he stepped up, the drummer and the piano player kicked off a lightning quick tempo to "Seven Steps to Heaven." A four bar intro of block chords in syncopated staccato, and it was on.

Julian's nerves tightened as he listened to Grady, an old pro working that rhythm, riffing a rush of sixteenths flying like confetti in a strong wind, so fast Julian could only hold his horn and admire. But when Grady left him a wide opening, Julian jumped in, swimming in the flow. And in a moment it was old times, two friends taking turns, first leading, then supporting, dovetailing, weaving in and out, playing quick hand-off and s.n.a.t.c.h-and-grab and catch-me-if-you-can.

As the set wore on, a larger crowd of patrons gathered, some dressed in Saints jerseys, clearly from New Orleans and hungry for the music. They yelled out their traditional favorites and the band obliged them-"St. James Infirmary" in a down-tempo groove, "Basin Street Blues" with Grady crooning in a gravelly Satchmo voice, and "Little Liza Jane," with the whole audience, now in full party mode, singing along on the chorus.

His pulse racing, Julian felt high, lightheaded, drunk in the groove. And all the while he felt Grady beneath him, above him, all around him egging him on, holding him up. When he felt himself flagging, there was a solid hand pushing at his back; go, go. go, go. And he felt he couldn't fail. And he felt he couldn't fail.

When it was over, Julian felt his whole body relax, his face fixed in a smile of relief. He could have buried me He could have buried me, Julian thought. But he didn't. But he didn't. He didn't know whether his old friend had felt pity, or if everybody's ego-fire burned a little cooler these days. His forehead dripped sweat, but he never once thought about his jaw. Grady's face was wide open in a huge smile as he b.u.mped Julian's fist with his own. He didn't know whether his old friend had felt pity, or if everybody's ego-fire burned a little cooler these days. His forehead dripped sweat, but he never once thought about his jaw. Grady's face was wide open in a huge smile as he b.u.mped Julian's fist with his own.

Not his best playing, Julian thought, but he'd more than kept up. He felt good. d.a.m.n good. If he wasn't all the way back, he was almost there.

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The next morning, lying across the bed with his clothes still on and his horn in his hand (something he hadn't done since he was eleven), Julian woke from murky dreams to a phone screaming like a siren. Kevin calling. He'd just been contacted by a man named David John Wilder, a lawyer for N&L a.s.sociates, Nathan Larouchette's company. Kevin had called Wilder earlier and left a message that he was representing Silver Creek owners in a planned suit against the sale of the land.

"Can you get back to Local by noon? The First Bank building?" Kevin asked. "They want to have a meeting with us. They want to talk about a deal."

What kind of a deal?" Julian sat up on the bed and wiped sleep from his eyes.

"He didn't say. Just said he might have figured out a way everybody could walk away happy."

Julian frowned. He couldn't imagine being pleased by any deal that would make Nathan Larouchette happy. But he was curious to hear what the man had to say.

"OK, I'll be there."

Kevin was silent a moment. "Well, this may not be everything we want, but we should at least hear what they got to say. I've studied all the land dispute cases I can find around here, I've gone over the contract four times. It's tight. Nathan's boys have gotten sharper. They didn't leave anything to chance."

He paused a moment, then added, "This might be our best shot."

Julian looked at the clock, then got up from the bed. "OK, I'm leaving now."

But as soon as he hung up, there was another call-Sylvia, her voice sounding tired and strained.

"Good morning, baby."

"Sylvia."

She took a breath, and sighed. "Well, I got some news. Matthew Parmenter. He's gone."

17.

The news about Matthew Parmenter managed to stun Julian. A surprising sadness swept over him, and now that the old man was gone, he wished he'd been more forgiving about the business deal with Simon, if only for his father's sake. And even more, he wondered what it was that Parmenter claimed his father "owed" him, and what Parmenter would have given him-the gift he wouldn't have been able to refuse-had both men been able to meet again. But as he steered the Neon under a blue sky to Local to meet Kevin and Larouchette's lawyers, there was little room in his crowded mind for thoughts of his father's friendship with the man who had just died.

Before he left, he'd tried to call Velmyra. He wanted to tell her about Parmenter dying and how he felt about it. And about seeing Grady and how good it was to play with him, and how he'd been practicing a little every day and could feel his chops coming back. And about the dreams he'd had about his father. And about Kevin calling and the meeting, and... He wanted to tell her every single thing that had happened to him and every thought he'd had since the last time he'd been with her. He hadn't realized how much he'd been depending on her for support until the rock he'd been leaning on had slipped from beneath him. Now all he could feel was the soft, shifting ground.

She left him a text message-Things r crazy, will call u later-but after waiting a while, then leaving two more messages on her cell phone, he'd decided to pull back. Maybe she was telling him something. Let things be, for now. Let things be, for now. And so he'd told himself, And so he'd told himself, Give the woman some s.p.a.ce. Give the woman some s.p.a.ce. He reminded himself that she had her own worries. Her parents had lost everything. They surely needed her now. He reminded himself that she had her own worries. Her parents had lost everything. They surely needed her now.

He told himself that was the reason she hadn't returned his calls. But their history gnawed at him. Maybe whatever it was that caused her to leave him the first time had reared up again in her mind.

If he'd been paying attention back then, he might have seen it coming. The uncertain tone of her voice that one night when he'd talked to her on the phone, when an awkward silence that had never been there before dug into the s.p.a.ce between them like a fallen ax. The way she'd complained about leaving her beloved students, and the way she joked about what she could possibly find to do in New York that would occupy her while he was busy becoming famous.

But it was on a spring night, right before his gig at Donna's, that the whole thing had fallen apart.

He'd arrived a little early to pick her up. She wasn't ready. But instead of rushing around like she usually did-slipping on her jacket, finding her comb and makeup mirror and tossing her keys in her purse-she invited him in. Her eyes red, teary, her face flushed.

She pulled at the ends of her hair.

Could he sit down a minute?

She sat opposite him on the ottoman, and all he saw was her hands, busy fingers intertwining and releasing.

A deep breath. It wasn't that she didn't want to move to New York ever, it was just that she wasn't ready, not now. She loved her job. Her students needed her. She hadn't realized what it would mean, leaving New Orleans, leaving everything behind for something totally unknown.

His face grew warm, his voice cool. He'd already made plans for them for the fall, set things up.

They had already discussed this.

Anger flashed in her eyes. Why was it always about him, what he wanted?

He blinked, looked away.

She'd tried, but she just wasn't ready to go. And why did it have to be right now? Wasn't it the most important thing that they were together? Maybe in another year...

No. No way. Another year might become another, and then another. And then they'd be stuck.

Would that be so terrible? To stay here for a while?

He stood up. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Hadn't she understood he'd always planned to leave? How many times had they talked about it? Didn't she know he belonged on a bigger stage than any this place had to offer?

They settled nothing that night. After the back and forth had worn both of them out, he'd just left.

He'd gone to Donna's alone, then gone home, had a drink with his feet up on his coffee table, thinking. Maybe he'd been a little rough. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was all about him, had always been.

He calmed down. He'd call her tomorrow, set things right. Maybe they could compromise. A few months wouldn't make that much difference.

But when he saw her again, ready with his words, hers were already in the air.

Look. I don't think this is going to work.

What do you mean?

The ring he'd given her was already off her finger. She'd placed it neatly back in the box, and handed it to him.

It felt as though she were handing him his heart in a box too small to hold it.

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He shook his head, as if the memory were a web of dust he could shake off. As much as he wanted to think about her, about them, there was no point in going down that path now. This time, he would try something new-patience. So instead, he made a couple of phone calls to Brooklyn, something he'd put off for days. The mortgage was due, and Hector, the ba.s.s player in his band, had been offered a two-week gig in Italy in November, and what were Julian's plans? Would he be coming back to New York any time soon, and more importantly, could he play?

Julian had no answers. Playing with Grady Casey had been encouraging, and every day he'd been practicing long tones for hours, but he was still a ways from being able to pick up and resume his career. There was too much going on here, and now-with the fate of Silver Creek still up in the air and no news of Simon-New York and Matthew Parmenter both jockeyed for s.p.a.ce in the smallest corner of his mind.

Real life stared him dead in the face. Besides his mortgage, there were other bills to pay. His money was running low, and even though there was a paycheck coming from the Tokyo gig (a very small one, thanks to his early bail-out), he didn't know how long he could live on the little savings he'd stashed away. Not long, probably. He'd have to decide something soon, figure out exactly where his life was heading, and what to do after he got there.

The First Bank building, on the southwest corner of the square in Local, sat like an old granite fortress next to the old courthouse, surrounded by giant magnolias and pines. The see-through elevator creaked as it levitated at a frightfully sluggish pace to the offices of N&L a.s.sociates on the second floor. In the windowless reception room, a dreary little fluorescent-lit s.p.a.ce, a girl of about eighteen with iPod buds plugged in her ears sat at the one desk next to a large gray credenza. A huge potted plant leaned, thirsty and wilting, in an unlit corner.

The receptionist pointed the way to a conference room across a narrow hall. Inside, Kevin sat at a long, walnut table, dressed for the first time since Julian had met him in a long-sleeved white shirt and a red striped tie, his knuckles nervously tapping against a manila folder. The man sitting opposite him, around seventy years of age and wearing a cream-colored suit, got up to shake Julian's hand.

"Pleased to meet you," the man said. "Nathan Larouchette."

"Uh...pleased to meet you. Julian Fortier." Julian's voice halted in surprise. Kevin had told him only Nathan's lawyer was coming.

Grinning as if he were a dealer about to show him a used car, Nathan said, "I was about to send my attorney over here to meet with y'all, but I thought, what the h.e.l.l? I'll just drive over myself. Haven't seen my grandson here in a while, and I'm sure we can settle this thing civilly so everybody benefits."

The man seemed unduly jovial, considering the circ.u.mstances. Julian sat and looked over at Kevin, his wet, blond hair combed straight back off his face, his complexion pale, clouds of irritation shadowing his eyes. Clearly, he too had been surprised by Nathan's appearance.

Nathan Larouchette was not the ogre Julian had pictured; he was slight of build, like Kevin, but where Kevin's body was arrow straight, Nathan's seemed locked in a 170 degree angle, with a slight bend starting at his back. His nervous smile, almost a grimace, spread thinly beneath the sad eyes of a ba.s.set hound. His skin was so lacking in color that his whiteness seemed to glow from within. His hair, receding inches back from his forehead, was feathery and white, and at intervals, Nathan would reach up with a hand and sweep the wispy comb-over back into place.

"I'm glad you could make it here, son," he said, giving Julian a nod, drumming his fingers on the table top, his words rolling out in a broad southern accent. "Let's not beat around the bush. You've got a beautiful spread of land, which my company has just purchased through auction. My grandson here tells me you're not too happy with this deal."

Julian almost laughed. Not too happy? How about p.i.s.sed? How about mad as h.e.l.l? Not too happy? How about p.i.s.sed? How about mad as h.e.l.l?

"The land has been in my family for over a century, sir. It belonged to my great-great-grandfather."

"Well, now, I know it's hard letting go of family property, but keep in mind you are getting a fair price for the land, almost one hundred and twenty thousand. I've seen much worse deals for families in these situations." Nathan leaned back in his chair and crossed a long leg under the table. "Let me tell you what I have in mind."

And Nathan laid out his plan. The Fortiers could continue to own the house, the storage shed, and the barn, and the land on which the three buildings sat. It amounted to about three and a half of the 240 acres. And the family would still get the $118,000 the land was auctioned for, minus the legal fees, to be divided amongst the heirs.

Nathan glanced at the paper in front of him; there were seven family members who shared ownership in the land, and with all the taxes, legal fees incurred by the auction, and the paperwork, every member of the Fortier clan would get about $11,000 each.

Again, Julian held his astonishment in check. This was the deal? According to Kevin's research, the land was worth at least three times what Nathan paid. And the eleven thousand for each family member was an insult.

"Eleven thousand? That's all?" he said.

"Well, as I say, the legal fees must be paid from the sum. But your auntie could still stay in the house," Nathan said, grinning his nervous grimace more broadly now. "Everything would continue as usual. I'll even throw in an extra $5,000 to sweeten the deal. All I ask is that you drop this ridiculous lawsuit idea or whatever you have in mind, which you will almost certainly lose."

With his last sentence, Nathan's tone, formerly a syrup-covered drawl, hardened into a metallic whine. Julian looked over at Kevin, who gave him a solemn look that did little to hide his disgust. There was surely no love lost between these two. But Kevin had painted an accurate picture of his grandfather; men like Nathan Larouchette cut themselves a slick path in the world while expecting others, without the hubris, gall and money to match them, to just step aside and let them pa.s.s.

Kevin had been right; this guy was a piece of work.

"And what about the creek?" Julian asked.

Nathan seemed puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"What if I told you that I wanted the creek to be part of our property?"

Nathan frowned. "Well, no, the creek would be essential to the retirement community we have planned for the..."

"And the cemetery?" Julian asked. "Where my family is buried?"

"Well, that would not be part of the..."

Julian looked at Kevin. "Let's go," he said. He got up and looked at Nathan. "Thank you for your time."

Kevin had been quiet the whole time, his face shaded with what looked to Julian like an old, long-harbored hatred. But he said nothing until he reached the door of the office. With one hand on the doork.n.o.b, he turned to Nathan.

"One thing, sir. Tell me you didn't hire some goons to padlock these nice folks out of their house, and that they didn't shoot off rifles to try to scare the h.e.l.l out of them."

Nathan glowered at him. "Excuse me, but after the auction took place, the whole of Silver Creek became the property of N&L a.s.sociates. One certainly has a right to protect one's own property. But as for shooting, I don't know what you're talking about."

Kevin glared back at him. "You don't."

"No. Well, I did secure someone to guard the property after the auction, of course, to protect from trespa.s.sers and poachers, but I certainly never authorized anyone..."

"And I guess you didn't have anything to do with what happened to Mr. Parette."