come so close without making a sound. He was tall and thin, with big liquid eyes and a bony face: resembled an El Greco saint, except Nell didn’t recall any with café au lait–colored skin. One other nonconforming detail: the snub-nosed handgun held loosely in his long, tapering fingers, not pointing at them but not really pointing away either. Nell felt no fear until she realized that this was the second time in her life she’d been confronted by an armed man. Then her heart began to pound.
“Mr. Ferris? I’m Lee Ann Bonner of the Guardian. ”
The man licked his lips; his tongue was cracked and yellow. “Prove it.”
“I’ve got a card,” Lee Ann said, taking her bag off her shoulder, starting to open it.
The gun came up, pointed right at the center of Lee Ann’s forehead. “Uh-uh,” said the man. “Toss it over.”
“But the card’s just inside the—”
The man made a dismissive gesture with the gun. “Don’t wanna argue,” he said.
Lee Ann tossed her bag to him. He caught it with his free hand—the gun back in that loose grip, pointing nowhere special—raised the bag to his mouth and unzipped it with his teeth. Then he squatted down, laid the bag on the ground, and fished around in it, his eyes on Nell and Lee Ann.
“The card’s in that compartment at the side,” Lee Ann said. “With the Velcro snap.”
The man’s hand went still. “Well, well,” he said, and withdrew his hand, now holding another handgun, the same silver color as his but smaller and with a pearly pink grip. “This what we’re callin’ a Velcro snap?”
Nell gazed at Lee Ann in surprise. Lee Ann ignored her. “The card’s in the compartment,” she said.
“Your reporter card?”
“Yes.”
“Reporters in the habit of totin’ these around?” he said, waving Lee Ann’s little gun.
D E LU S I O N
53
“In Belle Ville they are,” Lee Ann said.
The man stared at her for a moment: soulful El Greco eyes, but bloodshot, too. Then he laughed, a light, musical laugh, close to a giggle. “Say the truth,” he said. He tucked Lee Ann’s gun in the pocket of his jeans—torn and grease-stained—fished around some more and came up with the card. “‘Lee Ann Bonner,’” he read, rising.
“‘Reporter, Belle Ville Guardian, the True Voice of the Gulf.’” He smiled. “ ‘True Voice of the Gulf’—so righteous. Tell me, Sister True Voice, how you’re finding me?”
“It was mostly luck, Mr. Ferris,” Lee Ann said.
“Yeah? You feelin’ lucky today?” Before Lee Ann could answer, he swung his gun toward Nell. “Who we got here?”
“This is my friend,” Lee Ann said. “Please don’t point that at her.”
He kept pointing it at Nell just the same. “Friend got a name?”
“Nell,” Lee Ann said.
“She dumb or somethin’? Can’t do no talkin’ for herself?”
“Nell,” Nell said.
“Nell,” he said. “Nice name. And nice voice, beside. Nicer ’n hers.”
He checked the card. “Lee Ann’s more kind of harsh, hear what I’m sayin’? Nell’s more sweet.” The gun shifted back to Lee Ann.
“Now that introductions are out of the way, Mr. Ferris,” Lee Ann said, “maybe we could get down to business.”
“Nobody call me Ferris,” he said.
“No?”
He took a step closer, prodding Lee Ann’s bag forward with his toe. He wore snakeskin boots, old and worn, the skin torn here and there. Nell smelled booze. “That Ferris—a slave name,” he said.
“Everybody call me Nappy.”
“Okay, Nappy,” Lee Ann said. “Maybe we can go inside and talk.”
“Outside the best,” Nappy said. “The great outside.”
Lee Ann nodded. “I’d like to hear about the tape.”
“Don’t know about no tape.”
“I’m talking about the tape you made twenty years ago at your liquor store on Bigard Street,” Lee Ann said. “The tape that—”
54
PETER ABRAHAMS
“Flood took my store,” Nappy said.
Nell had a thought. “Maybe—” she began, and then stopped; this
“Mr. Ferris? I’m Lee Ann Bonner of the Guardian. ”
The man licked his lips; his tongue was cracked and yellow. “Prove it.”
“I’ve got a card,” Lee Ann said, taking her bag off her shoulder, starting to open it.
The gun came up, pointed right at the center of Lee Ann’s forehead. “Uh-uh,” said the man. “Toss it over.”
“But the card’s just inside the—”
The man made a dismissive gesture with the gun. “Don’t wanna argue,” he said.
Lee Ann tossed her bag to him. He caught it with his free hand—the gun back in that loose grip, pointing nowhere special—raised the bag to his mouth and unzipped it with his teeth. Then he squatted down, laid the bag on the ground, and fished around in it, his eyes on Nell and Lee Ann.
“The card’s in that compartment at the side,” Lee Ann said. “With the Velcro snap.”
The man’s hand went still. “Well, well,” he said, and withdrew his hand, now holding another handgun, the same silver color as his but smaller and with a pearly pink grip. “This what we’re callin’ a Velcro snap?”
Nell gazed at Lee Ann in surprise. Lee Ann ignored her. “The card’s in the compartment,” she said.
“Your reporter card?”
“Yes.”
“Reporters in the habit of totin’ these around?” he said, waving Lee Ann’s little gun.
D E LU S I O N
53
“In Belle Ville they are,” Lee Ann said.
The man stared at her for a moment: soulful El Greco eyes, but bloodshot, too. Then he laughed, a light, musical laugh, close to a giggle. “Say the truth,” he said. He tucked Lee Ann’s gun in the pocket of his jeans—torn and grease-stained—fished around some more and came up with the card. “‘Lee Ann Bonner,’” he read, rising.
“‘Reporter, Belle Ville Guardian, the True Voice of the Gulf.’” He smiled. “ ‘True Voice of the Gulf’—so righteous. Tell me, Sister True Voice, how you’re finding me?”
“It was mostly luck, Mr. Ferris,” Lee Ann said.
“Yeah? You feelin’ lucky today?” Before Lee Ann could answer, he swung his gun toward Nell. “Who we got here?”
“This is my friend,” Lee Ann said. “Please don’t point that at her.”
He kept pointing it at Nell just the same. “Friend got a name?”
“Nell,” Lee Ann said.
“She dumb or somethin’? Can’t do no talkin’ for herself?”
“Nell,” Nell said.
“Nell,” he said. “Nice name. And nice voice, beside. Nicer ’n hers.”
He checked the card. “Lee Ann’s more kind of harsh, hear what I’m sayin’? Nell’s more sweet.” The gun shifted back to Lee Ann.
“Now that introductions are out of the way, Mr. Ferris,” Lee Ann said, “maybe we could get down to business.”
“Nobody call me Ferris,” he said.
“No?”
He took a step closer, prodding Lee Ann’s bag forward with his toe. He wore snakeskin boots, old and worn, the skin torn here and there. Nell smelled booze. “That Ferris—a slave name,” he said.
“Everybody call me Nappy.”
“Okay, Nappy,” Lee Ann said. “Maybe we can go inside and talk.”
“Outside the best,” Nappy said. “The great outside.”
Lee Ann nodded. “I’d like to hear about the tape.”
“Don’t know about no tape.”
“I’m talking about the tape you made twenty years ago at your liquor store on Bigard Street,” Lee Ann said. “The tape that—”
54
PETER ABRAHAMS
“Flood took my store,” Nappy said.
Nell had a thought. “Maybe—” she began, and then stopped; this
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