by Tony Dunbar
Their trip home, carrying a trunk load of plastic water jugs, took them quite near to Waveland, but Sister Soulace said there was no need to stop. The priest, she explained, had already performed his blessing ahead of time and sent it through the heavens. Angelo was struck with the possibility that this might be a hoax.
It got him to thinking.
He did like the water business and the wondrous effects that drinking it seemed to have on people, but he definitely didn’t want to play any tricks on God. And he was beginning to think that Sister Soulace was a little unstable.
Coincidentally, Angelo’s mother had bequeathed to him at her death a small property in the Bywater, which his father had once used to fix cars. It had on it a wobbly shed made of termite infested composition board, and over the years it had become packed with useless car parts, rusty hardware, old paint cans, and a sofa in which rats and mice nested. He remembered a scary collection of greasy tools including, now that he thought about it, a double-bladed hatchet, an axe really, since it was at least thirty inches long, which some blacksmith must have forged a hundred years ago.
A rotting fence wobbled around the perimeter. But the neighborhood was on the upswing. Some nearby houses, in this district beyond the French Quarter and close to the river, had begun to come into artsy affluence. Newer paint and younger people were appearing and beautifying the shotgun houses that shared the block with environmentally questionable automobile chop-shops and ship suppliers. The old vacant lot, however, had been allowed to grow weeds without disturbance.
When he was a young boy, no aspect of this property had ever interested Angelo except a decaying circle of orange bricks in the yard. It was about three feet high and four feet in diameter, and it was covered with an old piece of plywood.
It was, in fact, a well, hundreds of years old perhaps, and he was strictly forbidden to go anywhere near it. When curiosity got the better of him and he shoved the plywood aside, what he saw below was pure, frightening darkness and danger. Timidly, he dropped in a piece of a brick and heard it make a splash, not so far down. He quickly covered the well back up, afraid that something might escape, and forgot about it. Until now.
Why not produce holy water right here in New Orleans? he thought. It could possibly, if Sister’s water was any guide, cure people.
CHAPTER III
Tubby had an old friend, a lawyer, E.J. Chaisson, whose family owned several blocks in the French Quarter. Being a lawyer himself, well-situated, and deeply absorbed in Mardi Gras society, E.J. rarely needed any legal advice. But he liked to eat lunch, and he called Tubby seemingly out of the blue to invite him to Tableau. It was a fairly new place, carved out of Le Petit Théâtre du Vieux Carré, a block off Jackson Square.
E.J. was already seated when Tubby arrived, but he stood up to shake hands. A natty dresser, favoring Italian suits from Rubensteins, he was a precise man who combed his silver hair straight back and stared intently at you with guileless eyes that strangely seemed ready to pop out of his head.
“Good to see you, mon ami,” he said in one of the several accents he affected.
“Same here, E.J. You’re looking well.”
“I’m staying out of jail,” E.J. bragged, as they sat across from one another.
The tables were made of solid wooden planks, the décor was French countryside. The ceilings were tiled and the wall cabinets were cypress. The restaurant featured an open kitchen and open French doors allowing the breezes and colors of St. Peter Street to flow inside. Jacquard napkins with “Tableau” embroidered upon them in French blue graced each setting. There was much to see and appreciate. It was crowded.
“I didn’t realize they served sandwiches,” Tubby said inspecting the menu.
“Yes, but that’s not for me. I’m having the BBQ Shrimp and Grits.”
Tubby’s eyes had been drawn to the fried oyster po-boy, but he decided to follow his host’s lead and select an entree. “Steak sounds pretty good,” he said. “Are you having anything to start?”
“I think a bowl of seafood gumbo. Ah, here’s our waiter.”
A tall young man with a white shirt and black pants appeared.
E.J. ordered a Pimms Cup. Tubby looked over the specialty cocktails but decided to stick with the familiar— a Bloody Mary on the rocks. He also ordered a turtle soup and Les Petits Filet Mignon and Frites. The waiter disappeared.
“How’s business?” Tubby asked.
“I should ask you. I keep seeing you in the news. Something about Lee Harvey Oswald?”
“That was nothing.” It had actually been something— a highly distressing series of events culminating in a confrontation, deadly to others, with the “Night Watchman,” and he didn’t want to rehash it. “Let’s talk about the French Quarter. Are rents good?”
“They are so high you wouldn’t believe, and that’s fantastic.” E.J. paused when the drinks came along with a basket of bread. The men each took sips. “The bars, the galleries, the men’s clubs, all are making good money so they can all afford to pay a premium rent. The only problem is some of the tenants make unreasonable demands about things we can’t control, like water and electricity.”
“Because they don’t work?”
“No, because it is sometimes impossible to detect whose pipes and wires are going through whose meter and who may be bypassing the meters entirely.”
“It’s a very old city.”
“Yes, but there are always new ideas to invest in, and that’s why I wanted to speak with you.”
Tubby sat back to hear the pitch, but at that moment the soups arrived. The roux-colored gumbo contained plump oysters, shrimp and crabmeat simmering with okra and was served over popcorn rice. The waiter splashed sherry into Tubby’s golden turtle soup.
For a minute they savored their hot first course in silence.
“I have put some money into a new business,” E.J. resumed. As he began to describe it, his eyes glowed. “Artisan beer, artisan rum, artisan cheese, all of these things are popular, but other people are already doing them. How about, I asked myself, artisan water?”
“Isn’t that what comes from Abita Springs across the Lake?”
“Sure, but those are big outfits.” A crease appeared in E.J.’s brow. “They’re also old hat. Nothing really special or new from a consumer’s point of view. What I am talking about is truly unique. Premium water, produced right here in New Orleans and coming, not from the river mind you, and not from some far distant spring, but from an ancient well, dug by hand and dating perhaps to the very founding moments of our city.”
“Ancient, artisan, artesian water?”
“Exactly. I might use that. And it has a nice label and possibly even healing properties. The producer thinks so. I estimate it can fetch six bucks for half a liter at retail.”
Tubby was impressed.
More food came.
The BBQ Shrimp were suitably jumbo and drenched in a rich, spicy brown sauce, spiked with local beer and accompanied by a snowy scoop of stone–ground grits. A fragrant mist arose from the plate.
Tubby’s three tiny filets were served over house-made potato frites with a Creole wine sauce and, for extra measure, a sauce béarnaise. It was all almost too pretty to eat.
“So, to continue,” E.J. went on while they both dug in, “I have invested money in a young man in the Bywater who is producing ‘Angelo’s Elixir,’ and he has been distributing it to great applause at a few of the neighborhood corner stores.”
“It sounds like a winner, but is it safe to drink?”
“We have the tests we need,” E.J. said evasively. “And we’re ready to step up to the big time. So what I’d like is for you to talk to the proprietor, Angelo Spooner.”
“Talk about what?”
“About protecting his rights, his copyrights, his trademarks.”
To Tubby, a new client was better than a serving of prime steak, but he saw a problem.
“Do you want me to represent him, or you?” He didn’t rel
ish trying to collect any money from E.J.
“Well, Angelo’s going to pay you.”
“All right. Would you like to bring him to see me?”
“I think he would rather come alone. I’ll get him to call you.”
That was satisfactory, and the meal ended well. E.J. picked up the tab.
But, despite the well-laid plans, Angelo was mistrustful of lawyers and never called.
* * *
By then Angelo had other things on his mind. He had just met Sister Soulace’s sister, Aimee Thaw, who seemed to warm up to him. She worked at a Subright Sandwich shop not too far away, and Angelo had met her when she dropped by to visit her sister. He started going over to the restaurant for breakfast almost every day. She said a Subright diet would help him lose weight. Angelo really didn’t like egg whites on a roll, but he did like having a pretty friend who showed an interest in talking to him.
They didn’t try any deep conversation— mostly “How’ya doin’?” and “It’s supposed to rain this weekend,” but he finally got up the nerve to ask her out. Sister Soulace approved of the budding relationship. She loved her sister, and she had come to love Angelo. So she lent him her purple Caddy to pick Aimee up from her Cadiz Street rental. Angelo took his date to dinner at New Orleans Hamburger and Seafood Company on St. Charles Avenue.
They were both big fans of the thin-fried catfish served there and the garlicky buttery potatoes. Tentatively, they ventured deeper and shared some truths about growing up. Angelo reminisced about his own childhood in Chalmette, when his dad would boil crawfish in the yard, but he didn’t reveal his criminal past. She told about her happy girlhood in St. Stephen’s Parish, leaving out an abusive uncle and an older sister often zonked out on hallucinogens. He asked how she liked her job, and Aimee became silent and picked at her fish.
“I hate it worse than anything,” she said flatly.
This sent Angelo into a spin thinking about what he hated the most, which was deceitfulness in the face of the fearsome Lord, but to keep himself from coming clean about his jail-time he blurted out, “Do you like music?”
Aimee wasn’t perplexed by this change of topic. “Sure," she said. “I love it.”
“Me, too,” Angelo said enthusiastically. “I like Swamp Pop. What’s your favorite?”
“I love Zydeco!” she exclaimed. “I know it sounds funny. But I also love Swamp Pop.”
“Me, too.” Angelo couldn’t believe this. “I like Zydeco, but Swamp Pop hits the spot for me. Boozoo Chavis and Buddy Charles had a lot in common.”
“See ya’ later alligator,” Aimee giggled.
“I’ve got a paper in my shoe,” Angelo came back. “How come you know old stuff like that?”
“I just do,” Aimee said.
Together they were a hit. Suddenly Angelo had a girlfriend to go with his new business, and his new life.
CHAPTER IV
As a small boy Nordie Magee had in mind creating a paradise for birds. With his mother’s help he planted bamboo in the backyard during the summer when school was out. By the time Labor Day rolled around green shoots had exploded everywhere and raced up to the roofline. Whole flocks of colorful blue jays, mocking birds, starlings and cardinals moved in, and their songs made him and his mother laugh as they sat outside drinking Cokes on upturned sheetrock-mud tubs.
But on Halloween, Nordie remembered that day well, his father got out of prison. One of the first things the old man said when he got his bearings was, “This fucking dump looks like a jungle.” He got a machete and while Nordie was passing around the tiny pink eggshells he had collected for the other 4th graders to see at show-and-tell, his dad whacked and whacked at the tall canes until their limp branches and slender leaves were piled in heaps all over the yard.
As for dad, after spending the next day looking at the mess he had created, he got into a shouting match with his wife, pounded her senseless, and moved out never to be seen again. Though he was out of the picture, the steam that had been pent up inside the old man was injected straight into Nordie.
The piles stayed where they were, turning yellow, making the backyard impenetrable. They remained there for a long time, until his mom found a boyfriend who liked to work and sweat outside when he wasn’t driving his taxi cab about the city. The yard looked better after a few weeks, but the useless destruction of his bamboo and his non-existent father left Nordie tragically furious at life itself.
He became withdrawn in school. He started pushing kids around. He smoked cigarettes when he was ten and pot when he was eleven. Graduating high school was not so much a milestone of achievement as it was a stage from which to take stock of the collection of adolescent thugs and dope dealers he had gathered around him. He intended to carry them on to much higher things.
But he needed a job or a cover, and he got what he needed when, courtesy of a cousin, he received an offer to become a “correctional officer” in the jails of Criminal Sheriff Frank Mulé. The possibilities in these institutions for graft, extortion, and networking were unlimited. He passed the civil service test and bought the requisite black uniform at American Police Equipment.
Nordie earned his spurs doing anything his captain told him the Sheriff wanted done. Mostly that was beating the crap out of inmates who complained about conditions or who just pissed off one of the important guards. And if an inmate had any money and wanted some other guy put in isolation or taught a lesson, Nordie was the go-to guard. He got promoted and was able to expand his enterprise.
“I took a vow to obey the Sheriff,” he would say over beers and Trout Almandines at Mandina’s. “I didn’t take no vow of poverty.”
The advent of cell phones opened up a significant new line of work for Nordie Magee. Jail inmates would pay practically anything for one, and some of these guys had heavy-duty “friends” on the outside who had no problem coming up with the cash. Nordie had his old high school buddies like “Gums” Bigelow, who had been kicked off the oil rigs for stealing from his mates, and Mick Battistella, who sold pot to youngsters outside of the Pick Up & Go on Magazine. Both of them followed Nordie to work on the Sheriff’s payroll.
He would dispatch one or the other to meet with the inmate’s “friend” at a neutral spot, like Verret’s Lounge on Washington Avenue, and pick up the payoff and the phone. If the friend didn’t have a clean phone of her own, the officers had a box full of them for sale, which they had acquired for free by confiscating them in shakedowns from other inmates. Smuggling them into the jail was as easy as sticking them into your nylon holster, right next to the can of pepper spray. The guard who checked jailers in for their shifts was too intimidated by Nordie and his muscular bros to even lift his head.
Nordie bought an RV where he could park his girlfriends, and a new house out by the Lake for himself and his mother, who was having arthritis problems and needed a place with no stairs. He took vacations to Vegas with his gang and went sailing on a cruise to Cancun with a Decatur Street stripper. Life was great, but it all went to hell when Sheriff Mulé, the “Crime Czar” himself, was shot and killed at the Alliance for Reformed Government pre-election gala. His opponent, who had only picked up about two hundred votes, got to be Sheriff by default. This was some tow-truck driver named Adrian Duplessis, more popularly known as Monster Mudbug. He wasn’t very smart, in Nordie’s book, but he had grown up in Algiers with half the guys who worked at the jail, and those guys ratted out Nordie and his cronies.
Before long, instead of beating up complainers, the new Sheriff was letting these same unhappy prisoners file lawsuits in Federal Court. Nordie even got called to testify by some bitch with a British accent from the Louisiana Coalition on Jails and Prisons.
At the end of all this, there was a consent decree, and Nordie was out. They even tried to take his pension away, but he got it back from Civil Service. No credible proof of any malfeasance, they said. And they were right about that, but Nordie had to look for another career.
In the course of his jail ma
nagement, Nordie had met a few high rollers at gambling halls and gentlemen’s clubs, so he felt pretty confident that something would turn up. Nevertheless, it was a low period. He had always been a big boy. Over 180 pounds in high school. But now he ballooned up to 215, and his mother said she was going to stop making him any more of his favorites, like macaroni and cheese for breakfast, gumbo with potato salad for lunch, and three-bean dip for Saints games.
* * *
Aimee Thaw, now Angelo’s girlfriend, had grown up in a funny household. Her father was a longshoreman who liked Kurt Vonnegut and her mother was a poet who liked Lawrence Welk and spent her days draped in a gauzy white dress with her hair pinned up by silk flowers.
There had been a brother but he died of the flu, and then there was her sister who had begun to dress in black and zone out nonstop on the Grateful Dead. The death of the brother drove Aimee’s sister to run away to Memphis for two years. She returned as Sister Soulace with a whole new even nuttier and spacier personality. “Sister” said she was staying in contact with their dead brother through “the ethers.” Aimee remained at home during these troubles and cared for her mom who often experienced extreme distress from the unprettiness of the world. But after Sister returned, she and mom would smoke pot together and talk continuously to the spirits of the dead, while Aimee sang folksongs to them and dreamed of a career as a recording artist.
She still had the dream, but so far it hadn’t worked out. Instead, she got waitress jobs, dated a disk jockey, and moved into her own apartment. Now the disk jockey was gone, and Aimee still got by with serving food. For the past three months she had been building sandwiches on the bread of your choice at Subright. The problem, which she had been ready to tell Angelo about, was that Mister Momback, her manager, was hitting on her big time. He would follow her into the stock room where they kept all the freezers and cleaning supplies and try to feel her up. When she resisted he put her on the wake-up shift, which meant getting to the store at six in the morning. This was extra tough because of another thing she hadn’t told Angelo about. Aimee had a four-year-old at home, the fruit of the disk jockey and their brief and very unsatisfactory relationship. So far Mister Momback had succeeded in getting his hand under the apron and even up her shirt. She had slapped him away, but she needed the job.