Part 3 (1/2)

Cape said, ”Keep the faith for both of us, Father,” and went out of this cool, hushed sanctuary for the last time.

At 4:15 he was on the highway again.

Heading southwest, the radio tuned to a Chicago jazz station, the window rolled down, air rus.h.i.+ng in hot and humid against his face.

First stop? It didn't matter.

He cranked up the volume, bore down harder on the gas.

No longer standing still.

4.

St. Louis.

Nashville.

Memphis.

No set itinerary. Each new day a discovery. Interstates, state and county highways, back roads. Large cities, small cities, rural towns, backwaters. Tourist attractions and scenic vistas; bleak alleys and redneck haunts. High life, low life, day people and night crawlers. The good, the bad, and the ugly. He wanted to taste them all.

Vicksburg.

Natchez.

Deep in the heart of Dixie. Traces of the antebellum South in the oldest civilized settlement on the Mississippi River. Under-the-Hill section along the waterfront; medium-stakes poker game in one of the back rooms of a tavern that had once been a cotton storage warehouse. Five- and seven-card stud and Texas Hold'em. He'd learned poker in his dorm at Ball State, played a fair amount of it since. Knew the game's finer points, but had never had a great deal of luck. Too conservative, not enough focus or concentration. Here he found himself playing in a different style-betting aggressively, card tracking, reading the other players' faces and body language, bluffing, sandbagging, raising to the limit now and then. He walked out eight hours later with over six hundred dollars in winnings. And a lesson learned.

Baton Rouge. Still moving south, loosely paralleling the river on its twisting path to the Gulf of Mexico.

New Orleans.

The French Quarter. Gutbucket jazz, hot and lowdown, at Preservation Hall and the smaller clubs. Street-corner hornmen in Jackson Square. Jambalaya and peppery crayfish and foaming mugs of Cajun beer. Crowds, ancient crumbling buildings, a sense of history as palpable in the sultry air as the mingled smells of beignets and fried andouille sausage, garbage and humanity and Old Man River.

On the afternoon of his third day there, Cape was walking along a relatively quiet section of Dauphine Street. Ahead was a woman in her sixties, alone, big leather bag slung over her right shoulder. As the woman pa.s.sed by one of the overhanging lace-work balconies, somebody jumped out of the shadows and made a lunge for the bag. Kid no more than twenty, long greasy hair, face like a pitted fox's. The woman resisted. He punched her in the face, bringing a spurt of blood, tore the bag loose, and took off running.

Cape chased him. Flash-frozen one instant, rus.h.i.+ng ahead the next. The kid zigzagged across the street, up one block, down another. A couple of other people had seen it happen, were giving pursuit and yelling, but only Cape stayed close. The kid dodged into an alley; Cape went in after him. Halfway along, the kid stopped suddenly and swung around. A thin-bladed knife glinted in his hand.

Cape slowed, but he didn't pull up or veer off. Pure instinct kept him moving in a straight line, even when the kid made a jabbing motion with the knife. He feinted right, avoiding another jab, came back left, and knocked the knife arm out of the way. At the same time he kicked the kid squarely in the crotch.

The kid went down, squealing and writhing. Cape stepped hard on his wrist, grinding down until pain-clenched fingers opened around the knife. He kicked it out of the way. Then he threw his weight down on the skinny body, caught hold of the kid's throat, and held him like that until help arrived.

Later, one of the cops who showed up said to him, ”That was a pretty brave thing you did, Mr. Cape.”

”I didn't think about it, just did it.”

”Still, it took a lot of guts.”

Maybe so. Guts he hadn't even known he had.

Another lesson learned.

Shreveport.

Fort Smith and over into Oklahoma.

Tulsa.

Downtown, early evening, he met a man named Luther Babc.o.c.k who sold religious novelties. Mini-Bibles with solid bra.s.s-bound covers, standard Bibles encrusted with rhinestones and bejeweled crosses that glowed in the dark. Crucifixes containing ”guaranteed genuine healing water from the world's most blessed shrine” and bearing the words ”Lourdes, France” embossed in pure gold leaf; crucifixes with the entire Lord's Prayer written in miniature and a telescopic magnifying crystal in the center so you could read every word. Inspirational books, pamphlets, and videos, a life-size portrait of Jesus on gold-threaded velvet, a devotional music box that played ”Amazing Grace” and two other hymns, a translucent Jesus night-light made out of ivory-colored plastic.

”The G.o.d game, my boy. Spreading the Word in small but significant ways to all the lonely sinners. A blessed profession, walking hand in hand with the angels. Enriches the spirit at the same time it enriches the pocketbook. Yessir, you do G.o.d proud, and he'll do you proud in return.”

Babc.o.c.k was drunk when he said it.

Five minutes afterward, he put his hand on Cape's thigh and offered to perform oral s.e.x on him.

Back down south through Dallas, Austin, San Antonio.

Corpus Christi.

One-night stand in his Gulf-view motel room with a bonily attractive twenty-something named Kristin. Safe s.e.x; she insisted on it. Later, Cape woke up and caught her fully dressed with his wallet in her hand. She gave him a sob story about losing her job a month ago, couldn't find another, might not be able to pay her rent. Odds-on it was either a half-truth or an outright lie, but she made it sound convincing.

He said, ”Why didn't you ask for money before we went to bed? I might've paid you.”

”I don't mind giving my body, but I won't sell it. No way.”

”You'd rather steal?”

”I'd rather steal.”

”Well, you could ask me for a loan. Now, I mean.”

”Loan? That's another word for charity.”

”And you don't take charity?”

”I don't beg, either.”

”Funny set of ethics you have.”

”Maybe,” she said, ”but they're mine.”

There was a little better than a hundred dollars in the wallet. Cape took out all but two twenties and a ten, put the wallet back into his pants pocket. ”I'm going to the bathroom,” he said. ”We'll talk some more after I'm done in there.”

When he came out five minutes later, the wallet was empty and Kristin was gone.