Read That Old Black Magic Online
Authors: Mary Jane Clark
That Old Black Magic (9 page)
T
he crowd at the Gris-Gris Bar the night before had been better than usual for a Thursday. The place had been jammedâand some of the patrons had taken their beers and drinks in plastic cups out onto the street in front. Wuzzy could only imagine how many more customers he could have served had they not been discouraged by the crowd, passing by the bar to find another.
Wuzzy counted out the money from the cash register and wished again that he could convince Ellinore Duchamps to give up her lease on the adjacent store. If Wuzzy could get Ellinore to agree, he could expand his bar and double his profits. He needed the money more than ever. Connor's medical and child-care bills were overwhelming him. And now there was the latest huge expense on the horizon: the power wheelchair.
He'd approached Ellinore several times, explaining why he would benefit and suggesting that she could find another, less expensive location in the city that would suit her store's needs just as well. While Ellinore had been sympathetic, she told him she had signed a long-term lease at a greatly reduced rent right after Hurricane Katrina. Even if she could find as good a rent elsewhere, Ellinore said she liked being right where she was on Royal Street; there was a steady stream of tourists passing by all day, and she had repeat customers who'd come to frequent her store regularly. Ellinore was sorry, but she wasn't going to relocate her shop just so that Wuzzy could expand the Gris-Gris Bar.
Stacking the cash and slipping it into the bank bag, Wuzzy turned to the computer, called up his financial software, and logged in the deposit.
As he rubbed the back of his bald head, he found himself wondering if the murder down the block would help change Ellinore's mind.
H
is supermarket rarely carried what he wanted anymore, so Cecil had gone to the butcher store around the block from the housing project where the owner was now in the habit of saving chicken feet for him. When he got home, Cecil set a pot of water on the stove. As soon as it boiled, he dropped in the four-pronged feet. After five minutes he took them out and rolled off the skin.
Next Cecil pulled out the old black cast-iron skillet that had been his mama's, poured in some oil, and added the feet, frying them up until they were a golden brown. Throwing in some chopped onion and garlic and cooking them until he could see through the onions, Cecil added rice and covered the whole shebang with water. Some salt and pepper, bring to a boil again, put on a lid, and wait till the rice was fluffy and the chicken feet were tender.
Chicken feet and rice had been his favorite dish since he was a boy. He always felt better whenever his mama made it for supper. Cecil needed some comfort now. Muffuletta Mike's death had taken it out of him.
Cecil went in and lay down on the lumpy couch in his tiny living room. He stared at the crack in the ceiling, his eyes watering and his throat sore. He had to rest and tend to himself.
He considered calling his older sister and asking her to make him some of her gumbo. Nettie made the best gumbo in the city. But she had problems of her own, and Cecil didn't want to add anything else to her plate.
He gnawed at the chicken, relishing the round ball on each foot. Having been raised by a Catholic mother, Cecil felt a momentary pang of guilt about eating meat on Friday, especially during Lent. But now that they were grown, he and his sister practiced voodoo, the religion of their ancestors.
After he ate his fill, Cecil licked his fingers and planned what he was going to do next. It was Friday, and that meant it was Chango's day of the week. Chango. A primary spirit force in voodoo.
Chango was the spirit that ruled over fire, thunder, power, and sensuality. He was the dispenser of vengeance on behalf of the wronged. He could help you to defeat your enemies and gain power over others. His colors were red and white; his favorite foods were apples, yams, corn, and peppers. His number was six.
Chango preferred to be kept on a fireplace mantel or on a business desk. Since Cecil had no fireplace, he went back to the stove and concentrated on the small doll he had perched on a small shelf above it. Created out of Spanish moss and sticks, the doll had a hand-sculpted, painted face, was dressed in a red tunic with white trim, and wore a necklace consisting of six red jasper stones.
Cecil understood the significance of the jasper. It was a power and protection stone. Jasper had the ability to influence justice and fair play. It could help to rectify unjust situations.
Singing in broken Creole, Cecil began his prayer, first to Bon Dieu, similar to the Catholic God. Then to his ancestors. Next he prayed to Chango, just as a Catholic needing help for a pet might have prayed to St. Francis of Assisi. Veneration of Chango enabled a great deal of power and self-control. That's what Cecil wanted.
“O Chango,” he prayed in English now. “Help me to be victorious over all my difficulties. Make things fair again.”
J
ack! Jack,
I got the part!”
“That's terrific, Pipe! Congratulations!”
On the balcony of her apartment, Piper stood
grasping her iPhone and looking down at Royal Street. It had grown dark, but
many of the exteriors of the jewelry stores, boutiques, restaurants, and art
galleries were lit by gaslights and lanterns, creating a sparkling and
picturesque scene. What a charming city this was!
“I don't know how it happened, Jack,” Piper
continued, so happy to be sharing her news with him. “Usually I prepare and
prepare, but with this there was literally no time. It happened so quickly. This
morning I hadn't had a part in what seemed like forever, except for that
dog-food commercial, and tonight I've got a role in a legit featureâlike one
that will have a nationwide release. With one of the hottest actors in the world
right now.” She paused only to take a short breath. “Okay, it's a small part,
but an important one. The movie's called
Named,
and
the opening has me meeting Channing Tatum as I get on a parade float. Later he
wants to kill me and stuff me into an aboveground tomb in a City of the
Dead.”
“Charming,” said Jack. “Should I be jealous?”
“Of what?”
“Isn't that Tatum dude the sexiest man alive or
something?”
“Oh, please, he's marriedâand you know that was a
while ago.” Piper laughed.
“That's a relief. I'm sure he's turned into an
ancient troll by now.”
“Yeah, you're right,” she teased. “It's fun making
you, the macho FBI agent, a little nervous.”
Piper paced the balcony. She told Jack about the
audition and the callback and described the details of what she would have to do
on her filming days. As she turned at one end to walk back to the other, she
noticed the doors opening on the balcony across the street. Falkner Duchamps
came out and lit a cigarette. When he exhaled, he spotted her and waved. Piper
waved back, but after waiting a few seconds so as not to be insulting, she went
inside the apartment. She didn't want him to hear any of her conversation with
Jack.
“I'm a little freaked about the being-entombed
part, though,” said Piper as she went to the bedroom and lay down. “They'll have
a camera inside the casket and some sort of lighting in there, I guess, so
images can actually be filmed. I won't be completely in the dark, but I hope I
don't lose it and get all claustrophobic.”
“I see that,” said Jack. “It wouldn't be easy under
normal circumstances, but after being paralyzed for real only a few weeks ago,
it's natural you might find it extra tough. You just have to remember that it's
all nothing but make-believe this time. It's not a life-and-death thing.”
Jack's reference to death reminded her of
Muffuletta Mike. She told him about the murder on Royal Street.
“It's so weird. I was in his sandwich shop just the
day before.”
Piper heard a deep sigh come through the phone.
“Jack? Did you hear me? I watched the guy making
sandwiches at lunchtime just yesterday, and this morning they found him dead,
all whipped up and bloody.”
“Yeah, Piper, I heard you. What is it lately about
you and trouble? Please, please, don't get any bright ideas about involving
yourself in this, all right?”
“You have absolutely nothing to worry about, Jack.
Really. I'm down here to make cakes and be in my movie.” Piper caught herself.
“Can you believe I just said thatââ
my
movie'? Even
if I wanted to, I don't have the time to get involved in anything else. And
honestly? I don't have any desire to play detective. I've learned my
lesson.”
I
t's eleven
P.M.,
and you're listening to
The Aaron Kane Show.
We're talking about the murder in the French Quarter. Do we have a Hoodoo Killer on the loose? We want to hear what you think.”
The killer listened as caller after caller expressed their thoughts.
“I think it's a bunch of nonsense, and you're only feeding into irrational fear. Shame on you, Aaron. The guy was killed, but it had nothing to do with hoodoo or voodoo. Sad to say, it's just another murder in New Orleans.”
The next caller expressed a different view. “When I was growing up, my family had a maid who believed in hoodoo. She did all sorts of seemingly crazy things, like refusing to sweep trash out of the house after dark because she believed it would sweep away her luck. She used to lay a broom across the doorway at night so a witch didn't come in to hurt her. She told me once that she had put some of her blood in her husband's coffee so her husband would stay away from other women. Was she nuts? Some people might say she was, but she believed, and so do lots of others. Why couldn't the murder at the muffuletta shop be hoodoo- or voodoo-related? Anything is possible.”
Another caller explained, “Hoodoo is folk magic, not a religion like voodoo is. I practice voodoo. I know. Both believe in loa, the immortal spirits of ancestors or representations of moral principles and the natural world, like love, death, war, and the ocean.”
The caller paused to take a breath. “For example, Agoue, the loa who represents the sea, is the patron of fishermen and sailors. Think of Catholic saints. Just as many look to those for guidance and protection, hoodoo and voodoo followers look to their loa for advice and help. Believers form very personal relationships with these spirits and want to serve them. They wear clothes of the loa's colors, make offerings of the loa's preferred foods, observe the days that are sacred to the spirit. The loa can possess their devotees. I think it's entirely possible that we are seeing an example with the murder.”
The radio show paused to take a break for commercials. When Aaron came back, he made a promotional announcement.
“Join me and the rest of New Orleans in the Garden District tomorrow for the St. Patrick's Day parade . . . and Monday night I'll be at the Gris-Gris Bar on Royal Street. Folks are holding a fund-raiser there for owner Wuzzy Queen's young boy, who has cerebral palsy. Make sure to stop by to say hi and support this important cause.”
Then Aaron got back to taking calls. The next one came from a disbeliever of his Hoodoo Killer theory.
“I agree with the caller who said that you're stoking irrational fear, Aaron. The last thing this city needs is publicity about some crazy Hoodoo Killer on the loose. We're still fighting our way back from the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. We want to encourage people to visit our city, not scare them away with some bizarre notion that New Orleans is a place where Hoodoo Killers roam the French Quarter.”
But the next caller disagreed with the previous one. “The guy who talked about the loa is onto something, Aaron. The Petro loa are the dark, easily annoyed spirits. They developed because of the horrors of slavery. The spirits couldn't stay quiet anymore. And so the Petro loa, the spirits of action and aggression, came to be. Petro loa are powerful, quick, and symbolized by the whip. The most common sacrifice to them is the pig, so whipping somebody in a muffuletta shop, full of pork products, would seem to fit in with serving their spirits.”
“All this talk about the dark spirits is scaring me, Aaron,” said the next caller. “What if this murder was committed by someone possessed? And what if this isn't the only sacrifice he wants to offer to the spirits?”
The killer smiled and thought,
This couldn't possibly be playing out any better.
C
onnor was crying and soaking wet when Wuzzy went to get him from the crib. As he lifted his son, Wuzzy felt the child stiffen, his arms and legs tightening. The limbs hit the bars of the crib, and the boy whimpered.
“Sorry, bub,” said Wuzzy, gently rubbing a drenched pajama leg. “You've gotten way too big for the crib. Dad's gonna get you a big-boy bed soon. Something with safety bars so you can't fall out.”
Another expense.
Wuzzy peeled off the soggy sleepwear and diaper. Then he lifted the child again and carried him to the bathroom.
“You're getting heavy, kiddo,” said Wuzzy. His knees ached as he knelt down next to the tub and turned on the water. He carefully situated Connor on the bath mat to wait while the tub filled. Then he stood upright and studied himself in the mirror. Bleary-eyed and stubbled, he looked almost as bad as he felt.
He hadn't gotten home until almost three. It was now just after 6:00
A.M
. The next baby-sitter wasn't coming until ten o'clock. How was he going to make it through the next four hours? If he could get through till then, he could grab a couple more hours of sleep before returning to the bar this afternoon and working through the night again.
He had to get more help at the Gris-Gris Bar, people he could trust to run things when he wasn't there. But that cost money, and he wasn't bringing in enough to hire another bartender as well as be able to pay Connor's baby-sitters. If something had to give, it wasn't going to be the baby-sitters. In the stress and physical wear-and-tear departments, it was easier to take care of the bar than take care of Connor.
Wuzzy detected movement from the bottom corner of the mirror. He swung around and dove in time to catch Connor, who was toppling over, just before his young head hit the floor.
“That's all we need, isn't it, buddy?” asked Wuzzy, his heart still pounding as he lifted his son over the edge of the tub and into the warm water. “You hurting your head. How much can that little noggin take, right?”
Connor cooed and drooled as he sat in the tub. Wuzzy watched his son, his heart filled with love, his brain filled with anxiety. How was he going to do it? How was he going to make sure that Connor got everything he needed? The child care, the medical appointments, the therapies, the special equipment?
Wuzzy was beyond grateful that the merchants of Royal Street and others were coming together to raise money to help him. But no matter how much was raised on St. Patrick's Day night, even if it paid for most of his current outstanding bills, it would be a finite amount. Connor's care and expenses would go on for the rest of his life.
How was he going to pay for it all?
“Come on, little man. Let's get you cleaned up,” said Wuzzy, adding soap to a washcloth and applying it to Connor's back. “Rub-a-dub-dub. Three men in a tub.”
Tears came to his eyes as he heard his son's mimicry:
“Wub-a-dub. Wub-a-dub.”