by Jessie Cooke
“Church in an hour, I want everyone here.” Le Singe grunted out his assent and Blackheart hung up the phone knowing it would be done. Le Singe, or in English, “The Monkey,” came to the Jokers with his road name already intact. Growing up he’d always had abnormally long arms and legs, and his dark eyes sat close together on either side of his nose giving him the appearance of a spider monkey, of sorts. He could also scale a tall tree with nothing but his arms and legs and was rumored to have swung from a few branches in his day. He would have preferred the moniker of “Tarzan” but by the time he voiced his preference, “Le Singe” was already set in stone in the Cajun community.
Blackheart put his feet up on the desk, and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and hoping to take a little nap before church started. He’d spent the past few months closely tracking Christoff, and now that the piece of shit was burning in hell, he had club work he had to get back to. When he closed his eyes the first place his mind went was to how Christoff’s body had been found so quickly. He’d had his guys dispose of what was left of him in a place the Jokers reserved for depositing things they wanted to disappear forever, and it was far from their clubhouse and even in a completely different parish than the one they lived and operated in. He was sure his guys had done what they were told, but then that left the question: What was someone else doing way out there in the center of the Jokers’ dumping grounds, discovering a body that never should have been found? And…How did the Jefferson Davis Sheriff’s office get involved when the body wasn’t supposed to even be within their jurisdiction? Blackheart had St. Mary’s Parish police beating down his doors on more than one occasion even after he moved out of that county, but usually when they found something, it wasn’t enough of anything for them to make their suspicions stick. He’d have to do some serious research and figure all of that out. First things first, he’d have to find out exactly where the body had been found, and how it had gotten there.
Blackheart grew up in St. Mary’s Parish, but he’d been in Jefferson Davis Parish for thirty years and he knew almost every local by now. He had cultivated friendships with unlikely people, knowing that they might come in handy later on. He had contacts in the sheriff’s department that he’d reach out to about this...and then he’d also have to have a hard talk with his own men and find out whether or not his orders had been followed to begin with. There was also the staff in the bar he’d found Christoff in that day. They were people who were connected to the Jokers in one way or another, people he trusted...but someone had broken his trust, and he had to find out who it was. He hoped when all was said and done that they’d find out it was someone simply stalking the club for whatever reason. Maybe it was someone who wanted to be a hero and bring the club down, or maybe it was someone who thought they’d been wronged by them. Either way, he’d much rather the betrayal came from someone he hadn’t put his faith and trust behind.
Blackheart had thought he’d breathe easier, knowing Christoff was burning in hell. For over twenty years Christoff had been the only man to ever evade the Jokers for so long. But Blackheart hadn’t given up, and his perseverance had paid off...but he’d only gotten two nights of rest knowing the piece of shit was rotting in the swamps before he was back, tormenting them still from beyond the grave.
Blackheart had grown up in a culture of extremely superstitious people, and also surrounded by those who believed in voodoo and the dark arts...but he’d learned with time that even if those things did exist, evil in men existed a lot more frequently, and was much more dangerous. He didn’t believe Christoff was reaching out from the grave. What he did believe was that there was someone out there, someone close to him and his club that wanted to see him fail. What he knew for sure, and that someone would know soon enough, was that was never going to happen. The day Evan Babineaux found his Paw dead, led quickly to the one when he slipped on his first leather kutte...and that day he knew he was going nowhere but straight to the top, no matter who he had to leave at the bottom to get there.
Church convened right on time and as expected Le Singe had rustled up everyone in the Jokers crew. They weren’t a large club by any standards, twenty-two men by last count...but they were wild and not the easiest lot to gather in one place. The club was made up mostly of men who grew up in the swamps in and around Louisiana, and the rest of the men were those who had shown up, looking for a place to lie low...be it from the law, or some other responsibility they’d run out on. Blackheart didn’t care what they were running from. His requirements were simple...they had to be able to follow his direction at all times, and they had to know how to keep their mouth shut. It was that second one that still bothered him as they wrapped up their usual business and moved on to what he’d really wanted to address that day. Once Le Singe got order back after they finished talking about their final piece of business...a shipment of guns they were expecting the following day...Blackheart stared out at his men, moving his eyes from one face to the next, slowly, looking for a sign of...something amiss. None of the men turned away or fought eye contact with him. He didn’t want to believe that anyone in that room had talked...but he’d been at this for a long time, and he’d learned that no matter how much trust you put in some people, there would be those you’d find undeserving in the end. Clearing his throat to quell the last of the hushed whispers in the room he said:
“I had a visit today from Petit and his female bulldog partner. They found a body, Christoff’s body.” The room was dead silent and this time Blackheart’s eyes landed on a man they called “Le Pirate,” because he only had one eye and he wore a black patch like Captain Sparrow. Blackheart had heard a dozen different stories about how Le Pirate had lost his eye, and had no idea what the real story was, and didn’t care. Le Pirate had shown up two decades before and he’d been nothing but a solid, loyal part of their club since. From Le Pirate, his eyes moved to another man, this one younger, who had joined up with the club about five years prior. His road name was Booger, and Blackheart really didn’t want to know how that one came about. But even though Booger was one of his newest patches, he trusted him. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be anywhere near the Jokers clubhouse, and that was a fact.
“Where’d they find him, boss?” Booger asked.
Blackheart cocked an eyebrow and said, “They didn’t tell me, but if he was where he was supposed to be, I guarantee you the Jeff Davis Parish Sheriff’s wouldn’t be out here asking me about him.”
“Well, that’s why I’m asking,” Booger said. “’Cause last time I saw Christoff, he was right where he was supposed to be.” He looked at Pirate and the one-eyed man nodded.
“He’s right, boss. We gave him a ride out to Atchafalaya Basin, and we left him there.” Both men looked nervous, but Blackheart didn’t believe it was because they’d done anything wrong. He’d been making men nervous for three decades; it was something he was well versed at doing.
“Well then, we need to find out how a dead man got up and walked seventy-five miles back to Jefferson Parish, and I want it done yesterday.”
4
The backyard of Sally’s little house was her favorite place in the world. She’d gotten home from work that evening, exhausted and completely done with the week, poured a glass of wine and taken it out onto the back porch in her stocking feet. She curled up into the big wicker chair, weathered but still comfortable, and she sipped her wine and just took in the beauty of the night. Summers in New Orleans could be hotter than Hades, but they were almost always wet, if not from rain then the humidity that hung heavily in the air. That moisture kept her yard lush and green, feeding the cypress tree she loved, as well as the endless tendrils of ivy that she had to arm herself and clip every so often, to keep from completely taking over. The ivy grew all across the stone fence that separated her house from her neighbors, and the alleyway that ran along behind it, making the wall look somewhat like a “secret garden,” and Sally’s vivid imagination loved that. She also loved the little stone path that led from t
he house, around the big cypress tree, and all the way to the back gate, flanked on either side by three rosebushes that in the spring would break out in vivid color. The sky was clear and Sally could almost count the stars, and her little neighborhood was old, but quiet...just the way she liked it.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head back into the thick cushion of the chair and let her mind run over the events of the day. Lately she’d had to wonder if what she did was making any difference, and if it might be time for her to look for a job in a hospital or maybe even a nursing home, where she’d probably make twice as much money, for half the work and responsibility. But she knew it wasn’t the work that was killing her...it was the feeling that no matter how much of it she did, she wasn’t changing anything. She’d spent that entire day with a fifteen-year-old mother and seventeen-year-old father of a child who had just turned a year old. That child was high risk in almost every sense and Sally visited with them two to three times a week, trying hard to teach the parents not only how to better care for the baby, but also how to care for themselves. They lived in a house that should have long since been condemned, with four other adults, two kids, and a small menagerie of animals. The seventeen-year-old worked, occasionally, with his father and grandfather on a shrimping boat, and the girl sometimes picked up shifts at a local motel, cleaning rooms while she wore the baby strapped to a pack on her chest. They were both trying, but at the rate they were going, with little to no education, they’d never get any further than they were. What worried Sally the most was that the girl would get pregnant again and since Dad already didn’t seem to have bonded with the first child, he might take off. The baby was overweight, most likely because her mother had realized an overfed baby slept more, and she was behind in almost every developmental test as well. The young mother wasn’t neglectful, but she was somewhat apathetic and without the father she was so attached to in the picture, Sally feared that would only get worse. It was how the young girl herself had been raised. She was fed and had a roof over her head, but until she met her boyfriend, she’d never felt love. Sally was sure what the boy felt for the girl was more like “trapped” than love, but she was also sure if he left, the girl would fall apart and the baby, or babies, would suffer that much more. Sally knew that even with her guidance, odds of that child growing up outside of foster care were slim in the long run...and that made her feel like a failure, before she’d even actually failed.
She opened her eyes, now filled with tears at the thoughts of the baby’s bleak future, and took a sip of her wine. Most of it ended up all over the front of her when the pounding on her front door started, startling her upright. With a curse, she slammed the wine glass down on a table and went to see who was at the door. She was so tired, and so done with people that they’d better damned well hope someone was dying...that was her thought before she opened the door and saw Le Singe standing there. The look on his face told her someone was dying and the feeling in her chest warned her once again of the strong feelings she had for Evan and continued to deny.
“Miss Sally, we need you to come, now.”
Sally was already reaching down for her boots, which she’d left by the door. “What happened?” she asked as she slid her feet into them and began lacing them up.
Le Singe looked like he might be in shock. Usually, he was a big talker...usually, he talked too much. But his normally dark-skinned face was pale and he seemed to be stumbling over his words. She had her boots on and laced up and was reaching for the leather jacket on the hook by the door when he finally said, “We was down at the docks, and everything was fine...and then it just fucking wasn’t.”
Sally was trying to be patient with him, but if she had to ride her bike for thirty minutes out to the swamp where the club was located, she had to know. “Where’s Blackheart?”
“He’s at the clubhouse, Miss Sally,” Le Singe said. Then suddenly realization crossed his face and he said, “He’s okay...I mean, he’s really pissed, but he’s not hurt, bad, anyways. Le Pirate and the new kid, Gabriel, they’re hurt pretty bad.” Sally didn’t bother asking why they hadn’t taken them to a hospital. Even if what they were doing when they got hurt wasn’t illegal, these guys were as difficult as the cases she worked. They didn’t trust the government, and that included hospitals that, in their minds, reported directly to it.
“I’m going to grab my bag and my phone. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Blackheart said I ain’t supposed to let you out of my sight, so I’ll wait.”
Sally didn’t argue with him, it would have been pointless. Blackheart’s men answered to no one but him; she’d learned that the hard way a long time ago. Grabbing her bag and her phone, Sally followed Le Singe out the front door. Le Singe took her bag and seconds later they were both on their bikes and headed out to the clubhouse. Sally’s stomach was filled with butterflies and adrenaline soared through her veins as she wondered what to expect when they got there. She often complained to Evan about the way they used her for “free and confidential” medical care, and countless times she’d threatened to say no the next time they beat down her door. But she never said no, and she probably never would. Sometimes she thought it was because of her connection to Evan, and sometimes she had to wonder if maybe the Jokers’ addiction to adrenaline had rubbed off on her. In all honesty, the days when she got roped into helping out at the clubhouse, or the nights when Evan showed up at her door, was the only excitement she really had in her life any longer. She’d been thinking a lot lately about change and that realization only egged her on. She had to do something to change her life and get out of the rut she’d found herself in, or nothing would ever get better. But in order to do that she’d have to give up her life in New Orleans. She’d have to move somewhere that Evan couldn’t find her because no matter how strong she was, she’d just never been strong enough to cut him out of her life.
As they got closer to the clubhouse Sally could see that it was lit up like a football stadium. Every light inside was on and the floodlights they rarely used were lit up all around the outside of the building as well. Harleys littered the makeshift dirt “parking lot” out front and two of Blackheart’s men stood sentry at the door, armed as well as any wartime soldier might have been. A few men stood congregated together, talking in hushed tones as Sally drove up and turned off her engine. Le Singe was off his bike and holding the door open before she slid out of her seat and when she walked inside, she could almost smell the pall that hung over the club. The club girls sat quietly, apart from the men whose clothes and faces were dirty, sweaty, and in some places, smeared with blood.
She didn’t have a chance to ask where to start, however. Le Singe made a path through the bodies and led her straight back to Blackheart’s office. Le Singe had already told her that Evan was okay, but still, she breathed a sigh of relief when the door was opened and she saw him standing there. He was standing by the huge crocodile that decorated the wall behind his desk with his phone pressed to his ear and his back to her. He was speaking mostly in French, something Sally knew he did when he was anxious, or upset. She let her eyes run down the back of his body, and once she was satisfied that he didn’t have any holes in him, she turned her attention to the young man lying on the couch. Gabriel looked like he was either unconscious or asleep, but the sheet that covered him was stained with blood. Sally went over to him, but before taking a look at what she already knew would be too much for her to handle, she glanced over at Le Pirate, sitting in a chair near the end of the couch. He had his shirt off and a blood-soaked rag pressed into his shoulder. The hand holding the rag was shaking, and his face was pale.
“I can wait,” he said, tossing his head toward Gabriel. “Help the boy.”
Le Singe had set her bag down next to the couch. Sally got down on her knees next to the boy and pulled the sheet back. His shirt wasn’t on his body either, but instead it was balled up and pressed into a wound in his abdomen that was obviously still bleeding. The kid was white as a
ghost and his breaths were more labored than even. Sally said his name, and when he didn’t respond, she used both hands to roll him on his side. His back was dirty and stained with drips of blood that had run down his sides, but she didn’t see any wounds there. Laying him gently back on his back and moving the t-shirt, she inspected the wound. It was a little larger than an average bullet hole and the blood was gushing out of it as soon as she moved the shirt. She placed the shirt back over it, opened her bag, and slipped on a pair of latex gloves before opening a large gauze pad and replacing the t-shirt with it. It was then she looked up and saw that Blackheart was off the phone. She gasped out loud when she saw his face. His long hair was stuck to it on one side by blood that had dried there and fresh blood continued to ooze out from his forehead and drip down his face.
“You’re bleeding,” she said.
“Take care of the boy. I’ll be fine.”
She shook her head and saw his dark eyebrow go up before she even spoke. “I can’t, Ev...” She remembered where she was and said, “Blackheart. I can’t help him. The bullet is lodged in there somewhere, he’s lost a lot of blood...he needs a hospital, and a surgeon.” She got to her feet and said, “And you need to sit down before you pass out.”
“We can’t take him to the hospital,” Evan said, ignoring her order to sit. “Patch him up as best you can.”
“No,” she said, pulling off the bloody gloves. The room was as silent as a tomb as Le Pirate and Le Singe both tried to pretend they weren’t there, hearing their president’s orders being defied. Sally didn’t care who was there, though; she wasn’t going to sacrifice the teen boy’s life in order for Blackheart to save face. “Y’all can take him to the ER yourself, or I’ll call an ambulance to come and get him, but I’m not going to just let this kid lie here and die, and I can only hope you won’t either.”