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Authors: James Lee Burke
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To sit and wait for misfortune to befall him was insane. He had heard over and over about people surrendering control during times of adversity. Screw that. He thumbed through his Rolodex and punched a number into his desk phone.
Howd you get this number? a voice with a New Orleans accent said.
You gave it to me, Artie.
Then fuck me.
Hugo Cistranos says you offered him your Caddy to clip me.
Hes lying. I value my Caddy. Its a collectible.
Hugo is lots of things, but a liar isnt one of them.
You should know. Hugo is your employee, not mine. I dont hire psychopaths.
Im not guilty of what you think.
Yeah? What might that be? What might you be guilty of, Nicholas?
Nick could hear the telephone wires humming in the silence.
You dont want to say? I dont think theres a tap on my line. If you cant wash your sins with your old podna Artie Rooney, who can you trust, Nicholas?
Its Nick. You told Hugo my family name was Dolinski?
Its not?
Yeah, it is, because my grandfather had to change it so him and his family didnt end up in a soap dish. They had to change it so the anti-Semite Irish cocksuckers in Roosevelts State Department wouldnt shut them out of the country.
Thats a heartbreaking story, Nick. Maybe you could sell it as one of those docudramas? Didnt your grandfather used to sell shoestrings door-to-door along Magazine?
Thats right, with Tennessee Williams. They also ran a soup kitchen together in the Quarter. His name is in a couple of books about Tennessee Williams.
Nick could hear Artie laughing. Your grandfather and a world-famous country singer sold soup to winos? Famous, rich guys do that a lot, Artie said. When youre in Houston or Big D, drop around. Life is no fun without you. By the way, tell Hugo he owes me. For that matter, so do you.
The line went dead.
NICK DETERMINED THAT his angst and funk would not control the rest of his day. He rented huge fat inner tubes in town, big enough to float a piano on. He stopped by the bakery and bought a carrot cake glazed with white icing and scrolled with chains of pink and green flowers. He packed a half-gallon of peach ice cream in dry ice. He put on a pair of beach sandals and scarlet rayon boxing trunks that hung to his knees, and walked his children down to the riverside and ran a long nylon cord through all the tubes, lacing them together so they would not become separated as they floated downstream toward the rapids.
Nick was first in the chain, ensconced in his tube, his skin fish-belly white, wraparound black Ray-Bans on his face. The shade trees slid by overhead, the sunlight spangling in their leaves. He laid his neck on the rubber, its warm petrochemical smell somehow comforting, the current tickling his spine, his wrists trailing in the water. Up ahead was a partial dam that channeled the current through a narrow opening. He could hear the sound of the rapids growing in volume and intensity and feel the tug of the river redirecting his course.
Suddenly, he and his children were sliding with the waves through the gap, rocketing through white water and geysers of foam, their own happy screams joining those of the other floaters, the sun overhead as blinding as an arc welders torch.
The whirlpool by the deep cut under the embankment disappeared behind them, powerless to reach out and draw Nicks family into its maw.
They dragged their tubes out on the shoals and paid a kid with a truck to drive them upstream so they could refloat the river. They stayed in the water until sunset, whipping through the rapids like old pros. At the end of the day, Nick was glowing with sunburn, his hair and oversize boxing trunks gritty with sand, his heart swelling with pride in himself and in his children and the things he owned and the good life he
To sit and wait for misfortune to befall him was insane. He had heard over and over about people surrendering control during times of adversity. Screw that. He thumbed through his Rolodex and punched a number into his desk phone.
Howd you get this number? a voice with a New Orleans accent said.
You gave it to me, Artie.
Then fuck me.
Hugo Cistranos says you offered him your Caddy to clip me.
Hes lying. I value my Caddy. Its a collectible.
Hugo is lots of things, but a liar isnt one of them.
You should know. Hugo is your employee, not mine. I dont hire psychopaths.
Im not guilty of what you think.
Yeah? What might that be? What might you be guilty of, Nicholas?
Nick could hear the telephone wires humming in the silence.
You dont want to say? I dont think theres a tap on my line. If you cant wash your sins with your old podna Artie Rooney, who can you trust, Nicholas?
Its Nick. You told Hugo my family name was Dolinski?
Its not?
Yeah, it is, because my grandfather had to change it so him and his family didnt end up in a soap dish. They had to change it so the anti-Semite Irish cocksuckers in Roosevelts State Department wouldnt shut them out of the country.
Thats a heartbreaking story, Nick. Maybe you could sell it as one of those docudramas? Didnt your grandfather used to sell shoestrings door-to-door along Magazine?
Thats right, with Tennessee Williams. They also ran a soup kitchen together in the Quarter. His name is in a couple of books about Tennessee Williams.
Nick could hear Artie laughing. Your grandfather and a world-famous country singer sold soup to winos? Famous, rich guys do that a lot, Artie said. When youre in Houston or Big D, drop around. Life is no fun without you. By the way, tell Hugo he owes me. For that matter, so do you.
The line went dead.
NICK DETERMINED THAT his angst and funk would not control the rest of his day. He rented huge fat inner tubes in town, big enough to float a piano on. He stopped by the bakery and bought a carrot cake glazed with white icing and scrolled with chains of pink and green flowers. He packed a half-gallon of peach ice cream in dry ice. He put on a pair of beach sandals and scarlet rayon boxing trunks that hung to his knees, and walked his children down to the riverside and ran a long nylon cord through all the tubes, lacing them together so they would not become separated as they floated downstream toward the rapids.
Nick was first in the chain, ensconced in his tube, his skin fish-belly white, wraparound black Ray-Bans on his face. The shade trees slid by overhead, the sunlight spangling in their leaves. He laid his neck on the rubber, its warm petrochemical smell somehow comforting, the current tickling his spine, his wrists trailing in the water. Up ahead was a partial dam that channeled the current through a narrow opening. He could hear the sound of the rapids growing in volume and intensity and feel the tug of the river redirecting his course.
Suddenly, he and his children were sliding with the waves through the gap, rocketing through white water and geysers of foam, their own happy screams joining those of the other floaters, the sun overhead as blinding as an arc welders torch.
The whirlpool by the deep cut under the embankment disappeared behind them, powerless to reach out and draw Nicks family into its maw.
They dragged their tubes out on the shoals and paid a kid with a truck to drive them upstream so they could refloat the river. They stayed in the water until sunset, whipping through the rapids like old pros. At the end of the day, Nick was glowing with sunburn, his hair and oversize boxing trunks gritty with sand, his heart swelling with pride in himself and in his children and the things he owned and the good life he
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