Old Black Magic

by Jaye Maiman

  A boy with acne and a Fifties-style goatee sauntered over to take my order. I asked for a Pimm’s Cup, a house specialty made from Pimm’s gin, lemonade and 7UP and checked out the bar. It hadn’t changed since my last visit. The walls looked as if someone had prepped them for a paint job and then died before completing the assignment. They were covered with paintings and posters depicting Napoleon in various guises. One poster announced the imminent opening of the movie. Napoleon at Radio City Music Hall, January 1981. At the table next to me sat a man wearing a beret and a T-shirt dotted with beer-drinking frogs.

  I fanned out Evan’s report file and scanned the A.P. news clippings. A number of them had been written by the same individual, F.B. Chamelle. Apparently a free-lance criminal reporter, he’d covered all of the murders. The name tickled my memory, but the click wouldn’t come. I rummaged in my backpack for the clipping from Monday’s Times-Picayune. Sure enough, the article had the same byline. I read through it again and then checked my watch. Dr. Lerebon was already ten minutes late and I didn’t have time to spare. My drink came and went and Lerebon still hadn’t showed. I knew I’d regret it but I ordered a second Pimm’s Cup, then decided to make the most of Lerebon’s delay.

  I rose, pulled the business card from my wallet and picked up the pay phone. Dreyer Carr’s answering machine clicked on. I identified myself and explained why I was calling. All of a sudden, a real voice broke in on the other end. If I hadn’t known that the food critic was a member of the tribe, his intonation alone would’ve tagged him as gay. Either that or a charismatic leader of an evangelical congregation. His voice had a breathless, sing-song quality that mesmerized me instantly.

  “Sorry, darling,” he said, “but I was screening my calls. I am just so broken up about Lisa. Broken up, I tell you. Such a sweetheart of a girl. Skin like an angel. I just don’t understand evil in the world, I really don’t.” He paused for breath. “Are you a for-real private investigator?” I had the sense that although he might be truly appalled by Rubin’s death, he was also slightly thrilled by the drama.

  “Yes, Mr. Carr. As I was saying, I’m conducting—”

  “Call me Drey, please. ‘Mr. Carr’ makes me think of my father, which is something I try not to do, ever. Now, who’s paying for your services, honey? Lee didn’t have family in these parts, and her ex’s folks are probably staging a perverse Mardi Gras celebration of their own right ’bout now. Her mama send you down here?”

  “It’s a little complicated to go into right now. Do you have time to answer a few questions?”

  “A few or many. Right now I’m recovering from the downright nightmare of riches forced upon me by an overly solicitous chef at Mosca’s. Honey, you ever feel inclined to consume a meal in which every course is laden with sauces derived from at least three varieties of dairy products, be sure to check it out, provided your stomach’s younger and heartier than mine. Though I suppose I deserve it, eating the way I do, year after—”

  “Mr. Carr—”

  “Drey,” he said, correcting me. “Sorry. Go, ahead. I’ll behave.”

  “Were you and Lisa good friends?”

  “If you’re asking if we were lovers—”

  I laughed, surprising us both.

  Dreyer Carr said, “I see,” with a pleasant chuckle. “Lee and I met when she first moved here, a mere child she was at the time, and almost instantly smitten with Pete. I was the one who got her into the paper. At first, they put the poor girl on obit duty, an occupation equaled in dullness only by actuaries and toll takers. But she was a dynamo and soon managed to pry her way into the grimy oyster shell of the city section. Irritated the hell out of her colleagues, but as far as I was concerned she’d worked her way up to pearl status.” I had the sense that Dreyer used this analogy before. “That’s when the new mag up in San Francisco swept in and stole her from N’awlins.”

  I tried to sneak a question in while he paused for breath. “You mentioned something earlier about her ex-husband’s family—”

  “No secrets there. The Strampos clan despised Lee. For good reason, I suppose. About a year or so ago, she and Pete split, shortly after she conceived.”

  “Was it his child?”

  “Oh, honey, yes. But she aborted right away.”

  For an instant, I pictured K.T. and the way she plastered my friend Beth’s stethoscope on her abdomen and urged me to listen to the swoosh of blood through the placenta, her eyes wide with amazement.

  “I take it Pete was not pleased.”

  “Not pleased? Girl, clearly you don’t know Southern men. This was his progeny, his heir, his raison d’etre. He was going to be a bold old papa. Instead, Lee left him, took the editorial job at Bay Insight, terminated the pregnancy and fell in love with a wisp of a lesbian she met on the plane to San Francisco. You think this straight-laced, play-by-the-rules police officer just smiled and said, ‘You go, girl’? Hardly. He was devastated. Smashed every lamp, sculpture and photograph in the house. Put his night stick through her computer monitor…Is that the Toreador song from Carmen I hear in the background? Oh, it sends shivers up and down my spine. Reminds me of an old boyfriend of mine. Magnificent man. Left me for a woman. Imagine.”

  I shifted the phone to my other ear, checked my watch, then surveyed the room. Lerebon still had not arrived. “Did he hit Lisa?”

  “Oh, no. Not Pete. He toed the line way before straddling that precipice. Property was one thing, but he’d never, ever lay a finger on her. He eventually came around, too, told me once that he’d never stop loving Lee, despite everything. Around three months ago, he stopped by the paper and asked me to tell Lee that she could come home anytime. To tell the truth, I felt sad for him. Especially since Lee hardly even mentioned his name when we talked. Too thrilled by her new life.

  “What about the family?”

  “Do you know anything about Shreveport?”

  “A little.”

  “Where are you on the liberal scale?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “All this talk about homosexuals make you nervous?”

  “Oh…not at all. Believe me, we’re on the same side.”

  “Thought that might be the case. Well, the Strampos are from the other side. Way other. AIDS is God’s revenge on sodomites. Lesbians are perverting human nature. Abortion is a crime against the Lord. Nobody can dance like a Negro. A while back, Pete’s mom and dad were arrested for protesting against an abortion clinic. Get the picture?”

  “In Technicolor,” I said. Maybe Lisa Rubin’s death was not linked to the eggshell murders after all.

  “You think the family’s capable of violence?”

  “No doubt in my mind. But before you go storming out to the Strampos maison in your Birkenstock boots, I should tell you that they took off to a relative’s place in Alabama right after Pete’s funeral. They weren’t expected back in town for at least two weeks.”

  I’d have to verify the information, so I asked Drey to spell their names for me. Then I gulped down the last of my drink. I signaled for another automatically. “Anything else you can tell me about the night of the murder?”

  “Not really. We had dinner at Les Enfants, a fabulous new place owned by two fabulous chefs. The female partner’s a sister, by the way. Sexy enough to make my head turn and, girl, my head just doesn’t swing that way.” A flush swept over my cheeks. I wasn’t sure if its source was the compliment or the booze. “Lee was absolutely smitten. Would’ve nailed that woman right on the prep table if she’d had half the chance.”

  I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable with Drey’s repartee. “Did she talk to anyone else? Did anyone approach the two of you?”

  “Not that I can remember. She left after me. I think she was hoping the bronze goddess, her term by the by, would seek her out later on. I kept telling her the woman didn’t seem interested, well, at least not as interested as Lee would’ve liked. But she was determined.”

  A movement near the end of the bar caught my eye. The g
ood doctor had arrived at the same time as my buzz. How fortunate for me. I waved and pointed my table out to him. Then I rushed to conclude my conversation with Dreyer Carr. “One last question. Did you ever hear of a writer F.B. Chamelle?”

  “Crime section. Don’t know anything about him though. I’ll ask around tomorrow, if you want.”

  I said, “That’d be great. You can leave a message at the Royal Orleans if you learn anything. You’ve been a lot of help. I appreciate it.”

  “Anything for Lisa,” he said. “Call back if you like. I’ll be home. And now I’m off to search for my ancient Carmen tape and some raunchy memories. Good luck.”

  My fingers begin to tingle as I hung up the phone. Maybe it was time for me to switch back to my usual poison, Yoo-Hoo with a Twinkies chaser. I crossed the room and slid into a seat opposite Dr. Jacob Lerebon.

  “Well, this was interesting reading,” he said as he pushed my notebook across the table.

  “How refreshing. An honest interloper.”

  He ignored my comment. “You have quite a messy job.”

  “I guess they could compare favorably with the gaping, pus-filled wounds you tend.”

  “I’d take my job over yours any day.” He scratched his neck and focused on a spot beyond my shoulder. I glanced around. No one was there. I realized he was thinking. Something about his expression made me nervous.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Lwa.”

  I thought he was asking for the loo, so I pointed out the bathrooms to him.

  He snorted, waved away the beatnik-redux waiter and leaned in toward me. “The connection is obvious,” he said, his word clipped and precise. As he rubbed his hands together I thought I could smell fresh herbs. Thyme. Rosemary. Dill.

  “Dr. Lerebon, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Vodoun. The murderer has some familiarity with it, I’m just not sure how much.”

  “Voodoo?” I asked, stunned to hear the word escape my lips. Another case of body-snatching, I almost muttered out loud. The kindly doctor of earlier today had been replaced with a narrow-eyed weirdo. I scratched back my chair, ready to make a swift exit. But even as I cocked an indulgent smile his way, bells started ringing in my head. Crime scene anomalies clicked in front of me. Cracked eggshells. A knotted red neckerchief. The slice of bull’s testicles wrapped carefully around ice. I sat back down. “I’m listening.”

  A smirk returned to his face. “The urban rabbit is ready to learn. How much do you know about voodoo?”

  “How much do you know about making kreplach?”

  I was relieved to hear his laughter. “Fair enough.” He swept my glass to one side and planted his elbows on the table. The glare from the bare orange bulbs made his emerald eyes appear on fire. “Vodoun. Candomblè. Santería.” My skin grew hot as he almost sang the words. “Forget everything you know, everything you’ve seen in movies. Tell me, is voodoo magic?”

  I nodded.

  “No, no.” The table wobbled as he shifted positions suddenly. “Voodoo is a religion, a rich and encompassing religion. It originated in a region of Africa called Dahomey. Today the area is known as Benin.”

  My mouth was dry. I smacked my lips and asked, “Can we skip the history lesson?”

  “You think history is unimportant?” He leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

  “I think there’s a murderer on the loose and time is very precious. While you may not appreciate my impatience, his next victim might.”

  “Okay, I understand. May I see the notebook again?”

  With some reluctance I handed it over. He pocketed it instantly and stood up. A second later he headed for the pay phone. With his back turned toward me, he spoke quickly, without gestures. When he returned to the table, he said, “It appears we need to take a short trip.” He took my hand like he was a schoolmaster and I a recalcitrant toddler, then he suggested I pay the bill.

  I shook my hand free and slapped money on the table. His tough, authoritative tone made me think I should find a way to scratch an S.O.S. into the table top in case I never reappeared. Lerebon didn’t give me time. He moved behind me and thrust me toward the door.

  Chapter Eight

  I scrambled toward the curb, aware that Lerebon’s fingers circled my wrist with enough pressure to ensure that I followed but not enough to hurt. He flagged a taxi with a short staccato whistle and held me tight as the car screeched to a halt in front of us. I had to make a quick assessment: Was Dr. Lerebon dangerous? In New Orleans, I’d become Alice in Wonderland, my New York instincts disconnected, my understanding of language and culture insufficient for interpreting events. Lerebon opened the taxi door and pinned me with his piercing green eyes. Just beyond him tourists meandered along the street, laughing, dancing to music still audible from Bourbon Street.

  My heart skipped a beat. The grim visage of a skeleton, eyes horribly alive, the mouth twisted in a bitter smile, suddenly entered my view. I blinked, reminded myself it was a person wearing a mask, a vestige no doubt from Mardi Gras revelries. I started to turn away, but stopped suddenly, unsure why. The muscular arms of the skeleton were bound by plastic Hawaiian leis in rainbow hues. All at once my attention snapped to the skeleton’s T-shirt. Les Enfants. A silhouette of a boy and girl mounting a hobby horse. The logo for K.T.’s restaurant. The coincidence unnerved me. Without thinking, I jerked in his direction.

  Lerebon yanked me backward and put his mouth to my ear. “I understand matters of life and death. This is about saving life. Get in the cab.”

  “What?” I gaped at him, then immediately glanced back to the street. The skeleton had disappeared. The crowd he’d been moving with ambled blithely toward the main drag, oblivious to anyone else’s presence. Clearly, the skeleton had not been one of their party.

  Lerebon touched the side of my face. “Please, just get in the cab.” I forced my gaze back to him. He leaned inside the cab, exchanged words with the driver and then nodded. “You better sit in the front,” he said to me.

  My hotel was within running distance. I’d be insane to go anywhere except home.

  Lerebon assumed his most reassuring physician-like tone. “Robin, I’m taking you to meet someone important. You need to do this. Now, please, don’t make me explain anything else.”

  For all I knew, Lerebon could’ve arranged for this cab in advance. He could be another maniac in a city ripe with them. But for some reason, I trusted him just a little more than I trusted myself at the moment. Had the skeleton even been there? Was I drunker than I thought?

  I glanced at the back seat as I slid in. A stack of yellowed, puckered newspapers were strewn over the seat next to Lerebon. “Not a real good place to save your papers,” I muttered to the driver, needing a target for my rising anxiety.

  “You don’t want to see what’s under that, miss. Believe me. I better warn you about something else as well. The a.c.’s broke, so you gotta settle for wind. And I promise lots of it.” The driver spoke with a New Jersey accent. I took a closer look at him as we peeled away from the curb. He had large eyes, rough shaven jowls and puckered lips. He reminded me of Louis Armstrong a few years past his prime.

  Lerebon repeated the street address and the driver’s eyes widened. He stared at the doctor through the rear-view mirror and then scratched the back of his neck like a dog just bitten by a five-pound flea. “Hooey. Don’t take many tourists there. You from around here?”

  “Born and raised,” Lerebon answered.

  Their small talk made my skin crawl. Something about Christmas in the oaks and fried oysters. Lerebon made some comment about locals avoiding the “high rise,” and the driver out-and-out whooped. The joke escaped me. I turned on the radio to drown out their voices. The hissing speakers popped and whined, then zeroed in on Frank Sinatra. Old Blue Eyes crooning about old black magic. I wasn’t in the mood. The other stations spat zydeco and rock at me. I clicked it off and leaned out the window like a family dog lapping up fresh
air. The wind itself was balmy, briny and contained a hint of fried bread. Sweat cooled my skin. I remembered for a moment that there were parts of this city I enjoyed. None of them involved death.

  After a few minutes of blissful silence, the driver slapped the steering wheel and grinned. “I coulda kicked you two out, but I know better than to worry about neighborhoods. It ain’t the neighborhood that kills ya, it’s being slow on the draw. Take that shooting,” he said, nodding toward the back seat. “It happened in one of the better parts of town. There’s blood on that seat,” he said almost proudly.

  I cursed to myself.

  He went on to explain how he’d made a pickup in the Garden District. Two white kids. They made him pull over in an empty parking lot and shot him in the leg when he refused to hand over his fares. “They should’ve known not to mess with Chuckie. I whipped out my magnum and wasted the creep sitting right there.” He patted the compartment separating us. “I killed one of them and paralyzed the other. Kids today think they can’t die.” He grunted. “They should’ve asked this old Navy man about death before pulling that shit on me. I could of told them.” He patted my knee and I jerked sharply toward the door. “You sound like you’re from back East,” he said nonchalantly, as if we’d been chatting about the weather.

  My stomach spurted acid into my mouth. “I am.”

  “Well, so am I, sister. And as soon as I can save enough, I’m moving back home. Plan to open a restaurant in Jersey City. I make great manicotti.” My head was spinning. He pulled over to a corner and said, “This is it.”

  We were in a impoverished, residential part of town. The houses were small with yards barely a few feet deep. Most of the structures were run-down, with gaping windows, cracked shutters and cracked foundation walls. The one we’d pulled up to was an exception. It was freshly painted, the lawn immaculate except for a smattering of bruised bananas that had fallen from an astoundingly fecund tree which towered over the yard.