That HooDoo You Do! (the J. Col - Robert P. Robertson

That HooDoo You Do!

Robert P. Robertson

Acts 8: 9-11

Dedicated to: Angelique Angelica Robert, Jr. Christopher Raymond Elijah

CHAPTER ONE

The orange-lilac rays of sunlight blossomed over the horizon, creating silvery aureole around the dark grey puffs of clouds in the early morning sky. The sheet of sunlight slowly spread out over the old city like soft concentric ripples of water in a pond, unveiling the trees, the flowers, the homes, and the businesses of the urban sprawl. Slowly, the foggy humidity of the morning air was being complimented by the aromas

of boiling coffee, frying breakfast meats, and steaming pots of grits from the many kitchens along the dew moistened streets. This morning is a special morning for many residents in New Orleans. It was All Saints Day. This is a happy day of anticipation, planning, and preparation; a reverent day when nearly everyone paid homage to their deceased; when the vibrant city of life and celebration visited its Cities of the Dead. Rene d’Francois Fontenlle was up early, standing at the double French doors of the bedroom’s balcony entrance. He was quietly watching the sunrise displace the purplish dusk over Lake Ponchartrain. As the gray mist

enshrouding the view gave way to the green of the tall oak, pecan, and plantain tree tops, he pulled up the collar of his burgundy satin robe and turned away. He gazed blissfully at his wife who was still asleep in the canopied bed, covered comfortably by the pink silk comforter. Though a middle-aged man, Rene’s physique held an athletic, agile build. He was tall with wide shoulders and a sturdy looking cleft chin which held a two day growth of gray stubble. His silky, jet black hair was streaked with silvery gray and was yet mussed from 1 ROBERTSON his earlier sleep.

For Rene, All Saints Day held a particular meaning. He was descendant of one of the oldest and wealthiest Creole families in New Orleans. He was borne of a lineage of masterful artisans, masons, and builders whose genealogy went as far back as 17th Century France, and was recorded to be among the first gens du colour to enter into the French Territory of Louisiana in the settlement called Nouveau Orlean to build the fledgling city atop the muddy swamps of the Mississippi River in the year 1718. For generations, All Saints Day was an important holiday much like Christmas or Mardi Gras to Rene and his family. Their ancestors occupied plots at the first cemetery on the riverbank of the old

settlement, the half a block tract of swampy woodlands bounded by Saint Peter, Burgundy, and the Ramparts as the city expanded, and some of the oldest crypts at Saint Louis Cemeteries Number One and Two. Rene’s mother had acquired another location some years ago for the family at Metairie Cemetery, where she was interred, for later generations to be laid together. The tradition of honoring their deceased was deeply rooted in the history of their family, celebrating the generational contributions of the deceased to the continuation and further success of the family, and the importance the deceased held in the history of the community and the city at-large.

Sadly, just as the celebrations of other holidays All Saints Day had waned and held no great appeal to the younger generations. Were it not for the elders of the family, the tradition would be but a passing observation, 2

HOODOO a day to party, barbeque, or enjoy a respite from the operations of employment and business. Despite it all, there would always be one who would show a deep interest and dedication to the family and its traditions, and the oral and pictorial history of the family would

be passed on to that one. For, when the senior patriarch or matriarch would become too weak to pull together the straining bonds of the family, that younger would have been apprenticed to take over the reins. Rene himself had been one of the young ones to show interest in the family’s history and was tutored by his grandmother in even the most picayune aspects of the family’s tradition and history. Rene grew to become an architect, much like his great-grandfather who had made the largest portion of the family’s fortune as a city builder and designer. From his grandfather’s tutelage, Rene helped to keep the family’s bond together, ensure their

continued security and prosperity, and kept the family’s name strong and honorable. Just as his grandmother had noticed interest in him, Rene noticed it in his youngest grand-daughter. When their grand-daughter visited their home, Rene watched how she gazed, mesmerized by the old hand-painted, glass-plated, or photographed portraits on the walls and mantle-pieces of the rooms and in the hallways and galleries. She was always delightfully inquisitive about every relic in the family’s library. Rather than play in the spacious yard with her siblings and cousins, she could be found questioning her grandmother or in the kitchen pressing the family’s cook, tracing their every steps with incessant

questions about everything in the house. 3 ROBERTSON Yes, Rene smiled to himself, thinking about his little grand-daughter, she would be the one to succeed him when he would grow too old to hold the family together and to carry on the family’s traditions. Pressing the silent bell to alert the housekeeper that he was awake, Rene was happy that today his grand-daughter would ride with him and his wife to the cemetery, and he would explain to her the significance of All Saint’s Day and why the tradition should always be honored. When a family has

forgotten those who came before them, there would be no binding ties to those who would come after. The family would splinter into uncaring groups and would be so unfamiliar to one another, they would be total strangers. Rene shuddered at the thought of that ever happening to his family. The yellow light flashed over the cream painted frame of the bedroom door. Rene pulled close the diaphanous blinds around the bed where his wife slept and went to the door. A silvery haired, chocolate complexioned man rolled a polished brass porter into the room. He was smiling softly and mouthed “Good morning,” to Rene. The man’s starched white shirt, pin-striped

black slacks, and gleaming black patent leather shoes were immaculate on his slender body. As quietly as he entered the room, he left. Rene had no need to inspect the clothing draped on the wooden hangers on the brass rung of the porter. The night before, he and his wife had meticulously ordered the clothing they would wear for this day and knew what was there. After decades of faithful service, Rene had complete faith in his housekeeper. “Was that Mister Harris, Ren,” Rene’s wife asked 4 HOODOO

from the bed, breaking the silence in the room. “Yes, m’dear,” Rene answered in a low voice. “You’re awake?” “No, Ren, I’m talking in my sleep.” “Well, wake up. Earline and Jock will be here in a while. They’re bringing Angel.” “And her brothers, Ren,” she corrected, sitting up at the side of the bed. “You and your little Angel! The children resent the attention you lavish on Angel. You must be more mindful of them all.” She brought up her slender shoulders and yawned. Though middleaged herself, she still retained the striking beauty of her youth.

“Pshaw,” Rene exclaimed. “They’re children, Angie, and resentment should have no place in their immature emotions.” “Ren, you’re too young to be so old,” she said, shaking her head. “Children are very impressionable, and they have just as much emotion as you or I. When you begin to build bridges over their heads, Ren, it’ll always be over troubled waters.” “Ha,” Rene guffawed. “You and your bridges!” He retreated to the sanctity of the lavish master-bathroom.

***** In preparations for the visitations

on All Saints Day, the gardeners, painters, masons, plasterers, and engravers were the first to enter the cemeteries. Most involved no remembrance, reverence, or ceremony. Unless they were long-time employers of a family who had known the deceased and remembered them in their carnal life, the contractor’s chores were done in the 5 ROBERTSON apathy of mere grave diggers. They were only there to do their jobs and nothing more. Many who did not want a contractor or could not afford one did

their own plastering, landscaping, and white-washing. It was better that way because it would be done to their specifications. Since the city was built upon geography that was relatively soft and shifted regularly, most mausoleums, tombs, and crypts were severely cracked. Plasterers and masons were hired to fill in or fortify the damage. When white-washed by painters, the damage was hardly visible. However, if done by a do-it-yourselfer or someone unskilled, the rough, irregular lines and globs or mortar left on the job and along the banquettes would be a long record of damage and inexperience. The engravers were there to make sure that the names of the deceased were

still prominent on the headstones and legend plates, and they hurried to carve, chisel, and braze into the granite, marble, and brass pieces the names of the newly deceased. The sizzle of propane torches, the tap-tap and tink-tink of mallets and chisels resounded with the roar of lawn mowers and trimmers in the peacefulness of elm, oak, magnolia, willow, and sweet olive trees. Cleaners polished the brass plaques and plates, washed, scrubbed, and shined the marble encased tombs, vaults, and mortuary columns, bringing the Cities of the Dead to sparkling life. The cemeteries of New Orleans resembled the city of New Orleans in style and architecture. The splendor of the

elaborate designs and artful iron workings of the fences and gates were constructed in the Greek Revival, Spanish, and River Boat styles adorning the homes and 6

HOODOO buildings of the Vieux Carre, the old city. The plots were sectioned off in squares to give the appearance of city blocks; the cobble-stoned, bricked, and paved pathways were as wide as the city’s streets, sidewalks, and narrow alleyways. Just as the city’s streets and alleyways had identifying names, the

streets and alleyways of the cemeteries carried identifying names. Thus, visitors knew well the names of the streets and addresses where their loved ones resided. At some of the tombs and crypts, granite and marble statues and statuettes of angels and saints stood in silent vigil in front or around them. At the graves, granite and cement pots, urns, and crosses decorated the corners of the bedding. The more elegant mausoleums had life-sized sculptures symbolized in frozen gestures and poses the deceased ones’ personalities, some deed, an explanation, a last request, or message the deceased wished to convey. Some of the sculptures were over two hundred

years old and regarded as priceless historical artifacts depicting the city’s long and colorful past. On this All Saints Day, however, another part of the city’s history would be recorded. Something terrible was discovered this morning, something repulsive to the senses of even the most indifferent of contractors tending the cemeteries. At the Metairie Cemetery, the long time landscaper of the d’Francois-Fontenelle family noticed something unusual about the decorative, brown, white, and gray marble, GrecoEgyptian styled mausoleum. The lifesized, white marble statue of Madam Fontenelle was missing from the entrance of the mausoleum. At first, the

old landscaper thought that Mister Rene Fontenelle 7 ROBERTSON had requested its removal for restoration and polishing for All Saints Day. Yet, he had never known of Mister Rene ever doing that before in all of his forty years with the family. But, well into his chores, he began to notice also that the granite pottery and urns were all missing as well. Only until the workers at the other sites began to complain loudly about missing pieces did the old man realize that the unthinkable had happened, and it shook him to his old

bones. “Lawd h’mercy,” the old man crossed himself in the sign of the crucifix and dropped heavily on the pink granite step to his weakened knees. “Lawd, wha’s this wor’ comin’ to?”

***** Harris hurried to the door as quickly as his legs could carry him. He knew from the repeated chimes that little Angel was at the portico anxiously waiting to get inside. As soon as he opened the ornately carved, crystal inlaid, mahogany wood door, the little girl burst inside and through the spacious lobby calling “Pa-pa, pa-pa!” Her two

older brothers entered, greeted Harris, and darted behind their sister. “Good mornin’, Jock,” Harris tipped his head. “Miss Ea’line.” “Good morning to you, Mister Harris,” the two spoke, stepping inside and slipping off their coats. Jachim Adrian d’Francois Fontenelle was Rene and Angie’s only child. Unlike his father and those before him, he chose not to make his living in building, masonry, and architecture. Because of that, he was 8

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considered the black sheep of the family. When he chose marketing as his profession and took a job as a stock boy at the local Schweggaman’s Supermarket rather than be apprenticed by his uncles, aunts, or his father in the traditional family professions, he was ridiculed as a rebel doomed to failure. Jaochim had his own ideas about himself and what he wanted to do in his life. Within two years, he received his Bachelor of Arts degree in marketing, and used his savings to open a corner grocery he named Lagniappe’s. After a few years, he bought an old superette on Iberville Street, and used his earnings to purchase a closed B&C Supermarket on Chef Mentuer Highway

in Eastern New Orleans. He was highly competitive with the local, more wellknown supermarket chains in New Orleans, and within five years, started a chain of Lagniappe Supermarkets around greater New Orleans, Chalmette, and Slidell areas. Jaochim’s greatest honor was when Lagniappe’s was rated first in local ambience and flair, and the third most successful markets in the entire Southeastern region. Jaochim broke the family mold and was a success. “Is mom and dad having breakfast, Mister Harris?” “No, suh,” Harris answered, always amazed at how Jock had grown from the quiet, shy little boy to the tall, handsome, and successful businessman

he had become. Harris was like a second father to Jock, being there to guide him from a toddler and mentoring him to manhood. “They’re waitin’ on y’all in the day room.” “Thank you, suh,” Jock smiled, following Harris across the plush green carpet of the lobby. “That Angel,” Earline shook her head. “She can’t see for looking for her Pa-pa.” 9 ROBERTSON “Dad either, But, let it be. It’s a lot more than I received from him at her age.” “I think your father sees his

mother in Angel.” Jaochim raised his eyebrow in surprise. “Really? You think?” “Look at that photo of your grandmother and you tell me.” Passing the large, gold painted frame holding the portrait, Jaochim could see the stark resemblance of his daughter to his grandmother. Her gentle smile, the long silky black hair, and the large, almond shaped eyes; her silky smooth complexion accented by a light shade of brown around her delicate mouth and eyelids. “Perhaps,” Jaochim responded, passing the white painted, gold trimmed staircase. In the sun room, Angel was

standing in front of Rene who was listening intently to her as he sat comfortably in his cushioned Boca Rattan sitting chair. The furnishings in the room was constructed of handwoven bamboo and arranged in a tropical setting. Basket ferns and ivory hung from the varnished rafters with clay potted rubber plants and Her Majesty palms situated around the corners of the room. Tinted plate glass panels of the three sections of the walls provided abundant sunlight inside and gave a picturesque view of the manicured backyard and garden. An overhead ceiling fan swirled lazily from the rafters in the ceiling to allow a soft distribution of heat from the central air

conditioner. Their shoes clicked on the red clay tiles of the flooring. “Good morning, mom, dad,” Jaochim greeted, interrupting the banter between the children and their grandparents. A large projection television broadcast 10 HOODOO the news at the right side of the room. “Hi, Earline, Jock,” Angie beamed, looking up from the two boys hanging on the armrest of her sitting chair. “Hey there, Earl, Joachimo,” Rene grinned broadly, standing from his

chair to hug Earline and to shake his son’s hand. “Are you guys ready,” Jaochim asked, patting the curls of Angel’s hair. “Or, are you gonna let these three talk you half to death!” “Hey, our ears aren’t big enough for them,” Rene chuckled, mussing the hair of the boy closest to him. “We’re as ready as Freddie!” “Bad news, y’all,” Earline said, her pretty face fixed in a picture of regret. “I have a delivery scheduled for this afternoon. The hospital paged me this morning. I anticipate this to be a difficult delivery and I probably won’t be done until this evening, probably.” At first, both Rene and Angie

appeared disappointed, but Rene recovered quickly. “Not to worry! Hey, duty calls! I can remember many days like that. . . Besides, that baby will not wait until tomorrow, right?” “That mother, either,” Angie chuckled. “Hey, that reminds me,” Rene tittered. “Angie, you remember when you were having Jock?” “How could I forget?” “Earl, let me tell you! This boy stopped moving down and the doctor just let him hang you-know-where! The boy’s head was hanging out there like a ripe grapefruit, and the doctor just stooped there, holding out

11 ROBERTSON his hands like a catcher in a baseball game! Look, Angie growled in a voice I’ve never heard since! She said, ‘Oh, will you just get on with it!’ . . . I tell you, it scared the B-Jesus out of all of us in there, and everybody started doing something, anything, looking for something to do!” Angie laughed out loud. “You remember that? You remember what Jock did when he came out, Ren? That boy couldn’t wait to get here, Earline! He literally jumped right out of me and into his father’s hands!”

“Those long arms and legs,” Rene reminisced. “He was like a spider monkey in mid air! The doctor was so surprised, he just stooped there! I said, ‘There she blows! Catch him!” When I saw the doctor in shock, I reached out and caught him right in my hands! . . Right in my hands. . . That’s a day I’ll never forget.” Rene’s eyes were filled with tender reflection. Jaochim lowered his head and looked to the side as his children gazed at him in amazement. “Anyway,” Jaochim interjected. “Cousin Sidney and the rest of the gang got in last night from Saint Louis and Chicago. Have they called you yet?” “Yes, they called us last night,”

Rene nodded. “Well, they’ll meet me at Saint Louis Number One on Basin. We’ll then go to Number Two and meet up with you guys at Metairie, okay. I’ll take the boys-- “ “Aw, dad,” the oldest boy groaned. “Can we stay with Me-ma and Pa-pa?” “We’ll meet up with Me-ma and Pa-pa at Metairie,” Jaochim insisted. Angie touched the side of the boy’s face and 12

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whispered something to him. “Fine, son,” Rene nodded. “That’ll be fine. Then, we’ll take Angel with us if its okay with you? . . Would you like to ride with Pa-pa and Me-ma, Angel?” “Yes,” Angel smiled prettily. “All right, then,” Jaochim sighed, pecking his mother on her cheek. “We’ll see you guys later.” “You guys be good now,” Earline said to the children. “I’ll see you here as soon as I’m finished at the hospital.” Walking out to the portico, Rene waved as the metallic blue Lexus pulled away down the arching, grey-brown

bricked drive and past the tall junipers and boxey wax-leafed hedges. Angel was playfully running around one of the white pillars supporting the wrought iron lined gallery. Angie cautioned her not to get her pink and white laced dress dirty and took her hand to guide her back into the house. “Mister Harris, will you have Robert get the car ready,” Rene requested at the door. “Immediately,” Harris nodded, softly closing the door behind Rene.

***** The ride to Metairie Cemetery was one filled with incessant questions and

breathtaking chatter by Angel. Enjoying every minute of it, Rene patiently listened and answered every question, explaining the meaning of the flowers in the car, why All Saints day was important, and recalling fond memories of his beloved mother and all those interred at the family’s mausoleum. As the white, 13 ROBERTSON late modeled Rolls Royce Silver Cloud approached the cemetery grounds, the driver slowed at the sight ahead. Instead of a procession of cars entering and leaving the gates, the peaceful,

immaculate scenery was tarnished by a jam of police cruisers and yellow crimescene ribbon blockading the ironworked, marble and granite entrance. Noticing the car had slowed considerably, Angie gazed at the driver and tried to get a better look through the bunch of mums and camellias resting on the front seat. Seeing the police cars and the traffic congestion, she parted the flowers for a better look. Rene noticed the concern in his wife’s face. “What’s the matter, m’dear,” Rene asked. “I think something’s happened, Ren,” she answered, her eyes glued to the police cars. Rene raised his head to get a

better look. Seeing the police cruisers, his fine brows knitted from concern. One of the family’s gardeners, a tall, lanky man, spotted the Rolls Royce from where he stood at the gated entrance. He had been instructed by Pops, the old landscaper/supervisor, to intercept the family, especially Rene, to prevent them from coming into the cemetery to find the sacrilege at the family’s mausoleum. Rene had been the architect of the grand mausoleum upon his mother’s wishes, and had drawn the design of the statue bearing his mother’s image. Of anyone, it would impact Rene the most to see such profanation. The man strolled toward the car, waving both hands.

“Mista Font’nelle,” the driver turned to see Rene already looking. “That’s Slim. He works with Pops. Want me to go n’ see what’s happenin’?” “Let me out,” Rene said. “I need to go and see 14 HOODOO what’s happening.” The driver opened the door and got out. He gazed at Slim, trying to search his face for an answer. Opening the rear door, Rene stepped out, adjusted his light gray suit coat, and walked past Slim. The lanky man stopped, stammering to call behind Rene, but

seeing Rene determined to get to the entrance of the cemetery, he shrugged and followed, the driver close behind him. At the police barricade, visitors complained bitterly at not being allowed into the cemetery. Rene was irritated at hearing the complaints and ducked under the yellow crime-scene ribbon. A young police officer rushed toward him. “Hey,” the young officer snarled. “You! Get back behind the ribbon! You can’t go in right now! This is a crime scene! An investigation is going on!” Rene turned and glared at the young officer. “Where is your commanding officer, young man?” “You need to get back behind

the ribbon, sir,” the young officer ordered. “Go and tell your commanding officer that Mister Rene Fontenelle would like a second with him,” Rene requested in refrained fury. The young officer recognized the name and understood Rene was someone important. He lowered his eyes, his sense of authority lowering as well. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but there’s been a massive theft in the cemetery--- “ The mention of a theft in the cemetery sent a cold chill through Rene. “I must go through. . . I must, with or without your permission.” “Please sir,” the young officer cautioned. “Wait

15 ROBERTSON here. I’ll go to get the captain.” “Is this scoundrel giving you a problem,” someone asked from the side. The short, wide set officer approached from the entrance, a decorated, navyblue cap on his rock-like head. “Arrest him!” Rene turned, seeing a familiar face. “What’s going on here, Marlon? What’s the humbug about?” “Some sick puppies’ve stolen a lot of stuff out of here, Rene. The lab is collecting evidence before we can allow anyone in.” “Stolen,” Rene repeated, a

confused look on his face. “What could anyone possibly steal from a cemetery?” “You’d be surprised,” the captain smirked. “There’s some sick individuals out here, and apparently they’ve been pretty busy. Nearly every cemetery in the city has called us today, and we’re spread pretty thin.” “May I go in, Marlon,” Rene asked, his breath seeming to have left his lungs. “I must see if my family’s mausoleum has been violated.” “Sure, but I’ll need to take you in, unless you want to become a suspect. C’mon.” Going past the tall, decorative wrought iron gates, the sounds of complaints and anger outside were

replaced by weeping, sorrow, and anguish. The visitors who were already inside the cemetery when the police had arrived were being interviewed by detectives. Technicians from the Crime Lab were treating them and taking their information before releasing them. The visitors appeared helpless by the sacrilege that happened here, their faces masks of abject sadness. One man was on his knees hunched over in silent prayer. 16 HOODOO Near his family’s mausoleum, Rene’s knees grew weak. It felt as if the

very ground had turned to mush beneath his feet. The old landscaper had been treated and tagged by the Crime Lab, and was sitting in the grass watching the technicians at work. Looking around, he saw Rene and the captain approaching and bustled to his feet. He rushed to Rene in a pitiful state, looking back at the mausoleum and again at Rene, his ample lips moving wordlessly. “No, Mista Font’nelle,” he finally sputtered, his grief stricken eyes imploring Rene. “Don’t--- You don’t need to be seein’ this y’ere thing! . . They done stol’t Miss Anna! They done took’t ‘er! She gone! . . She gone. Lawd h’mercy, you ought not to be y’ere to see this!”

The granite and marble, GrecoEgyptian styled mausoleum appeared naked without its adorning pieces. The white marble anta looked feeble absent its protective cherubim. But, more striking of all, the life-sized image of his mother was missing from the entrance, rendering the mausoleum barren and desolate to the cloudy sky. It was an unfathomable abomination, worse than grave-robbing or necrophilia, more terrible than burning or desecrating any place of worship. A chilly wind moved through the cemetery, forcing a wave of leaves to retreat across the grass. In utter revulsion, the pits of Rene’s stomach rose to his throat. He turned and vomited violently into the grass.

“Mista Font’nelle,” the old landscaper rushed to Rene in panic. “Oh Lawdie, somebody call a amb’lance!” “You okay, Rene,” the captain asked, holding Rene at his back. “You need a medic?” Rene choked and gagged, embarrassed by his 17 ROBERTSON reaction. Yet, with each thought of the stolen statue, a wave of nausea would come over him, making him heave again. Taking the white silk handkerchief from his coat pocket, he wiped his mouth, fighting back the sickening thoughts.

“It’ll be alright, Rene,” the captain patted him between the shoulder blades. “It’s gonna be alright. Don’t take it so hard.” “They’ve,” Rene coughed, closing his eyes to the sight of the mausoleum. “They’ve taken my mother away from me. They’ve literally--- You must find her, Marlon. Please, you must find her and bring her back home.” “We’ll do all we can, Rene,” the little captain said, his heart full of empathy for his old friend. “I give you my word.” “Sir,” one of the technicians approached from the side. “He’ll need to be treated.” “I know,” the captain said,

waving the technician away, irritated by him. “Um, Rene, you’ll need to go to the tent over there before you leave.” “Promise me you’ll find her, Marlon,” Rene said, a look of abject helplessness in his eyes. “I promise, Rene,” the captain said with a feeble smile, watching Rene and the old landscaper turn to go slowly to the Crime Lab tent. Gazing up at the once stately mausoleum, the previous cleaning and polishing was now marred by fingerprint powder, technicians, and detectives scouring the grounds for evidence and clues. 18

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***** “It’s a dog-gone dirty shame for somebody t’have t’ve done a ter’ble thing like that,” the large, sepia complexioned cook hissed in repulsion, black netting matting her mingled grey hair to her equally large head. A red bandanna was tied around her forehead to soak up the perspiration from head. Her broad nostrils, however, was beaded with sweat. “To think, Lawd, to think that somebody h’ain’t had nothin’ sensible to do than to go ‘round

stealin’ stuff off o’ peoples graves! Lawd, this got to be the last days o’ Judgement! Any day now, with all the stuff happenin’ from space and the things they findin’ in the Holy Land, the Beast gon raise up from the sea to trumpet in the Apocalypse! You watch, any day now!” The old landscaper cut an evil eye at Slim from across the table. All day he had been chastising Slim for his blunder at the cemetery, and each time he looked at Slim, he wanted to brow-beat him anew. “I thought I tol’ you to th’ow off Mista Fon’nelle so’s he wan’ able to see such a sinful deal at his mama;s place? I thought I tol’ you, got damn me! They say

to never sen’ a boy to do what a man s’pose to.” “I did, Pops,” Slim explained for the thousandth time. “What’d you want me to do, knock him out? You can’t stop a grown man from goin’ when he wanna go! You shoulda saw him! Even the police couldn’t stop him! He marched right up to that police like a big time white boy and said ‘Le’ me th’ough!’ And they did jes that, let ‘im right on th’ough! Now, you tell me how you expect me to stop him?” “Mista Font’nelle is w’ite,” Pops bristled. “N’ don’t 19 ROBERTSON

you nev’ mind!” “Aw c’mon, Pops,” Slim snickered, surprised by the old landscaper’s declaration. Then, it occurred to him that the old landscaper may have been joking. “Yeah, you right. He white. He’s as white as a dead hog’s eyes! You need to git off that! You been around here long enough to know that Mista Font’nelle is as black as you n’ me. He’s jes Creole, that’s all. That don’t make him white, though. I’ll bet you his birth certificate don’t say he’s white. But, shit, all the money he got, he can probably be anything he wanna be! He so rich, he could be a studderin’ Chinaman if he wanna be!”

Though the cook and the chauffeur began to laugh, Pops was taken aback by the statement. He looked as if he were about to burst a gasket. His yellowish eyes turned a blood red and his full lips were tight with white bubbles of spittle at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you speak in them terms o’ the man who feedin’ yo’ ass, nigra,” Pops growled, jumping up and kicking back the heavy wooden chair with the backs of his legs. His tiny, bald head was trembling on his skinny neck. “Got damn you, nigra, you stay in yo’ place!” “Stay in my place,” Slim muttered aloud to himself, a confused look in his eyes. “You tellin’ me to stay

in my place, ol’ man? What kinda ol’ ass Oncle Tom you is, tellin’ me to--- “ “Cephus,” the cook moved from the stainless steel range. To be a large woman, she was surprisingly swift and nimble. Turning to Slim, she shook her head and pressed her index finger to her full lips. “Now Cephus, 20

HOODOO you know better than that! I’m surprised at you! You know yo’ back ain’t in no shape for you to be up in here beatin’ up on nobody! If you don’t stop right now,

I’ll go n’ call Miss Angie for you!” Pops hesitated at the threat and jacked up the belt line of his baggy, khaki pants. “You lucky, boy! I’ll box yo’ y’ears up in y’ere, ya better ask somebody! . . Young po’ ass, nigra. You ain’t neva had it so good in all yo’ bo’n days, n’ ya wanna bite the hand dat feeds ya? I’ll ass up on yo’ ungrateful ass up in y’ere, talkin’ on bad terms ‘bout Mista Font’nelle!” “He knows that, Cephus,” the cook said in a soothing voice. “He ain’t know what he was sayin’. His mind jes messed up. He ain’t in his right mind, that’s all.” “He ack lak he done los’ his

mind. But, I’ll help ‘im find it in y’ere, me!” “He knows Cephus. He knows shit from sugar.” “Hmph,” Pops huffed, attempting to flex his once sizeable chest, but fell short in the effort. Yet, his old eyes blazed in youthful fire. “When you fix my some’t’eat, tote it to my room where’s I’m gon be at. I wouldn’ sit at the same table wit’ a no good ig’rant.” Slim flinched at being called ignorant, but was held back by a cautious gesture from the chauffeur. “Okay, Cephus, I’ll bring it to you as soon as I fix it, hear.” The three watched the old landscaper go bandy legged out of the

kitchen. The cook shook her head. Slim had been employed by the family for little over a year, and he knew the old landscaper to be wily and cantankerous. The old landscaper was a task master who 21 ROBERTSON regularly chastised his crew for the slightest mistake. Though Pops was as mean and rambunctious as a badger, he had never physically challenged anyone before. However, the cook and the chauffeur knew that Pops was only blowing off steam and would forget the entire episode after he had his supper.

Don’t pay Cephus no attention, Slim” the cook said, returning to her pot on the stove. “He still a lil upset ‘bout that ‘bomination at the graveyard. He got the gout, y’know, and he’s gonna be all right once he gits somethin’ on his stomick and down him a few. That ol’ man been ‘round here for a long time. He’s at a place where he thinks he’s kinfolk, He knows he cain’t never be, and it disturbs him. His blowin’ up at you is his way o’ sayin’ to hisself that he fam’ly, y’know. He in this world by hisself n’ he wants to belong somewhere, that’s all. But, Lawd, when he was younger, that Pops was a whip! You n’ him would be tearin’ my kitchen down right ‘bout now. Me, I woulda went to

get Miss Angie for him. He soft for Miss Angie. But, Pops is gotten ol’ n’ hateful now. After all is said n’ done, he harmless as a toothless tiger.” “I figgered he was a lil touched up some kinda way,” Slim waved his hand at the kitchen door as if to fluff off the incident. “Man, he been ridin’ my back all day about that! But, him tellin’ me I better stay in my place, he bugged! He ain’t my pa, talkin’ to me like that!” The chauffeur chuckled through his sadness. “Pops used to be a humbuggish lil dude, but he ol’ now, still livin’ in a ol’ time.” “People need to change, though. They need to

22

HOODOO grow with the times, or else they gon end up all hurtin’ n’ mis’rable like Pops is. Pops is a bitter ol’ man. All that bitterness gon back up on ‘im n’ end up eatin’ him alive, you watch!” “What the police said about that graveyard stuff, Slim,” the cook asked, wishing to get the subject off of Pops. “They got a hint on who took that stuff?” “They ain’t said nothin’. They was just snuffin’ around. My own self, I think they ain’t got a clue. I don’t think

they gon ever find that stuff.” “You know what,” the cook turned, wagging the steaming cooking spoon in her small fist. “People don’t re’lize that the dead is livin’ jes like we is. The dead is just in a dif’rent place, that’s all. Just like we get possessive about clothes and jew’ry and cars and fu’niture, they git possessive about the stuff they done left behind. Take them people who took’t that stuff outta King Tut’s tomb. Every last one o’ ‘em died right behind the other! That’s because King Tut didn’t want nobody messin’ with his stuff, you hear what I’m sayin’ to you? He went after all o’ ‘em who was responsible for disturbin’ his stuff! Now,

I’m sayin’ this outta my own mouth, you hear me? All the police gotta do is wait n’ follow the trail o’ dead bodies o’ people who gon die mysteriously, hear, and its gon lead ‘em right to that stuff they stole outta them graveyards! Mark my words, they gon start to droppin’ like flies!” “Mmm-hmm,” Robert nodded, his gaze glued to the wood grained table top. “You right.” “No-no-no,” Slim said, shaking his head and wagging his finger. “Uh-uh. You wrong. Tut’s tomb had a 23 ROBERTSON

curse put on it by his pries’es! Tut ain’t had nothin’ to do with it! He was daid! How he gon put a curse on his own shit? Then again, ghos’es is lighter than air. They paper-weight! They can’t hurt nobody! But, the thing about ghos’es is, they’ll scare you so bad, they’ll make you hurt yo’ own self tryin’ to git away from ‘em. They’ll make you run th’ough a wall! You see these people in them funeral homes cryin’ n’ shoutin’ for they daid not to leave ‘em, cryin’ ‘Oh, Lawd, don’t leave me—come back! Take me with you!’ But, if they daid heard ‘em n’ sit up in one o’ them caskets, or got outta a grave lookin’ ‘round n’ dustin’ hisself off n’ shit, people would trample each other stampedin’ outta there! They’ll

clear that place out quicker than a cat could wink his ass!” The cook laughed out loud, turning back to her pot. “Go ‘head on, boy! Man, you crazy!” Robert was laughing fitfully, cackling from his throat. “Okay, tell me this,” the cook said, turning off the flames beneath her pot. “If dead people can’t do nothin’, Slim, why do people go n’ mark the grave of Marie Laveau for good luck?” “I ain’t said ghos’es can’t do nothin’,” Slim corrected. “I said they can’t do you nothin’. They can’t hurt you no kinda way, But, they can influence you, y’know what I’m sayin’? They can make you do things to make you hurt yo’

own self or make you do things to help you. Say for instance, we be prayin’ to saints n’ leave ‘em offerin’s n’ stuff, like people do with Saint Jude. Saints is daid too, daider than Marie Laveau! They been daid! But, people pray to ‘em n’ make offerin’s n’ promise novenas 24

HOODOO to ‘em right on. What they be doin’ is prayin’ for innerception in they cause ‘cause we know saints is closer to Gawd than we is. They s’posed to help us by influencin’ or by changin’ our minds about somethin’ that can hurt us or

help us, y’know.” The cook nodded. “You light a candle to a saint and make a novena, you’ll never get what you ask for if you don’t stick to yo’ novena. Them saints be real strict about they sacrifices, yeah!” “Not only strict,” Slim emphasized, pressing the tip of his bony forefinger to the table top. “Them saints could be down right mean! Looka Saint Jude. If you pray to ‘im and make a novena promisin’ to give up sex, smokin’, drinkin’, or what have you, n’ he grant you yo’ request, you better be serious ‘bout what you sacrificin’! If you renege on yo’ promise, Saint Jude would make yo’ life so that you would bleed from yo’ gums n’ yo’ eyelids!”

The cook fell silent. Though she was a devout Baptist, she had no qualms about cross-denominating to Catholicism for the purpose of praying to and lighting candles to the saints for favor or intercession. She went so far as to take Catholic communion and receive ashes on Ash Wednesday. “Take the Black Madonna, the nun who was raped as a young girl by a bunch of men. She is a saint and she is jes as daid as daid could get, but she supposed to be hateful to human man. Now, you take a woman who wants to give her ol’ man the gate, or who wants spite-work done against a man who done done her wrong. She’s the saint you go to. But, you better be real careful to stick

to 25 ROBERTSON yo’ novena with her, or you gon be prayin’ for protection of every male in yo’ own fam’ly. When the Black Madonna cut loose, she don’t leave no stone unturned! If you fail in yo’ promise, she won’t only git yo’ ex-ol’ man, but she’ll fix yo’ brothers, yo’ daddy, yo’ oncles, yo’ nephews, yo’ sons--- any male in yo’ life! Saint Jude can be real mean, but the Black Madonna is ruthless!” Robert averted his eyes to the floor, uncomfortable now with the

irreligious references to the saints, let alone mentioning the Black Madonna. The cook carried her pot to the stainless steel sink in silence. Though she wanted to hear more about the saints, she stood still, attentive to what Slim was saying without appearing to listen. “I tell you the truth,” Slim said, wagging his finger. “I know this woman who went to the Black Madonna to spite her ex-ol’ man. She had a bunch o’ chil’ren for him, four boys n’ four girls. He was real vi’lent with her, beatin’ her up jes as soon as he opened his eyes in the mornin’! She got tired of it n’ left him. They broke up one day, n’ the next day he was livin’ with the woman he had left to be with her. That’s when she

found out that after all that time, he had still been messin’ with the other woman while he was livin’ with her n’ beatin her n’ her chil’ren! To pour salt in her wounded heart, he was set to marry the woman, and was out there braggin’ ‘bout how much the woman was doin’ for him, y’know, knowin’ it was gong it back to her, y’see. It made the gir’ mad as all hell, n’ she wanted to hurt his heart the way she was hurtin’. To get it done, she went to the Black Madonna, lit a candle, n’ made a solemn novena to give up drinkin’ for 26

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a month. Well, on the day her ex-ol’ man were to be married, blood started gushin’ outta his eyes, his ears, his nose, and his mouth, then he took’t a ugly fit befo’ he dropped daid right there on the chapel flo’! When the gir’ heard what happened, she was overjoyed, n’ went out with her girlfriends to celebrate. She took one sip of her drink before she remembered her novena, then sit the drink down without drinkin’ nothin’ mo’ than a sof’ drink. But, the damage was done. Well, right after that, her oldest boy got kilt in a dice game. The boy beneath him died o’ a sickness he had in his blood. The other one got his head cut clear off in a car wreck, n’ her boyfriend

fell daid of a massive heart attack. I tell ya, that woman walkin’ ‘round here right now all messed up, as mad as a hatter! . . But, y’know, she had a fourth son, her baby boy, who was ne’r touched by the Black Madonna.” Robert looked up under his eyes at Slim. The cook turned from the sink, staring at Slim with anticipation. “Well,” the cook finally asked. Why wan’t her baby boy afflicted by the Black Saint, Slim?” Slim shrugged. “I don’t know. But, he was a ‘maphrodite, y’know, a gal-boy. Shit, he was already all jugged up! I reckon the Black Madonna got confused about it n’ ain’t saw no reason to mess with him no more than he was

already messed up. Hell, she mighta messed around n’ studded ‘im up!” “Boy, you know you wrong for that, yeah,” the cook guffawed, turning back to the sink and pouring the steaming white rice into the colander. “I done heard everything now,” Robert said, 27

ROBERTSON shaking his head in laughter. “I ain’t lyin’,” Slim said, quickly crossing himself, kissing his fingertips, and raising them to the ceiling. “As the Lawd as my witness, it’s

true, though!” “Stop it, Slim,” the cook said, running water over the rice and placing the strainer onto the pot to drain. “You goin’ home or you gon eat here tonight, Slim?” “It depends on what you servin’ up,” Slim chirped, shifting his narrow rump in his seat. “We got cou’bullion bakin’ in the oven now. With some spinach and rice, beets and Vidalia onion salad. For dessert, we gon have some pecan puddin’ over French vanilla pound cake.” “Hell yeah,” Slim rubbed the palms of his hands together and licked his lips. “I’ll eat here if y’all don’t mind

eatin’ with a no-count ig’nant? Is that what that is smellin’ up in here?” “Serious, though,” Robert said, gazing at the table top. You don’t think they’ll ever find that statue of Miss Anna? She was a nice ol’ lady, man. Really nice. You know, she ran that Cat’lic Charity till she passed. When I met ‘er, she was already up in age, but I’ve never met nobody beside my own mama who was as sweet as she is. . . I swear, I hope they find it. Not just for Mista Font’nelle sake, but for Miss Anna’s peace.” “You could tell Mista Rene is hurtin’,” the cook said, opening the oven to baste the baking red fish broiling in garlic butter and extra-virgin olive oil

and garnished with thin sliced tomatoes, lemons, and hard boiled eggs. “He looks so sad and gentle all over his face. I doubt if he’ll eat anything tonight.” 28

HOODOO “If he don’t eat, I’ll eat his,” Slim joked. “Don’t play, man,” the cook warned. “It ain’t the time.” “I wish I knew who it was,” Robert said, tapping the table top with the tip of his index finger. “What’ll you do, Rob,” Slim asked, a tone of skepticism in the

question. “The police supposed to handle it, but they some sorry suckers. They always callin’ you up beggin’ up on a donation, but they’ll stop you n’ give you a ticket at the drop of a hat, n’ wouldn’t even give you a break!” “What you expect, Slim? A donation ain’t no lay-away toward a future ticket, bro.” “I know that, but if you give somethin’ you expect somethin’ in return! That’s life. But, y’know, that stuff is somewhere right here in this city. It ain’t gone that far. But, by the time the police git around to it, ain’t no tellin’ where that stuff might end up at.” The cook looked as if she had tasted something bitter. “The thing that

gits me is who, who gon wanna steal somethin’ outta a graveyard, le’ ‘lone buy somethin’ that was stolen outta a graveyard?” “If you ask me, I think its somebody who worship the devil! Ask me who n’ I’ll say hoodoos, that’s who! They use stuff like that to do that hoodoo they do. Matter of fact, that’s the first place they oughta look. I’d go to them voodoo dances ‘round Esplanade Street n’ up in the French Quarters ‘round Treme. Them places crawlin’ with a bunch o’ dichty hoo-doos. With stuff that come outta a cemetery, they prob’ly workin’ some pow’ful strong shit on somebody! I wouldn’t wanna be the one, I

29 ROBERTSON tell ya!” Now, the conversation was taking on a taboo nature. Robert wanted to end it then and there. The cook, however hesitant, appeared highly interested in the subject. “I don’t think the police would wanna go that way,” the cook said, basting the fish in the oven. “They police, but they scary, yeah!” “If I was a police, I know I would. It’s all a matter of how you believe. If you have faith in that jonk, it’ll have you doin’ all kinds of crap!

But, me, I don’t believe in none of it.” Robert shot a look at Slim as though waiting for a bolt of lightening to strike him down at the table. The cook appeared to be shocked by Slim’s statement. “Slim,” the cook spoke, her voice sounding solitary in the quiet kitchen. “Do you believe in God?” Slim frowned, leaning away from the cook. “What you think? I believe in Gawd with all my heart n’ soul! Who don’t believe in Gawd? Shit, even Satan knows that Gawd is real! All of my faith is in Gawd and the power of prayer, not no hoodoos! What I said is that I don’t believe in none o’ that schitzoid stuff like hoodoo, voodoo,

witch-craft, n’ Santa Maria, all that chinchie stuff! It’s stupid! That’s how Saul fell outta favor with Gawd, ‘cause Saul wanted to believe the way he wanted to believe instead of listenin’ to every word of Gawd! That fool tried to git a hoodoo woman to innercept between him n’ Gawd, n’ Gawd backed clear away from Saul, regrettin’ that he even made Saul a king! . . If I was a police, I’d bust into them hoodoo houses and knock them feather caps off they heads and order ‘em to take a bath n’ put on some 30 HOODOO

got-damn clothes!” “Well, why don’t you do that, then, Slim,” the cook jibed, removing the large pan of courtbullion from the oven. “’Cause I ain’t no police,” Slim answered, sucking his eye-tooth. “But, I know somebody who’s a good friend of mines, a private detective, and he ain’t scared of nothin’, boy’! He’ll whip a hoodoo’s ass n’ stomp on his mo-jo!” “That’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Robert laughed. “He ain’t that wall, though. I don’t know nobody who’ll do that when it comes down to hoodoo. He put his hands on a hoodoo or stomp on a gris-gris, his arms’ll git short and his feet’ll draw up into little tiny baby feet! You talkin’ out the top o’ yo’ head now,

Slim.” “Tell you what, Rob,” Slim said, propping his elbow on the table top and sticking out his pinky finger. “You care to put yo’ money where yo’ mouth is?” “What you mean?” “You drop a line to Mista Font’nelle that you knows somebody who knows somebody who could find his mama’s statute, and I’ll git my boy to come out here and talk to Mista Font’nelle. Bet?” “Bet,” Robert hooked his own pinky with Slim’s and pulled. “But, if he don’t find the statue or he ponks out, you owe me a week’s pay.” “You ain’t said nothin’ but a

word, my man,” Slim sang happily. He looked at the cook. “You want some of this or you jes witnessin’? “Keep me outta that. I’m just witnessin’.”

31 CHAPTER TWO

“You tell Calhoun I wanna see him as soon as possible,” the man said, standing in an aggressive posture in front of the secretary’s desk. “Ain’t no reason for the IRS to be callin’ me in for no

audit and I had y’all to do my taxes!” “Stop right there,” the heavy set secretary said, her face heavily powdered, her hair pomped in an arch at the crown of her head. “First, don’t say y’all. I’m just the secretary here. Second, I didn’t do your taxes, sir, I only took your application. Now, if you want to see Mista Calhoun, just leave your name and a workin’ phone number where you could be reached, and I’ll give the message to Mista Calhoun when he gets in, okay. But, don’t come in here demanding nothing and you don’t have your information straight, talkin’ about y’all.” The petite, caramel complexioned woman standing behind

the man made a loud sound of exasperation, her lips pursed in disgust. Leaning sideways in her chair, the secretary eyed the woman. “Excuse me, ma’m, are you tryin’ to say somethin’?” “What kind of flip attitude is that,” the woman asked more to the man than to the secretary. However, she stayed safely behind the man. “Do they pay her to be flip with paying customers like that?” “I don’t recall anyone sayin’ anything to you, Miss,” the secretary answered, her head weaving fluidly on what little neck she had. “You know you’re off the 32

HOODOO chain! This gentleman’s talkin’ to me, and I’m tellin’ him what he can do to get with Mista Calhoun. Now, if you got any business in here with Mista Calhoun yourself, then you can step up. . . Next!” The woman frowned, standing akimbo with her hands on her narrow hips. “Excuse me? . . “ “You are, if you don’t have any business in here!” The man quickly turned to the woman and whispered something to her. She stepped back, glowering at the

secretary and rolling her eyes. “Say,” the man spoke, folding the audit notice and slipping it into the envelope. “It don’t need to be all this here drama, alright. Would you just give this to Calhoun? I need to get with him right away about this. This is the IRS, man! You don’t mess around with them people! He’s gonna have to come with me to the audit to clear this up! Tell him to call me as soon as he comes in, okay?” “That’s my job,” the secretary said, taking the envelope and laying it on her desk top. “I told you you shouldn’t’ve come here,” the woman said, going to the door. “That’s the trouble dealin’ with

niggas! They don’t know how to act professional!” The man opened the door for the woman. The glazed glass pane of the door had been cracked a long time ago, judging from the flaking of the Scotch Tape along the damage. Outside, the two went up the sidewalk, the little woman gesticulating her displeasure to the man. From the old, rust spotted, white painted fire-escape, J. Coltrane Calhoun watched them until they turned at the furniture store on the corner. He exhaled in 33 ROBERTSON

relief and returned into the office. However, seeing the face on his secretary, he hesitated and started to go back onto the fire-escape. He lowered his head to avoid anymore eye-contact with her, and tried to take refuge in the restroom. “Mista Calhoun, I’m gettin’ tired of people comin’ in here jumpin’ all in my face for somethin’ you done done! You’re not payin’ me enough to be in here arguin’ with sugar-daddies and their gold-diggers and all that! I’m not here to be doin’ all that kind of stuff!” “Has I asked you to be fussin’ wit’ nobody,” Calhoun responded in a thick, craggy voice, producing a big, facetious smile on his round face. “All

you y’ere to do is to take they information n’ le’ ‘em go, hon, that’s all. How easy can that be n’ doin’?” “Yeah, but you need to get that straight,” the secretary said, taking the envelope and tossing it to the front edge of the desk. “The man is being audited by the IRS because of somethin’ you’ve done, didn’t do, or hadn’t done right. That man was highly upset by this, Mista Calhoun, and he had a right to be. Even his lil scrawny woman put her two-cent in! I’m a peaceful woman. I don’t like all of that arguin’ and mess. My pressure goes up from all that!” “What you want me to do, Dee,” Calhoun pulled up his shoulders and turned up the palms of his hands.

“Just straighten it out,” Dee emphasized, stretching out what little neck she had. Her voluminous cleavage and her chin threatened to swallow the faux-pearl necklace visible at the front of her neck. “Refresh your math book! Take a tax class! Do something! But, get 34

HOODOO this straight! Too many people done come in here complainin’ about their taxes since you started doin’ taxes; either they haven’t got they returns back or they bein’ audited! They scared ‘cause they done got back too much money that they

gon have to pay back, or they done got back too little than what you had calculated! It’s sad, Mister Calhoun, I swear!” “Well, I don’t know much about geometry, but I do know one and two makes three! But, Lawd, if you can calm this y’ere woman down, what a wonderful world this would be!” “Don’t do that, Mista Calhoun. You’re playin’, and this ain’t the time to be playin’.” “La ta-ta-ta, ta tia,” Calhoun danced, doing the Cha Cha in front of his desk. “See,” Dee pointed, the green and yellow glass stones of the electroplated gold ring on her finger glittering

from the office lights. “You see, that’s what your problem is! You take everything for a joke! As soon as somebody knock on that door, you run out on the balcony like a lil boy! Them people come up in here angry and wantin’ to take their f’ustrations out on somebody, and I’m the first fool they meet! Who you think they’re gonna swell up on? Not you! No! They go off on me, thinkin’ because I’m the secretary I’m supposed to just sit here and eat that junk up! It’s hard bein’ a God-fearin’, peaceful woman when people be accusin’ you of somethin’ you haven’t done!” Calhoun stopped dancing and humming, seeing that this time his jive

failed to liven her up. “Aw, lighten 35

ROBERTSON up, Dee. Thanksgivin’ is jes ‘round the co’ner. That’s yo’ fav’rite time o’ year! You ought not le’ nothin’ ruin it for ya. It ain’t so bad. All you gotta do is bide by yo’ bible. Jes turn the other cheek!” “I got a big cheek to turn alright!” Calhoun fixed his lips into an O, wagging his finger at Dee. “Ooo, now don’t go invitin’ these mens n’ womens to yo’ big fine round privates, gir’! Some o’ these womens would sho oblige ya,

le’ ‘lone the mens!” I can tell you what one man can do! I’m tellin’ you now, Mista Calhoun, if that man comes in here again with a complaint, I’m gon direct him right out there to that balcony! That’s your little cubby hole out there! Don’t make me draw you out, hear!” “Ouch,” Calhoun pretended to flinch as if he had been stung by the threat, “I’m on it already! . . Gir’, you so meeen!” Calhoun slid the envelope from the desk and went across the room to his own desk. Opening a drawer on the bottom right side of the desk, his first instinct was to toss the notice in the pile of other neglected notices. Feeling that

Dee was more than likely watching him, he slipped out the race track tip-sheet, opened the notice, and put the tip sheet in front of the notice, pretending to read it. Dee rolled her eyes and turned to the receipts on the desk, adding them to place the total into the account files. Dee had been employed by Calhoun for the last ten years. She was a young woman when he hired her, newly graduated from Delta Technical College. At that time, Calhoun was a lot more responsible and 36

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professional, or though it seemed. Dee had replaced a woman who had worked for Calhoun some ten years before. She heard that the woman had abruptly quit her job in a fit of frustration. Dee met the woman only once when she came to the office to pick up her final pay check, and remembered that the woman looked upon her with a great deal of sympathy. When Dee was hired by Calhoun, business was good. She kept his records straight and up-dated, received the calls, made the coffee, and kept the office and staircase clean. She heard he once had a maintenance man for cleaning, small repairs, painting, and running errands, but no one knew what happened to him. It was said that, years

earlier, Calhoun was a highly recommended private investigator in the city. Nearly everyone knew and respected him. Though Calhoun appeared not to be very educated, and failed miserably to lose his deeply rural dialectic, he had more common-sense than anyone she had ever met. After some months with Calhoun, he began to deal with a number of bail-bonding agencies, tracking and returning bail-jumpers and runners. The bail-bond agents were shadowy, secretive people. They seemed quite intimidating and quietly dangerous, but their association with Calhoun proved very lucrative to the business. In those days, Dee was handed bonuses for no

reason at all, and received pay-increases on a regular basis. But, then, she would come to the office to find Calhoun bruised and bleeding, stretched out on the floor passed out. One time, the knuckles of his hands appeared to have been beaten raw, his fingers swollen 37 ROBERTSON like sausages. He refused to go to the hospital, so Dee took care of him. Though he never said anything to her, Dee knew that Calhoun had no apartment. He was living in the office and sleeping on the couch, pretending to be up and in the office early every

morning. He kept his clothing locked in the closet, but she was able to unlock it using a skeleton key to find his suits, hats, caps, casual clothing, shoes, sandals, and underwear. Dee questioned him about his life, but Calhoun would always answer with a ribald joke, a lively song, and veiled excuses. Though Calhoun earned a lot of money, he slowly began to neglect his business and started drinking more than usual. When Calhoun did decide to take a case, the large amount of money he earned seemed to disappear as quickly as he earned it. He never neglected paying Dee her salary, however, but Dee would find herself going into her own purse to pay bills she knew Calhoun had

forgotten to pay. He would always reimburse her, but it was getting tiresome. As business slowed down, her job was reduced to typing out a few invoices, tallying receipts, and answering the phone. For the last year, Calhoun began to dabble in accounting and income tax preparations to increase his income. He was already a Statecertified legal-aide and notary, so the addition needed little to no transition. Lately, it seemed she was handling more client complaints than filing and receiving new clients. As much as Dee tried not to face it, she knew the business was drawing to an end. The atmosphere had changed, and it was affecting her morale.

She knew she could do better else where, but she was sentimental 38

HOODOO about this, her first and most rewarding job. She knew Calhoun had it in him to be an up-standing, professional investigator, and she was hoping in her heart that the good-times would return soon. Yet, it was as if Calhoun had reached his apex and was irreversibly in decline. Glimpsing the time on her watch, Dee realized it was ten minutes past five o’clock. She began to file away

her work, slipping the translucent cover over her vanilla colored, IBM Selectric III typewriter/processor. Taking her handbag from beneath her desk, she looped the brown leather strap across her broad shoulder. “I’m gone, Mista Calhoun,” she said, gazing at him and found him furtively peering over the top of the notice he was reading. Calhoun pretended to flinch and sat up. “Oh, it’s that time already? Damn, time don’t wait for nobody, don’t it?” Dee moved toward the door. She stopped at the door and looked at Calhoun. “Mista Calhoun, I swear, I hope you get those complaints straight.

You know how the IRS is. They’re not only going to go after that man, they’re going to come after us, too. This is wearin’ me out, Mista Calhoun. It’s like they say, trying to lead a blind horse to water. You can bring him to it, but you can’t make him drink. . . If you need me to help you with it, I’ll work day and night to get it straight, but you have to do it.” Calhoun raised his eyebrows and pointed at the notice in his hand. “I told you I’m on it already, Dee! Damn!” Dee looked at the notice and opened her mouth to 39 ROBERTSON

ask the man’s name on the notice, but changed her mind. There was no sense in pressing the issue. She knew that she would quit if the man came to the office again with the same complaint. Dee opened the door and went into the staircase, closing the door behind her. “Pshoo,” Calhoun blew the balloon of air from his mouth, removing the tip-sheet from the notice and tossing the notice into the drawer. “I thought she was never gon leave! She musta thought I was gon give her some O.T. or somethin’, shit!” He got up from his chair and went to the door of the fire escape. Lifting the dusty, white slat of the blind,

he watched Dee go across the street toward McCrory’s 5 & 10 and go inside. Turning, he took his grey suit coat hanging from the tall oakwood valet, fit on his brown felt hat, and turned off the office lights. Locking the door, he tipped down the straight flight of stairs whistling “Singing In The Rain” until he reached the vestibule. At the glass door, he peered past the silver printing before going out to the sidewalk. Seeing the corner clear, he stepped casually outside into the waning dusk of evening. Near the corner at Katz Furniture and Appliance Store, a dark complexioned man pushed open the door of a grey Ford LTD. The man was casually dressed in a banlon sport’s shirt and black slacks, his

black hair glistening in a short Jheri Curl style. He kept a steady gaze on Calhoun as he slammed the car door and sauntered around the vehicle. Instead of going the opposite way to avoid the man, or go directly to his car parked in front of the building, Calhoun walked in the man’s direction, keeping him in his peripheral vision. “James Coltrane Calhoun,” the man called out, 40 HOODOO unfolding a white document he held in his hand. Calhoun glanced at the man but

continued to walk, ignoring him. “James Coltrane Calhoun,” the man repeated, stopping to watch Calhoun walk pass him. “You! . . Hey, man, let me talk to you!” Calhoun stopped and looked around, searching the man’s round, dusky face. “Me,” Calhoun asked, pressing the tip of his forefinger to his chest. “You talkin’ to me?” “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you, James Coltrane Calhoun,” the man answered, struggling with the irritation inside of him. “You know damn well I’m talkin’ to you!” “You can’t be talkin’ to me, man, not like that, anyway,” Calhoun said, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t

know me, and I ain’t no Calhoun! What you talkin’ ‘bout?” “C’mon, man,” the man said in exasperation. He took out a gold colored badge, showing it to Calhoun. “C’mon, let me see some I.D.” “What is you talkin’ about, man? You ain’t even a real police! You a subpoena man, talkin’ ‘bout show you some I.D.!” Across the avenue, Dee came out of the department store. She stopped, seeing Calhoun and the man directly across the street. Calhoun averted his eyes from her, wishing she would remain across the street. “I’m a deputy for the Civil Sheriff actin’ on behalf of the Civil

Court! I’m here to serve you with a summons to appear in the Civil District Court, James Coltrane 41

ROBERTSON Calhoun!” He reached out the subpoena. Calhoun raised his hands and backed away. “You got me wrong, man! I ain’t no Calhoun! If you want Calhoun, I can show you where he at!” “You’re right here,” the deputy yelled, his eyes wide in frustration. He lowered his head, catching himself. “Just show me some I.D. You can make this easy for both of us.”

“Why’s you harry-assin’ me, Mista Supeona Man,” Calhoun asked out loud. A few people had stopped to watch what was going on. They knew Calhoun, and they knew the deputy had him dead to right, but from previous experiences, they disliked subpoena men and all they represented. “I tol’ you I ain’t no Calhoun, n’ I ain’t gon show you no I.D. t’wit’out probable cause! I ain’t the man you lookin’ for! . . Nah, if you wanna see Mista Calhoun, go right on to the Order o’ the Ancient Mason Temple right there, go up them steps, n’ ask to see Mista Calhoun. I jes come from up there on bus’ness, n’ far as I knows, which was a few minutes ago or so, he right up there. . . Nah, if they ain’t

nothin’ else you can detain me on, I’ll be goin’ ‘bout my way, suh. Thank ye.” The deputy’s irritation had grown into full blown rage now. His eyes were wide and his head was trembling on his short neck. Having no weapon to forcibly detain Calhoun, there was nothing he could do except to watch Calhoun walk away. “I’m gonna get you, James Coltrane Calhoun! I heard you got a bag of tricks, but you won’t get away from me! I’m gonna be the one to get you! You just wait and see!” Calhoun grinned, looking across the street to see 42

HOODOO Dee going across Melpomene Street. “I’m gonna get you, Calhoun! You better watch your back from now on!” Calhoun turned at the corner, going down Melpomene toward South Rampart Street. At Pete The Fish Fry King restaurant and bar, Calhoun pretended to go inside, watching the gray LTD cruise slowly past. Seeing the car stop at Simon Bolivar Street, Calhoun hurriedly back-tracked to Dryades Street where his car was parked in front of The Order of the Ancient Masonic Temple. He unlocked the door of the maroon colored Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight and

climbed inside. He sat low, looking into the rearview mirror before pulling off to see whether the deputy had made the block. After a while, he sat up, started the car, and pulled off, turning down Melpomene and continuing across Simon Bolivar where Melpomene turned into Martin Luther King, Jr. Boule- vard, past the Guste Housing Project and down to Magnolia Street. Turning left on Magnolia and MLK, he pulled to the curb at a two storied, blue painted building on Magnolia and Felicity Street. A large, white molded sign hung over the front of the building announcing MARIE’S in big red letters across the top of the sign, and Eats & Drinks in smaller green, red, and

yellow letters below it. Four crystal blue, bubbly champagne glasses were tipped at each corner of the sign although no champagne was served inside. The florescent bulbs inside the sign were flickering feebly to keep it lit. The restaurant and lounge was on the ground floor with one-room apartments above that rented by the hour or the day, but mainly by the hour. 43 ROBERTSON Calhoun got out of his car and glanced across Felicity Street at the dark green and white painted Keller’s Market, an old, one-time opened market that served the once predominantly Irish

community of the district. Now a closedin market, it still retained the old bricked, archway entrances like many of the old time district markets of New Orleans. Behind the market was the Sixth Precinct Police Station. Police cruisers lined the street from the end of Keller’s Market to the catercorner of the station. As Calhoun closed the door of his car, a loud electronic buzz emitted from the sign overhead and the fluorescent bulbs inside it illuminated fully. The lively music inside the bar flooded outside of the door and lassoed Calhoun, pulling him inside. Even on a week day night, the bar was thick with patrons. People were on the floor

dancing to Z.Z. Hill’s Shade Tree Mechanic. Looking around for someone in particular, Calhoun spotted him and went straight to the bar. The man was an amputee, the sleeve of his wide collared, pink silk shirt folded and held in place by a golden tie-pin fitted with a chipped diamond monogram spelling AJM. His even-toned chocolate complexion was so smooth it seemed he was wearing make-up. However, his sharp facial features were marred by a line of proud flesh that extended from the corner of his right eye to the side of his pointed chin. A grey and brown, plaid printed stingy-rimmed hat was fitted high atop his narrow head, the nub of a yellow pencil jammed in the dark brown

silk hat-band. A woman was perched on the barstool next to him, she leaning really close to him. As he talked, his narrow eyes were scanning the room. Seeing Calhoun approaching, his eyes searched Calhoun from head to 44 HOODOO feet. “Where y’at, Alvin,” Calhoun interrupted, smiling apologetically at the woman. “Le’ me see ya for a minute, black.” Alvin searched Calhoun’s face for a long moment before excusing himself. He swung around on his bar

stool, holding his head low in a cocky posture to listen to what Calhoun had to say. Seeing Calhoun take a tip-sheet from his coat pocket, Alvin raised up his index finger, the manicured nail shining in the cool-blue of the bar lights. “Before you put in yo’ order, smokey,” Alvin said, his sharp eyes glued to the red and black tiles on the floor. “Tell me you got my money you owe me from yo’ last order?” “Man, you know I’m good for it, Alvin,” Calhoun grinned sycophantically. “I got you covered!” “Yeah-yeah, I understand all o’ that, Coolie,” Alvin said, tilting his head and fanning out his fingers at chest level. A thick, diamond cluster ring on his

pinky finger sparkled in the cool blue light of the bar. “But, my people ain’t gon understand it when I bring ‘em short money. I’m not gon front you no mo’ money while you owe me money, man. You ain’t gon be usin’ me for no cashcow, bro. Now, tell me what I need to hear, Coolie.” Alvin lowered his head and cupped his ear with his hand. “I got a lil somethin’ comin’ up in a lil w’ile, pa’tner. As soon as I cop it, you gon be the first one I’m gon th’ow out.” “See, you still ain’t tellin’ me nothin’, Coolie,” Alvin chuckled wryly, looking under-eyed at the woman. “What you sayin’ now is pie-in-the-sky shit. I can’t bring

45 ROBERTSON my people no potential money, bro!” “Well, go’n front me this time, Alvin. I know you can handle it, money! All the cake I done spunt wit’ you, my credit oughta be top o’ the line! C’mon, doc!” “What you think I be doin’ when you lay down a order without payin’ me? I front you! Me!” Alvin stabbed his thumb to the chest of his pink silk shirt, his thin neck stretched for emphasis. He was looking sideways at Calhoun. The woman was looking from Alvin to Calhoun, paying close attention to the

interaction. Seeing this, Alvin recognized the opportunity to impress the woman. He raised his chin, taking the nub of a pencil from the band of his hat. “Aw’ight, Coolie, aw’ight. I’m gon do this on the strength that I know you. But, after this, Coolie, you gon have to be throwin’ me out some green dollars from the jump, you hear me talkin’ to you, Coolie?” “I hear ya, Alvin,” Calhoun sighed. “I don’t know why you sent me th’ough all that, bro. You know I’m good for it, black!” Alvin leaned and took a black note book from his back pocket. Flipping the book open, he laid it across the thigh of his grey silk slacks. For the first time,

he looked directly into Calhoun’s eyes. “I wouldn’t do this for nobody else, Coolie. You my ace boon-coon, bro.” “Yeah,” Calhoun grinned lambently. “You my hoss if you never won a race!” The woman was gazing at Alvin in deep admiration. It was the reaction he wanted. “What you got, Coolie?” Calhoun looked around to see if anyone else were listening. “I been checking out this form all week, Alvin. I think I got a good one, , , Midnight Sky in the Fifth. One 46 HOODOO

solid bill to straight win.” Alvin leaned away from Calhoun. “Man, you gotta be out yo’ fuckin’ mind, Coolie! That’s a speed pony, bro!” Calhoun flinched, holding his finger to his lips and placing his hand on Alvin’s shoulder. “Watch yo’ mout’, fool! Don’t talk so loud!” Alvin’s narrow eyes had widened. “Coolie, you better read yo’ form again! The Fifth is a mile and a quarter in grass! Midnight is a speed demon! That speeder’s gon be slippin’ in that grass and stayin’ in one spot! Plus, he’s goin’ off at forty to one! That right there ought to tell you that somethin’ is

wrong! His jockey is a fuckin’ English import, and they got some heavy hitters lined up for that race, big mudders that’ll kick dirt in that speeder’s face! They call him Midnight Sky because he’s coal black with gray spots on his hind! What the fuck, Coolie, that’s unlucky right there! . . I can’t believe you doin’ this, puttin’ down my money on a losin’ proposition! If I was you, I’d lay a three dollar show on ‘im just for the hell of it. He way too low to be playin’ big money on him to straight win, especially with the company he runnin’ with! You better read yo’ form again, Coolie.” “I wish I could bet him by how many lengths he would win on,” Calhoun said in restrained excitement. “That hoss

done run in sand in Saudi Arabia; kicked up mud in England; and zipped through jungle in South America! I know what I’m doin’. Jes do like I ask you, that’s all!” “Hey, don’t git ratty with me and you’re beggin’, alright! . . When you lose with this pony, I’m gon pay it for you ‘cause I don’t want them people to come lookin’ 47 ROBERTSON for me!” “What make you think I’m worried about a bunch o’ cheechie-ass dagoes, huh? You the one who worryin’ about ‘em, not me. I can handle my

bus’ness. You handle yo’s.” “Okay,” Alvin said, realizing he had gone too far and ran the risk of getting embarrassed. Now, he had to recover. He wrote the bet down in his book and closed it. “Tell you what, Coolie, I done been on the killin’ flo’ with them people. They know me. I done paid my dues, y’know. It ain’t a matter o’ worryin’ ‘bout ‘em. We got what you call a mutual respect for each other. I’m not sca’ed of no motherfucka on two legs with a ass pointin’ to the ground, ridin’ or walkin’! The fact o’ the matter is, why put yo’ ass on the line when don’t have to? That’s my point.” “Nice lookin’ out, Alvin,” Calhoun turned away, a bit annoyed by

Alvin. “Yo, Marie,” he called down the bar to the middle-aged, stout woman. He pointed at Alvin and the woman. “N’ send me a tall cold one, lil dawlin’” The woman gestured without looking up. Calhoun moved pass two women sitting at the bar, one of the women gazing at him with under-eyed incredulity. “Man, if you pass me one mo’ time without speakin’ to me, I’m gon cut yo’ motherfuckin’ th’oat, boy!” The woman stood from her barstool and blocked Calhoun’s way. “H’ya, doin’, Ma Lou,” Calhoun grinned sheepishly. “Okay, hear,” the woman snapped her fingers and rolled her eyes,

the thick false lashes on her eyelids looking like fat, black caterpillars. “I’m fine, Coolie!” 48 HOODOO “I know you fine, Ma Lou. I asked how you doin’?” “I’m doin’ fine, Coolie, with yo’ crazy self,” the woman giggled coyly. “Boy, you somethin’ else!” Johnny Taylor’s It’s Cheaper To Keep Her was on the colorful juke box as Calhoun weaved past the tables, joking and chiding the occupants. At his friend’s table, a short, heavy-set man with wide-set eyes and an equally wide

mouth kicked out a chair for Calhoun. Taking off his hat, he hung it on the back support of the white painted chair. One of the men at the table appeared engrossed by a risqué joke one of the others was reciting. But, it became clear from the expression on the man’s face that he was lost in the fractured recounting of the joke. “That’s when the dude, one o’ the dudes took his dick out and slung it over the railin’ o’ the bridge. All o’ sudden, his eyes popped wide open and he said, ‘Got-damn, the water’s deep tonight!’ The other dude took his out and slung it over the bridge, too. He looked at his pa’tner, y’know, and said. . . No, wait. He looked down at the water. . .

No, hol’ on, I got it! Wait. The other dude took’t his dick out to piss and he slunged it over the railin’ and he said--he looked at his pa’tner and said, ‘Yeah, and it’s deep, too!’” The man caught his breath, the laughter hanging in his throat for a second or so then he guffawed from his chest, bowling over from his own distorted version of the joke. The other two men laughed softly, gazing at the man in sympathy. They knew the joke and knew the man had miserably muddled the pitch-line. “He said, ‘Yeah, and it’s deep, too,” the man repeated, slapping his thigh in levity. “Man, that’s funny 49

ROBERTSON in a motherfucka, boy!” “Yeah,” the heavy-set man nodded, facetiously wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “That’s a kicks motherfucka.” “I got one, y’all,” Calhoun said, leaning his elbows on the red cloth covering the table top. “See, this church had burn’t down, y’know. The Re’m took’t up a collection from his members, n’ they had suppers n’ baked cakes n’ pies to sell to raise money for the church to be rebuilt, but they couldn’t raise enough money to replace the expensive organ the church had. You know how

churches need they organ music for services n’ all. So, for the time bein’, the Re’m hired the ol’ neighborhood dronk who said he could play the piccolo. That’s all he could do for now, y’know. That Sunday mornin’, the new church had a gran’ openin’! They had so many members in there it made the ol’ dronk nervous. So, to smoove his shakes, he went out n’ downed him a few befo’ playin’. The Re’m opened the service to Amazin’ Grace, how sweet the sound! By now, the ol’ dronk was really soused, boy, n’ he was rarin’ to go! He blew that piccolo like Toot-toot, toot-toot, toottoot, toot-TWAAK! The off note was so loud, the choir jumped n’ made all the members open they eyes! He kept on

blowin’! Toot-TWEEK! Toot-TWONK! The Re’m looked at the ol’ dronk from the corners o’ his eyes, wonderin’ what was wrong! Then, somebody in the back o’ the church up n’ said, ‘Man o’ man, that piccolo player is a motherfucka!’ When the Re’m heard that, he stopped singin’ n’ looked out ova his members. The Re’m asked, “Who said that? Who that was who called our piccolo player a motherfucka?’ 50

HOODOO Nobody said nothin’, y’know, lookin’ around at each other. Then, this ol’ sister

raised her white gloved hand, her mouth suckin’ on a peppermint pillow, wearin’ a white chapel cap high on her head. She stood up in the back o’ the church n’ looked ‘round at the members. She said, ‘Mo’nin’, Re’m, de’con, brothers n’ sisters, n’ we welcome all the new members j’inin’ us fo’ this y’ere grand’ openin’ o’ our blessed house, thank the Lawd! Praise His name! All’s y’all knows me. I done se’ved this Lawd’s house f’om the day it started, e’m he’ped to build it. Glory t’Gawd. . . Nah, I don’t know who that was who called our piccolo playa a motherfucka, so’s I can’t speak for whosomever it was. But, Re’m, what I needs to know from you this y’ere mo’nin’, I need to know one

thing. I wants to know who was it who called that motherfucka a piccolo playa?’” The laughter snagged into the heavy-set man’s throat and bulged out his wide-set eyes, then burst from his wide mouth in uproarious bellows. Slim and the other man collapsed into hilarity. The waitress brought a sweaty mug of draft beer and placed it in front of Calhoun. He winked at the woman and turned back to his friends. The three men were doubled over in levity. “Damn, Sarge,” one of the men said, his eyes watered from laughter. “Where you git them lies from? Sarge know he could lie his ass off, huh?” Calhoun inspected the mugs on

the table and noticed the men were ready to order again. With three mighty gulps, he drained his mug to the level of the others and stretched his eyes to relieve the nerve-racking chill spreading across his face. “Ahh,” Calhoun said, squelching a jaw-puffing belch with the ball of his 51 ROBERTSON fist. “Wha’s happenin’, men?” “You,” the heavy-set man answered, raising his hand and signaling to the waitress. “You what’s happenin’, Sarge. What’s cookin’ with you?” “The same ol’ same ol’, Frog,” Calhoun said, lifting his mug and

finishing his beer before the waitress got to the table. “Talk about the same ol’ same ol’.” Slim said, toying with his mug. “Somethin’ unusual happened at work today. You might be int’rested in this, Sarge. Somebody broke into the graveyards and stole some stuff off graves--- “ “Damn. How do you break into a damn cemetery,” Frog spat, his swarthy face fixed in a scowl of disgust. “What the fuck is that?” “I don’t know, but they done it. It had to be a big operation, too, ‘cause the things they took was heavy as hell, shit made outta marble and granite and concrete.”

“That brings to mind this joke, fellas,” the light complexioned man said, leaning on the table. “Y’all wanna hear it? Y’ere it go.” The others seemed to grimace, knowing it would be a good joke hacked to smithereens. Still, they settled down to listen because he was their friend. “This color’d farmer, y’know, this color’d farmer got into a fuss with this Klu Klux Klan over some crops, okay. The color’d farmer felt it wan’t fair that this Klux was takin’ damn’na all his crops n’ leavin’ ‘im with nothin’ n’ he was the one who done all the work! That night, the Klan rode down on ‘im, pulled the color’d farmer out his house, n’ beat ‘im so bad, they fucked around and

killed 52

HOODOO him, y’know. To cover up the murder, they wrapped the color’d farmer up in some heavy chains n’ threw him in the local pond. The farmer’s fam’ly reported the farmer missin’, n’ the color’d people o’ the town got together n’ searched for ‘im, see. Somebody saw tire tracks leadin’ to the local pond and said they oughta check the pond. Lo n’ behold, there he was, under water, loaded down with chains. The town sheriff announced to everybody that this

was a death by suicide, drownin’. See, the sheriff was with ‘em when they beat the color’d farmer to death ‘cause he was a Klu Klux Klan his damn self! He already knew what happened to the man n’ where he was! This color’d lawyer was shocked by what the sheriff said and went to the FBI. The FBI questioned the sheriff, askin’ ‘im, ‘Wouldn’t it seem more like murder than suicide to find a whole man wrapped in chains and ends up at the bottom of a pond, drown’t?’ The sheriff raised his chin n’ scratched under his neck n’ said, ‘It sho would seem like it. But they’s one thing you No’th’ners need to unnerstand, n’ it’s that only a nigra’d steal mo’ than he could carry!’”

Like before, the man gagged, the laughter snagging in his throat. Throwing his head back, the laughter dislodged itself into chest heaving guffaws. As before, everybody tittered purely out of courtesy, but this time, Frog appeared to take personal offense to the morbid joke. “Say, man,” Frog said, leering at the man. “That was kinda out the box, Moe.” “It was jes a joke, Frog,” Calhoun said, seeing the malice in Frog’s large eyes. “You know how Morris is. Jes 53 ROBERTSON

be cool.” “No, Sarge. My daddy was a fa’mer, n’ he was runned outta Lafayette by the Klan for the same kinda shit, bro! They took all my daddy’s property n’ he had to move to New Orleans because o’ the fuckin’ Klan! That joke was unfunny, Sarge! That fool fucked up a good joke, but he tells a fucked up joke right! What kinda shit is that?” Morris was oblivious of what was going on around him. “Like a nigga is a ant,” he said between guffaws. “Like a nigga could carry ten times his own body weight!” Frog curled his lips to say something to the man, but Calhoun

frowned and shook his head. What that was you was sayin’, Slim,” Calhoun asked, trying to distract Frog’s attention away from Morris who was still caught up in a fit of laughter at his own joke. “A nigga’d sink like a rock jes with all the troubles in his life,” Morris blurted in laughter. “So you know a nigga ain’t gon try to walk across no water with all them chains on ‘im!” “What the fuck is yo’ problem, Moe,” Frog half raised himself from his chair, jolting the table with his thighs. “You don’t even know how to tell a good motherfuckin’ joke! Jes shet yo’ fuckin’ trap, you yella clown!” “Hey,” Calhoun slammed the

palm of his hand to the table top. He looked around at the other tables to see if anyone had heard the embarrassing scene. The people at the other tables appeared immune to the potentially 54

HOODOO volatile situation. “Aw’ight, nah, Frog!” “What’s the matter,” Morris asked, looking from Calhoun to Frog. “Nothin’,” Calhoun said, looking sternly at Frog. Frog eased himself down into his chair, smoldering in anger. The waitress had witnessed the scene. Since

working at Marie’s, she had seen uncountable scenes of bloody violence and jealous rage. Hesitating to go to the table, she waited on a gruesome outcome. Calhoun saw her standing there. “Gir’, step on up to the jungle n’ le’ yo’ beauty soove these savage beast’ses! Bring yo’ goodness y’ere ‘mongst the unwashed masses!” “Did I do somethin’,” Morris asked, still looking between Calhoun and Frog. “Is y’all through or what,” the waitress asked, her short hair molded flat to her head by mousse and parted down the sides in an effort to cover the balding at her sideburns. “I ain’t makin’

another step till y’all tell me y’all through. Y’all know the rules o’ the house.” ‘We th’ough,” Calhoun confirmed. “Nah, c’mon y’ere n’ do yo’ duty!” “You ain’t the one who called me, Coolie,” the waitress squinted her eyes. “Frog Man called me, and he don’t look like he’s through.” “C’mon,” Frog gestured. “It’s squashed.” “What’s squashed,” Morris asked, gazing at Frog. “Did I do somethin’? What’d I do?” The waitress stepped to the table, collecting the empty mugs. “Like I was sayin’, Sarge,”

Slim picked up what he 55 ROBERTSON had been saying, watching Morris and Frog discuss their situation. “Somebody been robbin’ graveyards and stealin’ statutes n’ stuff. My boss took a big hit, man. There was this statute of his mama at they fam’ly crypt and some sick jokers stole it.” “That’s real sorry,” Calhoun shook his head sadly. “Why would somebody wanna steal somethin’ like that? Y’know, people be riskin’ they life stealin’ stupid stuff, lil stuff that could git ‘em kilt or sunt to the pen’tent’ry for a

long time. They be sneakin’ ‘round lookin’ n’ sniffin’ ‘round, peepin’ behind they backs to see n’ somebody lookin’ at ‘em. Man, that kinda sneaky thiev’ry takes a lotta strength to do n’ doin’, yeah. The way I see it, the same smarts, the same skills, the same strength they n’use to vi’late the law, they could use it to git a real job and make some real money, and might end up runnin’ the damn company! Then, they would develop a understandin’ of the value of personal stuff after workin’ hard to git it, n’ they wouldn’t be ‘round y’ere stealin’ nothin’ no mo’!” “Hellfied point, Sarge,” Slim nodded in unquestioned agreement. “Anyway, my boss lookin’ for the police

to find out who done it, y’know. But, me my own self, I don’t think it’s gon happen. The police can’t find nothin’ if they lookin’ for it with a flashlight in the day time! It jes ain’t gon happen.” “Naw, Slim, that ain’t right,” Calhoun defended. “The police jes take they time lookin’ for stuff so’s they could line up a good case, that’s all.” “Bullshit,” Slim scoffed. “They spend more time flirtin’ with women and cheatin’ on they wives when they 56

HOODOO need to be solvin’ all them unsolved

murder cases or makin’ drug busts ‘round here! So, you know they ain’t gon be tryin’ to find out who stole that stuff outta them graveyards! Shit, that’s too much work for them, y’know.” Frog and Morris appeared to have worked out their spat. They shook hands and were smiling in genial conversation. Calhoun was amused by their chummy scene. “Jes look at that,” Calhoun chided. “One minute they wantin’ to kill up each other in y’ere, now they look like love birds! Why don’t y’all have some damn respect n’ git a gotdamn room! Look at ‘em, Slim! They look like they ‘bout to start kissin’ up in y’ere!” “If they do, I’m leavin’, n’ I

ain’t never comin’ back,” Slim threatened playfully, moving as if to get up and leave. “You ain’t gotta go nowhere, Slim,” Frog beamed. “It ain’t gon be no kissin’ right now ‘cause ne’ther one o’ us done shaved yet!” The waitress brought the round of tall, sweaty mugs of draft beer with thin, foamy heads. She placed the tray on the table and walked away. The men took their mugs, sipping at the soft foam. The night club version of Johnny “Guitar” Watson’s “Ain’t That A Bitch” filled the room with a stirring guitar rift. Slim leaned close to Calhoun. “You want that job, Sarge? It’d’d be good for yo’ pockets. . . “

“What job, Slim,” Calhoun questioned, amusedly watching a drunken couple perform an outrageously sexual dance on the floor. “What we was talkin’ about a minute ago, the graveyard thing! . . What’s the matter with you, Sarge? 57 ROBERTSON You gittin’ ol’ timin’ in yo’ ol’ age or somethin’?” “I gotta think about that there, Slim,” Calhoun said, bobbing his head to the lively music. “I don’t mess around in no graveyards, man. It’s bad luck.” “Git some, cat daddy,” Morris yelled, goading the man on the dance

floor who was gyrating his crotch behind the woman’s tremendously wide rump. The woman was looking back drunkenly, rolling in time with the man’s gyrations. “Shake it, baby, shake it! Shake that money-maker! Shake it down to the ground!” “Aw, c’mon, Sarge,” Slim frowned. “I done already told that man you was gon do it! Don’t make me look like a damn fool, bro!” “You shoulda asked me befo’ you told that man that! You don’t never supposed to count yo’ chickens befo’ the eggs hatch, Slim.” “I’m tellin’ you, Sarge, it’s gon be a good deal for you! The man got mo’ money than you can shake a stick at! He

not only rich, he filthy, stinkin’ rich!” “No shit,” Calhoun turned, this information getting his full attention. “He that rich, huh?” “No shit. The man got so much money, he got cameras watchin’ the cameras that watch him n’ his fam’ly! . . And, besides, that was that man’s mama they stole from that cemetery.” “They stole his mama?” Calhoun leaned away in disbelief. “I thought you said they stole a statute?” “They did. It was a statute of his mama’s image. That’s what I meant.” “Well, that’s a hoss o’ a dif’rent color.” “You gon take the job or what,” Slim asked again, lowering his head in

anticipation of a positive answer.” 58 HOODOO “Do you believe this shit,” Frog gasped. “Look!” The man on the dance floor was sweating profusely, drunkenly hiking up the woman’s dress to her waist and rolling down her voluminous white nylon panties down to her thick, celluloid lumped thighs. The man’s drunken libido, as well as the woman’s, seemed to have blocked out where they were, mentally alienating them from the other patrons watching them in the bar. “Watch out there, boy,” Morris

incited. “Show ‘er w’cha workin’ with!” Though the man had not heard Morris, he unzipped his fly and took out his penis. The move was so quick and fluid, not one of the people watching had a chance to respond until the pleasurable squeal escaping the woman’s mouth made everyone know what had actually happened. Everyone seeing the act was at once appalled by it and aroused by it, but was too mesmerized by it to stop it. They could not take their eyes off of it, and even those who turned their heads and covered their eyes were peering between their fingers or from the sides of their eyes to look. Were it not for the sudden loudness of the juke box heightened by the silence in the bar,

Marie would never have looked up. Even the barmaids were entranced by what was happening on the dance floor. Seeing the man and woman on the dance floor locked in the amorous posture, Marie was instantly enraged. She jumped up and hurried to the end of the counter as fast as her swollen ankles would allow. Fumbling under the counter, she snatched up a well-dented night-stick. She raised it and came down hard 59 ROBERTSON with it on the gleaming top of the counter. The sound of it was as loud as a

shotgun blast, startling everyone in the bar. Recognizing the sound of danger, the woman on the dance floor was snapped from her inebriated trance and bolted upright, abruptly removing the man’s penis from her. This action brought her into full awareness of what was happening to her. She looked around and saw everyone watching her in wide eyed awe. Lowering her head in shame, she glanced at the man who was standing there with his penis in his hand. Quickly assembling what had happened, she charged at the man, but stumbled from her panties that were still down to her knees. “You dirty dogs,” Marie yelled angrily, moving from behind the counter.

“Jes like dogs! Both o’ y’all, git the fuck outta my place! . . Jake, show them dogs the do’!” The woman needed no such command. She was so embarrassed she covered her face with one hand while trying to pull up her panties by her dress with the other as she moved toward the door. Another woman jumped up and went behind her, consoling her friend. The man hurriedly tried to replace his penis in his pants and zip up his fly before the burly floor-walker got to him, but snagged the skin of his penis in the zipper. The pain froze him on the spot, his eyes wide and his mouth opened in soundless agony. Jake, a muscular, thick necked man with a long upper torso and

short, thick legs, grabbed the man by the arm and forced him painfully to the door. After tossing the man outside, Jake inspected his hands as if they had become soiled, wiping them on the side of his khaki pants. “Fight,” someone yelled from the table close to 60 HOODOO the door. “They beatin’ that dude out there!” Not many people were interested in the two women assaulting the man outside. Right away, couples began to go to the bar to rent keys from

Marie for the rooms upstairs. Within minutes, the bar was less crowded and back to normal. “Man, that was somethin’ else, wan’t it,” Morris grinned sheepishly. “She give a dog a bone then spit ‘im out when he slide home! That’s cooold, man!” “They shoulda brought they drunken ass home,” Frog said, finishing his beer. Slim faked a yawn. “Well, fellas, I gotta git up in the mornin’ to go to work. Hey, Sarge, what you want me to tell that man?” “I’ll take it,” Calhoun nodded. “Ain’t much sense bein’ in bus’ness if you gon turn down no good money.”

“Good point,” Slim nodded, raising his eyebrows and hooking down the corners of his mouth. “You’s a man right next to my heart, Sarge. I’m gon set up a appointment t’morrow, okay.” “Aw’ight,” Calhoun winked and turned back to Frog and Morris’ opining over what happened on the dance floor between the man and the woman.

61

CHAPTER THREE

Before accepting any job, Calhoun was always won’t to investigate the details of a case for its validity. Most clients approached him with cases that had no basis other than petty jealousy or merely to satisfy a selfish, nagging doubt. They paid little and always left him feeling devalued. This was a safeguard which certified to him that a case had a solid foundation, that it could be solved, and gave him a concrete bargaining chip when he

presented his fees. If a client decided to back out of a deal or if he persisted in it, Calhoun would have the facts to ascertain a good payment. His fees were the most important part in a case, no matter how silly or serious it was. Though he like keeping his fees a bit below the competition, some of the more serious cases allowed him the leverage to be exorbitant, especially if the client was as deeply aggrieved as Slim had mentioned. Sitting in the lobby of the Investigative Bureau of the New Orleans Police Department, Calhoun sighed deeply, looking around the room at the people who were victims of some sort of crime against their persons or

property. It was worse than sitting in the triage of the New Orleans Charity Hospital, watching the sick and aching people and hearing their moans and groans while waiting endlessly to see an apathetic admittance clerk. The uniformed officers questioned and interviewed victims at their stations, or stared as if in a trance into the monitor screens of their computers, taping at their keyboards without moving their heads or their eyes. Calhoun had been waiting for nearly an hour to talk to one of the officers about the cemetery thefts, and 62 HOODOO

he was tired of fiddling with the rim of his hat, inspecting his worn, brown leather Stacy-Adams shoes, and looking at the other people who he would catch looking at him. He began to tap his shoe soles to the tiled floor as he sighed for the umpteenth time and wrinkled his broad, cleft chin. “Sergeant J. Coltrane Calhoun,” someone called from the side of the room. “Right y’ere,” Calhoun jumped at the sound of his name, a bit curious that the person calling his name had attached his old Army Ranger ranking to it. Looking to the side, he saw the familiar face of the detective standing at

the office door. The ashy white detective smiled, his silky red hair styled atop his beefy head and trimmed neatly along the sides. He took off his amber rimmed glasses and stretched out his hand “How’ve you been, Sarge? I see you’re still crackin’ ‘em, eh?” Rather than shake the detective’s hand, Calhoun gave him a bear hug, glad to see an old war buddy. The detective had been a Ranger under his command in Vietnam. “When they took’t you off the street, Hokie? How’s the fam’ly?” “The kids’re fine, Sarge. Fine. They’re all off to college now, and we. . . We’re fine. I’ve been off the streets for a few years now, a few years.”

“College? Damn! I know it ain’t been that long since last I seen’t you?” “Oh, yes, it’s been that long, old friend,” Hokie nodded. “Come on into my office. What’re you here for?” “I heard they got somebody stealin’ stuff out the 63 ROBERTSON cemeteries ‘round y’ere. What I got is a potential client who done had somethin’ stol’t from his fam’ly dig, n’ he wants me to find it.” Calhoun followed the detective to the office. Hokie closed the door behind Calhoun and went behind his own desk.

Calhoun was studying Hokie for the chance of getting what he had come to the office to get. There was a sad look in the detective’s eyes, as if something was troubling him. It was a bad sign. “Have a seat, Sarge,” Hokie said, easing himself down into his leather cushioned desk chair. “Yes, I heard about the cemetery thefts.” “Well, um, what I need to know is what leads y’all have on the case that I could n’use?” “Let’s see,” Hokie said, adjusting his monitor and tapping on the keyboard. “So, you have a client relative to the cemetery thefts, huh?” “Quiet as it’s kept,” Calhoun grinned. “Yep.”

Hokie looked sidewise at Calhoun. “Seems the older you get, the younger you act, Sarge. Looks like here you an attachment on your name from the Municipal Court; contempt of court, failure to appear? Looks like you beat on some guy? He filed charges against you and won because you failed to show up in court.” “I ain’t beat up that ass hole,” Calhoun scoffed. “He jumped bail! He was a runner! Nah, I gotta admit, I did stomp his foots jes in case he got a lill froggish on me, but I swear t’Gawd, I ain’t beat up on ‘im!” “All you had to do was to show up in court and expressed that, Sarge. The worse thing you could’ve done was

not to appear. Those courts’ll shit on you when you fail to appear, brother. That’s how that guy got the 64 HOODOO judgement against you!” “What the hell, man, I got a life, shit! I gotta work n’ make a livin’ for myself! I can’t stop my life for one scum-snuffin bail runner!” Hokie raised his eyebrows and lowered his head. “But, you lost in Municipal Court and you’ve lost in Civil Court. Those roles have reversed, Sarge. Does that make sense to you? The hunter is bein’ hunted, now.”

Calhoun gazed at Hokie. “You don’t plan on takin’ that ‘tachment, is you?” Hokie ignored Calhoun and began to type. “What you doin’, Hokie?” “Right now I’m downloading the file on the cemetery thefts and. . . “ Hokie shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. There’s nothing, Sarge. So far, there’s nothing I can give to you. It’s too fresh now.” “Well, what about a list o’ the cemeteries that got hit?” “We got that here.” Hokie nodded, rolling the mouse and tapping the clicker. He leaned back, eyeing Calhoun with a look of sympathy. “You

know, Sarge, you’re a square guy. A lot of good men owe their lives to you, including me. Man, were it not for you and the standards you instilled in us--no, screamed into our faces--- we wouldn’t be the men we are today. You were our leader as well as our teacher. You’re bigger than the dirt you’ve been convicted for, and as far as that matters, the damned judge who imposed it! Why not just pay the damned thing and have done with it? You never know, 65

ROBERTSON Sarge, some wet-nosed rookie a day

fresh out of the Academy who doesn’t know you could stop you for jay-walking and screw you over. Why not just pay the damned thing and get over it?” The printer rolled up the list Calhoun had requested. Leaning across his desk, Hokkie pulled it and reached the print-out to Calhoun. “Hokie, I understand what you sayin’, yeah, but you didn’t say the magic word.” Calhoun folded the sheet of paper and stood from the chair. “Principle. It’s about principle, pa’tner. Civilians don’t understand the meanin’ o’ principle or they done jes flat assed forgot. But, I don’t care who you is, if you ain’t got no principles, you may well jes take off all yo’ clothes n’ run wild in

the wil’erness wit’ the res’ o’ the animals.” “You take care of yourself, old friend,” Hokie smiled, leaning and extending his hand. “You do the same, Hokie. Life gits to be a job when you stop havin’ fun, y’know. When we was young, we did things n’ went to places we’d never do or go to nah. We git ol’ because we stop doin’ all that good stuff that kept us young. Me, I say like my ol’ daddy said to me a long time ago, he said ‘When days seem dark n’ nothin’ goes yo’ way, jes le’ yo’ hair hang down n’ le’ the lil gir’ dance! When I die, I don’t wanna leave y’ere wond’rin’ what it was I done missed out on! Death’ll jes be another

adventure I can look forward to.’ I remember that. I told you that so’s you won’t forgit.” “I sure won’t, Sarge, I sure won’t.” 66

HOODOO

***** The first cemetery on the list was the Holt Cemetery, an ol, unkempt site where anyone who could afford atleast the semblance of a dignified

send-off could be laid to rest. Most of the plots carried handcrafted, wooden crosses, and home-made concrete urns, crosses, and pottery. The few that had granite angels, crosses, urns, and pottery were the ones that had been violated. Calhoun inspected the cracks on the inground plots, the earthen holes that were left behind, and the shadows of the angels left behind on the walls of the few tombs. He shook his head, looking up and surveying the unostentatious serenity of the place. A couple of the tombs had been whitewashed and painted for All Saints Day, but the rest stood sadly in the moldy green of pollen and the sooty blackish gray of dust and pollution which had settled on them over

the decades. While there, a great sense of unrest passed through Calhoun’s body that trembled up through his legs and quaked from his shoulders. . . Who could have done such a thing, he asked himself, meandering through the patches of tall weeds and uncut grass on the hard dirt pathway. Why? He stared at the ground, stroking the stubble on his chin. He wondered what worth would cemetery artifacts serve for anyone? If a person had such a morbid taste for cemetery artifacts, all one had to do was to simply visit a cemetery at any time of day or night. Cemeteries were always open to anyone. It made no sense whatsoever for anyone to steal artifacts from the dead.

At one of the tombs, Calhoun came upon a sliver of 67 ROBERTSON wood resting in the grass just off the pathway. Picking it up, he ran his thumb along the splintered edges. It appeared to be a piece of some sort of handle left over by a worker. Yet, from the look of the cemetery, no one had tended to the grounds for quite some time. Wild ferns were growing from the sides and faces of the tombs. One of the old tombs had a young mulberry tree growing from the top of it. The grass was so over-grown it was hard to distinguish the graves from

the ground. No, Calhoun speculated, the piece of wood in his hand did not come from the broken tool of a caretaker or a caring loved one. He felt along the rounded half where the handle had been split, and along the grain of its damaged side. This piece of wood came from an axe handle. Raising his head, Calhoun realized that he was standing in the midst of the carnage. Every site his eyes fell upon, he saw evidence of theft. He found granite chips two sites away from where the artifact had been hacked off of one of the tombs. So much force had been used, it sent pieces of stone flying out, and shattered the handle of the tool they were using. An axe was used by the

perpetrator to force away artifacts that would not easily be pried away by hand. However, as heavy as the stolen objects could have been, how did they get in and out of the cemetery with the items? No vehicles were allowed in the cemeteries after hours, and the large gates were closed. The smaller pedestrian gates remained open. How did they transport the heavier objects out if not through the pedestrian gates? Thieves of any profession were not that 68

HOODOO energetic. The thieves he knew were

lazy and always chose the path of least resistance, or chose the easiest and quickest way to do what they do. From where he stood, Calhoun stared at the granite blocked posts of the entrance to the cemetery and its black, wrought iron gates. However, instead of having wrought iron fencing around the cemetery like most private-owned cemeteries, a rusty, chain-linked fence surrounded it. He went to the fence and strolled along the edge, inspecting the ground. Seeing nothing unusual, he went to the left side of the entrance and walked along the edge of the fence. A bit past the entrance, Calhoun noticed a slight irregularity in the linking of the fence. Testing the fence, it parted just a

bit. Then he noticed grey baling wire tied at sections where the fence should have been linked. He smiled, impressed by the neatness of the mending. It was so precise it could have fooled anyone just looking at it, but they were running with the big dog now! Turning around, Calhoun noticed a direct path of the carnage at the tombs and graves. Gazing beyond the fence, he could see a light trail of crushed grass and weeds leading to the road. They were wide truck tires. From the fading imprint of the squared threads, the tires were large mud grippers that crushed the grass and packed the dirt. The grass was regenerating itself from a lighter green. . . Calhoun nodded, his heart conflicted

with feelings of sadness and elation. This was where the damage had begun. Holt was the first cemetery on the list that reported the vandalism. Holt was where the most destructive damage occurred, indicative that the thieves were new to what they were doing. 69 ROBERTSON From the record, the thefts had gone undetected for quite some time. The first report from Holt Cemetery was three months before All Saints Day but was never followed up on by the Police Department. Perhaps they realized that Holt was too old and poor. There were

some very prominent people interred here, most notably the father of jazz music, Charles “Buddy” Bolden, and Robert V. Charles, “the lion of Africa”. Slipping the sliver of wood into his coat pocket, Calhoun walked toward the entrance. A cold breeze chilled his face as leaves raced across the cracked and buckled walkway. Perhaps the other cemeteries would reveal more clues to the theft. At Holt, the damage was too old and too massive. Any evidence he would get from here would be severely compromised by now. But who, Calhoun asked himself again, who could do such a thing? Saint Louis Cemetery Number One and Two were the two oldest cemeteries

on the list. They did not hold the destruction and vandalism that Holt Cemetery had. One reason for that was, the artifacts were so old at the Saint Louis Cemeteries, all the thieves had to do was to simply lift them from their foundations. Most of the tombs and oven-vaults were more the victims of age and neglect than vandalism Small trees, clinging vines, and patches of ferns and grass grew from their walls and arched upward toward the sun. Some of the old roofs of the tombs had caved in from the weight of age and left open like gaping wounds to fester in the elements. Generations of pigeons roosted in the wide gaps and cracks, performed mating dances, and built nests

together beneath the gables and cornices. Many had left the roost, migrated, and annually returned to roost in 70 HOODOO their birthplaces. Upon visiting the other cemeteries, Calhoun found more degrees of neglect and abandon than there was vandalism and theft. The two worse were at Lowerline Cemetery on Lowerline and Robert Street and Saint Joseph’s Cemetery on Washington and LaSalle Street. At these, he not only found evidence of stolen artifacts and vandalism, but evidence of grave

robbing where tombs were mashed in and the remains inside them ransacked for valuables. The skeletal remains of many of the deceased were scattered with some still clothed and arranged in macabre poses. With the cases still fresh, no one had come out to clean up the scenes. The termite riddled wood of the broken caskets and the silk cushioning was exposed, sending chills through Calhoun. The wrought iron fencing surrounding these places had been replaced with chain linked fencing. Some sections still retained the wrought iron picketing, but was damaged and bent so miserably, they were threatening to topple to the sidewalks. Some of the

graves were infested with large mounds of fire ants. Either sticks or dried bones were jutting up from the loose dirt of some of the graves. A variety of odors assaulted his nostrils, forcing him to take out his handkerchief to cover his nose. He discovered the dried carcass of a large rodent and the bloated remains of a dog with maggots dropping from the hollows of its eyes and its white teeth exposed from a frozen snarl. Worse than that, the decapitated remains of cats were splayed out on two of the graves with their severed heads 71 ROBERTSON

impaled on stakes in front of the head stones. Calhoun felt a wave of terror pass through him at this sight. Chalk drawn pentagrams on the pavement in front of the graves, with burned out candles at the five points of the evil emblem, made Calhoun know that this was the works of voodoos or Satanists. Calhoun removed his hat and spat out the foul phlegm that flooded his mouth. He made the sign of the cross, kissed his fingers and raised them up to heaven. Calhoun understood that cats, particularly black cats, were the favorite tools to work someone for the purposes of good or evil. Whatever the purpose, Calhoun turned his eyes away from the sacrilege and hurriedly left the cemetery.

In visiting the more private owned cemeteries, Calhoun immediately recognized that, just like in life, there was a marked demarcation between the rich and the poor. Even from the evidence of the thefts, care was obviously taken to remove the statues, urns, crosses, and pottery with much precision. The mausoleums, the tombs, and graves were clean and well maintained; the grass was cut and neatly trimmed at the edges; and the pathways were evenly paved, shaled, bricked, pre-cast, or smoothly asphalted. There appeared to be no evidence that the thieves had even been to the cemeteries. Perhaps from the experience gained from the poorer, city owned cemeteries, the

thefts were executed in such a way that to see the sites for the first time, it would seem as if the artifacts had never been there. Ironically, everywhere Calhoun went in these cemeteries, a caretaker followed a discreet distance 72

HOODOO behind him, keeping a sly vigil on his every move. Satisfied with what he had found so far, Calhoun returned to the office. Surprisingly, Dee was not there. He checked his old Cartier watch and saw it

was 4:59 p.m.. On her desk, Calhoun found a letter propped on her covered typewriter. It was designated: ATTN: Mr. Calhoun. Opening the envelope with the edge of his thumbnail, he unfolded the letter. Upon reading it, he had to lean his legs on the side of her desk. The letter was Dee’s resignation notice. . . Dee had quit. Reading further, Dee wrote that the man had returned because he had not heard from Calhoun, that he felt unrepresented in his income tax return and the resulting IRS audit, and that Calhoun should expect to hear from his attorney soon. In her reasons for resigning, she wrote that she was tired of being overworked, underpaid, paid too late, and stressed out over mounting

customer complaints. She had found a job in the clerical department of Krauss’s Department Store on Canal Street, and that she would be returning for her last week’s pay on Friday. Calhoun sighed out loud, tossing the letter on the desk. He had survived clandestine missions in the poisoned jungles North Vietnam and had been face to face with death as a captured Ranger by the Cong. He had seen the worse atrocities of men on the battlefield, and himself had done some unmentionable acts which haunted him to this day. But, after what he saw in the city cemeteries today, nothing could sicken him more. A person could die in the knowledge that the troubles which beset him in life

would end, only to find it just beginning with his mortal remains. Calhoun pushed himself away from the desk. Life held more serious 73 ROBERTSON problems than the loss of a disgruntled secretary or the complaints of a sore loser. He went to the door, heading for Marie’s Bar and Lounge. Yes, Calhoun nodded to himself as he walked slowly down the staircase, he would be drinking real early this evening.

*****

The sun was high in the noon sky, warming some of the chill in the air as Calhoun waited for the green wrought iron gates to open. Large granite blocks styled the Greco-Egyptian columns of the entrance, green cast- iron gas lamps topping the apexes of the columns. The car tires bobbled softly on the pinkish gray, pre-cast bricks of the drive as he drove along the plush front lawn. Sweet olive and elm trees filled the cool air with the scent of perfume. Ferns lined the shale flagged, arched drive and walkway leading up to the mansion. The ferns faded as Calhoun pulled into the drive and were replaced by plush white, pink, red, and purple vincas blossoming out on both sides of the drive and along

the granite steps of the portico. Calhoun parked at the steps and got out to survey the beauty and serenity of the lawn. Walking around the car to the steps, Calhoun’s shoes clicked on the shale paving. He looked up at the front of the mansion. For some reason, the place seemed familiar to him, making him recall that one of the mausoleums he saw at the Metairie Cemetery bore a striking resemblance to the mansion. Counting it off as mere coincidence, he went up the granite steps. Tall white columns supported the high roof of the portico. 74

HOODOO Two glass plated, black cast iron lamps hung from the roof by black chains. Two similar lamps were at the sides of the wide entrance. Over the carved and orange varnished double door entrance was a white trimmed, sunburst transom. The polished brass door latches stood out against the elegance of the doors. A door bell shaped like a polished brass knocker was as the side frame of the door. Before Calhoun could press the door bell, one of the double doors swung open. The housekeeper stood at the threshold of the door. “Good afternoon, suh,” the man produced a condescending smile,

stepping aside. His eyes made a quick assessment of Calhoun’s clothing and appearance, and he was disappointed. He had expected someone younger, neater, and whiter. Calhoun stepped inside. “I, uh.” He removed his hat. “I’m Mista J. Coltrane Calhoun at yo’ service, y’ere to see Mista Rene Font’nelle, n’ ya please, suh.” “Yes,” Harris smiled, softly closing the door. “Mister Fontenelle is expecting you.” “Thank ye,” Calhoun said, tipping his head. “May I take hat, suh?” “Sho!” Calhoun slipped reached his hat to Harris, watching him

turn and hang the hat gently on a mahogany valet at the side of the door. “Follow me, suh,” Harris said. In the vestibule, an overhead chandelier gave soft, yellowish light to the interior. But, in the spacious lobby, the room was awash in sunlight, revealing the splendor of the antique furnishings. Calhoun followed Harris, looking up, over, and behind him in awe at the affluent 75 ROBERTSON interior. Large portraits along the walls were hand-painted depictions of officers in French military regalia; sportsmen in colorful riding, archery, fencing, and

shooting garb; and businessmen in the finest suits of the era. Ladies were portrayed in belle-gowns, lacy bonnets, and staid Victorian finery with little children kneeling, sitting, and standing around one woman in a larger painting. Calhoun was mesmerized by the paintings and all of the large photographs, feeling he was inside of a wealthy museum instead of someone’s residence. The soft rumbling of drawing doors roused him from his reverie. Harris had slid open both doors and stepped gracefully into the room, standing at the right side of the doors to allow Calhoun to enter. Inside, book shelves lined the walls from floor to

ceiling. A humidifier hung from the ceiling to keep the room at a definite temperature to preserve many of the older books on the shelves. A chrome step ladder stood at the end of one shelf near a window. The windows were curtained by long, white lace panels to allow sufficient sunlight inside. On a table in the center of the room stood the carved work of a half-finished miniature building where its designer had stopped. Other miniatures were encased in glass about the room. Calhoun instantly recognized most of the buildings, having seen them around the city. On the front wall of the doors, Calhoun studied the frames of old glass plated, filmed, and charcoal sketches of other structures he

had never saw before. “Please suh, have a seat,” Harris said, motioning Calhoun to a plush, burgundy cushioned Queen Anne sitting chair near an antique cherry wood writing table. “Mister Fontenelle will be with you shortly. Would you 76 HOODOO like some refreshment, suh? Coffee, tea, or cola?” “Coffee good,” Calhoun nodded, perching himself gingerly onto the soft cushioned chair. Harris nodded, went to the door and drew them open. When Harris

stepped out and drew the doors closed, Calhoun puffed out his jaws and raised his eyebrows. The elegance of the place astounded him. Staring at the ornate, antique desk, he gazed at the jade and ivory shaded reading lamp atop it. Calhoun struggled to contain his greed. With such apparent and old wealth, this client could definitely afford a sizeable fee without blinking an eye! Yet, he had to consider that most rich men were as frugal as the stingiest miser, whereas a poor man was as free-wheeling with money as if he were rich. Knowing this, he had to be careful. Calhoun propped his elbow on the leather cushioned armrest and ran his thumb along his lower lip. He was up to his neck in debt.

He needed money to pay off the Municipal and Civil court judgments against him, plus the money he would need for the client being audited by the IRS, and his debt to his bookie, Alvin. He realized he would have to take a chance with Fontenelle. Though old money was tight money, he had to figure out a large enough fee to loosen some of it without causing any alarm to Fontenelle. After a while, the doors opened again. Harris rolled a stainless steel cart into the room that held decorated China cups and matching pottery. He stopped at the writing table. Pouring a steaming stream of coffee into one of the cups, he turned to Calhoun.

“Cream and sugar, suh?” “Yep,” Calhoun smiled, sizing the cup. “Fo’ 77 ROBERTSON spoons o’ sugar, n’ ya please.” Harris raised an eyebrow at the amount of sugar. He spooned in four scoops of sugar and poured in a dollop of thick cream into the cup, stirring it with a gentle tingle of the silver spoon against the sides of the cup. Placing the cup onto a matching saucer, he reached it carefully to Calhoun. “Thank ye, suh,” Calhoun smiled, giddy at the genteel treatment. “You’s a good man in spite o’ yo’self!”

Harris wrinkled his brow, wondering what Calhoun had meant. Shrugging to himself, he lifted the silver lid from its tray. “There’s sugar cookies here for your enjoyment, suh. You may help yourself.” Calhoun looked under-eyed at the light colored cookies as he slurped loudly from his cup of coffee. His eyes bucked open at the flavorful brew. He held the cup out to look at the coffee. It was the best tasting coffee he had ever had! “If there’s anything more, suh, be free to call upon me. My name is Harris, and I’ll be right outside the door.” “Sho will, Harry,” Calhoun

said, raising the cup and saucer. “Thank ye. This y’ere’s enough.” As soon as Harris left the room, Calhoun took one of the napkins, unfolded it, loaded it with cookies, and slipped them into his coat pocket. Just as he was sitting down, the doors slid open again. Calhoun looked up to see Rene Fontenelle step into the library. Calhoun smiled, standing and extending his hand. “Good e’nin’, Mista Font’nelle,” Calhoun beamed. “Good afternoon, Mister Calhoun,” Rene said, 78

HOODOO

pumping Calhoun’s hand in a sturdy grip. “Are you comfortable? I take it Mister Harris has made you feel right at home?” “Yep,” Calhoun chirped. “He sho has! He good!” “Fine,” Rene nodded, pulling a chair out at the writing table. Calhoun was impressed by Fontenelle’s leisure but expensive attire, paying close attention to the gleaming, alligator skinned belt and matching shoes. The only jewelry he wore was his wedding ring, a thick yellow gold piece with a large diamond nestled in a diamond studded bezel. A spike of envy pierced Calhoun’s heart. “Sit, please,” Rene smiled

gently, taking a seat at the writing table. “Thank ye,” Calhoun sat, taking his cup and saucer from the waiter. “Yes, I spoke to Robert who suggested to me that you could possibly help me?” “Yep,” Calhoun nodded. “’Bout that thef’ at the cemeteries.” “Yes.” “Yep, I can do that,” Calhoun nodded again, taking a loud slurp from the cup of coffee. “Slim tol’ me--- You know Slim, huh? He cuts yo’ grass n’ stuff ‘round y’ere.” “Slim,” Rene asked, wrinkling his brow and shifting his gaze to Harris. “Oh, you must mean one of the men in Mister Ramee’s crew! Mister Ramee,

everyone calls him Pops. . . He’s been with us for as long as Mister Harris has. He supervises the landscaping here. Your 79 ROBERTSON Slim probably does landscaping with Mister Ramee.” “Yeah, he cuts grass. Ain’t that a kick? A man who is a master mechanic--- who was in the Air Force for twelve years, and could tear a jet fighter down n’ build it back up--- he cuts yo’ grass! Ain’t that somethin’?” Rene glanced at Harris, wondering why Calhoun had said that.

Harris was staring blankly at Calhoun. “As we were saying,” Rene interjected. “Yeah, Slim tol’ me that the statute that was stol’t had done been done in yo’ mama’s image? I can relate wit’ how impo’tant that is to you to git it back. I remember my own mama, Gawd bless ‘er soul.” Rene’s thoughts drifted to his shock at discovering the theft and how naked and empty the mausoleum appeared without his mother there to greet her visitors. “I know how you feels. It’s a hurtin’ thing.” “Yes,” Rene said, snapping from his thoughts and trying to appear he

had been listening to Calhoun. “Yes, it is that, suh. . . Tell me, Mister Calhoun, how long have you been in the field of investigations?” “Seems as long as dirt is ol’,” Calhoun joked, resting his cup and saucer on the writing table. “Oh really,” Rene smiled. “You don’t appear to be so old.” Calhoun chuckled. “I was jes pullin’ yo’ leg! But, how ol’ you think I’m is?” Rene examined Calhoun. “I’ll say you’re about. . . about fifty-eight or better.” “There you go,” Calhoun said, disguising his humiliation. He was fiftyfour. “You got a good eye!”

“Really,” Rene asked, proud of his accuracy. “Yep, you hit the nail on the head,” Calhoun lied. 80 HOODOO “Bet I could tell you how ol’ you is.” “Okay,” Rene lowered his eyes, wondering where their conversation was headed. “Le’ me see,” Calhoun said, studying Rene. “You’s about fifty-nine, sixty or mo’?” “You’re exactly right,” Rene said in mild surprise. “I’m sixty. How could you tell?”

“I been in the bus’ness long enough to be a good judge o’ people,” Calhoun said, a bit disgusted at his accuracy. “I was right on the money, huh?” “I’m impressed, suh,” Rene said, glad to end the childish banter. Rene’s judgment of Calhoun was becoming increasingly diminished. The specks of grey stubble on his chin, his cheap clothing, and Calhoun’s ill manners in placing the cup and saucer on the weiting table gave no favorable impression to Rene. Moreover, the poor grammar of Calhoun’s speech and the deeply rural dialectic was not conducive to a sharp intelligence. Harris had attempted to prepare Rene for Calhoun

before he entered the library, but in his haste to meet what he imagined to be a bonafide professional private detective, he threw caution to the wind. Rene sensed a jack-legged, fly by night quality about Calhoun. “What techniques do you employ in your investigations, Mister Calhoun,” Rene asked, gazing at Calhoun’s hands. “Leg work n’ elbow grease,” Calhoun sniffed, leaning back in the chair. ‘Yes, I’m sure, but seriously, what I’m asking is, do you employ any technology, you know, like electronics, 81

ROBERTSON surveillance, computerization, tracking devices, spy cameras--- you know, the things most investigators are expected to use? Do you understand what I’m trying to say?” “Yeah! Sho, I understand. But, I don’t n’use all the w’cha-ma-gizzums n’ do’hickies other investigators n’use. I n’use what Gawd gimme. I n’use the thing that never fails, the thing that never lies, the thing that don’t need no batteries or juice, no tunin’ up or adjustin’--- “ “What’s that?” “Good ol’ mother wit! Some folk call it common sense. . . Y’see, human nature don’t change. You check

yo’ hist’ry you’d see men doin’ the same ol’ same ol’ all th’ough recorded hist’ry or even since’t we swung from the trees!” Rene coughed and sat up, cutting Calhoun’s train of thought. Being a devout Catholic, he took offense to any mention of evolution and would not have it discussed in his home. “How do you communicate with other agencies and investigators, Mister Calhoun? I’m sure you use the telephone, faxes, e-mail. . . “ “I don’t mess wit’ too many investigators but one,” Calhoun said, pursing his lips and shaking his head. “He a ol’ buddy o’ mine from our time in the Rangers. I talk wit’ ‘im the best way I could. I try not to git n’used to a lot o’

them gizmos. They ain’t nothin’ but a lot o’ bells n’ whistles no way. They tie you down.” Rene gazed at Calhoun, wondering to himself how the man managed to maintain his business, if indeed he had one. “I take it you do work out of an office, do you,” Rene asked, his eyes hooded by his disenchantment with 82 HOODOO Calhoun. “Sho I does,” Calhoun said, reaching into his back pocket for his tattered, sweat-stained wallet and taking

out an old business card. He reached it to Calhoun from his fore and middle fingers. “Y’ere you go. My place is in 1242 Dryades Skreet. They ‘bout to change the skreet name to, um, Ore--- uh, I think it’s Aretha Cas’le Haley Skreet, somethin’ o’ ruther.” “Oreatha Castle Haley Boulevard,” Rene cor-rected as he read the card. “You are aware of Mrs. Haley’s contributions to the African American community?” “Cain’t say I’m is. I ain’t so familiar wit’ no Africans ‘round y’ere. I know a lot o’ Vietnamese, though. I le’rned to talk Vietnamese in the war, y’know. I know some A-rabs too. Hell, you walk in a sto’ these days, that’s all

you see is gooks, A-rabs, n’ a smatterin’ o’ Julios in ‘em! The way things is, I guess Africans is next.” That was the final straw for Rene. He was now fully convinced that Calhoun was insensitive, uneducated, and unprepared for what he needed a legitimate private investigator to do. The skills listed on Calhoun’s business card belied his shabby appearance and crass mannerisms. Rene was ready to end the charade. As if reading Rene’s mind, Harris took the cup and saucer from the writing table, inspected the polished surface of the table for stains, and placed them on the waiter. “Would there be any more refreshments, suh,” Harris asked, turning

to Rene and showing his back to Calhoun. “No thank you, Mister Harris,” Rene answered, 83 ROBERTSON lowering his eyes. Calhoun raised his finger behind Harris. “I sho would like another cup o’ that fine--- “ “We’re finished here, Mister Harris,” Rene interjected. “Take the cart away, please.” “Yes suh,” Harris smirked, rolling the waiter away. Calhoun settled back,

disappointed that he was unable to get another cup of the delicious coffee. “Any-huh, I think I can bring yo’ mama’s statute back--- “ “Statue,” Rene corrected sharply. “The word is statue with a t-u-e, not statute, which is a law.” Calhoun gazed at Rene, a bit taken aback by his pedantic interruption. “Um, like I were sayin’. . . I can bring back yo’ mama’s thing back real quick. So, we need to talk fees right ‘bout nah.” “Yes,” Rene sighed, nodding politely. He gazed at the old, unpolished Stacy-Adams shoes on Calhoun’s feet. The leather at the sides of the shoes had molded out around the bunions of Calhoun’s feet. “Yes, we can’t neglect

that, can we?” “The way I figger it, it’ll take a few weeks to find the critters that done this thing. At a price o’ fi’ hund’ed n’ollars a day for three weeks, I’d sum it up to ten thousand-fi’ hund’ed n’ollars at a flat rate. What I’mon need is to see a picture o’ yo mama’s statute that was stol’t so’s I can recognize it when I finds it. How that sound to you?” “That wouldn’t be a problem,” Rene said, a bit amused by Calhoun’s simple reasoning. “But, why three weeks?” 84

HOODOO “H’it’ll take three weeks or so ‘cause I need to find out who doned it, where the statute is at, and have it brunged back where it belong. It’s gon take some money to do that.” “Yet, if you employed the kind of technology which could facilitate your investigation, I have no doubt that you could finalize this matter within days. But, you don’t, do you? . . Seriously, Mister Calhoun, I see no feasible reason to pay you that amount of funds for, as you’ve so eloquently said, leg work, gumption, and common sense! I simply fail to see it! If you were a professional investigator, I could see--- “

“Hol’ up-hol’ up-hol’up,” Calhoun raised his hand and lowered his head. “Hol’ that train right there, conductor! . . What you sayin’, I ain’t no professional investigator? . . I been doin’ this work for a lot longer than many o’ these poot-butt p.i.’s been wearin’ big boy draw’s! What you really tryin’ t’say is because I ain’t rode up y’ere in a souped up Corvette, wearin’ a skimpy lil ankle-wipin’ suit with helicopter blades poppin’ outta my stingy rim hat, I ain’t no professional, right? But, the truf’ really is, if I was a w’ite boy, y’all’d be fallin’ all ova yo’selfs to--- “ “That’s it, suh,” Rene turned his head and held up his hand. “Race has nothing to do with this, and I do not

subscribe to it! If I’ve said something to you to incur that sort of reaction from you, I deeply apologize, but I cannot reasonably finish this interview with you, not in that context! . . Now, if there’s any charge for your time, suh, I’ll have Mister Harris write out a check for--- “ Calhoun stood from his chair and removed the 85 ROBERTSON sliver of oak-wood wrapped in the list from his coat pocket. He slapped the items in the palm of his hand, waiting for Rene to finish speaking. Rene stopped

speaking, studying the items in Calhoun’s hand. Hearing the tone of the conversation through the doors, Harris slid the doors open and stood between them, watching Calhoun with an abundance of revulsion and curiosity. “What do you have there, Mister Calhoun,” Rene asked, sitting uncomfortably in his seat. “This y’ere is the list o’ cemeteries that got hit,” Calhoun tossed the rounded list to the writing table. “It wan’t jes yo’ mama’s cryp’ that got hit. All o’ ‘em got hit!” Calhoun wagged the sliver of wood in his fist. “Ord’nar’ly, this would be a reg’lar piece o’ wood, huh? But, it’s mo’ than that. It’s a talkin’ piece o’ wood! It’s talkin’ t’me right nah,

tellin’ me ‘Calhoun, I’s a piece o’ axe han’le that they n’used to hack Mista Fon’nelle’s mama statute off’n her perch!’ Yeah, that’s what it’s sayin’ t’me, n’ I’m listenin’!” Rene slumped in his chair as if the strength had suddenly drained from his body. He stared vacantly at the weathered sliver of wood in Calhoun’s hand. His creamy complexion had turned an ashy white. “N’ I put it to yo’ y’ears, you can y’ear what it’s tellin’ me!” Calhoun held out the sliver of wood close to Rene’s ear. “Lissen to it. . . “ Rene leaned away in horror. “Suh,” Harris glowered, stepping toward Calhoun. “I must ask

you to leave, now!” Calhoun reared back his ears, looking curiously at 86

HOODOO the sliver of wood. “That wasn’t this y’ere wood talkin’! That sounded like a flunky! . . You y’eared that, Mista Font’nelle? Ain’t that sound like you got a flunky up in y’ere?” “You must get out of here, now,” Harris hissed, moving protectively beside Rene. “If you don’t leave here voluntarily, I’ll call the

authorities and have them throw you out!” “Life is jes one sleep in the shade, huh, Harry,” Calhoun grinned maliciously. “Life don’t bug you ‘cause you think you got it made!” “Get out, you ignorant--- “ “Harris,” Rene said, holding up his hand, stopping Harris. “It’s all right. . . Please, let us talk in private.” “That’s right, Harry, go play like a good boy. Us mens is talkin’ bus’ness up in y’ere.” Harris frowned, glowering at Calhoun in total disgust before turning and leaving the library. Calhoun and Rene were quiet for a long moment, with Rene staring at the floor and Calhoun

gazing at Rene. As repulsed by Calhoun as Rene was before, now Calhoun was equally disgusted with Rene and Harris. Calhoun understood that money, especially old money, changed people, insulating them from the rigors of life and even reality. But for two of his own to disparage him as any white supremacist would disparage either one of them was anathema to him. They were old Creoles, Africans who are more ingrained in the caste and class system as any racist. Now, Calhoun was ready to end the interview and forget the whole matter. 87

ROBERTSON “You must forgive us our ill manners, Mister Calhoun,” Rene apologized softly, unable to look Calhoun directly in the face. “I don’t know what just happened here.” “I know what jes happened, but it ain’t no big deal.” Calhoun took the list from the writing table. “That’s jes the way it is, y’know.” “No suh, it is not.” Rene looked up squarely into Calhoun’s face. “We’ve allowed ourselves to behave badly. I have no idea what came over me, but all I can say to you is I’m very sorry.” “You couldn’t help it,” Calhoun frowned. It’s the nature o’ the beast. But

it ain’t no big deal.” “I hope you can accept our deepest apologies, suh.” “Damn, man, I tol’ ya, ain’t no big deal.” “Thank you,” Rene smiled sadly. “Thank you so much. . . Okay, I will hire you for this task. But you must reconsider the terms of your fee.” “Ain’t nobody too big for a hook up,” Calhoun frowned. “That’s all you had to say in the first place instead actin’ all sididdy up in y’ere!” “No-no, you misunderstand me, Mister Calhoun. I accept your fee, but you must consider the offer I’m about to propose. Instead of a fee, I’d like for you to look at this as a rewards of sorts.

What I mean is, if you return my mother’s statue in one piece, no matter the length of time, I’ll pay you a reward in the lump sum figure of ten thousandfive hundred dollars. . . You see, this is very important to me. The statue was fashioned in my mother’s image as you’ll see, designed by my own hands, and 88

HOODOO hand sculpted from the finest of white Italian marble in the city of Naples, Italy. Though it’s an expensive work of art, it’s priceless as far as my family is

concerned. If you find it, I’ll be generously indebted to you, Mister Calhoun.” Calhoun was touched by the man’s sincerity and his love for his mother. He extended his hand to Rene who stood up and took Calhoun’s hand. “Well, it’s as good as done already,” Calhoun beamed. “You dealin’ wit’ the right man, n’ you ain’t gon be disappointed! You got J. Coltrane Calhoun in yo’ co’ner nah! You can take that to the bank, my man!” “I like your confidence,” Rene nodded in admiration. He took a pen and a writing pad from the well of the writing table. “Take my number and call me at any time. I have your card in case I

need to get in touch with you.” “Aw’ight,” Calhoun said, folding the square of paper and tucking it into his coat pocket. Calhoun and Rene left the library and into the spacious living room. Rene showed Calhoun a large photograph on the wall of the mausoleum at Metairie Cemetery with the statue of Rene’s mother in front of it. Calhoun recalled seeing the mausoleum. The life sized statue of the woman, her arms stretched out in a welcoming pose, gave life to the mortuary. He reassured Rene that the statue would be returned unblemished. Going to the vestibule, Harris was at the door holding Calhoun’s hat in his hands. Harris had

put on white gloves to prevent touching the hat. He was still miffed by Calhoun’s earlier remarks, but held onto his genteel manners, atleast in front of Rene. He cut his eyes at 89 ROBERTSON Calhoun as he opened the door. “I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again soon, Mister Calhoun.” “You will, sooner than you think.” As Harris closed the door, Calhoun put his thumbs in his ears, wiggled his fingers, and poked his tongue at Harris. Harris eased the door

shut, wishing he was a bit younger and less disciplined as he was trained to be.

90

CHAPTER FOUR

In Calhoun’s experience, the quickest way to find where a fire started was to locate the darkest, most charred area, and from there trace the spread of the conflagration. He returned to Holt

Cemetery. On his return, he found that the grass had been freshly cut, but nothing had been done to repair the damage to the graves, crypts, and tombs. The evidence of the vandalism was still there. Black plastic bags were filled with cut grass and weeds, with small branches piercing their sides, and stacked atop one another. . . A grass cutting crew had been to the cemetery. The city used employees from its Public Works, Parks and Parkways Commission to maintain its cemetery properties. During the summer months, the city borrowed inmates from its Municipal Crews in the Parish Prison to supplement the task of cleaning and cutting the grass of city owned

properties, streets, and highways. This was an inex-pensive source of labor which it gladly used, and the inmates were glad for it as a respite from their drab existence. When the inmates were called out, it eased the load of regular city-workers and gave them time to shoot the breeze or flirt with passing women and teenaged girls. Much of the evidence he saw at Holt before had been severely compromised now. At Saint Joseph Cemetery, he found that the grounds had been freshly cleaned as well. With much of these grounds cemented over, there was not much grass to be cut except on the graves where grass, weeds, and saplings grew. Though the sacrificed remains of

the two 91 ROBERTSON cats he saw on his earlier visit had been bagged with the grass and the litter, the pentagram with its demonic symbols drawn on the pavement in front two of the graves were still apparent. Calhoun looked around for a warm body to question, but there were no caretakers around. The solidly built booths where caretakers would have been were empty and their windows boarded up. The grass cutting crews were traveling from cemetery to cemetery. Calhoun went to his car, hoping that he would run into

one of the crews on his visits to the cemeteries. Stopping at Saint Louis Cemetery Number One, he found surveyors measuring the grounds and marking boundaries. Flat bed trucks, piled with sand and gravel, were parked in the service zones on the street. The Saint Louis Cemeteries were not city owned grounds, but owned by the Archdiocese whose own workers maintained them. Though they were on his list of violated cemeteries, the caretakers had the right to refuse him entrance. To avoid that unpleasantness, Calhoun drove around the city, stopping at various city-cemeteries on the list, hoping to encounter one of the grass

cutting crews. After nearly an hour of driving, Calhoun located a crew sitting on the freshly cut lawn in front of the Cypress Grove Cemetery. The white crew-cab truck was parked half in the grass, half in the crushed stone covered drive. Calhoun smiled, parking a bit behind the truck. Getting out of the truck, he observed the lawn mowers, edgers, trimmers, rakes, picks, an axe, and shovels in respective bundles. He inspected the handles of the tools as he walked along the truck and saw that none were damaged, split, or recently repaired. Checking the list, he saw that Cypress Grove was the fourth cemetery to 92

HOODOO report its desecration. The five workers were dressed in light green sweat shirts and olive green, khaki pants. They saw him at the truck and were staring at Calhoun as he approached them. The crushed stones crunched and popped beneath the worn soles of his shoes as he looked at the men and smiled genially to ease their concerns. Calhoun was unable to identify who was the supervisor of the crew since they were all dressed alike. Stepping into the grass, he stopped at the first man sitting in the grass. “Wha’s shakin’, men,” Calhoun

grinned, beaming at the light complexioned, youthful looking man, a black, white printed bandanna tied around his narrow head and knotted at the front over his forehead. The BriggsStratton cap had been cocked back with the bib projecting over his ear at the side of his narrow head. A half-smoked, wood filtered Keep Movin’ cigar was tucked at the top of his right ear. “Aw’ight,” the man mumbled and looked at the rest of the men. “Can I help you with somethin’, man,” a chubby, brown skinned man asked, a hefty golden rope chain and gold monogrammed medallion dangling at the front of his shirt from his thick neck. The others were dusty and grass-

stained, but he was as neat as if he had just arrived at work. “Y’all workin’ hard or y’all hardly workin’,” Calhoun chuckled. “Man, if I was in y’all’s shoes, I’d th’ow mines away!” “Who the fuck is this dude,” one of the men asked 93

ROBERTSON out loud without looking at Calhoun. The chubby man stood up, brushing grass from the backs of his pants legs, a gold stud visible on his left earlobe. “What can we do for you,

man?” “Le’ me introduce myself, Calhoun announced, stepping into the drive to face the workers. He took out his wallet and removed a business card. He reached it to the chubby man. “The name is J. Coltrane Calhoun. The game is private detectin’. I’m a C.P.A., legal aide, n’ a notary public. Tax time comin’ up real soon, n’ y’all need yo’ taxes done or somethin’ stamped, I’m yo’ man.” One of the workers tittered sarcastically. The chubby man was still reading the card, his dark face a mask of indifference. “Any-who, my reason for bein’ y’ere is, you mens mighta y’eared somethin’ about the thef’s goin’ on in the

cemeteries y’ere lately.” “Yeah,” the chubby man nodded. “I did read somethin’ about it in the papers.” “What I need to know is, has any o’ ya seen’t or y’eared o’ anything suspicious goin’ on ‘round y’ere?” “No more than we read or heard about in the shop or on the news.” Calhoun raised his chin and stroked the stubble at his throat. “Y’all come out y’ere reg’lar?” “Only when we called. When there’s a lotta tourists in town, we come out on a daily basis, or on All Saints Day, on Memorial Day, Vets Day, y’know. It’s different times.” “How often is dif’rent?”

“Like I said, whenever they call us.” 94

HOODOO Calhoun took the sliver of wood from his coat pocket. He observed the men for any signs of recognition. The men gazed at the wood and looked away. “Y’all break any tools lately?” “Not that I recall,” the chubby man shook his meaty head, gazing curiously at the piece of wood in Calhoun’s hand. “Y’know, I ain’t no sma’t man. When I was in grade school, my teacher

n’used to call me Rembrant. I never knowed why, but I think she was jes bein’ mean t’me. I were always breakin’ up stuff, y’know. Man, I’d see a pencil n’ all I’d wanna do is crack it open jes to see how the lead got in it! Y’all never wondered ‘bout that there, how lead git in a pencil?” The chubby man looked around. “Y’all never wondered ‘bout dat dere?” The other workers laughed out loud. Calhoun laughed. “I wan’t no bad chil’, no. I were jes a inquisitive lil booger, y’know. I wanted to know ‘bout the things we take for granted, things they don’t teach us in school, y’know.” “Like what,” the chubby man

asked cynically. “Like what? Well, y’know, I wanted to know things like how high is high, y’know, n’ does it ever stop goin’ up? If they is a bottom, how do we know it when we lookin’ from the top? . . See, that kinda stuff like that! Y’know, if China is at the bottom o’ the earth, n’ a Chine’e jomped up in the air, is he really jompin’ up, or is he really jompin’ down? See, that’s some deep shit, bro! I been like that ever since’t I were knee high to a chigger, 95 ROBERTSON for all my days! Like right now, I’m

wond’rin’ what kinda human bein’ would wanna steal stuff from the daid? Y’know, if we got any compunction for our own birth n’ death, how can any livin’ soul abort a baby or misuse the daid? That kinda stuff messes my mind up, n’ I can’t sleep ‘tilst I find out why. Why?” Calhoun studied the faces of the workers for an answer he knew would never come. They were staring at the browning grass or looking up at the tall, burgeoning oaks, their leaves a burnished orange from the winter chill. “I said all that to say, if you mens or any o’ yo’ other crews been comin’ out y’ere all this time, why hain’t any o’ y’all seen’t the damage done to

these places? Seems to me y’all woulda been the first to find out what happened y’ere. Why’d the people comin’ out y’ere to visit they loved ones come n’ foun’t they stuff was gone? Why wan’t y’all the ones to report it? Looks to me that this’s been goin’ on for a lil w’ile, n’ seems to me that somebody shoulda said somethin’ long befo’ people visitin’ they love ones foun’t the stuff missin’? See, I don’t understand that. But, they’s things in life that we don’t understand. It ain’t that we can’t understand ‘em, but that they ain’t meant for us to understand.” “What’re you hintin’ at, man,” the chubby man asked, his meaty head tilted to the side, his eyes wide in question. “What you tryin’ to say?”

“I ain’t tryin’ to say nothin’. They’s a dif’rence betwixt askin’ a thing n’ hittin’ at a thing. I’m askin’ ‘cause I wanna know. I need to know. N’ what I’m askin’ is, why ain’t you mens seen’t nothin’ or reported nothin’ 96

HOODOO ‘bout this? That’s all I’m askin’. I mean, hey, they got people who would sneak out y’ere n’ bust open a cryp’ wit’ no respect for the daid! I know seein’ somethin’ like that is a eye-catchin’ thing! To see the shape o’ this place for the first time, it shook me up for a

minute! You mens comes out y’ere on a reg’lar basis, so I know y’all had to see somethin’?” The workers were silent, each man caught up in his own thoughts. “Y’know, they got some people who would come out y’ere n’ steal the gol’ teef’s right outta a daid man’s mouf’! They’d steal rings, necklaces, bracelets, n’ even clothes off’n a daid man’s back! They got morticians who would slap the shit outta a daid person or beat the hell outta ‘em w’ile they lay on the slab! Some would embalm a man so bad, his eyebrows would be stretchin’ up n’ his lips’d be so tight, it’d’d look like he sayin’ ‘Hmm, you talkin’ to me?’ Some would even lay on top o’ a daid

woman n’ do it to ‘er daid body befo’ they embalm ‘er! . . See, that’s what I’m askin’, man, where is the respec’ for the daid gone? We gon all die thinkin’ we gon pass wit’ some kinda dignity, only to find out they got some sick jokers out there who’d do anything when no normal people is lookin’! They got some sick puppies who would feel up on yo’ mama’s daid--- “ “Say, man,” a thin, hard looking man jumped up, the oversized dentures in his mouth dislodging from his gums. “You fuckin’--- You goin’ too far wit’ that shit nah!” “Be cool, Skinny Man,” the chubby man consoled in a soft voice. “C’mon, man, he don’t know nothin’

about yo’ mama, bro.” “No, bro,” the tall man said, swinging his arm 97 ROBERTSON away from the chubby man. “He was lookin’ at me when he said that!” The man adjusted the dentures in his mouth. “He looked right at me, man! No motherfucka bet’ not be done done nothin’ to my mama! I’ll kill a motherfucka!” “Ain’t nobody done nothin’ to yo’ mama, Skinny Man,” the chubby man consoled, gesturing softly with his hand. Large diamond rings flashed on his middle and pinky fingers. “The dude just

talkin’, bro!” “Git that fuckin’ dude from ‘round me, man,” the tall man blubbered, his eyes appearing to water. “If he keeps talkin’ shit like that, ain’t no tellin’ what might happen out here!” “Wha’s his beef,” Calhoun asked, taken by surprise by the skinny man’s angry reaction. “No man, his mama died a few weeks ago,” the chubby man informed. “C’mon, Skinny, man, don’t be talkin’ like that. Think about yo’ parole, bro!” “Hey, pa’tner, you overreactin’! Ain’t no call to be that way! I wan’t talkin’ ‘bout yo’ mama! I said some mo’ticians, not all o’ ‘em! Irregardless to how you feel, it still

don’t stop the fact that it happens, y’know.” “That’s some sick shit, though, man,” the youthful looking worker said, poking a twig into the grass in front of his crossed legs. “Nobody but somebody who worship Satan would do some sick shit like that.” Calhoun studied the man’s boyish face. “You think so? How you say that?” “You ever been to a voodoo ceremony?” The man looked up sideways at Calhoun to avoid the glare of the sun in his eyes. 98

HOODOO “Nope, never has.” “Well, they be havin’ bones and skulls in their houses and shops. Where you think they git that stuff from? I don’t know of no place called Bodies ‘R Us!” Calhoun laughed. “Me ne’ther!” “They had this ol’ lady they called Celeste who got put out her house on Baronne and Howard Street. She was the max, bro! I heard she had judges, lawyers, and politicians comin’ to her for counsel, man! When the owner of the house went in to re-do it, they found baby skeletons n’ human bones all up in the attic and buried all under the house!

When the police went to arrest Celeste for questionin’, Celeste said, ‘Okay, just a minute.’ and wouldn’t answer the door. They knew she was in there and they surrounded the house. When they bashed the door in and went inside, they couldn’t find Celeste. She had disappeared!” “No shit,” Calhoun asked. “Where’d she go?” Nobody knows. They ain’t seen or heard from Celeste since. But, people say that Celeste had sacrificed two big black toms, y’know, and took some special bones out of them. They say if you know the right bones, you take ‘em out, stand in front of a mirror, and cross the bones to your foreh’d. You chant

some secret words in front of a full length mirror and you’ll turn invisible. They say Celeste knew how to do that and she disappeared without a trace! They say when the magic begins to wear off, she always comes back to sacrifice two big toms for their special bones to keep herself invisible. When they 99

ROBERTSON went to clear out the house, they found cemetery dirt, crosses, angels, and stools she had took outta some cemeteries. If you ask me, I think Celeste done probably come back.”

Everyone stared at the man, engrossed in the images playing across their thoughts. “Nobody never did move in the house Celeste lived in on Baronne Street. They say Celeste had hoo-dooed the house where nobody could ever live it again. People would go to rent the house and go inside, and they’d all o’ sudden change their minds.” “Now that’s sick,” Calhoun scoffed. “N’ even harder to believe!” “I tell you what,” the worker said, shading his eyes with his hand and looking up at Calhoun. “You laughin’, but if you don’t believe me, go and find out for yourself. If you wanna find that stuff that was took outta these

graveyards, I bet you you’d find it in a voodoo house or one o’ them shops! Places like the Cracker Jack Drug Store sells Books o’ Tongues, spells, mo-joes, gris-gris, curses, black crosses n’ candles! I bet they got some stuff in their back rooms in their personal stash! I bet-- “ “Yeah, p’haps,” Calhoun frowned, tightening his hat on his head against a brisk wind passing across the lawn. “Say, man,” the chubby man spoke up. “We only cut grass and clean up around these places. That’s all we’re supposed to do. But, we got much respect for the dead. None of us would never do anything like that. You’re

talkin’ to the wrong people, man. . . Look, we’re about to clock out, okay.” 100

HOODOO “That’ll work,” Calhoun smiled and started to walk away. He snapped his fingers and turned around again to see the skinny man gesturing aggressively behind him. Calhoun gazed at the man. The man turned away, watching Calhoun from the sides of his eyes.“Um, one mo’ thing befo’ I go, fellas. Y’all never did answer my question.” “What was the question,” the

chubby man responded, pursing his full lips in impatience. “Why hain’t any o’ you repo’ted anything suspicious you mighta seen’t?” “I tol’ you before, we never noticed anything suspicious.” “That makes a lotta sense,” Calhoun shrugged. He gazed at the skinny man again. “Hey, stretch, you need to lay off the pork n’ the caffeine. It’s messin’ with yo’ nerves.” “Go git you a damn drink, wino, and git the fuck outta my face!” Calhoun chuckled bitterly. “Yeah ya right! I’mon git me a tall col’ one n’ take a drink to yo’ health!”

***** The Cracker Jack Drug Store had a long history in the city of New Orleans. There is no record of who first established the legendary apothecary, but its first appearance was seen on Saint Ann Street in the area between Burgundy and Dauphine Street. The Cracker Jack centralized the products and materials used in the arts of voodoo and hoodoo such as roots, oils, herbal powders, dried insects and reptiles, skins, the anatomical parts of creatures, horns, hoofs, and hairs. 101 ROBERTSON There were also dried and powdered

animal and human excrement, semen, urine, spittle, and blood, the most prized of all the products because they were organic sources to give potency to dolls and gris-gris. These were the items produced and sold by individual priests, priestesses, and practitioners at Congo Square in the early history of the city where Africans were free to practice the ancient but misconstrued theosophy of their ancestors. Historically, voodoo was part of the ancient spirituality of Ma’at, the very first spirituality of man on earth. The ancient understanding of voodoo was not theosophic in and of itself. It was the description of the attributes of nature which is the creation of God, the manifestation of the

omnipotence of God, His pure power, force, majesty, and interconnection of these that was called vodun. Thus, vodun is the West African Fon/Yoruba word meaning spirit, light, truth. God is the truth and the light of all things, and the essence of all things is its spirit, its vodun. It symbolized the power of the wind, unseen but felt; the force of the volcano and the earthquake that can shake the earth; the might of the river and the flood as it rises high; the majesty of the mountains and the trees that stands tall against the horizon; the energy of the sunlight as it gives nourishment and life to all of Creation, its Oneness.. So, vodun is where the worldsciences took root: building, medicine,

chemistry, surgery, mathematics, writing, reading, geology, astronomy, botany, and culinary seasonings. The understanding of vodun in ancient times would be unidentifiable to the worship of voodoo of the recent past and today. Vodun was as vibrant and real as the spirituality surrounding it, 102

HOODOO whereas the vodun carried to the islands across the Atlantic Ocean by kidnapped Africans, brought there in the holocaust of the slave trade through the Middle Passage, was all that was left to them

after hundreds of years of persecution, atrocities, and colonization of African people. Though unrecognizable to the ancient vodun, it represented a small part of their ancient spirituality. In the islands, vodun devolved into voodoo as a means to unify Africans to take vengeance on their persecutors, and that aspect devolved into the supernatural religion, worship, and practice of that time, its underlying spirituality marked by magic spells, incantations, and uninhibited sexuality. For instance, in 1871, in the French Quarter in the affluent neighborhood of Bourbon Street, a neighbor complained of noise from one of the more affluent courtyards. When

the Municipal Police arrived, they encountered a voodoo ceremony where a number of nude white women were being “administered to” by a number of nude, “well endowed darkies”. All of the women were the wives of reputable business men in the city, and for the protection of their reputations a hefty fee was paid. However, the “well endowed darkies” were condemned to prison farms at hard labor, and were never seen again. Therefrom, voodoo became taboo to many whites, but for many more, either the temptation of taboo was irresistible, or they truly believed in voodoo. Countless other cases of arrests were made, primarily of nude white women being administered to by “well

endowed darkies”. Taking the wares of voodoo directly out of the hands of its more prolific practitioners, who 103 ROBERTSON were all Africans, and exacting a tax on it more than likely created the Cracker Jack Drug Store. It com-mercialized voodoo and sent the true practitioners underground to practice a lesser form called hoodoo where they avoided the voodoo shops and took their materials directly from nature Not only did the Cracker Jack sell voodoo products, premanufactured dolls, black crosses, and material, they also sold Do It Yourself VooDoo Kits, Books of Spells, The

Black Bible (containing the eleven apocryphal books of spells, rituals, incantations, and magic written by Moses), hooded robes, and candles. After a high profile scandal of a political nature where an unnamed local politician’s wife was found naked and administered to by a “well endowed darkie” in 1889 on Royal Street, a crack-down of voodoo ceremonies and dances ensued. It is then that the Cracker Jack Drug Store changed its premises to “the colored district” on South Rampart Street between Perdido and Poydras Street and remained there for many decades. In time, voodoo became more satanic, and it began to escalate its practice in abortions, particularly among

the many white women who were impregnated by “well endowed darkies” in illegal voodoo cere-monies. During the years of cultural awareness in the 1970’s, it lost its attraction among the very Africans that upheld the practice in the past, and whites began to vigorously take over the practice and the ceremonies. At this time, many of the voodoo shops stopped using the term voodoo and began to call themselves Botanical Book Stores. The Cracker Jack had never used the word 104

HOODOO

voodoo, and many people actually thought it was a drugstore, yet, finding a new customer base, it once again uprooted itself and moved to a quaint, yellow and red painted shop in the Garden District area on Danneel between Louisiana and Ninth Street. Parking at the curb, Calhoun stepped out and looked around at the neat old houses along the street. The red bricked, steepled Holy Ghost Catholic Church was at the corner of Louisiana Avenue. Going to the shop, the place looked so quiet, Calhoun thought it was closed for the day. Testing the screened door, it opened to another paned door. Opening that door, a small bell tingled overhead. Calhoun instinctively looked

up. Ropes of dried herbs, arms of garlic, and fingers of dried leaves hung from yellow twine nailed to the rafters of the ceiling. The place smelled of redolent spices. From somewhere, a whiff of strong urine passed beneath his nose, cat urine. He immediately thought about the worker at Cypress Grove Cemetery and the tale he told of Celeste, the voodoo queen. A glass counter was at the front of the store. At the back wall behind the counter were shelves of colorful jars and bottles with yellowish labels exhibiting the store’s wares. Large portraits of Jesus Christ, The Virgin Mary, and the blessed mother and child were tacked on every wall. Ornate gold

and silver crosses, some studded in dazzling gems, and simple black crossed on graded stands were displayed from a side shelf in neat lines. Pouches tied by golden stings were encased inside the glass counter. A soft fluorescent light revealed the squares of handwritten names for each pouch: Staying and All Night powders, Keep Him Home and Goofer dust, 105 ROBERTSON Get Out of My Life and Love Me potions. On the lower shelf were gnarly brownish-black twigs designated Whole John the Conqueror Root, a prized item uncut and ready for grinding. Jarred

candles of various colors stood in rows with novenas and the images of Saints inscribed on their sides. For some reason, Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” played across Calhoun’s mind. Near a bead-curtained doorway, an old Coca Cola, pull-bottle dispenser stood against the back wall. Atop the dispenser was a sealed glass case. Inside the case was a strange, stuffed animal in a frozen crouch. Its green, glass eyes stared in empty oblivion at the display window of the front wall. Its tawny fur and black whiskers seemed to be sticking out as if from static electricity. Calhoun had never seen such an animal nowhere in his world travels. The muzzle of the

beast was oblong like a small antelope, but blunt at the snout like a rabbit’s. Its forelegs were sleek and hooved like an antelope’s, but thick and powerful at the hind-quarters with long, broad paws as if for distance jumping, like a rabbit’s. . . It was a strange beast indeed. The beaded curtain at the doorway behind the counter moved. A fair skinned, heavily wrinkled woman emerged from the darkened doorway. The lining of her whitish-gray hair was revealed from the edge of the black tignon tied around her head. Her nose was hooked and wrinkled at the sides of her nostrils. She was stooped over, showing signs of advanced osteoporosis beneath a knitted black shawl draped

across her narrow shoulders. Her light gray eyes seemed to stare through Calhoun as she appeared to drift slowly to the glass counter. A white, 106

HOODOO fluffy cat bounded out behind her and effortlessly slinked onto the glass countertop. Its pinkish eyes gazed up at Calhoun as though it were about to ask what it could do for him. A big headed black tom eased from behind the counter and moved nonchalantly to the drink dispenser. Unlike the white cat who had pointed ears, the tom’s seemed to have

no ears, its large head the shape of a medium sized football on a thick, furry neck. Its fluffy tail was raised straight up, the tip of it jerking now and again. A half cut box was at the floor beside the shelf, filled with grey cat litter. The tom sniffed at the litter box and continued along the bottom of the shelf. “What can we do for you, son?” Calhoun jumped, startled by the sound of the soft, monotonous voice. He looked from the cat to the woman, wondering which one had spoken. The woman’s thin lips were sucked in to mold around her toothless gums. The gnarled fingers of her wrinkled, agespotted hands were clutched together on the counter top. The white cat was

holding a steady gaze on Calhoun. “What can we do for you today, son,” the woman asked again, her voice as soft and balanced as a young girl’s. “Oh,” Calhoun smiled, relieved. “Good e’nin’, mom. I has a friend, a real good buddy o’ mines, who done got it bad. He got this woman who mad at ‘im, n’ I think she done put somethin’ on ‘im or done had ‘im worked with somethin’. . . “ The old woman was staring at the middle button of Calhoun’s jacket, nodding her head as she listened. A whiff of fresh cat urine crossed his nose and he turned his 107

ROBERTSON head to see the tom move against the back wall, its tail still raised as it sniffed along the molding. When Calhoun stopped talking, she raised her eyes. “Go on, son, I’m listening.” “Okay,” Calhoun continued. “Anyway, his eyes is all red n’ his tongue done turn’t blue. His hands n’ foots done swol’t up on ‘im somethin’ ter’ble. I don’t know what to do, mom. I tried to bring ‘im wit’ me, but he so crip’t up, he cain’t walk t’wit’out a whole lotta trouble, his foots, y’know? . . Mom, that woman done put a serious hurtin’ on my boy! He be hobblin’ ‘round wimperin’ ‘Um, um!’ y’know? . . Gimme

yo’ wisdom, ma. Tell me what we can mayhaps do or wheres we can go to git ‘im back to hisself? I’m sca’ed that soon, his head gon swoll up on ‘im nex’ n’ be rollin’ ‘round on his neck n’ doin’!” The old woman sucked in her thin lips, chewing on her gums. The wrinkles deepened in her face, a perfect picture of empathy. “If what you tell me is truth, his head will swell up on him as big as a balloon!” “Tell me, mom,” Calhoun facetiously implored. “Pleez gimme yo’ wisdom! Tell me what we can do for ‘im?” The black cat had made its way around to Calhoun. It hunched its back and brushed its side against the calf of

Calhoun’s pants leg, purring in a deep, guttural click, the tip of its tail touching his knee. Calhoun grinned nervously, looking from the woman to the tom. The white cat laid itself on the glass countertop, watching the tom with much interest. “What’s your friend’s name,” the old woman asked. “If a friend he is.” 108

HOODOO “Um,” Calhoun stammered, sensing disbelief in the old woman’s last words. He searched his mind feverishly for a name, at the same time

uncomfortable with the black cat rubbing against his leg. “Um, his name Frog--we call ‘im Frog for as long’s I know ‘im.” “Yes,” the old woman smiled. “He is a friend!” The old woman turned around slowly and searched along the shelves until she came upon a jar she was looking for. Taking a novena from a small box which had been cut into a wedge, she opened a white paper bag and placed the novena on the bottom of the bag. Opening the jar, she gingerly tilted it, tapping the rim of the jar with a gnarly, wrinkled index finger. The grayish-brown granules poured out freely from the jar and into the bag, a

light puff of its dust rising to the top of the bag. Satisfied with the amount, she twisted the brass ringed cap to the jar without taking her eyes off of the bag and replaced it on the shelf. Folding the top of the bag, she slipped a white string from the box of novenas and tied it into a neat bundle. Going to the shelves of candles, she selected a white candle that had the blue printed image of the Virgin Mary on the glass. “Here you are, son,” the old woman said, gazing at the bag and the candle. “Have your friend to pour this powder in a basin of hot water and to soak his hands and feet in it until the skin draws up. Tell him to repeat the Prayer to the Infirmed that I’ve placed in the

sack. Get him a pint of one hundred proof Grand Dad and make sure he drinks it straight down in his gullet. Mind you, don’t let him nurse it! Make him drink it straight down. If he tries to puke it up, hold his mouth and nose shut so 109 ROBERTSON that he could swallow it. When he wakes up in the morning, he should be alright. If not, that means that whoever has worked him has worked him strong. What you do is, tear open the novena and you’ll find the name and the street number of the one who could help your friend shed the

powerful spell.” Calhoun grinned, lifting the bag from the countertop. “Thank ye, mom. I thank ye so much!” Calhoun was turning to leave and caught a glance of the strange, stuffed animal in the glass case atop the old Coke dispenser. He stopped. “Mom, tell me, what is that animal you got there in that fish tank up there?” The old woman looked up under-eyed at Calhoun. “It’s a young jack-a-lope.” “A jack-a-who?” “A jack-a-lope captured long ago in the lowlands of black Africa. It’s half African jack-rabbit, half African antelope. They are wild and mysterious

beasts. When this one was captured, it refused to eat and died because it was meant to be free. It’s a beautiful, magical beast, and it brings a lifetime of fortune to whomever possesses one. I had it stuffed so that I can always have the luck. That one is the only one ever captured in these times. None has ever been seen since.” “N’ it won’t be ne’ther ‘cause they ain’t no such beas’, mom,” Calhoun shook his head in skepticism. “I’m sorry, mom, but it jes ain’t no sech animal as a jack-a-lope! Now, I done seen’t what they call them jack-cats befo’. They halfrabbit, half-cat that were bred up to Napoleon Skreet. You might know a lil somethin’ ‘bout that. I saw ‘em myself

hoppin’ across the skreet on the 110

HOODOO news, live ones, hoppin’ across the skreet! But, I ain’t never hear’n nor seen’t a jack-a-lope! No, ma’m, if its real, it’s a freak o’ nature or somethin’ fabricated to be so, n’ ask me.” “No one has asked you.” “Hmph,” Calhoun grunted, taking the candle from the counter. “Wait, son,” the old woman placed a knotty, wrinkled hand on the counter top. The nails of her fingers were yellowed and twisted from age.

“That’ll be seventy-five dollars.” “What? Sem’ny-fi’ n’ollars? I don’t have sem’ny-fi’ n’ollars on me, mom!” Calhoun had hoped to ease out of the door without paying. “Um, can I bring it back t’ya in a lil w’ile?” “Yes, son, you may bring it back to me.” “You got it, mom,” Calhoun said, turning to leave. He knew he would not return with the money. In a streak, the white cat sprang from the counter top, pouncing upon the black cat. The two cats were rolling and screeching in a furious flurry of flying fur, rolling violently on the tiled floor. “Holy Jesus,” Calhoun gasped, stepping back out of the way, startled by

the sudden action. The old woman was grinning toothlessly at the fighting cats, her gnarly hands clasped together in obvious glee. The black cat chased the white cat behind the counter and disappeared at the darkened doorway, jerking the beaded curtains behind them. “Whew,” Calhoun exhaled. “Them some bad ass cats, mom! I thought they was gon kill each other up in 111 ROBERTSON y’ere!” “No, son, they won’t kill each

other,” the old woman cackled. “But if you don’t bring me back that seventyfive dollars this evening, you’ll see what they can really do tonight!” The old woman neither looked up nor blinked her eyes in the statement. “You know what, mom,” Calhoun said, going into his back pocket for his wallet. “Le’ me see how much I got on me.” Calhoun counted out fiftyfive dollars. “I got fi’ty-fi’ n’ollars, mom. What you say ‘bout that?” “I say that’s right good of you, son. Atleast you won’t have to make another trip!” Calhoun handed the old woman the money and left the shop. Back at the office, Calhoun stared at the bundle and

the candle resting atop his desk and wondered about its contents. Retrieving the mop bucket and an old, pink hospital bed pan from the utility closet, he decided to try the remedy out on his own hands and feet. He had no other use for the powder anyway, and for fifty-five dollars, it was worth the try. Running the water in the face bowl until it ran hot, Calhoun used the pan to fill the bucket. He brought the bucket into the office. He turned the desk chair around and sat the bucket in front of the chair. Filling the pan, he brought it into the office and sat it on the desk top. Taking the bag, he pulled the white string binding it and unfolded it. Looking into the bag, an eerie feeling passed through

him at the sight of the grayish-brown powder inside. It appeared to be cremated remains, but he rejected that thought as soon as it crossed his mind. He was in a quandary about how much powder to pour into 112

HOODOO the containers. The old woman had instructed what to do, but not how much to add to the water. Having no more use for it, he decided to use it all. There was more water in the bucket than in the pan, so he poured some powder into the pan first. The water in the pan fizzed and

seemed to sparkle at its surface the powder bellowed out at the base of the pan, wafted upward, and curled outward. Slowly, the water turned pinkish, then lilac, and finally to deep purple. A soft rustling sounded behind him, causing Calhoun to look around. He thought he saw the shadowy image of something scramble along the wall and disappear behind the file cabinet. He shrugged, making a note to set the rat traps. He poured the remaining powder into the mop bucket and watched the same results. The novena inside the bag flopped flat and nearly slid out into the water. Calhoun caught it and shook the powder from it into the bucket, and did the same to the bag. For fifty-five

dollars, he wanted to use every molecule of the dust. Plopping in his desk chair, he removed his watch, rolled up his shirt sleeves, removed his shoes and socks, and pulled open the lower drawer of his desk. Taking out the bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label, he raised it to gauge the amount. There was just over a pint of alcohol left in the bottle. Johnnie Walker was not as strong as one hundred proof Old Grand Dad, but it was alcohol nonetheless. Removing the top, Calhoun guzzled the remainder of the alcohol in the bottle. Taking it straight down burned his lips and made his eyes water. “Ahhh,” he groaned out loud, feeling the alcohol warm his gullet, the heat of it

spreading from his stomach to warm his 113 ROBERTSON chest. Taking a match from the drawer, he struck it at the leg of the desk and lit the candle. Testing the water in the bucket with his bunioned big toe, he rolled his pants legs up and immersed his callused feet. Besides a slight tingling, the water was warm and soothing. He sat back and sighed in comfort. Though he felt nothing would come of what he was doing, it felt good to soak his tired, worn out dogs. He took the pan from the desk and laid it across his lap. The warmth from the water

radiated from the base of the pan through his pants. Moving the novena to the edge of the desk where he could read it, he gazed at the image of Our Lady of Lourdes gracing the front side of the laminated card. The alcohol and the quietness of the office were beginning to relax him. He flipped the card over and immersed his hands into the water in the pan. Gazing at the card, he read the writing on the back of it: FOR THOSE TROUBLED IN MIND AND SICK IN BODY, Ever Immaculate Virgin, Mother Of Mercy, Health Of The Sick,

Refuge Of Sinners, Comfort Of The Afflicted, You Know My Wants, My Sufferings. Deign To Cast Upon Me A Look Of Mercy. I Come Therefore With The Unbounded Confidence To Implore Your Most Maternal Intercession. . .

***** Calhoun was unaware that he had fallen asleep. As his eyes fluttered open, he could see the wispy, glittering

image of a woman standing in front of him, smiling. 114

Thinking it was Dee returning to the office, he beamed in elation and opened his eyes. He found that he was alone in the office. Last night, he had forgotten to light the big space heater to warm the office, and the chill at his face, his hands and feet in the cold water, had awakened him. There was the scent of sweet perfume in the cold air, like that of rose or jasmine. The candle was still burning on the desk. Perhaps the wax of the candle was scented. He leaned to

blow it out, but second thought turned him away from it. Moving his fingers and toes in the water, he could feel the grittiness of the powder at the base of the pan and the bucket. He took his hands out of the water and shook them. They appeared grayish and wrinkled from being soaked all night. He placed the pan on the desk next to the novena and lifted his feet from the bucket. Smoothing the water from his feet, he saw they too were grayish and wrinkled. But, incredibly, his bunions had shrunk and the crust on his feet had softened remarkably. Standing, he did not feel the discomfort he had grown to tolerate throughout the years. Except for the effluvium from

his mouth, Calhoun felt rejuvenated. He was amazed that soaking in the powdered water seemed to have worked, but not to the extent of wellness he was feeling inside of himself. He went into the restroom to urinate, and was surprised at the smell and color of his urine. It was a dark yellowish hue and smelled of rot. It concerned him, but he shrugged it off. Using the water in the pan and the bucket, he dumped it into the toilet to flush it. Before going down, the water fizzed and turned clear. Calhoun 115 ROBERTSON shifted his eyes, wondering what was

really going on. As he refreshed himself, the nerve in his right eye began to twitch rapidly. It was a sign that he was going to be happy about something. If the nerve in the left eye twitched, it was a sign that he would be angry about something. For some reason, Calhoun felt that a dark cloud had lifted from him. Whether it was from the powder, from reciting the prayer on the novena, lighting the candle, or finishing the remainder of the Johnnie Walker Red Label, something had worked in his favor. A hard knock sounded at the door. Calhoun stood still, waiting for the knock to sound again in order to determine whether it was a disgruntled client, the police, or the Civil Sheriff

deputy. When it sounded again, it was a knock of urgency. He went to the door and saw the familiar outline of the man through the translucent glass pane. The shape of the stingy-rimmed hat made it certain. It was the bookie, Alvin. Opening the door, Alvin cocked his head. The sleeve of his black leather suit coat hung loose at the side of his broad shoulder. Calhoun took a quick search of his face, but was unable to read any emotion from the sharp, devilish countenance. “What you doin’ out so early in the mornin’, Alvin?” Calhoun turned away from the door. “I thought vampires sleep du’in’ the day time?” “You don’t pay me to be a

whippin’ boy, Coolie,” Alvin smirked, stepping gaddishly into the office. “Especially when I been lookin’ high and low for you. Where you been?” “I don’t pay you to be askin’ me no jenny-woman questions ne’ther! What, I owe you money or somethin’?” 116

HOODOO “Why’s it so cold in here, Coolie? You ain’t paid yo’ Public Service or what?” Alvin stuck his hand into the pocket of his coat and came up with a fold of hundred dollar bills held in place by a yellow gold money clip.

He sniffed and stared behind Calhoun, his sharp eyes fixed on the desk. “I thought I smelled wax burnin’ in here! You hurtin’ that bad you lightin’ candles for heat, Coolie?” “Yep,” Calhoun nodded. “I need some o’ that lajon you got in yo’ hands right there.” “No, that’s a saint candle,” Alvin said, looking directly into Calhoun’s eyes. “You done got geechie on me, Coolie? It’s that bad you lightin’ candles for luck, bro? What’s the matter with you?” “What you come y’ere for, Alvin? You got money in yo’ hands. I won?” “That spotted nag kicked grass

in their faces, Coolie,” Alvin beamed, licking his thumb and counted out the fold of bills. “I don’t think the Mafia knew what was comin’! That nag stayed at forty to one! The sucker bu’st out that gate like he was late for somethin’! . . You cleaned up on this one, baby! If you lit that candle for luck, it worked! This is all yo’s! Ofcourse I took mines off the top, and there’s that lil matter of a past due account. I went ahead and paid that up for you too.” “Damn, Alvin, I hope you left me somethin’, shit! I tol’ you you was covered, didn’ I? If you ain’t chargin’ me int’rest, you takin’ shit off the top! I know damn well you played that pony! What about that? Where’s my

commission for that, huh?” “You can believe it or not, Coolie, but, I swear on 117 ROBERTSON everything holy, bro, I didn’t play that pony, not even to show! That’s what I’m tryin’ to say, the pony stayed at forty to one without budgin’! The Mafia didn’t even play him! Who the fuck gon bet on a sway-back, spotted pony called Midnight Sky, runnin’ in grass at that? Nobody but somebody like you! Everybody--- I tell you everybody was shocked when that sucker bu’st out that startin’ gate and sailed through that finish

line! I saw a ol’ nun cuss like a sailor when that joker sailed through that wire! Me, I didn’t trust it. A big black white spotted nag is a target for intense competition, bro! I didn’t wanna take the chance. I don’t make money by takin’ chances. I take other people’s money who take chances.” “Yo’ loss, daddy-o! The dif’rence betwixt winners n’ losers, winners don’t think. They take chances. You study long you study wrong!” Calhoun snapped his fingers and reached out his hand. “Lay that green where it belong, big daddy!” Alvin fanned out the fold of bills. “I like dealin’ with brothers like you, Coolie. You’re like crawfish,

always reachin’ and backin’ up!” Alvin’s eyes bucked at the sight of Calhoun’s hands. “Damn, Coolie, look at yo’ hands! You been playin’ in Gen’tian Violet or somethin’?” Calhoun looked at his hand. It had turned purple up to the wrist. His other hand was in the same condition. Self consciously, he started to hide his hands from Alvin, but realized he needed to get his winnings from the bookie first. “Damn,” Alvin said, stepping back away from Calhoun. “Your feet too! . . What the fuck you been doin’ 118

HOODOO in here, Coolie? You purple as a purple people-eater!” “I uh,” Calhoun grinned, scrambling to think of something. “I um-- I been cleanin’ up. I shoulda knowed better than to mix bleach n’ pine oil wit’ ammonia!” “No, bro, you was tryin’ to blow yo’ own ass up! Don’t you have a janitor around here?” “Yeah,” Calhoun lied. “He, um, he out sick. . . C’mon, gimme my damn money!” Alvin laid the money in the palm of Calhoun’s hand, making sure to

prevent touching Calhoun’s skin. “What, you don’t want touch me, bro,” Calhoun asked, looking undereyed at Alvin “I don’t know, Coolie,” Alvin raised his eyebrows. “You might be afflicted with ring-worm or Indian Fire all over yo’ body. I heard that shit is contagious!” “You so simple, it’s unbelievable!” “I ain’t playin’, Coolie. It’s that or I think some woman done put a curse on you and you don’t know it. Is your tongue purple too?” “Man, git the fuck outta y’ere! You sound like some kinda fool!” “You can be messin’ around if

you want, Coolie, but you don’t know! When them people come at you, they not gon knock on yo’ door and ask you if it’s all right if they could put a curse on yo’ ass, y’know what I’m sayin’?” “I ain’t sca’ed o’ no hoodoo they do. That stuff only work n’ you believe on it. I don’t believe on none o’ it!” “Well, I just dropped by to see if you was here to throw you out yo’ cake. I been lookin’ all over town for you. If you got anymore orders, you know where you can 119 ROBERTSON

find me.” “I ain’t got time to be readin’ no racin’ forms right now. I’m workin’ on a big case.” “Well, take care of yo’ hands and feet, man. That shit could get ugly.” “My hands n’ feet might be purple, “ Calhoun sniffed the fresh, crisp bills, getting a whiff of Alvin’s cologne from it. “But my money is sweet n’ green!” Calhoun closed the door behind Alvin. With alacrity, he tossed the bills atop his desk and rushed into the restroom. Turning on the light, he raised his hands to the bulb over the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet. He could see where the purple

coloration was beginning to fade around his wrists. At his fingertips, the purpling was darker. The hardness at the palms of his hands had softened considerably. Spreading out his fingers, his hands looked youthful. The yellowish white of his nails were returning to their former pinkish white. Calhoun was flabbergasted! . . Taking a seat on the toilet, he cocked his foot across his thigh, grunting at the pressure created at the small paunch of his gut. Inspecting the soles of his foot, he noticed the same fading at his ankles. The crusting of his heels and the callusing of his pads were soft and purple. Picking at it with his fingernails, he noticed the edges of the damage were beginning to peel. His

bunions had shrunk noticeably. More than that, he felt the beginnings of sensitivity at the lower joint of his big toe where none had been for quite some time. Before, his small toe had curled up over the toe next to it. But now, it was side by side as the others, its bleached nail loose and threatening to drop off. Inspecting his 120

HOODOO right foot, he found it in the same phase of healing. Calhoun leaned back against the toilet tank, wondering what it was in the powder to have brought on such a

miraculous cure. He remembered what the old lady had said about opening the novena to find the name and the address of the person he needed to consult were the powder to fail. Flipping the novena, he studied the pressed edges of the card for an opening. Taking his key ring from the desk top, he opened the tiny pin-knife on it and slit the bottom edge of the novena. The blue ink of the stamp appeared smudged from haste, but the name and address was discernible. The stamp simply read: Mde. JUBILEE MERCADEL 941 St. John Bayou Rd.

New Orleans, La. 70119 Calhoun knew the area well. All that was left now was to find a way to convince Frog to accompany him to the voodoo house and pretend to have the condition for a cure. He looked at the name again. Though most advertised their talents from shops mainly on Decatur Street near the Esplanade Point in the French Quarters, these were in the practice merely from a commercial stand-point, and had no more in-depth a knowledge of voodoo than he had. The most legitimate and respected were very reclusive, shy, modest, and highly secretive, and avoided any unnecessary exposure as much as possible. Their

advertisements were by word of mouth, from their deeds. They preferred to work their craft on true believers and those who needed it the most rather than create a sideshow atmosphere which would make a 121 ROBERTSON ridiculous spectacle of their religion. Putting on his socks and shoes, Calhoun marveled anew at the wondrous effects of the powder and wondered how long it would take to degenerate back to their former condition. Besides, the abuse he put his hands and feet through in the war and in his activities as a

private investigator was nobody’s fault but his. He blamed himself for trying to be the dandy in his youth by subjecting his feet to the deliberate misery of wearing undersized shoes. With the newly acquired windfall of cash, he decided to treat himself to a big, hot breakfast. After spending fifty-five dollars at the Cracker Jack, his funds had been greatly depleted. Now, he smiled, slipping on his coat and hat, an omelet stuffed with seasoning and chunks of succulent Canadian bacon was in order for this morning. Before going out of the door, he remembered that the candle was still lit atop his desk. With as much luck as he was having since lighting it, he decided

to let it burn out.

122

CHAPTER FIVE

Calhoun and Frog met some twenty years ago when Frog was honorably discharged from the United States Army. Frog swore up and down that he was in the service with Calhoun and had met him once, but Calhoun could not remember Frog. That was because Frog was lying only to curry favor from Calhoun, and Calhoun only allowed Frog to say that because he had in fact grown fond of Frog. They were friends. But, in reality, Calhoun had been a career-man, having served all his teenage years in the military, entering the military from a lie he concocted at the age of sixteen. He enlisted in the Special Forces of the Army Rangers and served from 1963 to 1965, where after being

captured by the Viet Cong and severely injured, he was retired from the Rangers to serve three more tours in Vietnam. Afterwards, Calhoun remained in the military to train young up and coming officers in preparations of becoming Special Forces Rangers until he voluntarily discharged with honors in 1969. Though he was awarded the prestigious United States Medal Honor in 1969, no Congressional ceremony was ever held, and thusly, no national acclaim as a hero who risked his own life to save those of the men he commanded. So, there was no doubt that Frog may have heard of and revered Master Sergeant J. Coltrane Calhoun, but Frog had not even entered the military

when Calhoun returned state-side. Frog was regular Army, serving in peacetime, and saw no action in his tour from 1972 to 1973. So it was impossible for the two to have met in the military. They met through Slim who Frog knew from childhood, and 123 ROBERTSON anything Frog knew about Calhoun then probably came from the reputation Calhoun left in the military or from Slim. There was no doubt that Frog had great admiration for Calhoun which made their friendship unconditional. Frog lived alone in a one bedroom apartment

in a rough and tumble flat on Jackson Avenue called Cabbage Alley. Frog was unmarried and had no children. It was said that an injury in the war had ruined Frog, that is, rendered him impotent. Calhoun surmised that Frog had spread that rumor for some reason or other. He had learned that Frog was given to exaggeration and would lie for no reason at all. Yet, Frog’s frequent excursions to the whore stroll on South Rampart and Erato Street belied the rumors of his impotence. He was just unable to carry a faithful, long-term relationship with a woman. Frog’s training in heavy equipment operations earned him a lucrative job with Boh Brothers

Constructions, an industrial engineering firm dealing in infrastructure and street repairs in New Orleans for close to one hundred years. Calhoun knew that Frog’s favorite diner after work was the Dew Drop Inn on North Claiborne off Basin Street, a small family owned kitchen specializing in home-cooked Creolestyled foods. Frog himself claimed to be a black Creole, whatever that meant, raised in the city’s Pilot Land district in the Seventh Ward where everybody called themselves Creole. One thing about Frog that could not be questioned was he ate nothing but Creole dishes or foods that had that Creole flare. He objected furiously when anyone referred to Cajun cooking as Creole cooking. To

Frog, it was like comparing apples to 124

HOODOO oranges Frog said he was. reared on Creole cooking. He knew Creole cooking. Cajun cooking was not Creole cooking. Cajun cooking was flavored mostly with cayenne pepper, making its taste mainly spicy, or severely burnt on the outside and calling its flavor blackened. Whereas, Creole cooking was a mild culinary delight with all of the seasonings and ingredients discernible, and each serving was a tasty event, not just a meal.

The Dew Drop Inn appeared to be begging for a fresh coat of paint. The faded green trimming was peeling and the screening of the door was so old, it was decaying miserably at the edges. Yet, the succulent aromas filling the chilly air outside from the grease encrusted vents at the side of the two storied building deflected attention away from the old, unkempt structure. Entering the dining room, the place was obviously the most popular diner in the Treme district. The large number of working men and women at the tables made the spacious room appear small. Everyone was still dressed in their work clothing, greasy, dusty, and muddy from a hard day’s work. Muddy Water’s old

blues tune, “Hoochie-Coochie Man” was playing loud from the four speakers fastened in each corner of the high, fresco tiled ceiling. Looking over the crowded tables, Calhoun spotted Frog sitting alone near a corner of the room, reading from a folded newspaper. A tall, half emptied glass of beer, some foam still clinging to the sides, rested at his right on the table. “Wha’s jompin’, Froggish,” Calhoun greeted, pulling out one of the chairs. Frog’s large, wide-set eyes rolled up from the 125 ROBERTSON

newspaper, a ray of surprise moving across his ebony face. “Ain’t nothin’ jompin’ but the beans in the pot, and they wouldn’t be jompin’ if the water wasn’t hot!” Frog closed the newspaper. Calhoun chuckled, taking a seat at the table. “What brung you down this way, Sarge? I was gon come up to Marie’s when I finished gittin’ me some’t’eat. What, them ponies done broke you? You need some money or somethin’?” “Naw, pa’tner,” Calhoun shook his head, taking off his hat. “I were in the neighborhood n’ thought I’d drop on by.” “My home is yo’ home,” Frog

raised his hand and snapped his fingers for the waitress. “You want a beer?” Calhoun tilted his head and raised his chin. “What kinda question that is? You damn right I want a beer! Shit, you buyin’!” The waitress hurried to the table. Frog finished his beer and rested it on the table. “Don’t Start Me To Talkin’” burst through the speakers and filled the room. Frog gave the waitress his order and watched her switch away from the table. “Lawd h’mercy,” Frog shook his head, sucking in his ample lower lip. “One o’ these ol’ rainy days, when I git to be a big boy, I’mon git me a woman so’s I can eat for free!”

“You better watch how you say that, boy. People might think you talkin’ ‘bout chompin’ at the bush!” “So? What if I am?” It ain’t right, son. That stuff ain’t part o’ the four 126

HOODOO basic food groups! H’ain’t no nutritional value could be gotten from it.” “You right, but it sho leads to a happy n’ healthy relationship!” “Well, I’mon say like them o’ olden days say: you is what you eat!”

“That hat don’t fit my head, Sarge. I was just playin’. I ain’t got no rubber neck! I was just talkin’ about gittin’ me a woman and bein’ served for free, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. A cow run around, anybody can git the milk! You catch the cow, you git the milk for free!” Calhoun hung his hat on the back rest of the chair. “The best things in life is free, Froggish. Gittin’ yo’self a woman don’t figger in that. Shit, it might cos’ you mo’ than it is now. You gotta feed that cow, take care o’ it, and pamper it, or that cow gon go back to pasture.” True,” Frog nodded. “True. But, a man git to be of the age where he gits

lonely sometimes, ya dig where I’m comin’ from? Messin’ with a lotta women, a man loses all the qualities that makes him a man ‘cause he take for granted the thing that compliments his man-qualities.” Calhoun looked under-eyed at Frog. “You ain’t gittin’ a lil sweet in the pants, is you, boy?” “Nope, not hardly. I ain’t gittin’ no lace on my draw’s! What I mean is, a man could forgit his nat’ral, Gawd-given purpose after bein’ alone for too long. It gits to a place where you don’t have nothin’ to look forward to no mo’. It’s a lonely place, Sarge. A man mess wit’ a lotta womens, he tend to take womanhood and bein’ with a woman for

granted, y’know. You git up in the mornin’ and git you a sam’mich n’ a cup o’ coffee from the Meals 127 ROBERTSON On Wheels at work; you git off from work and eat at a rest’rant; then you drink all night with yo’ buddies; you git a lil tipsy n’ go home to a cold bed all by yo’ lonesome in the wee hours o’ the night. If you feel like bein’ bothered, you call on a woman, or she comes by you, n’ you hit it n’ quit it, or you go ‘head and rent you a ‘ho. Then you go home n’ take a hot shower ‘cause yo’ tub is too small to carry a tub in it. You go to bed,

then wake up in the mornin’ n’ it starts all over again, the same ol’ strokiddystroke! . . That ain’t much o’ a livin’ after a while, Sarge.” “Boy, you need help,” Calhoun grimaced, shaking his head. “You is ponkin’ up on me!” Calhoun was just kidding. Inside himself, he knew exactly what Frog was expressing. Frog was experiencing a momentary bout of maturity. “You can call it what you want, Sarge, but a man git sick, sick n’ ti’ed o’ the same ol’ stroke over n’ over! You git to where you wanna know what it feels like to have you a woman you can keep and call yo’ very own! To have n’ to hold, in goodness and in health, tilst

death do you part; a woman to greet you at the door wit’ a great big hug after a hard day’s work; to have a hot plate waitin’ on ya at a real dinner table in yo’ own house in the evenin’ time! To have yo’ baf’ water drawn for you in a whole tub after you done had yo’ supper, then in the midnight hours, to love you like they ain’t no tomorrow! Man, that’s the life! You jes don’t know how good it is, how sweet n’ wonderful life could be! . . Sarge, I’m yearnin’ for somethin’ like that right now in my life!” “I got some bad news for you, Frog, my man. That 128

HOODOO kinda stuff don’t happen even in Goodiegoodie Land! I don’t know who tol’ you that or what movie you been watchin’, but whatever it was, they trippin’ as hard as you is! If they got a woman like that anywhere, I don’t wanna meet her ‘cause she crazy as a ding-bat! Ain’t no woman nowhere gon have no baf’ water drawed for you or even dry off yo’ hairy ass, nor wait for you at the do’ tilst you gits home from work, boy! If she do, you better watch yo’ back! . . Where you gittin’ that shit from?” The waitress carried two tall glasses of beer on a brown serving tray, placing them on the table in front of

Calhoun and Frog, then placing the empties on the tray. She walked away. “See,” Frog peered at the waitress again. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. That’s where I’m comin’ from. I need somethin’ like that!” “Well, want you open up a rest’rant n’ hire you a bunch o’ womens like that? You only yearnin’ for that ‘cause that’s what you exposed to each n’ every day, Frog. You need to check yo’self, man.” “Damn, Sarge, you sure know how to strip the slag off a man’s eyes!” “The truf’ gon set you free, boy,” Calhoun said, lifting his glass and slurped loudly through the thick, foamy head of the beer., the suds covering his

trimmed mustache. “Real life is a bitch! Say, you see a man and a woman walkin’ all happy, hand in hand. They like that ‘cause we think they in love. But the thing that we don’t see is, they mo’ friends than they is lovers. They like that because they really like each other, n’ they love is founded on they friendship. They would be together tilst 129 ROBERTSON the end o’ they days ‘cause they really like each other! Take a ugly man n’ a pretty woman, or a haggish woman n’ a handsome man. They mo’ likely together ‘cause o’ money, y’know, sugar-daddies

n’ sugar-mamas. But, one outta ten, they together ‘cause they really enjoy each other, they really appreciate each other company. You don’t wake up to look at somebody who sleep-ugly as well as ugly durin’ the day n’ not like ‘em! Cain’t nobody wanna be ‘round no slap-ugly motherfucka for a minute, lessen on a lifetime! Shit, love ain’t that strong! But, what it really is is they get along wit’ each other because they appreciate n’ understand each other, y’know what I mean--- they spirits is evenly yoked by Him on high, n’ they don’t see they earthly looks. They see the pure spirit o’ each other. It could even be said that they love each other. That’s what would make a man leave his fam’ly, a mama

leave her chil’ren, ‘cause they would come on the spirit they was meant to be wit’ all along, the spirit Gawd made one for the other on High. We say they cheaters, n’ reject ‘em, but they be together from that time tilst death do them apart! They do got a bunch o’ cheaters that need to be rejected for bein’ doggish, but a lot o’ ‘em ain’t really cheaters.“ “Now what you jes said sounds like a joke,” Frog said, drinking his beer. “How can you say that two people who been married and made they vows to Gawd n’ the church, could see somebody who click with them and that would make them leave their families for somebody else? That’s the same

thing when a man see a woman and be turned on by her n’ cheat on they wife--“ “No-no-no,” Calhoun shook his head. “I’m talkin’ 130

HOODOO ‘bout spirit, bro. You talkin’ ‘bout lust. I could look at a pigs doin’ it n’ git turn’t on! You looked at that fine ass waitress, you started yennin’ for a woman to greet you at the do’! That’s lust, fool! If one woman turns you on, another sho will! When you bust yo’ nut, all the magic gon go away, n’ you start all over wit’

another one. Like that ol’ song sung, ‘I never met a ugly woman, but I woke up wit’ quite a few!’ That was dronk ass lust! Any man or woman’d look good behind a beer glass! . . What I’m talkin’ about is fate--- we might go astray, you might go in dif’rent directions y’ere on earth, but the hand o’ Gawd always lead y’all together ‘cause y’all was meant to be together. Some stick to they vows n’ be friends wit’ that person but inside they happy as a hog in slope, w’ile others jes take they fates in they hands come what may. That’s jes the way it is. You go ‘round searchin’ for somebody n’ expectin’ them to greet you at the do’ n’ have yo’ baf’ water drawed for you, you sittin’ yo’self up for a big let down!”

“Yeah, but what’s a man supposed to do?” “What you always been doin’, Froggish. Jes be yo’self. Hell, that’s all you can be. You try to be somebody else, you fucked from the word say go! They got somebody for everybody. Shit, a gorilla looks good to another gorilla! They got somebody you gon click with, n’ when it happens, you gon know it.” “Sarge, you livin’ in another time,” Frog said, taking another drink of beer. “We all put on a lil show when we see somebody we want. It’s a nat’ral thing. You sit ‘round waitin’ for a woman to come along, you gon be lonely for a long time. It’s the game of life. Boy chases

131 ROBERTSON girl, girl runs away. Boy catches girl, girl stay. It’s been like that since the dawn of time. That’s the way Gawd made it. A man and a woman supposed to hook up and get married and have children. Be fruitful and multiply. It’s natural. That right there tells you that Gawd didn’t intend for man or woman to go ‘round beatin’ their meat, ‘maphroditin’, n’ bulldaggin’! Be fruitful n’ multiply! That’s why you see these ponks n’ bull-daggers ‘round y’ere adoptin’ lil children, tryin’ to look normal! They cain’t never look normal,

but that’s what they tryin’ to do!” “That’s the problem, Frog,” Calhoun said, drinking deeply from his beer. “That’s the problem right there. People too busy playin’ the game o’ life insteada listenin’ to the talk that’s right.” “What you sayin’, Sarge, that a man and a woman playin’ games? You don’t agree that a man and woman is supposed to git married and have children?” “Who tol’ you that’s the way it’s supposed to go?” “The Holy Bible tells me so,” Frog answered, looking as if he dared Calhoun to refute his source. “Where’s it at in the Bible?” “From the beginnin’, all up in

there!” “Okay. Was Adam and Eve married?” “Yeah they was married!” “Who married ‘em?” “Gawd married ‘em!” “Gawd married ‘em?” “That’s what I said! You don’t agree with that?” “Sho, but Gawd gon come all the way down from he’m jes to marry you n’ a woman?” 132

HOODOO Frog knitted his brow at the

question. “No. He gave that job to His representatives.” “Who they is?” “You know who they is! Rev’rends, pries’s, preachers, pastors, the Pope. Jesse Jackson!” “They all men, flesh n’ blood, full o’ weaknesses, jes like me n’ you. Take another shot.” Frog stroked his clean shaven chin, looking up at the ceiling. “Okay. Farrakhan!” “C’mon, man, you can do better than that!” “Al Sharpton, and that’s as far as I’m goin’!” “Okay, if they Gawd’s representatives, who give them the

authority to marry up on somebody?” “They was ordained by Gawd!” “If Gawd is the Gawd o’ us all, why He jes come all the down y’ere to ordain them n’ didn’t holla at the rest o’ us befo’ He went back up? That don’t sound right!” Frog twisted his face. “Man, look, where you comin’ from with this?” “I feels like this. If Gawd meant for you n’ a woman to be together, you gon be together irregardless! Gittin’ married ain’t gon do nothin’ but git you divorced! When people git married, somethin’ happens to ‘em. It’s like they lose what it took to bring ‘em together. But, it looks like when a man n’ woman

is drawn together because they really like each other n’ enjoy each other company, they be together for a long time. I feels like whatever Gawd brung together, no man nor nothin’ can tear them asunder. . . Adam n’ Eve wan’t married by Gawd. Gawd made them for each other from His creation, n’ they was together for a thousand years! He only told them, ‘Be 133 ROBERTSON fruitful n’ multiply!’ that’s all.” Frog was silent, sipping from his beer. Calhoun took another gulp of his beer in order to keep ahead of Frog. “People be playin’ the game o’

life, n’ when life turns sour, they turn bitter. A woman sees you n’ checks you out, she likes the qualities she sees in you. If she feels you, she gon be grown enough to come t’ya.. You ain’t gon need to be chasin’ up behin’ nothin’ or yearnin’ for somethin’ that don’t want you. When she comes to you, she done already made her choice from what she done already seen’t and done accepted you for who you is, n’ she ain’t gon be expectin’ nothin’ mo’ than who you is. Y’all go ‘round puttin’ on airs playin’ the game o’ life n’ expect somethin’ real gon come outta it, both o’ y’all trippin’! Then, when ne’ther one o’ y’all can’t live up to expectations no mo’, or y’all done run outta game n’ cain’t fake it out

no mo’, somebody gon git hurt! When it’s all over, y’all gon go back to where you started, wastin’ yo’ time n’ yo’ life, yearnin’ n’ lonely, hatin’ yo’self for yo’ own misery, lookin’ for a woman to greet you at the do’ wit’ a hug, a hot plate, n’ baf’ water!” The waitress returned with a steaming plate piled high with rice topped by seasoned greens. Fried slices of hickory smoked sausage, seasoning ham, pickled pork meat, pig’s tails, and ham hocks dotted the heaping meal. A saucer held a large slice of golden cornbread with melted butter on top. Frog’s mood percolated at the meal, smiling and reaching over for a bottle of barbeque sauce. He shook the sauce

over the greens and stirred the food with his fork. Before eating, he looked up at 134

HOODOO Calhoun. “Don’t sit there in front a empty table, Sarge. Order you some ribs or wings or somethin’. Don’t have me sittin’ here eatin’ all over yo’ head!” “I’m good,” Calhoun said, reaching for a packet of Melba Toast from a small basket on the table next to the bottle of barbeque sauce, hot sauce, house-made vinegrette, salt, and pepper. “Go’n knock yo’self out.”

“You sho? You don’t care for some’t’eat?” “No, Froggish. I’m gon munch on this y’ere cracker, okay. Go’n eat yo’ food, boy!” Calhoun shook the packet and pulled it open. “I’m workin’ on a case Slim gived to me, n’ I ain’t got much o’ a appetite.” “That graveya’d thing, huh,” Frog mumbled through a stuffed mouth. “You know it. I checked it out n’ it’s a open n’ shut case! I already know who stol’t that stuff already, n’ I’m about to crack it wide open!” Frog nodded, chewing his food with gusto. “I knew you could do it, Sarge. You’s a man among men.” “Don’t you forgit it, ne’ther.

But, right now, I need some help.” Frog stopped chewing, staring at the purplish coloration on the skin of Calhoun’s hands. “What’s wrong with your hands, Sarge? You got poison ivy or somethin’?” “No,” Calhoun shook his head. “The story on this is, I went to this hoodoo woman to the Cracker Jack n’ tried to git one o’ them hoodoo-diggies goin’. You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout? One o’ them hoodoo w’cha-ma-call-its?” 135 ROBERTSON “A voodoo ritual?” “Yeah. . . Anyways, I tol’ ‘em I

had a friend who hands n’ foots been swol’t up from a spell his woman put on ‘im, n’ she gived me some stuff n’ a holy card.” “Oh, please,” Frog chuckled. “Don’t tell me you used it?” “I did! N’, you know what? I done jes like she said, n’ my hands n’ foots were new! They turn’t healthy! I got me some new hands n’ foots! Jes look on ‘em!” Frog was chewing slowly, crumbs of cornbread specking his thick lips, examining the suppleness of Calhoun’s hands. Calhoun turned his hands over so that Frog could get a full look. “They new, Frog! I got me some

baby hands n’ foots!” “They do look smoove,” Frog acknowledged, lifting a fork full of greens, rice, and meat to his mouth. “They look as smoove as a baby’s bottom. That’s why you used it on yo’self?” “No. I tried it ‘cause, really, I ain’t believe it was gon work. But, look on ‘em, Frog! It worked like a charm! They new! But, they purple! My foots is purple too! . . What I’m sayin’ is, I done messed up, Frog. N’usin’ it on my own self, I can’t go n’ git on the hoodoo doin’. I need somebody to come wit’ me n’ pose as somebody who been “flicted.” “I thought you told me you told the hoodoo you had a friend who done

been hoodooed? If you go to that hoodoo with your hands and feet all purple like that, they gon know you stuffin’ ‘em. It ain’t good to be bull136

HOODOO crappin’ ‘round with them hoodoos, Sarge.” “That’s exactly what I’m tryin’ to tell you,” Calhoun said, fiddling with the packet wrapper. “That’s why I need you to come with me.” “Why, because your hands is purple? Why don’t you play like the

friend who been afflicted and I’m checkin’ you in for a cure?” “’Cause I need to do the talkin’. All you gotta do is act like you ‘flicted n’ keep yo’ mouf’ shut. It takes thinkin’ to do what need to be done.” “Well, you oughta go by yo’self, Einstien,’ Frog sniped, continuing to eat. “I can’t do that, Froggish. See, I kinda made a mistake. When the hoodoo woman ask me my name, I told her my name is Frog.” Frog stopped eating, gazing at Calhoun in disbelief. “You didn’t tell them people my name, Sarge? I know you didn’t tell that hoodoo my name?” “I couln’ help it, Froggish,” Calhoun whined. “She woulda caught me

in a lie. Man, them two big ass cats in there started fightin’ n’ it felt like all o’ ‘em was readin’ my mind! You was the frst person I thought about!” “Damn, Sarge,” Frog turned his face away. “Got-damn, Sarge.” He looked squarely at Calhoun. “Them hoodoos, man! I don’t mess around with them people whatsoever! Them people’ll put somethin’ on yo’ ass that’ll make you wish you was never born! I can’t believe you did that to me. . . “ Frog stirred his food listlessly. The edge had been cut from his apetite. Just the mere thought of having his name associated with voodooists filled him with consternation. However, the thing that bothered him

137 ROBERTSON more was the compromise placed on his friendship with Calhoun. As much as he admired and respected Calhoun, as close as he held their relationship, his fear of the Black Arts called that closeness into question. Though he would jump through hoops for Calhoun, he realized this is where he had to draw the line. This was the precipice of their longtime friendship. “Aw, c’mon, Frog, what you worryin’ ‘bout? You wouldn’ be goin’ up agin’ no hoodoos. You ask me, that shit ain’t but so much fluff anyway! They weak anytime they gotta do Black Magic

to deal wit’ their problems o’ life! Far as I’m concerned, it ain’t nothin’ but a bunch o’ hocus-pocus, trying to scare people so they can have they way! They weak as dog water!” “That’s comin’ from somebody who just got through talkin’ about how some hoodoo heemie-jeemie done turn’t his hands and feet like new! That’s a abstraction that’s outta this world, Sarge!” “Abstract-alliac, give a dog a bone,” Calhoun mumbled, not really knowing what the word meant. “Yeah, I n’used it. I figgered it was some kinda herb. Shit, medicine is made from plants n’ daid tissue n’ stuff, so o’course it woulda worked had I went to a real

doctor or a witch doctor! They all the same e’ther way you look at it! You go to Charity Hospital wit’ a headache n’ they’ll cut yo’ head off to cure it! But, you don’t need to be th’owin’ that in my face jes because you sca’ed, Frog. If you sca’ed, jes say you sca’ed, that’s all!” “I’m scared, Sarge,” Frog said bluntly, cornbread crumbs spraying from his lips. “Well, I gotta respect that, see. A man ain’t normal 138

HOODOO n’ he ain’t sca’ed o’ somethin’. I’mon jes

have to find somebody else to come wit’ me n’ pose like you in a ‘flicted condition. I don’t know nobody who can act ‘flicted better than you can, though. I’m gon jes go on n’ git Slim or Morris to come along. . . I don’t know what made me think o’ you, though. I guess I thought we was tighter than that, y’know. . . Go’n eat yo’ supper, n’ I’ll see you later, Froggish. I know these hoodoos stealin’ that stuff out them cemeteries, n’ I gotta git the goods to crack this thing wide open pretty soon, y’know, w’ile the do’ is still open, or its gon end up closin’ in on me.” Calhoun stood pitifully, taking his hat from the back rest of the chair. Frog stopped chewing as his large eyes

followed Calhoun. The melancholy rift of B.B. King’s “Sweet Sixteen” sounded like a funeral dirge. All his life, Frog managed to run away all of the people whom he cared the most about, and now, he was about to lose someone he adored. “Where you goin’, Sarge,” Frog asked, his jaw puffed from the food inside his mouth. “You ain’t finished yo’ beer, bro. I ain’t payin’ for no half dronk beer, no!” “The way I feel about it, Frog, a good Brewsky gone to waste cain’t never compare to what I need to do. I gotta find a way to crack this case open. I ain’t got no time to be suckin’ down no col’ one!” “Well, sit yo’self back down

here n’ talk to me. Tell me what’s on yo’ mind.” Calhoun wanted to milk the guilt he saw in Frog, but thought it best to let it ride. Too much pressure might spook him again. He sat back down and lifted the glass of 139

ROBERTSON beer. “Talk to me,” Frog said, washing down his food with a gulp of beer. “What I was tryin’ to say is all that gotta be done is for you to fake like

you ‘flicted wit’ a condition, y’know. We gon git some purple dye from the sto’ n’ color up yo’ hands n’ foots like you n‘used the thing. Black as you is, it might not even show up, but you cain’t never be too careful wit’ them folk.” Frog was nodding, once again eating with gusto and feeling better about himself. “All you gotta do is look the way you always look, like you’s hurtin’. Jes be yo’self. You ain’t gotta say nothin’. If they ask you somethin’, you tell ‘em you had quit yo’ woman n’ she got back on you by puttin’ a pow’ful mojo on ya. Yo’ hands n’ foots ain’t swolt up no mo’ since’t you n’used the powder, but you’s in ter’ble pain from the mo-jo

lef’ behin’ after the soakin’, aw’ight?” “Um-hm,” Frog mumbled, using his thumb to move the remaining greens and rice onto his fork. “But I ain’t said yeah yet.” “Well why you made me say all that n’ you knowed you wan’t gon do it? What kind o’ ‘maphrodite shit is that? I ain’t got time to be ‘round y’ere jaw je’kin’!” “Aw’ight, aw’ight.” Frog chuckled, leaning back and rubbing his full stomach. The spaces between the buttons of his khaki colored work shirt were lifted out, exposing the white undershirt beneath it. “I was just playin’! You know you can count on me! That makes us partners now, huh?”

140

HOODOO “I wouldn’t go that far, boy,” Calhoun grinned, grateful that Frog had agreed to come along. He guzzled down the rest of his beer and caught a vicious belch involuntarily escaping his gullet, the acid from it burning his nose and watering his eyes. “C’mon, le’s git started wit’ this thing!” “Wait a minute, Sarge. I don’t know about you, but I gotta let my food digest before I go to work.” “Well, I ain’t got all night. I’mon meet you at yo’ place after I take

care o’ some bus’ness.” Calhoun stood from the table. He stopped and turned back to Frog. “Hey, I wanna thank ya for he’pin’ me out, Froggish. You my hoss even if you can’t never win a race!” “Yeah, but I can’t believe you was gon git somebody like ol’ goofy ass Morris over me, bro.” “I was jes complimentin’ you, fool! Git ova it!”

***** The old Treme district was the eldest daughter of the French Quarter that was built primarily by gens du colour, free men of color in the early 1800’s. As Haiti drew closer to

independence during the Haitian Revolution, many Creoles who were agent provocateurs, French sympathizers, military commanders and soldiers, evacuated their homes and property in Haiti and fled to the French Territory of New Orleans. Once in New Orleans, the Haitian-Creole refugees immediately sought to distinguish themselves from their enslaved brethren and even the long line of gens du colour in New Orleans. No matter how much they tried, they found it impossible because of the inability of whites to distinguish any 141 ROBERTSON

person of color from his status in white society: as a slave and a subhuman. So, despite themselves, they began to intermix with their New Orleans brethren and created a rich, colorful history that became the inimitable culture of the old city. A large part of what the Haitian Creoles brought with them was their belief in voodoo. There was voodoo in New Orleans prior to their evacuation to New Orleans, but it was a lackluster practice compared to what the Haitian Creoles brought with them. The Haitian Creoles brought it in the form of a religion with a dark, evil mystique, and it dominated the African rituals that

were held every weekend in a wooded section across the ramparts called Congo Square. The Haitian form of voodoo had a god, Dambala, and his mate, the goddess Mouma, and their offspring, the demi-god Zombie. In their rituals, they promenaded in dances called the kumba and the bamboula, and these dances were mixed with the local, European tinged dances called the calinda and the cake walk. These dances were later combined to create the second line where Africans pranced behind funeral processions. Many Africans, unable to legally and religiously be married, was wedded at Congo Square in voodoo ceremonies in the tradition of their African heritage.

The New Orleans City Registry recorded more than three hundred voodooists openly practicing in the city in 1820, not counting the more secretive and cloistered queens and houcans (kings) controlling their operations behind the scenes. While all of this was going on, there was a royal queen walking among them 142

HOODOO unnoticed as a coiffeuse. Marie Laveau was born in New Orleans in the Vieux Carre (old city) on

August 4th, 1794. Her mother was of Moorish royalty who ruled parts of France in the 15th and 16th centuries. It is believed that Marie Laveau’s mother was the daughter of the Sun King, Louis XIV and a Moorish princess in France. King Louis XIV saw in the princess a bargaining chip with the Moorish leadership in France in the power-grabs to consolidate the nation under one court, with Louis XIV as monarch. Instead of marrying the Moorish princess, he made her his paramour, brought her as his wife into his palace, impregnated her, and virtually ignored her afterwards. He kept her under close vigilance and had her chaperoned constantly. The princess died in child-

birth, and King Louis XIV sent his daughter away to be cloistered at a convent in Moret, France where she was raised by nuns. Under heavy security at all times, the young child was catered to as royalty and never left the convent. As she grew, it was learned that she was raptured by the spirits. She talked with and played with the dead. The child possessed prophetic abilities as well, telling the nuns what her father and siblings were doing at the palace and foreseeing deaths and even minor accidents at the convent. Her siblings visited her at the convent just to have her predict events for them. She predicted her father’s death and the exact time he would pass into eternity. By then, she

was fully grown and the duties of her care was passed to the Duke d’Orlean, regent of France, who was possibly the king’s nephew, Phillip II, who was uncaring about his Moorish relative at 143 ROBERTSON Moret. Under his care, the royal treatment and upkeep dropped off dramatically. To remove her from ever possibly being discovered, some reports had it that she was removed from Moret to the French province of Saint Dominique (Haiti), or the French colony in the Americas, Nouveau Orlean (New Orleans). It is here that the lineage of

Marie Laveau becomes enshrouded in myth, legend, and embellishment. There was never any mention of Marie Laveau’s mother’s name in her birth records or the census records of New Orleans. It is here that her mother drops from her history. The name Charles Laveau, a gens du colour, appears as her father. His employment was as a planter, and he was highly devoted to his daughter. Marie Laveau had inherited her mother’s rapture, and was very careful not to display it. She walked in the realm of the living and the spirits with ease and never once confused the two worlds. She greeted and conversed with the spirits just as she would a carnal soul. The spirits

revealed the universal and ancient mysteries to Marie Laveau, and she never once in her early years showed it or spoke of it to anyone. Among her clientele at her beauty parlor, many of whom were European women who had problems in relationships, marriages, and complications in child-bearing, Marie Laveau only made suggestions and gave shrewd advice. Contrary to popular belief, she did not perform magic or prepare charms. She only suggested and advised from her profound understanding of human nature and herbal concoctions, and they all worked as if by magic. From this, she amassed a substantial wealth and kept a large, loyal clientele at her beauty

parlor. 144

HOODOO Marie Laveau was twenty-five years old when she married JeanJacques d’Santiago Paris, a gens du colour, Haitian refugee who served valiantly in the French Army and fought against the rebels in the Saint Dominique Revolution. Being a Haitian, Paris had a healthy respect and fear of voodoo, something he experienced and witnessed firsthand. Laveau wisely kept her secret from her husband. It was recorded that as a wedding gift Charles Laveau had a

cottage built for his daughter at the 1900 block of North Rampart Street, right on the ramparts facing Congo Square. From the stoop of their cottage, Paris recognized the sounds and the drum beats of the festivities and was drawn to Congo Square. Despite the warnings from the spirits, Marie Laveau went with him. She had heard of Congo Square and knew how it began from indigenous Choctaw, gens du colour of New Orleans, and Haitian refugees who built the original French Market, then was barred from it when German immigrants overwhelmed the market in 1819. Taking their market to the streets of New Orleans, the merchants found the unclaimed wooded area across the

ramparts hospitable for trade and fellowship with their own. She had never attended any of the rituals, ceremonies, dances, and trade at Congo Square before. The night that she did attend, she witnessed a voodoo ceremony and was appalled by it. She became uncon-trollably angry, and from her rants, Paris realized that his wife was raptured. That night, he left their home and refused to return. She tried mightily to restore their marriage, but Paris wanted nothing to do with a raptured woman. 145

ROBERTSON

From the spectacle she saw at Congo Square, Marie Laveau went on a crusade against the Haitian priests, priestesses, queens, houcans, and their devoted minions. She wanted to show the true understanding of vodun from its proto-historic beginnings. Under the guidance of the spirits, she challenged the voodooists to prove their worth. She loudly condemned them for working evil, and that each were under the influence of the evil eye. She called them houdous, charlatans who profess to use magic and conjures to bewilder their believers for their own enrichment. Marie Laveau warned them to return to the order of the mysteries or to stop

their evil practice. One by one, she began to expose them as fakes, removing the veil of secrecy from them. It was a blow to the queens and houcans who relied on the tithes lavished on them from the earnings of the priests, priestesses, and minions beneath them. They warned Marie Laveau of her heresy, and threatened that if she continued to meddle, she would be sorry. Marie Laveau reduced the priests and priestesses down to a few of the most powerful in her epic battles, then walked into the dark realms of the queens and houcans. It was a bloodbath! Though these battles were legendary, they were highly secret wars

known only to Marie Laveau, the queens, houcans, and the spirits, thus given to the myth and folklore surrounding them told by the people. Then, in 1823, the threat that Marie Laveau would be sorry for her meddling came to be. That year, Paris mysteriously died. Marie Laveau saw it as “that which she loved was taken away.” Paris was murdered in order to weaken her, but it had the reverse effect. Many 146

HOODOO of the queens and houcans of that era mysteriously died that year, found dead

in their beds, some accidentally falling to their deaths from balconies, many trapped in horrific fires, or a few contracting rare fevers and distempers. It was that year also that Marie Laveau emerged as the undisputed Queen of Voodoo. Her initiatory chant before each ceremony was: Sweet are the ways of thy adversity Which like the toad, ugly and venomous, Yet wears a precious jewel in its head! This is our Life, exempt from public haunts. We find Tongues in trees; Books in the running

waters; Sermons in stones; Truth in fires; Testimonies in winds; And good in everything! So what is bad for one is good for another. Marie Laveau had brought back the ancient understanding of vodun. Like the old spirituality of Ma’at, she merged it with the prevalent religion of Catholicism, removed the evil, enter at your own risk spectre from it, and eliminated the public spectacle of it. In her time, voodoo was practiced for the good. For example, were Marie Laveau not so secretive, she could have attained Sainthood. For example, as early as

1815, as a young woman, Marie Laveau volunteered as a nurse to care for the wounded and to comfort the dying in the Battle of New Orleans. In the cholera epidemic of 1832, Marie Laveau cared for those stricken and dying, and advised New Orleanians of natural disinfectants to ward it off, particularly the sanitary practices of emptying their 147 ROBERTSON chamber pots directly into the drains instead of throwing the slop out of the windows and into the gutters, hence the morning ritual of scrubbing the stoops and banquettes. In the long fight against

yellow fever (Bronze John), the worst of which was in 1853, she tried to advise the city of wiggle worms in the basins and cisterns and that they should burn tar and rub oils on their skins to repel mosquitoes. When no white doctor would even touch an African, she cared for them and saved many, many of her people from being stricken by the deadly epidemic. Her astounding knowledge of nature and herbs, plus the ministry from the spirits, cured many an individual and child of debilitating illnesses and unnecessary death. Another long held myth was that Marie Laveau was a madam who sold young African girls to wealthy white men who would build a love-den for

them (a house with a high-pitched roof called a concubine cottage) a sort of a secret get away. In fact, she held Quadroon and Octoroon Balls at Saint Louis Cathedral and paired beautiful young girls with well-off beaus and wealthy men. These girls were, in truth, victims of molestation, incest, and rape, and were thus unmarriageable in Creole social mores because of the lost of their virginity, which should have been a gift for only her husband to receive. Pairing the girls to someone who wanted them and would support them ensured a better life for them. She also presided over thousands of weddings at Congo Square in voodoo ceremonies, and held christenings of children with god-

parents (called nannans and parans) when their parents were imprisoned, killed, or had abandoned their children. Marie Laveau cared for the poor and the needy, 148

HOODOO feeding and clothing thousands of men, women, and children in her days, and helping the dying transition to life after life. Only a saint could perform those miracles. After the death of Paris, Marie Laveau met and fell in love with Christophe-Duminy Glapion, another

Haitian refugee who had been a decorated captain in the French military. They were married in the African tradition of voodoo, a union not recognized by Catholicism or civil union. Their status was recorded as common-law. They lived in a large, two storied Creole cottage at 152 Saint Ann Street just a block away from Congo Square. She and Glapion had fifteen children. Glapion never participated in any of the voodoo rituals, and would have been honored as a royal houcan if he did, being married to the High Queen of voodoo. Two of her daughters, were both gifted in sight , but was not as raptured as their mother. When Marie Laveau came to her passing in 1881, her

daughters successively took her name as Marie Laveau II and III, and mainly lived off of their mother’s legacy. Under them, voodoo reverted back to the spectacle and dark spectre it formerly held. Unlike their mother who was given enormous tithes and gratuities, her daughters profited greatly from voodoo by arranging elaborate public dances and rituals on the lake front and the fields at Saint John Bayou. They commercialized voodoo, and that is the voodoo being practiced to this very day. Following the address stamped inside the novena, Calhoun cruised into the wide street and parked at the curb alongside Blandin’s Funeral Home. Despite the glow of the night lights

illuminating the street, Calhoun felt uneasy about the eerie quiet of the neighborhood. 149 ROBERTSON Coupled with the cool of the evening and the presence of the funeral home, his task weighed none the better on his nerves. Some of the addresses on the old houses had been painted over and made them hard to read, but the number of the address he was looking for was clearly painted in crimson red. The house was an old raised cottage renovated at the rear by a chiselshaped, camel-backed addition. Going up the concrete steps along the wrought

iron railings to the porch, Calhoun searched along the yellow and red trimmed door for a bell fixture. Overhead, the gingerbread ells supporting the overhang were painted yellow and trimmed in white. Ropes of grayish black garlic dangled from hooks screwed into the overhang. At the center of the door was a tarnished brass knocker. Two vertical glass panes were at the sides of the knocker blinded by dark panels draped on the interior of the door. Finding no door bell, Calhoun used the knocker, rapping three times at the brass plate. After a few seconds, he rapped three times again. Gazing at thel panes of the door, he saw one of the curtains move. The door locks rattled

from inside and the door slightly opened. Calhoun raised his eyes nearly to the height of the door at the dark image of a man peering from the opening. “Who dat is,” the deep baritone voice questioned. “I’s, uh--- I’m J. Coltrane Calhoun, suh. The Cracker Jack sunt--- “ The image of the man’s face disappeared from the door and an enormous hand eased out from the middle of the opened door. “Give me your card,” the deep voice 150

HOODOO

ordered, holding out his palm. Calhoun scrambled inside of his coat pocket for the novena, keeping his eyes on the man’s hand. Finding it, he laid it onto the man’s palm, and watched the hand draw back into the opening. The door closed. “Damn,” Calhoun mumbled. “If his hands that big, I wouldn’ wanna see the res’ o’ ‘im!” Just as Calhoun mumbled that, the door chain rattled and the door swung open. The man was indeed a giant, standing inside the doorway. Dressed in a white satin gown which flowed down to his feet from a tight collar around a sizeable neck, the man’s huge, shaved head and lantern-jaw looked like a big

black boulder atop a snow covered peak. “What’s your condition,” the man asked, his piercing eyes appearing to look through Calhoun. “I uh--- I ain’t y’ere for me,” Calhoun stammered. “Well, what did you come here for if it’s not for you,” the big man raised his voice, a hint of irritation in his tone. “I’m, um, it’s for a friend o’ mines who done been struck. Man, he hurtin’ somethin’ awful!” The man looked up past Calhoun. “Where is he?” “He, um, he at his house soakin’ his hands n’ foots.” “Let me see your hands,” the

big man asked, reaching out his own hands. Calhoun’s stomach muscles contracted, realizing his hands were still colored from the potion. Reluctantly raising his hands, the big man took them in his own, 151

ROBERTSON dwarfing Calhoun’s hands. The big man ran his thumb on the skin of the back of Calhoun’s hands, examining the texture. Incredibly, the big man’s hands were soft and gentle with an oily feel. “Your hands’re purple,” the big

man said, a suspicious tone to his voice. “Oh,” Calhoun grinned. “They got that way when I tried to he’p my friend to prepare his soakin’ water!” The big man gazed at Calhoun for a moment. “What you want us to do for you?” “I were told to come y’ere if the cure ain’t worked. I’m hopin’ Miss Jub’lee could possibly dreen off the pain my friend is feelin’. His hands n’ foots was swol’t up so bad, they looked like balloons with little tiny fingers n’ toes on ‘em! The potion dreened the swelin’ off, but he got him a hurtin’ that he feelin’ all the way down to his soul.” For the first time, the big man’s stare softened as he nodded.

“Come back in one hour tonight. Bring your friend. Ma’m Jubilee will be expectin’ him.” “Thank ye, suh,” Calhoun smiled appreciably. “Thank ye so much! N’ tell Ma’m Jub’lee thank ye too! Can I git yo’ name in case we need to ask for you?” “You won’t need to,” the big man said, backing into the doorway. “Just bring your friend. It’s going to cost him three hundred dollars.” “Three hun--- “ Calhoun started to complain, but before he could complete his protest, the big man closed the door. He mumbled out his protest as he went down the steps. Looking back at the door, he could see the curtain parted at the pane. Calhoun went to his car,

152 HOODOO complaining to himself that for three hundred dollars, this had better bring him some favorable results! At Frog’s tiny apartment, they prepared the purple dye to color Frog’s hands and feet. Satisfied with the results, they went to Calhoun’s office to retrieve the funds for the ceremony. On the drive to the voodoo house, Calhoun warned Frog not to be alarmed by the man’s size. Though imposing, Calhoun sensed the big man was a soft touch. Pulling to the curb across the street from the house, Calhoun turned to give Frog some last

minute instructions. Frog was staring at the funeral parlor, his forehead wrinkled in anxiety. “What’s wrong,” Calhoun asked, looking around to see what had aggrieved his friend. “We ain’t goin’ in Blandin’s, eh, Sarge,” Frog asked. “I thought you said we was goin’ to a house?” “Naw, boy,” Calhoun shook his head. “We ain’t got no bus’ness in there-- not yet anyways. We goin’ across the skreet over there at the yella house.” “Well, why you wanna park by Blandin’s? That’s a funeral home! Goin’ to a voodoo house bad enough!” “Wha’s the dif’rence, Frog, huh--a funeral home, a voodoo house, no

dif’rence! Jes fake like you hu’tin’ when you git there. You know how to do it, jes look the way you always lookin’! N’, don’t jes walk up to the house. They might be watchin’ us as we speak! Hobble! Hobble up to it like yo’ foots is hu’tin’! Palmer-house like somebody done stepped on yo’ big toe!” “I know,” Frog said, opening the car door. “You done tol’ me a hundred times, damn!” “Wait,” Calhoun cautioned, opening his door. 153 ROBERTSON “Don’t jes git out! Le’ me help you like

you crip’t up, aw’ight!” Calhoun hurried around to the passenger side and helped Frog out of the car, taking him at the elbow and shoulder while surreptitiously looking at the house. They went slowly across the street, Frog making his best effort to limp miserably, bringing his shoulders up to his stocky neck and appearing to grimace with each step. Just as Calhoun had expected, the door of the house opened as they struggled up the steps to the porch. This time, however, a thin, caramel complexioned man met them at the door wearing a black silk outfit that resembled pajamas. On the collar, button down, and sleeves of the black shirt, stars and half-moons were pasted in

gold glitter. An eye fashioned in green and white beads had been sewn in front of the black pill-box hat on his small head. The man mumbled something then stretched out the pinkish palm of his right hand. Calhoun went into his pocket, took out the folded bills, and placed them in the man’s hand. He quickly counted the money, smiled, and stepped back from the doorway to let Calhoun and Frog in. Closing the door, the man walked ahead of them. Black silk footies covered the man’s feet. A worn, Persian runner stretched over the brown, hardwood floor of the hallway. Fixtures on the wall held candles that dimly lit the hallway. Calhoun inspected the place as they went along,

looking for any of the items taken from the cemeteries. All he saw were portraits of the saints, Jesus Christ, and the Blessed Mother. Small black wooden crosses were tacked everywhere, even on the high ceiling. The man 154 ROBERTSON turned left into a room on the right side of the hall and opened the door. Only a single candle lit the room, and all they could see were the dark shapes of furnishings and more portraits on the walls. The sensation that someone was watching them came over Calhoun as he

helped Frog into the room. The man moved around them to lace paneled double French doors at the side of the room. Opening both doors, he stepped aside and bowed at the waist as he backed into the room with the palms of his hands stretched out. Calhoun and Frog followed him into the room. In plain view from the door, Calhoun could see a woman sitting upright in a black, high backed, carved wooden chair. A black gauze veil covered her face, held in place at her forehead by a white satin tignon around her head. In the front folds of the tignon was a large blue emerald shimmering at her forehead in the candle light. Her bright red gown seemed aflame from the

small fire in the center of the floor. A white knitted shawl covered her slender shoulders and fastened at the bosom by a baroque, golden amulet. On the wall behind her, two large palm fronds, dried yellow from age, were affixed in an arch over a big, black painted wooden cross. Three people were sitting solemnly on the brown hardwood floor outside of the white line of a circle surrounding the fire. At the right of the woman, the big man sat in a less elaborate black painted wooden chair, his body tilted forward and his lips moving as if chanting something. It looked as if he was poised to suddenly leap out into the circle. The clucking and droning of a chicken could be heard from somewhere in the room.

The room smelled of 155

HOODOO scented wax and burning wood. The man closed the door behind them and took his place at the circle, leaving Calhoun and Frog standing alone. Calhoun looked at Frog who seemed to have forgotten his pretended ailment and was just standing there mesmerized by the magnificent sight of the woman. “Wonderful are the works of thy adversity,” the woman spoke aloud, her soft, feminine voice crisp in the solitude of the room. “Like the toad, ugly and

poisonous, but wears the precious Jewel of Life at its head! This is our life, O’ King of Darkness, free from prying eyes! We speak to thee in the Tongues of Trees; read of thee from the Books of Waters, and hear thy sermons from the Wisdom of Stones! Yea, we bear witness that there is good in all things! But where there is good for one there is bad for another!” The deep thumps of a drum began to beat rhythmically from the shadows. The woman began to chant in a strange language as her minions sitting around the circle swayed hypnotically. The big undulated his wide back to the beat of the drum, his large head snapping back and forth in whipping jerks. The woman

raised her hands, the flared sleeves of her gown flowing down her forearms like water. Gold bracelets leaned downward on her thin wrists. The drum beat stopped. “Come to Madam Jubilee ye one who art sick of body and soul,” the woman summoned, the veil on her face directed at Frog and Calhoun. “Come to Madam Jubilee for thine eyes to be filled of thee!” Frog shot a timid look at Calhoun. 156

ROBERTSON “Well, go’n, boy, she callin’ f’ya,”

Calhoun whispered, nudging Frog and feeling some resistance. “Go’n hobble yo’self up there. Hobble nah. Hobble! I got yo’ back!” Hesitantly, Frog limped before Madam Jubilee with Calhoun holding him at the elbow and the small of the back. Without knowing it, they had stepped into the circle. Calhoun peered down at the fire. Ceramic logs topped with chucks of wood glowed and flickered from a low, cast iron burner. The lion-pawed leggings of the burner rested atop a round cut of sheet metal to protect the wood of the floor. Looking up at Madam Jubilee, he could feel the intensity of her eyes on them from the black veil covering her face. Frog was

staring at the woman, a nerve in his jaw convulsing rapidly. “Are you in pain, my child,” Madam Jubilee asked in a motherly tone of voice. Frog was unable to speak, frozen in awe. “Yes’m,” Calhoun answered. “He-- “ “I wasn’t talking to you, was I?” “No’m,” Calhoun lowered his eyes from the black veil. “From now until you are, speak only when you’re spoken to.” “Yes’m. Sorry ‘bout that, ma’m.” For a long moment, nothing else was said. Calhoun peered around at the minions sitting around the circle, their

heads lowered as if in meditation, and realized that he and Frog were standing within the circle. “You’re wearing shoes,” Madam Jubilee seemed to say to herself. “Are you in pain now?” 157

HOODOO “Ye’m,” was the only thing Frog could utter from his tight throat, nodding his head quickly. “Why are you wearing shoes if your feet are hurting?” “I’mon take ‘em off,” Frog said, his jowls trembling, leaning to remove

his shoes. “No,” Madam Jubileee said, raising her jeweled fingers. “There is no need to. Come, allow Madam Jubilee to look upon your hands.” Frog stepped and stumbled forward, thrusting his hands out. His stubby fingers were trembling uncontrollably. The black veil hung forward as Madam Jubilee studied Frog’s hands, her soft fingers rubbing and stretching the skin. Afterwards, she released them and leaned back into her chair. “The pain you feel is not of this world, my child. Madam Queenie’s remedy has worked as it should, but the pain you feel is more deep. You are sick

in your spirit. In your eyes I see a deep, terrible pain.” “I knowed it,” Calhoun blurted, unable to resist a jab at Frog. “I always did tell ‘im he was a lil touched up in the haid!” “Silence,” Madam Jubilee snapped, the veil puffing outward from her face. “You, leave my coterie!” Calhoun lowered his head. “Sorry, ma’m, I ain’t gon say nothin’ else.” “Now! Leave my coterie now!” “Yes’m,” Calhoun said, backing away. “Don’ le’ me, Sarge,” Frog begged, his large eyes filled with terror. “Gotta do what she say, Frog. Don’t worry, boy, I

158 ROBERTSON ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Calhoun backed out of the circle, nearly stumbling over a woman sitting on the floor behind him. From the shadows, he could see a man in one corner of the room, his hands resting on the white top of a long, cylindrical drum secured across his shoulders by a white strap. Calhoun looked around the room, taking this break to search for cemetery artifacts. Directly behind him, a plaster statue of the Virgin, her gown and shawl painted white and sky blue stood in seclusion against the wall. From a closer

look, he could see specks of crimson dotting and running down the image. He realized the dots and runs were dried blood. Seeing the blood on the statue made the situation a lot more serious now. Easing himself over, he could see golden crosses on the wall designed in skillful craftsmanship and decorated with red, blue, and black stones. Then, in the corner, he saw a granite cherub, bleached clean and adorned with a floral necklace of withered flowers and redolent herbs. . . “Jackpot,” Calhoun said to himself. The beat of the drum snapped him from his focus. Calhoun turned to find Madam Jubilee standing from her seat, her arms and face raised, the veil

molding the fine features of her face. Frog had lowered himself to his knees, his pudgy body tight in tension. Madam Jubilee flourished her hands, causing the bracelets to tingle. The drum beats stopped. Slowly, Madam Jubilee rocked her body without taking a step. She swayed from her ankles, dipping her knees and twisting her body to a rhythm only she could hear. The minions seated around the circle began to rock from their waists, rolling their heads 159

HOODOO round and round, their hands clutching

the knees of their crossed legs. However, the big man was gone from his chair. Calhoun’s heart fluttered. He looked around the room trying to catch sight of him. “Damballa,” Madam Jubilee said loudly, her body stiff and straight, her hands held out from her sides. “O’ Damballa, I call thy name! We are ready but our road is blocked! Come, o’ ye God of the Serpent. . . Come and show us the Way!” The drum beat started slowly, thump, bok, thomp, bok, thump as Madam Jubilee waved her hands over Frog’s head. Frog was slouched on the floor, his body trembling and jerking as if he were sobbing. Madam Jubilee

stepped gracefully around him, caressing his back, running her hands up his shirt and around the fat folds of his sides. She stretched out her arms, fanning out her red gown, and straddled Frog. The gown covered Frog’s body as she lowered herself atop him. Frog yelped then fell silent as Madam Jubilee writhed atop him in snake-like motions. As the drum beat faster, a large green and yellow boa constrictor slithered either from beneath the big wooden chair or from under Madam Jubilee’s gown. In the rapidity of the action, Calhoun could not tell where it came from, but he froze at the sight of it. The large snake flicked out its tongue, raised its head and looked languidly around the circle. It slid in

long, slow curves toward the fire in the center of the circle. “Zombie,” one of the female minions shrieked. “Zombie!” 160

ROBERTSON “Bamboula-bambouli,” the other minions chanted. “Bamboula seulbenit!” One by one, they all fell back, writhing in fervor on the floor, their tongues licking out like the serpent’s. “The fuck you say,” Calhoun said in astonishment, moving back away from the minions.

Madam Jubilee seemed to float up off of Frog. She straightened her back, holding out her arms and parting her legs, the black veil hanging outward from her face. Frog was still slouched on the floor, motionless. Madam Jubilee turned and went back to her chair, lowering herself down and leaning back on the backrest with her head tilted upward. Suddenly, a deep baritone scream drowned out the thumping of the drum. The big man darted out of the shadows and into the circle. He was completely nude, his long, fat, uncircumized penis and sagging scrotum sack swinging loosely between heavily muscled thighs. He ran in a low crouch around the circle, his barred teeth a stark

white between his thick lips. Though his upper torso was wide and chiseled, his waist was narrow with infant-like, deeply dimpled buttocks. His black skin was oiled and silky, like the appearance of polished ebony. To be a big man, his dance was svelte and fluent. He held a large white rooster at its neck. The bird was struggling and attempting to spur the big man, but he was careful to swing and toss the rooster to prevent it. Tasting the scent of the rooster, the boa began to move, following every motion of the big man. He stamped his left foot to the floor, then his right. As the drum beat picked up in intensity, the big man’s 161

HOODOO muscular body jerked and quivered, his skin beaded in perspiration. His thick lips moved in a chant, grunting “Ugh!” with each undulation of his upper torso. “Calinda, Jambo, calinda,” the minions chorused from the floor. The more the big man danced, the more his penis began to swell. For some reason, Calhoun could not help admiring the big man’s impressive endowments, at the same time feeling a bit envious. The minions became more ecstatic and began to slide out of their black, silken garments. Madam Jubilee

was slowly nodding her head, her fingers gripping the front part of the armrest of the chair, her back pressed against the backrest. The big man raised the rooster, yelled a chant in a strange language, then with a flinch of his double-jointed wrist, the rooster’s body was twirling in the air, its yellow legs still trying to spur, its head still in the big man’s hand. The birds yellowish eyes seemed wide in the horror of what just happened to it, its yellow-white beak opening and closing soundlessly. “Urgh,” the big man grunted triumphantly, catching the bird’s body at the wing as it came down. Blood was spraying out from its decapitation, flaring the flames and sizzling on the hot

ceramic logs. “Mommah,” the minions squealed, caressing one another and rolling into the circle. “Urgh,” the big man growled, turning the rooster’s body upside down and spraying blood over everyone in the circle. “Urgh!” “Qui Damballa,” Madam Jubilee hissed, heaving 162

ROBERTSON orgasmically in her chair. “Qui ma cheri!” The boa began to slither up the

big man’s leg with some difficulty, slipping down from the oil, blood, and perspiration on his skin. It got some traction upward and slithered up his waist. The big man had traced a bloody circle around Frog’s body. The minions on the floor were stripping themselves and wallowing lustily in the rooster’s blood. Their unabashed sexuality sparked arousal in Calhoun, but the smeared blood on their bodies mortified him. Looking away from the minions, Calhoun saw the big man standing wide legged over Frog, jerking the rooster’s head in one hand, and the bloody body in the other. The boa had completely encircled him, slithering up to his broad shoulders and at his right bicep toward

the rooster’s body. More imposing than that, the big man’s penis was now fully erect and leaning leftward toward Frog’s back. For an instant, he was frozen in shock. “Heads up, Frog,” Calhoun yelled loudly, moving quickly toward the statuette. “Head up!” All the while, Frog had been motionless in fright and ecstasy. Somehow, in some way, Madam Jubilee had brought him to ejaculation. Though he was afraid to move, he was anticipating whatever it was that Madam Jubilee had done to cause his ejaculation to be done again. Hearing Calhoun’s alert through the drum beats and chants, and even through his own rapture, Frog

raised his head and looked up. Seeing the oversized, mushroom headed, thickly veined penis over his head, Frog yelped, ducked, and slid backward on the floor, his hands slipping in the rooster’s blood. Seeing all of the 163

HOODOO blood on the floor, he shuddered and groaned from deep inside his throat. The boa had slid up the big man’s muscular arm and was swallowing the rooster’s body from the big man’s hand. Everyone was too enthralled in the ceremony to see Frog leap to his feet and tread skid-

marks on the floor before hurdling over the fire, dodging around the orgy of naked minions on the floor, out of the double French doors, through the adjacent room, up the hallway past Calhoun, snatching open the front door, and out onto the porch. Hopping over the wrought iron railings, Frog landed on both feet and scrambled for the car. “Hey,” Calhoun called behind Frog from the porch. “Where you goin’? The damn do’ locked!” “We gotta git outta y’ere, Sarge,” Frog said in panic, pulling at the passenger side door. He could still hear the faint thumping of the drum from the opened front door. “C’mon, Sarge, we gotta git outta y’ere pronto!”

Calhoun struggled down the steps with the statuette and carried it to the car. Lowering it to the asphalt, he took out his keys to open the trunk. “What the fuck you doin’, Sarge,” Frog yelled frantically. “We gotta git outta y’ere! You can’t take that!” “Watch me,” Calhoun said, moving over a tire iron and hydraulic jack in the trunk. “That thing hoodooed, Sarge! They gon come for it! You don’t want them to come for that thing!” “It’s a shitty job, Froggish, but somebody gotta do it,” Calhoun said, lifting the statuette and laying it into the trunk. 164

ROBERTSON “C’mon, man,” Frog said anxiously, looking at the front door of the house. “Le’s git the hell outta here!” “Aw’ight,” Calhoun answered impatiently. “Aw’ight! Much shit as you been th’ough in there, what you a-sca’ed of now?” Calhoun unlocked the door for Frog. Going around, he climbed into the driver’s side. As they pulled from the curb, the big man appeared at the front door, dressed in his white gown, and watched the car turn at the corner. Grinning wickedly, he eased the door shut.

“Man, did you see the yike on that dude,” Frog asked, blinking his eyes in amazement. “That was some big yike! When they passed out dicks in heaven, that big motherfucka must’ve jumped the line twice!” Calhoun was silent as he steered the car, his thoughts on the statuette and how it had gotten into the house. “That big fucker was stickin’ straight out like a arrow, boy! Shit, with a joint that big, you gotta wonder how it was able to hold itself up like that? Dicks that big just swell up, they don’t stick straight out like that. Just imagine the amount of blood pumpin’ through that thing to make it stick straight out like

that! Whew, I feel sorry for his woman!” “What the fuck,” Calhoun said, looking sideways at Frog. “What, you some kinda dick conno’suer or somethin’, Frog? How you know what dif’rent dicks supposed to do, huh? You got somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me all these years, boy?” A flush of embarrassment caressed Frog’s face. 165

HOODOO “You don’t have to be in here askin’ me no fuddy-duddy questions like that,

Sarge. You know me. I’m a hundred percent man, bro! I don’t appreciate you askin’ me shit like that!” “Well why you talkin’ ‘bout dicks up in y’ere? Only a dick gormet would know how dif’rent dicks supposed to go n’ doin’!” “Shit, I look at films--- “ Frog caught himself, feeling he was giving up too much information. “That shit was crazy in there, huh, Sarge? I never seen anything like that before!” “That angel I took’t, I think it’s part o’ the stuff that was tooken outta them cemeteries, Frog. I think I’m on the right track. They might have mo’ stuff in there. I ain’t sho, but I gotta find out.” “Find out how, Sarge,” Frog

asked, his eyes big in the darkness of the car. “You ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout goin back, is you?” “I’mon have to, Frog. It’s a unavoidable thing. If they got one piece o’ cemetery stuff in there n’ doin’, reason tells me they got mo’.” Frog lowered his head in thought. He opened his mouth to say something, then decided against it. “What,” Calhoun asked, catching Frog’s hesitation. “What you was about to say? Yo’ opinion is good in y’ere. I can n’use some good ideas.” “Well, y’know,” Frog said haltingly. “I don’t know how to say this. I can’t find the words to best describe what I feel. . . But, I think I’m in love,

Sarge.” “In love,” Calhoun repeated to himself. “In love wit’ who, what, that big yike you seen’t?” 166 ROBERTSON “Naw, Sarge, I ain’t no birdwatcher! I’m serious! I don’t know what that woman done did t’me, y’know, the way she was feelin’ up on me when she got on top of me, the way she was rollin’ on me. . . Man, it felt good!” “Aw, for cryin’ out loud, man,” Calhoun twisted his face. “Don’t tell me you weak enough t’ve let that shit git next to you? . . Am I gon have to drive a

damn stick th’ough yo’ heart? Tell me nah?” Frog held his head down in shame, picking at the crotch of his khaki work pants. “What she done to you when she got on top o’ you? What she said to you? She rubbed some kinda powder or oil on you?” “No, man, but it sounded like she was singin’ somethin’ to me, y’know, she was touchin’ me in places so soft n’ smoove, touchin’ me down below, y’know, rubbin’ me all over with all her hands n’ feet! She rubbed on me so good, Sarge, I comed in my pants! I comed so hard, I would of got Madam Jubilee pregnant if I’d of comed in her! If I could

of just got the head in, I would of filled her pussy up with come!” “Jesus H. Christ, Frog,” Calhoun exclaimed, nearly driving off course. “You ain’t gittin’ no come on my seats, is you? Got-damn me, if you git come on my damn seats, you gon pay to git it cleaned!” “Ain’t nothin’ gittin’ on yo’ seats, Sarge. I’m here tryin’ to say somethin’ to you so you can help me to understand what I done been through, and you’re more concerned about havin’ come on yo’ seats, bro.” “What you tryin’ to tell me, Frog? You tryin’ to tell me what, that Ma’m Jub’lee done turn’t you into a lil 167

HOO-DOO come-freak? What that damn woman done done to you, boy?” “She done made me love her, Sarge, that’s what she done done! I’m in love with Madam Jubilee, man! I gotta see her again, Sarge! I’ll pay for it the next time!” “Aw Lawd A’mighty,” Calhoun groaned, stopping the car in the middle of the damp street. “That’s a wrap! Git out! Git the fuck outta my got-damn car, Frog! I knowed I shouldn’t’ve brung you wit’ me! Somethin’ tol’ me not to bring you! You done let that woman work you!

That woman done put a mo-jo on yo’ ass, boy, n’ you puttin’ it all on my got-damn seat! . . I done got close to crackin’ this case open n’ you gon jinx me! Go’n git out!” Frog looked at Calhoun with genuine hurt in his large, wide-set eyes, or that was perhaps the way he always looked. “I ain’t gon jinx you, Sarge. You don’t have to be handlin’ me like this. I would lay my neck on the choppin’ block for you and this is how you gon act with me?” “Froggish, a man’s allowed to understand what his experience in life done taught ‘im. I gotta tell ya, I ain’t equipped to gi’ya no understandin’ on what you done been th’ough on that flo in

that house ‘cause I ain’t never been that low. So, you’s on yo’ own, buddy. But I do understand why I’m doin’ this, n’ you bet not show me no signs that you done been spiked by that broad. I’m tellin’ ya, Frog.” “I ain’t been spiked,” Frog answered. “I ain’t got no ring in my nose. But, man, I can still feel her on top o’ me!” “That might be crabs you feelin’!” “No-no-no,” Frog said, shaking his head. “I can 168 ROBERTSON still smell her perfume--- “

“Jes shut up, aw’ight! I don’t wanna y’ear another mumblin’ word about it! When you git home, take you a good long soak in some Witch Hazel n’ wash that fonk right off’n ya! But git yo’ mind right, you y’ear me? Git ova it! It ain’t good for you to be walkin’ ‘round that way! Jes git yo’ mind right!”

169 CHAPTER

SIX

Calhoun gazed at the granite statuette from his desk. He had placed it atop Dee’s desk away from him. The statuette created an eerie feeling inside of him, the coy look on its chubby face appearing to be blushing. Its little wings and dimpled hands were stretched out as if alighting gently on its pedestal. Beneath all of that cuteness could be unspeakable evil! The base of the statuette had been forcefully cracked from its foundation, but patched for balance, perhaps by one of the minions at Madam Jubilee’s house. The new patching was in stark contrast to the

bleached grey color of the granite. Calhoun wondered whether there were anymore artifacts in the house, or whether anyone in the house knew whether any other voodoo house in the city possessed any other artifacts. It was apparent from the ceremony that the big man held a high position, perhaps a high priest, a shaman, a medicine man, or a witch doctor? More likely than not, he was someone who was intimate with Madam Jubilee, her husband or her lover. He was seated directly on the right side of her, so he was possibly her husband. Whatever, Calhoun shrugged, he needed to know how the statuette got to the house. Besides Madam Jubilee, the big man

knew the hows and the whens about it. Nothing entered or left the house without his knowledge. The big man was the one Calhoun had to talk to. . . A knock at the door shook him from his thoughts. Reflexively, Calhoun started to go to the fire escape. Instead, he tiptoed to the door. The knock turned into a bang, rattling the loose pane of the cracked, frosted 170 ROBERTSON glass of the door. It was not a policeman’s knock, nor that of the pesky Civil Sheriff’s deputy or an angry client. This knock was from someone who

knew him well. When he heard Frog’s voice call out to him in the stairwell, he smiled knowingly and opened the door. “What, you on lunch or somethin’,” Calhoun asked, swinging open the door and moving to his desk. “Yeah,” Frog stepped in, closing the door behind him. “How you knew?” “Who knew,” Calhoun plopped into his desk chair. “What’s up, Froggish?” “Nothin’, Sarge,” Frog answered, dropping down into the chair in front of the desk, his sizeable paunch bunching up his khaki work jacket. “Damn, it’s colder in here than it is outside! You got the heat on? You not

cold?” Calhoun stared at Frog. It was unlike Frog to visit him at the office, and his banal conversation was also out of character. “I don’t feel cold, Frog. What’s up?” “Why you keep askin’ me wha’s up, Sarge? I was just in the neighborhood and thought about you. I was passin’ by Katz, so I just stopped by to holla at ya.” “You did, huh?” Frog spotted the statuette of the angel resting atop Dee’s desk. The sight of it sent shivers through him, making his skin crawl. “Why you got that thing sittin’ there like that? You need to put that thing in a closet somewhere! It feels

like some kinda bad luck, man! It’s givin’ me the heebie-jeebies!” “It’s all what you make o’ it, Frog.” “Don’t you know that thing was on somebody’s grave, bro? Somebody’s soul might be in that thing! Look 171 HOODOO at it! It looks like its lookin’ right at us up in here!” “I don’t see that,” Calhoun said, gazing at Frog. “The way I figger it, they’s a lotta real life things walkin’ ‘round out there that’s way mo’ scarier than that there statute.”

Frog raised his eyebrows and shook his head. For the first time, he noticed the bland expression on Calhoun’s face. “Why is you lookin’ at me like that, Sarge? What’s the matter with you?” “I’m jes sittin’ y’ere wond’rin’ what’s the matter with you? Why you brung yo’self up y’ere?” “You supposed to be actin’ shitty with me or somethin’? What, I can’t come up here?” “I didn’t say that, Frog.” “Well, what you sayin’, Sarge?” “You’s the one doin’ all the jibbin’ up in y’ere!” “What that mean? I can’t talk to you now?”

“Naw, Froggish. Yo’ understandin’ is all wishy-washy. What I’m wond’rin’ is, you don’t never come y’ere on yo’ own, Frog. Except for last night, I can’t remember the last time you blessed my place wit’ yo’ presence. Even last night, you stayed in the car. Why now? What does I owe this goodness to?” Frog shrugged. “Well, I just passed by to see what you got goin’ on, that’s all. What’s wrong with that?” “Nothin’ yet,” Calhoun said, holding a steady gaze on Frog. “That’s why that statute there? You still workin’ on that case from last night, huh?” “You know I’m is. Why you ask

that?” “Im just askin, man! Damn! . . No tellin’, you might 172 ROBERTSON need my help again.” “That’s what it is,” Calhoun said, raising his eye brows and reared back his head. “You wanna come wit’ me agin!” “Yep,” Frog said, perking up expectantly. Realizing he was showing too much enthusiasm, he put his emotions in check. “You know, if you need me, I’m available, y’know. I gotta lotta time on my hands, anyway, y’know, Sarge.”

“How you gon work wit’ me, Frog, n’ you ain’t got ova Jub’lee yet? I’m tellin’ ya, I ain’t in this for no hankypanky. I got work to do. I can’t n’use nobody who gon slow me down n’ crimp my style ‘cause he booty-struck!” “No-no-no, Sarge, you got me wrong, bro!” Frog shook his head fervently at first then slumped in his seat, knowing Calhoun had seen through him. “I can’t get her outta my mind, Sarge! When I close my eyes, I see her face bobbin’ ‘round in my head! I couldn’t sleep at all last night for thinkin’ ‘bout her n’ how she made me feel!” “I knew it,” Calhoun said, sucking in his lower lip and shaking his head. “You got it bad, boy! You got it

some bad!” “I ain’t never had a woman to make me come just from strokin’ me down like that, Sarge! It wasn’t a lil nut ne’ther! It was a big one! I ain’t never had me a big nut like that before just from a woman touchin’ me down below! I feel like she done broke my virgin!” Disgusted, Calhoun leaned on the desk, pressing his finger angrily on the desk top. “I’ll tell you what she done done! She done turn’t you into some kinda lil animal! Boy, you’s a squirrel lookin’ for a nut! After w’ile, 173

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you gon be scratchin’ at the groun’ like a chicken, quakin’ like a duck, n’ gobblin’ like a got-damn turkey, searchin’ for a thing you can’t never have n’ n’d never git again!” “You think so, Sarge,” Frog asked, wringing his hands. “You think that’s gon happen to me? They do stuff like that, y’know, they do animalistic stuff like that! You think she gon turn me into a tur-duc-ken?” “Gaw,” Calhoun exclaimed in exasperation, putiing his face in his hands. “That’s food, fool! She can’t turn you into nothin’ you don’t wanna be! Ain’t no sech animal as a tur-duc-ken!” “Well, I heard they can turn big

strong men into zombies, into big dumb slaves for work and for their own pleasures!” “Yeah, you ask me, I think you’d like that! She done already turn’t you into a reg’lar lil freak up in y’ere! Now, you sound like a damn ignoramus!” Frog had thoroughly disgusted Calhoun. He wished in his heart that Frog would just leave the office. He was sick of the sight of him. “It ain’t gotta be all that, Sarge. I just feel the need to see her again, that’s all. I’m sorry I opened my heart to you.” “You opened your heart n’ it smells like you done opened yo’ ass!”

“Aw, man,” Frog pursed his lips. “You act like you never met a woman you would wanna meet again!” “You right. I jes come n’ go. Next!” “Well, that’s you, Sarge. Me and you is two different people, and we don’t have the same feelin’s. Me, I’m a sensitive, feelin’ type of man. My emotions run 174 ROBERTSON deep.” “So’s yo’ pockets, but I bet you don’t buy the same ol’ ho’ every night, huh?” “True. But still, I care! My

feelin’s for Madam Jubilee ain’t just between my legs, though. My feelin’s for her is all over my body, all in up there! It’s a yearnin’ I got deep down in my bones, man. It might be that if I see her again, it would all fade away, y’know.” “Might,” Calhoun said, rolling his eyes. “You dissin’ me, Sarge,” Frog said, feeling rejection from Calhoun. “That’s the way it’s gon be? You just gon throw ice cold water on a drownin’ man? You just gon kick me to the curb, right?” “Frog, you kickin’ yo’ own ass.” “Well,” Frog sat up, smoothing the front of his jacket. “Like I said, if

you need me again, you know where you could find me. I see I can’t come up here no more.” “Look, Frog,” Calhoun leaned his elbows on the edge of the desk. “I need to go n’ survey that house t’night. I ain’t got no time for no mamby-pamby bullshit. I gotta watch them people real careful-like to see what else they got in there for my nex’ lead. I’m too close to be havin’ to deal with them and you at the same time. That’s too much on me! I ain’t strong enough in my haid to be handlin’ two things at once’t. It makes my haid hurt! Now, if I bring you wit’ me n’ you lay eyes on Jub’lee n’ start to fluff up on me, I’m gon have to go ‘head on n’ knock you out n’ leave you where you

drop so’s I can handle up on my bus’ness. Is we clear on that, Frog?” “That sounds like gravy to me,” Frog said, perking up again, rubbing his hands together. “When do we 175 HOODOO start?” “Not so fast, nifty,” Calhoun cautioned. “We gon sta’t t’night. Be y’ere for nine.”

***** Calhoun parked the car at the corner of Saint John Bayou and Ursuline

Street alongside The Community Bookstore. He was quiet, watching the house for signs of activity. Now and again someone would pass along the sidewalk, or a couple of teenagers would run by, stop at the corner to swing a few wild punches at one another, then run around the corner. Frog sat silently in the passenger seat, obedient not to say anything to Calhoun unless he was spoken to, and cognizant not to say anything about Madam Jubilee. All he desired was to see the voodoo queen once again in order to appease the deep yearnings burning inside of him. After a while, an old modeled yellow, Ford pickup truck pulled to a squealing stop in front of the house. The

hood of the truck had been replaced by another light green hood, its rusted chrome grill barely clinging to the front cap. The door swung open and a tall, lanky, light complexioned man stepped out and walked in fluid strides across the pavement and up the steps. The man was wearing a black leather ball-cap, black leather hip length jacket, and black leather pants. He rapped with the knocker at the door, then placed his hands in the pockets of his jacket and pulled his shoulders up to his slender neck against the chill of the night. He looked around at the empty street, waiting. “Say,” Frog said, sitting up in his seat. “I know that dude. . . “

176 ROBERTSON “Yeah?” Calhoun looked at Frog. “Who he is?” “That’s ol’ Panzy Red off of Burgundy Street!” “Yeah?” Calhoun studied the man on the porch, squinting his eyes for a better look. “What he ‘bout?” “He hustles. Last time I saw him, he was at a second line on Orleans and Basin under the bridge. . . Boy, that sucker could fight his ass off!” “Yeah, he that good, huh?” “Is he? He was in the pen some time back. I heard he was a snitch. I heard him and Eagle Black set up that

big he’ron bust on Big Tex years ago. I don’t know, so I ain’t sho. I heard he was kinda dichty, too. You can’t tell by lookin’ at him, but he acey-deucy, y’know, he flips like a record!” “Damn, that’s rough!” “Yeah buddy. They say he got like that from the pen. Ain’t nobody turned him out, he turned hisself out. He just upped and wigged out one night and straight out took him a man!” “Damn! How you do that?” “I don’t know. That’s what I heard. But, you damn tootin’, he be on Burgundy Street turnin’ tricks with them ‘maphrodites, flippin’ n’ bulldaggin’ all over the place! But, he would beat the clothes off yo’ back if you tried to force

him into somethin’!” “My Gawd, that’s a hell of a way to go!” Calhoun watched the man go into the house. “Well, he on his way to a freak party right nah! I wonder what his bus’ness is in there?” “Shit, he a hustler, Sarge! You gotta pay his ass for everything he does! I heard he be sellin’ hisself to 177

HOODOO women who wants a good long fuck lay for the night. Maybe he--- “ Frog stopped his own train of thought, realizing that Pansy Red may have some

sexual involvement with Madam Jubilee. An aura of jealousy warmed his swarthy face. Calhoun caught Frog’s reaction. “Boy, you sick! But, hol’ that thought. I don’t wanna y’ear no mo’.” Just in case Frog felt the need to elaborate, Calhoun turned up the stereo from the dashboard and rested back in his seat. He tapped his fingers to Latimore’s “Bad Risk”, preparing himself for a long wait. The wait, however, was not that long. Pansy Red came out of the house followed by the big man and Madam Jubilee. Frog froze at the sight of the voodoo queen, the warmth of arousal stirring at his groin. The black satin hood over her head

covered her face, and the black gown shrouded her figure, but Frog’s imagination was working overtime. They all climbed into the cab of the truck. “Y’ere we go, Frog,” Calhoun said, doing a double take at the expression on Frog’s face. “You better remember what I said to you, boy. I ain’t playin’ wit’ you, no!” “It ain’t ‘bout nothin’, Sarge,” Frog mumbled. “I’m aw’ight.” “You better be,” Calhoun warned, watching the truck pull from the curb. He waited until the truck disappeared around the corner before opening his door. “Where you goin’, Sarge,” Frog asked. “I thought we was gon follow

‘em?” “Think agin. We goin’ in the house. You comin’ or 178 ROBERTSON you stayin’ in y’ere?” Frog pushed open his door and climbed out. “They still got demons in there, Sarge.” “What demons is you talkin’ ‘bout, Frog?” “Them demons who was goin’ at it on the floor last night. There’s a light on upstairs in the house.” “Oh, them,” Calhoun chuckled. “They pro’bly out somewhere suckin’ on

somebody’s neck.” “You might be right,” Frog said, following Calhoun. Calhoun went up the sidewalk and stopped at the side of the narrow porch. He examined the old, chainlinked gate and noticed a red powder on the pavement in front of it. There was no chain or latch on the gate. Pulling at the top of it, the gate swung out and closed from a spring attached to its middle. “We gon go th’ough the alley,” Calhoun said in a low voice. “Watch that stuff they got on the banq’ette, Frog. They might have a curse workin’ there.” Calhoun pulled open the gate and hopped over the irregular spread of red dust. He held the gate open for Frog

and watched him hop over the dust. He eased the gate shut, and they crept their way up the narrow alley. In the adjacent house next door, a lamp was on in the bedroom, and the sound of a television could be heard from the opened window. Looking up the slated side of the camelbacked house, he noticed the red glow from the opened shutters of the window. The house was raised high from the ground and rested on bricked pilings. A familiar scent wafted from under the house carried by a chilly breeze. Calhoun lowered himself to 179

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his knees on the bricked pavement of the alley to look under the house. The scent of sewerage was heavy under the house, but it was mixed with the unmistakable odor of death. “Frog,” Calhoun whispered. “You got a lighter or a match or somethin’? I smell somethin’ real familiar under there.” “Yeah,” Frog said, going into his pocket and coming out with a yellow BIC lighter. “It smells like they need a plumber real bad!” Calhoun took the lighter and flicked it. He could see weathered sheets of newspaper, emptied half gallon milk bottles, and rusted cans beneath the

house. Not far from the edge of the house, he could see small raisings in the grayish dirt. The pit of his stomach immediately soured as he thought what it could mean, bitterly remembering similar scenes in many burned villages in Vietnam where relatives hastily buried their dead. Someone or something was buried beneath the house, Calhoun said to himself, scanning the many areas of the raisings beneath the wide, lengthy area. He hoped in his heart that it might be sacrificed cats, chickens, or dogs from their rituals. “Frog, “ Calhoun whispered. “I’m goin’ under the house to check somethin’ out. You stay y’ere n’ watch the bus’ for me. If you y’ear somebody

comin’, git under y’ere yo’self, ya y’ear me?” “Hm-hm,” Frog nodded, his large eyes glued to the gate. Calhoun took off his hat and reached it to Frog. He crawled beneath the house, his brown tie dragging in the 180 ROBERTSON dust. Flattening one of the vegetable cans, he began to dig into the closest raising he got to, trying to hold his breath to prevent breathing in the putrid dust. The more he dug, the stronger the odor became. “Sarge,” Frog hissed, pulling at

and shaking his pants leg. “Sa’ge!” “What?” Calhoun stopped digging, listening for signs that Madam Jubilee and the others may have returned. “Oh Lawd, somethin’ done jes crawled up my laig!” “What it is?” “I’own know,” Frog’s voice tremored, whimpering and pulling up his pants leg. “H’it’s crawlin’ up my laig!” “Well kill it then! Got-damn this shit, Frog!” Calhoun continued his digging. Hitting something which felt solid like a small rock, Calhoun laid down the flattened can and retrieved the lighter from his upper coat pocket. Flicking the

lighter, he held it over the dig. “Got-damn,” Frog hissed, holding his nose. “Is that a dead animal under there, Sarge?” Calhoun was silent, knowing from the distinctive odor that it was no decaying beast. He was unable to see any bone, but there was cloth, like that of terry-cloth, rotting beneath the dirt. The smell of death was really thick as he unfolded the dirty, brownish red cloth. Inside it were the blackened remains of something. Then he realized what it was. He grew weak, instantly slumping from his elbow. He turned his face away from the gruesome sight, his mouth filling with spittle. Quickly, he shoved the dirt back into the shallow grave and hurried

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HOODOO from under the house. Standing, he brushed the dust from his jacket and clothing, but the odor seemed to cling to him. He stared at his hands, feeling the life-source clinging to his skin. “What the hell was that under there, Sarge,” Frog asked, brushing at his pants. Seeing the revulsion in Calhoun’s face, he stopped. “What was that under there, Sarge?” “Them sorry som’bitches,” Calhoun grumbled, sick to his stomach. “Them some sorry som’bitches! They

‘bortin’ babies in that house n’ buryin’ ‘em under the got-house like daid animals!” Frog stepped back, mortified by Calhoun’s revelation. “That’s how Jub’lee makin’ side-ends, ‘bortin’ babies,” Calhoun spat on the bricked pavement. “Ain’t no tellin’ what she doin’ to ‘em once’t she gits ‘em out! Them sorry som’bitches!” Frog’s large eyes were even larger now. “We gotta go, Sarge. C’mon, let’s git outta here.” “Naw,” Calhoun shook his head, taking his hat from Frog. “I’m jes gittin’ started. “I’m gon enjoy seein’ them sorry som’bitches sail up the river! . . We goin’ in. If they doin’ this, I know

they the ones who stealin’ that stuff outta them cemeteries! If you lie, you’ll steal, if you steal, you’ll kill! You can’t put nothin’ pass a sorry som’bitch! C’mon, let’s go!” Frog groaned miserably but followed Calhoun up the alley anyway. From somewhere in the back yard, chickens clucked and droned. Their sudden flurries made Frog jumpy, but Calhoun seemed to pay them no 182 ROBERTSON mind. A large portion of the yard had been paved over with cement. Calhoun wondered whether there were more

aborted remains under the paving. Looking up at the back porch, it had been screened to keep out flies and mosquitoes, but the screening was so old, it was beginning to erode at the top edges. A crooked screened door was closed above a single flight of pre-cast steps. Easing open the screened door, Calhoun was careful to keep it from squealing. The door leaned out as if its top hinges had come loose. Calhoun held it steady to keep it from collapsing. He looked around at Frog who was close behind him but looking in the direction where the chickens were fluttering. Looking around the porch, he could see a four paned kitchen door at the end of the porch and a small adjacent room to his

right. He tiptoed onto the porch to keep the floor boards from creaking. The panes on the kitchen door were curtained with panels, but the four panes of the door at the room had no curtains. Calhoun flicker the lighter and raised it to one of the panes of the room. Inside, he could see an old washing machine and dryer, a shelf lined with old paint cans, and ropes of garlic hanging from the rafters of the low ceiling. On a back wall, he could see a machete, its newly filed edge gleaming from its tarnished blade. “Frog,” Calhoun whispered, “Hol’ this lighter. Light it when I tell ya.” He reached the lighter to Frog

and went into his tattered, brown leather wallet. He took out a modified fingernail file and ran his finger along its notched edge to remove any lint or paper from it. “Okay, Froggish. Go’n light it right y’ere, my boy, 183

HOODOO n’ watch a pro go to work!” Frog flicked the lighter and held it close enough for Calhoun to see what he was doing. Inserting the tip of the file into the chamber of the lock, Calhoun wiggled it around, feeling the tumblers give. Gently turning it, he felt it slip over

the tumblers and turn easily. The latch clicked back. Calhoun looked back at Frog and smiled proudly. Slipping the file into his pocket, he turned the door knob and eased the kitchen door open. “Hol’ that light up so’s we can see, Frog,” Calhoun whispered, starting to go in, but stopped dead. Frog raised the lighter to see the shadow lined, grim, malevolent face of the big man standing in the kitchen, a wicked grin creasing the corners of his wide mouth. “Oh,” Frog yelped, dropping the lighter and stepping backward. “Oh Lawd!” “Where you think you goin’,” the big man growled, grabbing Calhoun

by the knot of his tie and twisting it around his large fist. Before Calhoun could react, the big man grabbed him by the wrist and lifted him from his feet. The big man’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, his lips moving without speaking a word. His grip was so powerful, Calhoun was unable move his head or his body to position himself to counter the attack. The big man forced Calhoun against the wall of the washroom, knocking off his hat, and holding him there like a rag doll. Frog burst from the entrance of the porch, knocking the screen door from its hinges. He slid to his side onto the concrete patio and rolled away from the porch. Up on

184 ROBERTSON his feet, he scrambled for the alleyway. However, the group of minions stood at the entrance of the alleyway, blocking his exit. Two of the women held baseball bats, one of the men was wielding a large meat cleaver, and the other was swinging a large pad-lock hooked to a chain. Frog went into his pocket and came out with a pocketknife, opening it with his thumbnail at the side of his thigh. The man twirled the chain over his head and screamed something in a language Frog could not understand. But

Frog did understand the language of malicious intent and knew he was in trouble. The man charged, wildly swinging the chain and lock. Frog weaved back and ducked to his side away from the wild swings, slicing as he moved out of range around the man. Grinning wickedly, the man saw blood on the ground, and thought with much satisfaction that it was Frog’s. But, feeling the warm wetness flowing down his legs, he looked down to see his own blood flowing from a slit at his black silk shirt. He dropped the chain and lock, clutched his stomach, and folded over on the patio floor. Seeing this, the others looked at one another and again at Frog, and slowly backed toward the

alley entrance, leaving their companion. “No, uh-uh,” Frog said in a challenging stance. “Don’t go now! C’mon back! I ain’t scared o’ none o’ you freaky motherfuckas! C’mon, gotdamn it!” Hearing the anxious gurgling from the porch, Frog looked up to see the big man choking Calhoun. Frog pulled the damaged screened door out of his way and hiked up the steps. Calhoun’s eyes were bulging, and he 185

HOODOO was gulping for air.

“Let him go, you big freaky motherfucka,” Frog cussed, hefting the pocketknife in his hand. “C’mon git some o’ this! I’mon knock yo’ big dick in the dirt!” The big man turned his head and looked down at Frog. The hatred from his eyes was so intense, it stopped Frog in his tracks. Calhoun went limp in the big man’s grip. He smirked, dropping Calhoun in a heap on the hardwood floor of the porch. He turned to face Frog. “What, you gon do all o’ that with that lil pig-sticker,” the big man chuckled. “If anything, you gon piss me off!” Though Frog was afraid of the dark, hulking figure of a man inching

toward him, Frog stood his ground for the sake of Calhoun. “Well bring yo’ big ass on up to me n’ see what I’mon do! I’mon cut yo’ ass three ways to Sunday!” The big man laughed huskily and feinted as if to charge, forcing Frog to the entrance of the porch. “C’mon, you big bitch,” Frog challenged, his fatty muscles tight in nervous tension. “Don’t fake! You might have a big ol’ dick, motherfucka, but you ain’t got no nuts!” The big man moved against the wall of the washroom, faking at Frog to maneuver him into position. In an instant he reached out. Frog flipped the knife to his left hand, weaved, and moved to stab the big man at his exposed ribs, but the

floor seemed to give beneath him. Someone tackled him from behind. Falling backward, Frog kicked fervently, rolling on the person’s back to the patio. Bouncing up quickly on his haunches, Frog saw 186 ROBERTSON Panzy Red jumping up from the steps attempting to grab him. Backing away, he sliced at Panzy Red’s hand. The big man bounded down the steps, circling around the side and catching Frog at the fat folds at the back of his neck. When Frog tried to stab, Panzzy Red caught him at the arm. They had him, trapped in their

clutches when, suddenly, a violent blow cracked off of the big man’s lantern jaw, creating a blinding flash of light across his eyes. He released Frog and staggered sideways, flailing his long arms for balance. Calhoun followed him, drawing back his left leg and kicking the big man at the crook of his leg, dropping him to one knee. Coiling his muscles to summon all of his strength to his fist, Calhoun parried back and tossed a sizzling back handed blow to the nape of the big man’s neck. The force of the blow sent a shock wave up to Calhoun’s elbow. For a moment, the big man knelt there on one knee. Slowly, he toppled sideways to the patio floor. Calhoun took a deep breath,

exhausted from his ordeal. He gazed at the shocked expression on Panzy Red’s handsome face. Panzy Red was surprised to see Calhoun handle the big man so easily, then was terrified when he realized he was next. He was so terrified that his bowels became liquefied and his stomach filled with gas. “Don’t you move, freakydeeky,” Frog said to Panzy Red. “Git on yo’ knees! Do it!” Frog feigned a stab with the knife. Panzy Red flinched and dropped hard to his knees, a pleading look in his eyes. Calhoun took a deep breath, exhausted from his ordeal. “Whew, I didn’t think he’d ever go to sleep!” He

gazed at Panzzy Red. “Okay, Pinky, git yo’ ass up!” 187

HOODOO “Panzy, Sarge,” Frog corrected. “The jive mother-fucka’s name is Panzy Red.” “Pinky, Pussy, Panzy, wha’s the dif’rence! Git yo’ ass up!” Calhoun grabbed Panzy Red at the collar of his black leather jacket and pulled him up. Calhoun’s nose twitched at the odor surrounding the man. “What you done done, boy? You done shitted or has you farted? What’s the matter, you done lost

yo’ grips? You can’t hol’ yo’ mud?” “What he do, Sarge,” Frog asked, sniffing the air. “He done crapped his pants? We done scared the shit out ‘im?” “Sho smells like it!” “I ain’t shitted,” Panzy Red said nervously, the black leather ball-cap crooked on his head. “You gon shit or go blind pretty damn soon n’ you don’t talk t’me quick,” Calhoun frowned maliciously. “Say, man, I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this! I don’t know who y’all is or what’s goin’ on here, but if you let me go, this ain’t never happened! I ain’t seen nothin’!” “Don’t lissen to ‘im, Sarge,”

Frog frowned, glowering at Panzy Red. “I know this bulldaggin’ freak! He’s in thick with them hoodoos!” “You don’t know me,” Panzy Red objected. “You don’t know nothin’ about me, bro!” “Me my own self, I don’t give a shit who you is or what you do! Show me where Jub’lee at!” Calhoun shoved the man forward. “C’mon, lead the way! Git behin’ ‘im, Frog, n’ put that dirk on ‘im n’ he fucks up! Dirk ‘im down good!” 188

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Frog stepped behind the tall, slender man. Unable to resist the malice he was feeling, Frog poked Panzy Red at the small of the back with the blade of the pocketknife. Panzy Red flinched and squealed. “C’mon, move it, sister,” Frog commanded. “Git yo’ ass on!” They went across the patio to the steps of the porch. In the kitchen, Calhoun looked around for any signs of artifacts. Candles burned atop the kitchen table and about the counters. Along the narrow hallway, black wooden crosses adorned the walls. Novenas of saints were tacked at the top of every doorway. Panzy Red stopped at the door to the room that led to where

the voodoo ceremonies were held. “What you stoppin’ y’ere for,” Calhoun questioned. “I tol’ you to bring us to Jub’lee.” “She went in here when we came back,” Panzy Red answered. “Go’n in,” Calhoun ordered, shoving the door open. Panzy Red walked into the room. Frog followed cautiously, Calhoun going behind Frog. Looking around the room, Calhoun spotted a small granite cross, a halo sculpted at its four ells, atop a table near an old cabinet. He had not seen the cross when they had gone through the room on their first visit. He took a votive candle from an antique coffee table and went to the

table to inspect the cross. Like the statuette he had taken from the ceremony room, it too had been bleached clean, the base patched with cement for balance. Calhoun looked at Panzy Red, patting the top of 189

HOODOO the cross. “Where y’all gittin’ this stuff from?” “I don’t know nothin’ about none o’ that stuff,” Panzy Red shook his head in denial. “I don’t go to no graveyards!” “Did I ask you all that? But,

since you mentioned it, how you know this stuff come outta a graveyard? Ain’t no way to know that unless you know what you’s talkin’ about?” “That’s the problem,” Panzy Red pursed his reddish lips, shaking his head. “I don’t know! I don’t know nothin’ about that.” “You don’t know nothin’ ‘bout nothin’, do ya, Pinky? You jes one dumb ass freak, ain’t’cha? All you know is how to switch betwixt bein’ a man n’ a woman, huh?” “You don’t know nothin’ about me, man,” Panzy Red objected again. “You know I know you know,” Calhoun sneered, pointing his finger up in Panzy Red’s face. “I tol’ you to take us

to Jub’lee! You better do that befo’ I le’ you know somethin’ else!” “Where’s Ma’m Jubilee,” Frog snarled, poking Panzy Red in the back again. “Where she at?” “Okay!” Panzy Red arched his back away from the point of the knife. “Okay! She’s upstairs!” “Bring us, then, freak o’ the week,” Frog spat, clutching the back of Panzy Red’s jacket and guiding him to the door. Calhoun took the cross from the table. They all went into the hallway as Panzy Red led them to a small door at the left. Pushing open the door, the faint glow of 190

ROBERTSON red light illuminated the darkness inside the stairwell. A beaded curtain was at the entrance, and a wooden handrail could be seen through the curtain leading up the stairs. “Jambo,” a female’s voice asked from the top of the stairs. “Is that you, Jambo?” “Answer her,” Frog hissed, poking Panzy Red again. Panzy Red flinched. “It’s me, Red!” A small granite urn came flying down the stairs, cracking into two pieces as it boomed onto the stairs, pulling the

beaded curtain with them to a thudding stop against the back wall. “Hol’ up,” Panzy Red yelled, drawing back into the tip of the pocketknife. He yipped, torn between turning to run out of the way and moving into the staircase. “Hol’ up, y’all, it’s me, Red!” “Where’s Jambo,” the female asked in a tone of fearful urgency. “He’s comin’,” Panzy Red lied. “He in the kitchen with them dudes! They just wanna talk to Madam Jubilee, that’s all! They just wanna talk!” Calhoun gazed at the cracked urn and saw that it too was a piece of the items stolen from the cemeteries. He had to do something to keep them from

damaging anymore of the items. “Hey up there,” Calhoun called up, hoping to mollify the woman. “All’s we wanna do is ask Ma’m Jub’lee a few questions, ‘s’all! We don’t want no trouble! We jes need to know somethin’ ‘bout that stuff y’all th’owin’ down them steps up there! After that, we gon 191

HOODOO leave y’ere as quiet as we come, aw’ight? Please, ba’y, don’t th’ow nothin’ else down, okay?” There was a long silence. Calhoun looked up at the wood molding

lining the high ceiling. “Okay,” the female called down. “Let Red come up first! We’re prepared to die as one if you try something!” “Ain’t no need to even talk that way! We don’t want no trouble! We jes wanna ask Ma’m Jub’lee a few questions n’ she don’t mind. Then we gon leave y’all be!” “Okay. . . Red first! Come up and be warned!” Calhoun looked at the man and at the shattered urn against the wall. “Ladies first,” Calhoun said, genuflecting. “Why you dudes keep sayin’ that,” Panzy Red asked defensively.

“Y’all don’t know nothin’ about me, bro! Y’all don’t know me!” Frog chuckled derisively. “He in his man-mode right now, Sarge.” Frog pushed Panzy Red at the back between the shoulder blades. “Let’s go, schitzyfritzzy!” Panzy Red climbed the stairs, complaining beneath his breath. Frog followed with Calhoun behind him. At the entrance to the room, the warmth of a space heater with a hint of natural gas in the air caressed their faces. One of the men stood with his shoulder against the wall near the doorway with a large butcher’s knife in his fist. His black satin shirt was matted to his torso, perspiration moistening the smooth

mocha complexion of his soft, feminine features. He was tense and nervous, ready to strike out at the slightest sign of attack. The room was stuffy from the heat and the burning 192 ROBERTSON candles on the furniture around the room. A red light glowed in the crystal globe hanging from the cast iron medallion in the high ceiling. Another red light glowed from the thick, colorful lamp shaded in vanilla colored cloth with gold tassels. It rested atop an antique nightstand near a window paneled in

lace. For some reason, Calhoun was surprised to see a television on the dresser. However, a human skull was atop a wide, antique, chocolate brown armoire at the rear of the room, its bone colored reddish from the light. A king-sized bed took up nearly half of the room. Two of the women sat anxiously on the heavy, dark brown footboard of the bed. They were dressed in black silk gowns and looked ready to defend Madam Jubilee at a moment’s notice. Madam Jubilee was sitting with her back against the high, matching headboard of the bed, her head covered by the black hood of her silk gown. A large black cross was artistically carved into the large headboard, more imposing

than the human skull atop the armoire. Her hand held a long, black and white beaded rosary, her fingers moving as if she were counting the beads. On the other side of the bed, a stocky, dark complexioned woman was sitting in a chair and holding a young, obviously pregnant girl to her voluminous bosom. Both of them were weeping fearfully. “What is it you want of us,” one of the women on the footboard asked. “I jes wanna talk to Ma’m Jub’lee, tha’s all.” “Madam Jubilee will not speak to anyone who would barge into her home and assault her king and her children,” the woman frowned, her pretty ginger colored

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HOODOO face a perfect mask of contempt. “Nah that ain’t right,” Calhoun shook his head. “We ain’t assault nobody who ain’t assault us first. But, that’s beside the point. I got some serious bus’ness to take care of, Jub’lee. The sooner h’it’s done, the sooner we’ll be outta y’all’s hair.” Madam Jubilee spoke in Creole French, the edge of the hood moving with her head. “Whoa there,” Calhoun said, holding up his hands. “Wait a minute! I

don’t parle’vous no je m’appelle!” “Madam is not speaking to you.” “Who she talkin’ to then?” “She’s speaking to me. Madam will not speak to you.” “Why?” “I’ve told you why.” “Well, what she sayin’?” “Madam has asked me what is your business here?” “That’s the way she wants to do this?” “There can be no other way. Madam will not speak to the likes of you.” “That’s a two way skreet,” Calhoun scoffed, removing his wallet.

“If she wants to do it this way, that’s fine with me! . . First, you tell her I’m a private detective investigatin’ a case.” Calhoun opened his wallet to show his badge. “I don’t give a shit what y’all doin’ up in y’ere, but I need to fin’ out ‘bout the stuff y’all got y’ere that’s comin’ outta them cemeteries. Is y’all havin’ that big boy do it, or is you havin’ Pinky do it?” 194

ROBERTSON The woman turned to Madam Jubilee, nodding as she listened. “Madam says she’s unaware of anyone

by the name of Pinky. But if you want to know anything about what you’ve mentioned, you should talk to Panzy Red.” Calhoun rolled his eyes. “Who you think I’m talkin’ ‘bout?” “Panzy, Sarge,” Frog corrected. “They call him Panzy Red, not Pinky.” Calhoun turned to Frog. “You need to be keepin’ yo’ eyes on that fool behin’ you with that butchie knife! Fuck what his name is!” Calhoun looked at the pregnant girl, her weeping subsiding. The woman holding her appeared to be her mother, both sharing a facial similarity. He realized they were there for an abortion. Reflecting on what he had seen beneath

the house, he struggled against the anger welling up inside of him. “Madam asks to remind you that your business is yours, and her business is hers alone.” “What--- “ Calhoun was caught by surprise. “You tell her n’ she readin’ my mind, she better sta’t co-operatin’ wit’ me real quick n’ in a hurry! You tell ‘er is she buyin’ that stuff off’n Pantsy y’ere or from somebody else?” “Again, Madam says you should question Panzy Red.” Calhoun turned to Panzy Red. “Looks like she sellin’ you out, my boy! What you got to say?” “Say, man,” Panzy Red shook his head. “Jambo asked me if I could get

some dirt and some special weeds from the cemetery. . . “ “Who’s Jambo, that big dude out back?” 195 HOODOO “Yeah.,” Panzy Red nodded. “What the dirt n’ weeds was for?” “They use it for potions.” “Okay,” Calhoun said, raising his eyebrows. “You went for some dirt n’ weeds, but you decided to he’p yo’self wit’ some angels n’ crosses, right?” “No, bro,” Panzy Red shook his

head again, stroking the thin lined, sandy colored hairs of his mustache. “It went from askin’ for dirt n’ weeds to bones n’ teeth from them drawers, man. I went to Lowerline up on Robert Street where them graves was already messed up, n’ got some bones, skulls, and teeth from them drawers. Then one day, there was these dudes, y’know, these dudes who work for the city cuttin’ grass, they asked me if I knew somebody who might want some pots and crosses, stuff like angels and saints, y’know, railin’s and gates and benches and shit they had snatched off of some graves. I put it to Jambo to see if he wanted some, and he said he’d talk to Madam Jubilee about it. He copped some of it, some of the stuff you

see here, y’know. I made a few ends from it, y’know, not much. But, then they stopped.” “Why’d they stop?” Panzy Red shrugged. “I don’t know. They just upped and stopped. I asked them for a saint Jambo wanted and they said they don’t do it no more. I guessed the heat was on, y’know. I don’t know.” “See, I knew you knew you knowed somethin’,” Calhoun sneered, looking directly into Panzy Red’s light brown eyes. “’Round y’ere talkin’ ‘bout you don’t know nothin’.” 196 ROBERTSON

Calhoun reflected on his conversation with the city workers at Cypress Grove Cemetery. He remembered that the supervisor of the crew had been wearing a lot of expensive jewelry, items much too expensive for a city worker to be wearing on the job. Calhoun gazed at Panzy Red. “That wan’t so hard, was it, Pinky. You see how easy it is jes to tell the truf’? It ain’t had to be all this rig’marole. . . But Jub’lee, gir’, I gotta tell ya, honey, you sittin’ there holdin’ them prayer beads, n’ you got all this religious stuff hangin’ all ova the place, but you’s as dirty n’ scummy as a two-bit

Rampart Street ‘ho! You frontin’ yo’self off like you some kinda big whammyjammy, like you so clean n’ pure, but I bet if I stepped on the seat o’ yo’ panties, they’d crack up like a crispy potatochip!” “Aw man,” Panzy Red exclaimed, his eyes wide in shock. “That wasn’t called for, bro! You don’t know nothin’ ‘bout Madam Jubilee!” “Shet yo’ fuckin’ mouf’, freak! I oughta be layin’ yo’ yella ass out in y’ere for lyin’ t’me, talkin’ ‘bout you don’t know nothin’!” Glancing at Frog, Calhoun saw hurt in his friend’s face from what Calhoun had said about Madam jubilee. Calhoun sent him an admonishing glare.

He gazed at the woman and the girl. “Mama,” Calhoun spoke to the woman. “Is that yo’ daughter you holdin’, or is you gon talk jib’rish too?” “You don’t have to answer him,” the woman said from the footboard, her tear watered eyes half turned as she glared undereyed at Calhoun. “Mama, if that is yo’ chil’, n’ you brung here up in 197

HOODOO y’ere to do away wit’ her baby, shame on you for doin’ that to yo’ gran’baby!

You o’ the age where you know we took care o’ our own, irregardless to how they got y’ere. If that’s the case, why yo’ mama ain’t do that to you, why my mama ain’t do that to me, or any o’ us in this room? We all y’ere ‘cause we was cared for by a gran’ma, a aunt, a uncle, a sister, brother, or cousin. H’it may not’ve been under so good o’ a circumstance, but we’s y’ere! Gawd don’t make no mistakes. That baby is in that chil’ for a pu’pose, n’ it ain’t meant to be done away wit’ t’wit’out Gawd bein’ to blame. . . They killin’ babies up in y’ere n’ buryin’ ‘em under the house like so many daid dogs, cats, n’ rats. Ain’t no tellin’ what they doin’ to them babies befo’ they bury ‘em. Jub’lee is a witch,

n’ witches boils babies for soup to keep they powers--- “ “Eeeyah,” the woman screamed, bolting from the footboard and charging at Calhoun with her nails barred. Calhoun sidestepped and raised his fist to punch her, but instead, stuck out his foot and clipped her. She plopped hard to the floor and slid on her belly at the foot of the man with the butcher’s knife in his fist. “Stop it,” Calhoun yelled, holding his head low to look from his peripheral vision. “Don’t another freak move in y’ere! The nex’ one to bum-rush me gon git a knuckle sam’mich!” Everyone in the room froze.

Jubilee had raised her head beneath the hood, exposing the dark brown complexion of her lower jaw. Calhoun could feel the heat of her glare. “Aw’ight. Okay. I got what I come for. Nah, we gon leave like I promised. I’m a man o’ my word, but I gotta take that cross n’ that broke pot y’all th’owed down them 198 ROBERTSON steps. Y’all got anymo’ o’ that cemetery stuff in y’ere?” “That’s it,” Panzy Red said, shaking his head. Calhoun backed slowly to the door. He gazed at the woman and her

daughter again. “Mama, whatever you do, don’t do it. Yo’ daughter could die up in y’ere. N’ you jes gotta do this, take ‘er to a real clinic where you know it’s safe. But, whatever you do, jes leave from y’ere n’ don’t look back. Think about yo’ daughter n’ yo’ gran’baby. . . C’mon, Frog, le’s go.” Madam Jubilee stood up in the bed, chanting in a husky tone of voice. Her body was convulsing beneath the black silk gown. She wafted a thin powder into the air, its whiteness turning a pinkish hue from the red lights. “Yah-ahh,” Frog yelped, he and Calhoun turning to run and wedged themselves in the door jam. Frog broke loose first, careening down the narrow

stairwell. “Git that broke vase, Frog,” Calhoun yelled behind him. Frog snatched up the two pieces and disappeared in the hallway. Calhoun hurried down the stairs and turned right in the hallway toward the ceremony room. Going into the room, he snatched up the heavy cross, looked around to see if there was anything else, and returned into the hallway. Going through the kitchen to the porch, he looked around for Frog. Jambo was still unconscious but had rolled over on the patio. The man was still curled in a fetal position where Frog had sliced him with the pocket knife, moaning softly on the patio. Calhoun staggered across the patio,

stepping over the man. He went down the alley, cutting his eyes at the 199

HOODOO raised space of the house. Frog was waiting for him at the sidewalk, the broken pieces of pottery resting at his feet. “Got damn, boy,” Calhoun said, hopping over the spread of red dust on the pavement in front of the gate. “You sho is swift when you wanna be, huh?” “You saw her,” Frog asked excitedly. “You saw her? She was a wild woman standin’ on that bed! She

was a stallion, like Cleopatra Jones!” A bitter taste flooded Calhoun’s mouth. “One o’ these days, that ol’ thing gon kill one o’ them young gir’s in that house, n’ she ain’t already. If I wanted to wrong her, I could turn her ass in to the police! But, she gon have a greater authority to answer to after w’ile.” Frog lifted the two pieces and he and Calhoun went across the wide street to the car. Calhoun loaded the items in the trunk. As he closed it, he looked across the street to see Panzy Red, the mother and her daughter rush from the house and pile into the pickup truck. Making a fast U-turn on the street, the truck went up the street and turned at the corner. Calhoun wondered with much

hope that the mother had changed her mind about the abortion, but with some pessimism, he wondered whether they had simply postponed the procedure to a more opportune time. Shrugging, he walked around the car and climbed behind the wheel. “Sarge, you think Panzy Red was right about that grass cuttin’ crew,” Frog asked, looking at the house and hoping that Madam Jubilee would come outside. “Don’t know for sho, Froggish, but I’m sho gon find out.” 200

ROBERTSON

***** Calhoun drove to Elysian Fields Avenue and turned right into Gentilly Boulevard. Past the busy shopping center in the area, he turned left and parked along the scenic street at the Mount Olivet Cemetery, one of the few cemeteries untouched by the gruesome thefts. Across the man-made lagoon, he could see the buildings on the manicured grounds of Dillard University. Taking a seat on a cement park bench under the tall oaks overlooking the boulevard, Calhoun waited for the grass cutting crews to

return from their day’s work. Gazing at the high tiered, brown marble mortuary buildings, Calhoun thought about his own death and where he would be laid to rest when his time was called. He had cashed in on his life and burial insurance policy over a year ago to pay a debt owed from his loses. However, from what he had seen of the cemeteries around the city, he considered buying another policy for cremation and his ashes scattered over City Park. It was a more satisfying end compared to what he had witnessed since investigating the case. Just the mere thought that his remains would be subjected to callous abuse and desecrated by grave-robbers and vandals sent chills up his spine.

Hearing the chirping of the birds in the tranquility of the surroundings, and feeling the peace of its serenity, it seemed futile and small to think about what would be left behind after death. Once the body died, death was just another journey of life. Calhoun rested back, his eyes slowly closing, thinking about the other side of life, 201

HOODOO but all he saw was an unfathomable blackness and finality behind his eyes. Memories flooded his mind of the time he and his men were captured by Viet

Cong troops during a mission in North Vietnam. His body was reacting as he saw his men being tortured in order to extract top-secret intelligence from them about their mission. Seeing an opening, Calhoun freed himself from his bonds and attacked the Cong, single-handedly killing them all. In the furious skirmish, Calhoun was seriously wounded, but was able to free his men. In their retreat through the jungles, they were rescued by another Ranger battalion. While being treated for the injuries he had sustained, Calhoun felt his soul rise above his body and could see the medics unfolding the black bag for his body. Suddenly, he was engulfed in total darkness. Though he had seen men die before his eyes and

had killed countless enemy soldiers himself, the total darkness and absolute isolation frightened him then as it did now. Yet, he felt as if he were traveling, moving swiftly in space. A tiny speck of light could be seen ahead of him and seemed to grow larger as he moved closer to it. The gripping fear he had been feeling was slowly being displaced by an indescribable sense of peace and love surrounding him. The speck of light had overcome the darkness in a blinding glory. There was no heat from the light, but a soothing, gentle caress, as if he were being comforted. The image of a being emerged from the center of the light, and the sensation he felt was the sensation he

would feel upon seeing his grandmother. Elated, Calhoun called out to her, saying “Mama? Mama, is that 202 ROBERTSON you?” He embraced the glowing, silvery image of his grandmother. “Mama, I miss you so much,” he wept. He entered the light, and inside were beings of light that he remembered from long ago in his childhood. They greeted him and he greeted them, his emotions filled with complete joy. It was as if they stood upon a cliff, and beyond the cliff was a beautiful, colorful landscape as far as his eyes could see. . . He yearned to stay,

to dwell in the peace, love, welcome, and beauty, but it would not be so. A sensation came to him, expressing “You must go back. You must.” Calhoun pleaded, begging “No, please, let me stay! I don’t wanna go back!” All he saw was the light growing smaller and smaller, returning to the tiny speck it was revealed from. He felt himself reaching out, to return to the glory of the light. He did not want to return to the killing, the ceaseless violence, the senseless confusion, and the deep raking pain of his existence. He opened his eyes just as the body bag was being zipped up to cover his face. The urgency to go back to the light was displaced by gripping pain and anguish. Calhoun shifted in his seat,

wiping away the tears wetting the bridge of his nose and the side of his face. He sat up, for the thousandth time asking himself why, why he could not stay in the light. Why was it his destiny to return to a life he despised? With each dream, he hoped to once again return to the light, feel the peace and the love, to be embraced by the comfort of the light. Here, all he felt was the darkness and the loneliness. A soft evening breeze moved between the oaks and crepemyrtles and cooled the perspiration that had beaded on his forehead and the moist palms of his hands. 203

HOODOO Looking up, the crew trucks of the Parks and Parkway workers were turning in off the boulevard, the beds of the trucks stacked with lawnmowers, trimmers, weed-eaters, edgers, and tools. Other trucks pulled flat-bed trailers behind them transporting small, dusty lawn tractors and bush hogs. Calhoun turned sideways to get a better look at the drivers. In the fifth crew truck to turn into the street, he saw the workers he was looking for. He watched them until the truck disappeared in front of another truck that was behind it, moving onto the grounds of the Public Works Commission Yard. Calhoun

waited until the workers began to spill out of the gates, apparently joyous and talkative after a hard day’s work. The automobiles pulling from the driveway blew their horns and kicked up dust as they screeched from the drive and up the street. Passengers were waving, some of them leaning from the windows of the cars to shout light-hearted maledictions at the workers who were walking on the sidewalk, in the street, or through the park of the cemetery. Calhoun smiled when he saw the driver in a metallic brown Buick Regal sedan. Large terry cloth red and white dotted dice dangled from the rearview mirror at the windshield inside the car. Three of the workers from his crew were in the car

with him, the one in the passenger seat gesturing rapidly in lively conversation. Calhoun tried to make a U-turn on the narrow street, and put the car in reverse. A car behind him blew its horn, stopping him. He eased the car back enough to keep from going up on the curb to straighten out, and pulled out. From his rear view mirror, he saw the driver 204 ROBERTSON in the car behind him gesturing in needless complaint. Calhoun smiled, saying to himself that the man was going nowhere fast. Ahead of him, he saw the Regal turn right onto Gentilly Boulevard

with the flow of cars and swing into the outside lane. Calhoun watched the car stop at the median and make a U-turn up the boulevard as Calhoun pulled into the outside lane and made the U-turn to follow. The traffic was heavy, blocking his view of the Regal. He eased into the middle lane and saw the car up ahead. As they approached Elysian Fields Avenue, the light changed to yellow, and the Regal kept straight across. Calhoun was caught on red, and he sat there and watched the Regal sail away. There was no need to worry. He bobbed his head to Luther Vandross’s “Power of Love”, tapping his fingers to the steering wheel. As the traffic light changed to green, he sped up, moving in and out of the three

lanes. Nearing Franklin Avenue, the traffic light had turned green and the traffic was just beginning to move. He spotted the Regal going across the avenue and sped up to get close on its tail. The Regal veered across the three lanes at the catercorner where Gentilly Boulevard divided into Chef Mentuer Highway and Old Gentilly Road. Calhoun tried to veer across the lanes but one of the drivers blew his horn, startling Calhoun. Seeing himself blocked in, he continued up Chef Mentuer, watching the Regal go up Old Gentilly. Calhoun moved into the middle lane, then into the right lane just before coming to Louisa Street. Turning right on

Louisa, he hurried up to Old Gentilly. At the red light, he looked up Old Gentilly to see whether the Regal had moved across. Looking down Old Gentilly, he 205

HOODOO spotted the Regal in the parking lot of the CITGO filling station/convenience store at the entrance ramp to Interstate 10. Calhoun smiled, going down Chef Mentuer and pulled into the parking lot at the far side of the station. The workers had piled out of the car and were sitting on one of the white painted stops in front of the parking spaces. The driver had

opened the trunk of his car so that the music from the car’s stereo could be heard loud and clear. Tyrone Davis’s “I’ll Be Right Here” was thumping from the speakers of the car. One of the men was collecting money from the others, engaging in brief bouts of fussing before going across the lot into the convenience store of the filling station. Calhoun watched the men from his rear view mirror. Though they were talking and cussing loudly in a nonoffensive way to one another. Their liveliness made it appear they were virulently arguing. One was obviously describing a sexual episode, curling his forearms in front of his narrow chest, sucking in his lower lip, and gyrating his

hips, then from a punch-line, joined the others in ribald laughter, giving highfives all around. The other man returned with two six packs of Mil-waukee’s Best beer. Holding one out, each man pulled a can from the plastic holder. The man placed the rest inside of the trunk, popped open his can of beer, and joined the others in conversation. Calhoun sighed, thinking it a shame that he would have to spoil their evening sit-down after a hard day’s work. But, seeing the sun dipping into the orange-grey horizon and dim the light of the cool evening, he knew it was a dirty job that somebody had to do. Checking around to see if there 206

ROBERTSON were any witnesses, Calhoun got out of the car. There were cars at the pumps beneath the red, white, and blue painted canopy. Traffic had lightened considerably from earlier. The crowded, slow moving traffic creeping up the I-10 High-rise made the thoroughfare look like a river of lights. Going across the lot, he could clearly hear the sounds of “I Can’t Stop” thumping from the speakers. The four men were talking loudly to be heard over the loud music, and neither paid any attention to Calhoun. The driver looked up as he drank from his can of beer. Whether he

recognized Calhoun or not, he dropped his eyes and turned his pudgy head away. “Hey mens,” Calhoun spoke loudly, smiling affably at the men. The men looked up, the gaiety evaporating from their faces. “How’s you mens doin’,” Calhoun asked, looking one from the other for an answer. The men looked at one another as if wondering who Calhoun was speaking to. The driver took out his car keys and pressed a small, black remote, lowering the volume of the music. “What’s up, man,” the driver asked, his meaty brow knitted in curiosity. A blue and white, paisley printed bandanna covered his ears from

the cool air beneath his green colored work cap. “Y’all remember me,” Calhoun asked, reaching out his hand. “Yeah,” the driver answered, looking at Calhoun’s hand. “I remember you. What’s up?” The other men began to whisper then all of them 207

HOODOO looked at Calhoun who was wiping his hand on his pants leg. “Say, men, I hate to create a disturbance in y’all’s lil fun. I know how

it is when you done worked ha’d all day, sweatin’ n’ fonky under them sweat shirts! All you want is a col’ one to relax yo’ bones. But I ain’t gon take up too much o’ yo’ time. I jes wanna ask y’all a few questions that I forgot from last time. Y’all game?” “Game,” one of the men asked the man next to him. “What the fuck is this dude talkin’ ‘bout?” “Le’ me rephrase that. Does any o’ y’all knows somebody they calls Pinky Red?” Calhoun checked their faces for a reaction. The driver lowered his head, turning the can of beer with his fingers. One of the other men shot a fleeting glance at the driver and lowered his head also. The other two men

appeared oblivious, shaking their heads. Calhoun stopped at hearing the song, “There It Is” on the car stereo. “Hol’ up, bro. that’s my song! Wait, bro! . . Nobody could have told me that, that you would do this be-hiiind my back, honey, but, theeere r’it is! There t’iii-iii-is!” Calhoun made a few smooth dance steps, tipping in front of the men. “ Y’all gotta excuse me, man! That’s my boy, bro, ol T.D.!” The four men were unamused by Calhoun. They simply gazed at him. “I’m sorry, bro, I couldn’t help that. That’s my jam, bro! . . But, anyway, where was we? What I had asked y’all?” “You can’t remember yo’ own

questions, bro,” a slender man scoffed. “Oh, I got it,” Calhoun snapped his fingers. “Yeah, 208 ROBERTSON what I asked was, does any o’ y’all knows somebody they calls Pinky Red?” None of the men answered. “I asked that to mean that if any o’ you men knows Pinky Red, you knows why I’m y’ere. Nah, I’mon say this. You ain’t in no trouble right now. What you done done is small-fry compared to what done really happened. N’ you don’t talk to me right now n’ I walk away from ya, you gon be in it so deep, even hip boots

ain’t gon he’p you from the shit you gon be in!” “What, you ‘round here threatin’ people,” the slender man snarled, directing his can of beer and pointing his forefinger at Calhoun. “You gon be in mo’ shit than you can handle if you don’t git the fuck outta our face!” In an instant, Calhoun reached out and grabbed the man’s hand and forcefully squeezed it. The aluminum can crumpled from the grip and the beer gushed out of the mouth, foaming over the man’s wrist and along the sleeve of his green work jacket, and splattered on the black asphalt of the lot. Calhoun was grinning wickedly, gazing in the slender man’s eyes and seeing pain flash across

his eyes. “I ain’t hankerin’ no trouble, slim,” Calhoun said calmly. “But I can sho o-blige it!” Seeing his message had registered in the man’s eyes, Calhoun released his hand and shook the beer from his own. The smell of the beer created a powerful thirst in him. He stepped to the trunk of the car, and pulled two beers from the six pack holder. He popped one and then the other, reaching one to the slender man. 209

HOODOO

“Sorry ‘bout that, stretch! Y’ere ya go! Have another on me! I tol’ you the last time that I was gon drink to yo’ health! Bottoms up!” Calhoun took a deep gulp from the can of beer. “Ahhh,” he said, twisting his neck and belching out loud. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a ball of crumbled bills, pulling a five dollar note and tossing it to the asphalt in front of the men. “Five for the pot, fellas! Go’n git a couple mo’ aces on me! Drink up w’ile these still col’!” The four men stared vacantly at Calhoun, each seeming distant in their own thoughts. Calhoun drained the can of beer, raising it high for every drop before crushing the can and tossing it at the white painted chain linked fence.

“Oops! Y’all savin’ them cans,” Calhoun asked then noticed the somber expressions on their faces. “Hey, won’t y’all lighten up a lil! I tol’ ya I ain’t wanna ruin y’all’s lil pow-wow out y’ere! Don’t le’ one monkey stop no show! I’m gon be long gone in a few minutes once’t I git what I comed y’ere for, aw’ight?” “What you want, bro,” the driver asked, his dark forehead lined in deep furrows. “I done already said it! I’mon say it one mo’ time. Does any o’ you know Pinky Red?” “We know who you talkin’ about, but his name is Panzy Red.” “Whatever,” Calhoun frowned.

“Since y’all know who I’m talkin’ ‘bout, you know why I’m y’ere.” The driver nodded, glancing around at the slender man. “You wanna talk in private, or does any o’ these 210 ROBERTSON other gen’mens know what’s goin’ on?” “What the fuck,” the driver scoffed sarcastically. “You come bustin’ out here like this, we may well talk out in the open!” “That’ll work. . . Pinky tol’ me what happened. That true?” “Yeah,” the driver nodded.

“You happen to know anything ‘bout Metry, a marble statute o’ a lady ‘bout yea high?” “No, man,” the driver held up his hands. “I did do some of the stuff Red told you about, but it was just a few flower pots, some crosses, and a lil angel, that’s all. I never took nothin’ outta no private owned cemetery. We never even go to them. We only go to city owned property. I only did it for a few ends. I didn’t know the shit was gonna get outta hand like that.” “Pinky said you stopped. Why?” The driver glanced at the slender man again. The slender man was furtively shaking his head, trying to stop

the driver from talking. “Somebody else is involved in this,” Calhoun asked, gazing at the slender man. “Somebody else in it, ain’t he?” “Say, Skinny Man,” the driver said to the other man. “I’m not goin’ back to pen’tent’ry for no fuckin’ white boys or no penny ante shit, bro!” The driver looked directly at Calhoun. “If I tell you who them other dudes is, you gotta give me yo’ word that you’re gonna keep our names and where we work outta this shit.” “Hey, you got my word as a man,” Calhoun kissed his fingertips and raised them into the air. “I’m a man o’ 211

HOODOO means by no means!” “I’m serious, bro,” the driver frowned. “Don’t play.” “I’m serious too,” Calhoun assured him. “A man ain’t a man n’ he ain’t got his word to back ‘im up, whether he likes it or not.” The driver glanced again at the slender man and took off his green cap, hefting the bib of it in his hands as if taking its weight. The knot of the bandanna was tied at the center of his forehead. The thinning hair at the top of his head was shiny with grease.

“We stopped because these two white dudes outta the Parish--- “ “What w’ite dudes,” Calhoun asked. “They got w’ite boys involved in this nah?” “Yeah, they out the Parish.” “What Parish, the Parish Prison?” “No man, Saint Bernard Parish outta Chalmette. They come around and asked us if we wanted to make a few ends by reachin’ ‘em some plant pots outta the cemetery we was workin’ in. We had already done it for Panzy Red, so I said, why not, and they paid us. Then they came back about a day later and asked for some crosses and stuff, and we got them too. But, they come

back a few days later and asked us to go in Metairie to get some stuff. I said no because it was too risky, y’know.” “It’s okay to take stuff outta po’ cemeteries, but it was too risky to take stuff outta Metry, huh? You oughta hear how you sound, boy!” The driver pursed his full lips. “Say, man, city 212 ROBERTSON owned cemeteries already all fucked up! Who would’ve knew? Shit, if it wasn’t for us cuttin’ the grass every now n’ then, they’d consecrate the grounds and sell ‘em off for lots!”

“N’ I suppose that makes it right, huh,” Calhoun scoffed, his jaw muscles twitching rapidly. “Tell you what--- “ The driver stopped himself, lowering his eyes. “Let me say it like this. We all got fam’lies and we all need to make ends meet. That’s just the way it is, bro. That shit was old and already crumblin’ up! Lil children be playin’ in them cemeteries sometimes ‘cause all the parks n’ play grounds mo’ messed up than the cemeteries! They be leapin’ on tombs, runnin’ on top of crypts, and swingin’ on statues n’ crosses. Them children coulda got on one of them things and hurt theyself, then where would that of led? If you could get five, ten dollars aa piece

for old shit like that, you’d be doin’ the city a favor! Wouldn’t you’d of done it? You’re not gonna tell me you wouldn’t, not when it comes down to a dollar n’ feedin’ yo’ children, bro?” “I can tell you for a fact that I wouldn’,” Calhoun exclaimed. “N’ I ain’t even got no chil’ren! You know why I wouldn’ do it? “Cause what goes around comes around! I wouldn’ want nobody to do that to my people’s graves! I wouldn’ want nobody to do it to my own grave! Where’s the respect for the daid, man? What y’all done done was wrong, n’ if you keep tryin’ to justify it, it’s gon come back to you hard, boy!” The driver hooked the corners of his mouth downward, gazing at the

ground. “You right, bro. It was 213

HOODOO wrong, and man, I swear, I’m sorry we did it. Everytime I go to one of them cemeteries, I think about what we done. Everytime I go to bed, I can’t help but to think about it. I just hope God could forgive us, man.” “Yeah, you so sorry, you mournin’ wit’ all that jew’ry luggin’ on yo’ neck, huh? If you so sorry, I see don’t none o’ that gold n’ diamonds you wearin’ comin’ off yo’ sorry ass, talkin’

‘bout feedin’ yo’ chil’ren!” The driver was stung by the remark. “Ain’t no cause for all that, bro. I’m tellin’ you what the deal is so you can make it right. But I’m not gon be too many sorry asses, alright?” Despite the driver’s sensitivity, Calhoun was totally disgusted by him. “You know them w’ite boys name? Where they hang out at?” “I don’t know. You gon have to talk to Skinny about that.” The driver directed his thumb at the slender man. “After the first time, he did all the wheelin’ n’ dealin’ with them.” “Who? Him?” “Yep,” the driver nodded, fitting his cap on his head again. “Say,

Skinny, go ‘head on and fess up, bro. We was down wrong. It’s better to do it with him so he could keep his word than to do it with a judge. I’m tellin’ you, if we take a fall on this, I ain’t gon be nobody’s friend on that Bottom, ya heard me?” The slender man took a long quizzical look at the driver. “You was pissed off thinkin’ I was talkin’ ‘bout yo’ mama n’ what livin’ people does to daid people, n’ you ‘round y’ere stealin’ stuff off’n people’s graves?. . Boy, 214 ROBERTSON you in-spire me!”

The slender man was silent, looking away toward the I-10. “What, that was a act you was puttin’ on jes to git rid o’ me?” The slender man cocked his head and spat on the ground. “What was them w’ite boys name n’ where can I find ‘em?” “What you gon tell ‘em when you see ‘em, dude? You gon tell ‘em we tol’ on ‘em?” “Naw, I ain’t gon do nothin’ like that. I’mon jes le’ ‘em know they busted, that’s all! I ain’t gon even mention y’all. All I want is that statute o’ that lady back, that’s all. I ain’t worried about nothin’ else.” “Well, we never went to

Metairie. They did.,” the slender man confessed, staring at the ground. “We was jes takin’ stuff that we thought wasn’t worth nothin’, but it was worth somethin’ to somebody. They was payin’ us for it, y’know, so we figgered what the fuck, it’s somethin’ for nothin’. We didn’t think it was gon turn out like this.” “That’s the way it is when that demon gits in yo’ y’ear. He make you think that it’s gon be nice n’ easy, ain’t nobody smarter than you is, ain’t nobody gon miss it, and--- there t’is!” “Yep,” the slender man nodded. “Them dudes took that shit to a new level, man! When they stopped callin’ me, I was glad as a mug!” “Wait a minute,” Calhoun held

up his hands. “Back up! . . You jes said they was callin’ you?” 215

HOODOO “Yeah, I gave them my number so they could call me whenever they needed to score. We smoked together, y’know. I was sco’in’ for ‘em and they was buyin’ big boulders, bro! I had to git me a piece o’ the rock, too, y’know what I’m sayin’?” “Couldn’t le’ ‘em smoke it all by theyself, huh,” Calhoun snarled. He looked at the driver. “You smoke dope too?”

“Naw, I don’t mess with that trash,” the driver shook his head. “My fam’ly is too expensive.” “They was makin’ a lotta money from somebody for that shit,” the slender man continued. “I think somebody else was buyin’ the stuff off them. We didn’t know they had took over, y’know. They jes stopped callin’. I didn’t think much of it ‘cause it wasn’t no sweat off me. I thought their hustle had dried up. Come to find out, they went to other cemeteries on their own and started takin’ stuff. They had a white Chevy pick-up with them big monster wheels on it. They was goin’ to them cemeteries, backin’ up to the gates, and hackin’ shit off of them graves like mad Russians, bro! They

was takin’ good stuff, railin’s, and statutes and stuff! As wild as they got, they had to be makin’ some real money for it and kept it all for theyself.” “They jes kicked y’all to the curb like red-head stepchil’ren, huh,” Calhoun said sarcastically. “What’s they names?” “One is named Dominic and the other is named Rocky. Dominic is a tall, skinny dude like me with a long neck and a big Adam Apple. He got coal black hair and his teeth is rotten all in front his mouth. His breath stinks 216 ROBERTSON

real bad, man, like he got py’rhea by the mouth. Rocky is a straight up ass-hole. He muscle-bound and fucked up in the head. He talks all the time, man, nonstop. They shoulda called him Radio instead o’ Rocky! You could tell he done done a lil readin’ because he says a lot of these intellectual things but it be outta place from what he really tryin’ to get across, y’know.” “Like a vain jingler,” Calhoun nodded. “A educated fool.” “Yep, exactly,” the slender man nodded, chuckling to himself. “He like wearin’ these tee-shirts with cut-off sleeves to show off his muscles, even when it’s thirty degrees outside! But the cold don’t do nothin’ to kill that fonk he

carry around. That motherfucka is as fonky as a pole-cat, y’know, like he hates takin’ a bath! He’s the one you gotta watch. He might sound like he’s a lil intelligent, but the dude got some jugged up understandin’s. He would go off on you at the drop of a hat! Him and Dominic hang out at a club in Arabi on Saint Claude right at the city line. They from Chalmette right across the tracks. When I sco’ed for ‘em, we went to Rocky’s house around Paris Road to burn it. I saw all that stuff they took from them cemeteries in his garage, man, and it was weird! It freaked me out, man. I couldn’t even git my smoke on from thinkin’ about that shit in the house with us!”

“What’s the name o’ the club they hang out at,” Calhoun asked. “Picou’s across the avenue from the sheriff’s office. It’s owned by a ol’ prize fighter. They shoot pool in there and wait on their contact. It’s a hustler’s joint, y’know, but 217

HOODOO if you go in there, you’d better go in with somebody who knows somebody in there, ‘cause they don’t like us in there. They’ll crowd up on you and beat the shit outta you before they throw you out, then call the sheriff office and say you

disturbed the peace in there!” “Ain’t that a bitch,” Calhoun scoffed. “You think them two is still stealin’ outta them cemeteries?” “I don’t know. They stopped callin’ me and comin’ to pick me up to sco’ for ‘em. I guess they done found their own stroke.. But, y’know, the heat is on. If they smart, they wouldn’t be stealin it. But, with them greedy ass white boys, you never know. Greedy motherfuckas don’t pay attention to the news.” “You right ‘bout that,” Calhoun nodded. “You think they got that statute o’ the lady I’m lookin’ for?” “Man, they got a lotta stuff in there. I couldn’t make out one thing from

another, y’know.” Calhoun sighed. “Well, men, I wanna thank ye for he’pin’ me out. N’ I was you, I’d keep my mouth shet n’ my nose clean! Go n’ sin no mo’. If I run into any one o’ y’all out there after this y’ere lil conversation, you gon have hell to pay, you y’ear me talkin’ t’ya?” “We hear you,” the driver answered. “Like I said, I wish I could get back that stuff and put it back on them graves, man, but you can’t turn back the hands of time. I just hope you stick to yo’ word.” “You got that,” Calhoun kissed his fingers and raised them to heaven. “As Gawd is my witness!”

218 CHAPTER SEVEN

Calhoun could hear the voice of his cousin, the building’s owner, through the office door. The voice had an angry, agitated tone to it, as if he was fussing with someone. It reminded Calhoun that he was late in paying his rent. Throwing back the green thermal knitted spread covering him on the sofa, he sat up and stretched the sleep from his body. The effluvium from his mouth made him

frown and smack his lips. Going into the rest room, he freshened himself and returned to the desk. Kneeling behind it, he reached under it and up behind the top drawer. Unsnapping the leather pouch, he stood up and counted the exact amount of rent due his cousin. He noticed his stash dwindling from all of the expenses he was incurring from the case. Shrugging, he replaced the pouch and straightened up to brush off his knees. Slipping on his pants and slippers, he went to the door and eased it open. Peeking downstairs, he could see his cousin furiously scrubbing the floor. Calhoun opened the door to go downstairs and felt something crunch

beneath his feet. Stepping back, he looked down at the object. It appeared to be a handcrafted toy, something a child had pasted together in a kindergarten project. He picked up the crumpled, oblong brown box and inspected it. It seemed to be a small boat made of pasteboard and painted brown, like the color of wood, with water colors. Upon closer examination, he realized it was fashioned into a miniature casket. Calhoun blinked his eyes in confusion. Downstairs, his cousin was pulling a thick black commercial water hose from the lounge of The Order of 219

HOODOO the Ancient Masonic Temple. He was scowling to himself when he looked up and saw Calhoun coming down the stairs. He tipped up the bib of his yellow sport’s cap, beads of perspiration on his handsome, light complexioned face. His pencil lined moustache and the triangle of black hair beneath his lower lip gave him the dashing looks of a Musketeer. “What’s goin’ on up there, Coolie,” he asked. “Man, what’re you doin’, fartin’ around with some hoodoo people or somethin’?” “What you talkin’ about, Chink?” “This,” he pointed at the floor

then bit the tip of his finger to release it of the sacrilege. “I’m talkin’ about about that! What kind of shit is that, Coolie?” Red dust had been lined and fashioned in the form of a cross on the black and white tiled floor at the bottom of the stairs. Chink had propped the front door open with a chair he had taken from the lounge. “I almost stepped in that shit when I came in, bro,” Chink complained bitterly. “I don’t know what that is, cuz,” Calhoun shrugged. “I was upstairs sleep. Shit, I jes foun’t a lil biddy casket up there at my do’! You wanna see it?” Calhoun tossed the pasteboard box to Chink from the stairs. Chink

dropped the hose and jumped backward, raising his hands to avoid it from touching him. The box landed on the cross designed on the floor. “What the--- “ Chink backed to the doorway. “Why you threw that thing like that? You outta your damn mind or somethin’?” Calhoun guffawed at his cousin’s reaction, 220 ROBERTSON slapping his thigh. “I thought you was a high n’ mighty Mason, boy? What you call it, a thirty-second degree Mason? I ain’t knowed egg heads like you was

superstitious!” “It ain’t got nothin’ to do with bein’ superstitious, Coolie! You ought to know better than to be fartin’ around with these crazy-assed hoodoos, man! Look at this shit! You ought to be the one cleanin’ up this mess!” “Y’ere,” Calhoun reached into his pocket and took out the fold of cash. “I’m bringin’ you yo’ rent money. You want that cleaned up, you oughta call for Oscar n’ gi’ ‘im a few dollars to clean it up, big money!” Chink carefully stepped around the cross to take the money from Calhoun. Looking at the hundred dollar bills in the fold, he looked surprised. “You payin’ up, Coolie? You must’ve hit

a big case, huh?” “Don’t worry about it,” Calhoun said, hiking up his pants at the waist. “You sho you payin’ up, Coolie? I don’t want you comin’ back to borrow none of this later on tonight, okay. If you need some money, I can let you slide a month.” “I’m good,” Calhoun answered, starting up the stairs. “I heard you lost Dee?” “Yeah, easy come easy go.” “Tell the truth, Coolie,” Chink said, leaning on the banister. “You was tappin’ that fat, huh? Tell the truth!” “Naw,” Calhoun stopped. “I wan’t doin’ nothin’ with her. She was jes

a good secretary, that’s all.” “C’mon, Coolie, tell the truth!” “I ain’t lyin’, cuz. I wouldn’t’ve messed with Dee if 221

HOODOO she laid butt naked in front me with her laigs wide open! She was a hell of a secretary! Shit, it was a good thing I didn’t, huh? She’d o’ done mo’ than quit on me! You know how evil n’ spiteful a country ass woman can git!” “I think you were, myself,” Chink nodded. “She stuck by you and put up with your crap for way too long! No

woman does that if you weren’t makin’ her happy! A healthy, big boned young thing like that, I’d have never let her slip away!” “Well, one man’s loss is another man’s lot. She works for Krauss now. You oughta go n’ git her.” “What’re you gonna do about another secretary? You’ve always had one. Where you get those fine, good lookin’ women from beats me!” “They come to me, cuz, I don’t go lookin’ for them. Shit, I don’t need no nuther secretary anyway. I can do bad all by myself! When I first got into this bus’ness I didn’t have one, so outta sight outta mind!” “That’s too bad,” Chink said,

clicking his tongue. “Dee was the best secretary you ever had. She went out of her way to pay all your accounts on time and kept things nice and tiddy up there. I always felt she was the best thing to ever happen to you, that’s why you ought to tell the truth, Coolie. You was stickin’ her, wasn’t you?” “James Coltrane Calhoun,” someone asked from the doorway. “No,” Chink said, looking at the man. He looked up at the staircase to find Calhoun gone. “Civil Shreiff’s Department,” the man said, showing his badge. He held a sheet of paper in his hand. However, when he started to step into the vestibule, he

222 ROBERTSON spotted the red cross and the pasteboard casket on the floor and stopped in his tracks. His eyes darted to Chink. “You lookin’ for Calhoun, he right upstairs,” Chink pointed, moving in front of the newel of the banister. “Go right up the stairs and knock at the door. I think he’s in his office. But, watch that mojo there on the floor. I wouldn’t want you to get afflicted by a curse.” The deputy gazed at the ominous talisman on the floor, torn between doing his duty and risking affliction from it. Respecting the latter

more, he looked at Chink again. “Let me see some I.D..” “Sure,” Chink said, removing his wallet and taking out his driver’s license. The deputy studied the license and reached it back to Chink. “You tell Calhoun that I’m going to get him, no matter what he does, evading, lying, or voodoo!” Chink sucked his teeth. “Every dog got his day.” The deputy backed from the vestibule, keeping his eyes on the cross, and disappeared on the sidewalk. Calhoun giggled derisively behind the door of his office. Hearing the water splashing from the hose

downstairs, he sighed and went to his desk. He gazed at the items he had collected from Madam Jubilee’s house. For the first time in days, he noticed the burned out candle on his desk top, the inside of the jar covered in soot. He looked inside the jar to see whether there was anymore wax left in order to light it again, but only saw the burned silver square at the bottom of it that held the wick. For some reason he felt the urge to go and buy another, that burning the candle may have been responsible for his streak of good fortune. Shrugging, he 223 ROBERTSON

chalked it off as mere coincidence. Whether burning the candle or not, he would have had that run of luck either way, telling himself that it was written in his fate, that it was all in the cards for him. Sitting in his desk chair, he thought about the gris-gris placed at his door, the red dust cross drawn in front of the staircase leading to the office. He knew it was a warning from Madam Jubilee and her minions, but he was hardly concerned about their attempts to intimidate him. He had no belief in voodoo or their dark practices. His main concern now was in retrieving Fontenelle’s statue and bringing the case

to an end. Getting up from the desk, he went to the fire escape and opened the door. Peering outside, he looked along the street for the deputy. He knew the deputy was staked out somewhere along the street. Locking the front door, he prepared himself to go out of the rear window. He needed something to eat before going out again later tonight. Half out of the window, he looked back into the office. A deep sense of loneliness gripped his heart. He missed Dee and the once bustling business he enjoyed not too long ago. He had to make things right. *****

The white, Big 10 Chevy pickup truck was parked parallel in the gravel and oyster shell covered lot in front of the bar. The truck sat high above the rest of the cars and trucks on four big mud-smeared tires. The red, green, yellow, and white neon lights flashed PICOU’S from the display window with a crudely etched, overly muscled prizefighter drawn from the waist up in an old224

HOODOO time boxing stance. OYSTERS SHRIMP CRAWFISH CRABS POOL was lighted

in large letters below the bar’s name and the illustration. The time was verging on one in the morning when Calhoun popped the tab of his second tall can of Miller Beer, resting it in a plastic cup holder hanging on the door of his car. He reached into the bag of spicy, deep fried pork rinds resting in his lap and crunch on the tasty snack. Now and again, he would wipe his hands on his pants leg and retrieve the black binoculars from the passenger seat to take another look across the avenue. Though the moon was nearly full in the starry night sky, Calhoun had parked a bit up from the city limits near the Saint Bernard Parish Sheriff’s Department on the opposite side of the

avenue. Every hour or so, a sheriff’s cruiser would pull into or out of the fenced lot, U-turn at the wide neutral ground, and move up into the Arabi subdivision, a suburban district of New Orleans. Hidden by the shade of tall oaks, palms, and plantain trees lining the area in front of Jackson Barracks, Calhoun was safely out of view, but in a strategic position to see everything, or atleast what he wanted to see. At about two-thirty, he noticed three men walking out of the bar. Two of the men fit the description given to him by the city worker. Though the night was cool enough to wear a light jacket, one of the men was wearing a dingy looking sleeveless muscle shirt, exposing his

muscular biceps. Calhoun smiled behind the binoculars. As the man talked, he bent his forearms upward and twisted his wrists to flex his roping sinew. He was obviously displaying. The tall, thin man was listening 225 ROBERTSON to the man but was constantly adjusting the crimped bill of his red and white cap, nodding, and peering up and down the wide, empty street. He pulled up the collar of his red, white, blue, and brown plaid shirt to shield his long neck from the chill of the night air. The third man was listening intently. He was wearing a

shale gray, long sleeved shirt with a white collar and cuffs. A black leather jacket was draped across his arm. The man was wearing heavy looking, expensive jewelry. His permed black hair was neatly trimmed, setting him apart from the other two. He had the demeanor of a mobster, a Mafioso. Calhoun thought that suspicious because the mobsters he knew would never delve into petty thefts of cemeteries. Was he the bar owner or a local businessman setting up a buy with the two thieves? With a lot of lucrative homes being constructed in Saint Bernard Parish, it was more than likely the latter, buying the cemetery ornaments for landscaping décor.

After a while, the three parted. The two men stepped up on the chrome runner attached to the sides of the truck and climbed into the cab. The other man went to a gleaming black, Fleetwood Cadillac Brougham fitted with a grey leather Landau carriage top. The Hedders of the truck roared loud in the quiet of the early morning as it backed out into the avenue. The Fleetwood backed out and followed the truck up the avenue. Calhoun slipped the bag of pork rinds into his coat pocket and started up his car. He made a U-turn at the neutral ground and stayed a safe distance back from the vehicles. The foggy night air of Chalmette smelled of natural gas, the wide fields across the railroad tracks

and the isolated 226

businesses along the highway all closed but lit up brightly. As the highway divided at a dilapidated historic ruin, the truck signaled left and turned into Paris Road. Calhoun continued across Paris Road and made a U-turn. Pulling to the corner, he saw the tail lights of the Fleetwood moving up fast on Paris Road. Calhoun turned right and sped up to follow at a close distance. They stopped at the traffic light at West Judge Perez and Paris Road. Calhoun stopped directly behind the Fleetwood.

The traffic light turned green and the truck moved up, flashing its right turn signal and pulling slowly in the driveway of a spacious, bricked home. The Fleetwood pulled to a stop at the shoulder of the driveway instead of going into the driveway. Calhoun went pass them and drove further up. He made a U-turn on Paris Road, drove down a bit, and pulled into the driveway of a small printing business directly across from the house. Taking the binoculars from the passenger seat, he directed them at the house. The three had gone into the house. Lights illuminated the sheets covering the panel windows at the front of the house. Outside, the grass of the lawn was uncut, and the hedges

bordering the lawn were miserably untrimmed. A double-door garage was di-rectly facing the driveway. On the lawn at the left side of the garage, a steel grey car rested on yellow iron ramps, its tires and rotors removed. A sun-faded cardboard sign was taped inside of the rear window spelling out: FOR SALE--HOLE OR PARTS. Whoever the house belonged to, the owner had fallen on hard times, more than likely had invited hard times to enter into his life. From the size of the town-house styled home, it was apparent the owner had been doing quite well at some point in his life. 227 ROBERTSON

At some point his weakness had gotten the better of him. For some reason, it seemed all too familiar. One o the doors of the garage began to slowly pull up. Before the door could fully open, the muscular man ducked under it and went to the truck. Climbing inside, he backed out of the drive, pulled into the road alongside the Fleetwood, and backed into the drive again. The garage door was fully opened now. The tall man and the other man was standing in front of the garage door and moved aside as the truck back square into the entrance. Calhoun caught sight of some statues in the dim light of the garage. He sat up to get a better look but the truck was partially blocking most of

the interior of the garage. “N’ Bingo was his name,” Calhoun said, smiling. He made the sound of the bugle call at the start of every horse race. “And, they’re off!” The tall man unlatched the tail gate of the truck, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. The muscular man began to load a steel ramp to the end of the bed of the truck. The other man stood at the side, watching the two at work. The muscular man rolled out a large angel tied to an appliance handtruck, its wings giving him some difficulty. Turning the hand-truck around, the muscular man pulled it up the ramp, the tall man attempting to ease his load by pushing at the bottom of the hand-

truck. The angel was loaded onto the bed and left tied to the hand-truck. The muscular man covered the angel with a green tarp and secured it in place with canvas ties. The tall man was loading the 228

HOODOO statuette of a saint and three urns onto the bed of the truck. When he finished, he slapped the dust from his hands and waited for the muscular man to hop down. The other man appeared to be giving them directions then went to the

Fleetwood. Calhoun hurriedly tore off a piece of the paper bag from the floor of his car, grabbed a pencil from the glove compartment, and jotted down the license plate number of the Fleetwood as it pulled from the driveway and made a U-turn up Paris Road. The garage door was closing as the two men climbed up into the truck, backed out of the drive, and made a U-turn on Paris Road to follow the Fleetwood. Calhoun tossed the pencil and paper on the passenger seat, started up his car, and started to pull out of the driveway of the business to follow them, but the question of Fontenelle’s statue crossed his mind. He looked across at the house, wondering whether the statue was there or had it

been sold? He turned the key in the ignition and watched the truck vanish into the fog up the road. Now and then, vehicles passed up and down the wide thoroughfare, but there were long stretches of time when the road was completely deserted. Calhoun got out of the car and trotted across the highway to the house. The lights inside the house had been left on, so Calhoun went to the front door and rang the door bell. He heard the chimes go off inside the house, and waited to see if anyone would answer. He took out his file and unlocked the front door and found it obstructed by a brass night latch. Rather than force it open, he closed and locked the door again. He didn’t want

the men to know he had been there. He had to find another way into the house. He 229 ROBERTSON walked to the side of the house, checking the windows as he went along. A chainlinked fence separated the neglected front lawn from the equally neglected back yard. A well used swing set was at one side of the yard with deep recesses in the ground beneath the swing seats. The high Saint Augustine grass was crowding over into the recesses. On the other side of the yard, a weight set stood rusted and dusty in the high grass. A

black and stainless steel grill was beneath a wide shaded patio against the back wall of the house, a white propane tank dusty and spotted with rust fixed at its side. Calhoun saw the aluminum framed windows at the kitchen. Testing the windows, one went up. Calhoun looked around the yard before opening it wide and hoisted himself up and slid in head and shoulders first. The musty smell of the house assaulted his nostrils as he slid to the kitchen counter. He had to slide his body off of the counter and onto the floor in order to work his legs in. Suddenly, the barred teeth, nipping mouth, and dark muzzle of a dog was barking and growling furiously in

Calhoun’s face. Calhoun grunted in alarm, his feet hitting the window frame, his shins scraping the rounded edge of the counter top. His hat rolled on its rim on the floor as he swung his head away from the flying saliva and hot bursts of dog-breath hitting his face. He flailed his hand to keep the dog at bay and tumbled away. The small blond Pomeranian, its fluff spiked from neglect, followed Calhoun, yipping defensively and biting at Calhoun’s fingers. Calhoun feigned with one hand to distract the dog, reached under swiftly, and grabbed the little canine at the throat, lifting it from its feet. The little 230

HOODOO dog barred its teeth, its eyes nearly popping from their sockets, growling and drooling in Calhoun’s clutches. “You don’t behave yo’self in y’ere, you stinky lil thing, I’m gon choke the life from ya, dog-gone it!” Calhoun tossed the little dog to the floor. The Pomeranian darted yelping under the kitchen table and into the living room. It stayed at the wide door entering the kitchen, barking feverishly. Calhoun looked around the kitchen. The room was as uncared for as the outside of the house. There was no refrigerator. The door of the walled in oven was

hanging open. The island range was crusted with boiled over food which had caked and was beginning to curl over on the top and inside of the spiral burners. Empty cartons that once held Chinese food was knocked over with one sitting upright on the L-shaped counter. Paper plates, plastic spoons and forks, packets of sweet-sour and soy sauce, and Styrofoam food trays were scattered on the kitchen table. Huge cockroaches lumbered fat and fed on the counter, passing the gelled gravy in the trays as if they had become selective about what they ate. The waste container was full and spilled over with gnawed on chicken bones scattered on the floor around it. Aluminum soft drink and beer

cans and long necked beer bottles jutted from the top of the container. At the side, a six light French door led into the garage. Going to the door to look inside, the Pomeranian rushed from the entrance of the kitchen to attack Calhoun but retreat quickly to the entrance again. The dog had been barking for so long and so hard, its vocals were beginning to fail into a guttural warble. Calhoun shaded his eyes against a pane of the door to look inside the 231 ROBERTSON garage, seeing the frozen images of the statues and statuettes scattered about.

The fluorescent lights were still on inside the garage with a few burned out and the others about to burn out. Yet, he could see clearly the sacrilege inside the spacious garage. “Lawd h’mercy,” Calhoun whispered, making the sign of the cross and shaking his head. Rows and rows of artifacts had been neatly stacked on the concrete floor. Entering the garage, the odor of dirt and mold displaced the musty odor of the house. Calhoun side stepped along the wall, looking over the artifacts for Fontenelle’s statue. Just as he suspected, the statue was not among the items inside the garage. Calhoun sighed, raising his eyes to the soot covered, metal rafters.

At the back left corner of the room, there was some wood handled tools propped against the wall. Taking the sliver of wood from his jacket pocket, Calhoun worked his way through the crowded garage. Inspecting the tools, he noticed the split handle of an axe. Matching the sliver of wood to the broken handle of the axe, the pieces fit perfectly. Calhoun smiled and nodded sadly. Looking over the artifacts again to make sure he had not missed Fontenelle’s statue, he retraced his steps back into the kitchen. Now, his disappointment was degenerating into disgust, and the garbled barking of the hoarse Pomeranian was beginning to irritate him. The two thieves had probably sold

Fontenelle’s statue, and now he had to interrogate them to find out where and to whom it went to. The kitchen door also had a night latch on it so he climbed out of the kitchen window again to leave the house. He closed the window and went out to the front lawn. Though he was dismayed by not being 232 HOODOO able to retrieve Fontenelle’s statue and ending the case tonight, he was nonetheless elated that now he was on the right track. *****

Calling on Elton Blue at E.O. Blue & Associates, Calhoun asked his old Ranger buddy to trace the license plate number he had copied from the Fleetwood. Blue was one of the Rangers under Calhoun’s command who Calhoun had rescued when they were captured by the Viet Cong. After their service, Blue helped Calhoun to start his investigation service years ago, and Calhoun knew that Blue had all of the electronics and computerized equip-ment to locate anyone anywhere at anytime. Within minutes, Blue called him back with a name and address to the Fleetwood. The owner was Joseph Nunzio Parillo who resided in the Garden District of the city,

and was the sole owner of Parillo’s Fine Arts and Antiques on Magazine Street. The information made Calhoun nearly fall out of his chair. Of all the people he had investigated, stirring up that hornet’s nest of hoodoos, who would have known the suspect was a reputable antiques dealer? He could have kicked himself for his oversight! Who else could have appreciated the fine art and craftsmanship of historical cemetery artifacts except someone know-ledgeable of symmetry, detail, and beauty? He realized that now the case was bigger and more complicated than he had anticipated, and could be even more convoluted once he connected the main links to the chain of events. He

needed to bring Frog with him, who would be happy to go if it gave him the chance to see Madam Jubilee 233 ROBERTSON again. Calhoun went to the Dew Drop Inn where Frog was enjoying baked candied yams, a honey glazed smoked pork steak, and green peas for supper. As Calhoun thought, he was more than happy to go with Calhoun, though Calhoun never once mentioned that he would be going to Madam Jubilee’s house. Calhoun waited until they were in the car and heading down North Claiborne Avenue. Crossing Franklin

Avenue in the Ninth Ward, Frog began to look around. “Where we goin’, Sarge,” Frog asked. “Oh, I need to go n’ scope out a coupla dudes,” Calhoun answered. “I thought we was goin’ to Madam Jubilee’s?” “Who told you that? Not me!” “Yeah, you said you was goin’ to check out some people, bro! I thought you was goin’ back to Madam Jubilee’s!” “Well, ain’t nobody told you think, Frog! Everytime you git to thinkin’, the shit hits the fan!” “No, but you ain’t said nothin’ about goin’ to check out two dudes,

bro!” “I did, Frog! I tol’ you I was goin’ to check out some people! Two dudes! . . That’s you thinkin’ that! I ain’t tol’ you nothin’ ‘bout no Jub’lee! Shit, I thought you was ova that by now, anyway! She ‘round y’ere plantin’ hoodoo mo-higgies at my do’ n’ all ova the stairs tryin’ to curse me, bro! Is she doin’ that to you?” “Nope,” Frog shook his head, somehow a bit jealous. “Well, anyway, what we goin’ to do now?” “I need you to watch my car w’ile I take care o’ 234

HOODOO some bus’ness in they house. You can handle that, huh?” “Sho,” Frog nodded, seeing that they were moving past the United States Reserve Post at Jackson’s Barracks. “Where we goin’ in the Parish?” “Yeah,” Calhoun nodded, slowing at Picou’s Bar and seeing the white pickup in the lot. “Ova there, that’s where my main suspec’s is. What I’m gon do is leave my keys wit’ you in case you need to git up n’--- “ “In case I need to git up from what?” “Don’t cut me off,” Calhoun

said. “Le’ me enlighten you on a lil piece o’ investigation wisdom, my boy! This some deep shit, so sit back quiet n’ take a free lesson!” “Oh shit,” Frog leaned away in his seat. “Where’s my hip-boots? It’s about to get deep up in here now!” “T’ain’t no need for hip-boots, my boy,” Calhoun said, raising his small finger. “No need a’tall! See, there’s these two w’ite boys I need to see who is crucial to crackin’ this case wide open. I gotta interrogate ‘em, n’ I’mon use some expert technology!” “You? You usin’ technology now? Where’s yo’ gadgets?” “Right y’ere,” Calhoun said, balling his fist. “I may need to crack a

coupla haids. They got this muscle bound dude in there who might gimme a lil trouble. It might take some time. That’s why I want you to stay in the car. If they come out t’wit’out me, take off n’ go call the police. If I need yo’ he’p, I’mon come out my own self n’ gi’ya a signal.” “What’s the signal?” “It sho ain’t gon be my middle finger, fool! What 235 ROBERTSON else I’m gon do but wave?” “If you talkin’ in general terms, Sarge, it’s a lotta signals you could give

me. You can drop down yo’ pants and show me yo’ hairy ass! That’s why I asked you what’s the signal. You didn’t have to go off on me.” “Okay, I’m gon wave, Frog, I’m gon wave, oaky?” “Why you gotta be so complected, Sarge? You could’ve simplified matters by just sayin’ you was gon wave. . . See, that’s why I asked why you needed me, bro. What’s all the hula-baloo about needin’ my help when you got it all figured out?” Calhoun saw that he had hurt Frog’s feelings. “Who else could I trus’ to do this job but you, Froggish? You my ace o’ spades, buddy!” “You don’t mean that,” Frog

said, turning his head to look out of the window. “Sho I do, Froggish. You’s the P in my nut-butter! That’s the way I feels about you! If lovin’ you was wrong, I don’t wanna be right! If leavin’ you means bein’ wit’out you, I’d rather live a wrong doin’ life!” “Man, git yo’--- “ Frog laughed, shaking his head. “You said it was gon git deep! It’s up to my neck now!” “What neck,” Calhoun asked, slowing past the house on Paris Road, seeing that the lights were out in the house and the driveway empty. “When you got a neck? I ain’t never seen’t you wit’ a neck! You gotta turn yo’ whole body around jes to look behin’ ya! All

these years, I thought you was jes head n’ shoulders!” “Yeah, I gotta big fat neck for you right here!” Driving further up, Calhoun made the U-turn and slowed to park again in front of the small printing 236

HOODOO business. “Pop that glove compartment n’ reach me that bag o’ skins in there, will ya, Froggish?” Frog opened the glove compartment and took the folded bag of

spicy pork rinds from among the stack of documents inside. “You snackin’, Sarge,” Frog asked, reaching the bag to Calhoun and closing the glove compartment. “You still hungry after that good meal you had, Froggish? You want one? Go’n take one!” “No thanks. I’m tight. Why you didn’t eat somethin’ before you left the Dew Drop?” “’Cause I had already e’t. This ain’t for me. It’s for my lil friend inside the house. Look, when you see a white truck pull up wit’ bug mudder tires, git lively. Don’t forgit, if you see them come out by they self, leave. If I come out, I’m gon--- “

“Wave. You said that already, remember?” “I forgot. I git a lil ol’ timin’ sometimes, y’know. But, don’t you forgit, that’s all.” Frog slid into the driver’s side and turned on the radio, watching Calhoun look both ways before trotting across the wide expanse of road. ***** “I told you that motherfucker was gonna fag-out on us,” the tall man said to his partner, checking the Budweiser Beer clock hanging on the wall inside the pool parlor of the bar. The voice of Shania Twain sang “That Don’t Impress Me

Much” from the colorful juke box in the 237

ROBERTSON lounge. “Joe said they’ll be here for one thirty, Dom,” the muscular man hunched over the pool table, his forehead wrinkled as he adjusted his aim at the cue ball. “It’s a quarter till two, Rocky,” the tall man huffed, taking the blue cube of chalk and rubbing it at the tip of his pool stick. “They should’ve fucking been here by now. The bar’s gonna be closing in a few minutes, man.”

“Oh for Christ’s sakes, Dom, you’re fucking fucking up my shot with that negativity! Don’t you know that negativity calls forth negativity by its very preponderance? It negates the positive perspective of our basic surroundings. If you think negative thoughts, nothing but negativity’ll come to you because your external reality is viewed from the negative, and negativity will be drawn to you. . . Okay, take what you’ve just said a moment ago. Is it really a negative quarter till two because Joe and the guy haven’t shown up yet, or is it a positive fifteen minutes toward Joe and the guy showing up? Think about that while I take this shot.” Dominic shrugged and

remained silent, knowing that if he answered his partner, it would cause an avalanche of theoretical possibilities. “You see, you’ve got to think positive, Dom,” Rocky said, resuming his position over the table. “I have mentally made this shot before I’ve made it, Dom. Positivity--- “ Rocky struck the cue ball and watched it ricochet around the green felt covering and creating the chain reaction he desired. He straightened up and raised a finger into the air. “Take a hit of this, brother, and may 238

HOODOO

it serve you well! . . That’s what I’m talking about! Be positive or be fucked! We create our own reality from individual actions, from ideological illusions, Dom! Mind is manifested from the reflection of external stimuli!” “That’s game,” Dominic grinned, exposing brown rotted teeth. He knew that Rocky’s next shot would end the game. He moved to the rack and hung his cue stick. “You’re fucking gonna deny me my victory, Dom,” Rocky asked in complaint. “When you win, I don’t quit on you! . . See, that’s what I mean! You gave up before the battle was over. Nothing could withstand a negativity of

that magnitude!” Taking out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his red wool flannel shirt, Dominic tapped the pack on the side of his knuckle and pulled out a cigarette. He eyed Rocky from the flames of the BIC lighter flaming his cigarette, his internal disdain for the man writhing in his heart. Were it not for the abundance of crack-cocaine they were smoking together, he would have distanced himself from Rocky long ago, and it was nigh time for another hit. “Why don’t you call Joe and find out what the deal is, Rocky,” Dominic suggested, the cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth. “Personally, I feel like the guy has

crapped the deal with Joe and Joe’s crapping us by having us fucking twisting in the wind.” “Could be,” Rocky agreed. He looked around to see the bar-owner standing between the posts at the entrance of the pool parlor. Though he was balding, had an aged, rugged face, and a nose that was miserably flattened from his years in the ring, the old man had the body of a twelve year old boy. He held out his wrist, 239 ROBERTSON tapped the crystal of his watch, and walked away.

“Tell you what,” Dominic said, blowing out a stream of cigarette smoke from his mouth and nose. “If he’s on his way, Joe knows where you live. As for me, I can hear that girl calling my name, man! She’s saying, ‘Dommie. . . Dommie, come and blow me, baby! Come on and straight suck the fire dead outta me, Dommie!” Rocky laughed out loud. “Yo’ baby, I thought I was the only one hearing her!” He slapped the palm of Dominic’s bony hand. “I’m saying, like, ‘Here I come, honey! Just keep it piping hot for me!” “If he’s positively on his way, fuck him!” Dominic went to the bar to pay their bar tab.

With a cold front approaching the region from the North, the night air was laden with thick humidity. Visibility was at a minimum, but the moon hovered full and bright in the dark sky. As was his habit, Dominic looked up and down the street when he stepped outside. The chill of the humid air gripped him as he went to the passenger side of the truck and pulled himself up on the chrome runner. “Man, this temperature has dropped fast,” Dominic said, climbing into the cab. “Hey, fucking put out that cancerstick, will ya,” Rocky said, rolling down the window. I fucking don’t wanna be breathing in your death, man!” There was still a significant

amount of paper left on the cigarette and Dominic was not willing to throw it away. He simply ignored his partner. “Hey dude, I’m not kidding. . . You wanna insist on fucking killing yourself and taking me with you, I’m 240

HOODOO fucking rolling the windows down, okay? Is that fine with you?” Feeling it was a bit ironic that they were on their way home to smoke the rock cocaine they had purchased earlier, Dominic nevertheless pinched the fire from the tip of the cigarette and plucked

it from the window. Considering the biting cold gripping his emaciated frame, he placed the remaining cigarette butt into his jacket pocket for later. Besides the biting cold, he simply wanted to avoid a long winded preamble from Rocky about the benefits of smoking rock-cocaine versus the illeffects of smoking tobacco. He had been there before and wished not to go through it again tonight. Rocky, however, was much like nature, abhorring a vacuum. “You know what today is,” Rocky asked, looking up through the window shield at the big full moon in the dark sky. “It’s Friday the Thirteenth, and there’s a full moon out.”

“Okay. . . “ Dominic braced himself for the inevitable. “A lot of people fear Friday the Thirteenth. They do some of the silliest things to avoid imagined bad luck, and its all a worthless use of energy.” “Well, I believe in it,” Dominic said despite himself. If you noticed, I haven’t crossed that line once today. Why? With Friday the Thirteenth plus a full moon to boot, if you fuck up, that jinx will hit you doubly hard! I respect that and you should too.” “There you go again,” Rocky sighed in exasperation. “The key word here is negativity! Friday the Thirteenth, a full moon--- you don’t get it? It’s a double negative, Dom! . . Okay, let me

put it this way. 241 ROBERTSON How does the color white come about?” Dominic cringed, regretting that he had not listened to his first mind to remain silent. “Negatives, Dom, that’s how! Look at nature. You get two neutrons together, they cancel each other out to create a single white proton! By two negatives canceling each other out, you get the opposite effect! The full moon is a negative, and Friday the Thirteenth is also a negative! When they both converge in the same period of time, they essentially cancel out the hex that

each would cause in and of themselves! Thus, it brings about a balance of good luck, positivity!” Dominic smiled and shook his head. “Leave it to you to analyze something like that. But I’m not taking any chances, buddy! It could be the kiss of death!” “Take this fog for instance. It perfectly exemplifies to me the fact that we’re swimming in a sea of dark matter, Dom. Fucking atoms are everywhere and an integral component of all things. Our very universe is an endless ocean of dark matter, atoms, and molecules which all things evolved since and even before the Big Bang, man! Our bodies are composed of the same matter and the

same energy that’s been around since creation! Did you know that, Dom?” “I know now.” Dominic was tempted to take out the rock-cocaine, his copper tube, piece of copper scrubbing pad, Dr. Tichner Antiseptic Mouthwash, and BIC lighter and begin smoking then and there. Rocky sniffed. “You smell gas fumes, Dom?” “Yeah,” Dominic nodded, glad to be talking about something more tangible. “I’ll have to remove that EGR valve and clean it. The fumes’re backing up through the 242 HOODOO

air vents.” “But in reality, Dom, we’re not smelling gas fumes, we’re actually tasting gas fumes!” Dominic gritted his teeth. There seemed to be no way around Rocky’s postulating. “Why else would evolution connect our eyes, ears, noses, and throats together, Dom? It’s all material! We perceive our external reality from materiality! Thus, if you’re smelling gas fumes, you’re in essence tasting the molecular materiality of it. We taste our environment, the materiality surrounding us! That is to say, if you smell shit, Dom, you’re doing what?”

Dominic remained quiet, looking out at the curtain of fog from the window. Now and again, the windshield wipers swung up to remove the condensation building on the glass. “You’re tasting shit! . . That makes us all a bunch of shit eating motherfuckers, man! That gives new light on the phrase ‘Eat shit or go blind!’” “It’s all a big fucking conspiracy, man! There’s wheels in wheels, brother!” “No, Dom,” Rocky expounded, raising his fore-finger. “It’s evolution! Evolution is a slow process, Dom. It’s not a conspiracy in and of itself. The reality of it is everything is relative by

its very material content. When you see me, it’s not only my material being you’re seeing. It’s my atomic vibes you feel, man! See, I can’t stress that enough! I not only feel you, but I see you from you atomic light, I hear you from your atomic friction, I smell your atomic substance, and I taste your very 243

ROBERTSON presence! It’s not conspiratorial, Dom, but connective by its universal nature! Everything is connected, man, connected in a continual flow, by this extraordinarily massive relativity we

swim in!” “Wow,” Dominic said in a blasé tone. “So, what you’re saying is if you see me naked and you look at me in that way, you’re not only looking at me, but you’re essentially blowing me and reaming out my ass hole?” “Not in that sense of interconnection, Dom. But, if you’re limited to looking at it that way, then yes, why else would a person look away from you when he sees you naked? The first reaction is to turn your eyes away from a person’s nakedness, right? Or, why when you see a lemon, your mouth automatically waters? It’s an irrefutable fact, Dom, that we’re all affected by matter! Hey, if a sun explodes a zillion-

zillion light years away, in time we’re all affected by the massive devastation from the concentric rift it causes in the fabric of our universal continuity! We’re all the creation of our universe, thus we’re all a part of its cosmic materiality! We like to use the term we’re all human beings, man, with inalienable human rights! The reality is we’re not. What we are is what we’re made from! So, in that sense, we’re cosmic beings, Dom, products of our universality! We’re composed of everything the universe is composed of! We’re cosmic beings who happen to reside presently on the planet Earth! Am I right or wrong?” “Hey, what can I say, Rocky.

I’m flabbergasted! You’re a walking repository of inapplicable knowledge!” “You’re damned right,” Rocky declared, turning the truck into the driveway. “We’re here on Earth 244

HOODOO because our creation determined this is where we should be upon its suitable materiality. That is why it was possible to create us from every material resource which comprises our universal materiality. Serious, man.” “Even shit,” Dom asked, elated that now they were at the house to begin

their escape into a heightened sense of materiality. They climbed out of the truck and went up the bricked walkway to the front door. “Yes, even shit,” Rocky nodded, opening the front door and flipping on the living room lights. “Shit is only a by-product of our material presence--- “ “Holy shit,” Dominic exclaimed, the adrenalin exploding in his face at the sight of Calhoun sitting in the middle of the floor with the Pomeranian curled comfortably in his lap. “Now we’re going into religion,” Rocky continued, going behind Dominic.

Dominic backed into Rocky. Thinking his partner was horse playing, he pushed Dominic back into the living room. Upon seeing Calhoun himself, Rocky backed away instinctively and nearly bolted for the truck. Controlling his instincts, he flexed his muscles and snarled at Calhoun. “You’re a long ways from where you belong, huh, breaux,” Rocky asked, easing into the living room and kicking the door closed with the heel of his foot. “You lost or something? What the fuck’re you doing in my house?” “I ain’t lost,” Calhoun grinned, letting the small dog jump from his lap to go to Dominic. “I’m right where I need to be.”

“Well, you’re in the wrong place, boogie! This 245 ROBERTSON ain’t coon-town!” Calhoun chuckled, looking at the bristling auburn streaked blond hair on Rocky’s head, the wild blue eyes, and the tension of his muscles. “Simmer yo’ ass down n’ take a load off, boy, befo’ you git yo’self in a truck load o’ trouble!” “Let me explain something to you before you do something dumb, breaux,” Rocky said, looking under-eyed at Calhoun. “For every action there’s an equally opposite and more powerful

reaction! . . You’d better consider the ramifications, breaux, not each and of themselves, but by the very interconnections to drastic consequences!” Jes come n’ sit yo’ ass down, boy,” Calhoun sighed. “Don’t make me git up from y’ere n’ show you some actions n’ ram’fications! You gon git mo’ than one man can bear!” Dominic eased toward the greasy, grey courduroy covered sofa. “Come on, Rocky, let’s see what’s going on, man.” “You bes’ lissen to yo’ boy there, Rocky,” Calhoun warned. “You make me git outta this chair, I’mon light yo’ ass up!”

“Come on, Rocky,” Dominic pleaded nervously, his stomach muscles weak from tension. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this! Trust me, man!” “Fucking fuck this fucking nigger, man,” Rocky yelled huskily, flaring out his neck muscles, a large purple vein protruding in a thick irregular line at his temple. “This is a fucking nigger and he’s outta his place! I’m gonna rip your fucking legs off at the hips and let you 246

HOODOO watch them run for the fucking door,

nigger!” Measuring the distance between him and Rocky, Calhoun took the sliver of wood from his pocket. Rearing it back in his hand, he bit his lower lip as if to throw it. Rocky sidestepped to his right to dodge it, momentarily taking his eyes off of Calhoun. Suddenly, his legs were thrown from under him and his tight rump slammed to the dingy carpet, jolting his upper body. From reflexes, Rocky attempted to get up, but seeing Calhoun over him with his fist reared to punch, he threw himself to the floor to duck. Before he could slide away, a sharp pain streaked through his lower back and his pelvis was pinned to the floor. The vise-like grip of Calhoun’s

forearm encircled his thick neck and pulled his head backward. Rocky gagged, his muscular arms paralyzed from the hold. The blood pressure forced to his head made his eyes feel as if they were about to pop out of their sockets. “What ‘bout that reaction, p’fessor,” Calhoun snarled, jerking Rocky’s head back for effect and hearing the man whimper in agony. “H’ya like these consequences? Huh?” Rocky was unable to speak, but inwardly wished he had listened to Dominic when the opportunity was there. “The neck bone connected to the back bone, the back bone connected

to the hip bone, n’ the funny bone connected to the trombone,” Calhoun sang in sadistic glee. “That’s how that go, Einstein? That’s how that go? C’mon, sing wit’ me!” 247

ROBERTSON The Pomeranian was barking in defense, hopping and charging at Calhoun. Dominic had jumped for cover behind the sofa as soon as he saw Calhoun move. He was peering over the top of the backrest. “Stop,” Dominic screamed in panic. “You’re killing him!”

The panic in Dominic’s voice snapped Calhoun from his malevolent intent. He eased the pressure from Rocky’s throat. “I’m gon le’ you up, p’fessor. We gon continue this lil demo’stration o’ yo’ the’ry if you act up again n’ don’t do what I tell ya. You may not git up the nex’ time! How you gon react to that, Einstein? You good?” Rocky’s blue eyes said yes. “Aw’ight,” Caloun said, easing his knee from the small of Rocky’s back. Patting him on his wide back, Calhoun was surprised at how solid Rocky’s muscles were beneath the malodorous muscle shirt. “Boy, you strong like a gotdamn bull, n’ you smells like a couple o’ ‘em, too!” Calhoun looked at the little

dog, still barking and yipping. Dominic had raised his head fully from behind the sofa. “Looka how we done upset yo’ boys! That ain’t the kinda reaction we wanted! Nah, go’n sit yo’self down n’ talk t’me!” Calhoun returned to his chair. The Pomeranian stopped barking and was licking Rocky’s forearm, hopping to lick his face as Rocky got up from the floor, twisting his head on his neck. Dominic came from behind the sofa. “Who are you,” Dominic asked, easing himself down on the sofa. “What do you want with us here? I mean, why are you here? If it’s drugs you’re looking for, 248

HOODOO we don’t have any, man.” “Hol’ up, slim,” Calhoun raised his hands. “I can’t handle mo’ than one thought at a time. I ain’t as sma’t as Einstein there. I git to thinkin’ ‘bout two, three things at once’t, I gits confused all up in my haid n’ can’t tell you one thing from another one.” “Is this a jack play, brother,” Dominic asked again. “We’re users, not sellers. What we had here has been burned already!” “Nah, see--- What make you think I’m y’ere for dope?” “Okay,” Dominic held up his

lube-grease en-crusted hands and lowered his head. “Okay, who are you?” “Damn dopies thinkin’ I’m y’ere for dope,” Calhoun mumbled. “I’m J. Coltrane Calhoun, private detective, at yo’ service! Gimme a squeeze n’ I aim to please! . . My purpose for bein’ y’ere is to ask y’all a few questions on some stuff that was tooken outta some cemeteries in the city ‘round y’ere. Y’all happen to know anything ‘bout that?” Dominic took a quick glance at Rocky. The muscular man was still twisting and rubbing the sides of his neck. “We can’t help you with that, brother,” Dominic lied, averting his eyes. “I’m an auto mechanic, and my

partner here, Rocky, works at the refinery. We wouldn’t know anything about cemetery stuff.” Calhoun stared in disbelief at Dominic. The man was lying straight to his face. Calhoun sighed, taking the sliver of wood from the side of the chair. He began to 249

ROBERTSON slap the wood to the palm of his hand, staring at Dominic. “You’ve fucking sprained my sterno and traps,” Rocky protested loudly, glowering under his eyes at

Calhoun. “Yeah,” Calhoun questioned. “How you know that, Einstein?” “How do I know that? Everytime I turn my head, I feel pain in my neck and shoulders, that’s how I know that!” “Well don’t do that then,” Calhoun snarled, turning back to Dominic. “Slim, you don’t respect me, do ya?” “Yeah, sure I respect you, brother.” “You don’t respec’ me ‘cause I’m colo’d, huh? You w’ite folk, y’all can’t help yo’self when it comes down to who you is, huh? You see a colo’d man, all you see is a big dumb slave,

huh? I could be dressed to the gills, n’ ya’d still look at me in a way that you been taught to look at me, huh? You don’t feel no obligation to respec’ me or gimme no kinda consideration, do ya? You feel like you can jes say anything to me, talk to me any kinda way, treat me any kinda way, lie right to my face ‘t’wit’out no kinda second thought about it, huh? You feel like that ‘cause you’s a good ol’ w’ite boy, ain’t that right?” “No, brother,” Dominic said, shaking his head. “You’ve got it all wrong--- my best friend is a black man! We even smoke together from the same pipe!” “What you sayin’ right there tells me what you about,” Calhoun said,

pursing his lips. “I feel sorry for you, stretch. You can’t help yo’self! Even if you is a sum-buggin’, greasy dope head, you still under the 250 HOODOO impression that I’m beneath you! That’s sad!” “You’re wrong about that, brother,” Dominic denied. “You’re wrong in all kinds of ways!” “Y’know, slim, a man who’ll look another man in the eyes n’ tell ‘im a bald face’ted lie ain’t much o’ a man. It says that he’s able to do that by lowerin’ his own qualities as a man in order to

show another man that kinda disrespec’. It shows that that person don’t respec’ you as a man nor the intelligence that yo’ years give t’ya! A sucka like that ain’t fit to call hisself a real man. Eventhough you n’ ol’ Einstein ain’t nothin’ but a coupla sorry, dope head, w’ite trash, I still has some kinda respec’ for ya right nah. But, when you lie t’me, it makes my respec’ for ya jes that much less.” “Respect is reciprocal, boogie,” Rocky snapped. “It’s cyclical! You have to give it to receive it, and it goes around! But, you, you sneak into my home--- No, you unlawfully break in and enter my residence, and you attack me to sprain my traps and sterno in the progression of your crime, which is

itself considered felonious aggravated burglary under the law that carries life imprisonment, and you have the temerity to sit there pulling the race card and speaking of respect? That’s an obvious oxymoron!” Calhoun was stung by the statement. “Nah, I can accept you callin’ me brother, boogie, n’ breaux, but I ain’t gon sit y’ere n’ le’ you call me a ox n’ a moron too!” “Oh for the love of God, Rocky,” Dominic groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Let’s just answer the man’s questions and get this over with! Please?” “That’s the most sensible thing I done y’eared since y’all come in y’ere,”

Calhoun said, rolling his eyes. 251 ROBERTSON “Talk t’me quick, stretch, tell me how that stuff got in that garage? That ain’t no disco party them statutes is havin’ up in there! They ain’t jes walked in there on they own ne’ther, not t’wit’out y’alls legs to he’p ‘em in!” “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, man,” Dominic said, feeling uncomfortable with the revelation. “The last time I checked, that garage was clean and empty when we left this morning. If something is in there, we have no idea how it got there. . . Maybe you need to be talking to us about

that, eh?” Calhoun held up the sliver of wood. “You remember this?” “No sir,” Dominic frowned. “What is it?” “It’s a piece o’ wood that I foun’t in one o’ them cemeteries. N’, I’ll be damn if it don’t fit that broked axe handle y’all got back there in that garage!” Dominic laughed nervously. “If that axe handle has been broken, you broke it. We don’t know what you’re talking about or what you’ve been doing in this house while we were away. We came and found you here, man, remember? We have no idea about nothing you’ve said. When we asked you

what you were doing here, you attacked my buddy!” Calhoun sighed in frustration of the sophomoric run-around. Gazing at the small dog stretched out at Dominic’s feet, he reached into his jacket pocket to remove the bag of spicy pork rinds. Taking out a large, curled, golden piece, he clicked his tongue, snapped his fingers, and whistled. “Y’ere doggie-doggie,” Calhoun smooched. 252

HOODOO

“Y’eere doggie-doggie! C’mon y’ere, dawg!” The Pomeranian twitched its nose, leapt to its feet, and wagged its curled, fluffy tail, a line of silvery saliva stringing to the carpet from the tip of its bluish tongue. “Sit Leo,” Dominic commanded in panic. “Sit!” ‘Y’eere doggie-doggie,” Calhoun called, wagging the deep fried, crispy morsel just enough to tempt the dog. “C’mon y’ere, poochie, c’mon git yo’ fav’rite treat!” The little dog yipped, started out, and looked back at Dominic. “Sit Leo,” Dominic commanded tersely.

“Y’all so busy smokin’ that damn dope, y’all cain’t even feed yo’ own dawg! . . C’mon git what you like doggie!” Despite Dominic’s commands, the Pomeranian could not resist the powerful aroma of the pork rind. Calhoun had fed it some earlier, and the aroma triggered a reflex that made it trot away from Dominic to snatch the morsel from Calhoun’s fingertips. Calhoun picked the dog up at its sides and cradled it in his lap with the bag of pork skins. He stroked the dog’s dingy mane, feeling grains of rice glued to some of its hairs. “Y’know,” Calhoun grinned mischievously. “In some places ‘round

the world, a dawg is looked on as a special treat. The people fatten ‘em up, slaughter ‘em, jug a rod clear th’ough they butt n’ out they mouf, then put ‘em on a spit for a slow roastin’ to be served up at weddin’s, Christenin’s, n’ birthday parties for they first borned. You ever seen’t it? I swear, they look much like a skin’t rabbit, a coon, or a shoat on a stick! . . Let me see!” Calhoun raised the little dog up with both hands. “This 253 ROBERTSON y’ere lil animal, as bony as it is, he’d look much like a possum if I snapped off his haid n’ skin’t ‘im down right nah! N’

he was fattened up a bit, though, he’d look jes like a juicy shoat. W’cha think?” “No,” Dominic shook his head, sliding to the edge of the sofa. “Please, no!” “Oh yeah,” Calhoun responded, holding the dog up at the skin at the back of its neck. “He jes skin n’ bones, though! Look at ‘im! This lil thing couldn’t whet my appetite, though. I’d need two or three o’ these lil things to stretch my belt, boy! But, you can tell when a A-rab, a Mexican, a Vietnmese, or Ko-rean fam’ly ‘bout to have a weddin’ ceremony, you’d see big fat dawgs staggerin’ ‘round in they back yards, prime to be skin’t n’ put on a

spit!” “Don’t let that nigger intimidate you, Dom,” Rocky smirked. “The boogie’s bullshiting you! On the one hand, his purpose is jurisdictional and not culinary! On the other hand, his time window is much too narrow to allow him to slaughter, skin, gut, clean, and prepare Leo for roasting! In essence, he’s attempting to coerce you!” “Rocky,” Dominic said, slicing his words with the side of his hand. “I never thought I’d ever tell you this. But will you fucking shut the fuck up, please? Please?” Rocky was taken aback by his friend’s request. He pointed his finger at his broad chest. “This is my fucking

home you’re in. . . My home! . . This is where my family lived, where my children played, where my wife cleaned and cooked our food! . . You fucking piss ant, you don’t talk to me that way in my fucking house! Ever! . . I took you in, you and Leo, when you had no where else to go! Is this how I’m repaid by you? . . Now, I don’t know what 254

HOODOO this nigger’s purpose is for being in my home uninvited and without a warrant, but he’s fucking crossed the line! This fucking boogie’s illegal! Don’t let him

coerce you into saying anything you don’t have any knowledge of, something that would incriminate us both! We have grounds here as a matter of law!” “First,” Calhoun stood from his chair, looking around, the dog hanging contentedly from his fist. “I’m gon need a sharp knife n’ some newspaper. Lots o’ newspaper! This gon be a bloody mess, n’ I don’t wanna muss up yo’ kitchen no mo than it is already. I’mon show you how quick it is to skin a animal!” “Hey!” Dominic started to stand but decided against it, feeling it would appear too aggressive. “Don’t man--Please, don’t pay Rocky any attention. He tends to go on and on without consideration of another’s feelings, you

know. This is his home and he has a right to talk out of the side of his neck. After a while, it wears on you like its worn on me. . . Come on, buddy, sit down. We can talk. Whatever it is you want to talk about, okay?” Calhoun sensed sincerity in Dominic’s plea. He released the little dog from his grip. Landing on all fours, the Pomeranian darted to Dominic, jumped up into his lap, and tried to climb up the man’s narrow chest. Dominic hugged the little dog, lowering his face while the dog licked his cheeks and his long, pointed nose. Calhoun was touched by the love between the man and his dog. “Aw’ight, break it up! . . Git a

got-damn room, already!” Calhoun waited until the dog rolled into the man’s lap. “I wanna know how all that stuff got in that 255 ROBERTSON garage, stretch? Tell me the truth this time.” “We took it,” Dominic admitted, weaving his head back as the little dog lapped at his hair-stubbled chin. “Why?” “Why else? For the money, man. We were asked to steal some stuff out of the cemeteries and we accepted. It

wasn’t like we were stealing anything important, you know, it was cemetery stuff!” “Wait a minute,” Calhoun said, raising his hand and easing himself into the chair. “Let’s start ova from the word go. See, somebody else said the same thing you jes said, feelin’ like cemetery stuff wan’t no big deal. I gotta understand that kinda reasonin’, man. For one, that stuff was in a cemetery behind a gate, which shoulda told you it was private property. For another, it was attached to somebody’s grave bought n’ paid for by them people’s loved ones, not out in the openin’ where you can jes pick up on it n’ go ‘bout yo’ bus’ness. Y’all have a problem wit’ me bein’ in

y’ere uninvited, so how you figgered that stuff wan’t important?” Dominic was staring at a blank wall, unable to answer the question. “I figgered you couldn’t answer that, ‘cause if the shoe was on the other foot, you’d be askin’ the same questions!” Calhoun shook his head and bit his lower lip. “Okay, tell me how’d it start n’ who was yo’ first contact?” “Hey, man, I’m an automechanic, okay. I meet people from all walks of life in my work. I met this guy who was interested in a statue of the Blessed Mother I had in my shop. It was something my grandmother had 256

HOODOO brought over with her from Yugoslavia a long time ago. My mother gave it to me as a blessing to my business.” “You still in bus’ness?” “No,” Dominic lowered his head to hide his shame. “I lost it after a few years.” “Le’ me guess. Dope, right?” “Yeah. That’s why I started my own business because I’ve been doing drugs for the larger part of my life, man. I couldn’t hold down a job because of it. . . It’s something inside of me, man. I can’t help it, I can’t explain it. I tried to keep my habit disconnected from the

people around me. I tried to hide it as best as I could, but my desire to get high was stronger than anything I could manage.” “So you los’ yo’ bus’ness to dope,” Calhoun asked, watching Rocky scowling and mumbling to himself. “What happened to yo’ mama’s thing?” “I sold it to the guy.” “Damn, you got it bad anytime you sold a keepsake yo’ mama gave you as a blessin’ to yo’ bus’ness! You got it some bad! You say you los’ yo’ bus’ness ‘cause o’ dope, but you los’ yo’ bus’ness ‘cause Gawd punished you for sellin’ the blessin’ yo’ mama gave to you! Shame on you!” “If you could walk a day in my

shoes, you wouldn’t think it a shame. It was for money, man. I needed money. Anyway, the guy came back and asked if I had another statue like the Blessed Mother. He wanted religious stuff, things you would see in a cemetery, old stuff, you know. I told him I would look into it and get back with him. I needed a part from this garage on Washington Avenue, 257 ROBERTSON and I saw some nig--- some black guys cutting grass at this cemetery uptown. I got with Rocky and he and I went around looking for them. We found them at the Lowerline Cemetery in Carrollton and asked them if they wanted to make a few

dollars for some crosses and pots and stuff, you know. They got the stuff for us at first, but the way we figured it, we could wait until dark and go and get it ourselves and keep the money we were paying the--- guys for getting it for us. We were so successful at it, we started going out in broad daylight! Nobody was suspicious of us because they thought we were contractors. But, we couldn’t believe how easy it was!” “Real easy, huh,” Calhoun snarled, disgusted. “It sho pays to be a w’ite boy, huh? . . Yo’ boy bought all that stuff off’n y’all?” “Yeah,” Dominic said, letting the little dog jump from his lap and meander into the kitchen. “He was

paying good money for it, enough money to keep us on a constant high. I told Rocky, man, we’re onto something big here! It was cemetery stuff, for Christ’s sakes! Who was gonna miss it?” “That’s what I y’eared too. But, y’know, that was that dope talkin’ t’ya, boy. It’s like you pick that demon up n’ he gits in yo’ y’ear, tellin’ ya, “Do it! Go ‘head on n’ do it, boy! H’ain’t nohin’ gon happen t’ya! You’s the smartest thing this side o’ Ha’vard! It’s jes cemetery stuff! Who gon miss it!’ . . You b’lieve that tripe n’ go’n n’ do it, n’ that demon tells ya ‘See? What I tol’ ya? Wan’t that easy? Go’n do it agin, boy!’ . . Then you go ova board n’ start to makin’ mistakes n’ git caught. That demon jumps off’n yo’

back n’ leave you holdin’ the bag! You busted, 258

HOODOO n’ they show you on the evenin’ news lookin’ lost n’ confused like a catfish trapped in a spotlight! That demon be on the sidelines laughin’ at yo’ dumb ass! Some o’ y’all can even hear it laughin’ at ya n’ start to spittin’ n’ cussin’ at the camera, tryin’ to cover yo’ face! . . I bet you can hear that demon right nah, kin ya? He laughin’ at you right nah!” “That’s your way of looking at events, ass hole,” Rocky finally spoke.

“That’s only one outlook, an empirical one at best!” “N’ he’s off!” Calhoun reared back in his chair, pointing at Rocky. “I knew you couldn’t stay quiet for long! It’s like bein’ pushed to n’use the toilet, huh? You gotta let it out or its gon come out all ova ya, like di’rhea! You got di’rhea by the mouf’, boy! Only some wires can keep that mouf’ shut! . . But, since’t you out the sta’tin’ gate, gimme yo’ spin on what yo’ boy jes tol’ me!” “I motherfucking don’t have to say anything to you, nigger! You’re not a real law enforcement officer anyway! You have no lawful jurisdiction over us, and you have no jurisprudence other than the niggerisms you espouse! So, fuck

you, boogie!” “You pushin’ that envelope real close, Einstein. Jes keep it up. I’mon award you wit’ a beatin’ you jes ain’t gon b’lieve!” “I have no fear of you, nigger,” Rocky scowled. “And if Dominic had a smidgen of sense, he’d fucking keep his damned mouth shut too! You’re unable to effect an arrest on us! Nothing you’ve done here has a legal definition under the law and would never hold up in court! You’ve violated atleast two major Constitutional 259 ROBERTSON

laws against our Civil Rights since you’ve been here, and we can fucking even get you arrested for violating a number of criminal codes, capitol offenses against our persons and property!” As much as Calhoun disliked Rocky, he had to admit to himself that the man was right. Though Dominic was willing to co-operate with Calhoun, Rocky’s fiery defiance could weaken that willingness. “Okay,” Calhoun conceded, propping his arm across the backrest of the chair. “Aw’ight. Tell you what. Why don’t we go n’ call the police n’ you can have me arrested. I’mon go ‘head and confess to the police why I beat yo’

fonky ass into a duck fit; they gon come y’ere n’ find out what I’m gon tell ‘em is in y’ere; they gon call the New Orle’ns Police to check out the stuff that’s in that garage, then y’all gon git arrested n’ shipped to the Parish Prison! I’m gon git cut loose ‘cause I’m a licensed private detective investigatin’ a major case, and I’m gon be a prime witness agin y’all ‘cause I got all the evidence the D.A. gon n’use to prosecute y’all’s dumb ass, n’ they gon put y’all under the got-damn jail for the sacrilege y’all done! . . Nah, ain’t that a bitch? You not as sma’t as you thinks you is, Einstein! Like I said befo’, or was it jes my niggaisms talkin’? That demon is ridin’ yo’ back like Bronco Billy, singin’ in yo’ y’ear

‘Will it go ‘round in cir-cles? Can you fly high like a bird up in the sky!” Calhoun was rocking in the chair singing gleefully, but Rocky nor Dominic found any glee in the croaky, grating voice mocking them. “Le’ me clear matters up for y’all a lil bit y’ere,” 260

HOODOO Calhoun said, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees. “I ain’t no police, but I’m is licensed by the state o’ Lou’siana as a investigatin’

officer. I does the dirty work that yo’ Constitutional police can’t do. I can put yo’ sorry ass in a lurch n’ I wanted to, n’ I can take a lickin’ n’ keep on tickin’! I don’t give a jingo-damn ‘bout ne’ther one o’ ya, ‘specially you, Einstein! I don’t give a slap-got-damn ‘bout yo’ rights, civil or animal! What I does care about, though, is what I’m bein’ paid to find, a statute y’all took’t outta the Metry Cemetery. A marble lady statute. I been hired by the lady’s son to git her back home where she belong. . . Nah, I’m not worried ‘bout the rest o’ that stuff y’all got back there, not right now, anyway, unless a reward comes up on it. But knowin’ that what goes on in the dark comes to light, I can’t tell y’all what’s

gon happen when it comes out that y’all the ones who sacrileged them cemeteries. But, I can tell you one thing for sho, I ain’t goin’ nowhere until I git that marble lady statute back! If I have to git it in blood, it’s jes gon be another part o’ my damn job. Nah, after layin that on the table, I’mon le’ it up to y’all to make yo’ own choice which way this thing gon go y’ere.” “He paid some very good money for that one,” Dominic said. “Joe showed us a picture of it, told us where to get it, and later that night, we went to the cemetery and cut it loose.” “You mean Joe as in Joseph Parillo?” Dominic sent a surprised glance

at Rocky. “Yes, that’s the Joe.” “He operates Parillo Antiques on Magazine Street?” 261 ROBERTSON “How do you know that,” Dominic asked. “Jes part o’ my job, ma’m. . . You think Joe got that statute at his shop?” “I don’t know,” Dominic shrugged. Calhoun heaved his chest, sighing deeply. Gazing at Dominic and Rocky, he shook his head sadly. “Nah, that wan’t so hard, was it? Y’all sittin’

there tellin’ lies n’ rubbin’ shoulders. See how easy it is when you jes tell the truf’?’All that’s lef’ to do nah is for me to decide what I’m gon do ‘bout y’all befo’ I go see Mista Joe.” “What? . . What do you mean,” Dominic asked, worry etching his narrow face. “What I mean is should I tie y’all up or le’ y’all run? Y’all been so good t’me, I think I’m gon le’ it up to y’all! I’m game for whatever you mens want to do! It’s yo’ choice! If I was y’all, I’d git as far away from y’ere as you can git! It’s gon come out it was y’all anyway. But, I don’t wanna go see Mista Joe n’ one o’ y’all done gave him a heads up! I wouldn’t wanna go to Mista

Joe’s n’ see one o’ y’all there! Man, it’ll git real ugly!” “We’ve given you all we know,” Dominic said, deep lines stretching across his forehead. “The least you could do is to let us go! If they come for us, we’d be long gone!” “You ain’t gon go to tell Mista Joe I’m comin’?” “We’re as good as gone already! We were supposed to meet him tonight and he never showed. That could have been a sign to leave this alone right there! We’ll just leave, if it’s alright with you?” “Good deal,” Calhoun stood. “I wanna thank ye for bein’ a big he’p t’me all by yo’self. I sure hate to see

262

HOODOO you ride. You shoulda looked for he’p when you had the chance, man. You coulda went far! . . But, Einstein! Einstein, boy, yo’ mouf’ gon git you in a world o’ trouble!” ”Everyone has an opinion, boogie,” Rocky spat. “See? See what I’m sayin’? He can’t he’p hisself! He got di’rhea by the mouf’! If I was you, slim, I’d split up wit’ him n’ git as far away as I could! Y’all could be sailin’ free o’ this mess, but he gon open his mouf’ n’ git y’all

busted!” Calhoun left the two men arguing among themselves. Across the avenue, he saw the headlights of his car flash on. He waved, waited for a car to pass, then trotted across the wide road. “Got-damn, Sarge,” Frog said from the window of the car. “You took so long, I thought I’d have to come over there to see if they had killed yo’ ass in that house! What happened? What we have to do now?” “We got a change o’ plans, Froggish. It’s time for me to wrap this thing up this mornin’.”

263 CHAPTER EIGHT

“Stay y’ere ‘til I git back,” Calhoun said to Frog, taking a small, green KOOL cigarette gift flashlight from the glove compartment. “Sit y’ere

so’s you can watch the bus’ in case the police pass by. Sit low, nah, so’s nobody can see ya! I don’t want nobody spooked seein’ you sittin’ up in my car ‘fo-day in the mornin’ lookin’ like you playin’ wit’ yo’self!” “You don’t need me to help you with nothin’ or nothin’?” Frog was weary of sitting in the car. “Jes hol’ tight, Froggish,” Calhoun grinned, pushing open the door. “This ain’t gon take long a’tall!” The tree lined community on Magazine Street was a blend of residences and businesses. The damp concrete of the sidewalk was buckled and cracked from the thick roots of the oak trees rising up from the ground.

Calhoun stopped at the corner. He inspected the white painted plaster coated building, trimmed dark brown around its edges, window sills, and door frames. A wooden sign hung under the wood and tin covered awning at the front, advertising Parillo’s Fine Arts and Antiques in carved, gold painted letters. The boxy rear building at the back had a flat, Spanish styled roof with brown ceramic tiles at its edges. Red, white and blue dairy crates blocked the single overhead door of the building facing the street. A grey box at the corner of the gutters and down spout at the front of the building held an alarm. Calhoun turned on the flashlight and studied the alarm, an old Armour type system. He

searched around the front door, looking for a remote switch to the alarm. He found it at the corner of the door painted the 264

HOODOO same color of the frame. He took out his key ring and flipped open the tiny screw driver prong of the small utility knife on the ring. Unscrewing the plate on the remote, he examined the vari-colored wiring soldered to the key fixture. Selecting the yellow and violet wires, he put the end of the flashlight into his

mouth to free his hands and touched the screw driver prong across the soldered poles. A slight ring sounded from the alarm in the overhead box. Calhoun looked around to see if the sound had drawn attention. He cut the green and orange wires, spliced them, and tied them together. Replacing the plate, he turned to examine the door lock. Brown painted, metal lattice grills fortified the glazed panes of the double front door. Taking out the modified fingernail file from his wallet, he inserted it into the key hole, jiggled it between the tumblers for a fit, and turned it, feeling the latch pull back in the old chamber. Pressing the tongue of the old brass door handle, the door opened easily. He looked

around again at the quiet, tree shadowed street before stepping inside. It seemed as if Calhoun had stepped back in time. The antique, carefully restored furnishings, cabinets, and consoles stood in antiquated splendor about the showroom. Bric-abrac, what-nots, and haberdash rested on shelves and arranged atop the furnishings in various states of poses and positions. Careful to keep the beam of the flashlight lower than the windows, Calhoun eased around the showroom in search of Fontenelle’s statue. There were beautifully sculptured and polished statuettes and figurines made of marble, granite, and 265

ROBERTSON ivory, but the life-sized statue was not among them. At the back wall, a white four paned door had been left cracked open. Calhoun went along the aisle and stopped at the side of the door. He kicked it with the toe of his shoe and waited. When nothing happened, he quickly ducked low to swing into a short corridor. He flashed the light down the corridor and saw that it ended at the doorway of a work shop. He could smell the sweetish scent of cedar wood and a hint of lacquer and stain on the cold air drifting from the shop. A door on the left side of the corridor held the white

outlined shapes of a male and a female on a black laminated square with RESTROOM spelled out below the figures. Further down the corridor, another black square spelled out PRIVATE. Calhoun tried the door knob and surprisingly found it unlocked. Easing the door open, he slipped inside. File cabinets lined the walls with stacks of documents atop them. The front of a window air-conditioner unit jutted out of the top of the wall behind an old ashy brown untreated desk. A colorful male nude figurine with an exaggerated, erect penis served as a lamp supporting an antique, alabaster lamp shade. Documents littered the desk top. Parillo was a busy man, Calhoun

said to himself. He directed the flashlight over the documents on the desk and found they were unopened letters, yellow invoices, requisition forms, and bills. Not wishing to disturb the mess, he searched around the room. A computer set was in the corner of the room with a fax unit and a small photo-copier next to it. Images bounced on the screen of the monitor. Tower speakers and a modem stood on each side of the monitor 266

HOODOO with a keyboard in front of it. Fax sheets were spread out on the work table.

Fingering the pages, he found the faxes were from London, Qatar, Tokyo, Kuwait, and Rome. A computer sheet listed the names of national and international auction houses and antique traders, particularly in New York, New York and San Francisco, California. A nagging thought occurred to Calhoun that Fontenelle’s statue was not in the shop at all, nor anywhere in New Orleans. It had been sold, he exhaled, biting his lower lip and looking away in dismay. Calhoun cussed beneath his breath, returning to the desk and puling open the top drawer. A green ledger rested atop the papers and envelopes inside. Calhoun lifted it out and sat at the side of the desk, placing the ledger on

his thigh. He flipped it open and found disk-copied, colored prints of the various antiques taped to the pages, the description and estimated age of the items, and the prices assessed to them. These were advertisements to be placed on a website on the Internet. The number at the bottom of each sheet showed what disk it was assigned to with an address at www.parillofinearts.com. Calhoun decided to replace the ledger, but was filled with the overwhelming urge to continue to go through it. At the middle of the ledger, the color prints of cemetery artifacts began to appear. The angels, crosses, saints, and urns had been cleaned and polished and expertly displayed. Then he came upon the photo

of Fontenelle’s statue. However, the joy he felt was dissolved by the red letters stamped across the photo: SOLD, with a handwritten date inside the square at the center of the 267 ROBERTSON stamping. Calhoun’s shoulders slumped as he gazed at the magnificence of the hand-sculpted, white Italian marble likeness of Fontenelle’s mother, a faint, maudlin smile on her demure face. Calhoun had no affinity or taste for aesthetics, but he had to admit to himself that he was quite possibly looking upon a historically masterful work of art.

Laying the ledger on the desk, Calhoun went to the computer work station and picked up the long fold of paper. He traced the dates with his finger until he came upon the date written in the stamp on the photo, and there it was! The buyer was from New York City. ANONYMOUS was typed where a name should have been, but there was a shipping address and a banking number used to purchase and deliver the statue. Noting the disk number at the bottom of the ledger page, Calhoun tore off the page from the computer sheet, and tore off the page from the ledger holding the photo. Flipping through a Rolodex, he found the disk assigned to the photo, double

checked the number, and folded the disk into the sheets of paper. He slipped it all into the inside pocket of his jacket. Calhoun sighed deeply, glad now that the case had finally been solved. With thanksgiving only a few days away, he would really have something to give thanks to once he received his payment from Fontenelle. Easing open the office door, Calhoun started to step out and was startled by a black cat darting across the wall down the corridor. Calhoun stepped back, whispering an invective at the sneaky animal. Then we wondered where the cat had come from? Had it been in 268

HOODOO the work shop when he came into the shop? Who would leave a cat in a shop filled with delicate antique china, porcelain, and ceramics, items that could easily be destroyed were the cat to give chase of a mouse or a gecko in the showroom? Shrugging, he eased the door shut. Before he could turn around to retrace his steps to the front of the shop, he froze at the silhouetted image of a man standing in the doorway of the showroom. Calhoun flashed the light on him, seeing the man wearing a tailored trench coat opened at the front and a

white cashmere scarf draped across his shoulders. “Hello,” the man said, raising a nickel-plated small caliber pistol in his fist. “May I be of service to you, sir?” Calhoun grinned, gulping the air that crowded up into his mouth. Suddenly, a blinding white light flashed across his eyes, followed by a sharp jolt of pain at the top of his head, dropping him to his knees. Falling to his hands, Calhoun arched his back to fight back the flood of unconsciousness threatening to engulf him. He was pulled up by a powerful force, and a hard object bounced off the side of his head, forcing him into the wall. “Don’t batter him so much,” the

man said, stepping into the corridor from the showroom. “It has to look as if we’ve stumbled upon a burglar. Bring him to the back.” Rocky snatched Calhoun up from the knot of his tie and the lapel of his jacket and held him against the wall, the barrel of a pistol jammed under his throat. ”Never thought you’d see me again, huh, boogie? Why look so 269 ROBERTSON discouraged? I’m gonna spare you your misery and make this real quick for you. But, I want you to remember something, breaux. This life is a vale of tears, and

your cup has just run over!” With the barrel of the gun jammed beneath his chin, Calhoun looked beneath his eyes at Rocky’s watery image, the caustic, fecal odor of Rocky’s thick breath assaulting his nostrils like smelling-salts. “You got yo’ boy wit’ ya, p’fessor,” Calhoun grinned at Rocky. “Some men are weak and they run,” Rocky snarled in Calhoun’s face. “Few men stand and fight! I’m gonna give you the same choice you gave to me. . . You can stand here and beg for your life and die hard, or you can go to the back and die easily. It’s your choice, boogie!” Rocky shoved Calhoun

forward. As Calhoun stumbled, he leaned over and thrust back his left foot, catching rocky in the groin. The muscular man grunted a loud profanity, clutching his crotch. Calhoun darted into the spacious workshop, disappearing at the door. Parillo ducked at the sudden action, but tried to take aim as Calhoun darted into the shop. He stepped on Calhoun’s hat, going to Rocky. “Shake it off, man,” Parillo hissed in annoyance. “He’s fled into the back! I’m going in to the left, you take the right! He can’t go anywhere now. Shoot him as soon as you see him!” Calhoun ducked under the sturdy, plank-wood table and braced his back against the six-by-six legging. He

breathed rapidly, trying to fully clear his head. 270

HOODOO Looking around, he spotted cans of polyurethane, lacquer, and stain. Old furnishings were everywhere. He needed a weapon in order to equalize their advantage. Looking beneath the table, he could see the motion of the men’s legs moving slowly around the shop. “Sarge,” someone whispered close to Calhoun’s ear. Calhoun jerked his head around quickly, recognizing Frog’s voice and

wondering how he had managed to sneak into the workshop undetected. Instead, he saw Hokie gesturing quietly at him from the aisle. Hokie appeared cheerful, youthful, and a lot thinner than the last time Calhoun visited him at the Central Lockup. Though Calhoun was elated at seeing Hokie, he wondered how Hokie had gotten there. He had not notified the Police Department of his findings or requested assistance. Nonetheless, he looked behind him to see where Rocky and Parillo were positioned. Seeing them at a safe distance, he looked behind him to see that Hokie was gone. Getting to his knees, Calhoun crawled silently across the aisle to where Hokie had been standing. Looking around again, he

saw Hokie smiling and pointing at an old, paint-chipped side door. the black cat pounced onto the table near Calhoun. Upon seeing Hokie, the cat hunched its back, hissed, and raised its claws defensively. “There he is,” Parillo said in a hushed voice. “Under the table, Rocky!” Calhoun jumped from his knees and bolted for the door. “The door, Rocky,” Parillo said out loud. “He’s 271 ROBERTSON found the alley door!” Calhoun slammed into the door

and quickly tried to open it from its old crystal knob. Hearing the footsteps behind him, Calhoun reared back and slammed shoulder first into the door, cracking it at its middle. Calhoun spilled out on his side to a side porch. He jumped to his haunches and started to run, but tripped over a small, wooden rocking chair, tumbling again to his side. Rocky appeared at the doorway, seeing Calhoun. The broken half of the rocking chair had been propped on a brick. Calhoun snatched up the brick and hurled it. Rocky raised his arm to shield his face from the brick and fired a wild shot. “Sarge,” Frog called from the sidewalk at the entrance of the alleyway,

fear and anxiety in his husky voice. Sarge, who shootin’?” Rocky ducked into the shadows at the side of the porch, realizing there was someone else to deal with. Seizing upon the lull in the action, Calhoun broke off the curved legging of the rocking chair and jumped to his feet. Seeing Rocky backed against the siding of the porch, he rushed the man. Rocky turned awkwardly, firing the pistol recklessly. The squared edge of the legging cracked off the crown of rocky’s head. He yelped in pain, dropping the gun and instinctively covered his head with his forearms. Calhoun stepped around him, striking out again and hearing a resounding thud at Rocky’s

wide back. Rocky jolted upright from the sharp blow, his crystal blue eyes wild in animalistic frenzy. Emitting a scream of abandon, he charged, punching out at Calhoun with all his might. Calhoun 272

HOODOO ducked and parried, dropping the stick. Rocking back on his heels, he countered the wild charge with a volley of crisp blows to Rocky’s face and head. Rocky reached out blindly, staggering forward on the wood planks of the porch. Sidestepping, Calhoun was trying to avoid Rocky’s vise-like arms, and

braced himself for another charge. Rocky spun around quickly, threw up his guards, and charged again, hooking at the air. Calhoun met the attack, slipping between the wide, powerful hooks and tossing uppercuts and overhands over and under Rocky’s middle. The quiet dusk of the alleyway was filled with the sounds of shuffling shoes, fists smacking against flesh, the thumping of the floor boards in the struggle for advantage, the furious breathing and grunts signifying one man’s will to defeat the other’s. Rocky threw a wide but powerful right hook and Calhoun blocked with his left, then stepped inside to deliver a hard left to Rocky’s narrow chin. Rocky’s knees

buckled from the snappy punch, contorting his handsome features. He fell side-ways to the wooden railings on the porch and crashed from the porch to the bricked pavement of the alleyway with a thud. Calhoun staggered backward, dropping his hands to his sides, struggling to fill his depleted lungs with the thick, fog laden air. Looking down from the porch, he could see Rocky laying unconscious on the ground below. Calhoun leaned against the splintered door frame and closed his eyes in relief. “Got-damn, Sarge,” Frog said in awe. “I didn’t know you had that in you!” Calhoun was in no mood to talk at that moment. He

273 ROBERTSON was trying to gather his breath. He looked down at Rocky again, the man appearing lifeless on the damp bricked pavement. “And--- the new,” Frog joked, beside himself at seeing the purely physical fight. “I ain’t seen a fight like that since big Shotgun and Buster out front the hamburger joint on Desire n’ Florida, boy! Short n’ sweet! Man, I wish I had a camera!” The dawn was breaking in the purple sky. Calhoun had recovered his breath and gathered his thoughts.

Looking around the porch, he picked up the Glock automatic pistol from the floorboards of the porch. “Git off it, Frog. Ain’t no time to reminisce right nah. They got another one in there. We gotta go back in. Where’s Hokie?” “Who’s Hokie, Sarge, that dude outside in the camel hair coat who come out the front door?” “No, Hokie a police, n’ he w’ite, as w’ite as a ghos’! He come out this way.” “The one outside is white,” Frog said, raising a nickel-plated Baretta semi-automatic. “This his gun! Ain’t no police out here!” “How’d you git his gun?”

“I saw ‘em when they pulled up and went inside. I knew you was in there and I couldn’t warn you, so I got out to come in there to see if you needed help. When I saw him runnin’ back out, I knew they had found you, so I went back out on the side o’ the door. When he come runnin’ out, I jumped him and put ol’ Betsy across his throat! I took his gun and tied him up with his neck scarf. That was a nice neck scarf he had, but it can’t beat 274

HOODOO that camel hair coat!”

Calhoun looked back at the cracked side door. “Damn, did I do dat,” he wondered, surprised at the damage. “We need to tie that clown up down there befo’ we go back in to git the other one.” “I told you he outside tied up, Sarge,” Frog said, searching Calhoun’s face. “Is you alright, Sarge?” “That mighta been Hokie you tied up, fool,” Calhoun said. “C’mon, let’s find somethin’ to tie this one up with!” “I keep tellin’ you, ain’t nobody else out here, Sarge,” Frog said, moving up the creaky porch steps. “The other dude is tied up outside! Ain’t no police or nobody else out here!”

Going into the shop, Calhoun searched the area, holding the gun in both hands. Frog walked casually behind him shaking his head. Finding some rags in a box, Calhoun told Frog to go back outside and tie up Rocky while he searched the rest of the building. He retraced his steps up the corridor, in the office, in the restroom, and through the display floor to the front door. Stepping outside, he found Frog standing next to Parillo who was sitting on the sidewalk with the cashmere neck scarf tied at his hands and feet. The residents living along the street had heard the gunshots and wandered outside to see what was going on in their normally languid neighborhood. Seeing the owner of the

business tied up on the sidewalk with Frog standing over him, and Calhoun coming out of the business, more than a few rushed to call 911 to report what they saw as a crime being committed by two black males. Others stood a safe distance, whispering and talking among themselves, 275 ROBERTSON keeping a close vigil on what was happening. Parillo was silent, lowering his face as if to conceal himself from the curious stares of the residents crowding the corners and across the street. The faint sound of sirens could be heard in the distance.

“What’s happenin’, Joe,” Calhoun said, leaning over to talk in Parillo’s face. “Kin I be o’ service t’ya, suh?” Parillo looked up at Calhoun in utter disgust, straining at the white cashmere scarf binding his hands and feet. “Look on ‘im, Frog,” Calhoun frowned. “Don’t he look pitiful?” “Fuck him,” Frog answered. “I like that camel-hair coat he got on! I’d look some jazzy in somethin’ like that!” “Yeah-yeah! He was livin’ the highes’ o’ the high, now he in the lowes’ o’ the lows! Looks like he wanna cry! What, that demon done lef’ you all alone, Joe? Go’n cry, Joe. . . It’s yo’ par-ty n’

you can if you want to!” Calhoun laughed out loud. “Hey, ol’ Joe! What I wanna know is what a dandy fella like you doin’ dippin’ n’ dabbin’ in cemetery stuff? You wan’t makin’ enough money off’n old fu’niture n’ what-nots?” “Cat got his tongue, Sarge,” Frog snickered. “Make ‘im take off that coat!” “Yeah, you rollin’ yo’ eyes n’ shit, but you better be glad them police comin’! Gimme a minute wit’ ya n’ I’d make you tell me yo’ life hist’ry!” Within minutes, the street was saturated with police cruisers, the officers jumping from their cars, positioning themselves behind their doors, and aiming

276

HOODOO their weapons at Calhoun and Frog. A few were advancing on the sidewalk with their weapons drawn and aimed. Calhoun and Frog raised the pistols they held in their hands. Calhoun went into his back pocket for his wallet. “Go’n raise both yo’ hands, Frog,” Calhoun advised. “These idiots think we the crim’nals. They’ll make Swiss cheese o’ the both o’ us!” “Put the guns on the ground and put your hands on top your heads,” one of the officers ordered, bristling as he

spoke. Calhoun flashed his badge. “Hol’ on there nah, cap,” he said, slowly waving the badge. “I’m private detective J. Coltrane Calhoun!” “Put the weapons on the ground,” the young officer ordered again, spittle spraying from his mouth. Calhoun and Frog slowly lowered their guns to the sidewalk, keeping their eyes on the officers. As son as they straightened up, the officers rushed them, coming up behind them and shoving them into the grid fortified showcase window and kicking apart their legs. “Watch out there nah,” Calhoun warned, trying to look behind him. “We’re the good guys! Don’t you see my

badge! I ain’t git that out no Cracker Jack box!” “One is resisting here,” one of the officers yelled. “Ain’t no resistin’! I’m too fragile for y’all t’be handlin’ up on like this!” “Stand down,” someone said from the crowd of officers. “That’s Sarge! I know him!” The young officers eased up, but kept their force 277

ROBERTSON on Frog.

“Hey, Winn,” Calhoun said, looking behind him at the commanding officer. “Tell ‘em to ease up on my boy, too! He wit’ me.” “Stand down, men,” the commander ordered, gesturing with his hand. “What’s goin’ on here, Sarge?” Calhoun turned around. “Hey there, Winn,” Calhoun said, replacing his wallet. “How’s the fam’ly?” “Fine, Sarge,” the officer answered, nodding. He glanced at Parillo. “What’s goin’ on here? Your head is bleeding.” “Yeah, that one in the alley back there popped my head pretty good,” Calhoun blushed. Winn gestured for the officers to

go into the alleyway. “Why is Joe Parillo tied up in front of his business, Sarge?” “I got somethin’ y’ere that’ll make yo’ hair stand on end, Winn,” Calhoun said. “He’s responsible for the cemetery thef’s that was goin’ on! His office is crawlin’ with evidence!” “Really,” Winn said, gazing at Parillo. “Where’s Hokie? He was here a minute ago.” Winn stared at Calhoun, searching his face. “You saw Hocart? Where?” “He was in the shop,” Calhoun answered, looking around the officers. “He showed me where that back do’ was and came out y’ere. Where he at?”

“You haven’t heard, Sarge?” “Heard what?” “Hocart’s been dead for over a week now. He shot himself inside his office. He wrapped his head in a towel 278

HOODOO to prevent splatter and placed the gun in his--- “ “I don’t wanna y’ear no mo’,” Calhoun said, holding up his hand and turning away. “You alright, Sarge,” Winn asked, patting Calhoun on the shoulder. “Man, I thought you heard. . . “

“Damn. All the shit he went th’ough in ‘Nam--- “ Calhoun frowned from the pain. “I saved his life in “Nam! Why’n hell he wanna do somethin’ like that now? I saw ‘im just last week when I started investigatin’ this case! He give me the list o’ cemeteries that was hit. It didn’t--“ Calhoun stopped, remembering that it appeared that something was bothering Hokie at the time. “Did he leave a note or somethin’?” “Yeah,” Winn nodded. “He wrote one word to his wife. Goodbye. That’s all it said.” “Ol’ Hokie,” Calhoun struggled to smile. “Atleast he came back to he’p his ol’ sarge out! Man, that was jes like

Hokie!” “We have another tied up here, lieutenant,” one of the two officers informed, carrying Rocky from the alleyway. “Keep his ass tied up,” Calhoun said. “He’s one of the thief’s!” “We have to untie him to cuff him, Sarge,” Winn said. “I can’t believe you saw Hocart in there, Sarge. You guys must’ve been some kind of close.” “Y’know, Winn, when you teach a man somethin’, ‘specially somethin’ that could save his life, you’s connected to that person for the rest o’ his life. You change a man’s destiny, his life when you guide him in the right direction, n’ he becomes a part o’ you because

279 ROBERTSON you left a part o’ yo’self in him. We all had somethin’ special, Winn, ‘cause we depended on each other in some extremely dang’rous predicaments, n’ we was so sho o’ each other, we knew we could do one ‘nuther no harm. That’s the way we was. We was brothers from then on to now. Hokie knew I was in trouble, so he came back to pay me a favor.” “That’s a hell of a thing, Sarge,” Winn said, wrinkling his chin. “You’re a hell of a man.” Winn turned to his officers. “Arrest those two. Cuff ‘em and read them their rights. . . What’s the

charge, Sarge?” “Grand thef’ o’ cemetery property, Winn.” Calhoun took out the papers and disk from his coat pocket. “This is part o’ the evidence you gon find in ol’ Joe’s office in there, n’ ol’ Einstein there got a garage full o’ stolen property in his house in Saint Berna’d Parish. N’ you don’t mind, I’d like to keep this to show to my client who gon be mighty glad in seein’ it.” Winn turned to his officers. “Grand theft of cemetery property and two counts each of attempted homicide.” “Jes one count o’ attempted homocide,” Calhoun corrected. “Ol’ Frog y’ere was jes Johnny on the spot!” Frog’s wide mouth was stretched

in a smile that was as wide as a country mile. “Okay, Sarge, give me the details of your investigation,” Winn said, walking slowly toward the entrance of the business. Calhoun related the details of the case to the lieutenant as they went inside of the shop. Officers had already entered from the side door, searching the shop 280

HOODOO for anymore suspects. Calhoun picked up his hat from the corridor floor where it had been knocked off of his head, and

found the little flashlight where he had dropped it. The officers had already been in the office of the business and had left the fluorescent lights on. With the lights on, Calhoun could see more now than he did with the flashlight. The office was a veritable sanctum of communications. Beside the computer work station and file cabinets, there were monitor screens set up to view the showroom, the workshop, the alleyway, street side, and front of the building. Three telephones rested on a specially crafted, polished table at the far side of the desk. Calhoun went straight to the desk, showing the lieutenant the impressive ledger filled with the color copies of the stolen cemetery artifacts,

their disk numbers, where and to whom the artifacts were sold and shipped to, the amounts of money received, and the dates of contacts and sales. Winn flipped through the ledger, and told an officer to call in the detectives and the Crime Lab. “Whew,” Winn said, pursing his thin lips. “Joe’s been a busy guy!” “That’s the same thing I said,” Calhoun nodded. “As good a deal as this is, you gotta wonder why ol’ Joe sunked to dealin’ in cemetery thef’s? He mighta sta’ted hurtin’ in some kinda way. Who knew?” “Who knew is right,” Winn agreed, shrugging his narrow shoulders. “We’ve been trying to figure this case out for a month and couldn’t buy

ourselves a lead!” “That ain’t all,” Calhoun corrected. “I got a few things to gi’ya from my place. A lotta it is out at that house in Saint Berna’d. But jes as much been sol’t already 281 ROBERTSON n’ its prob’ly half way ‘round the world! What we got y’ere, Winn, is what they call a network! H’ain’t no tellin’ how big this y’ere thing is or who’s else is involved in it!” “Absolutely,” Winn nodded. “This is your baby, Sarge, but when the suits get here, they’ll take over. There could be a big reward for your work in this!”

“No need’n dat, Winn,” Calhoun blushed. “I don’t need no reward! . . But, n’ they gotta gi’it up, I’ll jes donate it to my fav’rite charity.” “Really,” Winn said, raising his eye brows. “I didn’t know you were so philanthropic!” “Who? I’ll donate it right to the Bank o’ Lou’siana, my fav’rite charity! They gi’ya the mos’ int’rest on yo’ money!” Outside, the sun had risen fully in the silvery sky, warming the morning chill. The few residents who had been watching from across the avenue had grown into a crowd. Automobiles slowed to gawk at the crime scene as the officers barricaded the sidewalk in front

of the antique shop with yellow cautionribbon. Frog looked surly, standing alone on the corner with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders pulled up to his short neck. He was shivering from the earlier chill of the morning. Seeing Calhoun did not change his expression. “You ready, Froggish,” Calhoun approached from the side. “I been ready, shit,” Frog grumbled, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “You was takin’ so long in there kissin’ them police ass, I started to go n’ buy you a bib!” “You jes jealous ‘cause they wouldn’ le’ you kiss they ass,” Calhoun retorted. “C’mon. le’s go! I got a long 282

HOODOO day ahead o’ me!” The crowd of residents watched them as they went to the car. Calhoun climbed into the driver’s side and leaned across the seat to open the door for Frog. “So,” Frog said, settling into the car. “The case is over with now? I was just getting’ the hang of bein’ a private detective!” “It’s all ova but the cryin’,” Calhoun chuckled. “That Parillo gon start to sellin’ them boys out n’ they gon sing like canaries agains’ Parillo. Then Parillo gon turn state’s evidence agains’

the muckety mucks he was dealin’ wit’ in order to git hisself a sweetheart. Somebody gon sta’t to payin’ out some long money, then we ain’t gon y’ear hide nor hair o’ the case no mo’. But, atleast I’m gon git paid for all my ha’d work!” “Yep,” Frog grinned. “What’s my end gon be like in this, Sarge? All the shit I been through, I know I’m in for a pretty penny!” “What you gon git is a warm n’ hearty ‘Bless you, boy!’, that’s what you gon git! What you think you done that I couldn’ do my own self?” “For one thing, I risked my life for you! If it wasn’t for me, that dude would of come around that alley and popped a cap in yo’ ass! That big dick goon at

Madam Jubilee’s was chokin’ the shit outta you till I came up! You want more? All the nights I spunt with you investigatin’ hoodoos and dope heads n’ freaks! Come to think about it, I need a got-damn raise!” “Aw’ight, aw’ight! When we git outta the car, I want you to bend ova n’ I’m gon gi’ya a damn good raise wit’ my Stacy Adam shoe! I’mon gi’ya such a raise, they 283 ROBERTSON gon be callin’ you High Pockets, ‘cause you gon need to reach ova yo’ shoulders to take out yo’ wallet!”

“That’s cold blooded, man,” Frog shook his head, chuckling in spite of himself. “You’s a hard man to deal with, Sarge! I know damn well you gon git a reward for findin’ that stuff! Plus, you gon git paid for findin’ that man’s mama’s statute! You need to check your conscience, Sarge, because its gon fuck with you for what you’re doin’ to me! You ain’t right, bro!” “You right, Froggish,” Calhoun nodded, braking for the traffic light on Napoleon Avenue. “You right. Tell you what, I’mon th’ow you out from the reward, okay? What you say ‘bout that?” Sem’ny-thirty?” “That’ll work. Seventy for me--- “ “Boy, you better stop smokin’ them

damn goofy-sticks! The sem’ny is for me! You git the thirty!” “Knowin’ you, I guess that’s more than I can expect. It’s a deal.” “Deal.” “You serious?” “Can’t git no seriouser.” Frog settled back, looking out of the window at the large, ancient oaks and crepe myrtle trees in the Carrollton Dstrict. “Y’know, a long time ago, my daddy told me they had these people they used to call Gown Men who used to jump outta these trees and kill people. You ever heard of that?” “No, that was way befo’ my time.” “That’s right, I forgot. You wouldn’t know nothin’ about that, bein’ a

ol’ country ass boy.” “Irregardless,” Calhoun scoffed. “They still got 284

HOODOO gown mens runnin’ ‘round y’ere to this day. Klu Klux Klans wear gowns!” “True. But, these gown men wasn’t Klan. They was medical students outta one of these universities who they said was killin’ people for experiments. They wore gowns and pillow cases and jumped outta trees and killed people because they had run outta bodies from the morgue to play with. A man would

be walkin’ home from workin hard all night on the river front, and these Gown Men would jump outta the trees on him like wild monkeys and kill him and bring him to the university lab to be froze up. Then, the next day, they’ll pull him outta the fridge and cut up on him, y’know. My daddy told me they did that to a lotta men back then.” “No shit?” Calhoun looked up through the windshield at the trees lining the avenue. “Sho is. They got a lotta trees up this way! But, I know ain’t that many a man come up missin’ t’wit’out somebody gittin caught!” “They got ‘em! They got caught! They sho did git caught! My daddy said one of ‘em was a boy from a rich fam’ly

out the Garden District. They had a big stink about it, too. But, all of a sudden, you ain’t hear no more about it! Men stopped disappearin’, and they ain’t had no more Gown Men ‘cept the Klan type.” “That’s like the Jack the Ripper case! What happened to ‘em?” “They say the law made ‘em stop and it was covered up. You know how it is. Old money can move mountains, boy! Even right now, people don’t talk much about them Gown Men, but a lotta these ol’ timers remember ‘em.” 285 ROBERTSON

“That’s a hellified thing, man,” Calhoun said, turning into South Claiborne Avenue. “You goin’ home? I know you late for work, ain’t ya? You gon take yo’ own car, or you want me to bring ya to work?” “Naw, I’mon take off today. I’m tired, man. I’m sleepy as a motherfucka right now! Things is slow anyway. We don’t do a whole lotta work when it’s cold.” After dropping Frog off at his apartment flat, Calhoun headed for his office. Knowing that the Civil Sheriff deputy was lurking in wait for him, he parked his car around the corner alongside the corner grocery on Thalia Street. Going to the Order of the Ancient

Masonic Temple, Calhoun stopped in his track at the foyer of the building. A white pentagram, poured from salt, laid damp and melting on the black and white tiled floor of the hallway. Calhoun curled his lips in disgust and made the sign of the cross. He tipped around the ominous sign to unlock the door of the vestibule. From the cool breeze moving down the staircase inside, Calhoun caught a whiff of blood and decay on the air. Easing cautiously up the stairs, he froze at the grisly sight of the severed head of a cat impaled at the bloody neck on a black painted mop-stick, propped against the frame of the office door. One of the cat’s eyes was closed, the other round and wide in shock. It’s pinkish white,

pointed tongue jutted from its closed mouth. A sick feeling snaked through the pit of Calhoun’s stomach. Inspecting the severed head, the blood looked coagulated and sticky, indicating that it had been there for over twenty-four hours. Calhoun sighed deeply. He had taken the previous symbols lightly because they were mere symbols, bluffs 286

HOODOO used by the voodoos to frighten a particular target. Now, these symbols revealed much more of a serious threat

by those who placed them, an intent that they were prepared to do physical harm to the target. The salt symbolized the bitter hatred they held, and the blood of the cat symbolized the violence they intended to inflict upon the target. Calhoun had hoped he could avoid another confrontation with the voodoos, but their gris-gris made him know that it would be unavoidable. Carefully removing the stick and the cat’s head from the door frame, he propped it against the wall. Gooey blood on the stick had gotten on his hand. Had it been summer-time, it would have been difficult getting up the staircase for the stench and the flies. Despite the cold, tiny insects swarmed

the severed head and the stick as if feasting on the blood. Calhoun brushed his hand and his clothing to free himself of the insects and unlocked the door to his office. He immediately went to the restroom to wash his hands. He retrieved the mop bucket and mop from the closet and filled the bucket with hot water, adding some bleach to it. He brought the mop and bucket downstairs and jammed the door open with the mop handle. He doused the salt pentagram with some water and watched it dissolve and flow out to the sidewalk to spill into the gutter. Rolling up his pants legs to reveal the ankles of his white nylon, knee length socks, he doused floor of the foyer again and pushed the water out to

the sidewalk with the mop. He wrung the mop over the sidewalk and dried the floor of the foyer, 287

ROBERTSON then brought the bucket upstairs again to fill it with bleach and water. Going into the stairwell, he sat the bucket down at the top of the stairs and turned to pick up the severed cat’s head at the stick. “Hi, James,” someone said in a soft voice at the bottom of the stairs. Calhoun smiled to himself, ignoring the voice. Only his

grandparents called him by his first name, and that was long ago in Patterson, Louisiana. “James Coltrane Calhoun,” the voice said, huskier than before. “Who,” Calhoun turned, feigning surprise. “Oh, how’s ya doin’, suh? What kin I he’p ya wit’?” “I know you’re you, Calhoun,” the deputy snarled. “One of your neighbors just pointed you out when you were mopping this floor down here!” “I don’t know what you’s talkin’ ‘bout, suh!” Calhoun held the severed head behind his back as he went down the stairs. “You can consider yourself served, Calhoun,” the deputy said,

holding out the summons. “You need to sign this subpoena!” “Wait a minute! I ain’t the one you’s lookin’ for, suh! I’m jes y’ere cleanin’ up this mess them hoodoos lef’! Them hoodoos tryin’ to put a mo-jo on ‘im!” “A mo-jo,” the deputy asked, cocking his thin eyebrows. “Who’s trying to put a mo-jo on you?” “Not on me,” Calhoun said, bringing the severed head from behind his back. “On Mista Calhoun.” He held the severed head out toward the deputy. “Hol’ this for me whilst I bring down my bucket!” “Oh Lord,” the deputy recoiled, tipping backward

288 HOODOO to the door. He backed into the door in a flash of sunlight from outside and disappeared down the sidewalk, leaving the door to close by its automatic closer. Calhoun laughed, continuing out to the sidewalk. The deputy had stopped at the corner in front of Katz Furniture and Appliances. Seeing Calhoun come outside, he dashed down Melpomene Street. Going to the steel-plated drain at the curb, Calhoun placed the head and stick into the drain and let them drop. Looking at his hands, he returned to the staircase to finish mopping the blood

from the worn carpet at the top of the staircase and ran the mop along the frame of the doorway. Taking the bucket down stairs, he doused the sidewalk with the water again and returned upstairs to wash his hands again. In the office, he opened the windows and the door to the fire escape. Turning on the radio, the sounds of The Friends of Distinction was singing “Groovin’”. Pulling loose his tie, he started to remove his jacket when he heard the screeching of tires and a dull boom from the windows. He got up to look over the street to see if there had been an auto accident, but saw Dryades and Melpomene clear. Shrugging, he removed his hat and jacket and went to

hang them on the antler at the side of the door. Being up all the day before and all night, his body felt light and the day held a strange quality to it. He went to the restroom to brush his teeth and wash his face before laying on the sofa for some much needed rest. Coupled with the muscle aches from the vicious fight with Rocky, Calhoun had developed a skull-splitting headache that made him squint his eyes. The large knot at the top of his head had a couple of lines of blood from it that had dried up and was throbbing painfully. Taking 289 ROBERTSON

off his tie and loosening the top button of his shirt, he splashed the ice cold water from the faucet over his head and face. Dabbing the knot on his head with the cloth, he could see a small slit where the skin was split at the top of the swelling. Before brushing his teeth, he took a packet of headache powders from the medicine cabinet. Calhoun prepared it to take it when a gentle knock at the door broke his concentration. He waited for the knock again to determine who it might be. It was a polite but urgent knock, one he could not recognize. He swallowed the headache powder and washed it down with some water from the faucet. When the knock sounded again, he went to the door of the fire

escape and peered out over the street. A number of people were running across Dryades toward Thalia Street. The knock sounded at the door again. Calhoun went to the door and snatched it open, catching the man in mid-knock. It was the Vietnamese owner of the corner grocery store. “Mista suh,” the man said in broken English, bowing his head and pointing in the direction of the store. “Somet’ing happen.” “Hey, Tony,” Calhoun smiled, looking behind the man. He felt it was a ploy concocted by the deputy. “What’s cookin’?” “Yo’ caw, Mista suh,” Tony glanced up, smiled, and lowered his

eyes. “It w’eck! Yo’ caw w’eck! You come now!” “Okay,” Calhoun frowned, knowing his car was parked and could not possibly be involved in an accident. “Okay, I’ll be down there.” He started to close the door. “Come now suh,” Tony insisted politely, bowing 290 HOODOO his head. “You come now! Yo’ caw w’eck!” “Aw’ight, man. Le’ me git my hat!” Following Tony down the staircase and up the street to the corner

grocery, a small crowd milled at the corner under the balcony of the grocery store. Dodging through them and going around the corner, the sight that met his eyes from the curb made his heart drop to his stomach. “Mista suh,” Tony pointed at the wreckage. “Yo’ caw w’eck!” An early model Toyota Tercel hatchback, its fender and door replaced and coated in reddish-grey bondo sealant, was rammed headlong into the driver’s side door of his car. Calhoun staggered, weak from the sight that filled his eyes. Gradually, his anger mounted as he realized who had done it. Moving around the car, he saw no license plate or brake tag on it. Inside the car, the rear

seat was missing and the front bucket seats were ripped and dirty with straw and cotton filling poking out of the slits. Calhoun turned to face the crowd, the concerned and curious staring back at him. “Anybody seen’t who done smashed into my car,” Calhoun asked listlessly, not really expecting an answer. A dark complexioned, bearded man stepped from the crowd, his gnarled finger raised for attention. “I san’t ‘em, Mista Coolie,’ the man spoke in an alcohol soaked voice. “I san’t ‘em when I comed out the sto’!” Calhoun recognized the man, an alcoholic who always occupied the

boarded up window sill of the store to solicit nickels and dimes for his fair share of abuse. “You recognized ‘em,” Calhoun asked. 291 ROBERTSON “Naw,” the drunk closed his blood shot eyes and shook his head. “I hain’t never san’t ‘em ‘round y’ere befo’. But, le’ me tell you what one o’ ‘em done. I got me up enough money to buy me a small skrimp frie’ rice from Tony, y’know--- “ “Look man,” Calhoun said irritably, knowing it would be a long

harangue in order to set up a solicitation for money. “I’mon gi’ya somethin’, okay! Jes tell me what you saw n’ le’ out the details.” The man appeared to be taken aback by Calhoun’s directness. “I’mon do that, Mista Coolie n’ ya wait! Gollee, some people hain’t as quick to remembrance when they ol’ n’ cain’t git nothin’ or got nothin’, y’know what I’m sayin’? But, anyways, I comed out the sto’ n’ almos’ jomped out my britches when I y’eared them tires skreech and it went like Pa-yow! Right there! . . I said Holy Jeezum, Holy Jeezum, they done bammed into Mista Coolie car! I knowed it was yo’ car ‘cause I san’t you git in it a few times. Right then, I san’t

this ol’ yalla boy wit’ a bald haid open the do’ n’ runned out n’ jomped in a truck, a ol’ yalla truck, n’ they took’t off that-a-way! So, I tol’ Tony, Lawd, they done bammed Mista Coolie car! That’s when Tony runned down’nere to tell you. I woulda comed down’nere myself, y’know, but I y’eared you don’t like people comin’ to yo’ place, see. They say you mean like that. But, that’s what happened, Mista coolie. I san’t it all.” Calhoun felt a bit dizzy as he gazed into the dark, wrinkled face, brownish black nubs of rotted teeth gleaming from the man’s purplish gums. Calhoun reached into his pocket and came out with a fist full of 292

HOODOO crumpled bills. Peeling off three one dollar notes in the bunch, he reached them to the man. He blinked his reddish eyes, grateful for the abundance he had received. “He was a delicate lookin’ ol’ yalla boy wearin’ black pajamas n’ footsies, too, Mista Coolie,” the man volunteered to show his appreciation. “What kinda man gon be wearin’ his pajamas in the street in the daytime? You tell me?” “Some kinda freak, prob’ly,” Calhoun said, replacing the crumpled

bills in his pocket. “Mista Calhoun,” someone said behind Calhoun. “What,” Calhoun turned around, beginning to feel the stress of the wreck and the strain of a lack of rest. He felt something being shoved into his coat pocket. “Ah-ha,” the deputy gleefully stepped backward, pointing his finger at Calhoun. “You can consider yourself served, James Coltrane Calhoun! That’s your car and you’re you! I told you I’d get you! I told you! Haaa!” Calhoun could do no more than stare behind the man as he hopped and spun joyfully down the sidewalk. “That’s a doggone shame,” the old

drunk complained loudly, peering from the corners of his glazed eyes at Calhoun for favor. “What kinda man gon be takin’ a’vantage o’ a man in his y’our o’ grief? Forgi’ ‘em, Lawd, fo’ he hain’t know what he doin’!” Calhoun walked away, inspecting the wreckage of the cars. Tow trucks converged on the scene before the police got there, positioning themselves to be the first for the job. Immense sadness tugged at Calhoun’s heart, and he was too despondent to talk to anyone. Having no 293 ROBERTSON

insurance, he had no intentions of having his car brought to an auto garage. He cared nothing for what might happen to the Toyota. It was a junk car made to work for one purpose and one purpose only. With that purpose served, it was abandoned. When the police arrived, the officers gathered information of the hit and run, wrote out their report, and gave an item number to Calhoun of the accident. The crowd of spectators had dwindled when the Toyota was towed away. Calhoun opened the door of his car to a loud crunching sound that nearly brought him to tears. Climbing into the car, it started up immediately, and he drove it to Dryades Street where he parked it in front of the Temple. Getting

out to the loud crunching sound of the door, he leaned his hands on the roof of the car, his despondency slowly evolving into rage. The effectiveness of the headache powder did no good for the anger he was feeling. Having his car wrecked and the Civil Sheriff finally serving him the Civil Court summons, he felt obligated to do something about the voodoos once and for all. They were a relentless sect of people who would stop at nothing to achieve their ends. Of all of the mo-joes and gris-gris they could have tried to work him with, it would have been better for them to have physically attacked him rather than to wreck his automobile. Wrecking his cherish automobile was the worst thing

they could have done to him, and it was the last straw! ***** Calhoun carried all of the cemetery artifacts he had in the office to the car and crowded them into the 294

HOODOO trunk. Getting inside of the car, the crunching sound the door made grated his nerves and renewed his anger. He drove to the New Orleans Police Department at Central Lockup to turn in

the items and to supply the detectives with all of the pertinent information he had gathered in his investigation. The detectives had inmates from the New Orleans House of Detention to remove the items from Calhoun’s car and bring them on hand-trucks to the Evidence Room to be tagged. While at the Lockup, he went to the Office of Investigative Services where Hokie once worked and died. There, he found Hokie’s office had already been taken up by another detective who Calhoun was unfamiliar with. Before leaving the Lockup, Calhoun called Rene Fontenelle and informed him that he had some good news and some bad news. Rather than

receive the information over the telephone, Fontenelle asked Calhoun to come to the mansion. Right away, Calhoun drove to the stately lake front home to meet with Fontenelle. At the door, Harris’ apathetic greeting hardly fazed Calhoun. He had bigger expectations in sight. Today, he was going to wrap up this case and be paid for his services and was unconcerned with petty gripes. “Good evening, Mister Calhoun,” Rene beamed, rising from his chair inside the sun room and stretching out his hand. “H’ya,” Calhoun returned, pumping Rene’s hand. “Would there be anything, suh,”

Harris inquired, stopping at the double fifteen light French doors. “Mister Calhoun,” Rene questioned. “Would you 295

ROBERTSON like a beverage or snack?” “I’m aw’ight,” Calhoun answered in spite of himself, his thoughts on the tasty, excellently brewed coffee. “We’re fine, Mister Harris, thank you.” Harris nodded and backed into the hallway, closing the doors.

“Okay,” Rene said, waving his hand out to the sofa behind the bamboo, glass topped coffee table. “Have a seat, sir.” “Thank ye,” Calhoun said, going around to the seat and removing the papers from his inside coat pocket. “W’cha wanna y’ear first, the good news or the bad news?” “I have a habit of wanting to hear the worst news first. It seems to give more appreciation to the good news.” “Good deal,” Calhoun said, unfolding the papers to remove the disk. “The bad news is, yo’ mama’s statute done been sol’t, bought n’ paid for by a unnamed sou’ce outta New York City.

Ain’t no pity in the Naked City! This y’ere is the rekid n’ papers that has all the information you gon need to git it back with the help o’ the poilice. They workin’ on goin’ to New York to arrest them who is involved n’ confiscate the stuff, includin’ yo’ mama’s statute real soon. I’d git wit’ ‘em as soon as possible to make sho they do it right. You know how they is.” Rene’s shoulders drooped. The veins stretching from his temples to the corners of his eyes had swelled. He was staring hard at the floor, his lips tight in the confusion and anger he was feeling. 296

HOODOO “The good news is, I foun’t the bad guys who stol’t yo’ mama statute and robbed all the cemeteries in the city. I got the item numbers o’ the arrest right y’ere. Right nah, one o’ ‘em is ova to the Central Lockup. He a dopey, n’ he and his big honcho tried to kill me. The dopey’s other dope fiend pa’tner got away, but they expectin’ to catch up wit’ ‘im. But, the main culprit is a antique dealer who financed the whole kit n’ caboodle! He been booked this mornin’, but he done got out on bail. He the muckety-muck who tol’ them dopies to go n’ steal yo’ mama’s statute, n’ I got a feelin’ he gon spill his guts out to work a

deal wit’ the D.A. Office. He gon git down first.” Rene looked up, his face fixed in gratitude. “I really appreciate what you’ve done for me, Mister Calhoun. You promised that you would find my mother and you have. For that, I’m very, very grateful. But, in proving your word as a man, I’m humbled, sir.” For once in his life time, Calhoun found himself speechless. All he could do was to hand over the disk folded into the documents. “Yes,” Rene stood, his eyes bright in elation. “Yes, I have something for you also! Can you wait here a few minutes? I won’t be long.” “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,”

Calhoun answered, watching Rene leave the room. Calhoun looked outside at the elegance and richness of the spacious yard. A tinge of yearning spiked his heart, wishing to himself that his life had taken such a prosperous turn. “Okay,” Rene returned, snapping Calhoun from 297 ROBERTSON his daydreaming. “Here we are, Mister Calhoun.” Calhoun turned. Rene stood beaming, a greenish tinted check in his hand. Calhoun faked a blush and took the

check, but in seeing the large denomination printed on it, his heart started. “This y’ere’s twenty grand, Mista Font’nelle. We agreed to tenfive.” “Yes,” Rene nodded. “You deserve more! And, if there is anything I can do to help you in any way, please, feel free to call on me, Mister Calhoun.” “Well,” Calhoun said, unaccustomed to such consideration. “Thank ye, suh. N’, if they’s anything I can do for you, You do the same!” “You bet,” Rene nodded, gazing upon Calhoun with great admiration. “Mister Calhoun, you’re one hell of detective, sir.” “I know,” Calhoun grinned,

standing to leave. “But, thank ye anyways.” “You have a very intriguing occupation, Mister Calhoun. Do you have other cases scheduled? What’s your next adventure?” “I don’t know,” Calhoun shrugged, walking to the door. “I got a few irons in the fire, though. What you gon do ‘bout gittin’ yo’ mama’s statute back?” “Not to worry,” Rene chuckled. “I have a few legal associates in New York who would be glad to handle that end for me, with or without the help of the police. I’ll have her back to where she belongs within the week.” They went leisurely through the

living room, lobby, and into the vestibule. Harris handed Calhoun his hat and opened the door for him. “It was good for me to do business with you, 298

HOODOO Mister Calhoun,” Rene said, extending his hand. “I can’t thank you enough.” “Any time, suh,” Calhoun said, pumping Rene’s hand. “Any time! Wit’ tax time comin’ up soon, I does taxes too. I’m open twen’ny-fo’-seven, eight days a week plus Sundays, holidays, n’ Ground Hog Day!”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Rene chuckled, patting Calhoun on the shoulder. Calhoun tipped down the steps to his car. He was anxious to get to Rene’s bank and cash the check to recover from the losses he sustained in the investigation, and pay up on the long standing loans he had made from friends and associates. Though the case was over for Rene, it was just winding down for Calhoun. He wanted total closure with madam Jubilee and her voodoo minions. With the sun descending in the lilac sky, he knew exactly where to find Frog at this time of evening.

299

CHAPTER NINE

“Damn, Sarge,” Frog exclaimed, looking through the windshield of the car at the full moon looming large and reddish in the night sky. The moon was so vivid over the eastern horizon, he could clearly see the shadows of the valleys and oceans on its surface. “That’s a big ass moon, boy!” “Yeah, n’ its big baad luck, too,” Calhoun huffed. “When the moon is big n’ bloody like that, all kinds o’ weird shit sta’ts to happenin’! People gits confused, the devil sta’t to beatin’ his wife, n’ a lotta ding-bats sta’t to flyin’ outta the wood work, barkin’ at that big bloody moon n’ actin’ all excited n’ shit!” “True,” Frog nodded. “True.

That’s because they say the moon does somethin’ to us. They say the moon in different phrases makes oceans and lakes swell up here on earth. It even has a bearin’ on our emotions and how we think about different things, y’know.” “Is that a fact.” Calhoun asked, looking sidelong at his friend. “You read that in one o’ them naked magazines you be readin’?” “Nope, The Education Channel. They be havin’ a lotta stuff on that channel, yeah, educational stuff that can broaden your horizons.” “Yeah, like what, animals doin’ it n’ stuff?” “Naw, man. Did you know that the planets in our solar system has a

direct bearin’ on our personalities and moods, y’know, like astrology? I heard that if you read the stars in the right way, you’d be able to read the word that Gawd left for us here on earth.” 300

HOODOO “You don’t say,” Calhoun chuckled. “I wonder what that would be? Jugged up as we turned out after Creation, I’d bet that word would be, ‘Man, what the fuck?’” “I don’t think so,” Frog answered, shaking his head. “But, I

believe in that, Sarge. I really do believe that Gawd left a message for us up there in the stars. Instead of lookin’ for aliens up there, we need to be tryin’ to read the stars for our salvation. I really believe that.” “Wanna know what I believe? I believe I shoulda lef’ yo’ ass at the Dew Drop Inn, that’s what I believe! I ain’t brung you out y’ere to have you sproutin’ no astrognomy at me!” “Aw, man, I’m just sayin’, Sarge. I thought you was more openminded to stuff like that. Hell, you told me you saw a ghost in that shop uptown this mornin’! I didn’t criticize you for that! Why? Because I believed you, for the simple reason that could be

explained in one word: Spirit! . . We got in us that eternal spirit that Gawd gave us in Creation, Sarge! When Gawd Created us, He left part of Hisself in us, just like we would leave fingerprints n’ hair on everything we touch and everywhere we go, we leave part of ourselves everywhere! Say, for instance, when somebody teaches you somethin’ that you didn’t know. If I see you doin’ somethin’ in a hard, long, drawn out kind of way and I teach you a better way to make it easy for you, I’m not just givin’ you understandin’, I’m placin’ part of myself in you that would change your understandin’ for the better. You walk for the rest of your life in that understandin’, and at the same time, you carry part of

me with you, ya understand? Like if I see you 301 ROBERTSON havin’ a hard time in yo’ life and I come along and share my experience with you that would flip the light of understandin’ on in yo’ head, you say ‘Ahh, you’re right!’ Then you pratice what I taught you and it works, you carry that understandin’ with you for the rest of your life, and you carry part of me with you as well. . . That’s what Gawd did for us, He gave us that part of Him that made us entirely different from the rest of His Creation, see? I tell ya, Sarge,

you might know thousands of people in your life, but the people who made a difference in your life, the ones that you learned from, you can count ‘em on one hand. You walk in the wisdom they imparted to you, and you carry on their understandin’.” “Is that why we so evil n’ wicked ‘cause o’ the evil wisdom that that snake ministered to Eve in the Ga’den,” Calhoun asked, his thoughts focused on what Frog had explained. “The ones who give us good is the ones we cherish, Sarge. The ones who give us evil is the ones who’s dead. Evil has with it only two alternatives: death or eternal misery. If that’s why we enjoy killin’ up each other n’ doin’ all

kinds of wicked things that only leads us to eternal misery, then, yep, that’s why. But, like I said, Gawd left a message for us that could bring us back to where He intended for us to be at. We just need to look for it, that’s all. When Gawd said, ‘Let us make man in our image!’, He breadth the breath of Life in us. We got that spirit in us, Sarge. We always talk about death, but when our body dies, our spirit lives on. We just float on over to the other side of life eternal. Not sayin’ that I would wanna see somebody who I know damn well is dead, but 302

HOODOO

they say that in certain phrases of the full moon, the light is so soft, it could ‘luminate spirits to enable you to see ‘em. That’s why cats hunch up for no reason at all n’ dogs begin to howl. They got the ability to see spirits. A lotta us is gifted with that ability too. It ain’t that they looney, they just don’t understand their gift and start to actin’ out. It’s a reality, Sarge.” “Well, we on our way to a looney bin nah,” Calhoun said, pulling to the curb directly in front of the house. “You ready?” “Yeah, sho,” Frog said, feeling the exact opposite in his heart. The driver’s side door

crunched loudly as Calhoun pushed it open with his shoulder. He cussed beneath his breath, angry anew at the damage done to his car. Frog climbed out nervously and stood on the sidewalk looking up at the front door of the house. Calhoun noticed the expression on his face and stopped in the street in front of the hood of the car. “What’s the matter? You was jes talkin’ ‘bout bein’ open-minded wit’ spirit n’ all that deep shit, nah you lookin’ like you’s sca’ed to death!” “I ain’t never scared, Sarge.” “You ain’t? Well c’mon then!” They went along the side of the narrow porch. Frog was looking around and behind him. He stopped, taking

Calhoun by the arm. “Wait,” Frog said in a hushed voice. “You heard that? I heard somethin’ knockin’!” “Well, slow up,” Calhoun responded in a hushed voice. “We might be walkin’ too fast!” 303 ROBERTSON Going up the steps onto the porch, Calhoun rapped the knocker to the base-plate and stepped aside away from the panes. Within minutes, the curtain moved behind the panes. Seeing the car parked in front of the house but not seeing anyone on the porch, Jambo’s

deep voice inquired “Who dat?” from inside. “It’s us,” Calhoun responded in a miserable attempt to disguise his voice. “We need to see Ma’m Jub’lee!” “Who dat is,” Jambo asked again, seeing Frog’s shoulder at the side of the steps. “Show me who you are!” “Us, Jumbo,” Calhoun said. “We needs to see Ma’m Jub’lee real bad!” “Jambo, Sarge,” Frog whispered. “The big motherfucka named Jambo.” Calhoun shot a glance at Frog and frowned. The door locks inside began to unlatch and the chain of the night latch rattled. The door creaked

open. Calhoun stepped from the side of the porch and looked up into Jambo’s big ebony complexioned face. “Hey d’ere, big boy!” Every nerve in Jambo’s body reacted to the sight of Calhoun. His face was still bruised from the beating he had suffered from Calhoun. He shuddered and started to slam the door, but Calhoun had braced himself on the rails of the porch, reared his foot, and propelled himself forward, kicking the door at the night latch and forcing it open, knocking Jambo backward. Calhoun moved swiftly inside, reaching under and up between the big man’s thighs and clutching Jambo’s sizeable testicles and squeezing them in his hand.

304 HOODOO “Ain’t you glad to see me, Jumbo?” Jambo winced. “No?” Calhoun squeezed harder. “What ‘bout nah?” “Urgh,” Jambo grunted painfully, his eyes widening and immediately watering as the pain spread out from his scrotum, through his stomach, and exploding in his massive head. He curled his lips, his legs weakening, and he fell sideways into the wall. “Where’s Jub’lee,” Calhoun

asked, squeezing again. Jambo squealed, his upper lip trembling beneath his broad nose. “You don’t feel so good t’night,” Calhoun asked, squeezing harder. “My Gawd, Sarge,” Frog said, his own thigh muscles twitching in empathy for the big man. “You got my nuts hurtin’! He can’t say no mo’ than you lettin’ ‘im!” “Where Jub’lee,” Calhoun said, easing up on his grip. Beads of perspiration dotted Jambo’s quivering facial muscles. Unable to endure the excruciating pain any longer, Jambo’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he toppled

backward to land with a loud thud on the runner of the hallway floor. “Now look what you done done,” Frog chided, sliding his hand over his forehead. “I tol’ you he couldn’t say no more! What you expected from torturin’ the got-damn man like that?” “The bigger they is,” Calhoun quipped, wiping his 305

ROBERTSON hand on the side of his pants. “They fall like big timber!” “You just had a handful of that man’s nuts in yo’ hand, bro,” Frog said,

raising his eyebrows. “You need to wash yo’ hands, bro!” “Jes close that do’ behin’ ya, Frog, n’ le’s git this thing ova wit’!” Calhoun crossed over Jambo’s body. Frog closed the door and moved around Jambo, careful not to slip on the black silk gown covering Jambo’s body. Calhoun stopped at the door leading to the ceremonial room and peeked inside. The candles in the room had been extinguished, making the room pit black. “They ain’t in there,” Calhoun whispered. “It must be they night off!” “Mus’,” Frog answered, feeling edgy in the darkness. Calhoun continued up the

hallway. Someone upstairs called “Jambo?” Calhoun saw the dim light of a candle in the kitchen at the back of the hallway. Someone upstairs called “Jambo, who’s at the door?” Calhoun stopped at the stairwell door. The sound of a television drifted from upstairs. Calhoun turned to Frog, pointing his finger upward. “They upstairs lookin’ at t.v.,” Calhoun whispered. “Can you believe that?” “They still human, Sarge,” Frog answered, shrugging. Calhoun opened the stairwell door. “Is that you, Jambo? Is everything alright?”

Calhoun turned into the stairwell. The man standing in the reddish light of the doorway upstairs 306

HOODOO flinched when he saw Calhoun and darted into the room. “C’mon, Frog,” Calhoun said, bounding up the stairs. Inside the room, the two women had jumped from the floor after seeing the man dart back into the room. One of them was crawling across the king-sized bed to protect Madam Jubilee. The other woman stood in front of the footboard in

a defensive stance. One of the men was scrambling inside of a cedar chest, frantically looking for something. The man who Frog had injured was stretched out in a sitting chair, the foot pad raised, with his pajama shirt opened to reveal a white gauze bandage at his stomach. Seeing Frog, his head reeled back to the backrest of the sitting chair, his eyes glued to the high ceiling. “Hol’ it right there, pa’tner,” Calhoun ordered, pointing at the man who was half inside of the cedar chest. “Don’t git yo’self in a truck load o’ trouble, aw’ight!” “What do you want,” the woman in front of the footboard said, her revulsion for Calhoun twisting her

delicate, mocha complexioned face. “Haven’t you done enough already?” “Not yet,” Calhoun returned, relaxing his muscles. “I wanna talk to Jub’lee again--- man to woman this time!” “Madam will not speak to the uninitiated,” the woman snarled. “Well, initiate me quick,” Calhoun said loudly, stepping toward the woman. “She better wanna talk to me, ‘cause I’m tellin’ ya what Gawd knows! I’m sick n’ ti’ed o’ you goons fuckin’ ‘round wit’ me! Somebody 307 ROBERTSON

gon git hurt real bad if this shit keeps up!” Madam Jubilee said something beneath her red veil. The woman in front of her moved away to the side of the bed. Madam Jubilee spoke in Creole to the other woman. “Madam says she will speak to you for this one time only,” the woman said, frowning in disgust. “Now I know damn well she could talk in English! I done y’eared her talk in that thing downstairs! I want her to talk to me t’rectly! I’m not fuckin’ around y’ere! She better talk to me fo’ the shit jomp off!” “C’mon, Sarge, tell her what you gotta tell her and let’s go,” Frog

said, gazing at Madam Jubilee. Though she was covered in red silk, the turgid heat of his arousal slithered through his groin. Calhoun gazed at Frog. “You fluffin’ up on me in y’ere, boy?” “No, man! You come to tell her somethin’, right? Why don’t you just tell her what you gotta tell her and that wraps that!” A muscle fluttered in Calhoun’s jaw. The malice in his eyes softened. “You right, for once in yo’ life.” Calhoun turned to Madam Jubilee. “Okay, Jub’lee, le’ me lay it out for you as clear as I know how. . . When I first comed y’ere, I were workin’ on a case ‘bout some stuff that was token outta some

cemeteries ‘round y’ere. Irregardless on what you think o’ me, I ain’t come y’ere pickin’ on you n’ yo’ lil freaks on a personal tip, y’understand?” Madam Jubilee nodded slowly. “Okay. Nah we gittin’ somewheres! . . As I were 308

HOODOO sayin’, I were investigatin’ a case, aw’ight. That’s all. I wouldn’t’ve got to the bottom o’ the case had I tol’ you what I was y’ere for, so I had to lie n’ connive my way in y’ere in order for me to do what I needed to do. N’, it ain’t like I

didn’t find what I were lookin’ for. I found a few things in y’ere that ain’t belong in y’ere, okay! It wan’t nothin’ I had agins’ you or yo’ wonderful lil peoples in y’ere, nor nothin’ to do wit’ that hoodoo you do. Is I’m makin’ myself clear ‘bout this?” Madam Jubilee nodded again. Calhoun positioned his body for more clarity, holding out his hands ti aide in his explanation. “Nah, I done said all that to say one thing, n’ I’mon tell you a lil somethin’, Jub’lee. I done cracked this case wide open n’ got all o’ my suspects in the Parish Prison right now as we speakin’. They gon all git a lotta time for stealin’ that stuff off’n them graves. N’,

y’know, I let a few people slide, I ain’t tell the police ‘bout a few people because I felt like they was small fish in a big cre’k. N’, y’know, you were one o’ them small fish.” Madam Jubilee’s raised her head up under the veil. Everyone in the room was quiet. The only sound in the room came from the jocular insults between the actors in the situation comedy playing on the television. Nah, y’ere’s what I come y’ere to say to you, Jub’lee, n’ I want you to understand me. . . I can make you a big fish in that big cre’k n’ I wanted to. You know why? ‘Cause you bought stolen goods. Not one, but three or mo’ pieces worth over a thousand n’ollars. That’s

grand thef’ last time I checked, ain’t that right, Froggish?” 309 ROBERTSON “Yep, last time I checked, that’s what it was.” “You, Jumbo, Pinky Red--- “ Frog cleared his throat. “It’s Jambo and Pansy Red, Sarge.” “Whosomever,” Calhoun snapped, raising his forefinger to silence Frog. “I can involve all o’ yo’ lovely lil chil’ren in y’ere, too, for havin’ knowledge befo’ n’ after the fact. I can put all o’ y’all in that big cre’k, then you can all do that hoodoo you do to git

yo’self out that Parish Zoo! The police would be real int’rested about what you got under this house and beneat’ that patio out back too.” Madam Jubilee’s head was motionless with her face directed squarely at Calhoun. Her minions held their heads down in deep contemplation. “But, I ain’t do that t’ya. N’ what you do for me for givin’ you a ticket to ride? . . You put gris-gris n’ mo-joes on my steps, n’ spells n’ doohickies at my do’. Then to pour salt in my womb, you smash my got-damn automobile! . . That was too much for me. . . A man’s car is the only thing he can truly possess n’ claim in this mis’rable life. When his wife n’ fam’ly

leaves ‘im, when all his friends turn they backs on ‘im, when his dog runs away from him, his car gon be there for ‘im to the bitter end! A man’s car is his firs’ love, his bestest friend, his faithful lover, n’ his shelter from the rain--- n’ you got-damn goons smashed my gotdamn car!” Madam Jubilee flinched at the pitch of Calhoun’s voice. The woman standing next to the bed glanced quickly at the man standing at the cedar chest. “A man’s car is the only thing he can turn to when nobody else is around. When he wants to crank it up, she 310

HOODOO starts wit’ a smile. If he gits to her late, she don’t complain, she jes purrs like a kitten. When he ain’t got nowhere else to go, her do’ is always open to le’ him in. A man can be a solid husband, but he gon love his car. H’it’s all he got in this man’s world, n’ y’all tried to take that away from me.” Frog gazed at Calhoun, touched by what he was saying. “That was all I could stand n’ I can’t stand no mo’! Now, I’mon say this, n’ you can take it to the bank. If any one o’ ya beautiful peoples mess wit’ me or my car one mo’ time. I’m gon jack y’all’s ass up so bad, it’s gon daze n’ amaze ya!

N’ if that don’t work, I got a few tricks up my sleeves that’ll turn yo’ head around! N’ you don’t believe me or y’all think I’m bullshittin’ ya, jes try me. Jes try me one mo’ time!” Only Madam Jubilee was looking at Calhoun. Everyone else was gazing at the floor, and Frog was gazing at Madam Jubilee. “Nah, when we walk outta y’ere, I’mon expect to walk away clean. I’mon expect for you to close this do’ behin’ me. I’mon le’ you ‘lone, n’ you gon le’ me ‘lone. Is we got a understandin’?” Madam Jubilee nodded slowly. For some reason, Calhoun felt that he had gotten through to her. He sighed

deeply, relieved. Looking at Frog, he noticed the look of longing in his swarthy face. “You still lovin’ up on Jub’lee, boy?” Frog sent an embarrassed look at Calhoun and lowered his head. “One mo’ thing, Jub’lee,” Calhoun said. “Gir’, I don’t know what you done done to my pat’ner y’ere, but 311 ROBERTSON you done put a ring on this boy’s nose some bad! Do me a favor! Le this boy look on ya jes one time? Gon gi’ ‘im a shot! Le’ ‘im git a gander o’ yo’ beauty so’s he can have somethin’ to go on!”

“No one who is uninitiated shall look upon the face of a Queen,” the woman declared, moving to block Frog’s gaze from Madam Jubilee. “C’mon, Ma’m, jes a shot! Gi’ ‘im a lil biddy ol’ shot! One for the road, that’s all! He ain’t gon oogle ya!” Madam Jubilee appear to be giggling under the veil. “Oh well,” Calhoun shrugged, patting Frog on his pudgy shoulder. “I tried, kid. She don’t want you lookin’ on her. You ain’t initialed. C’mon, le’s go.” Retracing their steps down the stairwell, they moved silently down the hallway. Jambo was sitting up with his back against the wall, his hands clutching his aching crotch. Seeing

Calhoun coming down the hall, he recoiled, covering his head with his forearms and drawing up his knees to protect his tender scrotum. Calhoun grinned at Jambo. “Is that the silhouetto o’ a funny lit-tle man! Scaramoosh-scaramoosh, can you do the fan-dan-go!” Calhoun was snapping his fingers and clicking his heels on the hardwood floor. “Don’t press the issue, Sarge,” Frog said, brushing past Calhoun. “Let’s get outta here!” Outside on the porch, Calhoun took a deep breath of the fog moistened air. He followed Frog who was not hesitating to get to the car. “H’ya feelin’ now, Frog,”

Calhoun asked, unlocking the passenger door. “You still got ‘fection for 312

HOODOO Jub’lee?” “I ain’t got no love for no hoodoo,” Frog denied, opening the door. “You the one who keep sayin’ that shit. She jes turns me on, bro. There’s a difference between lovin’ a woman and bein’ hot for a woman. She lights my fire for sho, y’know. Everytime I see her, man, I git on the hard automatically and my draw’s start to rollin’ down my ass

all by they self! That ain’t love. I wouldn’t wanna spend the rest o’ my life with Madam Jubilee or bring her home to meet my mama. I ain’t no glut for pain.” Calhoun pulled open his car door to the loud crunch, grimacing at the sound. I wonder why Jub’lee ain’t want nobody lookin’ on her?” “’Cause we ain’t initiated. You gotta be one o’ them to look directly in her face. Just like you can’t look directly at Gawd! You have to look away from Him or it’ll kill you.” “Damn,” Calhoun sucked in his lips and shook his head. He started the car and pulled slowly from the curb. “What you think she looks like?”

“Who gives a fuck?” Calhoun chuckled. “She e’ther as pretty as a picture or she looks like Moms Mabley by the face!” Frog laughed out loud. “Underneath all them clothes, she probably as fine as a fox with a head and face like Redd Foxx!” “Shee, you mean like Slappy White,” Calhoun laughed hilariously. “Or, she might look like you, Frog! Like a lil hoodooky Frog!” “Hey, I don’t play that, bro,” Frog said, the 313

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laughter evaporating. “You wouldn’t be cappin’ like that if you knew what I know! I wish she could’ve done to you what she done to me. Then you’d knew what a man feels.” Aw, y’ere we go again,” Calhoun groaned in frustration. “I don’t wanna y’ear no mo’ o’ that freaky shit, Frog!” “You don’t wanna hear it, but what you need to be doin’ is thinkin’ of how you gon pay me for tonight too!” “What? You’s a Frog who’s outta his fuckin’ mind, boy! Hell no! I ain’t payin’ you shit for tonight! All that freaky-deaky shit you talkin’ in y’ere, you oughta be payin’ me for lettin’ you

bus’ a nut wit’ Jub’lee! That trick costed me three hun’ded n’ollars! I tell you the truf’, boy, I shouldn’t’ve never brung you wit’ me! I tell you the Gawd honest truth!” “Aw shut up, fool! I know you done made a lotta money on this thing! Much trouble as you in bein’ sued and losin’ your secretary and shit, what you gon do with all that money?” “I’mon tell you what my daddy tol’ me a long time ago, Gawd bless the daid. When nothin’ is goin’ right, n’ everything you do is goin’ wrong, all you gotta do is le’ yo’ hair hang low n’ le’ the little gir’ dance! On n’ on, bully, on n’ on!”

THE END ROBERT P. ROBERTSON is a New Orleans writer, author of the hilarious detective/comedy series: The J. Coltrane Calhoun Experience: ACEY DEUCY: In 1973, someone was killing homosexuals in New Orleans’ French Quarters. SHADES OF BLACK AND WHITE: In 1980, a series of police shootings shook New Orleans! Then the murder of a young police officer made the Big Easy queasy! THE KEYS TO THE CAR: A hip New

Orleans disc-jockey finds himself on someone’s hit-parade! Also by the author: THE TRAGEDY OF ROBERT CHARLES: Truth behind the historic 1900 race riot in New Orleans. KEBULAN: First book in the series covering 80,000 years of ancient African history. THROUGH THE STORM: Autobiographical true story of survival during Hurricane Katrina. WHO SHOT THE LA-LA?: Infamous 1913 Easter Sunday morning shootout in Storyville, New Orleans. PRO SE: One man’s journey through the underbelly of New Orleans’ legal system

to recover his wages from a former employee. These titles can be purchased from Amazon.com, Createspace.com, Lulu.com, or any on-line book seller in your community.