The Sound of Building Coffins Read online

  Another round of laughter.

  “What I mean to say is,” Trumbo continued, “I wasn’t aware that men of color were privy to Confederate ciphers during wartime.”

  “Don’t feel bad, young fella,” Marcus smiled, displaying the absence of two formerly prominent front teeth, “lots of white folk—and black folk, too—have a hard time believin’ there were plenny of proud black Confederates in the South back in them days. I was as free then as I am now, sonny. And happy with my life the way it was—like lots of free black folk was. Didn’t cotton much to that double talkin’ ’mancipation proclamation. Ol’ Abe hadda mind to ship ever’ last one of us back ta Africa—a place I ain’t never been and never cared ta go. Worst yet, when Abe couldn’t get that idear ta fly, he was talkin’ bout sendin’ us all to Texas. Lawdy mine!”

  Trumbo shoved the conversation hard towards its original path:

  “Are you saying you can decipher this, sir?”

  The gravedigger looked up at him. “Why, shorely I can. Yes indeed. Hand it over ta here.” He snatched the paper from Trumbo’s hand and flattened it out carefully on the table. “Spare a clean sheeta paper and pencil if you please, sir.” Trumbo pulled a blank page from the notebook in his satchel, found a pencil. Beauregard got up from the table, offering Marcus his chair—Marcus huffed at the big man, but accepted the courtesy.

  “Well. Now. Let’s have a look at this thing. Hmm. All righty now.” The group of men and the young girl gathered close around the old gravedigger. Wide-eyed and curious, like kids at a circus.

  Marcus stared at the nonsense words on Trumbo’s original sheet.

  U UERI NAD PTEL FUYQ LORD

  EAF VULCFOL IYLRLCO AFN

  EFEHDS SNUB STGSY ORTET

  HSONU ETKDS BCSHE EOAOK

  EREH ESRE PEYR EVWE

  4X5X4/4X4X1

  “Yes, indeedy,” he began. “See, you gotta put the letters in a square. The key—these numbers down ta here at the bottom—tell you how to make that square. Easy as puddin’ and pie. Like so.”

  He drew what looked like a too-tall tic-tac-toe board within a rectangular border:

  “See that? Says four by five by four. Means four times five—which comes to twenty—but four times. You kin tell yer on the right track cause the first four lines have twenty letters a piece in ’em if ya count ’em up right. Go ahead and count ’em. Tell me if I’m wrong, sonny.”

  Trumbo did the simple math in his head. Sure enough, the old man was onto something.

  “And the second line of the key—four by four—but one time. Thass right, too,” Marcus went on. “See? One row of sixteen letters right there at the bottom.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Beauregard. “You crazy, sly old devil…”

  Trumbo stared at the nonsense words in wonder, counting letters: “Yes, I can see—but how do you decipher…?”

  “I’m getting’ to that, sonny.” Marcus, slightly irritated, shot Beauregard a stern glance. “Watch and learn.” Trumbo shut up. Beauregard tried in vain to conceal his amusement. Doctor Jack’s expression lacked any trace of amusement at all.

  Marcus methodically filled the boxes with letters in the same order as they appeared on the original sheet. “Trick is, you write ’em top to bottom, but read ’em left to right. See? And each individual line gets its own four-by-five box. Folla?”

  The first line of letters filled its grid like so:

  Marcus’s eyes swung up to meet Trumbo’s:

  “Sir, I gotta ask again to be sure. A little baby wrote these letters?”

  Trumbo said nothing. Only stared at the sheet in wonder. Nodded.

  Marcus: “Lord, Lord.”

  The old gravedigger wrote the letters out in their new order beneath the rectangle:

  UNEQUALLEDFORPURITYD

  “Says, ‘Unequalled for purity’. The ‘D’ at the end prob’ly first letter of the first word in the next box.” Marcus drew three more boxes for the remaining lines containing twenty letters apiece, a smaller one—four by four—for the line containing sixteen letters. Then he began filling them with letters from the original sheet; from top to bottom.

  By the time he’d finished, there was a dead silence in the room—soon broken by a small voice:

  “It’s an advertisement for coffee. Like this.” Typhus Morningstar held up his multipurpose companion, a burlap bag originally made to hold coffee beans, manufactured and printed by the New Orleans Coffee Company.

  Doctor Jack smiled at the boy. “How long you been standing there, Typhus?”

  “Just a little while—but long enough, I guess. Front door wide open.”

  Charley the Barber: “Shee-it!” Fishing through his pocket for keys, Charley scrambled towards the front door of the shop, cursing himself along the way for letting Trumbo’s disruption distract him from relocking.

  Typhus turned towards the little gal whose arm was still slung around Buddy Bolden’s shoulder. “Daddy find out you in this place, he be mad,” he told her.

  The girl flicked the short remnant of her still lit cigar at Typhus with impressive accuracy, her arm arcing wide for greater impact, yanking hard against Buddy’s neck in the process. “You tell Daddy and I’ll whoop you good, you little runt. You shouldn’t be out neither!”

  Buddy winced, pulling away from the girl just enough to rub the afflicted side of his neck.

  “I’m out lookin’ fer Daddy. He gone,” said Typhus, dodging the smoking butt with casual expertise and sounding not the least bit intimidated by his older sister.

  Diphtheria Morningstar’s anger instantly melted to worry. “Gone where, Typhus?”

  “It’s why I’m lookin’. Not sure.”

  Marshall Trumbo eyed Typhus’ bag and held out a hand, “May I have a look at that, son?”

  Typhus hesitated, but obliged: “I need it back so don’t rip it er nothin’, mister.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Trumbo examined Typhus’ bag. It was cropped at the top and the printing was faded, but the last two lines were clear—and matched the last two lines of Marcus’ deciphering handiwork:

  Used by the best cooks

  And housekeepers everywhere

  The bag smelled of river and fish, and Trumbo’s arms were covered with goosebumps.

  Diphtheria spoke, looking at Typhus but pointing at Trumbo. “That man said Daddy went to the place with the sick Sicilian boy today, Typhus.”

  Trumbo looked up from the bag and directly into Diphtheria’s pointing finger: “Your father?”

  “You said, ‘the priest called Morningstar.’ That’s our Daddy.” Her eyes were tearing with worry. “But you said he left?”

  “Yes, he left. I’m sure he’s all right, dear.” Trumbo’s eyes dismissed the girl’s concerns and returned to Typhus’ bag, as if mysterious answers might reside in its thick, rough threads.

  Typhus gently pulled the bag from Trumbo’s hands, said: “When he left the house tonight he said he had to take care of something unfinished. Said it was a house call.”

  “We best be going,” said Doctor Jack abruptly, no trace of a smile left on his smooth face. “You know the way, Mr. Reporter. You lead. Typhus—you come, too.”

  “We’re coming, too!” said Diphtheria in a clearly nonnegotiable female tone, holding tight to Buddy’s arm. The young horn player resolved to his fate.

  “All right then,” said Doctor Jack—and then, to no one in particular, “come if yer comin’ and stay if yer not. But let’s git gone.”

  Marcus: “Well, I got me a date with a fish…”

  “That’s fine, Marcus. Go get that fish. We’ll see you next payday.”

  “Sir, if I may ask,” Trumbo began uncertainly. “If someone or something is trying to communicate through this child, why employ such peculiar method?”

  “The method is the message,” replied Doctor Jack. “Whoever or whatever wrote those words wanted the attention of certain people, and those people happen to be here tonight. The civil
war code was for the benefit of our friend Marcus. The coffee advertisement was for Typhus. Could be someone else in this room connected, too—just ain’t spoke up yet.” He glanced quickly at Beauregard, then away. “No matter about that. Time to go.”

  Charley the Barber lifted the heavy wooden bar that secured the back door. “Y’all be careful, now. I don’t like the sound of all this. Not one bit.” The five made their way to the door.

  “Wait.” Beauregard Church talking.

  Doctor Jack turned, raised an eyebrow.

  “I got something belonged to the father. Might be what this is all about. It’s in here.” Bo-Bo reached into his leather pouch containing odd items meant for luck. Pulled out an old tin.

  The square tin was graced with the image of a little white girl collecting pink flowers from a field where no flowers grew, just an endless landscape of yellow wheat stalks. Above her head were the words:

  Every drop’s a drop of comfort

  Is the verdict of all who drink out

  And she was surrounded by more words:

  Unequalled for purity

  Delicacy of flavor

  Fullness of strength

  Used by the best cooks

  And housekeepers everywhere

  Beauregard Church, longtime guard in the service of Orleans Parish Prison, was holding up a coffee tin in shaking hands. The tin was manufactured and printed by the New Orleans Coffee Company for the purpose of selling beans, but only Beauregard was aware that, at the moment, it contained the right hand of Antonio Carolla.

  One of many odd items intended for luck.

  Chapter six

  The Day Before

  The cells at Orleans Parish Prison are all exactly the same.

  Eight feet long, four feet wide, and seven feet high. There is a barred door exactly two feet wide. The cot is also two feet wide. A bucket, for toilet purposes, is the prisoner’s sole companion, offering dubious and strong smelling inspiration for long hours in the dark.

  It is always dark in the cells at Parish Prison. The cells are entirely without light, even of the artificial kind. Even when his eyes have adjusted to the complete lack of it, the prisoner cannot see from one end of the cell to the other. Can only smell his friend, the bucket.

  Each day, the prisoner is locked in his cell at noon. He will stay there until seven-thirty the next morning. At seven-thirty, upon leaving his cell, he is given breakfast. Breakfast is a substance approximately the same color and consistency of the substance it will become when it is ready to leave his body later in the day. The smell of the food is different from the smell of the stuff that winds up in the bucket, but is equally inspiring.

  After breakfast, there is work for about half the prisoners. Hard labor is what the prisoner hopes for at Parish Prison. Only the fittest are allowed work; the rest are placed in a large guarded room where the prisoner does nothing. There, he sits. He plays cards. He argues about things that don’t matter. He talks about women. He talks about murder, rape, and assorted petty crimes. He laughs for no good reason. He boils from the inside out. He tries not to think. And thinking is all that he has.

  65 hours a week are spent in the big room doing nothing. 103 hours a week are spent in the total darkness of the cell.

  In one year, 5,356 hours are spent in the dark. 3,380 hours are spent on a bench in the big room doing nothing.

  This is why morphine is in demand at Parish Prison.

  Many of the prisoners have arrived with morphine habits, but many more will leave with them. You would think it would be the other way around.

  The prison infirmary buys its various medical supplies, including morphine, from a drug firm owned by the warden’s brother-in-law. There is good money to be made in prison pharmaceuticals. The pills are supposed to vary in strength so that the dosage can be decreased over time, gradually weaning the addict off the drug. This is a basic principle of rehabilitation. But the tablets do not vary in strength—in fact, the addict is given considerably more than he needs. Addicts only want their pain to go away, they don’t want to die—so there are extra tablets floating around Parish Prison. They are like currency here.

  5,356 hours in the dark. 3,380 hours doing nothing. One year.

  Dark + Nothing = ?

  In Parish Prison,

  ? = Little White Pills.

  Antonio Carolla developed his morphine addiction at Parish Prison like so many others, but he is lucky. He has only been here for twenty-one weeks. He has not been convicted of any crime and was formally acquitted yesterday. Today he goes home to his wife Anabella and their one-year-old son Dominick. He knows the love of his little family will help him find the strength to beat the morphine in his blood. He knows Anabella’s good Sicilian cooking will put the meat back on his bones. But first he has to get out of this place.

  He is sitting in the dark now. Waiting.

  Chapter seven

  Run

  There’s a dull throb in Antonio’s head, an echo of this morning’s white tablet. Reaching down, he feels around for the tiny goat skin pouch he keeps tucked at the insole of his left shoe. Pulls it out. Empties the contents into his right hand. By sense of touch he counts how many pills are left. There are two. He closes his hand around them. His most recent dose still dances at the fringes of his mind; he will save these for later.

  A dull roar creeps into his cell. He assumes it’s an effect of morphine, but it’s actually the sound of shouting voices—in the thousands—outside the prison. The faint sound of gunfire crackles from beyond the walls of his cell as the barred doors of the prison begin slamming open, slamming shut; prisoners shouting, some in Sicilian, some in English, some in French. Antonio senses he will not be leaving Parish Prison today after all. In his heart, he knows it.

  In consideration of this, he changes his mind about the two remaining pills. He swallows them quickly and washes them down with his own spit; they scrape down his dry throat painfully. This, he imagines, will numb the pain of whatever the mob winds up doing to him if it is not done quickly. It may even distract him from closely considering the inevitable.

  He lies down on the cot. Thinks of his son, Dominick. Reaches up to the section of stone to his right where, twenty-one weeks ago, he etched his son’s name with a sharpened spoon. Touching the letters brings a weak smile to his lips. Dom is a very bright and handsome boy. The morphine amplifies the wonderful memory of Dom’s face, the way it used to light up when his father came home from the docks each night. Antonio knows he will not see his son’s beautiful face again. His head spins from the morphine—Dominick and Anabella spin along for the ride. He does not cry. He is Sicilian. He will be strong for them. Even if they are only in his head.

  Outside his cell door there is the sound of labored breathing. A key jangles in the lock. The door slams open.

  “Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!”

  The shouting comes from the guard called Beauregard, an African black as coal. Antonio has never heard Beauregard’s voice in this excited tone and so barely recognizes it. It is usually slow, deep and smooth but now it is shrill and fevered. Beauregard only says the one word over and over, but still, Antonio doesn’t understand. Then, finally, variation:

  “You in here, Tonio? Answer, dammit!”

  “Yeah.” Beauregard negotiates Antonio’s location on the cot by tracing his voice through the dark.

  “Dammit, you stupid dago-wop, get offa that damn cot and get movin’! You got some visitors comin’ that you don’t even wanna know about! Get movin’, dammit! Now!” Antonio has never heard Beauregard use words like dago and wop before, has considered Beauregard something like a friend in this place. He ponders the big man’s pointed words and pauses just long enough for the guard to reprise his tuneless, one word overture—this time punctuated with a nervous stutter:

  “GO! Guh-GO! Guh-GO! GO! Guh-GO!”

  Something about the crazy rhythm of the stutter brings Antonio to his feet, legs rubbery from morphine and fear. He discovers he is exhaust
ed though he hasn’t significantly moved in hours. His own voice echoes off the walls of the cell, the sound of it detached—as if from a mouth other than his own: “Where…go?” Stupid-sounding echo.

  “I don’t know, dammit! Hide! Yer on your own. Just get movin’ and find a place to hide till this thing blows over, Ka-Peach? Now, go, damn you!”

  Antonio obeys, makes to leave his cell, bumps into Beauregard as he passes, mutters, “pardon.” He is moving fast, but not too fast. The hallway is long and black—he has to brush his hands along the walls to find his way. After about forty steps, he reaches a familiar “T” in the hall—he knows this particular intersection. He knows that going right will lead him to the Big Room Where Prisoners Do Nothing 3,380 hours a year.

  He goes left.

  The shouting is louder now, but he can’t tell if it is behind or before him. The stone and mortar of the prison hallway carries echoes funny, and the morphine makes it a carnival game. His recent double dose is kicking in hard now, raging and leaping in his brain. Antonio is running wildly through the hall, running without touching the walls for guidance, flailing his arms before him.

  Antonio Carolla’s eyes need more than what they are getting. They don’t dare hope for light, but they do hope for variation in blackness, a slight difference in shade, a hint of depth. His pupils struggle to widen, convinced that if they can widen a bit more they may snatch up some elusive optic information. But there is no information for them to snatch. It is so damned dark in here. So goddamned dark.

  Shouting is louder now. Voices closer. Without warning: information of the eye does appear.

  The black carnival game of the prison hallway has acquired a slight orange glow. Antonio can now make out the texture of the walls. Dust and soot from some long ago fire are caked between the stones, obscuring mortar like creeping death, weakly gleaming with dull moisture. His eyes drink the orange glow greedily—though he knows it is bad news.