by Karl Tutt
Chapter 6
Ricky was on the phone when I came in. He waved disgustedly and went on talking. Ms. K suspected her husband had been hiding funds in off shore accounts so that their divorce settlement wouldn’t bankrupt him. She was sure he was going to marry that damned stripper as soon as their divorce was final. And what about her poor children? I figured each of them would have seven figures in their trust accounts when they turned 21. Let me just say, it didn’t make me weep. Still, she was our client and business is business.
When he hung up, he feigned putting his finger down his throat and gave me a phony gag.
“So what’s up?”
I told him about my visit with Ms. Toussaint, the Ju Ju D’s and Bijet, the additional insight I received from Bugsy. He listened quietly, but I watched his hand slowly became a fist. He slammed it down on the desk. His jaws locked and the pearly white teeth settled in a threatening grimace.
“Those bastards want to fuck with Henri, they’re gonna have to fuck with me. He’s our kid. In some ways they all are. We can’t let him drown. Maybe we can hold on to this one.”
We agreed that Ricky would pick me up at nine so we could make our date with Grace at L’ENFANT DULCE.
The street was dark and dirty. We found a parking place just across from the place. The streetlight was burning, but I wondered if the Caddy would be the same when we came out. We walked into a warm glow. A few patrons turned to look as we came in and there was a slight murmur. Instantly, I recognized that we were the only “white” faces in the restaurant. A coal black man in a tan embroidered gyuayabera warmly at us and bowed at the waist
“She wait for you in de back.” He led us to an alcove with a round table covered in butcher paper. Grace sat, dressed in much the same attire I had seen the day before. She smiled and held her hand out to Ricky. “Thank you,” she said with a bit of pride and a healthy dose of gratitude.
Ricky and I both ordered a glass of the house version of Sangria. It was thick with fruit and sumptuous. L’ENFANT DULCE was immaculately clean. The wait staff was decked out in matching t-shirts and jeans. The silverware gleamed and the glasses were clear and spotless. Everyone hustled from one place to another. It was an efficient operation and the smells coming out of the kitchen made promises I hoped they would be able to keep.
Ricky spoke first. His tone was formal, but firm, and tinged with a bit of old fashioned love.
“It is an honor to meet the mother of such a fine young man.”
She lowered her head in a decidedly courtesan nod. “He is my boy.”
“So he is. I don’t want to be presumptuous, but he has become our boy as well. It grieves me to see him hurt and threatened. I know you are doing everything you can to help him become a man, but there comes a point where you must consider assistance. We care for Henri. We cannot stand by and have him bullied or led into a life that will ultimately destroy him.”
She was silent. I could feel her weighing our commitment, trying to decide if she could really trust us. She focused first on the eyes of Ricky, then panned to mine. After a long pause, she pursed her lips and spoke.
“I see good things in you. You want my boy to prosper. I will trust you. I have lost one son. I cannot lose another.” It was my turn to speak.
“Thank you, Grace. I know it is painful, but I must ask what happened to Henri’s brother.”
“Jacques was a good boy. Ten years older than Henri. Seventeen when he passed. Henri adored him, followed him like a little black puppy. At twelve, Jacques began to bring boys to the apartment. They scared me. They were loud, often crude and they had things and wore things that honest people in our neighborhood could not afford. When I questioned Jacques of this, he grew silent. He came in one day with an IPhone. I had not bought it for him. He claimed he had found it in a park. I always taught my boys to be truthful with their mother. He was not. Then I began to hear talk of the Ju Ju Disciples.”
“Exactly who are these Ju Ju Disciples?” Ricky asked.
“They started as just a bunch of boys who sat on the stoops in the neighborhood, laughing and making rough jokes. But one among them began to rise. Bijet, a nickname for Big Ju Ju. It is said that his grandmother was a witch. That she taught him of the black arts. He wears this crazy makeup and a silk top hat. He has frightened many and gained power. More have joined. Soon there was stealing . . . little things at first, a bicycle, a CD, some minor shoplifting. But it grew. Then came the guns, the drugs and the women who sell themselves. There was some violence. Soon we all began to fear them. One dark day, I had to admit that my son was one of them.”
“Did anyone go to the police?”
“An older lady, Claire. I knew her for years. She worked as a hospital aide. A very fine woman, wise and highly respected throughout our community. She decided she must speak. They found her body a week later. She had died in her bed, ravaged by the Mondatti. The Kiss of Death.”
Ricky looked at her quizzically. “So the gang? She was not assaulted? This Mondatti killed her? How does it work?”
“You cross Bijet. He does not beat you, nor shoot you. He does not stab you with the knife. He places his lips on yours and your body and soul are invaded by something much older and much more horrible. It is slow, and painful. Your loved ones can only watch and wait for you to die. Once the Mondatti is within you, there is no need of a doctor . . . only an undertaker.”
I wanted to be respectful, but the story sounded too much like one of those bad horror movies I grew up on. I remembered John Carradine and Boris Karloff in the thirties horror movie “The House of Frankenstein.” When they were around there was always Black Magic, mysterious disappearances and unscheduled deaths. I couldn’t get enough of them. Maybe that’s why I became a detective, not to mention a bit of a weirdo.
“So what happened to Jacques?” Ricky asked.
“The Ju Ju D’s tell me I must pay the War Tax. Jacques says no. He is one of them, but still he protects his mother. The good in him was not completely gone. Bijet ordered him to obey. When he didn’t, he received the Kiss. I watched him while the fever rose, held his hand as he vomited the blood and moaned like a dog on the side of the highway. His skin was very dark, but a sickly yellow appeared from beneath the surface. The yellow faded and was consumed by a gray like the color of soft clay. I tried everything. I prayed. I begged. I called the doctor. I even paid the Tax, but the Mondatti had its way. In the end, I cried. Henri saw it all.”
Now she wept again.
We hadn’t even ordered yet, but it was time to go. The last image was of her cousin sitting with his arm around Grace, patting her back like a child and whispering softly into her ear.