Bandits

“Ask him where Bertie’s staying.”

“He’s at a hotel in New Orleans.”

“You’re kidding.”

“But I don’t know which one.”

“You’re go

Now Lucy was hesitant. “You’re saying you’re going to help me?”

“I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve never heard of one like this before. You’re breaking the law, a big one. But you can also look at it another way, that you’d be doing something for mankind.” Jack paused, realizing he had never used the word mankind before in his life. “I mean if you want to rationalize. You know, tell yourself it’s okay.”

“I don’t think we need to look for moral permission,” Lucy said. “I can justify this in my mind without giving it a second thought. But if the idea of saving lives doesn’t move you enough, think of what you might do with your share. I’d like to use half the money to rebuild the hospital. To me, that would seem all the justification we need. But the other half would be yours, if that’s agreeable.”

Jack took his time, wanting to be sure of this. “You’re telling me we’re go

“We can’t very well give it back.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“He told my dad he’d like to raise five million.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jack said.

Lucy’s eyes smiled. “Our savior.”

7

JACK PULLED UPto the front entrance of the Carrollton Health Care Center. He was out of the hearse when the young light-ski

Jack looked at the name tag on the guy’s white shirt. “Cedric, I’m picking up…” He had to get the note out of his suit coat pocket then and look at it. “I’m picking up a Mr. Louis Morrisseau.”

“He’s ready, but you have to do it ’round back.”

“How about the death certificate?”

“Yeah, Miz Hollenbeck has it.”

“Where’s Miz Hollenbeck?”

“She in the front office there.”

“Why don’t I go in and get the death certificate and then drive around back? How would that be?”

“But was Miz Hollenbeck say for me to tell you,” Cedric said, holding his shoulders hunched, the building behind him, then moving his head, giving it a slight nod to the side. “You see anybody in the window look like an alligator? That’s Miz Hollenbeck.”

Jack looked over at a row of front windows.

“You want people to die?” Cedric said. “You want that woman to climb on my ass?”

Jack said, “Hey, Cedric, turn around.”

“She watching?”

“Look, will you-the second window, there’s a guy in a maroon bathrobe. You know his name?”

“Where?” Cedric said, coming around casually. “In the bathrobe, yeah, that’s Mr. Cullen.”

Jack said, “I knew it,” gri

“Oh, man,” Cedric said to him, “would you leave. Please?”

Jack took care of Mr. Louis Morrisseau, got him on a mortuary cot tucked away inside the hearse, now parked at the service entrance. He locked the door, hurried back inside, and there was Cullen waiting for him.

The bank robber. Angola celebrity.

“You’re out,” Jack said. “I don’t believe it.”

They hugged each other.

“My boy wanted me to stay with them, I mean live there,” Cullen said. “It was Mary Jo was the problem. She’d been thinking about having a nervous breakdown ever since Joellen run off to Muscle Shoals to become a recording artist… See, Mary Jo, all she knows how to do is keep house. She don’t watch TV, she either waxes furniture or makes cookies or sews on buttons. I never saw a woman spend so much time sewing on buttons. I said to Tommy Junior, ‘What’s she do, tear ’em off so she can sew ’em back on?’ I got a picture in my mind of that woman biting thread. First day I’m there, I look around, I don’t see any ashtrays. There’s one, but it’s got buttons in it. I go to use it, Mary Jo says, ‘That is not an ashtray. We don’t have ashtrays in this house.’ I ask her, well, how about a coffee can lid I could use? She says if I’m go

Cullen and Jack Delaney were walking along a wide hallway, past open doors and the sound of television voices, that would take them to the nursing home’s lounge: Cullen wearing a velour bathrobe over his shirt and pants, ru

They came to an old woman tied in a wheelchair. Jack saw her reach for him, her hand a claw with veins and liver spots. He slipped past her with a hip move and saw another old woman in a wheelchair, waiting.

“What do you mean, people your age?”

“I’m sixty-five. Mary Jo thinks that’s old enough.”

Jack touched the sleeve of Cullen’s burgundy velour robe. “What’re you wearing this for?”

“I can’t take a chance. I wear the robe and move slow, so I’ll look sick. You were paroled. I got a medical release. They call it decarceration prior to sentence termination, make it sound official. But I don’t know if I look okay they can put me back in or not.”

“Cully, if they gave you a signed release, you’re out. Christ, you had a heart attack…”

“Yeah, and they took me to Charity in leg irons and handcuffs, with a lock box over the cuffs in case I tried to pick ’em lying there with a oxygen mask on my face trying to fucking breathe. All the time I was in the hospital they had me shackled and chained to the bed, up until I had the bypass. That’s the way they do it. Doesn’t matter how sick you are.”

They came to the lounge that was like a church social hall with its tile floor, an array of worn furniture, hand-drawn a

“Tommy come to see you?”

“Yeah, he comes. I’ve only been here, be a month tomorrow. Mary Jo never comes. I think she’s saying a rosary novena I don’t fuck up here and they have to take me back. With my cigarettes.”

“Can’t you leave if you want?”