The following morning found Tess and Po on Gardere Lane, a couple of miles from their hotel in South Baton Rouge. Before travelling there, Tess had Googled the news feeds about the street and now wished she hadn’t. Gardere Lane was a crime hotspot, and though new houses and condos were springing up nearby, ancient apartments that defined suburban blight dominated parts of the street. The neighbourhood was predominantly black, and Tess doubted that a man of Crawford Wynne’s social and political beliefs could make the place home. He’d last minutes at most if any of the residents got a glimpse of the racist tattoos he wore on his body, one of them prominently on his face. Crime was rife on Gardere, but hardly surprising. How did people live like this, she thought, without following their most base instincts? She was being unfair, though. There would be good, law-abiding people stuck in the same rut here, unable to move on, making do with what they had. She recalled Po’s sage words when they’d talked about the hurricanes that had pushed many of New Orleans’ residents north to the state capital. ‘I guess it was bad for the poor folks beforehand and hasn’t got any better since.’
Kids were in the street, some on bikes. Sneakers, board shorts, and tank tops seemed the uniform of choice. Those that wore baggy jeans did so with plenty of boxer short showing in back. There were older people too, sitting on walk-up steps to the second-floor apartments A gaggle of young mothers stood gossiping, with their toddlers at their feet. The gossiping was animated, lots of laughter ringing out and arms gesticulating for emphasis. Vehicles parked in front of the apartments were brightly coloured, some sporting bespoke paint jobs, some with souped-up engines and huge exhaust pipes. The cars were anomalous to the scene: belonging to people with more money than their living arrangements suggested. Their Honda Odyssey stood out because it was so ordinary. Already they’d caught a few suspicious glances, and on one occasion a kid had ridden directly up to Tess’s window and stared into her face, deciding whether or not to send out an alarm. Tess had squeezed out a smile at him, and he’d smirked but ridden off without further drama.
Po found a turning and pulled the Honda down a side street. It dead-ended, facing an expanse of coarse grass and weeds where an apartment block had been demolished. There was still housing to each side, and Po searched for an indication they’d found the correct address. ‘That looks like the place,’ he said, with a nod for the apartment block to their left. It was similar to the other houses they’d seen on Gardere Lane, with a central stairway allowing access to the rooms on the top floor.
‘I’m beginning to think this isn’t a very good idea,’ Tess said. ‘I’m not sure we’re going to be welcomed with open arms.’
‘You can stay in the car if you prefer, but I think coming with me is the safer option.’ Po turned off the engine.
During her law-enforcement career, Tess had grown used to patrolling areas equally as poor and rundown, possibly as dangerous, but being thousands of miles away and without the armour of a badge and uniform was an entirely different ball game, though she wouldn’t let that stop her. ‘I’ve no intention of staying in the car.’
‘We should be OK. Pinky vouched for us with this guy; I trust Pinky.’
‘Then let’s do it.’
Po adjusted his shoulder holster, concealing it beneath his jacket, but ensuring the butt was in easy reach. The gun was an S&W automatic, with its serial numbers filed off. Pinky swore the gun hadn’t been used during the commissioning of a crime, and was as clean as they’d find in Louisiana, but Tess doubted it. She had a similarly ‘clean’ gun – hers a Glock 19 – in her purse. Hopefully they would have no need of the firepower, but then again …
The man they’d come to speak with was called Trey Robinson. Pinky had assured them that if anyone in Red Stick knew Crawford Wynne, it would be he. How and why Robinson would know was beside the point, and Tess didn’t feel the need to ask. Crawford Wynne was the archetypical redneck white supremacist, and Trey Robinson the leader of a black gang. The popular saying ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer still’ had never rung truer.
‘Maybe we should leave our guns in the car,’ Tess suggested.
‘No way,’ said Po.
‘They’ll probably take them off us before we get close to Robinson.’
Po had also spotted the two men standing in the stairwell. They didn’t openly show their weapons, but they’d be packing. After all they were there to block unwelcome access to the apartments on the upper floor. Both men were young, black, and wearing shades, despite being set back in the gloom.
‘No they won’t.’ There was an edge to Po’s voice that sent a thrill up Tess’s spine. Once over she had welcomed the buzz of adrenalin in her veins, but now she wasn’t as enamoured. Po looked over at her. ‘Pinky called ahead, made the introductions. We’re expected.’
‘I know that, but …’
Po was already sliding out of the car. ‘Follow my lead, and don’t say anything unless I give you a nod.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Tess hissed. ‘Hell, sometimes I forget who’s working for who here.’
‘This is what you’re paying me for, remember? My expertise.’
Tess held up her palms. ‘OK. You’re right. I’ll be the obedient little woman and keep quiet.’
She was rewarded by a smile that showed an eye tooth, the equivalent of a smirk from Po.
‘Just stop acting like an ass,’ she said, ‘and remember who’s in charge.’
Po had already forgotten. He was on his way to Robinson’s house. Tess got out the car and followed. Her pumps sucked at the hot tarmac underfoot.
The guards stepped out to bar progress.
‘We’re expected,’ Po told them.
Both men lifted the fronts of their shirts displaying the butts of handguns. It was a show of force but also an unspoken question. ‘I’m packing,’ Po told them. He didn’t expose his gun. ‘So is my friend. But we aren’t here for trouble. Trey’s expecting us.’
‘Ya leave your guns here wid us,’ said one of the men.
‘No. We don’t. Go get Trey and I’ll tell him the same.’
The second guard lifted his sunglasses to inspect Tess. ‘Hollywood cracker bitch ain’t goin’ in.’
‘She’s with me, she stays with me.’
‘Then you stay outside, bra,’ said the first man.
Tess tried not to be offended, but could feel her temperature rising. Her face was reddening and there was nothing she could do about it.
‘That’s right, ho. Get some colour in yo cheeks,’ laughed the second man.
‘Enough with the racist bullshit,’ Po said, ‘and go tell Trey I’m here.’
‘Racist bullshit? Now that’s rich coming from a white man.’
The educated voice hadn’t come from either of the gangsters but from above them. Tess followed the voice to its source and saw a third black man leaning over the railings. He had his forearms crossed, one over the other, dripping gold from his wrists and fingers. He was a handsome guy, fine-boned features, hair oiled and woven into cornrows. He spoke with more culture than his lackeys. He was smiling, and it looked like genuine humour flashing in his eyes.
‘Are you Trey Robinson?’ Po asked.
‘You’re Nicolas Villere.’
Po moved past the guards and Tess went to follow. The second guy, who’d since lowered his shades, interjected. ‘Ya look like a Fed to me.’ He sniffed an inch from her hair. ‘Ya smell like a Fed to me.’
Tess was tempted to knee him where it hurt, but restrained herself. ‘Who says I’m not?’
Po had paused on the steps, watching. But Tess didn’t need his assistance to deal with a punk like this.
‘If I were a Fed, I’d have you face down on the ground with cuffs on, and an entire TAC team storming those stairs. Instead, I’ll just ask you nicely: are you going to let me by or do you wish to try me?’ Tess eyed the young man and didn’t flinch. ‘Well?’
The guy grinned. ‘I like ya. Fo’ a tight-assed cracker ho, I mean.’
‘I like you too,’ Tess said, smiling overly sweet. Then she shoved a palm into his shoulder and pushed him aside. ‘But not that much.’
The guy thought it the best fun he’d had in ages. He laughed, almost as uproariously as his friend, who now began shoving him too. Above them Trey Robinson shook his head in bemusement at the antics.
‘You can’t get quality staff these days,’ he remarked as Po approached him across the landing.
‘Maybe you’re just in the wrong business.’
Robinson nodded at Po’s wisdom. But he wasn’t ready to change his ways. ‘Then who would you come to when looking for some Klan peckerhead like Crawford Wynne?’
Air leaked between Po’s teeth. Tess joined her companion, standing facing Robinson, who was yet to relinquish his position. Leaning on the railings he could survey his domain. It didn’t amount to much when all that faced them was the rental car and the front of similar buildings opposite.
‘Can you help us?’ Tess asked. ‘Or are we all wasting each other’s time here?’
Po’s mouth puckered at one side and she caught his sidelong glance.
Robinson called down to his friends, speaking in a swift patois that was lost on Tess. There was no anger or recrimination in Robinson’s tone, and his buddies only laughed, stopped their messing about, and showed some semblance of order again as they returned to their positions.
‘Pinky Leclerc warned me you were a cute one,’ Robinson said as he finally turned to appraise his visitors. Tess wasn’t sure if he was referring to her looks or her attitude. Neither description offended. But she knew not to take the man’s pleasant nature at face value; you didn’t get to rule the streets in this kind of neighbourhood by being nice.
‘I take it there’s no love lost between y’all?’ Po said.
‘Crawford Wynne is beneath my notice. He’s a piece of crap not worth my time or effort.’ Robinson nodded his head, as if in contemplation. ‘But I owe Pinky, and Pinky says he owes you, Nicolas Villere. So I asked around on your behalf. Wynne hangs with some biker trash down in the bayous, running Charley and whores between New Orleans and Lafayette. You’re a coonass; I’m looking at you and thinking you know your way around those bayous.’
Po didn’t react, though Tess took Robinson’s remark as an off-hand insult.
‘You know Morgan City, Nicolas Villere?’ Robinson went on.
‘I know it.’
‘The Cottonmouths have a clubhouse down there. Some shit-hole off Railroad Avenue near the waterway.’ Robinson ruminated. ‘Those good ol’ boys tried to move in to South Baton Rouge. I didn’t allow it. You get me?’
‘I get you,’ Po said.
‘Give those motherfuckers my best regards, why don’t you, Nicolas Villere.’
Without another word, Robinson walked away. They were dismissed. But they’d learned what they’d come for and no amount of questions would gain them anything else of use. Po tilted his head. Let’s go. Tess again followed, like the obedient little woman as promised, all the while shooting daggers at Po’s wide shoulders, then for good measure at the two guards. The one who’d got too close earlier now kept his distance, but it didn’t deter him from grabbing his groin and lolling out his tongue. ‘Very attractive,’ she told him. ‘I just bet the girls fall over themselves to get at you.’
‘They do, but I’d make time for you, ho,’ the gangster said. ‘C’mon over here and let me taste some a dat white booty, let me suck da head off it.’
‘Leave it,’ Po said. His words weren’t solely for Tess.
The black guy and his friend found the situation uproariously funny again, and began slapping shoulders. Their talk was now too fast and singsong for Tess to follow, but the vocal one made his intentions obvious by again grasping his groin and giving it an over-exaggerated wag in her direction.
‘Leave it,’ Po said again, but this time only for her ears.
‘Men are such assholes.’ Tess included Po in her estimation.
‘Some more than others,’ said Po. ‘Come on, there’s no good can come of hanging around here any longer.’
As they approached the Honda, Po held out the keys. ‘You can drive.’
‘You can drop the act now, Po. I don’t have to play the dumb wench any longer.’
Po blinked at her as he fished his cell phone from a pocket. ‘I wasn’t acting, I was asking. I need to speak with Pinky as a matter of urgency.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Not sure yet, but I don’t trust that asshole Robinson one little bit.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
When they were back in the car and moving again, away from Gardere Lane, Tess said, ‘You think Robinson’s sending us on a wild-goose chase?’
‘No. I think he set us on the right path, but that isn’t it. Didn’t you notice how he kept repeating my name, emphasizing it even?’
‘I thought that was just him being facetious.’
‘Hopefully that’s it, but I don’t think so. It’s like he was letting me know he knew who I was – beyond Pinky’s friend, I mean. Like my name was familiar to him.’
‘You had a name in Angola,’ she reminded him. ‘Maybe that’s where he heard it.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, but didn’t expound. Instead he began tapping in Pinky’s number. Tess watched him in her peripheral vision, while also steering the car back towards the intersection with Nicholson Drive. Had she paid more attention to her mirrors she might have noticed the car pull out of the lot of a meat market and fall in behind them. She might have recognized it as the same car that sped away from their hotel the evening before.