At the top of the rink, a band warmed up with a song from the latest Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie.
Burt met her as she came out of the office with the shears. “Where’re you going with those, Tooz? I thought you was home cooking chili.”
“I was—I am. We had a ... never mind. Burt, who is that band and why are they here? Where’s Dirk?” If asked right now, she may not know her own name.
“The high school band, Tooz. They’re practicing. You invited them to play for Christmas Eve.”
“And Dirk? Where’s he?”
“Don’t know. Why?”
“Call around, see if you can’t find him. He’s the organist for singing the carols, and I want him here. See if he’s...” Had he been with Lee? Was he shot as well? “Just find him.”
“Tooz, what’s going on? Why you so jittery? Don’t tell me Lee’s gone and done something again.” Burt had never approved of Leroy’s ways and never shied away from expressing his opinion.
“Just find Dirk, will you?”
Back in the room, fragrant with sweaty men and drying blood,she cut up her precious sheets until Doc said he had enough. Even then she continued because she didn’t know what else to do.
“Take these home, LJ.” She looped the extra strips around her son’s neck, her gratitude and anger beginning a tug-of-war.
“Mrs. Knight?” Doc said. “We’re carting him to your home.”
“Fine.” She watched as five men carefully loaded Lee onto a flatbed truck.
“Care to ride?” The lanky one with dark, close-set eyes offered his hand.
“No, thank you. I-I’ll walk.” She steered LJ toward the truck. “Ride with them. Show them where to go.”
She’d started to depend on her firstborn too much, yoking him to manhood before he’d shed all the innocence of childhood. He ran errands, worked at the Starlight, discussed money and provisions. He chopped wood for the fireplace and cookstove, did his share of the washing and ironing, and even tried to teach Dup the ways of a man—which he barely understood himself. He was tall and muscular, disciplined, finishing his homework by lantern after Tuesday cut out the lights to save on the electric bill.
Curse you, Leroy, for doing this to us.
“Can I walk with you, Mrs. Knight?” Doc asked.
“Yes, but you must call me Tuesday.” She returned the scissors to her desk and met the man called Doc out front, along with the crew bringing tonight’s Christmas tree. The volunteers would show up any minute to start the decorations. Then to bring the wrapped presents and prepared stockings out of the same room where Leroy’s blood soaked the rag rug. “Go on in, Mr. Warren,” she called. “Thank you so much. Burt’s inside, he’ll help. Oh, and could you ask him to clean up the back room right away? Please.”
“Sure will, Tooz. You all right?”
“Well, of course.” She struggled to smile. “It’s Christmas Eve. May I introduce Doc? A friend of Lee’s.”
The day was cold, despite the brightness of the midmorningsun. Tuesday wrapped her arms about her torso and walked a block with Doc before either of them spoke.
He went first. “Guess you figured Lee was shot.”
The damp Gulf air sank into her bones, making her shiver. “The big question is, who shot him and why?”
“I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Maybe a little of both.”
“He’s running booze, isn’t he? Why else would he be gone so much or need a crew of ‘boys’?” Boys, ha. Hoodlums, every last one of them. Except maybe Doc here. He felt out of place with the others. Had an air of sophistication about him. “What else? Gambling? Women?”
Even with prohibition over, the bootlegging continued. Where there was a flow of booze, one could count on gambling and whoring.
“He loves you, Mrs. Knight ... Tuesday. Talks about you all the time.”
