The music faded and Remy took position in front of a massive altar covered with candles, alcoholic spirits, dolls, and pictures of saints. Remy held silent once the music stopped. He let the crowd drink him in and absorb every eccentricity. His attire of a top hat and long, black, flowing coat. The serpent-headed cane that he twirled with ease, and the many ornaments and talismans that dangled from his neck. Only once they had the right, and proper appreciation of his presence did he finally speak.
“Voodoo.”
The word stood on its own and echoed back from the bar.
“Voodoo is what has brought you all here tonight. You have heard of its power, and you want to see it with your own eyes. A person cannot help but be curious when they hear the stories, but we all know what curiosity did to the cat. Humans can suffer just the same. I will show you some things, but others should not be seen or practiced in a setting such as this. Some things should only be tangled with when the need is desperate.”
Remy's eyes were drawn to an eager, dishevelled looking man at one of the front tables. He was hanging onto every word and nodding along. Remy didn't like the hungry way that the man looked up at him, but he carried on his performance without breaking his stride. Remy did not perform voodoo that night. His performance was part cabaret and part magic show, with a good bit of dramatic storytelling thrown in. Not that the crowd noticed, or cared. They just wanted to be entertained, and Remy made sure that they were. Most of them didn't even know what real voodoo was anyway.
After the show, Remy placed Zombi into a cotton sack and prepared him for transport along with the rest of his stage props. He waited behind the curtain for enough of the showtime people to depart and went straight to the bar to engage in his usual post-show routine.
“Two shots of tequila,” he said to the drag queen behind the bar. The drag queen called herself Princess. Princess smiled flirtatiously through her dramatically applied lipstick as she poured the shots. Remy downed one, then the other, not even pausing to partake of the lime and salt. He was comfortable with the burn.
“Is any of it real?” asked Princess. “The voodoo, I mean.”
Remy looked at the bottle of tequila, and without a word, Princess topped him up.
“It's only real to tourists,” Remy replied before knocking back his third tequila. Princess slid a brown envelope filled with money over to Remy.
“I know that the money is real,” said Princess.
Remy gave a mischievous smile as he pocketed the cash.
“Ben Franklin is the real magic. Put enough of him in your pocket, and you can do just about anything you want to do,” said Remy as he rose from the stool. “I’ll see you the next time Ben’s in town.”
“I'll see you any time, honey,” said Princess with an eye shadowed wink. Remy laughed.
“Sorry, but that's not my team.”
“A few more tequilas and you won't know there even is a team.”
Remy liked the long, scenic route when walking in the direction of home. He lived in a beautiful city, and its wonders were lost when one merely travelled from Point A to Point B. The city had a certain energy that he needed to regularly inhale to help rejuvenate his mind, body, and soul. He loved the taste in the air. The humid taste of decadence. It got into his senses and whispered of untold pleasures lurking around every street corner. He loved the hot dog vendors and the drunken revellers of Bourbon street. He loved the French colonial houses in the French Quarter. He loved the vines and the leaves that covered those buildings, spiralling down the massive white columns. The beauty of human construction combined with the beauty of nature's creation. He loved the mighty oak trees of the Garden District, tall and proud and long in life. They were the true witnesses of New Orleans history. The tales those trees could tell if only they had a mouth with which to speak them.
Remy took to the backstreets and alleys, always looking for a secret about his city that he had not yet uncovered. That, and the solitude that those same backstreets and alleys provided. He waited until the crowd thinned out - until even the people who ventured off the beaten path were themselves beaten off the path. He waited until the only thing that shared his space was a single stray, black cat. It meowed on approach and made a figure 8 between his legs. Remy gave it a scratch behind the ears, and it purred approvingly as he took out his weed and skins with his free hand.
“Nice night for a walk, eh kitty?”
He licked the joint whole and sparked up, inhaling deep into his lungs.
“Very nice night,” he said on the cloud of smoke he exhaled. He froze as he heard a shuffle of feet behind him. His hand drifted to the silver serpent pommel atop his cane. Inside, a blade was concealed. His hand tensed on it. He was so sure that he was alone, but that was the unmistakable sound of human feet. The cat pounced away into the shadows, leaving Remy by himself to confront the owner of those feet.
“Help you with something, friend?”
A shadow detached itself from a nearby wall and became the figure of a man. He had a dishevelled and desperate look about him. He wore a suit, but the shirt had no tie, and the top few buttons were hanging loose and open. Sweat beaded on his brow as his nervous eyes darted back and forth. Remy recognised him instantly. He was sitting front row during Remy’s performance at Mister Sister. Remy recognised him, but that was far away from liking the look of him.
“I need help,” the stranger said in his jittery way.
“Do you often follow people in the shadows when you need help?”
“I need your power... they have witnesses you see... fingers pointing, accusing... but I didn't do anything to her. They have it wrong. I... just roughed her up a bit. I need them to be quiet. I need your power to make them quiet. Can you help me? I'm really desperate. I don’t know what else to do.”
Remy took a long pull of his joint and thought it over as the man actually got on his knees and started to beg.
“Got cash?”
The man smiled and showed far too many teeth. It was the smile of a mad man. He reached into his pocket and produced a very healthy wad of green. Remy didn't like the look of the man, but that just made him feel less guilty about taking his stupid, idiot money.
“Follow me. We've still got a lot of walking left to do.”
“Thank you, thank you! Dear God, thank you!”
The man ran to catch up to Remy as he started to walk on.
“Joint?” Remy offered.
The man shook his head.
“Suit yourself. More for me.”
They walked together for the best part of an hour, often with a view of the river Mississippi. The twitchy man didn't seem to be much of a talker now that he had secured the use of Remy's powers. Remy liked the silence just fine and didn’t go looking to correct it. The man would often fall back as his legs got tired, and he would trail behind Remy like a dog following its master. As they neared their destination, the quality of living took a sharp decline. Many of the houses looked to be ruins of a forgotten society. The walls had fallen through, the paint had cracked, and the gardens had been left untended. Spray painted Katrina Crosses left by search and rescue teams in 2005 still marked the buildings where some had died in floods from years ago. Man had fought a losing battle with nature in this part of New Orleans and paid a heavy price. It was a sight that provoked the man with Remy into speaking.
“I've never been to the lower ninth ward before.”
“Not many white people have. Unless they're tourists taking photos of our suffering from a passing bus. Looking at us like we are some kind of enclosure in a zoo.”
“Why did people stay?”
“They did try to move us along. Then when we didn't leave, they tried to forget about us like dirt swept under a rug. But this is home. You always rebuild your home.”
Some of the areas had recovered a semblance of normal over the years, but the lower ninth would never be the same as it was in the days before Hurricane Katrina paid a visit.
“Here it is. T
his is where the magic happens.”
Remy's house was nothing special from the outside. Its long, rectangular shape made it look like a shoe box with a paint job that implied the shoes inside were hand-me-downs. Remy walked straight up the wooden porch, and the man followed, creaking in behind him.
There was an excited flutter as they entered the house. A commotion caused by nearly a dozen chickens confined to their cages by the door. Remy ignored their incessant clucking and led the man into the living room. In the living room was an older lady in a wheelchair, watching an old criminal investigation program. Remy went and knelt by her side as the desperate man stood awkwardly at the back of the room.
“Hey ma, how you keeping?”
“I'm good, just been watching my shows. How was your night?”
“Good. I have a customer with me so I'm just going to take care of some business in the back and then I'll join you.”
The woman cast a wary eye over the man in the background.
“Don't take too long,” she said.
“I won't.”
Remy gave his mother a kiss on the forehead and beckoned for the man to follow him. He was led to a dark room where the candlelight coming from the many altars present was the only illumination. In the centre of the room was an island workbench that had more than one stain of blood on it. The man swallowed hard at the sight and followed Remy into the room.
“There are many altars here for many Loa. They all have their own price for conducting business depending on your need. All of them demand offerings.”
“Yes, whatever they need.”
“We first make an offering to Papa Legba. He is the keeper of the crossroads that divide us from the spirits. Give me your identification.”
The man stepped back and shot a nervous look at Remy.
“Why do you need that? All I need is a service.”
“How are you to do business with the Loa if they don't know who you are? You will get it back.”
The man reluctantly stretched out his identification with a shaky hand, and Remy snatched it out of his grasp before he could have second thoughts.
'Warren Cooper'. Remy filed the name and address away in the back of his mind should he ever need it. Then in clear view of Warren, Remy wrote the name on a piece of paper and burned it on a candle sitting on Papa Legba's altar.
“Papa Legba, we offer you a cigar. We ask that you open a path of communication for the man known as Warren Cooper.”
Remy placed a fine, Cuban cigar onto the offering tray for Papa Legba.
“It is not Papa Legba's help you need, but that of his darker twin.”
Remy moved to a different altar and poured a glass of rum for the offering tray.
“Kalfu, we make an offering of rum infused with gun powder. We humbly beg for your assistance in a matter most urgent.”
Remy turned to Warren.
“How many mouths do you need silenced?”
Warren was almost afraid to speak in the presence of such power, but this was ultimately the reason he came.
“Three.”
Remy went to a nearby fridge and produced three cow tongues that he proceeded to place upon the blood-stained workbench. He slowly and deliberately tied each tongue into a knot. Three sharp pins materialised in his hands, and he warmed them in Kalfu's flame before offering them to Warren.
“Speak a name to the pin and stick it in a tongue.”
Warren nodded his understanding and did as Remy instructed. He moved to the first tongue and held the pin out ahead of him.
“Alice Gruber.”
The first pin stabbed into the first tongue.
“John Marshall.”
Another pin. Another tongue.
“Alex Drake.”
Remy nodded upon completion of the ritual.
“It is done. Your enemies will find that they are unable to speak against you. Take this gris-gris bag and keep it with you at all times until your case has concluded. It will protect you.”
Warren took the gris-gris bag with a sense of awe and wonder. As it touched his hands, he heard a distinct flutter of wings.
“Is that the sound of Kalfu on my shoulder?” he asked, but Remy's face had become grave.
“No. It's something else.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Business was booming at the Mister Sister drag queen bar on Bourbon Street. Money had no meaning anymore, but Princess liked to think that getting people drunk was something of a calling for her. It also had the added bonus of keeping a girl busy in times of overthinking. She would freak if she woke up one morning to find a thought wrinkle running across her beautiful face. That would just not do. She put her thoughts towards Remy instead, as she often did. Remy Laveau sat in the most secluded corner of the bar. It was his usual spot. He always sat there alone with a drink in front of him, reading a book while the festivities happened around him. This week's book of choice was 'The Stand' by Stephen King. Princess wondered if he filed that one under research. It was Princess' theory that Remy liked being around people, but never with them. He was always approachable and would never turn anyone away, but he kept a lot of himself to himself. He was the most introverted extrovert she had ever met, but that's exactly how she liked it. She approached with a tray of drinks raised up by her head and smiled down at him.
“Another tequila for you, sugar?” she said as she placed another glass in front of him and took away the empty.
“Ah, Princess. You know how to take care of me.”
“You best remember that,” she said with a wink. Remy responded by giving her a slap on the ass as she walked away.
The night's entertainment performed up on the stage under candlelight as folks watched from their circular tables and sipped on their drinks. Harvey Smith was dressed as a caricature of an angel and turned his nose up at all the people beneath him as he walked with practiced grace and dignity. The audience playfully booed and hissed.
“I see a lot of sinners here tonight,” Harvey began in his most pious tone.
“Damn straight!” shouted a voice from the back of the audience. Harvey mocked outrage and stormed to the edge of the stage with a hand over his brow, peering out into the audience.
“Who said that!? Who was it!? Out with it now! Ah, it was you Tony Henderson. I should have known. St. Peter, where are you? St. Peter, get up here.”
Steve Reilly emerged from behind the curtain, dressed as St. Peter. He had a giant piece of parchment in one hand, and a quill in the other.
“There you are St. Peter. Tell me, is Tony Henderson on the list for paradise?”
St. Peter looked at his parchment through a pair of half-moon spectacles.
“Why yes, it appears that he is.”
“Take him off the list!”
“But... what is his sin?”
“Being a proud fucker.”
The crowd roared with laughter as St. Peter crossed off a name with a whip of ink. The angel looked like a proud fucker himself for having crossed Tony Henderson off the list for paradise. Tony lapped it up and grabbed at his crotch while facing the stage. Princess set her tray of drinks down and got back behind the bar where Karina, Darnell, Gus, and Cormac sat.
“I still can't believe you let that tumbleweed take your gun, Karina,” said Cormac.
“I guess it was for the best,” she said. “But if it happens again, I might just have to show him that I know how to use it.”
“What? Like that cop you killed earlier? That was some dark shit if you don’t mind me saying. I sometimes can’t help but feel that you're the kind of woman that would drive a man to drink,” said Cormac with an emphasised gulp of his pint.
“And looking at you I can see that you’re the kind of man that would drive a woman to another woman.”
Cormac laughed and raised his glass to Karina.
“You win that one, Hurricane Katrina.”
Karina furrowed her brow at Cormac.
“For the last time, my name's not Katrina. It'
s Karina. There's no T in there.”
“Wow, so much difference. I apologise profusely for my mistake. But are you sure it's not Katrina? You certainly have the temperament of a violent hurricane.”
“I am going to beat you, Cormac.”
Cormac nudged Darnell with his elbow.
“Save me, Darnell. I think the hurricane’s a-comin’.”
“Nuh-uh,” said Darnell with a shake of his head. “I know better than to stand in her way. You should know better than to provoke her.”
Cormac raised his hands up in surrender as Karina scowled at him. Cormac smiled nervously at her and used Princess’ arrival as an emergency parachute.
“Princess! How is my favourite bartender?”
“I'm the only bartender.”
“Like I said, my favourite bartender.”
Princess' scowl matched that of Karina's.
“Well, it seems that no one has a sense of humour tonight.”
“Oh, it’s not you,” said Princess. “If you must know, I've been trying not to think about that Marvin kid. I knew him.”
“Doesn't surprise me. Everyone knows everyone these days. Kind of like we're all celebrities for not being dead.”
“He used to come in here quite often. Seemed harmless enough. Never thought he would have it in him to try and kill Remy.”
“A coward always has it in him to take the low road,” said Gus.
“You think we're on the high road in all of this?” asked Darnell.
“Higher than their road.”
“They'd probably say the same thing.”
Killing Angels Page 5