BAMBOO ROAD ran flush along a dirty concrete canal that stretched from Pontchartrain to the Mississippi. The road was the edge of the Orleans Parish line and I slowed Teddy’s Bentley along the muddy shoulder, where NOPD, Orleans, and Jefferson Parish patrol cars all parked at weird angles. The sun rose into a thick mass of high, gray-black clouds and the spinning lights made the drops of rain on his windshield come out in colors of red and blue.
When we got out of the car, my mind numb, heart breaking into hard slivers, I heard the sound of bamboo canes knocking against one another as if someone was waiting at an unseen door. Their narrow leaves flickered in the wind of the approaching storm.
Someone grabbed Teddy’s big arm, a cop, and led him down to the bank of the canal. The bamboo continued to knock as the sky opened up and a thick, warm shower of rain began to cover our faces.
I was glad. Teddy didn’t like people to see him cry.
A black man in a tight Italian suit and a hard woman in a black jacket met us on the path. Behind them, there was a tangle of cops standing at a clearing of trees. Jay Medeaux was there and I hung back with him. The canal was long and narrow and dry except for a few puddles of brown water. Someone had left a bicycle without tires on its steep concrete slope.
“Where is he?” Teddy asked Jay.
He didn’t say anything. Jay just let Teddy pass, walk down that muddy path, through all that knocking bamboo, to the police on the hill. Rain full-out all over them now. I saw a few scatter, holding notebooks and jackets above their heads. A cracking sound of thunder far off in the lake.
Teddy’s thousand-dollar shoes were caked in mud and leaves and moss.
I hung back. The smell of the green leaves and dirt strong in my nose.
My vision tilted as my friend moved among them, the way the camera does in old movies when they want to make you feel like you’re on a ship.
I felt some acid rise in my throat.
Malcolm would not face us.
He was strung up in a dead oak tree by the neck. Twirling slightly as if he could still control his movements. His platinum chain twisted deep and red into his neck behind the rope.
Teddy walked to look at him but strong hands held him back.
“You can’t,” the woman cop said.
“Why?”
“Please wait, sir,” she said.
He shook her off, walked through four other cops who tried to hold him back, oblivious to any strength but his own.
He stared up at Malcolm. I bent down and toyed with some wet grass, shaking my head.
Bamboo knocked as if in applause. The sky above closed in like a dome.
Dark gray rain coated Malcolm’s face.
FOR THE NEXT THREE DAYS after we found Malcolm’s body on Bamboo Road, it rained. I’m not talking about a slow drizzle or boring patter that we get almost every spring afternoon in New Orleans, but real out-and-out thunderstorms that flooded the lower Garden District and closed parts of the city. I had to drive with water up to the running boards on the Gray Ghost just to make it to this community center in the Ninth Ward where there was a remembrance ceremony for Malcolm. Basically it was just a fancy word for a big wake open to fans and friends. They’d already had a more private ceremony the night before at this Uptown funeral home. I was there but chose to stay outside and offer a few kind words to Teddy. We spoke. But I don’t think he noticed me.
The gravel lot outside the community center was packed with cars. I had to park four streets over on Desire beside some abandoned food mart and walk the whole way past rotting shotgun shacks. The red, green, and blue faded and bleached like something out of the Caribbean. Water had soaked through my boots and into the black blazer I’d picked from the back of the closet for the occasion.
But the rain hadn’t discouraged the onlookers and fans. Some held up fluorescent yellow-and-orange posterboards with words of love for Malcolm. The words, written in black ink, ran and smeared over the paper and down on the arms that held them high. News crews from local TV stations waited in vans with open doors for the right time for a live shot. I saw one cameraman with a BET T-shirt on standing beside a tall black woman with extremely long legs and soft relaxed hair. I followed the echoing sounds of a preacher’s voice into a basketball court where rows and rows of folding chairs had been set up.
“No Jesus, no peace,” said the gray-suited man at the podium. “Know Jesus. Know peace. Our friend brother Malcolm knew peace. Knew it before the Lord came knockin’ on his door. Knew he had family. Knew what family meant. Y’all hear what I’m sayin’?”
