Big Easy - Chapters

In Big Easy, the first installment of the French Quarter Mystery Series, a sinister presence lurks in the shadows of New Orleans. The common thread in these chilling crimes is voodoo. Enter Tony Nicosia, a dedicated N.O.P.D. homicide detective who seeks the aid of his trusted allies- voodoo mambo Mama Mulate and French Quarter sleuth Wyatt Thomas. Together, they embark on a gripping journey to unravel the dark mysteries of the city.

 

GaylonLeBlanc was a collector. Not stamps or coins, but shriveled objects, much likethe one he carried in his pocket for luck. He fingered it as drums echoed fromthe cultural center in Louis Armstrong Memorial Park. Intent on the arrival ofsomeone he knew and his upcoming task. He paid no attention. The drummers hadno idea their hectic tempo would backdrop an actual Vodoun ceremony. One that wouldculminate in someone's death.

Gaylon waited in a part of the park namedBeauregard Square. Also known as, Place du Cirque, or Place des Negres atdifferent times, most locals still called it Congo Square. Dressed as voodoodeity Baron Samedi, in tuxedo, top hat, and flowing cape, Gaylon had arrived atCongo Square long before dark. He awaited a woman's arrival near the fountain centering the cobblestone pavement.

His cigar remained unlit, and his purplesunglasses served no purpose except to save his eyes from the glare of afull moon. He removed them as a taxi halted at the entrance to the square. Whenthe passenger, a nun dressed in a black habit, offered the driver a ten, hemotioned it off with a wave. After crossing himself, he pulled awayin a screech of burning rubber.

The nun stuffed the note in her clothes andturned 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 gropedhis privates. Undisturbed by her blatant sexual advances, Gaylon reciprocated,returning her ardor with his own. Wild drumming continued as he tore open herrobe, ripped off her starched head cover, and tossed them to the ground.

She stood before him in a knee-lengthmantle of beaded seashells that did little to hide her athletic body. Blondhair tumbled to her waist. The fake sister had something else hidden beneathher robe.

Backing away from him, she grasped a blackrooster 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, thoughnot for long. Gaylon watched as she twisted the head off the bird, tossing itslifeless body to the ground.

The headless rooster ran in circles until itfinally dropped, blood gushing from its neck. When it did, she grabbed itspulsating body and held it with the bottle over her head. Warm bloodand strong alcohol poured down her face, mixing with beads of sweat on her bareneck and breasts.

Drawing closer to Gaylon, she begandancing the wild bamboula, her sultry moves daring him to join her. Thepercussive melody pervading the park had become more frantic, as if feeding onthe strength of the two dancers. Her beaded wrap glistened with sweat and bloodas the drumming reached a crescendo. When it did, she stopped dancing.

When she smacked his forehead with her bloodypalm, he dropped to his knees, grabbing his temples as if they were about toexplode. He was no longer Gaylon LeBlanc when he arose from the ground. He wasnow Baron Samedi, as the voodoo deity had taken possession of his body.

 Thewoman began dancing again, her gestures sexual and overt. Baron Samedi finallyreclined 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 afierce look in light reflecting from the full moon. Moving away from BaronSamedi, the woman danced toward the man with unkempt hair and blew something uphis nose. The inhaled powder caused an instant change in his persona. A smilereplaced his scowl as she tore open the front of his shirt and clawed deepscratch marks down his chest with her long fingernails. Voodoo drums continuedas she stood on her tiptoes, accosting him with her lips.

“This is the night you’ve waited for, myhandsome 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 arenot yet done. You have one more thing to do before satisfying my needs.”

Prostrating herself, she crawled toward BaronSamedi and licked his shoes.

“I pray you will return him to my bed,” shesaid.

Baron Samedi dusted his tuxedo, reached intohis pocket, and removed a frightful object, showing it to her.

“He will have his revenge, and I will haveanother nipple for my collection.”

As Baron Samedi left Congo Square, a bus passedon 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. Thistime, the sex wasn't simulated.

“Go now and return triumphantly to my bed beforethe sun rises,” she finally said.

The drums had gone silent as the man followedBaron Samedi out of the square and vanished into the night.

Nearby, a dog howled at the moon, its mournfulsound melding with the screech of brakes on N. Rampart. As a tugboat soundedits whistle, dark clouds shrouded the moon. They masked the man as he left thenun alone in Congo Square and followed Baron Samedi down Rue St. Peter.

 

 

Torrentialrains had moved in from the North, cooling afternoon heat twelve degrees inless 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 theoily stains: Strangler claims victim near Lee Circle.

The headline didn’t surprise me. The Big Easyis a violent city, a fact usually hidden from tourists, again visiting afterHurricanes Katrina and Rita. This murder touched me personally because thevictim was my high school English teacher.

Something, maybe the bottle or hundredsof unmotivated students, had driven Sally to madness. She had disappeared for awhile, finally surfacing on St. Charles Avenue, pushing a grocery cart she’dstolen from a nearby grocery store. No one seemed to care. Rain gusted throughthe door, freeing my thoughts from the disturbing murder of Miss Sally Gerant.

The drop in temperature provided a welcomerespite to Bertram’s overworked air conditioning—a bonus for the few luckycustomers enjoying the fragrant mix of rain and spicy seafood. Bertram’s brother, Junior Picou had taken his flat-bottomed skiff out at dawn, into thesplay 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 complimentaryappetizers for his customers. Who said there was no such thing as afree 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 ahandsome, middle-aged man entered. After spotting me by the table, he smiledand walked toward me. An expensive raincoat draped his elbow. Despite afternoonhumidity through the roof, he was still wearing his tweed sports coat and hadnot bothered to loosen his tie.

“That you, Wyatt Thomas?” he said. “Rememberme, Beau Kaplan?”

How could I have forgotten? Captain of the L.S.U. football team and student voted most likelyto 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 worriedabout his popularity as Bertram’s women regulars and a table of local legalsecretaries stared goggle-eyed at him from across the room. He palmed my handwith the secret fraternity handshake I’d almost forgotten.

“How are you doing, Beau? Help yourself to someof Bertram’s grub.”

Beau’s grin vanished. “Ate already. Can wetalk?”

“Sure. There’s a booth in the back.”

“No, I mean somewhere else, like over inJackson Square.”

“You bet,” I said, taking one more bite of theshrimp po'boy.

Not knowing why Beau had bothered looking me upafter all these years or for all the secrecy, I wiped hot sauce off my mouthwith a bar rag and followed him out the door. We found the sidewalk almostdeserted. Rain had moved south toward the Gulf. Dark clouds hung directlyoverhead, weighing heavily on thick, humid air. Too hot for mosttourists, the square was almost deserted. They were probably visiting theendless miles of air-conditioned shops that began where Canal Street intersectsthe Mississippi River. Most any place that had air conditioning. Only awhite-faced mime and a few persistent portrait artists occupied the Square whenwe reached it.

Beau led me to a wrought iron gate to asecluded park bench. His physical appearance had hardly changed since I’d seenhim last. Just a touch of gray rimmed his full head of dark, wavy hair. He andhis wife Kammi owned a mansion near Pontchartrain and many expensive toys. Oneof New Orleans’ leading neurosurgeons, he’d only added to his family’simpressive wealth. His trademark grin soon returned.

“Seeing you again has really brought backmemories.”

I knew what he meant. My sudden recollection ofKammi 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 thetime 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. Icouldn’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 frathouse. Sometime after that, I’d married Mimsy, my ex, and had lost touch withthe frat crowd.

As we talked, a half-grown yellow tabby with astump for a tail appeared from under the park bench. After rubbing against myleg, 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 hehasn’t had a meal since the last time he sucked his mama’s tit.”

When I stroked the cat, he promptly closed hiseyes and fell asleep in my lap. “What’s bothering you? You didn’t look me up totalk about cats or old times.”

Beau stared at the sky as a gull, wingingtoward Pontchartrain, disappeared into the clouds. Rolling thunder rumbled inthe distance.

“It’s Kammi. She’s trying to kill me.”

I waited for the punch line. Beau’s puckeredbrow and bowed head soon informed me there wasn’t one.

“You’re kidding me?”

“It’s true. You handle this kind of work. I’llpay you to help me.”

Beau’s insinuation that I’d only assist an oldfriend for money stung me, even though I’d experienced a prolonged dry spellwith few clients and fewer payments. Still, I could see he was serious, and Iwas in no position not to hear him out.

“If what you say is true, you should go to thepolice.”

“They’d never believe me.”

“I’m finding it hard myself. Why would Kammiwant to kill you?”

Beau sank back against the bench and squeezedthe raincoat draped over his arm. “Cause I got a girlfriend,” he said,averting his eyes. “Well, more than a girlfriend, a mistress, really. Kammimust have found out about Sheila, and now she’s trying to even the score.”

His admission failed to surprise me. Beautifulwomen had flocked around Beau, always ready to comfort the moody young man. Icouldn’t believe Kammi wasn’t aware of her husband’s wandering ways or thatshe could sustain any negative emotion other than mild anger.

“What did she do? Threaten you with a gun orknife?”

“Worse than that. She went to some witch doctorone of her girlfriends told her about. I know because Sandi, another of hergirlfriends, confided as much to me at the country club barbecue lastSaturday.”

I could only imagine the confiding scene at thecountry club with Sandi and Beau.

“Witch doctor? What the hell are you talkingabout?”

“Voodoo, Wyatt. It is real around here, and youknow 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 neithershould 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 pulsedacross the horizon behind St. Louis Cathedral. Another clap of thunder quicklyfollowed, frightening the pigeons on Andy Jackson’s statue. The white-facedmime had gone, the few remaining artists busy packing their brushes and easelsand hurrying off toward Pirate’s Alley. I waited for Beau to resume his wildtale.

“One thing, though. All this malarkey with Kammihas made me realize the one I love is Sheila. You know, Wyatt, what’s sostrange? I never felt this way about Sheila before and never thought of her asanything except a mistress. Don’t mean a thing, though. When I get thissituation behind me, I will divorce Kammi and marry her.”

“Why wait?”

“Cause I got to break the spell first. That’swhy 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 JacksonSquare. A clap of thunder almost masked my answer.

 

 

Anotherhot day in New Orleans and Detective Tony Nicosia ran chubby fingers throughthinning hair, trying to ignore the Chief’s angry words that had greeted himwhen he arrived at work. Although barely July yet, the city had alreadyexperienced more than three hundred homicides. Tony seriously consideredpacking 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 achair.

Detective Nicosia had lost seventy-five poundsin the last two years and had, so far, managed to keep the weight off. Atfive-eight and two-twenty-five, he was still not exactly svelte. He continuedworking at it, walking two miles before work, lowering his cholesterol andblood pressure as he cinched his belt tighter by the month. He detested theprecinct 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. Noteven Tommy Blackburn, his young partner.

Tony had grown up in a rough New Orleans areaknown as the Irish Channel, a neighborhood once populated by Irish workers. Hisaccent was clearly recognizable by locals from other parts of the city. Manyethnic and racial groups lived there now, and the low-income neighborhood stillmaintained its rugged appearance.

Tommy Blackburn, ten years younger and fortypounds lighter than his partner, had also grown up in the Channel. A raw-bonedsix-footer, Tommy’s ruddy complexion matched his unruly growth of flame-red hair. Tony often accused the bachelor of sleeping in his clothes. His rumpledsports jacket provided no evidence contrary to that accusation. Tommy was likethe little brother he’d never had, so he didn’t bother reminding him not tocall 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 thecoffee with a careful sip. “Chief Wexler chewed my ass this morning. Secondtime this week, and it’s just Tuesday.”

“Can’t be that bad. Chief Wexler’s not much ofan ass chewer.”

When Tony failed to answer, Tommy sipped hisown coffee, knowing better than to ask what was caught in Wexler’s throat.

“I’m starved. Let’s grab a po'boy atNicoletta’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 andstarted out the door. After a final swig of his coffee, Tommy followed.

Sergeant Blackburn and Lieutenant Nicosiaworked out of the 8thDistrict Station on Royal Street in the French Quarter. The 8th District includes the Central BusinessDistrict—what the locals call the C.B.D.—theprime downtown and business district and, of course, the French Quarter.

The vaunted 8thDistrict was well known for providing outstanding police service forsignificant events, including Mardi Gras and the Super Bowl. For a while after the hurricane, Detectives Blackburn and Nicosia wondered if thereever would be another Mardi Gras or Super Bowl in New Orleans.

Tony was the chief detective, a job heconsidered one of the city's most essential. He was also one of the few olderofficers in the District who had survived the firings to clean up what somehad deemed the most corrupt police department in the country. Many closefriends and associates had lost their jobs, and not all had been dishonest.Tony still smarted from the experience, and his early morning meeting with theChief 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 dearestfriends had committed suicide during the immediate aftermath of thedevastation. Many officers fled New Orleans with their families. A fewparticularly 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 onlybarely, even for the locals. Prickly heat and intense humidity drape the citylike a damp washcloth. Tourists planning their visits usually wait until springor 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 byoff-season hotel bargains frequented these events. It was usually so hot inJuly that many locals took their vacations, traveling to cooler climes.After driving down St. Charles Avenue in a police car with inadequate airconditioning, Tony wished he’d gone with them.

“Roll down your window,” he said as they passeda clanging streetcar. “It can’t be any hotter than the air coming out of thevents.”

“That’s the truth,” Tommy said. “What’s thematter with our report?”

Tony remained silent as he parked on thestreet just before reaching Lee Circle. The Garden District, one of the oldestand 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 afew tiny eateries, visited during the day by hordes of workers. They usuallyclosed around five.

Lunch hour, aromas of gumbo and frying shrimpwafted from the many cafes and bistros. Tony’s stomach growled as he and Tommythreaded their way down the sidewalks filled with people dressed in industrialuniforms, white shirts, and ties. There were also the invisible, homelesspeople living on the streets, some asleep on the sidewalk while others extendedhands 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 earlymorning 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 largedumpster surrounded by crime scene tape. Tony stepped over the yellow plasticbarrier, 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 overthere,” Tony said, pointing at a spot on the brick wall he had overlooked inthe dark. “The old lady was probably going through the trash to findsomething to eat. That door is the back of a café that closes around five. Herkiller probably dragged her behind this dumpster. He must be a big one, considering how he manhandled her.”

“Or maybe two murderers,” Tommy said. “Thevictim looked at least one-seventy-five. Living on the street and all, I doubtshe was a shrinking violet.”

Tony thought about his comment. “The killer cuther clothes off with a razor and then used it on her. Bruising and loss ofblood means she was alive while all this was happening.”

Tommy shook his head. “The coroner’s reportwill be interesting, especially if she put up a fight.”

“He’ll have something for us, always does.”

Tommy mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “Nowonder the Captain is pissed. This one could be bad for the recovery, being soclose to the Quarter and all.”

Tony crossed over the tape and started for thecar. “We’ll nose around the streets and see if anyone saw something unreported.”

Lunch hour was near an end, and it didn’t takelong to find two of the many homeless people who lived in the C.B.D. The men were sleeping on the walkway coveredby remnants of a day-old Times Picayune. An empty bottle of Tokay lay betweenthem. 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. “Likewhat?” one man said.

“Like a large man, maybe a stranger to thearea? Maybe you saw him drive up in a car.”

The man shook his head and pulled the paperback over his head. The other man refused to answer at all. When furtherquestioning provided only a consumptive cough, Tony motioned Tommy to give itup and move on. They continued questioning panhandlers, bag ladies, and winos,again with no success.

“These zombies aren’t alive just yet. Make anote to have the uniforms come back after dark. Maybe they’ll be morereceptive.”

As they returned to the car, someone caughttheir attention. The big man walking toward them was tall and sallow, his facescarred by acne and exposure to the sun. He also had the muscled physique of asmack-down wrestler. A red ski cap topped his dark and greasy, shoulder-lengthhair. 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 saidwith an angry edge to his voice as he continued walking.

Tommy started to grab him, but Tony shook hishead. “Call for backup to take this guy downtown for questioning. He’s not awino, but he’s large enough to be our killer, and clearly not normal.”

Tommy quickly used his cell phone. Until helparrived, they followed the large man who was apparently indifferent to theirpresence. Shortly, two uniformed police officers arrived in a cruiser and wentafter the suspect as soon as Tony had pointed him out.

“Sir, you need to come downtown forquestioning,” one of the officers said.

The man ignored the request, brushing pastthem. The two officers grabbed his arm.

“Hey Mac, didn’t you hear me?”

The suspect wheeled around, his face red andwild eyes accentuating his tortured complexion. Without warning, he swiped atthe cop with a small knife he had hastily pulled from his pants pocket.

“Don’t kill him!” Tony yelled, sensing what wasabout to happen.

Without waiting, Tommy knocked theknife-wielder to the ground with a flying body roll from behind.

“You sons-of-bitches,” the man screamed asthree cops descended on him, cuffing and dragging him to the awaiting squadcar.

Tony and Tommy watched as the two uniformedpolice officers screeched off downtown, the suspect in handcuffs in thebackseat.

“Now that’s one crazy dude. You think we’relucky enough for him to be our killer?” Tommy asked.

“Never know. One thing I do know. We got aboutall 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 trafficcongestion on Canal. As they drove down Camp Street, the air conditioningworked 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 withoutknocking.

“Got anything for us, Doc?” Tony asked.

Dr. Bernard nodded and began reading from thereport 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 astraight razor. He also took some trophies, pieces of her skin, and snippets ofhair. Some of the cuts in her chest look like symbols.”

“Of what?” Tommy asked.

“Can’t tell because of the swelling, but theylook like patterns. He kept her alive while he was torturing her, althoughthere was no evidence of a struggle from the woman. I found no hair or skin underher fingernails and no bits of anything human I could identify. She was apracticing alcoholic. She had no other diseases and was in reasonable health exceptfor her scarred liver. No physical abnormalities. Excellent muscle tone for awoman her age and weight. Cause of death strangulation.”

“Ligature,” Tony said. “He kept her alive byapplying the right amount of pressure to whatever he used to strangle herwith.”

“Probably a thin wire,” Dr. Bernard said.“There’s swelling around the ligature mark, which means he worked her over forten minutes or more. He gloved her so she couldn’t scratch him, but he didn’tbother tying her hands.”

“Find any prints?” Tony asked.

Dr. Bernard shook his head. “The killerprobably wore gloves. Not that it matters. Besides his semen, we got samples ofhis saliva, where he drooled on the old woman, and some long hairs from someoneother than her. When you catch the man, we’ll have all the needed evidence.”

“Crazy,” Tony said. “He wore gloves but not arubber. 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 partnerwhen Dr. Bernard said, “From New Orleans. She used to teach English over inMetairie. So far, no relative has come forward to claim the body.”

The footsteps of Tony and Tommy echoed down theempty hallway as they departed the coroner’s office. Though Tony was movingahead with authority, Tommy had no trouble keeping up with his short-legged,older partner. They went to the snack shop on the ground floor andpoured coffee from the urn. Tony’s stomach growled again, louder this time ashe glanced at the doughnuts lined up in the cabinet by the cash register. Tommyjoined 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 FatTony.”

“Sorry,” he said, sipping his hot coffee.

“These street people are tough. They had to beto survive Katrina. Sally was a bag lady living alone on the street. Reasonfor murder is random selection. At least, that’s my first take, though we needto check her family and acquaintances to verify that. Our killer is big andunusually strong.”

Tommy frowned and folded his arms. “What else?”

“The killer seems to know something aboutpolice 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 crazyasshole might do.”

“Something else puzzles me,” Tommy said. “Evenwith a crazy asshole, he could have found a better candidate to satisfy hissexual 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 hadanother motive in mind.”

“Like what?” Tommy asked.

“Humiliation,” was Tony’s terse reply.

 

 

BeauKaplan 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 typifiedmost of the homes in the old neighborhood, with crumbling brick walls only partiallyconcealing junk cars littering many of the yards.

Mama’s house resided at the end of the block. Ahorn sounded from a nearby tugboat plying its business as we parked in herdrive. I kept my fingers crossed that the fancy chrome hubs of Beau’s Lexus wouldstill be there when we returned.

A jungle of garden plants covered Mama’s frontporch, banana palms and other semi-tropical plants that melded with fragrantbougainvilleas draping from the ceiling in wicker baskets. Hibiscus and morningglories crammed well-tended beds surrounding the porch, and a small truckgarden teemed with peas and carrots on the side of the house.

Mama answered the door, Beau instantly smittenby the handsome woman. When I introduced them, he became all charm andPepsodent. Ignoring his blatant flirtation, she led us down a narrow hallway toa room where she donned a black lace shawl retrieved from the closet. Onlyflickering light from several well-placed candles lit the room, and it took amoment 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 finelychiseled features and flowing black hair draping her shoulder blades.When she finally spoke, she did so with no discernible accent. Mama’sunderstanding of the black arts wasn’t all she possessed. She also had adoctorate in English and taught classical literature at Tulane University.

She sat at a table near an elaborateshrine decorated with glowing candles, various bones, feathers, and crucifixes.The room reeked with the cloying odor of melted wax and burning incense. Shemotioned us to join her at the table and quickly locked Beau’s eyes in herintense stare. Her eyes soon mesmerized Beau, reducing him to swayingpassivity. 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 aspell on me.”

Mama tossed her head, causing a strobe-likepassage of light to permeate her thick black hair. She closed her eyes andslowly raised her chin, stretching her arms toward the ceiling. Soon, she beganto shake. It started with a barely noticeable palpitation in the hollow of herlong 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 itin midair. All the candles flared as if pure oxygen had suddenly surgedthrough the room. Mama’s head slammed against the table with such force Ithought she must have knocked herself out. Again, the force kept me fromtouching her.

For the better part of a minute, I watched asMama’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. Whenher convulsions finally ceased, she lay on the table for a long moment before apiercing sound emanated from her unmoving lips—a moan that seemed to come fromanother world rattled the walls and whipped the softly glowing candles intoorange and crimson flame.

“Who dares awaken me from my sleep?” a deepvoice said.

 Beau’seyes were open, his body rigid, almost as if he were in an advanced stage ofrigor 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 youwant?”

Mama was a close friend, and from my manydiscussions over the years with her, I knew Bon Dieu was the High God ofVoodoo. The voice coming from her body had to be a hoax, but I didn’t believeit. 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 onhim.”

The spirit’s laughter echoed inside the smokyroom. When the laughter died away, the voice said, “A powerful spell, anunbreakable spell cast by a mighty houngan.”

“If you’re the Bon Dieu, you can helpus.”

“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 gottenmy answer. It rattled the walls, flying files and feathers and flaringcandle flames. When the wind ceased, Mama moaned, raised her head, and staredaround the room. Beau shook the cobwebs from his head, opening and closing hismouth, 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 thecross. “It was only a loa, a simple spirit of the dead, but he told you whatyou 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’sdriveway. 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 glassesbehind the bar, his collie asleep on the floor beside him.

Cajun slang peppered Bertram’s colorfulvocabulary. His bar on Chartres, hidden two blocks from Bourbon Street, was afavorite of the locals and the occasional tourist who stumbled in toescape the heat or rampant humidity. Bertram’s bar never closed its doorsduring Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Bertram, like many of his regulars, refusedto 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. Theoriginal inhabitants of New Orleans constructed the city on the area’s highestground. The forethought of the founding fathers helped spare the Quarter andthe C.B.D. from the storm’s destruction.

Bertram never stopped serving whiskey andbeer—cold as long as the ice lasted and warm afterward. He soon found agenerator, solving even the problem of warm beer. The main drawback was thesmell 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 framedhis square face, emphasizing his gapped teeth and graying ponytail. He alwayssmiled, even when tossing the inevitable unruly drunk out the front door.Bertram was French Acadian—an authentic Cajun. That meant he was friendlythough distant with people he didn’t know. Like most Cajuns, he would doanything for a friend.

“What’s up, my man? You look like you seen aghost.”

“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 upthe 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, thisis Bertram Picou, proprietor of this fine establishment.”

The usually moody Beau pumped Bertram’s handacross the bar, his smile celebrating every perfect tooth in his mouth.

“Proud to meet you.”

“Sorry about what happened at Mama’s house,” Isaid.

“You kidding me? That was the most awesomeexperience 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’mmoving in with Sheila. Best thing I ever did and I owe it all to you.”

I had a feeling Kammi would be less thanthrilled 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 acold glass of lemonade for me.

“Here’s to you!” Bertram said as he and Beaudrained 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 voodooexperience. They all want to learn more about the city’s best-kept secret, andyou’re just the one to teach them.”

I glanced at Bertram and noticed his usualsmile had changed into a wry grin. “I really don’t know that much aboutvoodoo.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Here’s themoney I owe you for solving my problem,” he said, peeling off ten crispBenjamin Franklins from the roll he pulled out of his sports coat. “I know youcan use the money, and you can easily make this much and more. All you gotta dois introduce some of my friends into the voodoo inner circle. You know what Imean?”

I had no idea what he meant, and I wanted toreturn the thousand dollars to Beau. I knew I couldn’t because I owedBertram two months’ rent. After Katrina, he needed the money, and so did I. Withhis 100-watt smile still intact, Beau patted myshoulder and headed for the door.

“I’ll be back in touch,” he said. “Thanks abunch, Wyatt.”

I watched him go, then turned to find Bertramwaiting with an outstretched palm. Counting out half the bills, I pocketed therest. Was Beau the answer to my prayers or a nightmare waiting to happen? Ididn’t have an answer.

 “Youhaven’t had a paying customer since February,” Bertram said, sensing myhesitation. “You need some work, and to tell you the truth, I’m tired of seeingyou 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 hischest. “If someone wants to give you a job plucking chickens, you better takethe plucking job. You ain’t got nothing else going right now.”

Bertram was right. Still, I knew little moreabout voodoo in New Orleans than Beau. It didn’t matter because Mama did. Icalled later and left a message on her answering machine.

***

Although my room upstairs was small, it was allI needed. It had a bedroom, closet, and bath, but it had a wrought ironbalcony overlooking Rue Chartres. I had a potted palm growing on it, and hangingplants 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 mymeeting with Beau.

Despite my better judgment, I’d grown fond ofthe yellow tabby. He looked as if his name should be Bob because all he had fora 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. Itdidn’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, andwatching the action on Chartres from a perch in my potted palm. At night, he’dgo tomcatting. I always knew when he’d returned because he would scratch on thepatio door until I let him in. He’d also taken to sleeping at the foot of mybed, and I’d finally given up trying to put him out. Soon, I didn’t know if hewas my pet or the other way around.

***

Toward the end of the week, Mama returned mycall. “I feel terrible taking the poor man’s money when there’s nothing I cando for him.”

“There’s nothing poor about him Mama, and hethinks you hung the moon. Anyway, I called you about another matter Are youinterested in a potential business deal?”

“What kind of business deal?”

“Let’s talk about it in person.”

Mama hesitated and then said, “I’m workinglate tonight, grading a few papers. Will you stop by? When I finish, we’llget 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 universitywas stately and somewhat imposing. I entered the large building housing theEnglish 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 quitedifferently from our previous meeting. Instead of the revealing caftan she’dworn at the ceremony, her pinstriped dress imparted a stately and intellectualpersona. Steadfastly refusing to discuss my business proposal while gradingpapers, she made me wait silently. When she finally finished, we drove downthe street in her fully restored Bugeye Sprite to Pascal Manale’s.

While waiting for a table in the crowdedrestaurant, 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 thesucculent shrimp and didn’t discuss business at all until we had finished ourbread pudding. Finally, I told her about my meeting with Beau Kaplan.

“You know I’m a practitioner of Vodoun becauseit is very real to me,” she said. “What you saw and heard the other day was nota sideshow attraction.”

“That’s exactly why I called you. Beau wants anexpert. I’m not, but you are. His friends have money, Mama, and they willgladly pay. I propose a fifty-fifty partnership. I bring you the clientele, andyou take it from there. I’ll help all I can, of course. I think we can makesome real money.”

“Well,” she finally said. “I would love anextended trip to Europe this time next year. When do we start?”

“When Beau calls. He is setting us up withsomeone as we speak. Are you in?”

Mama smiled, shook my hand, and motioned ourserver for more coffee.

###



Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma, where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He authored the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans, the Paranormal Cowboy Series, and the Oyster Bay Mystery Series. Please check it out on his Amazon author page. You can also check out his Facebook page.