DR10 - Sunset Limited Read Online Free PDF Page A

you, suh."
    "Breeze went down his own road a long time ago, Mout'."
    He didn't reply. I could feel the late-summer heat and the
closeness of the air under the electric light.
    "Mout'?" I said.
    "You right. But it don't make none of it easier. No suh, it
surely don't."
    At sunrise the next morning I drove down East Main, under the
canopy of live oaks that spanned the street, past City Hall and the
library and the stone grotto and statue of Christ's mother, which had
once been the site of George Washington Cable's home, and the sidewalks
cracked by tree roots and the blue-green lawns rilled with hydrangeas
and hibiscus and philodendron and the thick stand of bamboo that
framed the yard of the 1831 plantation manor called The Shadows, and
finally into the business district. Then I was on the west side of
town, on back streets with open ditches, railroad tracks that dissected
yards and pavement, and narrow paintless houses, in rows like bad
teeth, that had been cribs when nineteenth-century trainmen used to
drink bucket beer from the saloon with the prostitutes and leave their
red lanterns on the gallery steps when they went inside.
    Mout' was behind his house, flinging birdseed at the pigeons
that showered down from the telephone wires into his yard. He walked
bent sideways at the waist, his eyes blue with cataracts, one cheek
marbled pink and white by a strange skin disease that afflicts people
of color; but his sloped shoulders were as wide as a bull's and his
upper arms like chunks of sewer pipe.
    "It was a bad time for Breeze to run, Mout'. The prosecutor's
office might have cut him loose," I said.
    He mopped his face with a blue filling-station rag and slid
the bag of birdseed off his shoulder and sat down heavily in an old
barber's chair with an umbrella mounted on it. He picked up a fruit jar
filled with coffee and hot milk from the ground and drank from it. His
wide mouth seemed to cup around the bottom of the opening like a
catfish's.
    "He gone to church wit' me and his mother when he was a li'l
boy," he said. "He played ball in the park, he carried the newspaper,
he set pins in the bowling alley next to white boys and didn't have no
trouble. It was New Orleans done it. He lived with his mother in the
projects. Decided he wasn't gonna be no shoeshine man, have white folks
tipping their cigar ashes down on his head, that's what he tole me."
    Mout' scratched the top of his head and made a sound like air
leaving a tire.
    "You did the best you could. Maybe it'll turn around for him
someday," I said.
    "They gonna shoot him now, ain't they?" he said.
    "No. Nobody wants that, Mout'."
    "That jailer, Alex Guidry? He use to come down here when he
was in collitch. Black girls was three dollars over on Hopkins. Then
he'd come around the shoeshine stand when they was black men around,
pick out some fella and keep looking in his face, not letting go, no,
peeling the skin right off the bone, till the man dropped his head and
kept his eyes on the sidewalk. That's the way it was back then. Now
y'all done hired the same fella to run the jail."
    Then he described his son's last day in the parish prison.
     
    THE TURNKEY WHO HAD been a brig chaser
in the Marine Corps
walked down the corridor of the Isolation unit and opened up the
cast-iron door to Cool Breeze's cell. He bounced a baton off a leather
lanyard that was looped around his wrist.
    "Mr. Alex says you going back into Main Pop. That is, if you
want," he said.
    "I ain't got no objection."
    "It must be your birthday."
    "How's that?" Cool Breeze said.
    "You'll figure it out."
    "I'll figure it out, huh?"
    "You wonder why you people are in here? When you think an echo
is a sign of smarts?"
    The turnkey walked him through a series of barred doors that
slid back and forth on hydraulically operated steel arms, ordered him
to strip and shower, then handed him an orange jumpsuit and locked him
in a holding cell.
    "They gonna put Mr. Alex on suspension. But he's doing you
right before he goes