Anthony gripped Maureen’s hand, rising slightly from his seat. He shook his head at her question. “I’m an orthodontist. I have a practice in the Gentilly, near where we live.” He raised his eyebrows. Tears welled in his eyes. “What happened to this one today. Years, decades with hardly a scratch. Then this.”
Preacher reached out, wincing from the effort, touching the back of his hand to Anthony’s face. He lowered his arm, settled his hand on his chest, tossing a quick, commiserating glance to Maureen before exhaling to release the pain of moving. “I was the lucky one today. Fucking bad fucking day. Goddamn.”
“Fifteen years,” Anthony said. “For fifteen years I’ve been making fun of him because every time we go out to eat, this one has to sit with his back to the wall, somewhere he can see the door. You’re not Wild Bill Hickok, I said. This isn’t Tombstone. Then today happens.”
“So this means I don’t have to hear that anymore, right?” Preacher said.
Anthony shook his head.
Maureen raised her hands. “What did happen, Preach?”
Preacher raised three fingers. “I took three, believe it or not. One in the left side, one in the left hip, one in the right thigh. The two on the left, they were through and through. Graze wounds, really. Caught mostly body fat and took some of it with them. The one in the thigh, that was a bit more complicated. That one they had to go in and get. I got it around here somewhere.” He pushed himself up against the pillows stacked behind him. The pain took his breath away and he gasped. Sweat speckled his forehead. “Maybe another time.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Maureen said. Anthony was squeezing the armrests on his chair. Maureen sensed his patience with her visit was waning. “Preach, relax,” she said. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Preacher glanced at Anthony, then looked at Maureen. She could tell he felt Anthony’s impatience. And that he wanted to tell the story. That he had been waiting for another cop to walk in at the right time. He’d been waiting, she thought, for me.
Preacher licked his lips. “Guy walks into the joint calm as you please. Solo. Long coat like a gunslinger. I think about it that way now, I didn’t then. Nobody did. Nobody was thinking gun. Why would they? Because he has a long coat? It’s wintertime, practically. And all the shit that’s gone on in this country and we still don’t think about it. But something about him tripped the wire, eventually, you know, if not at first? He caught my eye. He had that hinky vibe. Not that I had much time to analyze; he came right for us, and the place ain’t that big.”
“Like he knew you were there,” Maureen said. “Knew who you were.”
“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Yeah. The way he crossed the room, the look on his face, he wasn’t choosing from a random array of targets, he was searching for someone specific. At first I figured he was meeting people, and that’s who he was looking for. But then he locked on target when he saw me.”
Anthony wiped his hand down his face. “You’re making me ill.”
“Then he made a move,” Preacher said. “I could see it—the first, like, microgestures, something in the shoulders or his hips or something—and I knew shooter’s stance was his next position. My brain added it up, the little things wrong about him. I hesitated for what felt like half a second. Less. Wesley had his back to the whole thing. I saw him see something in my face. He had a forkful of pork chop hanging there halfway to his mouth the whole time, white bean gravy dripping onto the tabletop. I couldn’t decide what to do: if I should say something, or try and push Wesley aside.”
He paused, catching his breath. Anthony set himself to rise from his chair, changed his mind and stayed seated. Preacher said, “That’s what cost us, in the end. I was too slow. My brain had it put together, but this fat, old cigar-smoking body … In that half moment, the shooter got his gun up and let loose.”
“Preacher, please,” Anthony said.
“Wesley caught the first couple of rounds in the back,” Preacher said. “I think he saved my life taking those. I would’ve taken those bullets in the guts. He definitely bought me time to return fire. I got my gun up and squeezed. It was so fucking fast. One moment this mope was walking in, the next my whole lower half is on fire, I got three holes in me, I’m on my back, blood is on the walls, plates are breaking, people are screaming. I only knew the shooter was dead ’cause he had stopped shooting.”
Pausing for breath, he looked at Anthony, as if checking to see if his partner could stand the rest of the story. Preacher turned back to Maureen. He seemed to sink even deeper into his pillows, a wounded bear settling into the snow. “I was never more scared in my life than when it was over, when I was lying there bleeding. I thought, what if there’s another one, what if he’s not alone? I thought I was dead, thought I was dying, I thought I was dreaming, I thought I was having a heart attack. Fuck.” He was out of breath.
Anthony held up his hand. “I think maybe this visit has gone on long enough. Thanks be to God, y’all will have plenty of time to talk about this, but, Preacher, you’ve been shot. Three times. You need to rest.”
“I’m good,” Preacher said.
“Maureen … Officer,” Anthony said, “we’re glad you stopped by. We are. I know he was worried about you. And I’m glad to meet you.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances.”
“I’m right here, Anthony,” Preacher said. “Don’t talk about me like I’m not.”
Maureen pressed her lips together, suppressing her laughter. Heinous as the situation was, she could hardly believe that hours after she was frantic with grief and worry that he was dead, she was standing there watching Preacher have a spat with his dentist boyfriend. Fucking New Orleans.
“Maureen will come back before her shift tomorrow night,” Anthony said.
“She has to go out there again tonight,” Preacher said. “These people came after her first. I told you about that. They’re out there.”
“Anthony’s right,” Maureen said. “And the Watchmen tipped their hand. They’re gonna go to ground now, these fucks. I’m safer tonight than I’ve been in weeks.”
“Because terrorists always do the logical thing,” Preacher said.
“Because they’re cowards,” Maureen said. “And cowards run when you chase them. They scatter when they lose the advantage. All fucking bullies are the same.”
“Okay, okay,” Preacher said. “One more thing. There’s something I need to tell you tonight, Coughlin. Something you could tell Detillier about.”
She decided not to tell Preacher about Detillier’s disappearance. Why give him any more to worry about? And if Preacher gave her good-enough cause, she’d go looking for him one more time. “Whatcha got?”
“I’m going for a soda,” Anthony said, clearly flustered. He got up, the chair squeaking loudly on the floor, and walked toward the door. “Make it quick, you two.”
“It’s out of love,” Preacher said. “He’s been waiting to meet you. He has. It’s the circumstances, like you said. He doesn’t even drink soda.”
“I think he’s doing great,” Maureen said. “If it were me, I’d be spitting nails and out for blood.”
“You mean you’re not?” Preacher said. “How are you holding up, by the way? You look terrible. Like, I hope I don’t look as bad as you.”
“He’s gonna be pissed if I’m here when he gets back,” Maureen said. “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Always the artful dodger,” Preacher said. “When we were talking to Detillier, he wanted Madison Leary because she connects to the Watchmen, right? She was the only lead we had left. Quinn, Ruiz, Bobby Scales, Caleb Heath, the other loose ends are tied off.”
“She’s not talking to anyone,” Maureen said. “Ever. You know my feelings on this. We should be squeezing Solomon Heath. Now. We’ll never have more leverage than we do tonight.”
“Fuck him,” Preacher said. He raised an admonishing finger. “In fact, you make sure you stay away from him. You have impulse-control pro
blems. Besides that, I have a better idea. An easier target. One less likely to get you in trouble if things go … sideways.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Who connected Caleb Heath and the Watchmen to Bobby Scales?” Preacher asked.
“Quinn. We’ve gone over this a hundred times.” This was old news. How much blood had Preacher lost? Maureen wondered.
“But it wasn’t Quinn,” Preacher said. “There was a middleman. Remember?”
Maureen got it. Fucking A. “Shadow. Quinn and Ruiz had Shadow on a string. He was the matchmaker, the one who connected Heath and the Watchmen with Scales. And that motherfucker is out there on the streets.” She sat in the chair, inched it closer to Preacher’s bedside. “That’s a great idea in theory. Shadow is definitely a forgotten link to the Watchmen, but, man, that cat is harder to find than Leary.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Preacher said. “This shit with the white Camaro, around that grocery store, I’ll bet anything it’s drawn him out of whatever hole he’s been hiding in since Quinn put Bobby Scales in the Mississippi. A shift in power, a change in ownership of the territory in front of that store? I promise you Shadow is hovering on the edges of that shit. It’s what he does. The problem has never been seeing him. It’s getting anything to stick to him. He just glides over the surface of things. It’s why he’s called Shadow.”
“Little E might know something,” Maureen said. “You think he’s the way to go?”
“No doubt. He’s dug into the neighborhood like a tick. That’s why I wanted you looking for him over at the grocery store before this other shit went down.”
“What if he doesn’t know,” Maureen asked, “or he won’t say?”
“Coughlin, I’m in a hospital bed,” Preacher said. “For the forseeable future. I gotta do your job for you from here?”
“I don’t want to fuck this up is what I’m saying. I wanna move as fast as possible and make sure I get results.”
“Cops are dead over this,” Preacher said. “Today isn’t the end of it. They’ll come after us again, and Shadow connects to the men who did it. You said it yourself: there will never be a time when you have more authority, and more freedom to use it to get the answers you need, than you do right now, tonight. Use it, Coughlin. Tell the rest of the squad. Hit the neighborhood like a fucking hurricane. Answers, Officer. By any means necessary. Believe.”
Maureen rose from the chair, stepped to the bed. She reached out, set her hand on Preacher’s. She figured she had until morning before the powers-that-be got their shit together. She had a lot to do before then. Miles to go before she slept. “I’m going to take care of this, Preach. I promise.” She walked to the door.
Before crossing the threshold, she stopped, turned back to him. “The other two cops, that was opportunity. But you. They came after you because of me. Your connection to me got you shot.”
Preacher blinked at her, waiting a long time to speak. “So.”
“Well, I just want to—”
“You apologize to me,” Preacher said, coughing, wincing at the pain. “And I will get out of this bed. So help me God, I will put you over my knee.”
Maureen sputtered. “I mean, I—”
“You’re right,” Preacher said. “I was targeted because I’m close to you. So what? What if instead of hunting me they hit the streets today gunning for someone else? That’s better? It’d be better, you’d feel better, if instead of coming after an old warhorse savvy enough to see them coming, they went after two more young’uns with pretty wives and little kids? They don’t come for me, and maybe we have four dead cops today instead of two. Think about that.”
Maureen put her hands on her hips, hung her head. She blew out her breath.
“I love ya, Coughlin. I do. But you gotta quit thinking you’re at the center of everything. This city was fucked up when you got here. It’ll be fucked up when we’re dead and buried. You’re just another marcher in the fucking parade. The sooner you learn that, the happier you’ll be. Welcome to the party.”
29
Shortly before three a.m. Maureen rolled up on Little E in a dark and quiet section of Central City. Madison Leary had been hard to find. Finding Shadow would be a challenge. Little E was not tough to track. His accessibility was part of what made him a good snitch.
E sat on the wide, dirty concrete steps of an abandoned house, next door to the Big Man Lounge, a can of beer between his feet. Maureen pulled up slowly, roof lights off, bouncing the creaking patrol car over the curb, halfway onto the cracked-up sidewalk.
On the steps of the house, three other men sat with Little E. Each of them was positioned on a different step. Each of them nursed the amber glow of a cigarette, or maybe a roach. They sat with their thin shoulders hunched deep into their old second- and thirdhand coats. None of them had so much as flinched at the arrival of an NOPD cruiser. They knew that had Maureen been looking to make trouble for them, she would have arrived with much more bluster.
She got out of the car, zipping up her black leather NOPD jacket. An old soul tune played in the bar, floating out into the street. She closed the car door, dug her knit watch cap from her jacket pocket, and pulled it snug on her head. She blew into her fist as she stepped up onto the sidewalk. She had gloves in her pocket but was saving them for later. Behind her, she heard the rattle of a metal gate. She turned to see the bar owner, his brown face a scowl in the shadows, locking up the Big Man. The music cut off mid-song. The neon beer signs and colored lights in the small windows went dark. The men watched her from the steps. She studied their emotionless faces, hoping to recognize someone in addition to Little E. She didn’t like that E wasn’t alone.
On the one hand, because he had company, Little E could be less likely to talk to her. He couldn’t have the whole neighborhood knowing he was an NOPD snitch. He at least couldn’t let it be this obvious. And if he did talk, an outcome to which Maureen was especially committed, his cover would be blown as soon as Shadow got picked up. At worst his life would be in danger, at best E might be useless to her and Preacher as a snitch anymore. The trick to negotiating the situation, she realized, would be what she and any other cops did with Shadow. They didn’t want to arrest him, not tonight. Not if it could be avoided. She could let that be known, make it part of Little E’s message. Tonight they wanted information. That might be enough to save Little E from too harsh a retribution. Maybe.
“Mr. Etienne,” Maureen called. “Come down from the steps and see me, please.”
E glanced at his compatriots, who looked away from him. They gazed past Maureen, their faces blank, and over the neighborhood, demonstrably ignoring not only E but her as well. No matter what happened in front of them, Maureen realized, they would see and hear nothing. Tonight, she realized the men were letting her know, lots of things otherwise forbidden would get a pass.
Abandoned to his fate, E leaned forward, groaning, to grab his beer. He stood, unsteady, and came carefully down the marble steps, one hand at the small of his back, as if Maureen’s visit had interrupted a long night of heavy lifting.
“Fellas,” Maureen called out, “why don’t y’all head back inside the bar? It’s cold out here, anyways.”
“They closed,” Etienne said, sniffling. “That’s why we out here in the first place.”
“They can take a walk,” Maureen said to him, her voice calm and low, “or I can call another unit and you and me can take a ride together to lockup.” She paused. Let the message sink in. It was smarter, she thought, better neighborhood politics, to let E negotiate the next moves with his friends than for her to push them around. She lit a cigarette. Patience, Maureen thought, that’s what Preacher would counsel. “I hate to break up a party, but we’re in a bad mood tonight.”
“Mos def,” Little E said, turning. “I got you. Fellas, I’ll catch up with y’all around the way.” He gestured at Maureen with his beer can. “I got some parole thing I gotta clear up. Ain’t no thing. Just be a minute. Nothing to wor
ry about.”
No way they believe that story, Maureen thought. Nobody, especially not a beat cop, comes around following up on “parole things” at three in the morning. But the men got the message they needed. They stood, picked up their beers, and sauntered down the steps. One of them muttered an “all right” as they walked away into the darkness, shaking the cold out of their backs and shoulders.
She noticed Little E eyeing her cigarette. She gave him one from her pack, lit it for him.
“OC, I been hearing things,” Little E said, animated now. “Crazy shit.” He leaned in close, as if there were anyone else on the block to overhear them. He stank. “I heard the Klan got Preacher. That true? No way that’s true, right?” He swallowed hard. His emotion, his concern, it wasn’t an act, Maureen thought. Etienne was upset. Not because cops who were strangers to him got killed, she knew, but because Preacher, who had done Little E an untold number of small favors, had been shot.
“First off,” Maureen said, “Preacher is alive. And he’s going to make it. I saw him not too long ago tonight.”
Etienne smiled and clapped his gloved hands. He pumped his fist. “Yes, indeed. Ol’ Preach. He a tough motherfucker.” He tapped his fist over his heart. “You tell him, you tell him Little E got prayers up for him.”
“I will,” Maureen said. “He’ll be glad to hear it.”
“So it was the Klan then?” Little E said. “I heard they was back around. Hard times. Hard times.”
“Not the Klan,” Maureen said. “Something like it, but different. Something new. They’re antigovernment, anti-police. They call themselves the Watchmen Brigade.”
Etienne was skeptical. He shrugged. “Nigger-hating country white boys with guns. Am I right? Maybe they don’t call theyselves Klan, but they ain’t nothin’ new. Believe that.”
“The two cops that were killed, they were white,” Maureen said.
Etienne shrugged again. “I’m just glad it weren’t niggers that shot them cops. Not that I’m glad they got shot. I don’t like nobody getting shot down like that.” He paused. “Even y’all. It’s bad all around.”
Let the Devil Out Page 24