Gaylon
LeBlanc was a collector. Not stamps or coins, but shriveled objects, much like
the one he carried in his pocket for luck. He fingered it as drums echoed from
the cultural center in Louis Armstrong Memorial Park. Intent on the arrival of
someone he knew and his upcoming task. He paid no attention. The drummers had
no idea their hectic tempo would backdrop an actual Vodoun ceremony. One that would
culminate in someone's death.
Gaylon waited in a part of the park named
Beauregard Square. Also known as, Place du Cirque, or Place des Negres at
different times, most locals still called it Congo Square. Dressed as voodoo
deity Baron Samedi, in tuxedo, top hat, and flowing cape, Gaylon had arrived at
Congo Square long before dark. He awaited a woman's arrival near the fountain centering the cobblestone pavement.
His cigar remained unlit, and his purple
sunglasses served no purpose except to save his eyes from the glare of a
full moon. He removed them as a taxi halted at the entrance to the square. When
the passenger, a nun dressed in a black habit, offered the driver a ten, he
motioned it off with a wave. After crossing himself, he pulled away
in a screech of burning rubber.
The nun stuffed the note in her clothes and
turned to the man awaiting her; no words were exchanged when she reached him.
Strapping her arms around him, she probed his mouth with her tongue and groped
his privates. Undisturbed by her blatant sexual advances, Gaylon reciprocated,
returning her ardor with his own. Wild drumming continued as he tore open her
robe, ripped off her starched head cover, and tossed them to the ground.
She stood before him in a knee-length
mantle of beaded seashells that did little to hide her athletic body. Blond
hair tumbled to her waist. The fake sister had something else hidden beneath
her robe.
Backing away from him, she grasped a black
rooster by its neck in one hand, an opened bottle of Jamaican rum in the other.
The rooster, sedated by strong rum poured down its throat, was alive, though
not for long. Gaylon watched as she twisted the head off the bird, tossing its
lifeless body to the ground.
The headless rooster ran in circles until it
finally dropped, blood gushing from its neck. When it did, she grabbed its
pulsating body and held it with the bottle over her head. Warm blood
and strong alcohol poured down her face, mixing with beads of sweat on her bare
neck and breasts.
Drawing closer to Gaylon, she began
dancing the wild bamboula, her sultry moves daring him to join her. The
percussive melody pervading the park had become more frantic, as if feeding on
the strength of the two dancers. Her beaded wrap glistened with sweat and blood
as the drumming reached a crescendo. When it did, she stopped dancing.
When she smacked his forehead with her bloody
palm, he dropped to his knees, grabbing his temples as if they were about to
explode. He was no longer Gaylon LeBlanc when he arose from the ground. He was
now Baron Samedi, as the voodoo deity had taken possession of his body.
The
woman began dancing again, her gestures sexual and overt. Baron Samedi finally
reclined her on the cold stone and began ritually humping her. A man burst from the shadows at the climax of the wild yet simulated performance.
He was huge, his crooked smile imparting a
fierce look in light reflecting from the full moon. Moving away from Baron
Samedi, the woman danced toward the man with unkempt hair and blew something up
his nose. The inhaled powder caused an instant change in his persona. A smile
replaced his scowl as she tore open the front of his shirt and clawed deep
scratch marks down his chest with her long fingernails. Voodoo drums continued
as she stood on her tiptoes, accosting him with her lips.
“This is the night you’ve waited for, my
handsome lover. The great Ghede himself has sent Baron Samedi to assist you.
Tonight, he will help you revenge yourself on the person that has wronged you.”
She turned when Baron Samedi spoke. “You are
not yet done. You have one more thing to do before satisfying my needs.”
Prostrating herself, she crawled toward Baron
Samedi and licked his shoes.
“I pray you will return him to my bed,” she
said.
Baron Samedi dusted his tuxedo, reached into
his pocket, and removed a frightful object, showing it to her.
“He will have his revenge, and I will have
another nipple for my collection.”
As Baron Samedi left Congo Square, a bus passed
on the street, saturating humid air with the momentary odor of burning diesel.
Before following him, the other man bent the woman over a park bench. This
time, the sex wasn't simulated.
“Go now and return triumphantly to my bed before
the sun rises,” she finally said.
The drums had gone silent as the man followed
Baron Samedi out of the square and vanished into the night.
Nearby, a dog howled at the moon, its mournful
sound melding with the screech of brakes on N. Rampart. As a tugboat sounded
its whistle, dark clouds shrouded the moon. They masked the man as he left the
nun alone in Congo Square and followed Baron Samedi down Rue St. Peter.
Torrential
rains had moved in from the North, cooling afternoon heat twelve degrees in
less than fifteen minutes. As I sat in Bertram Picou’s bar on Chartres Street in the French Quarter, shucking oysters from a pile of seafood laid out on paper spread across a table in the back, I could still see the headline through the
oily stains: Strangler claims victim near Lee Circle.
The headline didn’t surprise me. The Big Easy
is a violent city, a fact usually hidden from tourists, again visiting after
Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. This murder touched me personally because the
victim was my high school English teacher.
Something, maybe the bottle or hundreds
of unmotivated students, had driven Sally to madness. She had disappeared for a
while, finally surfacing on St. Charles Avenue, pushing a grocery cart she’d
stolen from a nearby grocery store. No one seemed to care. Rain gusted through
the door, freeing my thoughts from the disturbing murder of Miss Sally Gerant.
The drop in temperature provided a welcome
respite to Bertram’s overworked air conditioning—a bonus for the few lucky
customers enjoying the fragrant mix of rain and spicy seafood. Bertram’s brother, Junior Picou had taken his flat-bottomed skiff out at dawn, into the
splay channels beyond Yscloskey.
Junior had returned before noon with a bounty of shrimp, oysters, and redfish. What Bertram hadn’t used in his pot of gumbo simmering in the kitchen, he boiled up and put on the table as complimentary
appetizers for his customers. Who said there was no such thing as a
free lunch?
The bar remained virtually empty despite the enticement, except for a few primarily out-of-work regulars. Everyone,
especially Bertram’s female customers, gawked when the front door opened, and a
handsome, middle-aged man entered. After spotting me by the table, he smiled
and walked toward me. An expensive raincoat draped his elbow. Despite afternoon
humidity through the roof, he was still wearing his tweed sports coat and had
not bothered to loosen his tie.
“That you, Wyatt Thomas?” he said. “Remember
me, Beau Kaplan?”
How could I have forgotten? Captain of the L.S.U. football team and student voted most likely
to succeed. How could anyone forget handsome Beau Kaplan, the big man on campus and the one voted by everyone most likely to succeed? He needn’t have worried
about his popularity as Bertram’s women regulars and a table of local legal
secretaries stared goggle-eyed at him from across the room. He palmed my hand
with the secret fraternity handshake I’d almost forgotten.
“How are you doing, Beau? Help yourself to some
of Bertram’s grub.”
Beau’s grin vanished. “Ate already. Can we
talk?”
“Sure. There’s a booth in the back.”
“No, I mean somewhere else, like over in
Jackson Square.”
“You bet,” I said, taking one more bite of the
shrimp po'boy.
Not knowing why Beau had bothered looking me up
after all these years or for all the secrecy, I wiped hot sauce off my mouth
with a bar rag and followed him out the door. We found the sidewalk almost
deserted. Rain had moved south toward the Gulf. Dark clouds hung directly
overhead, weighing heavily on thick, humid air. Too hot for most
tourists, the square was almost deserted. They were probably visiting the
endless miles of air-conditioned shops that began where Canal Street intersects
the Mississippi River. Most any place that had air conditioning. Only a
white-faced mime and a few persistent portrait artists occupied the Square when
we reached it.
Beau led me to a wrought iron gate to a
secluded park bench. His physical appearance had hardly changed since I’d seen
him last. Just a touch of gray rimmed his full head of dark, wavy hair. He and
his wife Kammi owned a mansion near Pontchartrain and many expensive toys. One
of New Orleans’ leading neurosurgeons, he’d only added to his family’s
impressive wealth. His trademark grin soon returned.
“Seeing you again has really brought back
memories.”
I knew what he meant. My sudden recollection of
Kammi had sent a wave of melancholy nostalgia cresting across my bow.
“Those days at L.S.U. were the best of my life,” he said. "Remember the frat parties down by the river with the bonfires, barbecue, and kegs of ice-cold beer? Those hot young things all loved you, Wyatt.”
“You kidding me, Beau? When it came to women,
you were the pro. I’m just an amateur.”
“Kammi didn’t think so. She never gave me the
time of day until you had that fight at the Old South Party. When you broke up, she gravitated to me—on the rebound, I guess.”
Kammi and I were a number for a while. I
couldn’t remember why we’d argued, but I hadn’t forgotten her large green eyes.
Soon after breaking up with Kammi, I took a real job and moved out of the frat
house. Sometime after that, I’d married Mimsy, my ex, and had lost touch with
the frat crowd.
As we talked, a half-grown yellow tabby with a
stump for a tail appeared from under the park bench. After rubbing against my
leg, he bounded into my lap.
“Didn’t know you like cats,” Beau said.
“Never had one.”
“I think you do now. That one looks like he
hasn’t had a meal since the last time he sucked his mama’s tit.”
When I stroked the cat, he promptly closed his
eyes and fell asleep in my lap. “What’s bothering you? You didn’t look me up to
talk about cats or old times.”
Beau stared at the sky as a gull, winging
toward Pontchartrain, disappeared into the clouds. Rolling thunder rumbled in
the distance.
“It’s Kammi. She’s trying to kill me.”
I waited for the punch line. Beau’s puckered
brow and bowed head soon informed me there wasn’t one.
“You’re kidding me?”
“It’s true. You handle this kind of work. I’ll
pay you to help me.”
Beau’s insinuation that I’d only assist an old
friend for money stung me, even though I’d experienced a prolonged dry spell
with few clients and fewer payments. Still, I could see he was serious, and I
was in no position not to hear him out.
“If what you say is true, you should go to the
police.”
“They’d never believe me.”
“I’m finding it hard myself. Why would Kammi
want to kill you?”
Beau sank back against the bench and squeezed
the raincoat draped over his arm. “Cause I got a girlfriend,” he said,
averting his eyes. “Well, more than a girlfriend, a mistress, really. Kammi
must have found out about Sheila, and now she’s trying to even the score.”
His admission failed to surprise me. Beautiful
women had flocked around Beau, always ready to comfort the moody young man. I
couldn’t believe Kammi wasn’t aware of her husband’s wandering ways or that
she could sustain any negative emotion other than mild anger.
“What did she do? Threaten you with a gun or
knife?”
“Worse than that. She went to some witch doctor
one of her girlfriends told her about. I know because Sandi, another of her
girlfriends, confided as much to me at the country club barbecue last
Saturday.”
I could only imagine the confiding scene at the
country club with Sandi and Beau.
“Witch doctor? What the hell are you talking
about?”
“Voodoo, Wyatt. It is real around here, and you
know it. Kammi found some voodoo witch doctor to cast a spell on me. I’ll be dead soon, and no one will be the wiser.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute, and neither
should you. How is this spell affecting you?”
“It’s bad, Wyatt. I wake up in a cold lather,
my head pounding and bones aching. I’m so nervous I can hardly do my business at the hospital.”
Beau grew silent as heat lightning pulsed
across the horizon behind St. Louis Cathedral. Another clap of thunder quickly
followed, frightening the pigeons on Andy Jackson’s statue. The white-faced
mime had gone, the few remaining artists busy packing their brushes and easels
and hurrying off toward Pirate’s Alley. I waited for Beau to resume his wild
tale.
“One thing, though. All this malarkey with Kammi
has made me realize the one I love is Sheila. You know, Wyatt, what’s so
strange? I never felt this way about Sheila before and never thought of her as
anything except a mistress. Don’t mean a thing, though. When I get this
situation behind me, I will divorce Kammi and marry her.”
“Why wait?”
“Cause I got to break the spell first. That’s
why I need you.”
“I’m no voodoo expert,” I said, half in jest.
“I bet you know someone. That is because you know everybody—always have. Can you help me?”
Warm rain began falling in the vacant Jackson
Square. A clap of thunder almost masked my answer.
Another
hot day in New Orleans and Detective Tony Nicosia ran chubby fingers through
thinning hair, trying to ignore the Chief’s angry words that had greeted him
when he arrived at work. Although barely July yet, the city had already
experienced more than three hundred homicides. Tony seriously considered
packing up and moving to a safer place. New York City, maybe.
The daydream was fleeting when his partner,
Tommy Blackburn, entered the office unannounced.
“Don’t you ever knock?”
“Sorry, Fat Tony,” Tommy said as he pulled up a
chair.
Detective Nicosia had lost seventy-five pounds
in the last two years and had, so far, managed to keep the weight off. At
five-eight and two-twenty-five, he was still not exactly svelte. He continued
working at it, walking two miles before work, lowering his cholesterol and
blood pressure as he cinched his belt tighter by the month. He detested the
precinct nickname he had lived with for twenty years. He couldn’t get them to stop calling him Fat Tony despite constant appeals to his fellow officers. Not
even Tommy Blackburn, his young partner.
Tony had grown up in a rough New Orleans area
known as the Irish Channel, a neighborhood once populated by Irish workers. His
accent was clearly recognizable by locals from other parts of the city. Many
ethnic and racial groups lived there now, and the low-income neighborhood still
maintained its rugged appearance.
Tommy Blackburn, ten years younger and forty
pounds lighter than his partner, had also grown up in the Channel. A raw-boned
six-footer, Tommy’s ruddy complexion matched his unruly growth of flame-red hair. Tony often accused the bachelor of sleeping in his clothes. His rumpled
sports jacket provided no evidence contrary to that accusation. Tommy was like
the little brother he’d never had, so he didn’t bother reminding him not to
call him Fat Tony. Instead, he poured two cups of coffee from the percolator on the corner table.
“What’s up?” Tommy asked.
“My blood pressure,” Tony said, testing the
coffee with a careful sip. “Chief Wexler chewed my ass this morning. Second
time this week, and it’s just Tuesday.”
“Can’t be that bad. Chief Wexler’s not much of
an ass chewer.”
When Tony failed to answer, Tommy sipped his
own coffee, knowing better than to ask what was caught in Wexler’s throat.
“I’m starved. Let’s grab a po'boy at
Nicoletta’s.”
“We’ll get something on the way,” Tony said. The chief didn’t like our report from last night’s murder scene, so we’re going back down and looking again to see if we missed something.”
Tony grabbed his own coat from the rack and
started out the door. After a final swig of his coffee, Tommy followed.
Sergeant Blackburn and Lieutenant Nicosia
worked out of the 8th
District Station on Royal Street in the French Quarter. The 8th District includes the Central Business
District—what the locals call the C.B.D.—the
prime downtown and business district and, of course, the French Quarter.
The vaunted 8th
District was well known for providing outstanding police service for
significant events, including Mardi Gras and the Super Bowl. For a while after the hurricane, Detectives Blackburn and Nicosia wondered if there
ever would be another Mardi Gras or Super Bowl in New Orleans.
Tony was the chief detective, a job he
considered one of the city's most essential. He was also one of the few older
officers in the District who had survived the firings to clean up what some
had deemed the most corrupt police department in the country. Many close
friends and associates had lost their jobs, and not all had been dishonest.
Tony still smarted from the experience, and his early morning meeting with the
Chief brought unwelcome memories.
The district firings were only a blink of an eye compared with the loss caused by Katrina. One of Tony’s oldest and dearest
friends had committed suicide during the immediate aftermath of the
devastation. Many officers fled New Orleans with their families. A few
particularly heinous individuals had even joined in the looting. Most decent cops had stuck it out, performing like champions through the ordeal. Now, it was summer, and many things had changed.
July in New Orleans is tolerable, although only
barely, even for the locals. Prickly heat and intense humidity drape the city
like a damp washcloth. Tourists planning their visits usually wait until spring
or fall. Driven by the need for tourism, city leaders promote minor events like the Festival of the Tomato and Crawfish Week.
Usually, only sweaty tourists tempted by
off-season hotel bargains frequented these events. It was usually so hot in
July that many locals took their vacations, traveling to cooler climes.
After driving down St. Charles Avenue in a police car with inadequate air
conditioning, Tony wished he’d gone with them.
“Roll down your window,” he said as they passed
a clanging streetcar. “It can’t be any hotter than the air coming out of the
vents.”
“That’s the truth,” Tommy said. “What’s the
matter with our report?”
Tony remained silent as he parked on the
street just before reaching Lee Circle. The Garden District, one of the oldest
and classiest neighborhoods in the city, lay further down St. Charles.
Businesses and warehouses populated the C.B.D. between Lee Circle and downtown New Orleans. Interspersed between them were a
few tiny eateries, visited during the day by hordes of workers. They usually
closed around five.
Lunch hour, aromas of gumbo and frying shrimp
wafted from the many cafes and bistros. Tony’s stomach growled as he and Tommy
threaded their way down the sidewalks filled with people dressed in industrial
uniforms, white shirts, and ties. There were also the invisible, homeless
people living on the streets, some asleep on the sidewalk while others extended
hands to the passing herd of office workers. Many were already sipping from Tokay and Mad Dog 20-20 bottles.
All they had in common was they didn’t care what people thought about them.
The latest murder had occurred in the early
morning hours of the previous day Tony and Tommy called at two in the morning.
Now, they were returning to the crime scene, an alleyway leading to a large
dumpster surrounded by crime scene tape. Tony stepped over the yellow plastic
barrier, walked behind the dumpster, and stared at the bloody concrete patch.
After several minutes of silence, Tommy finally tapped his shoulder.
“What do you think?”
“There’s blood all over the dumpster. And over
there,” Tony said, pointing at a spot on the brick wall he had overlooked in
the dark. “The old lady was probably going through the trash to find
something to eat. That door is the back of a café that closes around five. Her
killer probably dragged her behind this dumpster. He must be a big one, considering how he manhandled her.”
“Or maybe two murderers,” Tommy said. “The
victim looked at least one-seventy-five. Living on the street and all, I doubt
she was a shrinking violet.”
Tony thought about his comment. “The killer cut
her clothes off with a razor and then used it on her. Bruising and loss of
blood means she was alive while all this was happening.”
Tommy shook his head. “The coroner’s report
will be interesting, especially if she put up a fight.”
“He’ll have something for us, always does.”
Tommy mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “No
wonder the Captain is pissed. This one could be bad for the recovery, being so
close to the Quarter and all.”
Tony crossed over the tape and started for the
car. “We’ll nose around the streets and see if anyone saw something unreported.”
Lunch hour was near an end, and it didn’t take
long to find two of the many homeless people who lived in the C.B.D. The men were sleeping on the walkway covered
by remnants of a day-old Times Picayune. An empty bottle of Tokay lay between
them. Tommy prodded one man’s ribs with the toe of his shoe.
“You boys seen anything unusual lately?”
Both men blinked and rubbed their eyes. “Like
what?” one man said.
“Like a large man, maybe a stranger to the
area? Maybe you saw him drive up in a car.”
The man shook his head and pulled the paper
back over his head. The other man refused to answer at all. When further
questioning provided only a consumptive cough, Tony motioned Tommy to give it
up and move on. They continued questioning panhandlers, bag ladies, and winos,
again with no success.
“These zombies aren’t alive just yet. Make a
note to have the uniforms come back after dark. Maybe they’ll be more
receptive.”
As they returned to the car, someone caught
their attention. The big man walking toward them was tall and sallow, his face
scarred by acne and exposure to the sun. He also had the muscled physique of a
smack-down wrestler. A red ski cap topped his dark and greasy, shoulder-length
hair. His thousand-yard stare glared at them as he passed on the sidewalk.
Despite his disheveled appearance, the man appeared sober.
“You looking at me?” he said.
“N.O.P.D.,”
Tony said. We need to ask you a few questions.”
“I didn’t say anything to you,” the man said
with an angry edge to his voice as he continued walking.
Tommy started to grab him, but Tony shook his
head. “Call for backup to take this guy downtown for questioning. He’s not a
wino, but he’s large enough to be our killer, and clearly not normal.”
Tommy quickly used his cell phone. Until help
arrived, they followed the large man who was apparently indifferent to their
presence. Shortly, two uniformed police officers arrived in a cruiser and went
after the suspect as soon as Tony had pointed him out.
“Sir, you need to come downtown for
questioning,” one of the officers said.
The man ignored the request, brushing past
them. The two officers grabbed his arm.
“Hey Mac, didn’t you hear me?”
The suspect wheeled around, his face red and
wild eyes accentuating his tortured complexion. Without warning, he swiped at
the cop with a small knife he had hastily pulled from his pants pocket.
“Don’t kill him!” Tony yelled, sensing what was
about to happen.
Without waiting, Tommy knocked the
knife-wielder to the ground with a flying body roll from behind.
“You sons-of-bitches,” the man screamed as
three cops descended on him, cuffing and dragging him to the awaiting squad
car.
Tony and Tommy watched as the two uniformed
police officers screeched off downtown, the suspect in handcuffs in the
backseat.
“Now that’s one crazy dude. You think we’re
lucky enough for him to be our killer?” Tommy asked.
“Never know. One thing I do know. We got about
all the information we’re gonna get today from this damaged mass of humanity.
Let’s head uptown and visit the morgue.”
A tanker coming up the river blew its whistle,
the mournful sound melding with blaring car horns involved in traffic
congestion on Canal. As they drove down Camp Street, the air conditioning
worked no better than before. Despite their impending confrontation with death,
both men welcomed cooler air as they entered the building housing the morgue.
Dr. Bernard’s office was at the end of a long hallway, and they entered without
knocking.
“Got anything for us, Doc?” Tony asked.
Dr. Bernard nodded and began reading from the
report on his desk. “As you already know, her name was Sally Gerant, a white female, sixty-five years old, hundred and eighty pounds, raped and sodomized.
We have a sufficient sample of semen. The murderer bruised and cut her with a
straight razor. He also took some trophies, pieces of her skin, and snippets of
hair. Some of the cuts in her chest look like symbols.”
“Of what?” Tommy asked.
“Can’t tell because of the swelling, but they
look like patterns. He kept her alive while he was torturing her, although
there was no evidence of a struggle from the woman. I found no hair or skin under
her fingernails and no bits of anything human I could identify. She was a
practicing alcoholic. She had no other diseases and was in reasonable health except
for her scarred liver. No physical abnormalities. Excellent muscle tone for a
woman her age and weight. Cause of death strangulation.”
“Ligature,” Tony said. “He kept her alive by
applying the right amount of pressure to whatever he used to strangle her
with.”
“Probably a thin wire,” Dr. Bernard said.
“There’s swelling around the ligature mark, which means he worked her over for
ten minutes or more. He gloved her so she couldn’t scratch him, but he didn’t
bother tying her hands.”
“Find any prints?” Tony asked.
Dr. Bernard shook his head. “The killer
probably wore gloves. Not that it matters. Besides his semen, we got samples of
his saliva, where he drooled on the old woman, and some long hairs from someone
other than her. When you catch the man, we’ll have all the needed evidence.”
“Crazy,” Tony said. “He wore gloves but not a
rubber. What’s the point?”
“What color are the hairs?” Tommy asked,
ignoring his partner’s question.
“Dark, almost black, but definitely Caucasian,”
Dr. Bernard said
“What’s the victim’s history?” Tommy asked.
He cast a questioning glance at his partner
when Dr. Bernard said, “From New Orleans. She used to teach English over in
Metairie. So far, no relative has come forward to claim the body.”
The footsteps of Tony and Tommy echoed down the
empty hallway as they departed the coroner’s office. Though Tony was moving
ahead with authority, Tommy had no trouble keeping up with his short-legged,
older partner. They went to the snack shop on the ground floor and
poured coffee from the urn. Tony’s stomach growled again, louder this time as
he glanced at the doughnuts lined up in the cabinet by the cash register. Tommy
joined him at a table in the back corner.
“What’s your take on all this, Fat Tony?”
“Your ass if you don’t quit calling me Fat
Tony.”
“Sorry,” he said, sipping his hot coffee.
“These street people are tough. They had to be
to survive Katrina. Sally was a bag lady living alone on the street. Reason
for murder is random selection. At least, that’s my first take, though we need
to check her family and acquaintances to verify that. Our killer is big and
unusually strong.”
Tommy frowned and folded his arms. “What else?”
“The killer seems to know something about
police procedure, or he wouldn’t have gloved her. Even that fails to make much sense because he didn’t bother using a rubber. Sounds like something a crazy
asshole might do.”
“Something else puzzles me,” Tommy said. “Even
with a crazy asshole, he could have found a better candidate to satisfy his
sexual needs.”
“It had nothing to do with sex,” Tony said.
“That old woman was physically unattractive, bordering on the grotesque.
Probably hadn’t bathed in years and smelled like a distillery. Our man had
another motive in mind.”
“Like what?” Tommy asked.
“Humiliation,” was Tony’s terse reply.
Beau
Kaplan was right. I did know a voodoo practitioner, as did almost every other resident of the Big Easy. Beau picked me up in front of Picou’s bar in his maroon Lexus coupe for a little trip to see the one I knew. Mama Mulate lived in a two-story Victorian house not far from the river. Age and decay typified
most of the homes in the old neighborhood, with crumbling brick walls only partially
concealing junk cars littering many of the yards.
Mama’s house resided at the end of the block. A
horn sounded from a nearby tugboat plying its business as we parked in her
drive. I kept my fingers crossed that the fancy chrome hubs of Beau’s Lexus would
still be there when we returned.
A jungle of garden plants covered Mama’s front
porch, banana palms and other semi-tropical plants that melded with fragrant
bougainvilleas draping from the ceiling in wicker baskets. Hibiscus and morning
glories crammed well-tended beds surrounding the porch, and a small truck
garden teemed with peas and carrots on the side of the house.
Mama answered the door, Beau instantly smitten
by the handsome woman. When I introduced them, he became all charm and
Pepsodent. Ignoring his blatant flirtation, she led us down a narrow hallway to
a room where she donned a black lace shawl retrieved from the closet. Only
flickering light from several well-placed candles lit the room, and it took a
moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness.
Mama was sensually stunning, slender, and nearly six feet tall in her thin caftan. Coffee-colored flesh accentuated finely
chiseled features and flowing black hair draping her shoulder blades.
When she finally spoke, she did so with no discernible accent. Mama’s
understanding of the black arts wasn’t all she possessed. She also had a
doctorate in English and taught classical literature at Tulane University.
She sat at a table near an elaborate
shrine decorated with glowing candles, various bones, feathers, and crucifixes.
The room reeked with the cloying odor of melted wax and burning incense. She
motioned us to join her at the table and quickly locked Beau’s eyes in her
intense stare. Her eyes soon mesmerized Beau, reducing him to swaying
passivity. When Mama finally spoke her Oxford-flavored accent had disappeared,
replaced by the rhythmic singsong of a Haitian field hand.
“Why you come see Mama?”
“A spell,” Beau’s voice droned. “Someone put a
spell on me.”
Mama tossed her head, causing a strobe-like
passage of light to permeate her thick black hair. She closed her eyes and
slowly raised her chin, stretching her arms toward the ceiling. Soon, she began
to shake. It started with a barely noticeable palpitation in the hollow of her
long neck and then quickly shimmied down the length of her body.
Absorbed in his own trance, Beau didn’t notice Mama’s fit. I did, reaching a hand across the table to help her.
I didn’t get far—a force, like repelling magnets, stopped my hand, locking it
in midair. All the candles flared as if pure oxygen had suddenly surged
through the room. Mama’s head slammed against the table with such force I
thought she must have knocked herself out. Again, the force kept me from
touching her.
For the better part of a minute, I watched as
Mama’s upper torso writhed on the tabletop; her dark eyes rolled back in her head, and a thin strand of saliva drooled from the side of her open mouth. When
her convulsions finally ceased, she lay on the table for a long moment before a
piercing sound emanated from her unmoving lips—a moan that seemed to come from
another world rattled the walls and whipped the softly glowing candles into
orange and crimson flame.
“Who dares awaken me from my sleep?” a deep
voice said.
Beau’s
eyes were open, his body rigid, almost as if he were in an advanced stage of
rigor mortis. The voice, pealing from Mama’s lips, repeated the question.
“Mama, is it you?” I asked.
“Mambo asleep. I am Bon Dieu. What is it you
want?”
Mama was a close friend, and from my many
discussions over the years with her, I knew Bon Dieu was the High God of
Voodoo. The voice coming from her body had to be a hoax, but I didn’t believe
it. Mama had too much integrity to stoop to such theatrics. Maybe I was wrong.
Still feeling quite the fool, I answered the question.
“My friend thinks someone has cast a spell on
him.”
The spirit’s laughter echoed inside the smoky
room. When the laughter died away, the voice said, “A powerful spell, an
unbreakable spell cast by a mighty houngan.”
“If you’re the Bon Dieu, you can help
us.”
“Such a powerful spell cast cannot be undone,”
the indignant voice replied. “Finality is the only solution.”
“What finality?”
A cold wind chilled the room before I’d gotten
my answer. It rattled the walls, flying files and feathers and flaring
candle flames. When the wind ceased, Mama moaned, raised her head, and stared
around the room. Beau shook the cobwebs from his head, opening and closing his
mouth, trying to pop his ears as his eyes began to refocus.
“What was that?” he asked.
“The Bon Dieu,” I said.
“Hardly,” Mama said, making the sign of the
cross. “It was only a loa, a simple spirit of the dead, but he told you what
you came to hear. A voodoo priest we call a houngan has cast a powerful spell you cannot break.”
***
Beau’s Lexus had survived the stay in Mama’s
driveway. He returned me in silence to my apartment over Bertram Picou’s bar.
Two days later, I discussed the incident with Bertram as he polished glasses
behind the bar, his collie asleep on the floor beside him.
Cajun slang peppered Bertram’s colorful
vocabulary. His bar on Chartres, hidden two blocks from Bourbon Street, was a
favorite of the locals and the occasional tourist who stumbled in to
escape the heat or rampant humidity. Bertram’s bar never closed its doors
during Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Bertram, like many of his regulars, refused
to evacuate.
Many parts of New Orleans became flooded when several levees failed. Most notably, the Lower 9th Ward remained underwater for several weeks, first under Katrina and then Rita. The French Quarter was different. The
original inhabitants of New Orleans constructed the city on the area’s highest
ground. The forethought of the founding fathers helped spare the Quarter and
the C.B.D. from the storm’s destruction.
Bertram never stopped serving whiskey and
beer—cold as long as the ice lasted and warm afterward. He soon found a
generator, solving even the problem of warm beer. The main drawback was the
smell of garbage, dead fish, and mildew that lingered long after clearing the carnage of the two monster hurricanes.
Bertram always wore a trapper’s hat that framed
his square face, emphasizing his gapped teeth and graying ponytail. He always
smiled, even when tossing the inevitable unruly drunk out the front door.
Bertram was French Acadian—an authentic Cajun. That meant he was friendly
though distant with people he didn’t know. Like most Cajuns, he would do
anything for a friend.
“What’s up, my man? You look like you seen a
ghost.”
“Maybe I did,” I answered, relating my experience at Mama’s séance as briefly as possible.
“Your doctor buddy sounds beaucoup screwy,”
Bertram said, tossing Lady a treat from a canister beneath the bar.
“He is just a little eccentric from growing up
the only child of one of the wealthiest families in the city.”
At that moment, Beau Kaplan entered the bar dressed like a Calvin Klein runway model. “You wouldn’t be talking about me,
now would you, old buddy?” he said, pulling up a bar stool beside me.
“One and the same,” I said. “Beau Kaplan, this
is Bertram Picou, proprietor of this fine establishment.”
The usually moody Beau pumped Bertram’s hand
across the bar, his smile celebrating every perfect tooth in his mouth.
“Proud to meet you.”
“Sorry about what happened at Mama’s house,” I
said.
“You kidding me? That was the most awesome
experience of my life, and the spirit told me exactly what I needed to do.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“I had Kammi served with divorce papers. I’m
moving in with Sheila. Best thing I ever did and I owe it all to you.”
I had a feeling Kammi would be less than
thrilled with me if she knew of my involvement in her impending divorce.
Without asking, Bertram poured himself and Beau shots of Jack Daniel’s and a
cold glass of lemonade for me.
“Here’s to you!” Bertram said as he and Beau
drained their shots.
“Wyatt, I got a business proposition for you.
All my friends at the club are just as curious as I am about my voodoo
experience. They all want to learn more about the city’s best-kept secret, and
you’re just the one to teach them.”
I glanced at Bertram and noticed his usual
smile had changed into a wry grin. “I really don’t know that much about
voodoo.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Here’s the
money I owe you for solving my problem,” he said, peeling off ten crisp
Benjamin Franklins from the roll he pulled out of his sports coat. “I know you
can use the money, and you can easily make this much and more. All you gotta do
is introduce some of my friends into the voodoo inner circle. You know what I
mean?”
I had no idea what he meant, and I wanted to
return the thousand dollars to Beau. I knew I couldn’t because I owed
Bertram two months’ rent. After Katrina, he needed the money, and so did I. With
his 100-watt smile still intact, Beau patted my
shoulder and headed for the door.
“I’ll be back in touch,” he said. “Thanks a
bunch, Wyatt.”
I watched him go, then turned to find Bertram
waiting with an outstretched palm. Counting out half the bills, I pocketed the
rest. Was Beau the answer to my prayers or a nightmare waiting to happen? I
didn’t have an answer.
“You
haven’t had a paying customer since February,” Bertram said, sensing my
hesitation. “You need some work, and to tell you the truth, I’m tired of seeing
you sit in that booth back there sulking all day.”
“I’m not a tour guide,” I said.
“Now you listen to me,” he said, thumping his
chest. “If someone wants to give you a job plucking chickens, you better take
the plucking job. You ain’t got nothing else going right now.”
Bertram was right. Still, I knew little more
about voodoo in New Orleans than Beau. It didn’t matter because Mama did. I
called later and left a message on her answering machine.
***
Although my room upstairs was small, it was all
I needed. It had a bedroom, closet, and bath, but it had a wrought iron
balcony overlooking Rue Chartres. I had a potted palm growing on it, and hanging
plants draping the colorful awning that shielded it from the day's heat.
Oh, and now there was Bob, the cat I’d rescued in Jackson Square during my
meeting with Beau.
Despite my better judgment, I’d grown fond of
the yellow tabby. He looked as if his name should be Bob because all he had for
a tail was a stump. Once I’d named him, as the saying goes, he was my cat.
More likely, I was his human.
Bertram had frowned on me keeping him. It
didn’t matter because Bob had taken to the balcony. He wasn’t about to leave,
and I wasn’t about to make him. He spent his days sunning, stretching, and
watching the action on Chartres from a perch in my potted palm. At night, he’d
go tomcatting. I always knew when he’d returned because he would scratch on the
patio door until I let him in. He’d also taken to sleeping at the foot of my
bed, and I’d finally given up trying to put him out. Soon, I didn’t know if he
was my pet or the other way around.
***
Toward the end of the week, Mama returned my
call. “I feel terrible taking the poor man’s money when there’s nothing I can
do for him.”
“There’s nothing poor about him Mama, and he
thinks you hung the moon. Anyway, I called you about another matter Are you
interested in a potential business deal?”
“What kind of business deal?”
“Let’s talk about it in person.”
Mama hesitated and then said, “I’m working
late tonight, grading a few papers. Will you stop by? When I finish, we’ll
get some oysters and barbecue shrimp at Pascal Manale’s.”
Later that night I took Mama up on her offer.
***
When the streetcar rattled to a stop at Tulane,
I entered a world of towering oaks and academia. The old university
was stately and somewhat imposing. I entered the large building housing the
English Department and took the stairs to Mama’s office. It was the weekend,
and the building was nearly deserted. I found her alone at her desk, dressed quite
differently from our previous meeting. Instead of the revealing caftan she’d
worn at the ceremony, her pinstriped dress imparted a stately and intellectual
persona. Steadfastly refusing to discuss my business proposal while grading
papers, she made me wait silently. When she finally finished, we drove down
the street in her fully restored Bugeye Sprite to Pascal Manale’s.
While waiting for a table in the crowded
restaurant, we enjoyed two dozen freshly shucked oysters at the bar in the front. After making it to a table in the back, we barely talked while eating the
succulent shrimp and didn’t discuss business at all until we had finished our
bread pudding. Finally, I told her about my meeting with Beau Kaplan.
“You know I’m a practitioner of Vodoun because
it is very real to me,” she said. “What you saw and heard the other day was not
a sideshow attraction.”
“That’s exactly why I called you. Beau wants an
expert. I’m not, but you are. His friends have money, Mama, and they will
gladly pay. I propose a fifty-fifty partnership. I bring you the clientele, and
you take it from there. I’ll help all I can, of course. I think we can make
some real money.”
“Well,” she finally said. “I would love an
extended trip to Europe this time next year. When do we start?”
“When Beau calls. He is setting us up with
someone as we speak. Are you in?”
Mama smiled, shook my hand, and motioned our
server for more coffee.
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