by Karl Tutt
Chapter 8
We spent the morning at the office sorting through bullshit that we had to pretend was important. And I guess it was . . . at least to our landlord and our clients. The fine young lad our Congressman X had seduced in the men’s room at the park had decided his memory would probably fade when the check had cleared the bank. It was clearly blackmail and I wondered if our Honorable had been set up. Ricky advised a visit with the police, but X figured that was a bad career move. “Just fix it.” That had been his wise instruction. What the hell? We could do it.
Ms. Z was totally confident the she had her “no-good, rotten, dick waving, sonovabitch husband” by the balls. She probably did. If I were him, I’d be booking a red-eye flight to Venezuela. Anyway, it was your typical charming and rewarding morning for a couple of low-life gumshoes.
Things brightened up considerably around eleven. I heard the door creak and Evelyn came prancing in, looking like the dark haired answer to Faye Dunaway in “The Thomas Crown Affair.” Come to think of it, Ricky wouldn’t make a bad Cuban version of Steve McQueen. She shot me a radiant smile and shook her head.
“Even numbers crunchers have to eat. Today it’s Mexican. Come on, Dee. You’ll love it.”
Hey, that was an offer a starving PI couldn’t refuse.
We got to the cantina early. There weren’t many people, yet. I debated a little libation, but it wasn’t much of a debate. Even a poor girl needs to reward herself sometimes.
“Large Margarita, Cuervo Gold, with salt, por favor.”
Ricky and Evelyn went for the iced tea. How boring.
I watched them while I inhaled half a bowl of homemade chips, complete with two types of salsa, roja and verde. I wanted to be fair, so I alternated. The Margarita was the perfect combination of sweet and tangy, a nice thick slice of lime, and the boys in the back were damned generous with the Cuervo. In the meanwhile, Ricky and Evelyn offered the classic description of head over heels in love. They cooed, they pawed, they grinned, they swayed, and laughed at little inside jokes. It was like a bad romance novel, but it got me. They really were simply beautiful together. It wasn’t until the food arrived that they got their hands off each other and we settled into serious business. Finally, the conversation got interesting.
Evelyn already knew about the thing with Henri. No problem. If Ricky trusted her, I had to. Besides, she had a mind like a razor and her heart was just where it ought to be. I filled in a few gaps that Ricky had left hanging. I could hear the wheels grinding. Her face darkened a bit and her words were analytical and direct. Her voice carried a depth of conviction I had to respect.
“So this Bijet is a kind of ghost, albeit a very powerful one. Your Dr. Galliano makes some interesting observations. Big Ju Ju is not to be underestimated, first because of the devotion of his followers and secondly because he is in possession of something that may be very dangerous and very real. Caution must be a by-word. Nevertheless, this ghost must have a face, one that we recognize and one that can warn us. We must know when he is near and when the tendrils of the terror he inspires reach for us.”
Respectful is a term I seldom use when referring to Ricky. He would have made a great modern Henry David Thoreau. Rage against the establishment and all that noble shit, but he doted on Evelyn’s every phrase. So did I. She simply made sense. I don’t know why I was surprised, but I decided there was probably much more I didn’t know about her.
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll check with Bugsy. See when the Ju Ju D’s come by to collect the War Tax. If we’re lucky, Bijet will be in attendance. At least I can get a look at him. Give the enemy a face that might provide us with some focus.”
Ricky spoke up, “I think it’s something we gotta do.”
“Yeah, well forget the ‘we’ shit, Kimosabe.”
“Sorry, Dee, I’m going.”
“Bad idea, Ricky. One harmless chick, no problem. A macho dude with your attitude will definitely attract attention. This has become too personal for you. Bad equation.”
“I love you, Dee. That’s why I can tell you to go fuck yourself. I’m on it. Get used to it.”
Evelyn was silent. The woman was obviously smart enough to know when to shut up. Another point in her favor.
Ricky and Evelyn had some errands to run after lunch. To be honest, I figured it was an “afternoon delight.” But hey, none of my business. If anything, I was a bit envious. I went back to the office. The phone was ringing when I closed the door.
“Dee. It is Grace. I had to call. A boy is dead.” I froze and braced myself. A series of grisly images flashed through my mind like strobes. Then I spit out the question and held a short breath.
“What boy? Not Henri?”
“No. His name was Martin, a friend of my son. They were in school together, a good boy like my Henri. No harm in him. Great love for his mother. Fine lady, works at the nursing homes. Jacques used to take Henri and Martin to the park, later to see baseball when there was money. She is like me. She knew that any truck with the Ju Ju D’s was a path to destruction. They wanted him to join, become a runner. They like the young ones that they can manipulate and control. Martin knew the Kiss, the hellish thing that Bijet had implanted in Jacques. He told them no.”
Her voice was unsteady, punctuated with trembling sighs and short bursts of tears.
“Slow down, Grace. I need to know the rest of the story.”
I could feel her gathering herself even over the phone.
“Yes, of course,” she said haltingly. “A couple of weeks ago, the Ju Ju’s beat him first, like they did my Henri. Still he refused. A neighbor found him in an alley this morning. They had cut him many times and apparently left him to bleed to death. They left their mark on his forehead so the rest of us would know and fear their cunning . . . their unspeakable violence. Henri may be next. Please . . .”
“Grace, I promised you Ricky and I would protect Henri. We will honor that promise. Bijet will be stopped. Your boy will be safe. Pack some things for him. I will pick him up at your place in an hour.”
“I will do as you say. Bless you,” she whispered.
I called Ricky immediately. His heavy breathing and the rustling of sheets confirmed my “afternoon delight” theory.
“Jesus, Dee. I’m busy. What the hell do you want?”
“Sorry, Ricky . . . to you . . . and to Evelyn. I’m sure you were conferring on the status of the world’s economic downturn.”
“Okay, smartass. This better be good.”
When I told him about Grace’s call, he got quiet. It was ominous even over the phone.
“I’m picking up Henri,” he insisted, “you continue to beat the bushes. Let’s find this damned Bijet and his thugs before we have to bury another kid. Get hold of Bugsy and call me immediately.”