Crossfire

by Dale Lucas

  But the reverend hadn't tried to drive him out. Presently, the lwa's presence was all that kept him alive. Once he was back in his peristyle, Ogou would draw the lead out, Erzulie would close his wounds, and by sunrise, he'd be able to stand in front of a mirror and not see a single blemish.

  But his foolhardiness wasn't lost on Ogou. Not for a second.

  Just what were you thinking, the war spirit growled, a voice in his head as clear as a spoken conversation, putting yourself in jeopardy like that?

  "I couldn't leave him," Doc Voodoo answered aloud, jogging the length of a rooftop and leaping the thirty feet that separated this building from its neighbor. "Not after finding the Reverend Brown and Ms. Walker under the gun like that… knowing the Reverend Farnes might be next…"

  Not my turf, not your problem, Ogou said.

  "All due respect, Papa Ogou," Doc said, and leapt another alley, "any soul in need hereabouts is my problem. I see trouble on the way, I'm gonna make a stand."

  You can't stand on holy ground, Ogou countered. I got no power there. Just standing on that stoop, the reverend could've driven me right outta you if he tried!

  Doc's building and holy sanctum lay just ahead, an upper window yawning wide. He vaulted from the rooftop he'd just crossed, traversed empty space, then landed neat as a cat on the windowsill.

  "I may be your horse," Doc said, "but I ain't your slave. If I gave you that impression, we can end this arrangement right now."

  He stepped down from the windowsill onto the earth-covered floor of the attic in his brownstone, the secret vodou peristyle where all his power was concentrated.

  Tough talk, Ogou snarled in his head. How bad you think you're gonna be to these hoods and bootleggers when you ain't got my mojo at hand?

  "And how bad do you think you'll be without a horse to ride?" Doc countered. "I need you, you need me. Mutual benefit. The mutual goes out of that, you can find another horse to ride."

  As he strode to the altar to strip his crime-fighting raiment, he sensed his other patrons—Legba and Erzulie—draw near in the holy space of the peristyle.

  You shouldn't talk to Ogou that way, Legba chided. He's the only reason those bullets ain't bleedin' you dry at present.

  "I saw someone in need, I came to his aid," Doc told them. Off came the hat; the dreadlocked wig; the bullet hole-riddled coat. "Isn't that what we're doing here? Helping? Defending? Reckoning?"

  He clipped a pair of icemen gunnin' for the preacher man, Ogou said. Stood fast right on the church steps.

  You know you can't do that, Legba countered. You step foot in that church, Ogou's vulnerable! He could be yanked right out of you! With Ogou's power stripped, you're just a man in a funny suit!

  "Ogou's out of me, and Ogou's nothing but smoke," Doc answered. He tore off the crimson scarf; shrugged out of his shoulder holsters and waistcoat and yanked off his gloves. "We made a deal. You get a horse, I make a difference. I get protection, you get potency."

  Here's your protection, Ogou said, and dismounted.

  It hit Dub like a freight train. The bullets, still lodged in his chest, burned like molten steel drip-dropping from a crucible. He couldn't breathe, coughed up blood and spittle. More blood came streaming from his now-opened wounds as though someone had turned on a faucet.

  Hurts like the devil, don't it, boy?

  Hurt? Hell, Dub was dying…

  Erzulie came to his aid. She horsed him herself—an alien, feminine presence in his body. She enfolded him and all the pain subsided. The bullets came burrowing up out of his tissues like blunt worms seeking the early morning sun and fell to the earthen floor with tiny, mute thuds. His breathing became regular again. He spat a wad of phlegm and blood from the back of his throat and wiped the rivulets of blood from his bare chest.

  That wasn't funny, Ogou, Erzulie hissed.

  Wasn't meant to be, Ogou answered. This horse needs to learn his place.

  He's right, Legba said. We're not just here to help the people that give us offerings and call our names, Ogou. We're here to show we've still got power…that we're still a force in the lives of these people. They've got to know that this world with all its electric lights and beating fans and motor cars ain't all there is…that something ancient, and righteous, and powerful can still watch over them.

  You should understand that, Erzulie added. Ain't you the warrior, Ogou? Ain't you the champion of the weak against the strong?

  That preacher wanted to curse your name and cast you out, Ogou said to Dub Corveaux where he lay, still recovering from the sudden shock of his vulnerability sans Ogou's protection. I heard the thoughts in his head, felt the fear and hatred in his heart. You saved his life and he still just saw you as demon from the pit.

  "We ain't doin' this for pleases and thank-yous," Dub Corveaux answered, struggling up onto his knees. "He needed helping and we helped him. You tell me I did the right thing, and I'll tell you I was disrespectful, and I'm sorry."

  There was a long silence. He could not see them—unless they deigned to show themselves—but he could feel the three spirits moving in the space around him, like a trio of breezes. When they spoke, their voices seemed deep in his own psyche, almost indistinguishable from his own thoughts.

  Peace, Erzulie said, and Dub Corveaux did not know if she spoke to he, or to Ogou, or to both of them.

  This is a partnership, Legba added. There's got to be respect and trust—both ways—or it ain't worth a damn.

  Dr. Dub Corveaux waited throughout a long, pregnant silence.

  You did right, Ogou finally muttered. But if you ain't careful, you're gonna get yourself killed. You end up in a corner I can't crawl into with you, there's no way I can keep you safe.

  "Fair enough," Dub said. "My apologies, Papa Ogou."

  Another long silence fell. Through the still-open window at the far end of the room, the doctor saw pale, early morning light just starting to purple the black night. And just like that, Dub felt them depart—Ogou and Legba, at least. They went to whatever that place was that they went to when the sun was up, and they had no horse to ride. Only Erzulie lingered, still inside him, still drawing out the last of his aches and pains like soft lips drawing poison from a wound.

  I know she's special to you, Erzulie said, so that makes the old man special to you. But he's just one man, and he's got his own holy patron, besides. You can't risk yourself, and all the good you could do, by always putting that girl and her family first.

  "It wasn't like that," Dub said. "I came upon another pair—the Reverend Brown and that Ms. Walker from Sugar Hill—both under the gun. Once I'd taken out their gunmen I felt another threat nearby. It just happened to be the Reverend Farnes, and he just happened to be at the church. He needed me, and I did what I could to help him. Hell, I even shoved a flaming kerchief in their gas tank just to draw them outside, where I could take them."

  You've got a good heart, Erzulie said, and he felt that she meant it. But you've also got to use your head.

  Then she was gone as well, and it was time to climb down his secret stairs, shower, and once more play doctor.

  3

  Harry Flood knew that Dolph Storms didn't like early morning meetings—let alone the sort where he was required to present himself hat-in-hand and admit failure. Failure—weakness—was not in Storms's vocabulary. He'd been lucky enough to always be the strongest guy in the fight—or at the very least, the craziest, scariest, or sneakiest one. That string of success, from his days as a teenage street hustler until now, had spoiled him.

  That, and the fact that he was a psychopath.

  Flood tried to stay calm. He sat in his silk robe at the end of his big dining room table in the solar of his apartment just off Fifth Avenue, ministering to a generous portion of eggs and sausages and beans on the fine china before him. He ate placidly and sipped his coffee as Storms ranted. It was tiresome, but it was the only way to tire the asshole out. Let him talk, talk, talk… sooner or later he'd get dossed and shut his trap. />
  "Who the fuck is this guy?" Storms said for the eighteenth time. "This jig in the fright wig? Does this son of a bitch really think he can fuck with the likes of me? With the likes of you? Does he have any idea what sort of friends we've got? The serious ass-shredding we could give him if he pushes us too far?"

  Flood refilled his coffee cup from a sterling silver pot nearby. He silently offered Storms the pot. Dolph paused his screed just long enough to push the empty cup beside him forward. Flood refilled the cup.

  "You got somethin' I could put in this?" Storms asked. "Little hair of the dog?"

  "It's eight o'clock in the morning," Flood said calmly. "Don't be such a goddamn rummy."

  "You ain't had the night I've had," Storms growled. "I'm out seven guys. Seven!"

  "No, I haven't," Flood said, returning to his breakfast plate. "Then again, I could've sworn you told me you had this. 'Don't worry, Harry,' you said—sitting right here at my goddamn table—'I got this.' Well, it looks to me like you haven't got shit. Shut up the crusaders—that's what you were supposed to do. Two old farts, a housewife and a goddamn tub from Jamaica!"

  "Well, if it was so goddamn easy, why didn't you do it?" Dolph said, sipping his coffee. "Maybe the problem, Harry, is that you can't stand to get your hands dirty."

  Flood pursed his lips. The prick. Impugning his rep like that. "Dolph, I was rolling swells with the Five Pointers when you were still a drop of pearl jam in your papa's schvatz. I got my hands so dirty in my day, I had to bleach 'em to get 'em clean again. These days, I keep your sort around to do the dirty work because I've had my fill of it."

  Storms stared. Was that an insult, or a compliment?

  Flood threw his linen napkin on the table. The light in the solar was grey and icy. Clouds still choked the morning sky and it looked like it'd be another rainy day—the third or fourth this week. God, Flood hated April.

  "What do you want me to do?" Flood asked. "I've sat here listening to you bitch and moan—just like I've done the past six months. You want to run in Dark Town, you want to deal in Dark Town, you want to squeeze the jigs in Dark Town, but when that hoodoo spook shows himself, you hightail it and come sniveling back to me."

  "Now look here—" Storms began. It was the word snivel. He hated that word. That's why Flood used it.

  "No, you look here, Adolph," Flood said. "I paved the way for you uptown. Bankrolling another club for the Queen Bee settled her turf and opened yours. We ain't seen hide nor hair of that House bastard, and that's good news for you, because all his rackets needed supervision. You've done wonders for me and my partners, Dolph, and we appreciate it—same way we appreciate you keepin' the peace and staying out of the Queen Bee's honey."

  "Despite what you think," Storms said, trying to sound erudite but still coming off like a bohunk from the Bronx, "I am capable of rational compromise."

  "Well, I'm really fucking relieved to hear it, Adolph. Now, if you could just accommodate the price of doing business—"

  "If it's my racket, ain't the price of business what I say it is?"

  Flood leveled a finger. "It is with people like us—business men. But the hoodoo man ain't a business man. He's a goddamn vigilante, and he hates you as much as you hate him. Jesus Christ, he saved the Queen Bee's life, but he's been busting up our operations in Harlem just as bad as he's been busting up yours! He ain't exactly playin' favorites here."

  "So why can't we whack him?"

  Flood spread his hands. "I don't know—why can't you? I don't see his head here on my table. You slipping, Dolph? I gave you one goddamn errand to run—"

  "Technically," Storms said, "it was four errands."

  "Regardless, you blew it," Flood countered.

  "Those were my best guys," Storms growled. "That's how seriously I took that job, Harry. They were my best, and now they're all wearin' iceboxes at the city morgue." Storms grimaced. Once again, he didn't like having his manhood impugned. "If I'm gonna bring him down, I need free reign."

  "Well, that ain't gonna happen," Flood said with finality. "My partners don't want uptown turned into a bloodbath. We make a lotta money off those supper clubs and gin mills because, if you haven't noticed, booze ain't legal, and downtown swells got a taste for that uptown jig hopscotch. But if you start batting the beehives and getting those downtown swells stung—I promise you, the boys in blue aren't gonna be in our pockets anymore, they're gonna be on us like flies on shit."

  "Well, what do you suggest?" Storms asked, draining his coffee. "I did it your way. Your marks are still breathin' and I'm out men."

  "Goddamn it, Dolph! Didja ever think the problem was how your boys did the job? Pulling their guns out on the goddamn street? They were supposed to do these crusaders nice and quiet like! Not a trace, I said! They just need to disappear, I said! It'd be like they just ran away! Now you got a baker's half-dozen of dead triggermen courtesy of that goddamn hoodoo man! But I also got partners, Dolph! Men in high places, who expect me to manage messes like this. How many more chances do you think I get after the job got so botched?"

  "Give me a second shot," Storms offered. "Only, my way."

  "This was your way—"

  "Not the way I wanted. I was tryin' to keep it sweet and lowdown, in deference to you and your, uh, partners."

  "You're not gonna do shit!" Flood roared. "Making them disappear was one thing. Now the whole goddamn city knows somebody's gunnin' for those four boat-rockin' jigs. Any one of 'em turns up dead, it's not gonna scare anybody! It's gonna make 'em mad, and we're back to the boys in blue, and flies on shit. Remember that? Didn't I just cover that with you?"

  Storms shook his head. "Why should a couple nigger preachers with big mouths get everybody's panties in such a twist?"

  Flood rolled his eyes. "They're goddamn crusaders! People love crusaders—white or black. They mouth off one too many times about cleaning out the dirty cops in their precinct or running the rackets out of Harlem, white folks downtown start thinking the same way. 'Golly-gee, those teapots uptown cleaned up with some speeches and parades! Maybe we could do the same on the Bowery? Or in Yorkville? Or in the Tenderloin? Or in Hell's Kitchen?' One good apple can spoil the whole rotten barrel."

  Storms leaned forward. "Then give me free reign."

  "No!" Flood shouted. "You ignorant son of a bitch! You rub 'em out now, you're just gonna make 'em martyrs! And right now, even if they just disappeared, you'd do the same! So long as you're workin' for me, you need to use your head, you dumb kike!"

  Storms glared at him. He didn't like being talked to that way. What did Flood care? He didn't like having to explain the nuances of their business to a gorilla like Storms. How the man had gotten to be as powerful as he had with so few brains, Flood would never know. If Storms wasn't such a good earner, or such a useful bulldog, he'd probably just have him aired out.

  But right now, they needed a solution to their problems. The preacher had a big mouth, and the hoodoo man had a long reach. What to do? What to do…?

  Then it hit Flood. There might be an answer, and the hoodoo man gave it to him.

  Flood leapt up from the table and pointed toward the foyer. "Out. I'm onto something."

  "What?" Storms asked.

  "Don't worry about it," Flood answered. "You just get back to the Bronx and take care of the day's business. I gotta make some calls. When I need your help, I'll let you know."

  Storms rose from the chair where he slumped. He was big, standing upright—a full head taller than the five-foot, five-inch Harry Flood. Nonetheless, Flood wasn't scared of him. Dogs just needed to be taught who was boss. As long as they knew that, they'd never bite you.

  "That hoodoo man crosses me again," Storms said, "I'm gonna have his head."

  "He crosses you, you're welcome to it," Flood answered. "Just don't go stirring up Harlem to roust him out, you hear me? Remember what I said: you stir up the bees—"

  "Yeah, yeah, we get the flies. Fine."

  Flood gave him a pat on the shoulder.
"Get the hell outta here. I got work to do."

  4

  Dr. Dub Corveaux put on his best mask of concern before knocking on the Farnes's door. This wouldn't be easy—acting like he'd just heard of the Reverend Farnes's run-in with gun-toting hoods this morning when he was the one who gunned down those hoods the night before. But duplicity was starting to come easily to him. He didn't like lying to Fralene, but the alternative was telling her flat out that he let a vodou deity ride him like a horse most nights and used dark, unearthly powers to fight crime. At best, she'd believe him and slam the door in his face—she was a good Christian girl, after all—no traffic with the elder powers for her, thank you very much. At worst, she might think he was crazy and call the police, or the fellows with the straitjackets.

  So he lied, as he'd been lying for the past few months. It wasn't so impossible. He just pretended that when he was 'in character' and roaming the streets, it wasn't him at all. It was some other man out there striking terror into the hearts of Harlem's evil-doers, while he, Dub Corveaux—physician, intellectual, man of reason—remained at home in bed, merely dreaming of the adventures of the nighted avenger that some called the Cemetery Man, others Doc Voodoo.

  Sometimes, he almost believed it.

  The door opened. Fralene looked like she hadn't slept all night, and for perhaps the first time in the six or eight months they'd known one another, she didn't look put together and squared away. She looked weary and scared.

  He started his act before she even got a word out. "What's this I hear?" he asked. "Is your uncle all right?"

  Fralene's mouth snapped shut, all the words she'd been ready to offer evaporating. Instead, she simply waved him in and closed the door behind him. She led him down the short hallway to the kitchen in the back.