Garden of Forbidden Secrets

by Eric Wilder

  “Kind words are music to my ears. You just earned yourself an extra twenty,” Taj said.

  Taj grabbed his wallet and handed Tommy another bill from it.

  “Hey, thanks,” Tommy said. “If everything’s okay, I’m on my way to the house for a little sack time. At least if my old lady don’t want to go dancing.”

  Taj grinned at Tommy’s retort. He stopped the little bellman before he could get out the door.

  “One question before you go,” he said.

  “Ask me,” Tommy said.

  “I don’t have to report to the team until Monday. Where can I get some info about the tattoo on my chest, and the bloody voodoo doll I was carrying last night?”

  “Some things are best left alone,” Tommy said. “What happened last night is probably one of them.”

  “Ain’t happening,” Taj said. “I need answers. Forgetting about last night isn’t an option.”

  “Your balls and not mine,” Tommy said. “Lots of voodoo shops, mostly tourist traps, in the Quarter. There’s one a few blocks from here on Dumaine. Might be someone there that can help you.”

  You think the voodoo doll came from that shop?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person,” Tommy said. “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Sure about that?” Taj asked.

  “There are lots of people that practice voodoo in Nawlins. I ain’t one of them.”

  “What about the blood? Where did it come from?” Taj asked.

  “From that cut on your foot,” Tommy said. “Where else could it have come from?”

  “How did the damn doll get into my room, and why didn’t I know I was carrying it when you found me?”

  “This is New Orleans,” Tommy said. “Live here as long as I have, and you come to expect the unexpected.”

  “Not the answer I’m looking for,” Taj said.

  Tommy glanced at his watch. “Maybe someone at the voodoo shop can give you some answers. Me, I’m fresh out and tired as hell.”

  “What’s the name of the voodoo shop?”

  “Dr. Voodoo’s Spells and Hexes,” Tommy said, hurrying out the door without waiting for Taj’s next question.

  ***

  Taj took a cab to Dumaine. After signing an autograph for the star-struck cabbie, he stood outside Dr. Voodoo’s Spells and Hexes, staring at the voodoo dolls, African masks, and drums in the picture window. A cold breeze was whistling down the street. As two lightly dressed tourists brushed past him on the sidewalk, he pulled the black leather trench coat tighter around his neck.

  A bell on the door, pealing the theme song of some horror movie Taj barely remembered, sounded when he entered. As the door shut behind him, welcome warmth and the odor of pungent incense accosted his nostrils. The sound of voodoo drums emanated from speakers hidden behind the rows of African masks and grotesquely carved effigies. The little shop was empty of tourists and Taj jumped when someone behind him spoke. A portly man with a cookie duster mustache was grinning at him when he wheeled around.

  “Didn’t mean to scare you, big guy. Hep you?”

  Taj showed him the bloody voodoo doll. “I’m wondering if this doll came from your shop.”

  “Whoa, don’t hand it to me. Where’d you get that thing?” the man asked.

  “My hotel room. I was hoping someone could tell me something about it.”

  “Aren’t you Taj Davis?” the man asked.

  “I am. You?”

  “Tammany Louis Lafourche III,” he said. “I’d shake your hand, but I don’t want to touch that thing you’re holding.”

  “You have voodoo dolls all over the store. What’s wrong with this one?” Taj asked.

  “It’s covered in blood. Most of my dolls come from China. I can see right off the bat the one in your hand is the real Magilla.”

  When Taj leaned forward, Lafourche took a step backward.

  “Even if I’m big and black, I promise I won’t hurt you,” Taj said.

  “I’m not worried about you,” Lafourche said. “It’s that thing in your hand. It’s bad news.”

  “How so?”

  “From the looks of that bandage on your foot, I’m guessing the blood on the voodoo doll is yours. Am I wrong?”

  “It’s mine. So what?”

  “You got that wound by design, is my guess.”

  “An accident,” Taj said. “Stepped on broken glass.”

  “Someone has hexed you, is what I think,” Lafourche said.

  Taj glanced at the shopkeeper, searching for a grin, or some other sign he was having his leg pulled. Lafourche wasn’t smiling.

  “You don’t believe in that sort of thing, do you?”

  “I was born and raised right here in New Orleans. Not only do I believe it, I know it’s true.”

  It was Taj’s turn to smile. “Who would have a reason to hex me?” he asked. “I’ve only been in town since last night.”

  “I heard,” Lafourche said. “Everyone’s talking about you joining the Pels.”

  “Is that bad or good?”

  Lafourche hesitated before answering. “Mixed feelings, mostly bad. Zee Ped’s an All-Star. Everyone knows you’re good but . . .”

  “But what? You think I’m too old?” Taj said, finishing Lafourche’s sentence.

  “Almost ten years older than Zee Ped. He’s the best player on the Pels. At least he was.”

  “Sorry,” Taj said. “I had no choice in the matter. I’m as confused as you are about what I’m doing here.”

  “May have something to do with that thing in your hand,” Lafourche said.

  “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Someone may have wanted you here.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Maybe unfinished business. You’d know the answer to that better than me,” Lafourche said.

  “I don’t know anything. I came here for answers, not more questions.”

  “I’m as in the dark as you are,” Lafourche said.

  “You know about voodoo dolls. It’s how you make a living. What makes you think this one is real?”

  The drumming soundtrack segued into an African chant as Lafourche leaned back against a display case filled with polished wooden masks and pottery effigies.

  “I’ve owned this shop for eighteen years. While most everything here is little more than tourist souvenirs, I’ve learned a thing or two about voodoo,” Lafourche said.

  “So you’re telling me this is a real voodoo doll?”

  “It didn’t come from this shop.”

  “What about another shop in town?” Taj asked.

  “That doll didn’t come from a shop. A real voodoo houngan or mambo made it. A ceremony was performed, you can bet good money on it.”

  “How do you know?” Taj said.

  “Your doll’s made of bleached cloth wrapped around two sticks of different sizes. Those sticks represent the cross. Bet they’re even made from the same kind of tree they used to crucify Christ on.”

  “What’s Christianity got to do with voodoo?” Taj asked.

  “Vodoun is a religion brought over by slaves from West Africa. When they reached the West Indies, it began changing. Vodoun, Catholicism, and pagan Carib beliefs got all mixed up at the sugar plantations and morphed into what we now call voodoo. At least until it reached New Orleans, and then it changed even more.”

  “You’re white. I always thought voodoo was only practiced by blacks.”

  “You’d be wrong about that,” Lafourche said. “A Jew was once the most powerful voodoo practitioner.”

  “Do you practice voodoo?” Taj asked.

  “I bought this shop from an old voodoo woman. A real voodoo woman. Voodoo dolls are my main business, and I learned everything I know about them from her.”

  “Just the dolls or all about voodoo?”

  “Few people know what voodoo is really about. Practitioners can be powerful, and dangerous. I’ve purposely kept my nose out of their business.”

  “I don�
�t have that luxury,” Taj said. “What’s the deal with this voodoo doll?”

  “When it’s cold outside, my business is slow,” Lafourche said, glancing around the shop.

  Catching the drift, Taj reached for his wallet and handed him a twenty.

  “Does that warm things up for you?” he asked.

  “I’m still a little chilly.”

  Taj handed him two more twenties. “Warm enough?” he asked.

  Lafourche stashed the bills in the pocket of the cracked leather vest he wore over his threadbare Western shirt.

  “Like I said, the two sticks represent the cross. Bleached cloth is wrapped around the sticks to form the doll.”

  “That it?” Taj asked when Lafourche paused.

  “The cloth is the property of the victim of the doll. The person who made the doll either stole it from the intended victim or paid someone to steal it. Once the houngan or mambo gets it, they bleach it in a voodoo ceremony. Then they use it to make the doll.”

  “Get real!” Taj said.

  “The more personal the connection, the more powerful the spell. The rotations around the sticks, the direction it’s wrapped, and where it’s tied off, all have meaning to the person that made the doll. The more precise the construction, the more powerful the spell.”

  “Surely, you don’t believe all that malarkey,” Taj said.

  The African chant coming through the speakers transitioned back into drumming. Lafourche glanced around the little shop as if expecting to see someone listening to the conversation.

  “Let me just say I wouldn’t want to be the person this doll was made for. If it’s you, then you got a problem. Hell, the whole damn town’s been hexed, because the team lost its best player to get you.”

  When Lafourche turned to walk away, Taj grabbed his shoulder.

  “Wait just a minute,” he said. “I paid you sixty bucks. Is that all you got?”

  “Like you said, I’m white. What the hell do I know?”

  “More than me,” Taj said. “I paid you, and I have more questions.” Taj pulled three more twenties from his wallet and thrust them at Lafourche. “Will these help jog your memory?”

  Lafourche shook his head. “Keep your money. I’ve told you all I know.”

  “At least, point me in the right direction.”

  “There’s a cemetery tour starting in twenty minutes. Maybe the tour guide can help you fill in the blanks. Want me to sign you up?”

  Chapter 3

  Realizing Tammany Louis Lafourche III was unable or unwilling to answer any more questions, Taj let the shop owner sign him up for a tour of the St. Louis Cemetery No. 1. Lafourche disappeared in the back and didn’t return, even when the same young couple he’d passed on the sidewalk entered the shop to the chiming of bells.

  “Are we in the right place for the cemetery tour?” the young woman asked.

  “It’s what I’m waiting for,” Taj said.

  The couple looked no older than mid-twenties, the woman’s Midwestern accent hinting they weren’t locals. Her denim shorts, and the lightweight maize and blue coat, zipped open enough so he could see her University of Michigan tee shirt, suggested she’d expected warmer weather in New Orleans. The stunning young woman had long, red hair, creamy-white skin, expressive blue eyes, and stood about five-feet-seven.

  The slender young man was wearing an identical coat and had his head in a guidebook. When he glanced up and saw Taj, he pushed his John Lennon glasses onto his forehead. They weren’t into sports, because neither of them recognized him.

  “I’m Amy,” the young woman said. “This is Brian. We’re students at Michigan and decided to visit New Orleans over the Christmas break.”

  “I’m Taj,” he said, shaking the young woman’s hand.

  “Are you from out of town?” Brian asked.

  Before stashing the voodoo doll in his trench coat, Taj had stuffed it into a baggie Tommy had given him.

  “Something like that,” he said.

  Amy with the wavy red hair was smiling. Brian had a look of terror on his baby face. Taj was used to the reaction. People aren’t always prepared to meet a physically imposing six-foot nine-inch black man dressed in a knee-length black leather trench coat.

  “I’m a history buff,” Taj said. “I heard these cemetery tours aren’t to be missed.”

  Brian’s concerned expression vanished. “Us too,” he said. “I’m majoring in American history and hope to teach someday. It’s my passion.”

  “What about you, Amy?” Taj asked.

  “Don’t know yet what I want to do for the rest of my life,” she said.

  The chime on the door sounded before Amy could ask him what he did. An older man, wearing a yellow vest over his jacket, rubbed his hands together to warm them. The plastic nametag hanging from his neck pegged him as the tour guide.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Wind has picked up out there, and I had to run back home and get a heavier coat. I’m Garlen, your tour guide.”

  Taj noticed the dirty look Amy flashed Brian at Garlen’s mention of a heavier coat. Her reaction lasting only a moment, she was smiling when she shook Garlen’s hand.

  “I’m Amy,” she said. “Brian is the one who looks like an aspiring college professor. Taj is the gentleman in the black coat.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Garlen said. “Hope that windbreaker keeps you warm enough, young lady.”

  “Brian said the weather in New Orleans would be mild this time of year.”

  “It is,” Brian said. “At least when compared to Ann Arbor.”

  Amy gave Brian another dirty look.

  “The humidity in New Orleans makes every little chill seem much colder than it really is,” Garlen said. “At least we’ll be out of the wind when we reach St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.”

  Garlen, like Amy and Brian, apparently had no idea who Taj was. As he followed them down the Basin Street sidewalk, it was all right with him. Though Taj knew most of the graves in New Orleans were above ground, he wasn’t prepared for the eerie feeling of déjà vu warming his neck upon seeing the brick and stone monoliths. Garlen was correct. The wall around the cemetery blocked the wind when they entered the gate.

  “This is the oldest cemetery in New Orleans,” Garlen said. “The spiritual home of many famous citizens. Mark Twain called our cemeteries “Cities of the dead.”

  “This place is amazing,” Brian said. “The tombs are so large and ornate and the paths between them so narrow, they seem to close in around you. What do you think, Amy?”

  “My skin is crawling,” she said.

  “You can’t be serious. This place is awesome. What’s the matter?”

  “Spirits of the dead; I can feel their cold breath on my neck,” she said.

  “You’re shivering,” Brian said.

  “Brian, I don’t like it here. I want to go.”

  “You're irrational,” he said. “It’s broad daylight. There are no ghosts.”

  “You stay. I’ll walk back to the car and wait for you there,” she said.

  Casting a distressed look at Garlen, Brian shrugged his shoulders and followed her out the gate.

  “So sorry,” he said.

  As cold rain began to fall, Garlen turned to Taj. “Under the circumstances, I’m calling off the tour. They’ll give you a rain check at the shop.”

  “Wait,” Taj said. “I have questions I need someone to answer for me.”

  “Next time,” Garlen said. “It doesn’t just rain in New Orleans, it pours.”

  Rain began dimpling the dark leather of Taj’s coat, as he watched the tour guide disappear through the front gate. An unexpected voice startled him back to reality.

  “Get in here before the sky opens up.”

  An older black man was holding open the door of an outbuilding Taj hadn’t noticed when they entered the cemetery. As the rain began falling harder, he followed the man into the little building.

  There were no windows, the air stale, the little room li
ghted only by a blazing potbelly stove and a few candles. There were a couple of ramshackle chairs and an old cot draped with pillow and bedclothes. The floor was dirt. Through the crack in the door, Taj could hear the drumming of rain growing heavier by the minute.

  “Who are you?” Taj asked.

  The man chuckled. “The keeper of cemeteries and lost souls.”

  “You’re the caretaker?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m Taj. What’s your name?”

  “People call me lots of things. You can call me Sam. You told that man you got questions.”

  “And I was hoping for some answers,” Taj said. “Guess I’ll have to find them someplace else.”

  Sam chuckled. “You weren’t going to get the answers you need from him. Hell, the girl with the prissy boyfriend knows more about spirits than he do.”

  “How do you know that?” Taj asked.

  “Old Sam here knows lots of things.”

  “But she’s white.”

  “Not much difference between white and black in Nawlins.”

  “That girl’s from Michigan and not New Orleans.”

  Sam fluffed the pillow on the cot. “Some people don’t have the foggiest idea where they’re really from,” he said.

  Taj let the comment pass. During his tenure in the NBA, he’d developed an eye for his opponents' height, weight, and age. Sam was about five-eight and probably somewhere north of fifty years old. Despite the gloomy day, he had a pair of dark sunglasses perched atop his head. The stub of his lit cigar came out of his mouth only when he talked. Moving the pillow aside, he plopped down on the cot, propping his feet up on a packing crate. Taj grinned when he noticed the holes in his dirty white socks.

  “Gonna be raining awhile,” Sam said. “Take a load off and grab a chair. Like I say, that white man don’t know a damn thing about voodoo, anyway.”

  “Think I’ll stand,” Taj said, glancing at the rickety chair he doubted would support his weight.

  “Want something to drink?” Sam asked.

  “Sure. My body is wet, but my mouth is kind of dry.”

  Sam retrieved a gallon jug of red wine from behind his cot. After unscrewing the metal cap, he slung the bottle over his shoulder and slugged the cheap wine straight from the container.