Thrown-away Child

and me. For as Claude Bougart stared at me—of all things, Ruby’s husband—I realized one of those moments that African-American men know on a daily basis: that moment when a man knows full well that the only relevant thing about him, according to the other man staring at him, is the accident of his race.
    Compounding my discomfort was the fact that all my in-laws had stopped talking to watch the prickly encounter between Claude and me. I caught sight of Uncle Bud with his plumber’s fingers stuck firmly in his ears, like he was expecting something to explode. Ruby said, “Claude, I guess I didn’t—”
    “How you doing, friend?” I said. Somebody had to interrupt Ruby, since she was hot in the face. “I’m Neil Hockaday.” I put out my hand. If it had been anything other than somebody’s hand that Claude took hold of now, he probably would have dropped it.
    “I’m... Claude Bougart. Well, Ruby already said my name.”
    “Yes, I guess she did. Ruby and I were married earlier this year. Happy to meet you, Claude.”
    Janice greatly enjoyed the clumsy exchange. She moved to Claude’s side, folded an arm into his, and said, “Did you know that Ruby’s husband here’s a Policeman, too? Now isn’t that just too much? He works for this unfortunately named outfit called SCUM. That’s an acronym.”
    “He’s a cop?” Claude turned toward me. “Where at, up to New York?”
    “Detective, first grade. Street Crimes Unit— Manhattan.”
    “Claude, wait a minute,” Ruby said. “You didn’t know until right now that I was down here visiting with my husband?”
    “No.”
    “So how come you happened to drop by tonight?” Claude looked over to Mama, who was looking down at her hands, which she held folded in her lap. He said to everybody listening, “I’m not in uniform.” Mama lifted her head. “But you come about Perry?”
    Claude started to say something to her but then changed his mind. He turned to me, and said, “Mind if you and I have some private shop talk, Detective?“
    “All right.”
    “I got my car outside.”
     

TWENTY-TWO

     
    I sat on the passenger side in the front seat of Bougart’s car. Claude was at the wheel. It started raining seriously again. Bougart set the windshield wiper on intermittent. Neither of us said a word.
    For a second or two, I considered mentioning the near fatal events of the afternoon, but then decided to let Claude take the conversational lead in any criminal subject. It was his town, after all. Instead, I wondered, What kind of car is this I’m sitting in while I’m waiting for my wife’s high school heartthrob to open his mouth?
    As a New Yorker and a cop, my knowledge of automobiles is limited to three basic models: beat-up yellow cars with checkered strips on the doors, suspicious deters, and drivers whose English is minimal; discreet navy blue detective sedans that might as well be plastered with NYPD decals in Day-Glo orange; beat-up blue-and-white cars that come with empty doughnut partons crammed into the glove box and flashing red lights on the roof.
    Claude’s was definitely a cop’s car. The clues were all over the place, beginning with upholstery that smelled like cigarettes and week-old chow mein. Definitely the scent of cop car. Visors were stuffed with extra pairs of sunglasses. The inside panel of the driver’s door was fitted out with a custom shotgun holster, empty at the moment. The backseat and rear floor were littered with newspapers, empty pizza containers, and fifty or sixty crushed, coffee-stained Styrofoam cups. On duty or off, Claude spent a lot of his time in whatever make of car this was.
    “First trip to New Orleans?” the old boyfriend finally ventured.
    “Yes.”
    “How you like it so far?”
    “I love seeing where Ruby grew up, I get a kick out of my family, I love my Mama Violet.”
    “How about otherwise?”
    “Otherwise, I think your police department needs fumigating. Nothing personal.”
    “I don’t take it personal. This department here ain’t hardly got a personal mark of mine on it.”
    “I didn’t think so.”
    “Let me ask you something.”
    “Okay.”
    “A couple of our New Orleans detectives most in need of fumigating probably called on my friend Miz Violet this afternoon.” Claude turned from me and stared out at the rain. “You happen to be there at the time?”
    “If you’re talking about those humps Mueller and Eckles, yeah—I met them.”
    “Oh, man, I thought so.”