Sisters of the Mist

by Eric Wilder

“Like I said, his agenda includes getting rid of me. Problem is, I’m not as easily removed as a Confederate statue.”

  “Hope not. I don’t think our city can survive a human Katrina. Why did you call me here? From the looks of the firepower you’re sporting, I’d say you have things well in hand.”

  “You’d think,” Frankie said. “There’s one small problem my men aren’t equipped to handle. You are.”

  “Such as?”

  “The assassins did more than kill two of my men last night; they stole my grandson’s horse. Though I don’t need the cops to help me settle a score, my boys aren’t up to finding and recovering the horse.”

  “The horse seems like the least of your problems,” Tony said.

  “You got kids. Sometimes the most important things in life are making sure you keep your promises to the ones you love.”

  “Which horse are you talking about, and how is it connected to the deaths of your two men?”

  “Long story,” Frankie said.

  “I got scotch in my hand and my butt’s planted on this comfortable couch,” Tony said. “Start from the beginning.”

  “I told you I like thoroughbreds, and that I’ve never cared much for quarter horse racing. Josie loves it, and everything about it. She talked Adele and me into going to the quarter horse races at the track.”

  “They still running quarter horses? I thought the meet was over,” Tony said.

  “Yesterday was the final day of the meet. Anyway, I hate going to the races without a horse of my own entered. A trainer that works for me from time to time called someone he knew in Oklahoma. He found a horse of championship caliber. He’d already won ten races in a row. I had him transported here and flew in his regular jockey to ride him for me. Believe me when I tell you he cost me an arm and a leg.”

  “You bought an expensive racehorse for one race, sight unseen?” Tony asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “I understand that you wanted to have a horse running. Was that the only reason?”

  Frankie slugged his scotch and poured himself another before answering. The overhead fans seemed to be keeping time with the clarinet solo coming through the speakers.

  “The damn Mexicans have been getting in my back pocket ever since they started arriving in town after Katrina. Since I was going to the quarter horse races, I decided to beat them at their own game. Show them who’s still boss around here.”

  “Pour me another shot, if you don’t mind, and then tell me how you planned to do that,” Tony said.

  “I didn’t just plan to do it, I pulled it off.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “I forged some pedigree papers on the horse. His real name is Lightning Bolt. I give him the name Warmonger. Even went so far as to fake his starts. According to the records, he’d never even come close to winning a race.”

  “Let me guess. You entered him in a race yesterday, and he went off as a thirty to one longshot.”

  “Almost,” Frankie said. “Some asshole bet big on him to win and it lowered the odds a bunch, though not enough for me not to recoup my investment first.”

  “I guess there were lots of pissed off bettors,” Tony said.

  “And owners,” Frankie said. “Chuy Alvarado was staring a hole through me when I hoisted the trophy in the winner’s circle.”

  “Surely you weren’t planning to ever race the horse again,” Tony said.

  “Right about that. I give him to my grandson Jojo after the race. Adele and I put him on Lightning Bolt’s back and let him ride around the paddock before the races started yesterday. It was Jojo’s first time on a horse, and that big stallion loved it as much as my grandson did.”

  “Your grandson was at the track with you?”

  “With his nanny. She brought him back to the farm after leaving the races. Said he talked about the horse all the way here.”

  “Can’t you just give him another horse, or a pony, maybe?” Tony asked.

  “Adele took their picture at the track. When Jojo got here, he hung it on the wall in his bedroom. First thing he did when he got up this morning was to go looking for the horse. Hardest thing I ever did was to explain to him that someone had stolen Lightning Bolt.”

  “Doesn’t sound like he took the news very well,” Tony said.

  “He said, ‘Papaw, please find Lightning Bolt.’ I was on the phone to you ten minutes later. It’ll be worth the world to me to get that horse back for JoJo.”

  “You know I’d do my best,” Tony said. “But . . .”

  “I know,” Frankie said, holding up a palm. “Those damn Mexican mobsters have probably already cut him up to sell as dog food in Mexico. I been waiting for a video showing those bastards killing him.”

  “I think you’re too late,” Tony said. “There was a dead horse in your trailer last night. My guess is that it was probably your horse.”

  Frankie’s hand went to his forehead. “Dammit!” he said. “You absolutely sure about that?”

  “Nobody identified the horse, far as I know.”

  “Then it’s possible it wasn’t Lightning Bolt.”

  Tony sipped his scotch before answering. “Anything’s possible.”

  Frankie got up from the couch and began pacing in circles. Finally, he sat back down.

  “I want you to assume Lightning Bolt is still alive. Start your investigation. If nothing else, it’ll buy me some time to think of an explanation for Jojo.”

  “I can do that,” Tony said.

  “While you’re at it, find out who ordered the killing of my men and get me a name of the shooter. Think you can handle it?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Tony said. “I’ll conduct a thorough investigation as if I had never seen the dead horse slide out of the trailer.”

  “Thank you, Tony. I feel better already. Where do you intend to start?”

  “Lightning Bolt’s stable at the racetrack. Whoever killed the jockey and the trainer no doubt took your horse at the same time.”

  Frankie smiled and slapped Tony’s shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Tony said.

  “The farm’s under surveillance. My men will follow you to the Causeway. After that, you’re on your own.” Tony was half-way to the door when Frankie stopped him. “If you see that daughter of mine, tell her she needs to get her ass out of Nawlins, and join me, Adele and Jojo until things cool down.”

  “Hell, Frankie, just call and tell her to bring Eddie with her. He’s on vacation and has time on his hands. You know he’s a Federal D.A. Maybe he can pull some strings and help you with your problem with the mayor.”

  “Good idea, Tony. Guess that’s why I pay you the big bucks. Speaking of which, here’s your retainer,” he said, handing Tony a check.

  Without bothering to look and see how much Frankie had given him, Tony grinned and kept walking.

  Chapter 9

  Bertram’s watering hole was empty when I came down from my upstairs room the next morning. All except for Rafael Romanov. He was alone at the bar, sipping from a mug of steaming coffee.

  “Stay up all night drinking, Padre?” I asked.

  “Eddie’s free liquor was tempting. I went home after dropping off Abba and Junie Bug.” He grinned. “I half expected to see Eddie still here when I arrived.”

  “Not a chance. He’s too enamored over Josie, the new woman in his life.”

  “Did she take him home?” he asked.

  “Lawyer-client privilege,” I said. “I couldn’t tell you even if I knew the answer.”

  “Damn those professional obligations,” he said.

  Bertram’s mailman came through the door, still wearing his summer uniform. He saluted when he saw me at the bar, and then handed me a letter.

  “Send this one to yourself, Wyatt?” he asked.

  “That I did, Steve. I’d almost forgotten about it till I saw you come through the door. Kind of nippy out there for summer shorts.”

  �
�With the miles I put in, I usually don’t notice the chill, even in late October,” he said.

  “Then don’t get transferred to Chicago,” Rafael said.

  “Hope not. Bertram, you got mail,” Steve said.

  Bertram stuck his head through the kitchen door. “Probably not a damn thing but bills and advertisements,” he said, taking the handful of mail from Steve.

  “You going to the bank today?” I asked.

  “Don’t I always?” Bertram said.

  “With the money you make in this cash cow, you probably have to go twice.”

  “Yah, yah,” he said. “What you need?”

  “Will you put this in my account for me?” I said, handing him the check for sixty-six thousand dollars and a deposit slip.

  “You and Eddie weren’t kidding when you said you won big at the track. Sure you trust me with this?” he said.

  “More than I trust myself. If you lose it, I’m staying here free for the next five years.”

  He snickered. “What else is new? Next thing I know, you’ll be wanting me to pay you.”

  “Now that’s an idea,” I said.

  “Lots of money you got there,” Rafael said. “Most I ever won at the track is a few hundred dollars. Don’t ask me how much I’ve lost.”

  “Let's just say Eddie and I had a hot tip on a longshot.”

  “Call me next time you get another hot tip like that,” he said.

  “Me too,” Bertram said, shouting through the open door of the kitchen.

  Before we had time to further discuss the horses, Abba popped through the door looking stylish in jeans, ankle-length boots, and a down parka over her white braided sweater. She tapped a foot when she saw us sitting at the bar.

  “You two at it already?” she said.

  “Just mugs of Bertram’s coffee and chicory,” Rafael said. “Join us?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” she said.

  Bertram was already on his way out of the kitchen, an empty mug in one hand and a steaming pot of coffee in the other.

  “Why so glum, Bertram?” I asked. “Didn’t make enough money off Eddie last night?”

  “If I hadn’t, I’d have had to pad the boy’s bill,” he said.

  Bertram was lots of things. Dishonest wasn’t one of them.

  “We both know better than that,” I said.

  As he poured coffee for Abba, we all knew he’d been kidding about padding Eddie’s tab.

  “Smells wonderful,” she said. Smacking her lips after taking a sip. “This is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted. What’s your secret?”

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he said. “It’s a recipe my mama taught me that not many people in the world know.”

  “Whisper in my ear,” she said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

  Her eyes grew large when he whispered his secret into her ear.

  “Now promise ol’ Bertram you’ll never tell nobody.”

  “You can trust me,” she said.

  “What’d he say?” Rafael asked once Bertram had disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Eggshell and a touch of salt mixed into the coffee grounds,” she said.

  “I heard that,” Bertram said, sticking his head through the door. “Can’t trust nobody these days.”

  “Everyone in town already knows your recipe,” I said.

  “Yeah, what other secrets of mine have you been spreading around?”

  Bertram went into to the kitchen, not waiting for my reply. He wasn’t mad because he soon returned with crawfish omelets and Creole hashbrowns.

  “Thanks, Bertram,” Abba said.

  She grinned when he said, “You’re welcome, and no, I ain’t giving you the recipe.”

  “I bumped into the mailman down the street,” Abba said. “Did he bring your winnings from the track?”

  “Thank God, yes,” I said.

  “Were you worried?” she asked.

  “Tell you the truth I’d forgotten about it,” I said.

  “I’d never forget sixty-six grand,” Rafael said.

  “Me either,” she said. “I saw a bit of early morning news on the Internet before leaving the house. I think you might be interested.”

  “Like what?” I asked, sipping the steaming cup of coffee.

  “There was a murder in town last night,” Abba said.

  “In this town, what else is new?” I said.

  “Double homicide,” she said. “They found a body floating in a lagoon at City Park. Since you and Eddie were at the track yesterday, I thought you’d like to know.”

  She suddenly had my attention. “Go on,” I said.

  “The two victims were a jockey and trainer from the track. The jockey was still wearing his colors. Want to see a picture?”

  The picture of a track trophy, riddled with bullet holes caused me to do a double-take as I held Abba’s cell phone.

  “Can you text me the link?” I asked.

  My phone beeped as the file was transferred from Abba’s to mine. I quickly forwarded it to Eddie’s, along with a terse message.

  “Problem?” Rafael asked.

  “Maybe,” I said. “That trophy was in our possession last night before a Hispanic thug took it from us. Eddie and I may be accessories to murder.”

  “Need to leave and take care of the situation?” he asked.

  “Eddie will know what to do, and I’m not changing our plans,” I said.

  A gentle rain had replaced the fog from the previous night, a cool draft of air flooding the bar when a customer entered through the Chartres Street door. Abba zipped up her parka.

  “Though I love these old French Quarter buildings, they can be drafty in the winter,” she said.

  “Then thank God we rarely ever get much of a winter here,” Rafael said.

  I finished my omelet and pushed the plate aside. “Who are you taking us to see, Raf?” I asked.

  “An acquaintance. We’ll need to leave soon because we’re meeting him in thirty minutes,” he said.

  “Then wherever we’re going must not be far from here,” Abba said.

  “St. Roch Cemetery and Chapel,” he said.

  “Seems a strange place to meet someone,” Abba said.

  “You’ll understand why when we get there.”

  Bertram waved Rafael off when he called for the tab.

  “I make a decent living selling alcohol to lost souls. Least I can do is provide them an occasional free meal,” he said.

  He blushed when Abba reached over the bar and gave him a hug.

  “Thanks, Bertram,” she said as we walked out into the crisp autumn weather.

  “My vehicle is in a parking lot not far from here,” Rafael said.

  “I parked on the street, outside the door,” Abba said. “Let’s take mine.”

  Misting rain had replaced last night’s fog. When Abba unlocked the front door of a bright orange crossover of questionable vintage, I quickly climbed into the rear seat.

  “You take shotgun, Padre,” I said. “I’ll ride back here.”

  “What kind of car is this?” Rafael asked when we pulled away from the curb.

  “Pontiac Aztek,” she said.

  Oblivious to the drizzle, a dozen pigeons fighting over the remains of a Lucky Dog someone had dropped in the street took flight in front of us. Abba swerved to miss the French Quarter specialty, and the pigeons landed behind us to finish their clean up duty.

  “How old is it?” Rafael asked. “They don’t make Pontiacs anymore, do they?”

  “This is a 2005 model, the last year they made Azteks. My dad bought it for me when I started driving.”

  “As I recall, not many people bought Azteks. Is your dad . . . ?”

  “A nerd? Very much so,” she said, answering Rafael’s question before he’d finished asking it. “Must have rubbed off on me because so am I.”

  “Looks to be in pristine condition,” he said. “You apparently take excellent care of your possessions.”

 
; His comment made her laugh. “When you’re a poor medical student, you have to make things last, or starve to death.”

  “You look neither broke nor starving,” Rafael said.

  “My job with Junie Bug pays well, and Dad helps with unexpected bills.”

  “Why are you taking such an interest in Junie Bug’s daughter?” he asked.

  Abba seemed miffed by Rafael’s question. “Will you tell him?” she asked, glancing at me for a moment in the rearview mirror.

  “Abba’s father is Vincent Gigoux. He is the baby that was switched at birth with Gordon Vallee. Vincent is the real heir to the Vallee fortune, and not Gordon, Junie Bug’s husband and the father of Desire.”

  Rafael’s smile had disappeared when he turned to glance at me.

  “Then are you trying to find Desire with ill intent?” he asked.

  “I don’t intend to ever tell Junie Bug, or her daughter if we find her, who I really am.”

  “Is that the way you’ve always felt?” Rafael asked.

  “Dad would have no part of butting into Junie Bug’s life. I approached her with the intention of telling her who I am. She thought I was interviewing for a job. I took the job and chickened out about telling her my story.”

  “And things have changed?”

  “I’ve worked for that wonderful lady more than a year now and have real empathy for her. She trusts me, and I will never betray that trust.”

  “Sure about that?” Rafael asked.

  Abba’s smile returned, her hair moving in waves when she shook her head.

  “You are a priest, aren’t you? I haven’t been grilled like that since I confessed to my parish priest about kissing a boy for the first time.”

  “Sorry, my dear,” he said. “I try to stay in practice.”

  “You still haven’t told us who we’re meeting and how he can help us find Desire,” I said, piping in from the backseat.

  “His name is Lando Impeke. He’s a Tutsi that immigrated from Rwanda after the conflict in the nineties. I’ve never met him though I understand he’s quite a tragic figure.”

  “How so?” Abba asked.

  “His entire family was slaughtered in the genocide resulting from the Hutu-Tutsi conflict. He was a broken man when he first came to New Orleans.”