“Now do you understand why I’m being hunted like an animal?”
Grant gave her a slow nod then turned back to the bill in his hands as the streetcar finally started to move down the track. “So you really gave Rudy all your money?”
“Yes,” she replied, staring wide-eyed out the window as the driver rang the bell of the streetcar. She sat forward on the edge of her seat and brought her hands together like an excited child. “Don't worry about money,” she told him without looking up. “As long as you’re with me, you never have to worry about it.”
“You want to explain to me why you had a bagful of loose cash to begin with?”
“Right place at the right time, Grant,” Maddy responded enigmatically, tipping him a wink. “Just like finding the knife in the waistband of that punk in the cemetery. If I need it, I'll find it. I knew I would need a satchel full of money at some point and for some good reason, but I didn’t know the reason until I met you.”
Grant gave a heavy sigh and looked over his shoulder. “Giving him that money won’t change anything.”
“It’ll change something,” Maddy said, looking back out the window and catching a sudden breeze that blew her hair back from her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and basked in the sensual feeling of the air against her skin. “The only constant in all our lives is change Grant.”
While her eyes were still closed, Grant took the opportunity to study her face. She held a pleasant smile there, almost as if she were on vacation instead of being pursued by maniacs intent on killing her. In the moment, he envied her that ability--to compartmentalize the danger and tragedies of the past and live only in the moment.
She opened her eyes and stared openly and without shame into his eyes as if glimpsing a corner of his soul.
He quickly diverted his stare, feeling the sudden intimacy of the moment too much.
“By the way, in case you’re wondering. I can’t read minds,” she explained. “When I was younger, I thought I could if I tried hard enough—y’know, practiced and meditated. But no.” She shook her head. “I thank the Lord that he never handed me that cup. Some things are meant to be kept private, y’know.”
Grant nodded, his mind turning to his own past and the demons that made their home there.
8
Leaning out onto the balcony, Rudy looked down on the mass of humanity already starting to fill St. Peter Street below. He took a long drag on his cigarette and closed his eyes in satisfaction. His nose was swollen and every inhalation caused him pain but it was worth it.
The hell with the doctor!
If he was going to live a few less years because of this habit, then so be it. Better he should spend his life happy than to die old with a mouthful of that foul-tasting nicotine gum. Besides he held no illusions as to his life expectancy in this profession.
Mack, one of Torres’ bodyguards, called out to Rudy from inside. As much as he hated to, Rudy crushed the cigarette out under his foot.
He found the big man sitting alone surrounded by at least ten empty dishes at a center table in the empty restaurant. He was reading a newspaper and smoking one of those foul-smelling Dominicans he liked--being too cheap to spring for the real Cubans he could easily afford.
Arturo Torres owned the Restaurant DeBois as a cover. Still, it was a damn good restaurant. The chef was some hot shot French douche-bag from Paris and could knock out anything from pasta to gumbo.
Laden with mental exhaustion, Rudy dropped heavily into a chair across from his boss.
“Well, let's hear it,” Torres said around the edges of the cigar in his mouth, without looking up.
Rudy sighed and touched his nose experimentally. “Had an accident on the way to the airport, boss.”
“Hear you lost Frederickson,” Torres stated, folding the newspaper in half with a snap and slapping it loudly down on the tabletop. He turned the full intensity of his glare on the other man, an expression that made lesser men weak to their knees. But Rudy had seen it before. More and more often lately, it seemed to him.
“I've been on this thing since, what, midnight last night and...”
“I don't want to hear how fucked up your day's been,” Torres growled angrily. “I lost my shop, about a million and a half of inventory and to top it all off, in all the confusion, my Pepe went missing.”
Rudy opened and quickly closed his mouth again.
Torres fixed him with a look that said, “Tell me something.”
Rudy quickly switched gears and narrowly avoided striking the pothole in the center of the road. “The good news is Frederickson came through with the money,” he said, taking a seat at the table. “The boys inventoried it downstairs. Twenty thousand eight hundred seventy.”
Giving him a look of suspicion, Torres returned to his paper. “I already explained to you that it doesn’t matter. His grace period expired.”
Rudy studied Torres for a moment before leaning forward and taking a careful measure of the approach he was about to make. “Arturo, you have the money and Frederickson is gone now. Why don't we just wash our hands of this guy and move on to this Houston situation? Do we know what the story is there?”
“No, we don't,” Torres snapped, an edge to his voice. “Do you have something to tell me about the garage in Houston?” Looking up from his paper, the large man breathed heavily and stared steadily at Rudy.
“I wasn't there, because I was busy handling this Frederickson thing just like you asked me to do. You can guarantee if I'd have been there, it wouldn't have happened.”
Torres grunted ironically and polished off his cup of coffee. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he said, “Questions have been asked. Like maybe Frederickson led those fuckers out to the Lakeshore site. There’ve been a lot of fingers pointed in your direction.”
Rudy stared blankly at Torres, his eyes slowly growing more and more confused. “I was told personally by Charlie B, when he showed up that morning to let him into the shop.”
Torres grunted and turned back to his newspaper.
“No, wait! This is important,” Rudy said sharply, resting his hand on Torres’ arm. “Remember when I asked you how he had found the location and you told me that Tran had left him a message in his apartment? Do you remember that conversation?”
Torres stared down at the hand on his sleeve.
Behind him, Rudy could sense movement toward the table. He didn’t have to look back to know it was Mack. The shaggy-faced Cajun never even went to the can without a loaded gun on him, and he knew better than to make him nervous.
Rudy slowly removed his hand from his boss’s sleeve and settled back into his chair.
“Listen carefully,” Torres told him, removing the cigar from his mouth and gesturing at his chest with it. “You are going to find this man. If you need reasons, then here's a couple; because I want him and you work for me. Do you see any flaw in my fucking logic?”
Rudy took a moment before answering, turning his head slightly and finding Mack standing just a few yards away from them--clearly an active listener in the conversation now.
“Is there something else you want to tell me about Frederickson? Something personal maybe that might help me find him?” he asked.
Torres’ face hardened then finally he smirked. “Yeah, the asshole will always do exactly the opposite of what me or you would do in any given situation.”
9
So taken with the view of the city he had never been to before, Grant didn’t realize that they had slowed to a stop until after he heard Maddy’s voice and the edge there.
He had been lost in thought, knowing that he had to end this soon and wondering how he would do it. At this rate, he would have a hard time getting back to Houston, and the longer he drew this out, the trickier it would be trying to get away. He could already feel her growing attached to him, and it made him jumpy. He didn’t want to lead her on. Did he do or say something that may have given her the wrong impression?
All these thoughts disapp
eared as the alarm appeared in her voice, and the streetcar came to a complete stop in the middle of Canal Street.
“Why are we stopping?” Maddy called out to the driver, rising and slipping into the seat behind him. Grant joined her.
The driver tapped a gauge on his dashboard, and an incoherent voice barked something inaudible over his radio. “Power's out,” he answered in a nonplussed voice.
A look passed between Maddy and Grant.
The noise level slowly increased throughout the car as word traveled that none of them would be reaching their destinations at the time they originally thought. But almost immediately, the sound dimmed as all the locals accepted their fate with grim resignation.
Such is life, their attitude seemed to say without words.
This only drove Maddy to greater agitation. She could barely maintain contact with her seat. “We’ve got to do something,” she muttered to herself under her breath, her eyes darting around at the streets flanking them.
Grant cleared his throat and got the driver’s attention. “Does this happen often?”
“These lines are old,” the old man replied, drawing the radio’s transmitter into his gnarled work-worn hand. “Odds are it'll be back on in another ten or fifteen minutes.
Maddy popped from her seat and scanned the frozen landscape around the stationary vehicle. “We don't have that kind of time.”
The driver cast a nervous look at Maddy and spoke into the mike. “Just to let you know, the power’s temporarily out,” he announced. “Any ya’ll want to step off at this point, feel free.”
Giving the driver a parting nod, Grant rose and followed Maddy to the door. The locals sat back watching indifferently from their seats and fanning themselves with whatever they had on hand. The driver nodded genially back at Grant.
“Just be mindful to observe the crosswalks now. I don’t want any pedestrian accidents on my watch,” the driver continued in a relaxed pace. Flashing a look of warning at Maddy, the driver pulled on the lever beside him and opened the door.
Squeezing through before the door had even fully opened, Maddy stepped down onto the streetcar rail path in the center of Canal Street, gasped and dropped to one knee just outside.
Grant leaped off and bowed down beside her. “You okay?”
Maddy could dimly hear his voice, but when she looked up she saw a huge cypress tree spread out before her in the center of the busy French Quarter street.
Shaking her head only seemed to set the hook even deeper, bringing the image deeper into focus. The rushing cars and busy city noises folded under her consciousness as if a thick blanket had been thrown over her. She closed her eyes to clear her mind, but when she peered up again, a bayou lay beyond the clear image of a cypress tree.
Two gunshots rang out.
So realistic was the sound that she actually gave a sharp startled scream and threw up her hands to instinctively protect her face.
She could feel strong arms around her now, and she knew somewhere out in the real world Grant was trying to get through to her. His concern, from the urgency of his grip, felt genuine.
She opened her eyes, her intention to tell him she was physically okay.
A dark featureless figure loomed above her now. The silhouette of a massive handgun pointed directly down at her from the hand of the broad-shouldered figure above.
Then as if she had emerged from the surface of a lake, reality rushed in like a bright light and filled the vacuum.
Traffic noise returned to her ears. Canal Street came into clear focus before her eyes.
The sound of Grant’s voice came through above the sound of the cars around her.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yeah,” she managed, turning to make eye contact with him.
He looked at her with such concern that she could have kissed him.
Surprisingly enough, the streetcar driver stood next to him. The concerned look on his face slid from Maddy to Grant. “You okay, young lady? You need me to call for assistance?”
“No sir, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern,” Maddy responded, taking Grant’s hand.
The driver gave Grant one more look, then without another word retreated back into the streetcar.
“I have it now,” Maddy said, attempting ever-so-slowly to rise to her feet.
Grant grasped her elbow and supported her as she stood. “What are you talking about?”
“The expiration date,” she replied, looking up at him with red glassy eyes. “I knew the moment I touched Canal.”
“The expiration for what?” he asked in confusion.
“For me,” she told him, starting in the direction of the nearest crosswalk then stopping with a brisk shake of her head.
“You?” he said with alarm. “Are we back to this again?”
Maddy fixed Grant with a steady glare. “You still don’t believe me? After everything you’ve seen today?”
Grant sighed heavily, then pointed at a bench a few yards away, helping her toward it. “How much time do you think you have?”
“Only until sunrise tomorrow,” she informed him, dropping roughly onto the bench. She was feeling suddenly weak. Where had that come from? It was like the emotional charge of the moment had taken a physical toll on her.
“How can you know this? What if you're wrong?” he asked, sitting down next to her.
“If I stay on this path, I won't live to see another morning,” Maddy told him, taking a deep breath and looking around in expectation of something threatening. “Something’s changed. Something changed the arc of our direction somehow.”
Grant lowered his head, unconsciously glancing away from her back toward the direction they had come from—back toward the interstate.
Maddy studied him. “You’re going to leave me?” she inquired in a soft, scared-child voice.
He had never heard that degree of vulnerability in her voice. She seemed really shaken. Knowing all that, he could still not bring himself to look at her.
“I’ve got to get back. I can’t just…” he started to say. “I have to get home.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to leave me,” she whispered to herself in a quiet awed voice that rang loudly in the quiet space between them. “After everything.”
In the distance, he thought he could hear the locked brakes of a car and the squeal of tires sliding to a sudden crash.
At the sound, his body involuntarily shuddered.
No, not again.
He straightened and craned his neck in the direction he thought he had heard the crash. It was suddenly very important that he see some evidence of an accident. Maybe if he could just hear the sound of an ambulance, he would know for sure that he wasn’t just hearing things.
Don’t let her drive away, a voice within demanded.
When he came back into himself and looked around, the bench next to him was empty. He shot to his feet and looked over his shoulder.
Maddy stood on the raised esplanade, moving slowly into the busy intersection against the light. Cars honked and brakes squealed.
Cursing under his breath, Grant bolted after her, grabbing her arm at the last second before she started across. “What? So your own death isn’t coming soon enough that you’re trying to shorten your life even more?” he grunted, moving toward the closest crosswalk.
Maddy stared at him in surprise, grabbing his arm tighter in hers and giving it a brief but intense squeeze. “Thank you,” she said simply.
“Where to?” he asked in confusion, stabbing at the crosswalk button.
She shook her head. “No, you have to lead. On my own, this day will end badly. I need you to steer me in the right direction.”
Grant traded a look with her, then slowly nodded his understanding with a dark smile on his face. “Why not me? After all, I haven’t a damned clue where we are right now,” he murmured, tugging her gently across the street when the light changed.
“S’kay,” she reassured following him closely. “You c
ouldn’t possibly do any worse than me.”
10
Passing Grant and Maddy, a swarm of shirtless children rushed up the sidewalk through an older residential section past ramshackle housing and broken down vehicles.
Beside him, Maddy stiffened as if bracing for trouble, and Grant flashed a look over at her. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she replied in a low nervous voice. “I’m just not all that sure of the character of the area.”
Grant frowned at the cryptic response. “Actually, it reminds me a little of my neighborhood,” he said passing a shirtless man, sitting out on his porch drinking a forty-ounce bottle of an amber liquid. He gave them a bleary-eyed look of accusation as they strode past. “Many of these folks are just as much victims of circumstance as you are. Some will never be the same as before the hurricane.”
Katrina.
Like 9-11 had been to the entire nation, Katrina had been to New Orleans. To the locals, modern history for them would forever be divided into life before and after Katrina had come to town.
There were still places in the neighborhood that looked as if the storm had hit just yesterday. Rotting corpses of homes. Overgrown fields of weeds where children used to play.
Maddy spotted a sticker of the Virgin Mary on the back of a “dually,” a dual-wheel utility truck and felt her shoulders relax slightly. “We’re among good folks here,” she commented confidently.
Grant gave a nod of agreement as they passed an elderly woman rocking a small child out on the front porch that looked to be six months old. She gave them an uncertain smile and a nod of greeting.
Nodding back, Grant asked Maddy, “Any clue where we are?”
“Somewhere between Faubourg Tremé and the Seventh Ward,” she answered. “Neither of which are known for safety. In fact, the guidebook I read warned against going there.”
A blast that might have be a car backfiring or a gunshot drew Maddy immediately to Grant’s side like a magnet.
Grant threw an uncertain look over his shoulder. “Just the same, you might have warned me.”
“I didn’t want to influence your decision,” she explained.
Remember the Future Page 10