by Eyre Price
If the streets had been empty, Daniel might have sailed clear across North Peters and several rows into the parking lot across the way. The crowds, however, were so heavy that he was driven back only a foot or two before he smashed into a wall of people. Staggering partiers were jostled. Some of them spilled their “go” cups. And others fell back into others who fell back into others—like a set of drunken dominoes.
Someone, annoyed by the collision or having spilled his “walking around” Hurricane, took hold of Daniel from behind and pushed him back toward the bouncers.
Daniel collected himself and regrouped for another go at breaking through the muscle-bound Maginot Line. He took a step, but this time Mr. Atibon put an arm out to stop him. “It’s no use.”
Daniel could see from the determined sneers spread across the four faces opposing him that it was true. His quest had run straight into a black-T-shirt-wearing wall. He’d come too far to turn back, but there was simply no way to move forward. There was no way to move at all. “Goddamn it!”
“Hey, hey!” Although he’d been the one to stop Daniel, Mr. Atibon reached out and took a grip of his arms. “Can’t give up hope.” His gravel road of a voice was now earnestly paternal. “That what the blues is all about.”
“The blues?” Daniel couldn’t help but scoff at what seemed to be a fundamental contradiction. “Hope?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Atibon answered, not in the defensive snap Daniel had come to expect, but with simple reassurance. “Folks think the blues is sad music ’cause it come from hard-pressed people doin’ one another wrong jus’ ’cause they don’t know no diff’rent, cause they feel they ain’t got no choice.”
The old man offered a consoling smile. “That’s where the blues comes from, but it ain’t what they’re ’bout. Blues all ’bout that blessed belief if’in you put everything you got—your heart, your soul, your flesh, your bone—if you give everything, you can rise up above all that other shit. It’s deliverance in twelve bars.”
Daniel’s faith was lost in the crowd. “I need more than music to deliver me now.”
“All ya need is hope in your heart—even when it seem the whole damn world fixin’ to stomp it outta ya. They say the blues come straight from hell, but nothin’ that beautiful could from somethin’ less it had a pure soul. And that means you too.” The old man stopped to clear his throat. “And if you wanna know, that’s what I told my boy.” He put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder. “And that’s what you’re gonna get the chance to tell your own.” Another sniff. “Now we gonna go find whatever the hell you need to find to get dat done. But it ain’t here.”
Daniel stopped and looked into the old man’s eyes. “Thanks.”
Reinvigorated, they turned together and found even their exit strategy was blocked. They were surrounded by seven guys in matching motorcycle club leathers. It was like if Snow White had come upon unwashed, meth-fueled, hog-riding petty criminals instead of dwarves. Daniel was sure they already came with cool biker names, but he would have called them Potbelly, Ponytail, Shorty, Zit-Face, Toothless, and Ape-Face.
Daniel would have named the one who grabbed him by the shirt and held him up in the air asking, “Is this the guy?” Sven because he had a braided moustache like a Nordic raider.
“Sure looks like him to me,” Potbelly grunted.
Daniel’s arms and legs flailed vainly in the air like a turtle being examined by an overcurious eight-year-old. “We don’t want any trouble,” he assured them, which was an unintentionally funny thing to say considering his feet weren’t touching the ground. “Whatever happened, we can work it out.”
Mr. Atibon marched right up to Sven as if he mistakenly thought the two were roughly the same size. “Put him down, ya damn fool. He ain’t got no money.” The Viking regarded the old man like he was a potential food source. “I ain’t got no money neither.”
“This don’t concern you, old man,” Sven growled.
Daniel wasn’t sure what was happening or why, but he knew getting beaten by a biker gang was a distraction he couldn’t afford. “Listen, guys, I’m sorry about whatever happened here, but I don’t have anything you’d want.”
Potbelly just sneered. “You are what we want.”
“Me?” Daniel asked innocently. “What did I do to you?”
Potbelly began, “It ain’t what you did to us—” but he never finished.
Potbelly’s jaw dropped and as his eyes grew wide. The other bikers looked suddenly awestruck. Sven swallowed hard and slowly lowered Daniel to the ground.
Daniel didn’t need to turn around to know what had happened. “I was wondering when you were going to show up, Moog.”
“Hey, papi!” Rabidoso chimed in. “Remember us?”
“You shouldn’t oughta run, Daniel.” The big man didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard above the crowd. “Running always makes everything worse.”
“For me or for you?” Daniel wondered aloud.
“Same thing,” Moog tossed off casually, though he was clearly eyeing up the bikers gathered behind Daniel. “What makes it worse for me, makes it worse on you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Moog shook his head. “Won’t matter for you no more.” He reached out to take Daniel by the arm. “Come on, we got miles to go.”
No one wanted to challenge the mountain, but all the bikers looked to Sven. If he didn’t feel the call to action in his heart, he clearly felt a need to represent his brothers and their club. “Wait a minute,” he called out as he caught Moog’s wrist and wrapped his heavily tattooed hand around it. “This guy ain’t going anywhere with you.”
“Fuck off, puta,” Rabidoso spat, before Moog had a chance to speak for himself.
Both Potbelly and Ponytail thought they could take the undersized Mexican without any problem and they were quick to step up. “I’m gonna kick your fuckin’ spic ass,” Potbelly promised.
“I’m goin’ count to three,” Moog told Sven calmly as he adjusted his tie. “If your hand’s still on me when I get there, I’m gonna put it so far up your ass you’re gonna have to snap your fingers to shit.”
And then the third front of that perfect storm blew in. Meanie, Almost As Meanie, and the others behind him approached the group. “Listen, fellas, y’all need to take this fuckin’ daisy chain down the street. You’re blockin’ our door and you gotta go!”
Somewhere there was a thunderclap, but it was impossible to tell who threw the first punch.
Mardi Gras is intended to be a joyous celebration—and it almost always is. But a crowd that’s been drinking for days and then crammed into close confines, pushing and shoving, is like a gas-soaked Christmas tree thrown on the Fourth of July bonfire: it really doesn’t matter where the spark comes from. When a spark hits it, it all goes up in a big, fucking WHOOOOOOSH!
Complete chaos descended on the Quarter in all the time it takes to throw a punch. Bouncers hit bikers. Bikers smacked bouncers. Bikers and bouncers missed one another and struck bystanders. And then the bystanders struck back. Punches were thrown wildly. People kicked at whatever was near them. Whatever they happened to have in their hands became missiles, the sky raining down beer bottles and rocks and street signs.
In an instant, what had been merely a melee degenerated into a full-fledged riot. Revelers ran in all directions, pushing the weaker or drunker partiers out of their way, even if that meant down to the street. More side fights broke out. The truly crazy stopped in the midst of the raging storm to shoot the human hurricane on phone cameras.
In all the chaos, Daniel and Mr. Atibon were perhaps the only ones who demonstrated any sense. Daniel grabbed the old man’s coat collar and pulled him close. With his arm around him offering protection, they ran through the frantic crowd looking for a way out. Any way out.
Rabidoso saw the pair running away, serpentining through the crowd. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and took aim on the center of Daniel’s back. His index finger began to tighten
on the trigger—and an oversized hand swatted the Colt 9mm. “What the fuck, man?”
“Are you kidding me?” Moog shouted, as he watched Daniel and Atibon disappear into the eye of the storm. “This is New Orleans,” the big man reminded his partner. “Half these motherfuckers are carrying. The other half are still crazy motherfuckers. You fire off into this crowd and you’ll turn this whole damn city into Afghanistan.” He pointed Rabidoso in the direction they’d seen Daniel running and gave him a push. “Come on. They can’t be far.”
Daniel and Mr. Atibon moved as quickly as they could, dodging the frightened partiers who ran in any direction they thought would lead them out of danger and avoiding the brain-addled testosterone freaks who howled as they did their best to fan the fires of violence. They worked their way through the crowd until they reached its edge at the Riverwalk, the Quarter’s eastern border, an asphalt walkway that runs parallel to the Mississippi. There was nowhere for the pair to run without getting wet.
Daniel stood for a moment, a riot behind him and a river ahead. He was afraid to run back into the mayhem, but more frightened still of the part of him that wanted simply to jump into the river and be done with it. Unsure what to do, he was relieved when he felt Mr. Atibon’s hand grab him around the arm. “Come on. Best thing now is just lay low.”
The old man led him north, up the Riverwalk about two hundred yards and then off into the shadows behind a row of restaurants and shops that fronted onto North Peters. Mr. Atibon checked the loading bays and back doors, but all hiding spots were predictably locked up tight.
The only available hiding spot was behind a Dumpster, which, from the smell of it, was overflowing with bad fish and vomit. As nauseating as that sanctuary was, Daniel figured they could stay there until Moog and Rabidoso realized the folly of searching a raging sea of humanity for a single face.
The plan worked perfectly. For about a minute. And then the dim light of a nearby streetlight was eclipsed by a less-than-celestial body. Warily, Daniel stuck his head out from behind the Dumpster like a middle-aged raccoon.
His heart raced as he hid in the shadows and watched Moog and Rabidoso tracing the steps he’d just taken. They walked down the Riverfront path, scanning the crowds at the far edge of the mayhem for the faces they were after.
Daniel couldn’t hear any of the words they were sharing, but it was clear from their actions they were both more concerned with moving quickly than with searching carefully. They hurried along until they finally reached the general vicinity of Daniel’s hiding spot. The stench coming off the Dumpster, however, was so overpowering that they turned quickly and kept moving right past where Daniel and Mr. Atibon were crouched and hiding.
Daniel let loose a sigh of relief—a nauseating mistake so close to the Dumpster. And unfortunately premature.
Thirty seconds after he offered whispered words of thanks to the heavens above, he peered around the filthy edge of the Dumpster to make certain the coast was clear, and there was the mismatched pair walking back as if they’d realized simultaneously they’d overlooked something meaningful.
Daniel could tell from their aggressive postures and their sharp, violent gestures that they were fighting about something. Rabidoso shouted something, emphasizing his point with an extended index finger. Moog threw his hands up in obvious frustration.
At that moment, a spotted mutt—post-Katrina New Orleans still has a tragic number of strays—broke out of the darkness and scampered past the two men. Perhaps the pup had been frightened by the rioting crowds or it was simply in search of a much-needed meal, but it was clear that it meant no harm as it skittered along the edge of the walkway just behind the two killers.
Moog didn’t pay any attention to the dog, but Rabidoso jumped at the sight of it. Moog burst into laughter at “the fearless assassin” recoiling with fear at the sight of the stray.
Maybe it was being laughed at by Moog. It could have been just that he didn’t like living things. Whatever his motivation Rabidoso picked up a broken brick lying at the side of the pavement and heaved it as hard as he could at the mongrel’s head. The missile hit its target dead on, striking the pup and knocking it to the ground with a whine that faded to a soft groan and then to silence.
Daniel was so fixed on hiding from the killers that he’d all but forgotten about his gray-haired friend until he felt Mr. Atibon push past him as he rose from his crouched position like a soldier suddenly called to duty. “Me a guh bax yuh!” the old man threatened under his breath.
The outburst startled Daniel, not just because he didn’t understand (or recognize) the language, but because it was spoken with a seething, visceral fury. It was like Death as a whisper.
“I got some business to settle up here now,” Mr. Atibon announced, looking over at the dog splayed across the pavement and then down at Daniel. “And you need to get runnin’, son.”
“But they’ll see us,” Daniel said worriedly, trying to pull the old man back into the shadow.
“Goddamn right, they’ll see me,” Mr. Atibon declared, choking up on his walking stick as if he were getting ready to do some heavy swinging. “But you best get a move on. It’s time.”
There was an alarming finality in the old man’s voice and it left Daniel uneasy, like a kid dropped off at school for the very first time. “What do you mean?”
“Everything has its season, son. We’ve had ours for the time bein’.” The old man looked off toward where Moog stood yelling at Rabidoso, who was poking that dog with a stick. “Now’s the time for me to settle this score and then get back to my Marie.”
Even given their circumstances, the revelation was startling. “You’re married?”
“Hell, son, you may be a dummy, but that don’t mean I is.” Mr. Atibon shook his head, though it was more to brush off the question than deny it. “You let me worry ’bout my sweet boo. You need to keep your mind straight on savin’ your boy. And that means, you gotta get gallopin’.”
“What?” Moving on alone wasn’t anything Daniel wanted to consider. “I can’t just leave you here.”
“I couldn’ save my son,” the old man’s eyes glistened, “but you can still save yours. Now go!”
“I’m not leaving you.” Daniel reached for the old man, but there was no turning him around.
“Ain’t you figured it out yet? I’ll be there when you need me.” Mr. Atibon smiled like he’d just spilled a secret. “Now get goin’. Go, save your boy.”
Daniel looked up into his friend’s eyes, frantically trying to think of some protest to file or argument to make. There was nothing.
“Go!”
“But go where? I don’t even know—”
“Memphis,” the old man told him. “That boy you been wastin’ your time lookin’ for was playin’ Memphis soul if I’ve ever heard it—and I heard it all. I think you best get yourself up there. But you best get goin’ right now!”
“But—” Daniel racked his brain for something he could say to change the old man’s mind. And came up empty.
“I bid you farewell.” The old man tipped his porkpie hat. “And when we meet again, you’ll have a helluva story to tell.” Without another word, Atibon stepped out into the light.
Knowing what he had to do didn’t make getting it done any easier. Daniel couldn’t bring himself to break away. “How can I thank you?”
“Ya don’t have another grand, do ya?” Mr. Atibon asked slyly.
Daniel smiled. “Not on me.”
“Well, until you do…” The old man patted him on the shoulder, turned him around, and pointed the way. “Then get goin’. Now! Go, mi key!”
Without turning back again, Daniel got to his feet and ran down the Riverwalk as fast as he could. He didn’t look back for his old friend. He didn’t check to see if anyone was following him. Or gaining on him. He ran without stopping, block after block until his lungs burned like they’d been used for ashtrays and he’d made it all the way back to the Kia.
He started it
up, slid it into gear, and didn’t stop again until he’d put the Louisiana border in his rearview. As he drove back through Mississippi on now-familiar roads, his thoughts were twisted with guilt for having left his friend behind and consumed by questions about why he’d done so.
His concerns might have disappeared, his guilt lessened, if he’d stayed to see Mr. Atibon walk down the Riverwalk just as calmly as if he was taking a Sunday stroll through the Garden District, his black walking stick tapping out a rhythm to his cadence.
Moog was the first to notice the old man approaching them slowly but purposefully. Something about the sight stunned him and left him standing statue still like a carved slab of obsidian. Rabidoso drew his pistol at the sight of the stranger, but seemed to lose the nerve to raise it up.
Mr. Atibon approached the pair and looked first at Moog. His eyes scanned the big man, not like he was searching them for something they might contain, but like he was planting some thought with him. “You know enough not to trouble me, boy.”
Moog mumbled a confused, “Who are you?” like he was stirring from a restless sleep.
“You know me, Vernon Turner.” Mr. Atibon tilted his head and let slip a cautionary smile, like he’d caught the big man trying to play a cheat. “I’m the prayer that ain’t been answered. I’m the dream that hasn’t come. And I tell you this: that’s a good man you’re chasing. You’d do well to leave him alone.” The old man’s voice was like the rumble of thunder in the stillness of a sultry summer night.
“I can’t.” Moog’s voice sounded childish in comparison.
“You a slave?” Mr. Atibon looked harder into the big man’s eyes. “You only think you can’t. You got yourself all turned ’round. If there’s killin’ to be done, you should start with what you’re runnin’ from, not what you’re runnin’ after.”
This time Moog made no response at all.
“As for you.” Mr. Atibon turned to Rabidoso, placing his walking stick against the assassin’s throat with the swiftness of a snake’s strike. The miniature madman seemed unable to do anything to protect himself, and the pistol dangling limply from his hand fell to the pavement.