Interstate Highway 10, Louisiana June 28
Holly Rudd sat next to him in the car, doing The New York Times Magazine crossword puzzle. Addis kept the speedometer needle on 80. He knew that if he were pulled over in this state he would receive condolences, not a ticket. He tried to focus on what he needed to ask Mickey Burton, the party chair in Alexandria. He wondered how Hynes-Pierce had located him in New Orleans. He kept a watch for cars that might be following him. But he was distracted by Rudd.
So far, she had been a good sport. She had not bolted the previous night when a television camera crew filmed them leaving the restaurant. On the walk home she had pulled him by the arm when they passed a young man wearing a nun’s habit and playing heavy-metal songs on an acoustic guitar. He shared a smile with her at the sight of the street performer, and he noticed that her hand lingered on his arm longer than necessary.
“Have you been happy, Nick?” she had asked. “I mean, well, up until … Sorry, that was stupid.”
“Hard to tell,” he had replied. “And you?”
“Think so. But …”
She didn’t finish the sentence. They walked the rest of the way in silence. Not awkward silence. It had been the silence of memories. He had wondered what she was thinking, but he had not asked. He never liked it when someone posed that question to him, and he long ago resolved not to ask it himself. What’s important is what’s said, he thought. If anything.
Once back in the suite, he had said goodnight. The door between the rooms would not shut tight. He pushed on it and jiggled the knob so the door would stay closed. When he was in bed, the door popped open. A crack of light entered the darkened room. He could hear Rudd
rustling the pages of the legal brief she was reading in bed. Soon she turned off the light. Thirty minutes later, he left the bed and peered through the space at the doorway. He could see her, in the glow of a streetlamp, a figure beneath the covers. He was curious if she still thrashed about at night. He watched her for several minutes. Not once did she toss.
The car sped along, and they passed a barn with a faded advertisement for chewing tobacco on its side. Had he asked her here mainly to concoct an alibi? Or was he looking to reconnect with her? To return to a time before a certain discussion in a New Orleans hotel room, a time before a particular execution? If he could win her back, would that blot out what happened between then and now? How damn pathetic can one be? he asked himself.
Ten miles south of Baton Rouge, Addis clicked on the turn indicator.
“Gas?” Rudd asked.
“No, I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“Won’t take long,” he said.
He exited the interstate and followed the signs to Duplessis. Before they hit town, he turned off the state highway and on to a dirt road.
“Where are we—”
“Just hold on,” he interrupted.
The car bounced past a falling-down shed. The road led over a hollow and cut through the woods. Rudd noticed a wooden sign nailed to a post. The words were hand-painted in white: “For Gloria,” above an arrow that pointed in the direction they were traveling.
Addis stopped the car in front of a ramshackle house. Smoke was coming out of the chimney. A horse was tethered by the front of the house. The front porch was crammed with junk: bashed-in television sets, beat-up furniture, rusty farm equipment. A chicken coop was on one side of the house, a barn on the other. Addis honked the horn and got out of the car. She followed and nearly stepped on a rooster running by.
A thin, elderly black man in overalls came out of the house.
“Mr. Addis!” he yelled.
“Mr. Pearson!” Addis shouted back.
The man stepped off the porch and grabbed Addis by the shoulders.
“I heard on the radio,” he said, “you were down in the city, but … My, oh my, what are you doing here?”
“Taking a few days off.”
“Guess you got it coming. I’ve been crying my eyes out. Just crying like a baby. Even this morning when I got up and heard this other fellow on the radio talking about it. I know it’s an unholy world, but what makes someone want to go and do something like that?”
“Let me introduce you to a friend. Mr. Anthony Pearson, this is Holly Rudd.”
Pearson took her hand.
“A pleasure, miss,” he said.
“Do you have time for a quick tour?” Addis asked.
“You know the answer, Mr. Addis. C’mon.”
Pearson led the pair to the barn.
“Mind them horse droppings,” he said to Rudd. “The nag’s got intestinal problems.”
Above the entrance to the barn was another handmade sign that read, “For Gloria.” Rudd looked at Addis and silently mouthed, “What is this?” He ignored the question, took her by the arm, and walked into the dark barn. Pearson hit a switch and a series of spotlights turned on.
The barn was full of shining sculptures of angels. Wherever she looked, Rudd saw another piece. Cherubic angels. Wise-old-men angels. Voluptuous women angels. She saw a soldier with wings, a little boy with wings, a farmer with wings. She guessed there were several hundred angels crammed into the barn. They all glittered. She looked closely at the nearest one—a woman with wings holding a baby—and saw the surface was aluminum foil.
“And see over there?” Addis asked.
“My god,” Rudd whispered.
There was a life-size sculpted replica of Da Vinci’s Last Supper against one side of the barn.
“Been doing this since my wife died in 1978,” Pearson said. “Started the day after she died. Didn’t know what else to do.”
“Gloria?” Rudd asked.
“Yes,” Pearson answered. “Finest woman ever.”
He led Rudd through the barn. There was not much open space, and they had to squeeze between pieces. He explained that he used wire, papier-mâché, modeling clay, and foil, that he had made four hundred and thirty-seven pieces. All were angels, except for Jesus and his disciples. He pointed out the first angel he had made, the pieces that looked like his relatives, the sculptures that were based on famous people. The facial details were crude, but Rudd could identify two presidents, Frank Sinatra, and Henry Aaron. Some wore pieces of real clothing. Several had broken wings or missing details.
“Don’t know whether I should be fixing the old ones or keep making new ones,” Pearson explained. “It ain’t like there are any rules for this.”
“It’s gotten pretty jammed in here, Mr. Pearson,” Addis said. “What are you going to do?”
Pearson bent over and picked up a brown fedora that had fallen off an angel holding a briefcase. He put the hat back on the head.
“Been thinking about the ceiling. Maybe an etching in foil of what they got up there in the Sistine Chapel. My baby girl sent me a good book with all that laid out. But I ain’t figured out how to do it. Can’t get no scaffolding in here and”—he let out a raspy laugh—“my back ain’t so good. But I was thinking, maybe I could cheat a little. Do it in the house—foil on plywood—and then hang it up in here. Think that would work?”
“I think it would be magnificent,” Addis said.
“And you, Miss Rudd?”
She was, Addis could tell, stunned by Pearson’s angels.
“Yes, sure,” she replied.
Pearson tended to one set of wings that was hanging loose from a fireman. Rudd moved next to Addis.
“This is amazing,” she muttered. “All for Gloria?”
“True love,” Addis said. “Can you imagine?”
“Amazing,” she repeated.
Pearson invited them into the house for lemonade, but Addis declined, explaining he had a meeting in Alexandria. Pearson escorted them out of the barn.
“Are any of these … is there one of Gloria?” Rudd asked him.
“I wouldn’t dare,” Pearson said quietly.
Rudd started to apologize for asking, but he held up a hand.
“Nah, nah. Everybody asks. Guess it’s the natural thing to do.”
At the car, Pearson told them to wait a moment. He ran into the house and returned with a camera.
“May I?” he asked Rudd.
“Okay,” she said.
“You can be an inspiration.”
He took the shot without asking her to smile.
“Now you tell Mrs. Hanover,” he said to Addis, “that I’ve been praying for her and for the boy, okay?”
“I will,” Addis said.
“And she should do whatever’s in the heart. I been listening to the radio, so I know what’s happening there.”
“I’ll tell her, Mr. Pearson.”
Pearson started crying. He wiped his face with his sleeve.
“See, Mr. Addis, I told you,” he said. “I’ll go do this inside. You got to get going.”
Pearson walked away.
Rudd didn’t say anything to Addis until they were back on the state highway. She asked how he had first discovered Pearson and his angels.
“During the campaign,” he said. “After … after the primaries. Heard about him from the guys on the gubernatorial staff. I asked Margaret if the story was for real. She said she and Bob had been out here a few
times, when campaigning. So when I had the chance I came to see it for myself.”
“Who’d you come with?”
You always know what to ask.
He had come with the deputy press secretary. They had slept together that night, when they returned to New Orleans. She had been the first woman he had made love to after splitting up with Rudd.
“A few people from the press office,” he lied.
“And why did you bring me there?”
“I thought you’d like to see it.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
Rudd was silent for a few minutes.
“Damnit, Nick. You’re always two places at once. Always operating on more than one level. I’m not even sure if you can see it.”
He knew what she meant.
“God, did I hate you,” she said.
“For what?”
“For being you and for not being you … For making me decide.”
“Making you decide what?”
He steered the car on to the interstate and kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Between you and my … Oh, what the hell does it matter?”
She sounded like she was crying. He didn’t want to look.
“You know,” he said, “sometimes I think that maybe, maybe you were right about …”
He was edging toward it. Tell her or not? He knew they were both thinking about that conversation and the execution of a man neither of them ever met.
“I know, I know, I know,” she said. “That’s what makes it so god-damn awful and sad. Don’t you see that? Don’t you?”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
But he knew.
“Oh, forget it. We should’ve hashed this all out years ago. It doesn’t matter now. It really doesn’t. Really. I called you up after the assassination because I felt bad. Not only for that, but because I, I—”
“Never returned my calls?”
“Yeah—and never gave you the chance.”
“For what?”
“To be mad at me. To tell me you were.”
And this is your expiation? Be by my side, so poor Nick can let it all out? And you can move on. Be with what’s-his face.
“So now you’re giving me the chance?”
“No, that’s not it. I thought that …”
“Thought what?”
“Just that it would be good to see you and …”
Now that you’re serious with someone else.
“And see if …”
“See what?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t.”
Addis stared at the stripes on the road. She can’t say it, he thought. She can’t tell me she’s doing a compare-and-contrast before making a decision.
“And why, why really did you ask me to come down here with you?” Rudd said.
“For your help.”
“That’s it.”
“Holly …”
She waited for more. But he did not know how to continue.
“Then it looks like,” she said, “we both got what we wanted.”
Rudd picked up the crossword puzzle and pulled a pen out of her pocketbook.
“How much longer do we have?” she asked.
He looked at her. Her face was red, her eyes wet.
“About two-and-a-half hours,” he said.
“Okay,” she said. “If you want me to drive some, let me know.”
She stared at the puzzle and then wrote over several letters.
Mickey Burton was waiting for them at the bar in the Chesterfield Hotel. He was in his late twenties, short, big-eared, and wide-mouthed. He shook hands with Addis and his eyes drifted toward Rudd’s chest. He took them on a brief tour of the hotel, which had been owned by his family for four generations. He noted that his grandfather had kept a suite on reserve for Huey Long’s “private meetings.” Then Rudd excused herself to stroll through town.
Burton brought Addis to the restaurant. He pointed at three elderly men sitting in a booth. “I invited some of the old boys down, but first we can talk,” he said.
The two sat at the empty bar.
“Got a call this morning from Joe Rego,” Burton said. “From Mumfries’s Texas organization. He asked if I’m ready to endorse Mumfries. Shit, I say to myself, they’re faster than a hound. He said they’re calling all the chairs. ‘In Louisiana?’ I asked. ‘Everywhere … So, Mickey, what’s it gonna be?’ I say, ‘Joe, you probably got me, but I got to get used to the fact first, alright?’ He gave me the usual line: ‘We’re going to remember the early ones.’ I know that. ‘Put me down as a leaner,’ I said, ‘But I’m
not getting married today.’ Especially when I know you’re coming to see me.”
“That’s not what I’m here about.”
Burton lit up a cigarette and moved the ashtray away from Addis.
“Yeah, but Margaret may … And I’ve always liked her. When my mother was dying, she—”
“Mickey, that’s really not why I came,” Addis interrupted.
As if your endorsement is so damn important.
“Sure, sure. But can’t blame me for thinking that … .”
“No, I can’t. Could I get a Coke, please?”
Burton whistled at the bartender.
“It’s that land deal I called you about.”
“And that don’t have anything to do with why Joe Rego’s bothering with me? Only doing it for the history books?”
“I’m finishing up a job.”
The bartender placed a Coke in front of Addis.
“Okay,” Burton said. “I asked around. Found out a little. Mostly what you know. Hanovers bought this parcel in a stretch called Blue Ridge. On the edge of the state forest. Don’t know why it’s called that. There’s no ridge. But it’s a nice spot, near-the Calcasieu River. Pretty remote, but not too far from Route One-sixty-five. Then sometime later they sold it to these boys putting together an industrial park deal, to go with expanding a local airstrip into a real airport. They were going to get companies to set up manufacturing right next to it. Fly parts in, assemble the goods, fly’em out. They were trying to line up Southern Chicken for a processing plant, too.”
“And then what happened?”
“Deal fell through. One of the banks financing it went belly-up. The state pulled out.”
“The state?”
“Yeah. Money for the airport was coming from the state industrial development fund. But only when the private money got squared.”
“The fund set up when Bob was governor?”
“Yeah, but the private money never came together, so Baton Rouge never had to do anything. One way to look at it, though, is that the Hanovers were the only ones who made any money off this land.”
“Who owned it before the Hanovers?”
“Not sure. Some partnership. A local before that.”
“Who owns it now?”
“Think it’s the same guys who bought it from the Hanovers. But it’s been pretty quiet ever since.”
Addis tilted his head toward the old men still sitting in the booth. “Let’s go say hello.”
The men were arguing over whether the local high school football team could win its third state championship in a row this coming fall. “We’re crazy about the Cougars,” Burton explained to Addis. He waited for a pause in the conversation and then introduced him.
“That’s Mr. Andrew Manning, used to be mayor. That’s Mr. Shepherd Vaullet, used to head up the First National. And that’s Billy Irwin, Senior used to be state senator, then handed the seat to Billy, Junior”
“A lot of used-to-be’s at this table,” Manning said.
The others laughed.
“Sorry about the governor,” Manning said to Addis.
His table-mates muttered their condolences.
Burton and Addis sat down. Addis started to explain why he was in town.
“Know all about it,” Manning said. “That British fellow came through here. He found me at the barber shop. He went out to Shep’s house. Asking his questions in that snotty, smart-ass way. ‘Just looking for the truth,’ he said. ‘No one should be afraid of telling the truth.’ Fuck him.”
“That’s what I told him,” Shepherd said.
“And I chased him out of the barber shop,” Manning said. “And told Mickey about it. Because I’m a loyal party man. Always been. Even when someone in the party bad-mouths the party and then becomes attorney general and then governor, I’m loyal. That’s what loyalty is, sticking to a friend or a party, even when you think they’re doing something wrong.”
Hell, old wounds sure stay tender. Stop busting my balls.
“I appreciate that, Mayor,” Addis said.
“Glad someone does,” Manning said. “And when someone helps you get something—like, say, a nice big house in Washington—you stick to him, when it’s his turn. Right?”
Joe Rego called you, too?
“I see your point,” Addis said.
“Do you?”
“So how can we help?” Irwin interrupted.
“Just wondering what you remember about Blue Ridge and the airport deal?” Addis said.
“Wasn’t a local deal,” Vaullet said. “They came out of Baton Rouge. We had some meetings. They were buying up land near the old strip. Said they had friends in Baton Rouge who were helping. Had a bank behind them. One of them owned dog tracks down state. Another was in the construction business. They seemed serious. Then the money wasn’t there. That was it.”
“Were any of them connected to Chasie Mason?” Addis asked.
“Now, why are you asking about that?” Manning said.
“I’m just asking.” Addis said. “Covering all the bases.”
“It was a damn shame what happened in that family. Picture it from Chasie’s side. Couldn’t see his own grandson,” Manning said.
“You got to understand something, Mr. Addis,” Vaullet said. “Chasie knew everyone. Knew all of us. I counted him as a friend, and everyone else at this table probably did.” The other two nodded. “Asking if a businessman in Louisiana was connected to Chasie Mason is like asking if one wave in the ocean was connected to another. But the boys on the airport deal never mentioned his name, far as I can recall.”
“Never did,” Manning said. “Can’t blame this on a dead man.”
Did anyone know, Addis asked, about this partnership that sold the land to the Hanovers? No one did.
“Listen, Mr. Addis,” Manning said. “Us codgers at this table saw our share of deals made on the windy side of the street. It’s no different here than in Baton Rouge or where you come from. But I don’t remember anything about this business that would lose me any peace of mind.”
“Why do you think the Hanovers bought the land?” Addis asked.
“Hell, why should we know?” Manning said. “Seems to me you know someone who knows. You should be swimming upstream.”
“She says it was Bob’s idea.”
Vaullet let out a guffaw. “How old was the boy, when this happened?”
“A year or so when they bought it.”
“Then she knew,” Gaullet remarked.
“How do you know that, Shep?” Burton asked.
“Mickey, I was a banker for forty-seven years. I saw lots of couples come in through those doors. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. Sometimes the wife would be all quiet, just like the little woman. But if she’d just been a new mother, she’d ask questions, a tubful of questions. She knew exactly how much money they had and what they didn’t have.”
“Maybe you should ask Mumfries for the lowdown,” Manning snorted.
“Oh, shut up with that, Andy,” Irwin said.
“Why Mumfries?” Addis asked.
“His idea of a bad joke, right Andy?” Irwin said.
“Right. I’m a batty old man. That’s all.”
Addis didn’t understand. He turned to Burton. The young party chair was biting his lip.
Addis thanked the men for their time.
“And tell Margaret,” Irwin said, “that we’re all sorry.”
“Yeah, tell her,” Manning added, “we wish her well … and that we hope she and the boy come home soon.”
Addis and Burton were sitting at a table on the front porch of the hotel, eating the chicken sandwiches they had ordered and waiting for Rudd to return.
“What was all that,” Addis asked, “about me asking Mumfries?”
“I dunno. Geezer gibberish.”
You don’t bite your lip at gibberish.
“No, I don’t think so, Mickey.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Then we’ll talk about nothing for a while.”
“A stupid story.”
“About?”
“Just local bull.”
“All politics is local. Mickey. Tell me.”
Burton’s face looked like it was in a vice.
“Okay. I’m only guessing. But there’s this story my father told me about. He’s dead, but he was in with all those guys. He heard it from them. You know the accident, the one with Jack, when Bob was governor?”
“Of course.”
“Well, this rumor went around back then that the local paper up in Natchitoches Parish had a story it was going to run that said a state trooper smelled alcohol on Hanover’s breath when they pulled him out of the truck. But the paper was one of those weeklies owned by the Mumfries family. The story never came out. Some people thought, you know, since the Mumfries were close to the Masons, even if Chasie and Margaret weren’t speaking, that … well, you know. Then when he picked Mumfries, the old-timers said, ‘Hey, we know why.’ You never heard any of this?”
Addis said no.
“Well, it was only talk.”
“Only talk,” Addis repeated. He sucked in an ice cube from his glass and swirled it in his mouth.
One dead man can change a lot of history.
A waiter brought Burton another beer and Addis a Coke.
“You know my dad told me not to get involved in all this,” Burton said.
“In what?”
“Politics. Wanted me to tend to the hotel and look after a pipe-fitting business he co-owned. Pissed I went off to law school. Know what he told me once?”
“What?” Addis asked.
“Told me, ‘The only thing wrong with politics is politicians. You gotta sign up with somebody. And that means you’re signing up with everything that person ever done.’”
“Pretty insightful. And you didn’t take his advice?”
Burton took a swig of beer.
“Hell, you want to run pipe fitters all day?”
“I wouldn’t know what that’s like,” Addis said.
“Guess you wouldn’t.”
“Wonder where your lady friend is,” Burton said.
“Me, too.”