“I know his way,” I said, feeling the bruise beginning to form beneath my eye. I opened the door from my truck and stepped out onto the gravel and into the darkness. “Don’t tell me about Cash’s way.”
Nae Nae’s house was painted pink with green trim and had children’s toys scattered across her weedy lot. I saw the strobelike flashes of a television coming from the inside. It was almost 2 A.M.
Teddy knocked on the door and relit his cigar.
Nothing.
He knocked some more.
A woman in her early twenties opened up with a kitchen knife in her hand. She wore an old Saints T-shirt of Ricky Williams and her long braids whipped across her face as she jabbed the knife near Teddy’s heart.
“What the fuck are you doin’ at this time of night?” she asked in a high-pitched whisper. “Don’t you know my baby still asleep in here? Your goddamned nephew and all you got to say is nothin’, standin’ there with your white hoodlum friends tryin’ to get me up to get yourself some of that ass that you always wantin’. Well, you ain’t gettin’ shit from this girl, and you tell that greasy-ass brother of yours that I ain’t satisfied for shit.”
She dropped the name of a local attorney who was known throughout the black neighborhoods as “Pitbull” Sammy. I’d seen the billboards and they were good.
“Hey, Nae Nae,” Teddy said, taking off his hat and moving the knife down at her side. “Good to see you.”
“What he want?” She pointed at me with the knife.
“He’s my driver,” Teddy said. “Listen, did Malcolm give you something this week?”
She pulled at the frayed bottom of her Saints T-shirt and tucked the knife into the elastic band of her panties. “Maybe.”
“Nae Nae?”
“You try and take that away,” she said, shaking her little fist at Teddy. “And I’ll kill you dead.”
“Get in line,” Teddy said. He slipped the hat back on his head and motioned for me to wait back at the truck with Annie. I did. Teddy knew what I wanted. I let him take the lead.
They talked for a good fifteen minutes in the yellow light of the porch. Bugs flitting about their heads. She eventually moved up under the bridge of Teddy’s arm and looked up at him, laughing. Teddy picked her up off her feet right before he left and swung her back down to the ground.
He’d turned a knife-wielding woman into a friend. I couldn’t believe how good Teddy could be.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, my voice sounding hollow from inside the truck. Annie moved, her head between the two front passenger seats with the bone stuck between her molars, curious about my musings.
Teddy slid back in and kept puffing on the cigar. I reached over him and rolled down the window.
Teddy rubbed the back of his neck, the seats cracking under his weight. “All right.”
“All right, what?”
“Let’s go see him.”
“You sure?”
“My brother givin’ away fifty-thousand-dollar cars on the week Cash is about to take my ass out,” Teddy said, gritting his teeth and slamming his fists into the dash. His breath came in jumpy spurts.
I started the truck and we drove north toward Lake Pontchartrain where Malcolm kept his house across the street from his brother.
We didn’t talk the whole way. Teddy just kind of leaned into the wind as we rode, puffing on his cigar and searching for answers in his mind.
AT 3:45, TEDDY BOOSTED me onto his shoulders to grab the second-floor balcony of Malcolm’s house. I reached the lowest edge of the iron, got a good grip, and pulled myself onto the ledge. We’d spotted a French door ajar by his bedroom and outdoor Jacuzzi after ringing his doorbell about thirty times. Down from the patio, Teddy told me to come down and let him in. I looked down at Teddy, still in the bathrobe and slippers, and said, “No shit.”
I walked through the darkness of the house, white carpet, gold albums on the walls, and down onto the slate of his foyer and the front door. I saw a Brinks security system by the row of switches but it didn’t seem to be armed. But really I couldn’t tell if the red light meant it was on or off. I opened the door anyway.
Teddy strolled in, punching a code, and turned on all the lights.
Malcolm had a big open den with three big-screen televisions lined up side by side and a back bookshelf filled with CDs and dozens of pieces of Sony stereo components and Bose speakers. A few books on the
“Quite a collection,” I said.
“He’s always been into freaks.”
“A man of classics.”
“Why you always makin’ jokes, Nick?” he asked. “This shit ain’t funny. Goddamn.”
“It’s gonna be all right,” I said. “Be cool.”
“Ain’t your ass.”
We moved upstairs to Malcolm’s bedroom. He had one of the last water beds I’d seen since the seventies and a ceiling that was completely mirrored. Prints of Janet Jackson and Aaliyah and some woman named Gangsta Boo hung on the walls. Gangsta Boo had even signed and dated hers.
