by Eddy Shah
'The little cars.'
'Yes. Except my mini was big to me. It had no heater.' He laughed. 'I went to a garage to get one fitted. But they wanted too much. So the mechanic told me that every time I'd pull up at some lights or come to a stop, then I'd have to wiggle the long gear lever up and down and stamp my feet on the accelerator and clutch pedals. Get's the circulation going, he said. Best way of keeping warm.'
'And you did that?'
'All the time. Stamped and shook my way all round London. I ran the car for three months before I lost it in another game. I used to arrive at the gates after school and pick up all my chums. Then we'd all go off and blow my winnings. Best time I ever had.'
'How old were you?'
'Fourteen.'
'You're kidding?'
'I told you. You have to believe me.'
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' she said, holding her hands up in mock apology.
Mateus brought them their wine and they waited until he had uncorked and poured it.
'I was broken up when I lost that car,' he continued when Mateus had gone. 'So I stole one of my guardian's Bentleys.'
'Stole it?'
'Borrowed. Except he didn't know. He had this old Bentley. Kept it in a lock-up garage round the corner from his flat. Only ever used the car at weekends. So I got a spare garage key cut and used to take the car from Monday to Friday.'
'What happened?'
'I took this girl out. You can imagine how popular I was with the birds. Not everyone at fourteen, going fifteen, runs round in a Bentley. Anyway, I dropped her home, somewhere in the country, then got caught in the snow coming back. Bloody thing just buried itself up to the axle. Wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been Thursday night. When he went to the garage Friday lunchtime, of course, it wasn't there. I owned up. No point calling the police in. They'd have traced it anyway.'
'I bet he was pleased.'
'Just a little. Refused to speak to me for a week. Then I bought him a bottle of Dom Perignon and he forgave me. He wasn't a bad chap. For one of the guardians.'
'Where were your parents?'
'Away,' he lied. 'Out of the country most of the time.'
She sensed his reluctance to speak about them, felt him tighten up. He picked up his glass and drank from it. It would be the only glass he would drink all evening. She changed the subject. 'So how many exams did you pass?'
'Hell, you can't pass them if you don't take them.'
'None?'
'Never sat one. Now that's what I call an achievement.' He grinned. 'Not true, of course.'
'What is?'
'That I passed none. I got my one length swimming certificate.'
'Your what?'
'One length swimming certificate. But even then I cheated. My legs were walking the last bit in the shallow end.'
They both laughed as the waiter arrived with the first course.
'So that was your secret life. Then. What about now?'
'Ah ! There are things we all feel are better hidden.'
'Why? What makes people so...insular...that they can't share with others.' She was thinking of Peter and how he could never admit his infidelities, even when she had found him out.
'Don't ask me. Maybe, we just need our own space. Somewhere that no-one else can get to.'
Behind them a jazz band began to play.
It was as life should be, sitting there in that sunlit courtyard before night came and cast its shadow and opened the lid on Sin City.
They were ten minutes late for Frankie, but he'd waited for them.
'Any messages?' asked Billie, sliding into the back followed by Adam.
'No. Tucker said to make sure you're back by eleven.'
'Three hours to purgatory,' said Adam. 'What do you want to do?'
'I told you. Excitement,' she replied.
'Any ideas?' Adam turned to Frankie.
'In this town? Huh ! I don't know if you guys could take it. We got jazz clubs, naked wrestling, men and women. Sex shows, even ones you can take part in. You wanna be a star? Hey ?'
'No thanks,' said Billie.
'How about cards. All the games you want. And whatever the stakes. Not just money. You can even roll dice for a woman, or a man. Anything you want. Wanna gamble, limey?'
'Not tonight.'
'You're choosey, aren't you?'
'In a town like this, there's got to be something different. I mean, really different.'
'It's too early for what I think you'd like.'
'What's that?'
'A ceremony.'
'Tell me.'
'Voodoo.'
Adam grinned. 'Now that would be different.'
'Most of these ceremonies don't happen till late at night. I mean the real stuff, not this tourist shit.'
'Fancy it?' Adam asked Billie.
'Why not? Long as we're back by eleven.'
'Okay Frankie. Let's see how good you really are?'
The white Cadillac pulled away from the kerb and headed north, up Canal Street before turning east onto Burgundy street.
Adam watched the crowds as they cruised past. The gawkers had been replaced by a new class of gawker. This time there were no children, only their parents out to explore the fleshy side of life.
The clown with the balloons was now handing out leaflets inviting passers-by to Chris Owen's Club on 500 Bourbon Street, the last of a tradition of one woman shows in the Quarter. The fat boy and Kristofferson weren't to be seen and had been replaced by a young boy, no more than sixteen and five feet nothing tall, painted white from head to toe and with a white traditional angel's dress on, who now propositioned lonely middle aged men walking the strip. He was just one of the many whores and pimps who worked the strip.
The erotic sex shops were doing a brisk trade. Billie pointed out a dildo, bright gold, that was twelve inches long and six inches in diameter. It was under a handwritten sign which proclaimed 'The Golden Horn -only $25- only six left in stock'. From the way the sign curled at the edges, the six in stock had been there a long time.
Music blared from the clubs, the crowds shouted above the cacophony. Sin City was having fun.
Frankie turned down Dumaine Street and pulled up to the kerb.
'Heya, Julie,' he shouted to a plump girl in a short working skirt that made her appear even plumper.
'Heya Frankie baby,' she called back as she strolled towards the car. 'You got me some customers.'
'Maybe later. I'll see what I got. You seen the Fruit Juice Kid?'
'Nah.' She turned and looked down the street, across Bourbon which was sealed off to traffic, towards the New Orleans Voodoo Museum. When she had scoured the area, she turned back to him. 'Nah. Can't see him outside the museum.' She leant into the car, past Frankie and smiled at Adam. 'Heya, you're nice. Whadd'ya want mess round with that magic shit for? I got better things to keep you two occupied.'
'Not tonight, honey,' replied Billie tartly, irritated at being ignored by the girl. Adam grinned back and shrugged.
The girl stood up again. 'You want me to tell him you're looking for him if I catch him?' she asked Frankie.
'Yeah. I'll be around. If you see him, tell him I'm up at the Congo.'
'See ya, Frankie baby.'
'Take care,' he said, putting the car into reverse and backing up the street to Burgundy.
'And don't forget the customers?' Julie shouted after him.
'Sure thing. Later,' he yelled back. He spoke to the others as he reversed the car, his eyes fixed on the rear mirror for he couldn't swivel round with his disability. 'The other side of the CIA. Pimping on Bourbon Street. How do you put that down in a report?'
'Do you get a cut?' asked Billie.
'Damn right. You don't think I can live on that pissy salary the Agency pays, do you? Not here in New Orleans.'
He turned the car into Burgundy and took the next left up St Philippe Street, northbound and away from the tourist centre.
'Who's the Fruit Juice Kid?' asked Adam.
The Cadillac crossed over North Rampart towards Louis Armstrong Park, the large park named after the city's most famous native son. His statue stands proudly at the brightly lit entrance, looking out on the area where he was never welcomed to the better clubs during his acclaimed career.
'This used to be Congo Park,' said Frankie as he dragged himself from the parked Cadillac and into his wheelchair. Like many disabled people, he was proud of his independence and didn't readily ask for assistance. Adam, mindful of this, had simply pulled the wheelchair out and opened it up for Frankie, handling it as if he was simply helping someone with their luggage. That was when he noticed the satin finished Heckler and Koch P7 strapped to Frankie's chest.
'Didn't know you guys carried?' he said.
'This isn't for the Agency,' Frankie replied, tapping the weapon. 'This is for New Orleans.'
They followed Frankie into the park, now mostly in darkness, the meandering paths illuminated by overhead lights.
'Slaves used to come here,' recalled Frankie. 'Used to dance and fuck all over the place. Big religious meetings, too, with drums and fired up voodoo preachers. All that black magic started here, where the whites used to come and gawk at the antics that went on every Sunday. That's why they call it Black Sabbath. Used to slit the chicken's throat over there, by that little fountain. Sacrifice anything to their heathen god. Now that fountain, that was the centre of Congo Park. And that's sometimes where these guys hang around.'
There was no-one there, no Fruit Juice Kid, only the occasional swish in the trees as unseen people watched them.
'Don't worry,' said Frankie. 'They're just drugheads out to see who they can rob. As long as you walk on the path, they don't come at you. Not unless you really looked helpless. Anyway, they know me. They know I'm armed.'
The tall black man in the white suit was waiting by the Cadillac when they returned. He had white curled hair, knitted tightly to his scalp, but the face was young, no more than twenty. The eyes were slit, chinese style, but the nose was flattened, his nostrils flared, in the negro manner. His lips were thin and mean looking.
'Heya, Frankie,' he called. 'I hear you been looking for me.'
'Heya, Fruit Juice. How'ya doing?' replied Frankie as he pulled up alongside the car. He held his hand out and the tall man slapped it in welcome. 'Meet my friends. They looking for some action.'
'Action? What kinda action?'
'A ceremony.'
'Ceremony? Hell, you know those ain't legal, Frankie.'
'Come on. These ain't tourists. These're friends. That's Billie, from California. Known her for years. And Adam. He's from England.'
'England? Shit, what's a nice boy like you doin' over in this neck of the woods?'
'Seeing the world,' replied Adam.
'New Orleans is the world, boy. There ain't nowhere else.' He reached in his pocket and took out a slim tall bottle filled with a red liquid, the dark red of blood. He twisted the top off and offered the drink to Adam. The hands holding the bottle were old and gnarled, in complete contrast to the youthful face. Adam realised his age was impossible to determine. 'Share a drink, boy?'
'What is it?'
'Blood and piss. Of a baby girl child,' he grinned at Adam. 'Keeps you young forever.'
Adam shook his head. 'I'll pass this time. If you don't mind?'
'Don't mind at all.' He laughed and swigged from the bottle, took a deep mouthful and relished the taste. Then he screwed the top back on and slipped the bottle into his pocket. He turned to Frankie. 'You sure got polite friends, Frankie.'
'That I have. You gonna help us?'
'Too early for that sorta action.'
'Dark enough.'
'Mebbe.'
'And no tourist shit.'
'Would I do that to you, Frankie?' Fruit Juice laughed, a singular high pitched shriek.
'So whadd'ya say?'
'Depends.'
'How much?'
'You tell me.'
'A thousand dollars,' interjected Adam.
'Two thousand.'
'A thousand.'
'No American Express,' Fruit Juice joked. 'Even if it's platinum.' He leant forward and peered closely into the Englishman's face, stared at him for a full minute in silence. Then he stepped back.
'You troubled, boy. Your eyes, they got the death wish.' Fruit Juice turned and started to walk away.
'We got it on, or not?' shouted Frankie after him.
'Mebbe. If so, see you at Number One. In one hour. If not, ya'all have a good day now.'
Fruit Juice disappeared into the darkness, beyond the lights that filled the street.
'Well?' said Adam, turning to Frankie.
'Just sit and wait.'
'What's the Number One?' asked a nervous Billie.
'Old cemetery. St Louis Number One. Big place on Basin Street, at the end of the park. Takes up most of the block. You see the movie 'Easy Rider'? Well, Number One was in that. Big fancy mausoleums, white marble and all that. Full of tombs and vaults.'
'Gruesome,' commentated Billie.
'Well, you ain't gonna find voodoo in a shopping mall, that's for certain,' Frankie grinned. 'You coming tonight?' he asked Billie.
'I'm not going to miss this for anything.'
'Why call him the...?' asked Adam.
'...the Fruit Juice Kid?' interrupted Frankie. ''Cos nobody knows what's in that bottle. Ain't nobody ever drunk from it. Most people think it's tomato juice with lemon juice swirling around inside. But it's easy to think. No sucker's taken the risk yet.'
'How old is he?'
'You tell me. He's been around ever since I can remember. And I been cabbying here for ten years. Don't look no older than the first day I saw him.'
Ch. 37
KGB Headquarters
Dzerzhinsky Square
Moscow.
Rostov watched the old lady across his desk.
She was nervous, it wasn't every day cypher clerks were called up to be interviewed by the Deputy Director of the KGB.
'This fire...' he said. '...has caused us considerable concern. You understand why?'
'Yes, comrade Deputy Director,' she replied softly, her head slightly bowed in acquiescence.
'Not comrade any more,' he replied, equally softly to try and win her trust. 'Deputy Director, or sir, in the western manner, is adequate. May I call you Ivana?'
'Certainly, comr.....sir.' She was taken aback with his informality. The young bastard downstairs who ran her department could do with a lesson in manners from this man.
'Good. Would you like my secretary to get you some tea '
'No thank you.' She suddenly hoped he wouldn't be insulted. 'I have already had some before I came up. My tea break,' she explained.
' So tell me how you discovered the fire.'
'I had to get some files for the office. When I went down there I could smell something odd. After a while I realised it was something burning. I tried to see if I could find where it was coming from. There are many many rooms there. And corridors. When I found it, I saw there was smoke coming from under the door. I ran back and reported it.'
'You saw nothing unusual?'
'No, sir.'
'Think back. After all, the fire had only just been started. No sounds, no-one running.'
'No, sir. Nothing at all.'
He nodded, then picked up one of the sheets of paper in front of him. 'You have a good record. You have served the KGB well.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'It is us who should thank you. After such a lifetime of service. Not only here, in Moscow, but also during the last War. You were a heroine of the intelligence service.'
If only the bastard downstairs could hear this now. 'I was only a interpreter, sir.'
'In Berlin.'
'Yes.'
'Marvellous. I was hardly born then. It says here that
you saw the bunker.'
'Where Hitler died. Yes.'
'History. And to have been such a part of it. I envy you. But why did you not come home when it was over?'
'It was because of my language, sir. Our troops needed someone who could talk to the Germans.'
'You stayed until 1975. Which part of Germany?'
'Dresden.'
'A beautiful city.'
'It was. Before it was destroyed by the British.'
'Ah! Sad, but war makes some things necessary.'
'Not to kill when there is no need. They bombed and killed many thousands. All civilians. There was no need.'
'You grew to like the Germans?'
'Some of them.'
'You lived there for thirty years.'
'Yes.'
'In the barracks.'
He sensed her caution before she spoke. 'No, sir. Not all the time.'
'In the town?'
'I had a small apartment.'
'You enjoyed your freedom away from your daily duties. I can understand that. It is always good to have your own private place, somewhere of your own.'
'It was only a very small apartment,' she stressed.
'You lived there alone?'
'Yes, sir.'
He knew she'd lied. He'd sat through too many interrogations to know that. He decided to change tack.
'Why did you go down to the records area?'
She sensed his sudden change, the sharpness in his voice. 'I had things to find.'
'What?'
'Information. On what I was researching.'
'According to your superior you asked to go down and find a file for a colleague.'
Superior. That little trumped up turd who spent all his time pinching the office girls' bums. He couldn't run a party in a vodka brewery. 'I might have done,' she replied.
'He says you did.'
'I remember now. I wasn't feeling well. Too much smoking in the office and all the windows were shut. I wanted some fresh air.'
'Do you frequently have headaches?'
'No.'
'Your superior also says you rarely go down to the records area.'