***

Taj took a cab to Dumaine. After signing an autograph for the star-struck cabbie, he stood outside Dr. Voodoo’s Spells and Hexes, staring at the voodoo dolls, African masks, and drums in the picture window. A cold breeze was whistling down the street. As two lightly dressed tourists brushed past him on the sidewalk, he pulled the black leather trench coat tighter around his neck.

A bell on the door, pealing the theme song of some horror movie Taj barely remembered, sounded when he entered. As the door shut behind him, welcome warmth and the odor of pungent incense accosted his nostrils. The sound of voodoo drums emanated from speakers hidden behind the rows of African masks and grotesquely carved effigies. The little shop was empty of tourists and Taj jumped when someone behind him spoke. A portly man with a cookie duster mustache was grinning at him when he wheeled around.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, big guy. Hep you?”

Taj showed him the bloody voodoo doll. “I’m wondering if this doll came from your shop.”

“Whoa, don’t hand it to me. Where’d you get that thing?” the man asked.

“My hotel room. I was hoping someone could tell me something about it.”

“Aren’t you Taj Davis?” the man asked.

“I am. You?”

“Tammany Louis Lafourche III,” he said. “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want to touch that thing you’re holding.”

“You have voodoo dolls all over the store. What’s wrong with this one?” Taj asked.

“It’s covered in blood. Most of my dolls come from China. I can see right off the bat the one in your hand is the real Magilla.”

When Taj leaned forward, Lafourche took a step backward.

“Even if I’m big and black, I promise I won’t hurt you,” Taj said.

“I’m not worried about you,” Lafourche said. “It’s that thing in your hand. It’s bad news.”

“How so?”

“From the looks of that bandage on your foot, I’m guessing the blood on the voodoo doll is yours. Am I wrong?”

“It’s mine. So what?”

“You got that wound by design, is my guess.”

“An accident,” Taj said. “Stepped on broken glass.”

“Someone has hexed you, is what I think,” Lafourche said.

Taj glanced at the shopkeeper, searching for a grin, or some other sign he was having his leg pulled. Lafourche wasn’t smiling.

“You don’t believe in that sort of thing, do you?”

“I was born and raised right here in New Orleans. Not only do I believe it, I know it’s true.”

It was Taj’s turn to smile. “Who would have a reason to hex me?” he asked. “I’ve only been in town since last night.”

“I heard,” Lafourche said. “Everyone’s talking about you joining the Pels.”

“Is that bad or good?”

Lafourche hesitated before answering. “Mixed feelings, mostly bad. Zee Ped’s an All-Star. Everyone knows you’re good but . . .”

“But what? You think I’m too old?” Taj said, finishing Lafourche’s sentence.

“Almost ten years older than Zee Ped. He’s the best player on the Pels. At least he was.”

“Sorry,” Taj said. “I had no choice in the matter. I’m as confused as you are about what I’m doing here.”

“May have something to do with that thing in your hand,” Lafourche said.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Someone may have wanted you here.”

“For what reason?”

“Maybe unfinished business. You’d know the answer to that better than me,” Lafourche said.

“I don’t know anything. I came here for answers, not more questions.”

“I’m as in the dark as you are,” Lafourche said.

“You know about voodoo dolls. It’s how you make a living. What makes you think this one is real?”

The drumming soundtrack segued into an African chant as Lafourche leaned back against a display case filled with polished wooden masks and pottery effigies.

“I’ve owned this shop for eighteen years. While most everything here is little more than tourist souvenirs, I’ve learned a thing or two about voodoo,” Lafourche said.

“So you’re telling me this is a real voodoo doll?”

“It didn’t come from this shop.”

“What about another shop in town?” Taj asked.

“That doll didn’t come from a shop. A real voodoo houngan or mambo made it. A ceremony was performed, you can bet good money on it.”

“How do you know?” Taj said.

“Your doll’s made of bleached cloth wrapped around two sticks of different sizes. Those sticks represent the cross. Bet they’re even made from the same kind of tree they used to crucify Christ on.”

“What’s Christianity got to do with voodoo?” Taj asked.

“Vodoun is a religion brought over by slaves from West Africa. When they reached the West Indies, it began changing. Vodoun, Catholicism, and pagan Carib beliefs got all mixed up at the sugar plantations and morphed into what we now call voodoo. At least until it reached New Orleans, and then it changed even more.”

 “You’re white. I always thought voodoo was only practiced by blacks.”

“You’d be wrong about that,” Lafourche said. “A Jew was once the most powerful voodoo practitioner.”

“Do you practice voodoo?” Taj asked.

“I bought this shop from an old voodoo woman. A real voodoo woman. Voodoo dolls are my main business, and I learned everything I know about them from her.”

“Just the dolls or all about voodoo?”

“Few people know what voodoo is really about. Practitioners can be powerful, and dangerous. I’ve purposely kept my nose out of their business.”

“I don’t have that luxury,” Taj said. “What’s the deal with this voodoo doll?”

“When it’s cold outside, my business is slow,” Lafourche said, glancing around the shop.

Catching the drift, Taj reached for his wallet and handed him a twenty.

“Does that warm things up for you?” he asked.

“I’m still a little chilly.”

Taj handed him two more twenties. “Warm enough?” he asked.

Lafourche stashed the bills in the pocket of the cracked leather vest he wore over his threadbare Western shirt.

“Like I said, the two sticks represent the cross. Bleached cloth is wrapped around the sticks to form the doll.”

“That it?” Taj asked when Lafourche paused.

“The cloth is the property of the victim of the doll. The person who made the doll either stole it from the intended victim or paid someone to steal it. Once the houngan or mambo gets it, they bleach it in a voodoo ceremony. Then they use it to make the doll.”

“Get real!” Taj said.

“The more personal the connection, the more powerful the spell. The rotations around the sticks, the direction it’s wrapped, and where it’s tied off, all have meaning to the person that made the doll. The more precise the construction, the more powerful the spell.”

“Surely, you don’t believe all that malarkey,” Taj said.

The African chant coming through the speakers transitioned back into drumming. Lafourche glanced around the little shop as if expecting to see someone listening to the conversation.

“Let me just say I wouldn’t want to be the person this doll was made for. If it’s you, then you got a problem. Hell, the whole damn town’s been hexed, because the team lost its best player to get you.”

When Lafourche turned to walk away, Taj grabbed his shoulder.

“Wait just a minute,” he said. “I paid you sixty bucks. Is that all you got?”

“Like you said, I’m white. What the hell do I know?”

“More than me,” Taj said. “I paid you, and I have more questions.” Taj pulled three more twenties from his wallet and thrust them at Lafourche. “Will these help jog your memory?”

Lafourche shook his head. “Keep your money. I’ve told you all I know.”

“At least, point me in the right direction.”

“There’s a cemetery tour starting in twenty minutes. Maybe the tour guide can help you fill in the blanks. Want me to sign you up?”

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Realizing Tammany Louis Lafourche III was unable or unwilling to answer any more questions, Taj let the shop owner sign him up for a tour of the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. Lafourche disappeared in the back and didn’t return, even when the same young couple he’d passed on the sidewalk entered the shop to the chiming of bells.

“Are we in the right place for the cemetery tour?” the young woman asked.

“It’s what I’m waiting for,” Taj said.

The couple looked no older than mid-twenties, the woman’s Midwestern accent hinting they weren’t locals. Her denim shorts, and the lightweight maize and blue coat, zipped open enough so he could see her University of Michigan tee shirt, suggested she’d expected warmer weather in New Orleans. The stunning young woman had long, red hair, creamy-white skin, expressive blue eyes, and stood about five-feet-seven.

The slender young man was wearing an identical coat and had his head in a guidebook. When he glanced up and saw Taj, he pushed his John Lennon glasses onto his forehead. They weren’t into sports, because neither of them recognized him.

“I’m Amy,” the young woman said. “This is Brian. We’re students at Michigan and decided to visit New Orleans over the Christmas break.”

“I’m Taj,” he said, shaking the young woman’s hand.

“Are you from out of town?” Brian asked.

Before stashing the voodoo doll in his trench coat, Taj had stuffed it into a baggie Tommy had given him.

“Something like that,” he said.

Amy with the wavy red hair was smiling. Brian had a look of terror on his baby face. Taj was used to the reaction. People aren’t always prepared to meet a physically imposing six-foot nine-inch black man dressed in a knee-length black leather trench coat.

“I’m a history buff,” Taj said. “I heard these cemetery tours aren’t to be missed.”

Brian’s concerned expression vanished. “Us too,” he said. “I’m majoring in American history and hope to teach someday. It’s my passion.”

“What about you, Amy?” Taj asked.

“Don’t know yet what I want to do for the rest of my life,” she said.

The chime on the door sounded before Amy could ask him what he did. An older man, wearing a yellow vest over his jacket, rubbed his hands together to warm them. The plastic nametag hanging from his neck pegged him as the tour guide.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Wind has picked up out there, and I had to run back home and get a heavier coat. I’m Garlen, your tour guide.”

Taj noticed the dirty look Amy flashed Brian at Garlen’s mention of a heavier coat. Her reaction lasting only a moment, she was smiling when she shook Garlen’s hand.

“I’m Amy,” she said. “Brian is the one who looks like an aspiring college professor. Taj is the gentleman in the black coat.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Garlen said. “Hope that windbreaker keeps you warm enough, young lady.”

“Brian said the weather in New Orleans would be mild this time of year.”

“It is,” Brian said. “At least when compared to Ann Arbor.”

Amy gave Brian another dirty look.

“The humidity in New Orleans makes every little chill seem much colder than it really is,” Garlen said. “At least we’ll be out of the wind when we reach St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.”

Garlen, like Amy and Brian, apparently had no idea who Taj was. As he followed them down the Basin Street sidewalk, it was all right with him. Though Taj knew most of the graves in New Orleans were above ground, he wasn’t prepared for the eerie feeling of déjà vu warming his neck upon seeing the brick and stone monoliths. Garlen was correct. The wall around the cemetery blocked the wind when they entered the gate.

“This is the oldest cemetery in New Orleans,” Garlen said. “The spiritual home of many famous citizens. Mark Twain called our cemeteries “Cities of the dead.”

“This place is amazing,” Brian said. “The tombs are so large and ornate and the paths between them so narrow, they seem to close in around you. What do you think, Amy?”

“My skin is crawling,” she said.

“You can’t be serious. This place is awesome. What’s the matter?”

“Spirits of the dead; I can feel their cold breath on my neck,” she said.

“You’re shivering,” Brian said.

“Brian, I don’t like it here. I want to go.”

“You're irrational,” he said. “It’s broad daylight. There are no ghosts.”

“You stay. I’ll walk back to the car and wait for you there,” she said.

Casting a distressed look at Garlen, Brian shrugged his shoulders and followed her out the gate.

“So sorry,” he said.

As cold rain began to fall, Garlen turned to Taj. “Under the circumstances, I’m calling off the tour. They’ll give you a rain check at the shop.”

“Wait,” Taj said. “I have questions I need someone to answer for me.”

“Next time,” Garlen said. “It doesn’t just rain in New Orleans, it pours.”

Rain began dimpling the dark leather of Taj’s coat, as he watched the tour guide disappear through the front gate. An unexpected voice startled him back to reality.

“Get in here before the sky opens up.”

An older black man was holding open the door of an outbuilding Taj hadn’t noticed when they entered the cemetery. As the rain began falling harder, he followed the man into the little building.

There were no windows, the air stale, the little room lighted only by a blazing potbelly stove and a few candles. There were a couple of ramshackle chairs and an old cot draped with pillow and bedclothes. The floor was dirt. Through the crack in the door, Taj could hear the drumming of rain growing heavier by the minute.

“Who are you?” Taj asked.

The man chuckled. “The keeper of cemeteries and lost souls.”

“You’re the caretaker?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m Taj. What’s your name?”

“People call me lots of things. You can call me Sam. You told that man you got questions.”

“And I was hoping for some answers,” Taj said. “Guess I’ll have to find them someplace else.”

Sam chuckled. “You weren’t going to get the answers you need from him. Hell, the girl with the prissy boyfriend knows more about spirits than he do.”

“How do you know that?” Taj asked.

“Old Sam here knows lots of things.”

“But she’s white.”

“Not much difference between white and black in Nawlins.”

“That girl’s from Michigan and not New Orleans.”

Sam fluffed the pillow on the cot. “Some people don’t have the foggiest idea where they’re really from,” he said.

Taj let the comment pass. During his tenure in the NBA, he’d developed an eye for his opponents' height, weight, and age. Sam was about five-eight and probably somewhere north of fifty years old. Despite the gloomy day, he had a pair of dark sunglasses perched atop his head. The stub of his lit cigar came out of his mouth only when he talked. Moving the pillow aside, he plopped down on the cot, propping his feet up on a packing crate. Taj grinned when he noticed the holes in his dirty white socks.

“Gonna be raining awhile,” Sam said. “Take a load off and grab a chair. Like I say, that white man don’t know a damn thing about voodoo, anyway.”

“Think I’ll stand,” Taj said, glancing at the rickety chair he doubted would support his weight.

“Want something to drink?” Sam asked.

“Sure. My body is wet, but my mouth is kind of dry.”

Sam retrieved a gallon jug of red wine from behind his cot. After unscrewing the metal cap, he slung the bottle over his shoulder and slugged the cheap wine straight from the container.

“Nothing much better than a pull of MD 20-20,”

Taj took the bottle, laughing before he took a swig. As wine dribbled down Taj’s chin, it was Sam’s turn to laugh.

“Haven’t had any Mad Dog since I was a freshman in college,” Taj said.

“Good for what ails you,” Sam said. “Have another taste.”

Taj waved off the offer as he handed the jug of wine back to Sam.

“One pull was all I needed.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam said.

The rain had begun falling in sheets, humid air flooding through the partly open door.

“How’d you know my question was about voodoo?” Taj asked.

“Hell, boy, your silk shirt is open to the waist. Even in the dark, and half covered by that big old gold chain around your neck, I can see the veve tattooed on your chest.”

Sam chuckled again when Taj said, “You know what it means?”

“Only the houngan or mambo that put it there knows the answer to that. And maybe the loa they’re attempting to influence.”

“That’s what I heard,” Taj said. “How do you know so much about voodoo?”

“Who says I do?” Sam said.

“Do you?”

“Ain’t no one from Nawlins that don’t know something about voodoo.”

Taj reached into his coat for the voodoo doll. “What can you tell me about this?” he asked.

Sam, unmindful of the blood, took the doll. “Somebody got it in for you.”

“Because?”

“Cause this is your doll.”

“How do you know that?”

Sam removed a hair from the doll and handed it to Taj. “Looks like it came from your beard.”

“That’s crazy talk. It probably stuck to the doll when I was handling it,” Taj said.

“What about this?”

Rain continued falling outside the little room as Sam dropped something into Taj’s palm.

“A fingernail. What makes you think it’s mine?” Taj asked.

“Is it?”

A sliver of purplish skin hung from the fingernail. Taj glanced at the ring finger on his left hand at the blackened nail he’d damaged in a recent basketball game.

“If it is mine, how would anyone have gotten it?”

“Voodoo practitioners have long arms. Might surprise you who could have got it for them. For a price.”

Taj recalled the woman he’d met in a bar after the game that night. An overly friendly young woman with a southern accent.

“I’m having trouble believing all of this,” he said.

“You believed it enough to come looking for answers,” Sam said.

“You think someone’s trying to kill me?”

“Getting hexed with a voodoo doll don’t always mean a person’s trying to kill you.”

“Then what does it mean?”

“Somebody is trying to control your actions.”

“A voodoo witch doctor?”

“Practitioners make their living casting spells. More than likely, someone hired them to do it.”

“And why on earth would they do that?”

Sam shook his head. “You wronged anyone lately? Screwed someone else’s wife, or took something that didn’t belong to you? Hell, man! It could be almost anything.”

“I’m not a perfect person, though I can’t think of anyone I’ve wronged lately,” Taj said.

“Then search your soul. You did something to somebody, and they’re pissed off about it. That, I can promise you,” Sam said. “Or . . .”

“Or what?”

“Somebody might be trying to send you a message,” Sam said.

The heavy door banged against the wall as a gust of wind blew it open. Sucking the air out of the room, it extinguished all the candles as it slammed shut again. Sam padded across the dirt floor, relighting the candles with what looked like a flame coming directly from his fingers. Taj waited until he’d returned to his perch on the cot.

“I need help,” Taj said. “I’ll pay you well if you can help me.”

“I don’t need your money, and I’ve already told you a bunch. What you need is the right person to help you,” Sam said. “A smart houngan or mambo.”

“Can you refer me to one?”

“There’s a powerful mambo I’ve dealt with,” Sam said. “I’m betting she can help you.”

“Please tell me who she is.”

“Her name is Mama Mulate.”

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Clouds had turned an angry shade of gray, rain having ceased as Taj left Sam’s shack. Two seagulls floated in lazy circles above him as he pulled the leather coat around his neck and hurried up the sidewalk.

Except for a wino looking for shelter from the weather, the streets were deserted. Taj handed the derelict a twenty as he walked past. He saw someone he recognized when he reached Dr. Voodoo’s Spells and Hexes. It was Amy, shivering as she stood on one leg against the wall.

“What the hell!” he said. “You could get killed out here all alone. Where’s your boyfriend?”

“The little prick left me here.”

“You gotta be kidding? Why in the world would he do that?”

“It wasn’t his idea to spend Christmas in New Orleans. It was mine.”

“So?”

“Brian comes from a wealthy Long Island family that always celebrates Christmas together. His mother called and told him to get his ass home.”

“Why didn’t you just go with him?”

“Because he hasn’t bothered telling his mother about me yet. He offered to drop me at the airport.”

She smiled for the first time when Taj said, “That was mighty white of him.”

“He gave me a hundred bucks. Probably not even enough for a bus ticket to Ann Arbor.”

“I have money,” Taj said. “I’ll cover you for a plane ticket home.”

“I’m not going home. I was drawn here for a reason. I’m staying until I find out what that reason is.”

Taj removed his leather coat, draping it around the young woman’s shoulders.

“Don’t want you to catch a cold,” he said. “Why are you still at the voodoo shop?”

“Waiting on you. The first time I saw you I knew we had a cosmic connection. Can I stay the night with you? I have no other place to go.”

Taj took a step backward. He was an attractive big man who had wielded an almost hypnotic attraction on women since he was in his teens. Even so, Amy’s words caught him by surprise.

“You’re moving way too fast,” he said. “I’m not looking to shack up with anyone tonight.”

She grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer. “Neither am I,” she said. “I have something you need to see.”

A rush of adrenaline warmed Taj’s neck when Amy raised her University of Michigan tee shirt. She was braless, though it was something other than her breasts that caught his attention. The veve situated between them, though smaller, was identical to the one on his own chest. After lowering her tee shirt, she stared at him.

“That’s the same mark I have on my chest,” he said. “Were you born with it?”

“Yes, and my name isn’t Amy. It’s Adelajda. My relatives and friends call me Adela.”

“Then why did you introduce yourself as Amy?”

“Because Brian thought Adelajda sounded too ethnic.”

“What a jerk,” Taj said.

“It’s not the reason I encouraged him to drive off without me. When I saw the symbol on your chest, I knew I had to talk to you about it. Did you come to New Orleans for the same reason as me?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “You hungry?”

“Starved,” she said. “And I was freezing until you lent me your coat. Thank you.”

“What are you hungry for?”

“Anything. I haven’t eaten since we got here. Brian was a stickler for staying on schedule. If you missed a meal, you just went hungry until the next one rolled around.”

“Jerk,” Taj said. “My hotel isn’t far away. Their food is pretty damn good. We can warm up, talk, and get something to eat and drink.”

A damp chill permeated the air around them, the sound of tourists growing louder as they approached Bourbon Street. Flashing neon failed to mask the pink pastels of the winter sky as the sun disappeared behind old French Quarter buildings.

Except for a few half-drunk college students, the chilly weather had kept most of the tourists in their hotel rooms. A strip show barker standing in an open doorway called to them, trying to attract some business.

“Naked ladies. Gotta come see. First drink, half price.”

“Next time,” Taj said, clutching Adela’s arm as they hurried past.

Music poured from the doors, vibrating the fine mist that was wafting up from the street. Adela pulled Taj to a halt, turned around and stared at the blocks of neon-lighted antiquity.

“Bourbon Street’s like an adult fantasyland,” she said.

“I hear that,” Taj said. “Let’s hurry. It’s starting to rain again.”

Rain began dampening their shoulders, lights of the hotel casting a welcome glow through the gloom as they followed a side street to Royal. A stretch limo was dropping off people in front of the hotel. Festively dressed in holiday colors, they looked as if they were on their way to a Christmas party. Tommy was back on duty and spotted them as soon as they entered the bustling lobby.

“Tommy, my man,” Taj said. “This is Adela. She’s my sister.”

“Sure she is,” Tommy said. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Adela.”

“We need your help,” Taj said. “When you get a minute, can you come upstairs?”

“Sure,” Tommy said. “Got an errand I need to run first.”

“No hurry,” Taj said.

Everyone in the lobby turned to watch the tall black man and the young woman with long, red hair, disappear into the elevator. Five minutes after arriving at the room, Tommy, carrying two menus and a bottle of red wine, joined them.

“Figured you might need these,” he said.

“Same as last night for me,” Taj said. “Steak, baked, and another bottle of your finest red wine. I’ve had a tough day.”

“You got it, Mr. Taj. What about you, ma’am?” Tommy said. “We got some of the best gumbo in town.”

“I’ve never eaten gumbo,” she said.

“Then you’re in for a treat,” he said. “It’s like ambrosia of the gods.”

“That sounds lovely, Tommy. I can’t wait to taste it.”

“You like Cajun food?” Tommy said.

“I’ve never eaten any.”

“You like seafood?”

“Love seafood,” she said.

Beaming, Tommy said, “Then you’ll love Cajun food. I’ll have the chef prepare a sampler plate for you. What to drink?”

“Red wine for now, though Chardonnay sounds good with the seafood.”

“You bet it is. You’ll have a bottle of our best,” Tommy said. “What else?”

Taj began peeling hundred dollar bills from his roll of cash.

“Adela is from out of town. She didn’t come dressed for December in New Orleans and needs jeans, blouses, boots, socks, underwear, and a suitable coat. You get the picture?”

“Keep your money,” Tommy said. “The concierge has someone on staff who shops for our rich clients. I’ll send her up to get Miss Adela’s sizes and have the hotel put it on your tab. Let the Pels pay for it.”

“We’ll also need another bed for Adela. Can you handle it for me?” Taj asked.

“Course I can. Guess you forget who took care of you last night.”

Taj handed Tommy two twenties. “I won’t forget about that. I predict there’ll be front-row tickets waiting for you next time you want to see a Pel’s game.”

Tommy’s eyes grew large. “You mean it?”

“You bet I do,” Taj said.

“My man,” Tommy said, giving Taj a high-five before exiting the room.

***

The extra bed was in place, the shopping lady having come and gone, as Adela finished the last morsel of her bread pudding. Taj topped up their wine glasses before speaking.

“Feel better?”

“Wonderful,” she said.

“We have things to discuss. Seems like an unbelievable coincidence both of us have identical voodoo marks on our chests and that we arrived in New Orleans at more or less the same time. I have no memory of how I got whatever this thing is. What about you?”

Adela shook her head. “No idea. My parents are good Christians. I feel certain they didn’t put it there.”

“I was adopted as a baby,” Taj said. “I grew up in New Jersey.”

“Michigan for me,” she said. “I got a full academic scholarship after high school. I’m studying to be a botanist though I have no clue if it’s what I want to do for the rest of my life. How about you?”

“I also got a full ride out of high school, though mine was by way of an athletic scholarship. I’m thirty-four. You have to be in your twenties.”

“Twenty-five,” she said. “I bummed around a few years before starting college.”

“You’re white, and I’m black. We’re obviously not related.”

“Then why do we have identical symbols on our chests?” she asked.

“Wish I knew,” he said. “What’s your last name?”

“Kowalski,” Adela said. “Very Polish.”

“You don’t look Polish,” Taj said.

“How’s a Pole supposed to look?”

“With your red hair, freckles, and light colored skin, you look more Irish to me,” Taj said.

“Adelajda is Polish, just like my last name. Is Davis your real name?”

“Real to me, though I’m sure it’s not my birth name,” Taj said.

Adela gazed out an open window at the lights filtering up from the French Quarter.

“The colors from up here are mesmerizing,” she said. “I knew I had a connection to this city the moment I walked into that old cemetery. My head was all abuzz. It was as if I could hear the moans of the spirits. It was deafening.”

“I feel the same way about New Orleans.”

“Why were you on the cemetery tour?” Adela asked.

“Because of this,” he said.

He reached inside his trench coat Adela had thrown across the bed and showed her the voodoo doll.

“What the hell is it?” she asked.

“Voodoo doll,” he said.

“Is the blood on that grotesque thing yours?”

“Afraid so,” he said. “The hotel was crowded when I arrived yesterday. They put me in a room on the thirteenth floor that hasn’t been used for decades. I drank a bottle of wine and fell asleep in the bathtub. A demon from hell woke me.”

“You’re making this up.”

“It chased me out the door.”

“Were you frightened?”

“I’m not afraid of much. The demon I saw scared the hell out of me. Enough so, I didn’t bother getting dressed. I stepped on glass when I got out of the tub and was naked and bleeding when Tommy found me. I had this in my hand. I went to the voodoo shop to try and find out what it means.”

“Did you?” she asked.

“Both the shop owner and a man I met at the cemetery said someone had made it especially for me.”

“How on earth would they have known that?” she asked.

“The doll had a hair from my beard and a fingernail I’d lost in a basketball game.”

“Are you sure?”

“The nail from the doll fit my finger like a missing puzzle piece. I have no doubt it was mine.”

“You’re saying someone made a voodoo doll that’s supposed to be you? Why would they do that?”

“The cemetery caretaker seemed to know a bunch about voodoo. He said it could mean almost anything. One thing he was sure of. Somebody has put a hex on me.”

“A cemetery caretaker told you that? Sounds crazy to me.”

“Pretty much what I thought, at least until you showed me the veve on your chest,” he said.

“What should we do?” Adela asked.

“The cemetery man gave me the name of a voodoo woman named Mama Mulate.”

“This is too weird,” Adela said. “I’ve had an urge to visit New Orleans, and I have no idea where the notion came from.”

“Maybe you’re part of the hex,” Taj said.

“But that’s just crazy,” she said.

“It is crazy,” Taj said.

“What happens if we do nothing?” Adela asked.

“Either find out the hex means nothing, or else suffer the results of it,” Taj said. “My career is already affected. I have a cut foot, and now I’ve met someone with an identical mark on their chest as the one I have. I don’t want to worry when I go to sleep at night I’ll wake up with a demon in my face. We need to get to the bottom of this hex. The only way I know how to proceed is to contact the woman Sam told me about.”

Distant thunder rattled the old building, the steady drumming of rain beginning to beat a tympani on the windows. Adela’s vivid eyes flashed when the electricity failed for just a moment.

“How do we find her?” Adela asked.

“Maybe Tommy can help us.”

 

 

Chapter 5

 

December had arrived in the French Quarter. I realized as much when I walked downstairs from my apartment above Bertram Picou’s on Rue Chartres and saw him hanging Christmas lights over the bar.

“About time you got your ass out of bed, Wyatt Thomas,” he said. “You so rich now you don’t need to work?”

Bertram was of French Acadian descent. One-hundred percent coonass and he played it to the hilt for his visitors from out of town. After mopping his forehead and thinning hair with his trapper’s hat, he pulled up a stool beside me.

“I work for myself, and it’s Saturday,” I said. “I can sleep late if I feel like it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bertram said. “Sleep all damn day for all I care. Just as long as you pay your rent.”

I’d recently won lots of money betting on the ponies at the local racetrack. First thing I’d done was prepay the rent for twelve months in advance.

“Business slow?” I said, not taking his bait.

“Damn rain’s about to bankrupt me,” he said.

A steady drizzle of rain was falling outside. Through the windows, I could see a Lucky Dog wrapper floating down the flooded street. The sidewalks were empty, rain keeping the tourists in their hotel rooms.

“You’ll survive,” I said. “You haven’t bought anything new for this place since I’ve known you. What do you do with all the money you make in this little goldmine?”

Bertram brushed a dark wisp of hair that had fallen down over his forehead, and then tweaked his mustache.

“You seen my bills lately?” he said. “I’m lucky if I break even every month.”

“Quit whining, Bertram. I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”

Bertram ducked under the bar, poured himself a shot of Cuervo and an icy glass of lemonade for me.

“Seen Eddie lately?”

“He’s keeping a low profile, trying to decide whether to marry Josie Castellano.”

“Frankie and Adele were here last night. Sounded to me like Eddie don’t have much choice.”

Adele was a friend. Assistant Federal D.A. Eddie Toledo and I were eating in Adele’s Italian restaurant in Metairie the night local mob boss Frankie Castellano had walked in the door. Love had ensued, the couple still enamored with each other after two years of marriage. Josie was Frankie’s strong-minded daughter who had fallen in love with perennial bachelor, Eddie.

“Maybe that’s why we haven’t seen him in a while. I can’t see Eddie ever settling down with any woman, no matter how attractive, rich, or intelligent she might be.”

“You could be right,” he said as he slugged the shot and then poured himself another. “It bother you how much Josie looks like Desire?”

“At first it did.”

“You over her yet?” he asked.

“I’ll never be totally over Desire. At least I’ve resolved her loss in my mind.”

“She’s one drop-dead gorgeous woman. Too bad things didn’t work out,” Bertram said. “What has happened to her?”

It took me a moment before I could answer. “Missionary work in Africa. I doubt she’ll ever return to New Orleans.”

I’d met Desire Vallee while working on a problem for her father, Gordon. The case had ended badly, both Gordon and Desire’s twin sister dying tragically. Their deaths were also the end of my short-lived affair with the most exciting woman I’d ever known.

“Sorry to bring it up,” Bertram said. “Have a new woman on your radar?”

“I’m done with relationships. Everyone I’ve had lately has ended badly.”

“Gotta admit,” Bertram said. “You’re pretty tough on women. What about Mama Mulate? You two ever hooked up?”

“Though we’ve come close a time or two, our business relationship is more important to us than a love affair.”

“I hear that,” Bertram said. “How’s it working out for you?”

“We haven’t done anything businesswise in a while,” I said.

“I can’t remember how you got to be partners,” Bertram said.

“Mama performed a voodoo séance for a rich client of mine. He was so impressed, he told all his wealthy friends about us. For a while, we had more paranormal related business than we could handle. Clients wanting us to contact dead relatives, or find lost graves.”

“You’ve done lots of cases that didn’t involve Mama Mulate,” Bertram said.

“It’s just a loose partnership,” I said. “Mama’s still an English professor at Tulane, and I’ve continued working cases even when she isn’t involved.”

Before I could expound further about my relationship with Mama Mulate, someone Bertram and I both knew entered the bar. It was Eddie Toledo looking professional in an expensive pin-striped suit.

“Well, look what the cat drug in,” Bertram said. “We were just talking about you. What the hell are you doing here on a Monday morning?”

“I just got fired, and I need a drink.”

Eddie’s words came as a shock. He’d worked for the government since graduating as valedictorian from the University of Virginia law school. I’d fully expected him to retire with the Feds. From the look on his face, so did he. Bertram quickly poured Eddie a double scotch and pushed the glass across the bar.

“What the hell happened?”

“The powers downtown apparently thought I’d gotten a little too close to Frankie Castellano,” he said.

Eddie had dark hair and eyes, his hair a bit too long to fit the image of a federal prosecutor. Women had a hard time resisting him, and he couldn’t resist women. Though he’d fallen hard for the beautiful daughter of a mob boss, my money was betting he’d wind up as a life-long bachelor.

“You’ve always kept that relationship with Frankie at arm’s length,” I said. “What changed?”

“The rumor I was marrying the Don of the Bayou’s daughter.”

“We heard it was more than a rumor,” Bertram said.

“I have to admit, I was resigned to taking the plunge,” Eddie said.

“You changed your mind?” I asked.

“Josie changed it for me. She said she would never marry a cheater. I told her I had changed. My best defense failed to convince her.”

“Bummer,” I said. “Frankie and Adele had their hearts set on an April wedding. How are they taking it?”

“They both feel sooner or later Josie will change her mind. Me, I’m not so sure about it.”

Eddie slugged his drink, and Bertram poured him another.

“What now?” I asked.

“I have no job, no car, and my resume just took a professional hit. I do have an opportunity on the table,” he said.

“Oh?” I said.

“Frankie must have known what was going down because he called me with an offer this morning.”

“One you can’t refuse?” Bertram said.

“I have alternatives. I could put out my shingle and go into private practice.”

“Because of your position with the Feds, you’ve probably met every influential person in town,” I said. “You could make a killing in private practice.”

“Don’t know if I’m cut out to represent white collar scumbags.”

“Why not?” Bertram said. “You’d soon be driving a Porsche, living in the Garden District, and golfing at the country club on the weekends. Hell, they might even make you president of the Boston Club.”

“Funny, Bertram,” Eddie said.

“What sort of offer did Frankie have for you? His consigliere?”

“Adele and Frankie still want me to marry Josie. They both know she’d have no part of me if I became Frankie’s mob attorney.”

“What then?” I asked.

“A developer built a weekend getaway destination east of here in the late twenties. It’s on an island with access by water to the Mississippi River, Lake Pontchartrain, Lake Bourne, and it abuts the Gulf of Mexico. It had a marina, a restaurant, and a dozen or so vacation homes. The development gradually declined because of its lack of infrastructure.”

“What’s the name of this place?” I asked.

“Oyster Island.”

“And?” Bertram said.

“Frankie offered to give me the restaurant and bar, and all the property that goes with it.”

“In exchange for what?” I asked.

“He wants to redevelop the property and for me to be the mayor.”

“What good is a restaurant and bar if you ain’t got no customers?” Bertram asked.

“The place is like a little resort community. Frankie says if we update the infrastructure and then advertise the hell out of it, customers and new weekend homeowners will flock there.”

“What about hurricanes, flooding and global warming?” I asked.

“Frankie paid a consulting firm to do an engineering and geological study of the island. Seems it’s located in just the right spot to receive a yearly influx of new sediment coming from down river. The island is sheltered by barrier islands and rises six feet above sea level. The study satisfied all of Frankie’s questions about risking millions of dollars on development.”

“So he’s giving you the restaurant and bar?” Bertram said.

“I have to pay him back out of profits, but the loan is non-recourse. If the plan doesn’t work, I walk. No harm, no foul.”

“Except you’ll be out the months or years you put into it,” I said.

Bertram poured Eddie another scotch and a shot of Cuervo for himself.

“That’s why I’m here,” Eddie said. “I was hoping Bertram would visit the island with me and give me his assessment of whether or not the plan has a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding.”

“Asking for ’ol Bertram’s help means you ain’t half as dumb as I thought you was. When you want to go?”

Ignoring Bertram’s remark, Eddie said, “I’ve got nothing on my dance card. How about now?”

Bertram glanced around the bar, and then at me. “Can you hold the fort down while I’m gone?”

“Why not?” I said. “The place isn’t exactly overflowing with customers.”

When Bertram whistled, his dog Lady, a beautiful cognac-colored collie, sauntered out of the kitchen, wagging her tail when she saw Eddie and me.

“Come on, girl. We’re gonna take a little road trip with Eddie. Be back when you see me,” Bertram said as they disappeared through the kitchen.

***

A month had passed since I’d collected a retainer from a paying customer. Like Eddie, I had nothing on my dance card and was behind the bar polishing a glass when Mama Mulate walked through the door. I hadn’t seen her in a while, and I ducked under the bar to give her a big hug.

“Where’s Bertram?” she asked.

“Long story,” I said.

“Give me a synopsis.”

“On a wild goose chase with Eddie Toledo. I’m stuck tending bar until they return. What’s up?”

“Tickets to the Pels game tonight,” she said, flashing them for me to see. “Can you go with me?”

“You kidding? I love the Pels, and I haven’t been to a game this year. Who gave you the tickets?”

“They arrived in the mail, along with ten new hundred dollar bills. There was a cryptic message.”

“That said?”

“Mama, I need your help. Please accept these tickets and the money as a retainer. After the game, meet me on the top floor at the Riverfront. It’s signed T.D.”

“Wow! The Riverfront’s one of the most expensive restaurants in town,” I said.

“Check out these seats,” she said. “Courtside. They had to cost a few thousand dollars each.”

“Double wow,” I said.

“Who do you think we’re dealing with?” she asked.

“Someone with lots of money. Maybe a professional athlete. The Riverfront is a favorite hangout for pros from almost every sport.”

“I’ve never been there,” Mama said. “What’s it like?”

“Never been there, either, though I hear it has a magnificent view of the river. The cuisine, I hear, is Creole and Italian.”

“Then are you in?”

“You bet I am. I wouldn’t pass up a free pro basketball ticket even if it were in the nosebleed section. I’ve never had a seat so close to the floor.”

“What if Bertram isn’t back?” Mama asked.

“I’ll find someone to watch the place,” I said.

“Then I’ll pick you up out front, around six,” she said.

She waved as she hurried out the door, a blast of chilly air flooding into Bertram’s empty bar behind her.

 

 

Chapter 6

 

Bertram Picou’s Ford truck, the first new vehicle he’d ever owned, was bright red. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he loved the big vehicle. Having the entire backseat to herself, so did Lady.

“Your truck is awesome,” Eddie Toledo said. “I thought you’d never get rid of Old Betsy. What made you do it?”

“I wouldn’t trade old Betsy for nothing,” he said. “She’s in my garage, under a canvas cover. It was Lady that wanted this one.”

“How’s that?”

“Cousin Ezra sells Fords. He come up for a visit in his new truck. Lady loved it so much, I thought she was gonna go home with him. He made me a family deal I couldn’t pass on.”

“You did good,” Eddie said. “This truck is a beauty.”

“You right about that,” Bertram said.

Lady barked in the backseat as if seconding Bertram’s assessment of the new truck. A drizzling rain had followed them out of New Orleans, the wipers of the Ford beating a slow tympani as they tooled down the rural road. They’d exited the main highway shortly after leaving the city. So far, Bertram hadn’t consulted a map.

“You sure you know where you’re going?” Eddie asked.

“I got kinfolk all over the state,” Bertram said. “I know these roads like the back of my hand. My daddy and me visited Oyster Island when I was a kid.”

A cypress swamp bordered one side of the byway, rain dimpling the coffee-colored water. A flock of brown egrets was landing, joining a handful of cows grazing in the open pasture on the side of the road.

“Which way is the river?” Eddie asked.

“That ridge you see is a natural levee. The river’s on the other side of it. Indians had a trail on the ridgeline. This road follows the old Indian trail.”

“There were Indians around here?”

“You bet they was,” Bertram said. “Long before the French and Spanish ever got here.”

“Where are they now?”

“Hell!” Bertram said. “I’m part Indian myself. They just kinda mingled in with the population, I guess.”

“I guess,” Eddie said. “How much farther to Oyster Island?”

“The old bridge is over the next rise,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

Bertram’s memory had faded over the years. It was another five miles further before they topped a small hill and saw the island that gave the old settlement its name. The low-lying bridge was just large enough for one vehicle at a time. The crystal water beneath them was shallow, large fish clearly visible.

A sandy beach stretched from the rolling countryside down to the blue water of the Gulf of Mexico. It wasn’t the pristine beach, the gulls flying lazily overhead, or the solitude of the scene that caught Eddie’s attention. It was the wooden edifice sitting on stilts and the boat docks of the marina surrounding it.

“Surely, that can’t be the restaurant,” Eddie said.

“Sure it is,” Bertram said. “I seen picture postcards of it before in gift shops.”

“It’s huge. It’ll cost a fortune just to air condition it.”

“That ain’t half your problem,” Bertram said. “Like I said back in New Orleans, there are no paying customers within an hour of here.”

Eddie drew a deep breath before replying. “That is a concern. What’ll I do?”

“We’re here, now. Might as well take a look around.”

Frankie’s engineering assessment of the island appeared correct. Atop the rise, above the bay, sat a lighthouse painted with a fresh coat of yellow and white. A picket fence circled the lighthouse, and the rear of an old Ford Bronco protruded from a covered shelter. Because of the Bronco and the well-manicured shrubbery around the fence, it seemed likely someone lived in the lighthouse. They turned their attention to the restaurant.

The large building, a partially covered veranda surrounding it, was circular and several stories tall. The wind had damaged the cupola topping the building, and the entire structure was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Outside stairways led to the deck on the top floor.

“Good God Almighty!” Bertram said. “That thing is every bit of fifty thousand square feet. It’ll cost a fortune to renovate. Even if you got customers waiting in line, I can tell you right now you’re never gonna make that dog hunt.”

“I have eyes,” Eddie said.

Seeing Bertram and Eddie standing beside the walkway leading to the restaurant, the lightkeeper came through the white gate, down the broken shell pathway, to the bay. A large pit bull followed behind him. Eddie was the first to notice.

“Must be the caretaker. He’s expecting us. Frankie said he’d give us a tour of the facilities.”

“Uh oh!” Bertram said. “That looks like one mean dog he got with him.”

“Let’s hope not,” Eddie said.

Though the brindle beast looked dangerous, it sprawled on the pathway as the man bent down and gave Lady’s head a pat. With her tail wagging, Lady approached the big pit bull, rubbing noses with him. Seeing the concern on Bertram and Eddie’s faces, the man smiled and waved his hand.

“Brutus wouldn’t hurt a soul,” he said.

“Sure about that?” Bertram asked.

“You got my Louisiana guaranty on it. I’m Jack Wiesinski,” he said, shaking Eddie’s hand.

“I’m Eddie, and this is Bertram. The gorgeous collie is Lady. Looks as if she likes your big pit.”

“And he likes her too, though he’s too lazy to get his big butt up off the ground and greet her like a proper gentleman.”

Jack Wiesinski was short, probably no taller than five-six or seven. He was wiry, closely shaven, with brown hair buzzed almost to his scalp. From the odd shape of his mouth, it was hard to tell if he was smiling or frowning.

“Sure glad Brutus is friendly,” Bertram said. “That big dog could do some major damage if he wanted to. I don’t recognize your accent, Jack. You from around here?”

“Massachusetts. Grew up on Cape Ann. I like gumbo, but I’m still partial to Cape Ann chowder.”

“Got no problem with that,” Bertram said. “I’m partial to gumbo, but I’ve never turned down a good bowl of chowder.”

“Mr. Castellano told me you’d be coming to take a look at the restaurant.”

Jack scratched Lady behind the ears. She must have liked him because she couldn’t stop wagging her tail.

“Frankie said you live on the premises,” Eddie said. “Up on the hill?”

“That’s my other baby,” Jack said. “Mr. Castellano pays me to watch his property, the state pays me to operate the lighthouse. After putting in thirty years with the Navy, I’m on government pension from them. I’m one lucky S.O.B.”

“Sweet,” Bertram said. “If you had someplace around here to spend all that money.”

Jack flashed him a crooked smile. “Me, I don’t need much.”

“How about a shot of Cuervo?” Bertram said, pulling a silver flask from his light jacket.

“Man after my own heart,” Jack said, taking a drink from the flask. “Ready to see the old queen?”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Eddie said. “Lead the way.”

Bertram and Eddie could see just how short and wiry Jack Wiesinski was, as they followed him to the covered walkway leading to the old restaurant. Dressed in khaki pants and shirt, he indeed looked like a naval retiree that couldn’t quite get the service out of his blood. Only his black flipflops belied the image.

The restaurant sat a hundred feet from shore, the walkway the only way to reach it. The ring of keys Jack kept on his belt rattled as he opened the three locks securing the gate of the covered walkway.

“Watch your step,” he said. “Some of the old boards need replacing.”

“We’ll follow you,” Eddie said.

Buoyed by rusting oil barrels, the walkway swayed beneath them as they followed Jack to the front deck encircling the restaurant. Even though the paint was faded and everything dusty as hell, the grandeur of the old restaurant far exceeded anything either Eddie or Bertram had expected.

“This place must have been like a palace back in the day,” Eddie said.

“That it was,” Jack said. “People came from all over to get their pictures made here. It was quite the showplace.”

Separate dining areas surrounded the main ballroom highlighted by the most beautifully carved wood bar either Bertram or Eddie had ever seen. The room was huge, the ceilings high and ornate. Even in its present state of dust and disarray, the building was regal. Jack pointed to the large bar.

“Carved by Italian artisans from giant cypress trees cut in a swamp near here. Mr. Castellano calls it a significant work of art.”

“Impressive,” Eddie said.

Brutus and Lady were nuzzling each other, their tails wagging. Lady barked, apparently agreeing with Eddie’s assessment of the beautiful piece of sculpture. Bertram rubbed his hand across the wood.

“Needs a little furniture polish,” he said.

“The whole place needs work,” Jack said. “It’s been more or less abandoned for seventy years.”

“What do you think, Bertram?” Eddie asked.

“Even if you got this place back into apple pie order, there ain’t enough customers in this whole parish to keep you in bidness.”

“Frankie must realize as much,” Eddie said. “He said he has a plan.”

“There’s lots more to see,” Jack said. “An interesting level up these stairs. This deck has a history unique to the Prohibition Era.”

A circular tier comprised of tiny rooms looked down on the bar and ballroom area. Tattered curtains covered the openings to the rooms. Jack pulled open a curtain, showing Bertram and Eddie the inside of one of the empty cubicles.

“During Prohibition, this place was a casino and speakeasy. Mobsters would bring their mistresses here for drinks and dinner. No one knew who was up here except the waiters and waitresses who served them.”

“Must have been quite a scene,” Eddie said.

Jack didn’t respond, leading them into a staircase that wound to an even higher level of the old structure. He exited to the observation deck that looked out over the bay. Eddie and Bertram stared at the water with wide eyes and open mouths.

“Is that the Gulf of Mexico?”

“Yes.” Jack handed Eddie a pair of binoculars. “You can see ships and offshore rigs if you use these.”

Through the powerful lenses of the binoculars, the Gulf came alive. Gulls soared high above the water, floating in and out of the dark clouds. It seemed like a living diorama.

“Quite a view,” Eddie said, handing the binoculars to Bertram.

Jack nodded. “Barrier islands protect this cove. Centuries ago, it was a haven for pirates. Local legend says there’s a fortune in gold buried someplace on this island.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Eddie said. “It’s so secluded and pristine, it’s hard for me to believe this place is even inhabited.”

“It ain’t,” Bertram said. “Except for Jack and his dog. That’s your problem.”

Bertram and Eddie both seemed surprised when Jack said, “There’s more to see. It’s starting to sprinkle again. Let’s go inside before the bottom falls out.”

They climbed higher, by way of a circular staircase, and entered a room at the tallest part of the building. Windows circled the area affording a three-hundred-sixty-degree view. Polished teak and mahogany paneling evoked the look and feel of the bridge of a ship.

“The person that designed this deck must have liked to play sea captain,” Eddie said.

“He was a retired sea captain. He used this private hideaway to escape from the crowds of people downstairs,” Jack said.

“From up here, you can see for miles in every direction,” Bertram said.

“Except for the lighthouse, there’s no better view on Oyster Island. Want to see the living quarters?”

The deck below the bridge housed a large apartment, complete with galley, master bedroom, living area, pot-bellied stove, and bathrooms. Dust covers protected the original furniture still in place.

“Everything a man could need,” Jack said.

“Cozy,” Eddie said. “Anything else?”

“This old building has dozens of nooks, crannies, and secret passageways in the walls. You could spend a month here and not see everything there is to see.”

“Secret passageways?” Eddie said.

“And the building is haunted. I’ve never seen a ghost, though others have.”

“Sounds creepy,” Eddie said. “The marina is so large. Where are all the boats?”

“There are only two,” Jack said. “A sloop and a trawler. Both are seaworthy and have traveled more than once from here to islands in the Caribbean.”

“Pleasure trips?” Bertram asked.

“Business,” Jack said. “They were both rum runners. Even during Prohibition, patrons to Oyster Island could sample the best scotch, rum, or Canadian whiskey, courtesy of those two vessels.”

“Who owns the boats now?” Eddie asked.

“You will. The boats go with the restaurant,” Jack said.

“Are they still operable?”

“You bet they are. One of my duties is caring for the two boats. You could sail from here to the Bahamas tomorrow in either one of them if you wanted to.”

“If I could sail, or knew how to operate a boat,” Eddie said.

“I can teach you,” Jack said.

“Don’t know about that,” Eddie said. “I’m still not sure if this is the job for me. I don’t even have a car.”

“A Land Rover comes with the restaurant. It’s ten years old and still purrs like a kitten. It’s something else I take care of for Mr. Castellano.”

“Maybe you better talk to Frankie about this whole thing,” Bertram said. “If you ask me, it looks like you’d be painting yourself in a corner.”

“That’s why I brought you along,” Eddie said. “You know I value your opinion.”

For the moment, the rain had ceased, though the skies had continued to grow ever darker. Jack glanced up the hill toward the lighthouse.

“You boys hungry? I got a kettle of oyster chowder simmering on the stove.”

 

 

Chapter 7

 

The rain had returned, a cold breeze blowing up from the Gulf as Bertram, Eddie, Jack, and the two dogs hurried up the rocky pathway to the lighthouse on the sandy hill. Thunder shook the old wooden and mortar structure, as Jack held the door open for them. Welcoming warmth and the enticing aroma of oyster chowder greeted them as they entered the living area of the lighthouse.

The only furniture in the open living area was a single chair, and an old couch draped with an orange Afghan. There was also a pot-bellied stove and a desk, complete with computer and ham radio. Everything in the minimalist setting seemed to have a place and pegged Jack as a person who demanded order in his life. Warming their hands, Eddie and Bertram huddled close to the stove.

“Cozy place you have here,” Eddie said. “Must get kind of lonely.”

Outside the old lighthouse, the rain had begun falling in bucketloads. Sheer curtains that seemed a bit too dainty for a career Navy man covered the three windows, lightning flashing through them.

“I spent the best part of thirty years at sea,” Jack said. “I like solitude.”

“That chowder smells mighty good,” Bertram said. “Been cooking long?”

“Thirty years.”

“Then I guess you never been married,” Bertram said.

“Tried it once,” Jack said. “Didn’t last long. Women tend to want their man home at night, not off at sea somewhere. What about you, Bert? Ever been married?”

“Come close a time or two.”

“You, Eddie?”

“Not yet,” he said.

“Mr. Castellano says you’re sweet on his daughter.”

“The feeling isn’t mutual,” Eddie said.

“Maybe when you get Oyster Island up and running, she’ll change her mind.”

“Is that what Mr. Castellano told you?”

“No, but I’m pretty good at reading between the lines. You boys find a place to sit. I’ll get us something to drink.”

“I think Lady likes it here,” Bertram said.

Brutus had crawled up on a woven rug in front of the pot-bellied stove, Lady joining him. A bell-shaped opening separated the galley from the living area of the lighthouse. Bertram and Eddie sank into a comfortable, old couch as Jack returned from the galley with two mugs and a pitcher filled with an alcoholic beverage.

“Hope you boys like rum,” Jack said, filling their mugs from the pitcher.

Bertram took a sip. “This is the best rum I ever tasted. What brand is it?”

“Don’t remember,” Jack said. “Just some cheap swill I picked up at the liquor store. I like to serve rum with my chowder. Old Navy habit, I guess.”

“Can I have a look at the bottle?” Bertram asked.

“Threw it away, already,” Jack said. “I always serve my grog from a pitcher.”

“Old Navy habit?” Eddie asked.

“Exactly. Don’t like getting too far away from my routine.”

When the cuckoo clock on the wall sounded, Jack opened the front door and glanced out. A man was there, a colorful Indian blanket covering his head.

“Well, don’t stand out there in the rain,” Jack said. “Come in before you get soaked.”

A large man with gray hair that draped to his broad shoulders ducked as he came through the door. His curved nose and facial features pegged him as a Native American. The imposing person stood at least six-foot-six, and he remained impassive as Jack introduced him.

“Gentlemen, this is Grogan La Tortue though I just call him Chief.”

Chief draped his blanket over the back of a chair and then bent down to pat Brutus and Lady. Lady’s tail was wagging as she licked the stranger’s hand. Chief placed the legal folder he was carrying on a counter in the galley before returning to meet Eddie and Bertram.

“You about a big one. I’m Bertram, and he’s Eddie. Better get yourself a mug of Jack’s rum. It’s the best I ever tasted.

Chief’s expression changed into what was likely a smile as Jack handed him some rum.

“Pleased to meet you. Don’t mind if I do.” He smacked his lips after taking a drink. “Tasty. Jack, here is too cheap to buy good booze, so I’m usually forced to drink the swill he serves. You two must be special because this is his good stuff.”

“And you’ll probably drink every last drop of it,” Jack said. “Indians aren’t supposed to be able to hold their liquor. Chief, here, could drink the three of us under the table.”

“What tribe are you from?” Bertram asked, ignoring Jack’s racial slur.

“He’s an Attakapas,” Jack said.

“Never heard of that tribe,” Bertram said.

“Because they aren’t around anymore. Chief, here, is the last of the Attakapas,” Jack said. “Good thing because they were cannibals.”

Seeing the looks Bertram and Eddie were casting, Chief said, “Jack has nothing to worry about. He’s so small, he wouldn’t even make a good snack.”

Jack continued stirring the oyster chowder. “He doesn’t mind eating my cooking and drinking my booze,” he said.

“You two must be good friends,” Eddie said.

“I got no choice,” Jack said. “He’s the only person living within twenty miles of here.”

Chief didn’t miss a beat. “Jack may serve cheap hooch, but he has one great dog.”

“Don’t mind him,” Jack said. “Chowder’s ready. Let’s eat.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Bertram said.

Jack began ladling up chowder into bowls and putting them on a heavy wooden table that occupied much of the lighthouse’s galley area. Eddie, Chief, and Bertram pulled up chairs, waiting for Jack to join them, which he did after topping up their mugs from the pitcher.

“Can’t enjoy a Navy meal without a mug of grog,” Jack said.

Bertram tasted the rum and smacked his lips. “Like I said, this is the best rum I ever tasted. What kind did you say it is?”

“Like I said, I don’t remember. Didn’t know I was going to have a rum connoisseur for dinner.”

“I’m a bartender,” Bertram said. “When it comes to alcohol, there ain’t much I don’t know.”

Eddie, a consummate former prosecutor, didn’t miss the looks of concern exchanged between Jack and Chief upon hearing Bertram’s reply.

“When I was still in the Navy, I picked up a couple of bottles of special reserve from a distillery in the Dominican Republic. Thought I’d try one out on you boys.”

“You had me going there for a while,” Bertram said. “As many years as I’ve owned a bar, you can believe me when I tell you I know the difference between cheap swill and good hooch.”

“I brought Bertram down to look at the place with me because of his expertise at running restaurants and bars,” Eddie said. “From the looks of things, I’m not going to need him.”

“Oh, and why is that?” Jack said.

“The restaurant is too big and too run down. Even if it weren’t, there aren’t enough customers around to fill even the smallest dining area.”

“Amen to that,” Bertram said.

Chief grabbed the bottle of rum from the galley counter and topped up Bertram’s mug.

“Looks as if you need more grog, Bert,” he said.

“Don’t want to drink all your fine rum,” Bertram said. “We have to drive back to New Orleans. Me, Eddie, and Lady wouldn’t want to wind up in a bar ditch.”

Jack opened the door a crack and peeked out. The storm had intensified, a gust of wind blowing water through the opening and dampening Jack’s flipflops.

“It’s raining so hard, you’ll have a problem seeing past the hood of your truck. This old lighthouse has four bedrooms. Enjoy the rum and chowder, and stay here for the night.”

“Wish we could,” Eddie said. “I’m meeting with Mr. Castellano tomorrow to either finalize plans for taking over the restaurant, or else telling him I’m not interested.”

“Then you better have some more of Jack’s grog,” Chief said, topping Eddie’s mug.

“Another bowl of chowder?” Jack asked.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Bertram said. “Can’t say as I’ve ever tasted better.”

“I hope you reconsider taking over the restaurant and marina. Mr. Castellano has a plan for renovating everything,” Jack said. “Lots of boats pass within a short distance of here. He wants to modernize the marina and draw in the boating customers.”

“Won’t that interfere with your solitude?” Eddie asked.

“I’ll still have all I need up here on the hill.”

“Did Jack show you the bungalows?” Chief asked.

“We didn’t get that far,” Eddie said.

“They’re special,” Chief said. “Mr. Castellano plans to build more, both for rentals and weekend retreats. A successful development could easily add several thousand people to the local population.”

“You sound as if you work for Mr. Castellano,” Eddie said. “Do you?”

“Just an interested bystander,” Chief said.

After dinner, they returned to the living area. Jack glanced out the door again. Heavy rain continued to fall. The former sailor got on the ham radio and called for a weather report.

“There’ll be a break in the weather in about half an hour,” he said. “May as well relax until then.”

“Why are you so anxious for me to take over the restaurant and marina?” Eddie asked. “What’s in it for you?”

“Not a damn thing,” Jack said.

Eddie and Bertram relaxed on the couch, watching Jack and Chief play pinochle on an old coffee table. Bertram was tapping his toe on the wood floor and glancing at the cuckoo clock on the wall.

“Has the storm passed yet?” he asked. “If it has, then we need to get going.”

“The rain has slacked to just a trickle,” Jack said after peering out the door. “If you hurry, you’ll be almost home before it starts up again. And Bertram, I have a gift for you.”

Jack handed him a brown paper sack with something inside it. From its shape, Bertram could tell it was a liquor bottle.

“You’re giving me some of your rum?”

“I got more in back,” Jack said. “Enjoy.”

***

The rain had slackened, the road to New Orleans dark. Lady was asleep in the back, and Eddie had also dozed off. The lights of New Orleans were glimmering on the horizon when he awoke and blinked the sleep out of his eyes.

“Are we there yet?” Eddie asked.

“Almost,” Bertram said. “You had a good nap and missed most of the drive.”

“With everything going on in my life the past two days, I was beat. Sorry I didn’t help you stay awake. Can you drop me off at my place?”

“You bet I can. What’d you make of them two scalawags back there?”

“Strange ducks,” Eddie said. “Seems like they have an agenda I can’t quite put my finger on.

Bertram reached in his jacket and pulled out an empty rum bottle. “Good observation, Mr. Ex-federal attorney. Take a look at this. Jack had thrown it in the trash.”

Eddie held it up to the dashboard lights. “An empty bottle of Dominican rum. So what?”

“Check out the date it was bottled.”

Eddie fumbled for the overhead light. “This can’t be right. It says 1929. That’s impossible.”

“Maybe not,” Bertram said. “I told you it was the best rum I ever tasted.”

“But that would make it almost ninety years old. What’s a bottle of any liquor that old worth?”

“A whole bunch of money,” Bertram said.

“Why do you think he didn’t tell us?”

“Maybe because he stole it,” Bertram said. “The bottle of rum he gave me had no label on it, though it’s the same shape as the one in your hand.”

“Jack doesn’t strike me as a thief,” Eddie said.

“Don’t mean he ain’t. Even with his government pension and working for Frankie Castellano, I doubt he makes money enough to serve thousand-dollar bottles of rum with his homemade oyster chowder.”

Eddie pondered the thought a moment. “If he stole it, then why did he take a chance serving it to people he just met?”

“Probably because he figured we wouldn’t know the difference. Or, maybe he wanted something from us and was trying to butter us up.”

“Like what?” Eddie asked.

“Don’t know. What I do know is that while I was in the kitchen, I had a look in the folder Chief brought with him.”

“Something important?”

“A packet of information put out by NOAA.”

“Such as?”

“Water depth, tide schedule, storm activity; pretty much anything you might ask for if you were interested in Oyster Island and the water around it.”

“What’s that all about?” Eddie asked.

“Something to do with the rum, I’m betting,” Bertram said.

 

 

Chapter 8

 

Mama Mulate was the most eccentric person I knew. She drove a fully restored, baby blue 1959 Bugeye Sprite. If she’d known how much it was worth, she’d probably go into shock. The drizzle of rain had continued throughout the day. Mama had raised the canvas top on the tiny car when she arrived to pick me up. Though only six-feet tall, I had to resort to contortionism when I crawled into the front seat.

“When are you going to trade in this pygmy and get an SUV?” I asked.

“Never,” she said. “I love Baby too much.”

“Baby doesn’t have an air conditioner,” I said. “She’s also too uncomfortable to drive in July and August.”

“Stop nagging, or I’ll let you walk to the Smoothie King Center,” she said.

“I’ll shut up.”

“Good,” she said, completing the short drive to the arena in silence.

Too cheap to pay for parking, Mama found a dark spot behind a trash dumpster about a block away from the arena.

“Glad I brought an umbrella,” I said.

“Bet I can give this ticket away at the door to someone that’s not so critical.”

I knew by Mama’s dirty look that I’d almost gone too far. “And deny me the chance to watch the Pels with the most beautiful woman in New Orleans?”

Though Mama said, “Shut the hell up,” she was smiling as she did so.

The atmosphere inside the arena was electric, the team slowly beginning to come together as a coherent unit, after a slow start to the season. Mama was as tall as I was. She had long, flowing hair, an athletic body and the bone structure of a Sports Illustrated model. Resplendent in her multi-colored African-print dress, every eye was on her as a friendly usher led us to our seats.

“This is wonderful,” I said. “I’ve never sat this close to the floor.”

“Me either,” Mama said. “I can almost reach out and touch those big, handsome men’s tushes.”

“Don’t get us kicked out. We’ll never get seats like this again.”

“I know. I’m in heaven.”

“Too bad the team traded Zee Ped,” I said. “This is the best squad I’ve seen in years. With him in the lineup, we could have gone deep in the playoffs. Without him. . .”

“Taj Davis is one good-looking man, though I think he’s on his last leg as a productive player,” Mama said.

“Is he playing tonight?” I asked.

“Word on the street is, he cut his foot. He’s not even sitting on the bench.”

“Doesn’t sound like a basketball injury. How did he cut it?”

“No idea,” she said. “Why don’t you be a sweetie and fetch Mama a beer and a pretzel?”

“Pretzel? You’ll spoil your appetite before we get to one of the most expensive restaurants in New Orleans.”

“I’ll take my chances,” she said.

By halftime, I’d returned through the throng of ardent fans, crowding the arena to the concession stand, twice and was starting to feel like Mama Mulate’s errand boy. The last quarter was close. She forgot about beer and pretzels and concentrated on cheering the team. New Orleans won in a double-overtime thriller, with a buzzer beater that sent the sold-out crowd into a frenzy. I glanced at the Rolex on the wrist of the man sitting next to me.

“It’s late. Let’s get the hell out of here before we get caught in the crush,” I said.

Twenty minutes later, Mama was fumbling for her keys in the darkness. We drove the short distance to the tall building overlooking the Big Muddy that housed the Riverfront Restaurant. Mama fussed with her hair and dress as we took the elevator to the top floor. The restaurant captain, wearing a white tuxedo coat and black pants, greeted us at the door.

“We’re meeting someone,” Mama said.

“And whom might that person be?” the man asked.

“We weren’t told,” she said. “I’m Mama Mulate, and this is Wyatt Thomas.”

Gas lamps lighted the large, open room bordered on all sides by floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the river was nothing less than spectacular. White tablecloths draped the tables, each lighted by a single candle. Mama pinched my elbow.

“Oh my God!” she said. “There are at least half-a-dozen celebrities in here. I think I’m in heaven.”

A man appeared, directing us to follow him before Mama could opine further about the restaurant’s clientele. Glass walls separated a private room from the main dining area. After opening the door for us, our usher departed. Mama caught her breath when she saw who was sitting at a regally-adorned table. A very tall man dressed in dark slacks and sportscoat, and a white silk shirt open to the waist, stood and smiled as he waited for us to join him.

“You must be Mama Mulate,” he said. “I’m Taj Davis.”

“I know who you are. I’ve been watching you play basketball since you came into the league.”

“Then you’re a basketball fan?”

“The biggest,” she said. “This is my business associate Wyatt Thomas. I brought him along because he’s the best investigator in New Orleans. He’s also a huge sports fan.”

“This is Adela Kowalski. Please join us,” Taj said.

Adela was a red-haired knockout, dressed in a little-bit-of-nothing, lime-green dress held in place by spaghetti-straps. I whistled to myself when I saw her. Mama sat beside Taj. I took the chair next to Adela as a waiter appeared to take our drink orders. Mama was soon nursing a very dry martini.

“Thanks for the front row seats to the game,” she said.

“Glad you enjoyed them,” Taj said. “I guess you’re wondering why you’re here.”

“Very curious,” Mama said.

“Take a look at this and tell me what you think,” he said.

Taj opened his silk shirt and showed Mama the veve on his chest. Without hesitation, she moved closer, touching the symbol.

“Where did you get this?”

“No idea. It’s been there for as long as I can remember. Adela has an identical veve on her chest.”

Without asking, Adela lowered her low-cut top to reveal the veve between her bare breasts. After glancing around to see if anyone was looking, Mama drew closer to compare the two veves.

“They’re identical,” she said. “How long have you known about each other’s veves?”

“Adela and I met for the first time yesterday,” Taj said.

“Interesting,” Mama said. “You called the mark a veve. What else do you know about voodoo?”

“Almost nothing,” Taj said. “Adela and I met while on a tour of St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. The groundskeeper told me what it is. He’s also the person that gave me your name.”

“I didn’t know the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1 had a ground’s keeper.”

“His name is Sam. Sam said everyone in New Orleans knows something about voodoo.”

“While it’s true that everyone in New Orleans has heard about voodoo, few people know much about it,” Mama said.

“That’s what I’m finding out.”

Taj laughed when Mama asked, “Are you and Adela related?”

“You can see we’re not. A week ago, I didn’t even know Adela existed. Something prompted us to arrive in New Orleans at the same time, causing us to meet and realize our connection.”

“I see,” Mama said. “Why did you visit the cemetery?”

“Because of this,” Taj said, producing a voodoo doll. “Sam said it’s my effigy and that someone used it to put a voodoo spell on me.”

“Where did you get this?” Mama asked.

“My first night in town, I stayed in a room on the thirteenth floor of the Hotel Montalba. I fell asleep in the bathtub, cutting my foot on a broken wine bottle when I got out of the tub. A demon chased me out of the room. When the bellman found me, I had this in my hand.”

“Oh, my!” Mama said.

“I know,” Taj said. “It scared the hell out of me.”

“So what is it you need Wyatt and me to do for you?”

“Help us get to the bottom of this mystery. If I’m cursed, I need to find a way to break it. I don’t ever want to wake up again and face a demon.” Taj slid an envelope across the table. “As a retainer, there’s a cashier’s check for twenty-thousand dollars in the envelope. There’ll be more if you need it.”

Mama pushed the envelope back toward him. “That’s too much money.”

Taj gave it back to her. “You said you’re a sports fan. If so, then you know I have more millions than I can ever spend. Take the money. All I ask is for you to devote all your energy to helping us solve our mystery.”

“No problem for me,” Mama said. I’m on semester break.”

“My slate is clean,” I said.

“Then let’s enjoy drinks, dinner and this gorgeous view of the river,” Taj said. “We can discuss how you plan to proceed as the evening progresses.”

The cuisine at the Riverfront was as good as advertised, and then some. Despite what Taj had said about discussing the case during dinner, the subject never arose. What did arise was the mutual attraction between Mama and Taj. It became more apparent by the minute. I noticed, and so did Adela.

Adela, her long red hair draping to her shoulders, was quite the stunner. Admiring the view, Mama and Taj had walked to the window, Mama pointing to Algiers on the opposite side of the river. Adela glanced at my lemonade.

“You’re not drinking?” she asked.

“I’m a recovering alcoholic. Every now and then I fall off the wagon.”

“My dad was an alcoholic,” she said.

“Was?”

“When he died of a heart attack, he wasn’t even fifty.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Dad gave me all the love I needed. He just couldn’t control his drinking.”

“I can relate.”

“Taj seems infatuated with Ms. Mulate.”

“She’s doing nothing to rebuff his infatuation,” I said. “She likes tall, good-looking athletes and it doesn’t hurt anything that he’s wealthy.”

“Are you married?” she asked.

“No, are you?”

My question brought a smile to her pretty face. “I don’t think I’m marriage material.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said. “I know the feeling.”

“Taj and I didn’t know Ms. Mulate was bringing someone with her. What is it you do?”

“Solve mysteries,” I said. “The tougher, the better.”

“What’s your background?”

Though I was taken aback by Adela’s directness, I tried not to let on.

“I was a lawyer in another life. Political maneuvering is rampant in the Big Easy. I was disbarred and decided not to fight it. My strong suit is research, and I know lots of influential people. I’ve managed to support myself by doing investigations.”

“You’re good-looking enough to be a movie star. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Only people trying to set me up. What’s your angle?” I asked.

“It’s Taj who is paying you. I’m just trying to make sure he gets his money’s worth. What’s your plan?”

“See if we can develop a common thread for what’s happening here.”

“Do you believe in magic?”

“Real magic and not just illusion?”

Adela sipped her wine without answering my question. Heavy rain had begun hammering the windows. A foghorn sounded from a towboat on the river. Mama and Taj were in their own little world, neither of them paying attention to either us or the weather.

“My parents always said I have a sixth sense. Maybe they were right. I think you also do. What’s your feeling about me?” Adela asked.

“You look more Irish than Polish. Adela is an Irish name, not Polish.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you were Irish in another lifetime,” I said.

“You believe in past lives?” she asked. “What’s that have to do with New Orleans?”

“New Orleans has had a large Irish population for more than a century. One of our neighborhoods is called the Irish Channel.”

“So you think I was Irish and living in New Orleans during a past life?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Though it doesn’t pay to jump to conclusions, it’s something to check out.”

“When do you start?” she asked.

“The moment Taj gave Mama the retainer,” I said.

Sipping her wine, she crossed her legs and glanced at the window as lightning lit the dining area.

“I thought we were just getting to know each other better. I didn’t realize you were deposing me.”

“Sorry if it appears that way,” I said. “I sometimes have a hard time forgetting I’m not a lawyer anymore. Forgive me?”

For the first time since I’d met her, Adela’s features softened. When she took my hand, I realized what a physical attraction I had for her. It was a definite no-no between an employer and an employee. Not seeming to care, her lips drew within six inches of my own.

“You like me, don’t you?”

I tried not to wince at her pointed, though correct remark.

“Very unprofessional of me,” I said. “Maybe I should bow out of this case and let Mama handle it alone.”

“Don’t do that,” she said. “We can work together on this.”

“Not if you don’t stop staring at me with your hypnotic eyes,” I said.

Adela loosened her grip. “I think I could become attached to you.”

 

 

Chapter 9

 

Before I could respond to Adela’s titillating remark, Mama and Taj returned to the table. Neither took a seat and Taj motioned for the check.

“Taj knows nothing about New Orleans’ nightlife,” Mama said. “I’m going to give him an introduction. He’s a music fan, and I’m taking him to my favorite venue for jazz. Can you take Adela to her room at the Hotel Montalba?”

“Sure,” I said.

Mama tossed me the keys to her car. “And will you take care of Baby for me? Taj is too big to fit into the front seat. We’re taking a cab.”

“You trust me with your car?” I asked.

“You put one little scratch on Baby, and you’ll be comparing voodoo spells with Taj. Don’t wait up,” she added as they headed for the door.

“Guess we’ve been deserted,” I said. “Ready to return to your room?”

“Not really. At least you and I discussed the case.”

“Trust me, Mama’s all over this. She’ll have a plan before morning.”

“Looks as if she has other things on her mind.”

“So does Taj,” I said. “Did you catch the smile on his face?”

“We probably won’t see them before noon tomorrow.”

“I promise, Mama will know all about your problem long before noon.”

“If you say so,” Adela said.

The rain continued as we huddled beneath my umbrella during the short walk to Mama’s car. Adela gave my arm an extra squeeze when we reached it.

“This is it,” I said. “It’s not locked.”

“I’ve never seen a car like this,” she said. “What kind is it?”

“Austin Healey made it. It’s a Bugeye Sprite, a British sports car.”

“What year was it made?”

“Long before you were born.”

“I love it,” she said. “Can I drive?”

I handed her the keys. “Why not? I’m sure you’re a better driver than I am.”

Once behind the wheel, Adela was like a kid in a candy shop, revving the little engine and spinning the tires in the puddles of water that had formed on the cobblestone streets. The car’s tiny wipers barely kept the windshield clean as she tooled down the dark thoroughfare. It wasn’t far to Jackson Square, Adela reacting when she saw it.

“What’s that big building?” she asked.

“St. Louis Cathedral, the most photographed structure in town. The park behind the iron fence is Jackson Square. That’s Andy atop the horse.”

“I want to touch it. Can we stop?”

“You’ll get your pretty outfit wet,” I said.

“It’ll dry and so will I. I sense many important things have happened here.”

“You’re right about that,” I said. “There are parking spots across the street. They’re probably all open, because of the rain.”

Light from the streetlamps reflected off the rippled puddles as we ran toward the entrance to Jackson Square. Adela was the first to reach the gate and frowned when she pulled on it.

“It’s locked,” she said. “Why is it locked?”

“To keep street people from sleeping there at night. Now, they just sleep outside on the sidewalk. We’re getting drenched, and I forgot the umbrella.”

“To hell with the umbrella,” she said. “I haven’t felt this alive in years.”

I pulled my jacket up around my neck as I watched her raise her arms toward the sky and twirl on her toes like a ballerina. She’d dropped the light wrap covering her shoulders, the gauzy material of her dress becoming almost transparent in the rain. Though she didn’t seem to care, I draped my jacket around her.

“It’s December,” I said. “We’ll both have a cold in the morning.”

“Screw the cold,” she said, grabbing my hand. “I want to see the other side of the square.”

She was all smiles as we hurried past the Cabildo, the cathedral and the Presbytere. By now, her long red hair was wet and clinging to her head and neck. I grabbed her waist, wheeling her around.

“I’ll bring you back when the rain stops,” I said. “It’s coming down so hard, you can’t see anything anyway.”

“What about the lights across the street.”

“Café du Monde,” I said. “Best coffee and beignets in the world. We’re too wet to go there tonight. I’ll bring you back, I promise.”

Handing me the keys to Mama’s Sprite, she put up little resistance as we hurried across the street.

We weren’t far from her hotel, and I knew the entrance to the underground parking. The valet took the keys, gave me a parking stub, and pointed us toward the elevator. We were the only two people in it, as we continued up to her room. Once her hotel door was open, I got a surprise.

Adela tossed my jacket to me and then let her soaked dress drop from her shoulders to the carpet. Giving me a silly grin when I reacted to her nudity, she hurried away to the bathroom. Drying her hair with a towel, she returned draped in a plush terrycloth robe.

“There are more robes in the bathroom,” she said. “Get out of those wet clothes.”

“I probably need to go,” I said.

“No way! I have questions for you, and they won’t wait until tomorrow.”

Adela had drunk a bottle of chardonnay by herself at the Riverfront. I realized now that she was a tad more than tipsy.

“I’ve got no dry clothes to change back into. I’ll have to put on these wet ones before I go. I don’t live far from here. I’ll leave Mama’s car parked overnight.”

“Don’t go. This hotel is old, and there’s a radiator in the bathroom. Hang your clothes over a chair. They’ll be dry when it’s time to leave.”

“Uncle,” I said. “You’re the boss, Miss Adela.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” she said.

When I exited the bathroom, I saw Adela had dialed for room service. She’d already poured herself a glass of wine and had lemonade waiting for me. A single candle cast flickering shadows on the white tablecloth of the serving cart.

“Thanks,” I said. “Now, what’s so important that it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I need to tell you something I haven’t told anyone, not even Taj.”

“Sounds ominous.”

The room was dim, only a corner light and the candle casting dancing shadows on the wall. Adela had pulled the curtains on the window, thunder rumbling and rain pounding against the glass. She fumbled with a small leather purse on the table.

“Do you smoke dope?” she asked.

“Go ahead without me. I’m not offended.”

She lit the crooked joint and took a puff.

“I have something important to tell you. I need to knock the edge off all the wine I drank.”

Her logic or lack thereof, made me smile. “Then why did you order another bottle?”

“Because I need both the pot and the wine. Does that make sense?”

“Not really,” I said.

“What I have to tell you is very serious to me. I need you to take a toke with me. Please?”

“Mama would kill me if I smoked dope with a client,” I said.

“Mama’s not here.”

“Doesn’t matter. She has a way of finding things out.”

Adela took another puff and let her robe drop to the carpet. Sitting in my lap, she draped her arms around my neck and drew so close I could feel the dampness of her hair against my face.

“You know I like you. I didn’t tell you that I feel as though I’ve known you forever.”

“Maybe in another lifetime,” I said. “You’re a person I’d never forget.”

A tingle raced up my spine when she nibbled my earlobe and then blew in my ear. I flinched when a clap of thunder rattled the window.

“Have you ever had a shotgun?” she asked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Without explaining, she placed the lighted end of the joint into her mouth and blew a potent stream of smoke up my nose. The effect of the smoke was almost instantaneous. I felt my eyes cross. When I finally stopped coughing from the harsh smoke that had invaded my nostrils and lungs, I was already stoned.

“Am I making you nervous?” she asked.

She smiled when I said, “I don’t think you have to ask.”

“Maybe I better sit over there before I forget what it is I need to tell you.”

She was naked when she returned to the chair beside the table. After taking another puff, she handed the joint to me. My mind had already slowed into tranquil numbness. After a long draw, I returned it to her.

“You’d better tell me this story while I’m still halfway cognizant.”

“Let’s get rid of this light.”

Adela turned out the lamp in the corner, leaving only the single candle to light the room. As my eyes began adjusting to the dimness, I heard a haunting tune from a single violin coming from somewhere.

“Angel music,” she said. “And there’s something hallucinogenic in the pot.”

Not knowing what I had smoked, I would have started to panic if the numbing effect of the drug hadn’t prevented me from doing so. Adela poured a second glass of chardonnay and gave it to me. I touched the wine to my lips, savoring a delicate flavor I hadn’t tasted in years.

Thunder sounded outside the building, lightning causing the curtains to oscillate like a strobe light when it flashed. Rain continued drumming the window. Even though it was shut, the curtain was flapping in a non-existent breeze. The fury of the storm had dimmed in my mind, replaced by music of the lone violin and numbness that had swept over me.

“Talk,” I said.

Adela’s story began as a husky whisper. “Do you believe there are people with special powers?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I’m different than other people. I’ve known it since I was a little girl. I have powers I’ve never revealed to anyone.”

“What powers?” I asked.

Adela concentrated her gaze on the candle burning on the table. The flame flared, wax melting into fat drops that hardened on the tablecloth. The candle began bending toward Adela’s gaze until she turned away, looking to see my reaction.

“I could set this room on fire if I wanted to,” she said.

Numbed by the wine and spiked pot, I must have seemed less than impressed because her eyes grew darker in the muted light of the candle.

“What else?” I asked.

Refilling my wine glass, she held it toward me. It left her hand, floating slowly across the room until I’d clutched it.

“I can do things that are beyond belief,” she said. “I don’t know why I have the power, or where I got it. I do know I can open and close doors with my mind and make objects levitate. I can levitate,” she said.

As I watched, she floated slowly upward, her damp hair touching the high ceiling of the old hotel room before she descended.

“I’m drunk,” I said.

“You don’t believe your own eyes?”

“When on a bender, I’ve seen white elephants. I don’t know if my eyes are lying, my brain, or both.”

“Neither,” she said. “What you see is real.”

“Right now, I’m not sure what I see, or what I believe.”

“Believe this. There’s an evil room in this hotel, and I must visit it. Will you come with me?”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“How will you find it?”

“I sense evil the same way other people smell a foul odor.”

“Won’t the room be locked?”

“You witnessed only some of my powers. Are you ready for more?”

 

 

Chapter 10

 

As Adela took my arm, we floated off the carpet, my altered reality suddenly wrapped in a Kodachrome dream. When I blinked, I was in a different place and a different time.

Adela was gone. It took a moment for me to realize I was in a church, dressed in a white tuxedo, a white carnation in my buttonhole. The person beside me was someone I hadn’t seen in years: Russell Bender, the best man at my wedding, looking as if he hadn’t aged a day since the last time I’d seen him. I also saw Betty, my former mother-in-law.

Betty was smiling at me, as she sat alone on the first pew in the crowded church. When the music began, she turned away to look at my bride, walking down the aisle toward me. When Adela jostled my shoulder, I had little time to ponder the scene.

“Don’t be frightened,” she said. “We’re going on a trip.”

The candle in the room flickered and died as we floated toward the window, passing through curtains and glass as if they weren’t there. When I glanced down, streetlights flickered up at us. What I was experiencing felt like a dream, or maybe a nightmare. I wanted to scream. A hoarse whisper was all I could muster.

“Don’t let go of me,” I said.

Adela squeezed my elbow tighter, probably the only thing about the situation that seemed even halfway real. Lightning flashed on the horizon. As we soared above the French Quarter, floating through damp clouds, my mind switched gears, and I was again in a church.

Betty, My former mother-in-law, had once again invaded my dream. This time, she looked older than before, and we were in a different church, this one much darker.

Betty stood beside me, grimacing as we stared into my ex-wife, Mimsy’s open coffin. Mimsy’s lifeless eyes stared back at us.

“Oh, Wyatt,” Betty said. “I don’t think I can handle this.”

I awoke in Adela’s grasp. Only the faintest whisper issued from my throat as I tried again to scream. I wanted to pull free from her grip, the reptilian part of my brain screaming for me to do so. We soared over Bourbon Street, a snippet of jazz issuing from an open door.

“Put me down,” I said. “I don’t want to be here.”

Adela circled higher. We flew over the river, so high the boats below looked like flickering points of light. I felt as if I was gazing out the window of an airplane, except there was no window and no plane. When she let go of my arm, I slipped into another nightmare.

I was falling to my death, tumbling and not soaring. The scene morphed into another memory. I watched as Dauphine, the twin sister of Desire, the woman I’d loved, jumped to her death off the Crescent City Connection Bridge. She was staring at me, her arm outstretched as she fell. Adela was laughing, the nightmare fading when she grasped my elbow, halting my rapid descent.

I had only a moment to catch my breath as we circled Hotel Montalba and then floated upward to the darkened window of the thirteenth floor. As we passed through the closed window, into a dark room, a feeling of doom swept over me. At least my bare feet felt something solid beneath them when I touched the floor. I was dizzy, almost falling on my face, as I took a step.

Adela produced a candle, its flickering glow illuminating the interior of a hotel suite decorated as if from another era. I smelled an odor I vaguely recognized, and I recoiled when I stepped into something sticky.

“Blood,” Adela said.

The blood had begun oozing between my toes as Adela directed me to follow her into another room of the large suite.

Because of strong drugs, insane dreams, or maybe both, reality had deserted me. Dark walls pulsated, the decorative wallpaper from another era making me woozy. The bedcovers on the old four-poster bed were in disarray and warm to the touch. I sensed someone, or something, wasn’t far from us.

Hazy light radiated through the open bathroom door. Someone was splashing water in a tub. When Adela pressed against me, the voodoo veve on her chest began glowing red. Behind her, a shadow loomed. I wanted to run. I could not.

Steam wafted across the floor in a damp wave, the room warm with humidity. A woman was in the bathtub. Someone, or something else, was in the bathroom with her. A piercing scream caused Adela to straighten. I wanted to race out the door. Instead, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the bathroom.

An antique tub dominated much of the room. Water, the color of blood, overflowed on the tile, the headless body of a woman flapping her arms as if she were still alive. I couldn’t take my eyes off the bloody scene.

Adela and I watched until the body sank beneath the tub’s steamy surface. Bloody water washed over my feet as something behind us made a noise. I sensed it was the woman’s killer.

My first instinct was to run. I could not because a throbbing demon, stinking to high heavens, was blocking our escape. Globules of slime dripped off the apparition that began to transform into a creature from hell as we watched.

Adela and I backed away, not stopping until we touched the warm porcelain of the tub. My hand came out red when I accidentally dipped it into the hot water. The creature was now fully transformed and moving toward us. Worse, it held a woman’s decapitated head in its appendage.

The eyes of the disembodied head had rolled back in their sockets as the creature dragged it across the tile. Though the head was waxen, I recognized the red tresses the creature was holding. It was Adela’s hair.

The body in the tub had floated to the surface and was rising out of the water. When Adela slipped on the bloody tile, I grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to her feet.

By now, the gaseous demon was glowing red, its body, eyes and everything about it was red, even the fangs in its open mouth that had begun spewing slime and an odor so foul it almost made me gag. When Adela grabbed my elbow and began to levitate, the demon’s roar echoed across the little bathroom.

“I will have you, Aisling.”

Using her magic, Adela flew us over the demon’s head. I held my breath as we passed through the wall and flew back outside into what had become a driving rainstorm.

 

 

Chapter 11

 

Mama and Taj waited on the sidewalk, beneath the awning in front of the Riverfront, until a cab appeared. When the cabbie saw Taj hold up a twenty, he slid to a halt and backed up to the curb. He hurried out of the car and opened the backdoor, Mama, and Taj both laughing after racing the short distance to the cab and piling in.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

“Musique Azul in the Warehouse District,” Mama said.

“Sounds exotic,” Taj said.

“It is. Like the blues?”

“Love the blues,” he said. “I played ball for a season in Memphis. Some of the best blues music in America.”

“Musique Azul’s as good as the clubs on Beale Street. I think you’ll like it,” she said.

“Then it’s not on Bourbon Street?”

“Not even in the French Quarter. It is part of the old industrial area we call the CBD—Central Business District. Entrepreneurs have converted many of the old brick structures and warehouses into expensive condos, rib joints, art galleries, and chic cafes.”

“How big is this area?”

“Within walking distance of everything a person might need.”

“I’m looking for a place to live,” Taj said. “Are the condos nice?”

Mama laughed. “You kidding? They’re so expensive, most of them are owned either by movie stars or professional athletes. You’d fit right in.”

“Will you help me pick one out?”

Mama laughed again. “Honey Babe, I already know just the one you need.”

“You’re buying one?”

“I wish,” she said. “The price tag has too many zeros on the end for a Tulane English professor to afford.”

“English professor? I thought you were a voodoo mambo.”

“Can’t you be both?” she asked.

It was Taj’s turn to laugh. “Do I need to start calling you professor, or doctor?”

“Either would be nice, though just Mama will do,” she said.

“Where did you go to school?” he asked.

“University of South Carolina. You?”

“U.C.L.A., at least for a year. I was a one and done.”

“Don’t apologize,” she said.”

“When you climbed into the cab, I couldn’t help but notice your great legs. Were you an athlete in college?”

“Track and field. Relays and 400 meters.”

“Pro runners make lots of money.”

“I could have gone pro,” she said. “When I tore an ACL and missed the Olympics, my perspectives changed.”

“Was that the only reason?”

“No,” she said. “I was madly in love with my agent, a former world-class runner. When he dumped me for a sprinter from Jamaica, I decided to take a deep breath and think about the situation while I finished my education. When I finally did, I was too old to compete against the world’s best.”

“I’m impressed,” Taj said. “Have you ever looked back and thought you may have made the wrong decision?”

“Have you?”

“Touché!” he said. “I’m so happy Sam gave me your name.”

Before Mama had time to quiz Taj about Sam, the cab pulled up in front of an old brick building. It was easy to see from the floor to ceiling windows that someone had lovingly renovated it. Mama waited beneath the canopy over the front door until Taj had paid the cabbie and then hurried to join her.

“Does it ever quit raining around here?” he asked as they entered the bistro.

“Most places have sunshine punctuated by a day or so of rain. New Orleans is the opposite.”

“Ever thought about moving to Florida or California?” he asked.

“Though I love both places, I’d never leave New Orleans. This is my home.”

A woman in a colorful, floor-length dress met Mama with a hug when they entered Musique Azul.

“Mama,” she said. “Where you been?”

“Busy semester,” Mama said. “Sarah, this is Taj. . .”

“Davis,” Sarah said releasing her grip on Mama and shaking Taj’s hand. “The most handsome man in the NBA.”

“I’ll take handsome, though I wish it were the most valuable player in the NBA. Are you two sisters?”

Sarah was as tall as Mama, her hair just as long. They could have passed as sisters except. . .

“Sarah’s my daughter,” Mama said. “I had her when I was ten.”

“Well, Sarah’s just as beautiful as you are,” Taj said.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Mama said. “We’re here for the music, and we also need to talk. Do you have a table away from the stage?”

Sarah’s long hair flowed when she shook her head. “Even with the rain, it’s more crowded tonight than usual. People in town to see the Pels. There are a couple of seats at the bar, and that’s about it.”

“Even for your mother?” Mama said.

“Sorry, Mom,” Sarah said, giving her mother another hug. “You taught me never to kick someone out in the rain.”

Sarah grinned and shook her head when Mama said, “You could make an exception, you know.”

“Have fun, you two.”

Music aficionados packed the main room, the tattooed blues guitarist crashing out a powerful solo as the smiling drummer and shirtless bass player watched. The music grew fainter when they reached an adjacent area of the remodeled old warehouse.

“Sarah is lovely,” Taj said.

“Guess I shouldn’t have been so tough on her when she was growing up,” Mama said.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Taj said.

Though the inside of the old warehouse had undergone an extensive renovation, its high ceilings, plank floors, exposed brick, and massive I-beams remained and added to its charm. The antique bar was around the corner from the main stage. Though they could still hear the performance, it was muffled enough to allow for conversation. The people occupying the half-dozen tables were doing just that. Mama took a stool at the bar as the young bartender gave her a wink.

“Why Professor Mulate, it’s so good to see you again. Are you here for the music, or to hear some of my poetry?”

Seeing the young man, Mama reached across the bar and gave him an enthusiastic hug.

“Cray Toussaint. When did you start bartending here?”

The handsome young man was dressed in black pleated pants and a black silk shirt. Someone had skillfully braided his dark hair into cornrows, the copper bands on his wrists his only concession to jewelry.

“This past summer,” he said.

“Good Lord, has it been that long since I’ve been here?”

“Sarah said you’ve only been in once since last spring.”

“You know Sarah?”

“We’re dating.”

Mama’s mouth gaped open. Her smile returned when she remembered she was with Taj.

“Cray Toussaint, I’d like you to meet Taj Davis.”

Cray beamed as he reached across the bar to shake Taj’s hand.

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “I’ve looked up to you ever since I played college ball at Tulane.”

“Glad to meet you, Cray,” Taj said. “Any friend of Mama’s is a friend of mine. Just let me know if you ever need tickets to a game.”

“You mean it?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t,” Taj said.

“I’m so starstruck I forgot I’m your bartender. I know what Mama wants. What can I get you, Mr. Davis?”

“You can’t get Mr. Davis anything. Taj will take a glass of cabernet.”

“You bet, Taj,” Cray said.

Cray mixed Mama’s martini and waited for her reaction. “Wonderful,” she said. “You’re still one of the best bartenders in town.”

“I thought you’d like it. I have a special bottle of cabernet in back, Taj. I’ll get it for you.”

“What a nice young man,” Taj said when they were alone.