Though Miss Melba was sitting on the exact item they were looking for, it didn't register to either of them. Neither did her attire.
"Goddamn, Bourg. Look at this. Sunday morning and grandma's out buyin' beer. No food, just beer. Shee-it," said the indignant McCoy.
"Probably with food stamps too. The stores around here don't care. Winos keep 'em in business. Bet they gave her a free phone too. Fucking country isn't ours anymore," replied Bourgeois.
Stuffed to their chins with aggrievement, on they went, not noticing that the broad-shouldered man who turned around after paying for his food order was the same one pictured on the video camera still they both had seen on their phones.
"Thank you, Jesus," praised Miss Melba. She looked back to the right and saw Hutch and D-Day discreetly trying to move behind a parked car while watching to make sure she was sitting at the bus stop. Though she didn't know it, D-Day was thinking that he had a couple outstanding warrants hanging over him, and Hutch knew his fake passport alone would get him put away for ten to fifteen years.
"Fight fire with fire," she said and jolted as if she'd been asleep.
She reached into her purse, remembering the object she'd bought a few weeks ago in case she needed to relight her gas stove burners when Entergy's power grid failed again during another summer rain shower. After a couple thumb flicks, an inch high flame steadily emitted from the cheap lighter.
"Well, alright," she said, pleased, letting loose her thumb and closing her hand.
After a few minutes, the two men received their food and brought it over, together but separate. They were uncomfortable adversaries, and it was clear they hadn't said two words to each other in the meantime.
Both of them stood while they ate, Hutch on the left and D-Day to the right of Miss Melba. Privately, Hutch planned to take care of business when he finished his fried rice. D-Day, on the other hand, thought it was God's will that he eat half of the sweet & sour chicken, throw the rest of the steaming food into the bigger man's face, and pull the beer case out from under the old lady at last.
Miss Melba looked and took them both in as if for the first time. She saw Hutch's unkempt short afro, his look of messy desperation. D-Day was altogether different. He looked tough with his shaved head and scars but seemed like he was still receiving blessings at church.
There was no sign of the bus yet.
"I only have to stay one step ahead of them, like Marlon's chess game," she thought. "Just keep checking. Make them stay on the defense."
She looked back and forth. "Now, men," she said, opening her hand to show the lighter.
"It only takes a spark to get a fire. Am I wrong? This here lighter is full of fluid." She flicked the flint and held the button to bring it to life.
"It works fine. Quick light." She held her hand down by her side a scant inch from the beer case of money. Hutch and D-Day stopped eating. They were speechless.
"Now, men, these, ah, commodities in the box. I don't need trouble. If I think I'm gonna get it because of the commodities, then it all goes up in flames. Problem solved."
"Ma'am, you don't need to do nothin' drastic," Hutch urged and extended an open hand. D-Day nodded.
Miss Melba let the flame drop but kept her hand down next to the box.
"No, I expect I don't. But I will if I need to. Understood?" she asked. "Men, here's the bus at last."
They each boarded the bus in reverse order of age. Hutch and D-Day weren't letting Miss Melba out of their sight. The driver wouldn't allow food on board, so the go-containers, silverware, and plastic bags were casually tossed to the street.
After Hutch paid his $1.25, he found Miss Melba seated on the front left, holding the box on her lap. The lighter was still in her hand, right up next to the box. All the seats around her were taken. The seats on the front right-hand side were flipped up to accommodate the wheelchair of an older man with a beret, tortoise-shell glasses, and goatee. There were a few standing in the middle, holding the safety straps to keep their balance.
It was Sunday and many were heading downtown, either for work or play.
Hutch and D-Day took two available seats in the back left corner next to each other. Away from Miss Melba's calming influence, their mutual animosity rose again.
D-Day recognized Griot Sam's voice carrying through the bus from his wheelchair.
"All these young people moving here, they're coming from other places. We live here. We're from here. So why do they wanna make our place like their place... that... they... left?"
"Keep on, Sam" rang out from the middle seats. Another person said, "Aw, leave 'em alone." The 1/4 of the bus who were white newcomers in their twenties shrunk deep into their seats or were blissfully unknowing while engaged by their iPods.
"Two words — Manifest Destiny. It's in their blood. Back in the old days, it was all about taking land and preaching Jesus. So they said. My Jesus said nothing about taking Indian land."
There were a growing number of "Mmm hmm's" and giggles, along with the nervous faces who had never experienced anything like this and were starting to worry that a race war was about to break out on the #57. Hutch's coughing in back could also be heard.
"Manifest Destiny. But these white folks — sorry, white folks, I gotta tell it how it is — they don't believe in Jesus," he accused.
The murmuring from the churchgoers resounded like a beehive buzz.
"They don't care too much about the land either. Sure, they're buying up lots of houses, but they're colonizing in a different way. Make no mistake, they are colonizers. They're cultural colonizers!" he hollered.
Griot Sam gestured out to St. Claude, where the bus was almost to the Elysian Fields stop.
He scoffed. "Look at this. A new restaurant. Korean-Creole. But not Korean run. Definitely not Creole run. No Koreans and no Creoles working there. That's something, isn't it? One more instance of white folks cooking other people's food. Trying to make New Orleans like the place they left. White people hybrid food. We know who gets left out. Without African-Americans, this city wouldn't look the same, talk the same, or taste the same. Man, they're happy to push us out. That's some shit. Okay, enough from me."
"If that ain't true, grits ain't groceries," said the woman next to Miss Melba.
After the stop, the #57 was filled to limited standing room.
None of them paid attention to the chalky passenger who slipped out the back exit door, wincing from the pain of his broken nose and sore elbow. Cheeks and eyes weren't feeling much better. Tyler Dolan had been grappling with confusion ever since waking up sore alongside an unfamiliar house on an unfamiliar street.
"Why was I there? Why did that guy try to get me while I walked home? Who was it the cops were looking for, all the squad cars I saw racing around after I snuck out of the church basement? All that because of my graffiti? Maybe Toes needs to retire," he said while slinking toward home. Even the wind couldn't resuscitate his depressed moustache.
Up until then, Hutch and D-Day hadn't exchanged words on the bus, only hot-tempered mad doggin' energy.
D-Day looked at the older man. "Whatchu gon' do with a box a paper? You raggedy. Smell nasty too. Jesus want me to have it. I fell down, but I got up."
Hutch's stare was hot enough to solder metal. "Shut your ass up 'fore you eat your tongue," he hissed.
The people sitting near them quickly got up, not only because the bus was almost to its destination of Rampart and Canal.
"Pit bulls raised me. Turn you out, bitch. I'm a grown-ass man. Ain't divided no more, neither," said D-Day louder than before.
Not a soul was facing Hutch and D-Day, so they heard Hutch say, "Step off. Don't you threaten me again," but no one saw him act with lightning speed while he spoke.
"Callin' out your wolf ticket. I'm fi'in' to... " started D-Day, reaching for his screwdriver, but he didn't finish.
In barely over two minutes, D-Day was dead, the second New Orleans death of the day. It would later be ruled a suicide as not to up the homicide count. Hutch left the belt around D-Day's neck and pushed him to the floor before filing off the bus with the others, ready to get the beer case back from Miss Melba.
The bus driver checked the time. It was 1:28 p.m.
12
Bobby Delery woke up to the chime of church bells. It was noon and exhaustion had caught up with him. He'd been unintentionally cat-napping in his car on St. Philip and Claiborne for over an hour. Notebook and pen were still in his lap.
In the meantime, New Orleans was New Orleans. Dirty dealing and sweet loving. Heartwarming kindness and soul-breaking cruelty.
Delery was parked in this spot for a reason. He was hungry before, but now even as sweaty, wrinkly, and drowsy as he was, it took a back seat to his rumbling stomach.
He was shaking off the cobwebs of sleep next to Roosevelt's Black Pearl. The food was his favorite in town as a kid. He was hoping that remained the case decades later.
When he stepped inside and scanned the room, it was generally as he recalled it. Small place. No frills. A few pictures on the walls. Three little tables along the left wall. Right side full of chafing dishes, cafeteria style. An aroma that took him way back.
A friendly-faced woman stepped over to help him and said, "Good morning."
"Good morning. I haven't been here for a few years. Same way to order?" he asked.
New Orleans was in line with Mexico and South America in that saying, "Good morning" was acceptable until at least 2 p.m.
"Sure. You just tell me what you want. I fill up this container. Today, we got stewed chicken, butter beans, fried chicken, mac & cheese, okra stew, greens, and... "
Delery stopped her. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll have the butter beans and greens. Do you have cornbread?"
She answered while ladling the food into a go-container. "No, not on Sundays. Bread pudding today."
"Oh, okay. I'll be back another day for cornbread, then. I'm eating in, by the way."
After checking to make sure he didn't want anything else, she handed him the container and plastic utensils before speaking to the elderly man behind the cash register. "$8.00," she said.
As Delery was paying, pleased at the price for the heaping portions, he asked the man, "Are you Mr. Roosevelt? My dad used to bring me here as a kid."
A lived-in voice replied. "I am indeed. Thanks for stopping in. Hope you like it."
Delery spent around twenty minutes taking care of his appetite for the whole day. The butter beans were nothing less than triumphant, better than he'd remembered. While he ate, a steady amount of people filed in, placed their orders, and left with their food. Men for the most part. A couple older ones were drinking at the little bar through a connecting doorway.
Delery thanked the lady and Mr. Roosevelt with a satisfied smile and went back out into the heat.
His parents felt the French Quarter was no place for a child, so back in the 1970's he'd only been through there a few times. Club Big Easy was on Bourbon, between St. Louis and Toulouse, Commander Jones had told him.
"If I can't find Bourbon Street, may as well go back to Chicago," Delery said.
After finding a parking spot on Dauphine near Matassa's, Delery checked his notebook. "I'm to speak with Dom Cavallari," he said, "the same guy who's trying to find the money before the police."
By the time he walked to St. Ann, he could hear where Bourbon was, so he made a left. When he got to Bourbon, he could see it became residential off to the left. He took a right.
Though it was midday on Sunday, Bourbon Street was coming to life. Everything from zydeco to a cover band playing "Hotel California" to a karaoke version of Madonna's "Borderline" to traditional jazz to modern pop and much more were heard booming from the clubs in just the first few blocks he walked.
Bourbon was a through-way for traffic that time of day, so the street wasn't awash with crowds, but the sidewalks were.
"Got to town yesterday. It's my first time on this street, but the criminologist in me is saying there have to be felons from several states out here. Probably a bunch of outstanding warrants too," he said to himself, taking in and sizing it all up. The crowd was taking pictures with their phones, drinking, or both.
Shortly after, he crossed the Toulouse intersection and saw a hotel on the right, which led his gaze to the left. There it was. A few doors down. Club Big Easy.
The barker out front was holding a drink special sign. A cover band was onstage playing a Bon Jovi song Delery had happily forgotten. A few people were dancing but most were standing in assorted oafish ways with drinks of an unnatural red color in long clear plastic containers that resembled the bell of a trumpet.
Delery walked past the bouncer, across the dance floor, and up to the bar. He was stopped before he got there.
"Hey darlin'. Want a Big Easy? It's the house drink. Otherwise, 2 for 1 on domestics," said a young waitress with a Club Big Easy shirt tied above her belly. She spoke as if she'd repeated those lines thousands of times.
"No, thanks. I'm here to see Dom Cavallari," he replied.
She got a sick look on her face and was about to respond.
Delery held up a hand. "Commander Jones from NOPD sent me."
She walked to the bar like she was on death row and relayed the message to the bartender while both of them stared at the intruder. Max, the bartender, was wearing a wireless mic. He called the second floor office.
"Yeah, what?" answered the voice on the other end.
Max took a deep breath. "Mr. C, sorry to bother you, but there's a guy down here to see you," he said cautiously.
"What the fuck did I tell you? All the shit I'm dealing with right now. No. Fuck no. I don't have time for this," Cavallari barked.
"That's fine. I'll tell him you're busy, but he said Commander Jones from NOPD sent him."
"Fuck," Cavallari huffed. "Alright, send him up."
Johnny, Cavallari's only henchman for the time being, had been out driving around Robertson and Claiborne with the Russians, hoping for a sign of Hutch. They were eating steak at Canal Place before heading back out on the search. The second floor of the club wasn't open yet, and Cavallari was the only one upstairs.
Delery walked over to the closed office door, as instructed, and knocked.
"Bobby Delery here to see Dom Cavallari," he announced.
The man he saw once the door opened had messy thick hair and rumpled clothes. Sloppy looking splints on his left pinky and ring fingers.
"What can I do for you, detective? I've already spoken to NOPD," he said.
"I bet you have," thought Delery, though he said aloud, "I'm actually a criminologist helping out the police because of the, uh, severity of the situation."
Cavallari scoffed. "It wasn't nearly as much money as the media made it out to be. Nothing more than a few deposits that two of my employees saw fit to steal. Sloppy too. They just threw it in a beer case. We have insurance. It's covered."
Delery pushed. "I'd like to review the video footage. I assume you have security cameras throughout this place."
Cavallari jousted. "The main console was on the fritz, and we hadn't gotten it fixed."
Delery nodded. "One of your employees involved in the theft was found dead on the Robertson overpass this morning. Most likely shortly after it happened. A guy named Clint Olson."
"I heard. That sounds like Hutch wanting to keep all the money for himself."
Delery sighed. "What was Hutch wearing when
he left here?" he questioned.
"Lemme see," Cavallari said to allow time to think up a few whoppers. He didn't want this do-gooder he'd never seen before anywhere near Hutch or the money. He'd make a call about Commander Jones too.
Cavallari started in. "I'm pretty sure he was wearing a purple, green, and gold visor; neon green t-shirt; and a few strands of Mardi Gras beads. Saggy pants too. He walks with a limp. War injury. Has bad smoker's cough." The club manager smiled privately. "Good luck finding him with that description," he thought.
"It looked like all the employees downstairs were dressed in black or wearing t-shirts with the club's name on them," Delery said.
"Normally, sure, but we were having a Mardi Gras night on Saturday," lied Cavallari.
"This is too easy," he thought.
He waited until Delery stopped writing in a notebook. "If this helps, his real name's Raymond Pate. I don't know what Hutch means. Probably from Starsky & Hutch. He's a big dude. Used to be a boxer."
Delery asked a few more questions, received a few more runaround answers, and ended the interview. He needed to get his mind focused on what he knew about the case. Walking helped him think, but Bourbon clearly wasn't the best street for that.
"Club Big Easy robbed of almost a million by two employees. Raymond "Hutch" Pate and Clint Olson," he said softly. "They must've been on the run from Cavallari's people when Olson got killed. What's the connection to the blood trail I saw below the overpass?"
He turned on St. Louis, walking past a block full of unmemorable shops and restaurants.
"Whoever Cavallari answers to is after the money. NOPD's after the money, but a bunch of officers must be searching for Cavallari's sake. I imagine Hutch is long gone. Maybe there's another accomplice."
Delery continued across Royal. The courthouse took up the entire block on his right. Omni Royal hotel was on his left.
"What can I find that all the others aren't already picking up on?" he asked.
After admiring the Napoleon House building at the corner, he took a right on Chartres. A tour guide had a semi-circle of people grouped around her on the sidewalk. She was an older Creole woman, all charm, diction, and no-nonsense.
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