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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 out. So that’s why I say it must be your birthday,” the turnkey said. He bounced the baton on its lanyard and winked. “When he’s gone, I’m gonna be jailer. You might study on the implications.”
    At four that afternoon Alex Guidry stopped in front of Cool Breeze’s cell. He wore a seersucker suit and red tie and shined black