Nevertheless, that sermon—the one about the witnesses—brought Marcellus over to the house, Darnell in tow and happy to hang with Maw-Maw while the two men talked. As usual, the reverend silently bemoaned his fate at having such a son-in-law. Marcellus wore gangster clothes, talked ghetto talk, and had twice been in minor scuffles with the law. He worked as a bartender at the Pussycat Bar, one of the meanest joints in town, and D'Ruth had to work at City Hall to keep the family together.
"Daddy Ray, you're makin’ waves,” he started out.
"Good!” The reverend made a fist and banged it on the arm of his chair. “That is exactly my intention."
"No, Daddy, you don't get it. Some dangerous folks out there—real dangerous. They don't like you gettin’ up in their business."
"Their business! This is neighborhood business, son. ‘Case you haven't noticed, we've lost eleven people in two months. Somebody's got to stand up."
"Way the P-Town Soldiers look at it, they own the neighborhood—they own me, and they own you, and they got the guns to back ‘em up."
That infuriated the reverend so much he took the Lord's name in vain. “Marcellus, be a man, goddammit! We sign it over to them, we've lost. Lost the neighborhood, lost our souls, man. You got an ounce of backbone or not?"
He was so mad he'd mostly just been spewing, but now he saw that when his son-in-law spoke, his face was slightly twisted—in some kind of pain, maybe. Or fear. The younger man's skin looked gray and splotchy. “Daddy Ray, this is somethin’ you just don't understand."
Suddenly the reverend did understand. He felt the blood draining from his own face. “They threatened you. That's it, right? You're here because they made you come. What'd they say? They'd kill me if I don't shut up? They wouldn't say they'd kill you—then you'd have to come here and beg for your life and you probably wouldn't do that. So they'd have enough sense not to put you in that position. They said they'd kill me, didn't they?” He could see by Marcellus's face that he was right. He was starting to have new respect for his son-in-law, even a little affection.
He softened his voice, put a hand on Marcellus's shoulder. “Well, son, I appreciate your coming like this. I know you mean the best for your family and D'Ruth's. But I can't knuckle under to that gang of lowlifes. I've got to do what's best for this community, and if that's the end of me, so be it. I've had a good life, and I'll go when the good Lord's ready for me. You better go home now. Darnell'll be getting impatient."
Marcellus bowed his head in agreement. “All right, then, we'll go. Mind if I use the bathroom first?"
While Marcellus used the facilities, the reverend called the boy and the three of them went out on the porch to say goodbye to each other. The reverend meant what he'd said, and he knew Marcellus knew that. His son-in-law had done his duty by delivering the warning. He ought to be relieved now, but he still looked tense. Sorrowful, really. The reverend was trying to cheer him up when he saw the white pickup, and saw who was driving it—Junior Heavey. Somehow, he didn't know how (unless it was the echo of the white-pickup murders), he knew what was coming. He leapt for Darnell just as Junior opened fire, felt himself hit the floor, the boy underneath him, and felt Marcellus fall on him.
He also felt fire in his side.
For a while there was nothing but silence—the shock of shattered peace. And finally Darnell began to cry. A woman began to scream, Maureen, he thought. Gradually, people began to come out of their houses to sort out the mess.
When they pulled Marcellus off the reverend, and the reverend off Darnell, it became clear that not only was the reverend hit, but also Marcellus. The reverend had gotten to Darnell fast enough, and Marcellus had done for him what the reverend had done for his grandson, fallen on him to protect him. But he'd been too late.
The reverend himself, he realized, was the target, exactly as he'd deduced earlier, but, ironically, Marcellus seemed to be the more severely injured. The younger man was unconscious, but the reverend could talk a little, enough to try to reassure Darnell, though that took most of the fight out of him. He closed his eyes with the effort, thanking God that for the moment the family had averted tragedy.
Or at least averted death. Because there is more than one form of tragedy, the reverend thought. It was tragic when one relative betrayed another, bestowed, so to speak, a Judas kiss. The reverend knew it was no accident that Marcellus had used the bathroom right before they went outside. He must have called Junior and told him he was leaving, that they'd all be on the porch in a minute. In other words, he'd set his father-in-law up, but at the last minute put himself in the line of fire.
That would explain his tenseness, the tragic way his face twisted. He didn't want to do it, the reverend concluded, but the gangs had threatened him, possibly threatened D'Ruth and Darnell. The reverend didn't fault him for it. On the contrary, he quite literally felt Marcellus's pain, on that account, and a lot of his own, a whole lot of his own because he knew what was going to happen next. He remembered Darnell in church with those little “Amen"s.
The white po-lice were going to be here soon and Darnell knew Junior Heavey, had certainly seen him driving that truck. If someone didn't stop him, he was going to do what his Paw-Paw had been preaching about for weeks now.
The reverend's heart sped up, probably, he thought, pumping the blood right out of his body. But that was the last thing that worried him. He wasn't afraid of dying. He was only afraid he wouldn't live to undo what he had done.
"Darnell,” he said, “listen to Paw-Paw. Listen, now...” Though the boy was looking at him, he didn't respond.
The reverend knew he was speaking—he could feel his lips moving, he could see Darnell looking at him, could feel Maureen's arm around his shoulder—but somehow, hard as he tried, he couldn't seem to make the sound come out.
Copyright © 2006 Julie Smith
ETERNAL RETURN: TO THE CITY OF NEW ORLEANS by James Sallis
* * * *
* * * *
City of secrets, where even the land
beneath our feet is a lie. Now, with the waters,
history irrupts into our present: we are a false island,
ground unfairly regained, still unpaid for.
—
Mysteries are afoot, old friend, and good
as it has been here with you
(in our moment of repose, on this island,)
I must venture back out into the world,
—
back to where our shadows wait, large as mountains,
on city walls, back to barricades and the tumble
of levees, back to the world of murder, avarice,
and dogs in the nighttime.
Copyright © 2006 James Sallis
MONDAY AT THE PIE PIE CLUB by Tony Dunbar
Tony Dunbar is the author of the Edgar-nominated Tubby Dubonnet mystery series, whose seventh entry, Tubby Meets Katrina, provides an incisive look at the hurricane's aftermath. A 25-year NOLA resident who evacuated to Tennessee when Katrina hit and later worked in a field kitchen feeding recovery workers, the author is now back in the city with his wife and son.
Mondays started slowly at the Pie Pie Club. People who should have gone home on Friday night, but didn't, were finally giving it up and drifting away on Burgundy Street. Miss Lana's girls all got to sleep late. The waitresses reported in drowsy.
Though the lunch crowd was normally small, Chef Baranca always tried to plan something special. Today it was going to be sweetbreads with gonger mushrooms and a mustard sauce. He had dreamed that up while walking to work.
Guarding the entrance to the Pie Pie Club, Pascal Parette, the doorman, watched a pair of street-washing trucks blow noisily past, sucking up the discarded remnants of oyster po'boys and plastic cups, leaving behind their invigorating mist. The French Quarter began to wake up.
A businessman in a double-breasted suit careened off a parking meter, reoriented himself, and hurried along toward his post in the Central Business District. He wiggled a slee
py-finger hello to a shirtless red-bearded giant he knew slightly. The man's splendid Afghan hound was relieving itself on a fluted metal porch stanchion.
Across the street two tourists in sun hats and matching yellow shorts sipped Bloody Marys from plastic cups while they peeked through a decorated iron gate. It concealed a peaceful patio where residents, when they tired of the colorful bustle of the city, withdrew.
Then Parette saw the two hoods. He knew them both. Johnny Lepeyere and Melvin Dubuisson, the one short and stubby like a used-up cigar, and the other big and chubby like an over-the-hill college fullback, which is what he was. His college being Holy Name of Jesus, across the river. Lepeyere had on a flat porkpie hat he had bought in New York City and which he graciously tipped to Parette.
"Good morning, old soldier,” he said, friendly enough, looking up at the doorman's large and doughy countenance. “We're here to see your boss."
Dubuisson, the other one, just rotated his head and worked out a kink. He ran his forefingers under the crimson suspenders that held up his pleated pants while he watched the rooftops.
"I'm glad to see that you two gentlemen can share a sidewalk without knifing each other,” Parette said benignly. He jerked his thumb. “He's expecting you. Do you know how to walk upstairs?"
"I ain't forgot yet,” Lepeyere said as he stepped around Parette's size-fifty-five form. Dubuisson prepared to spit out a wad of gum, but caught the big doorman's eye and swallowed it instead.
Parette watched the pair saunter up the steps and swagger past the sign that set out the simple rules of the joint: “Welcome to the Pie Pie Club. This Is Your Night. Treat It Right."
Old soldier! He had to laugh at that.
Inside, ceiling fans cooled the elegant dining room and its Brazilian cherry dance floor where, during the evening hours, beautiful babes and guys in white suits did their tangos. The receptionist pointed the way to the narrow door by the bar through which invited guests reached the private club upstairs.
The two visitors ascended until they encountered a second door. They tapped and were buzzed through by Polly. She ran the upstairs bar, and Melvin Dubuisson and Johnny Lepeyere entered her small dark lounge and casino, perfectly air-conditioned, but empty on this slow dawning of any high-rollers. It was calm and mellow inside there. The two hoods hadn't been to bed yet, and neither had Polly.
"Whaddya say, sweetheart?” Lepeyere inquired in passing, and the ebony-skinned woman with pink and silver hair raised her eyebrows, which were accented with small golden loops. She tipped her head toward the left.
The last entrance down a long hall belonged to Max Moran. He opened the door before either of the men even had a chance to knock.
"Johnny, Melvin,” he said. “You both look like hell. Come on in and have a chair."
Moran stood aside, a tall and slender man, black hair combed straight back, wearing neat khaki slacks and a black T-shirt that advertised nothing. Lepeyere pumped his hand. “Good to see you, Max,” he said. “Always a real pleasure,” Dubuisson mumbled, and did the same.
They each found an armchair and looked around, feigning appreciation of the modern art on the walls, while Moran got comfortable on the sofa between them.
"Nice place you got here,” Lepeyere said, crossing his short legs.
Max acknowledged the compliment with a nod. He knew his home was nice, just like everything else in the Pie Pie Club. It was better than nice.
"A lot fancier than the Witch's Hat, huh?” Dubuisson beamed, proud of himself for having come up with a good dig at Lepeyere and the tavern where he kept his office.
Lepeyere started to make a smart reply, but Moran cut him off.
"I understand that you two have a problem,” he said, by way of getting the meeting going.
Lepeyere collected himself. “Here's what,” he began. “Melvin and me have our respective spheres of influence in that he collects from certain businesses, and I collect from certain other businesses."
"Your racket is protection,” Moran stated flatly.
"Whatever.” Johnny made a clown face. “We see that nobody has any problems with the City. It's insurance, really. And well worth it, I believe, but the main thing is, we do not overlap."
"'Cause that would make trouble.” Dubuisson added in his two cents.
Moran nodded. He understood paying protection.
"Right,” Johnny Lepeyere continued. His fat hands began to wave in the air to help him make his points. “The thing is this. Shoemaker's Flower Shop over on Dauphine—she won't pay either one of us."
"This is America, isn't it?” Moran asked. “She's got a right to say no."
Both men waited to see if he was serious, then laughed in unison.
"Let's put it this way,” Dubuisson said. “She'll pay, all right, but me and Johnny are having a disagreement over who gets her."
"I know Oscar Shoemaker, the florist,” Moran interrupted. “What happened to him?"
"That's just it,” Lepeyere explained. “He died."
"I didn't know,” Moran said, a hint of sadness in his voice. “Well, who was he paying?"
"Nobody, so far as I know.” Lepeyere appeared to be mystified. “I think he just slipped through the cracks."
Moran looked at Dubuisson, who spread his hands flat.
"Beats me,” the big grafter admitted. “He could have been paying my dad, but Pop passed away last month at Hotel Dieu."
"Anyhow, it's got to be straightened out,” Lepeyere said, “so we come to you for advice."
Max frowned at them both. “You guys don't divide up your territory by blocks or something?"
"In a way, yes,” Lepeyere said uncertainly, “but Dauphine Street, where this shop is, is kind of in the middle. A lot of it is what's tradition, you know."
"So I should flip a coin?"
"If that's what you say, Max,” Dubuisson said, squirming, “but that don't seem fair. It really should be mine because I got nearly everybody on that side of the street. And there could be more to this. Maybe somebody new is trying to slip into our business."
"And I say it should be mine because I got two, maybe three other flower shops in the Quarter,” Lepeyere said. “There's common problems to think about. We're trying to keep the peace here.” There was menace in his voice.
Moran stole a look at his watch. This was the time of day, before it got too hot, when he liked to tend to his herb garden on the roof.
"I'll look into it,” he said abruptly.
Upon that promise the meeting adjourned, and the unelected councilmen took their leave.
* * * *
After lunch, Moran took a walk and visited the shop. On entering he could see a pretty girl behind the counter, clean, kind of, just a little lipstick, with her blond hair pulled severely back. The smell of so many flowers in the confined space, almost as sweet as incense but fresher and far cooler, stopped him in his tracks. The club owner was a fan of fragrances.
"Can I help you?” the girl asked, glancing up. Her voice was as sweet as a finch. Smitten, Moran gave her a little wave.
She returned it without interrupting the work of her busy fingers, which were building an arrangement of variegated tulips and Queen Anne's lace.
Moran regained his composure and made his way to the counter like a regular customer. He was more than six feet tall, and he had to duck to get under a hanging fern.
"Are you Ava Shoemaker?” He gave her some teeth. It was an engaging smile.
"Why, yes,” she said, eyeing him approvingly while she shook bits of greenery from her fingers. “Did I win the lottery?"
"I don't know. I'm afraid I didn't bring you a prize."
"So who are you? I hope you're not selling a mutual fund."
"No. Is that rodriguesiana?” he asked, indicating a mass of red and pink blooms surrounding a fountain bubbling in the corner.
"Sure is, but it's not for sale, I'm afraid."
"I don't want to buy it. I've just never seen one so large. Hello. My name
is Max Moran.” He offered his hand, and she took it. “I knew your father, Oscar."
"Yes?” she said expectantly. She reclaimed her hand and gave him an inquiring look.
"Yeah, I knew him for a long time. You never heard of me?"
"Maronne?"
"No, Moran.” He was a little hurt. “Anyway, I want to talk seriously to you.” He looked around to verify that there was no one else in the shop. “Johnny Lepeyere and Melvin Dubuisson have both spoken to me about a problem, which is getting paid, you know what I mean?"
Her eyes narrowed and one hand slipped under the countertop. Her expression was suddenly unfriendly.
"You got a weapon down there?” he asked.
"Do you want to find out?"
"Not me. I'm not going to hurt you. Like I said, I knew your father."
"Then you must know how he died?"
"No, I never heard.” Moran was embarrassed. He hadn't really known Oscar all that well—just someone glad to make special bouquets for the Pie Pie Club at odd hours, just a man who had sent him a nice evergreen wreath, a respectful wreath, at Christmastime. “What happened to him?"
"They found him floating in the Mississippi River by Poland Avenue."
"Oh. That's a shame. He fell off a barge or what?"
"My father? He sold flowers. He was never anywhere near a barge in his life.” Her voice was rising, and her neck went from pale to red. “He didn't even like the river, and he didn't fall in. That's what I told the police."
"Ah,” Moran said, averting his eyes. He wished she would bring her hand back on top of the counter where he could see it.
"Somebody killed him.” She spat it out like she was accusing Max. Then she took a deep breath and put both hands back to work building her flower arrangement. “So what are you here to bother me about?” she asked.
"It's a territorial question,” he began. “First, I must ask you, are you opposed to paying protection as a matter of principle?"
EQMM, November 2006 Page 8