by John Oakes
Winton had to warn him. Luckily he still had his number. He just needed a phone. At the nearest corner store, Winton asked the clerk if they sold burner phones. The clerk brought out one with a sim card and fifty minutes talk time, and Winton dialed the number before even paying. Pinching the phone in his shoulder, he worked his wallet out and handed a card to the annoyed clerk.
Julius’s voice came over the line. “This is Julius. Need a pick up?”
“Julius, thank Christ.”
“Who this?”
“Winton, from earlier.”
“Winton? What up, little homey?”
“Julius, junk your phone. They’re coming for you.”
“My phone. What?”
“The cops found me by tracking my brother’s phone, right down to the room I was in. They have your number. They’ll be on you soon.”
“Shit, are you for real?”
“I’m very for real.”
The clerk gave Winton a funny look as he handed the card back and made him sign his receipt.
Winton didn’t say anything more until out the door. “Julius, be thankful it’s just two crooked cops. If the force was behind them, they’d have you already.”
“What do I gotta do?”
“Destroy your phone and the sim card. Completely. And don’t go to your home. They’ll check there first. Is there another car you can switch to? They’ll have your license number.”
“I suppose I could get my dad’s truck.”
“Hide your car. Just to be safe.”
“Okay. Okay. My lord, you have got to be kidding me. This is craziness.”
“I’m so sorry, man. All you did was help me out. I’m sorry.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I dunno, man. I gotta find my brother. I need to find someplace safe and think this through.”
“I’ll pick you up. I know a place we can go.”
“No, Julius. You’ve helped me more than I could ever ask.”
“I’m trying to help myself,” Julius said. “I can’t be tied up with cops, let alone crooked cops. Besides, how am I gonna contact you if I destroy my phone?”
Winton pulled the phone away and ran a hand over his sticky and stiff hair. “All right. Pick me up at the corner of Decatur and Bienville in an hour. Can you do that?”
“I’ll be there. One hour.”
Winton bought a small t-shirt from a tourist street vendor, being careful to stay out of sight. It was purple with a jazz saxophonist on front, his back arched, hitting some high note with “French Quarter” splashed across his legs in flashy lettering. At least it covered up the blood stains on his collared shirt and undershirt.
Winton took that as a sign and moved toward the river into the French Quarter, finding a dark establishment where one could sit in relative solitude with an adult beverage. Winton ordered a double whiskey coke, feeling like it would provide the calm alertness he needed at the moment. He made sure to offer his ID before being asked for it, saving him and the bar tender the embarrassment.
He took his drink into the out-of-the-way bathroom and made sure it was empty, before setting his drink down next to the sink. Winton couldn’t quite see himself in the mirror, but contented himself that at least he had a buttload of paper towels and running water. He cleaned his dark hair as best he could, then toweled it dry. He drank deeply, then attacked his ears and all their nooks and crannies. He drank again, then scrubbed at his neck. He drank. Forehead. Drank. Nostrils and eyes. Finished the drink. Mouth, jaw and, finally, hands. Lastly he threw out his shirt and undershirt and cleaned up his shoes and trousers.
Feeling a bit less filthy, he ordered a refill and settled into his secluded booth, watching a golf tournament play out on TV.
A man in clean white slacks — with no blood on them at all — hit a tee shot three hundred yards, but hooked it into the rough. What Winton wouldn’t give to have his problems for a day.
“Lucas is alive.” The words burbled up out of him. Winton traced his fingers around the brim of his glass, finding that the words fell true on his ears. Why?
“Remus and his thugs want him and don’t have him,” he whispered into his drink.
But that could easily mean someone else killed him.
“Who?” Winton asked. “Who else is involved here?”
The ship. The ship Lucas took a photo of. He took the photo for a reason.
Winton needed to know what was on that ship. He needed to know who owned it. Maroulis? Who?
Winton fished out the only other tangible clue he had. The golden trinket. He turned it in his hands. It seemed somewhat familiar, but not identifiable to his eye. Why did Rabelais and Elgin want it? Rather, why did Remus want it so bad?
Winton cut himself off after his second drink. He needed to stay sharp, and after the day he’d had, he was tiring fast. So, he ordered some wings and coffee and consumed them quietly in his corner. Winton ate fast, tearing meat away with this teeth and stacking up bones. On his last wing, it was the feeling of the wing bone on his tongue that gave him pause. He gnawed it clean, then regarded it. “Of course.”
He laid it on the table, brought out the golden trinket and laid it down. Though perhaps four times as large, the golden object looked like some kind of bone. It was straighter than the chicken bone, but similarly bulbous at either end.
When the time came, Winton stepped out onto the sidewalk, and Julius pulled up in an old green Silverado, wearing a new outfit. Dark jeans, white sneakers, a Saints jersey and a thin gold chain around his neck. Winton climbed in laboriously.
“Julius?”
“Winton?”
“We gotta go see a witch about a bone.”
FOURTEEN
Captain Luther Remus pulled into the driveway of a run-down old house in Lafitte. The yard was littered with dry fronds from a dead palm bush, empty beer cans and car parts.
“Real nice, Rab.”
He got out and walked around the rear of the home to find Elgin, hands in the air, turning slowly as Rab hosed him down.
Both men looked up, startled and guilty.
“You killed him? Couldn’t do it any messier?”
“We didn’t kill him,” Rab said.
“Shut up, Rab.” Elgin lowered his arms and felt at his groin with a wince. “We went to the hospital. It made sense. Like Lucas was there to see his father.”
“But it was that midget brother of his!” Rabelais exclaimed like a child.
“What?”
“The brother,” Elgin said. “Winston or something. The little guy.”
“I thought you took care of him.” It was all Remus could do to keep from shouting.
“So did we,” Elgin said. “But there he was in the hospital hooked up to a machine, giving blood.”
“So, you killed him?” Remus pointed to their bloody clothes and arms.
“Not as such,” Elgin said.
Rabelais turned the hose on his chest. “Little guy popped Sarge in the nuts and ran off. Took that shiny thing.”
“He tore open a bunch of blood bags as he ran.” Elgin looked at his sopping wet clothes. “Twinkle toes over here slipped and took me down with him. The rascal got away before we could grab him.”
“Are you telling me Winton Chevalier somehow escaped you? Twice? And now he has what’s mine?”
“What was that, Cap?” Rabelais asked. “It were real shiny.”
Remus got a call on his phone. He turned from his underlings and answered.
“Remus,” he said.
“Captain Remus.” A vaguely familiar voice tinged with an Australian accent. “I thought we should talk.”
“Anders?” Remus asked. He’d met the man once before, but Maroulis usually was the go-between.
“The very one,” Anders said. “Seems our mutual friend has had an untimely passing.”
Remus grunted. “Yes, well. I suppose that ends our association.”
“See, that won’t work for me.” Something loud and m
etal clanged on Anders’ side of the call. “Maroulis may not provide docks anymore, but I will still need police protection if a new order is to be established.”
“We’re done, Anders. Sorry. I’m moving on.”
Anders did not reply. Remus heard whimpering, scraping noises. Anders said something to someone, giving a command.
“I don’t suppose you’d be motivated by a sum of money,” Anders said coolly. “A cut of profits? Maroulis out of the picture leaves a rather large slice to divide.”
“I’m not motivated by anything so base.”
“I feared that might be the case,” Anders said.
A man’s voice echoed around a small room and through the phone line. “No, no, no!”
“I’m going to put you on speaker,” Anders said. “Now, tell him what you saw.”
It was as if Anders was speaking to someone there with him.
“Tell him what you saw,” Anders said calmly, as if to a small child.
“I didn’t see anything,” a new voice panted. “I won’t say anything. I promise.”
Remus knew that voice. That meddling twerp, Lucas Chevalier.
“I’ve told you Lucas,” Anders said. “You need to tell the truth. Jemma.”
“No, no!”
A wet clang sounded, and Lucas screamed.
“Now tell us again what you saw,” Anders said. “Or we do that one more time.”
“Remus,” Lucas said, voice ragged from pain and terror. “He killed Maroulis in his house after they argued. He made it look like a suicide.”
Anders took the phone off speaker. “Are you there, Captain Remus?”
“What’s wrong, boss?” Rabelais asked.
Remus ignored him, feeling a golf ball-sized lump form in his throat. “I’m here,” he choked into the phone.
Another muffled scream rang out from somewhere near Anders. “I despise threats,” the smooth Aussie said. “It’s not good business practice. However, if I cannot motivate you to provide us the protections we need with some positive incentive, I’ll have to utilize a negative, a threat. Do we have an understanding?”
“If you release him, he’ll out you to the authorities, too.”
“A video recorded statement from Lucas sent to your bosses would probably serve. Besides, if we decide to release him, we’ll be long gone off to another port, a new deal. You? Well. You’ll be ruined.”
Remus fumed.
“That’s all for now, Captain Remus. We’ll be in touch.”
Anders hung up, leaving Remus to stare at his phone, rage building within him. He threw it down and stomped over the patchy grass to a stack of crawdad traps, the nearest thing he could destroy.
FIFTEEN
The midday sun felt good on Winton’s skin, and mild air circulated through the cab of the green truck, as Julius turned a corner onto a nondescript street. After barely sleeping the night before, and then having the day he’d had, he was crashing, though it was just after two pm.
“Maybe we can get a voodoo potion to perk you up,” Julius said.
Winton was too tired to make some retort. He looked about, wondering how close they were to their destination. Julius had claimed he didn’t know any witches or warlocks or sorcerers of any kind, but agreed to bring Winton to the same place he brought tourists looking for a taste of New Orleans Voodoo—Spirit House.
Julius pulled to the curb a block away from the shop, and they both got out. The moment Winton’s nose was through Spirit House’s door it was assaulted with pungent incense. He stepped through a foyer of sorts — an arbor from which dangled scarves and chimes and talismans. Once through it, Winton took a turn and assessed the boutique. In some ways, it felt like a second hand store or a more organized version of Maroulis’ temple. In others, it felt stale and packaged for souvenir consumption rather than for authentic attempts at magic or religious use. Either way, Winton didn’t know how to identify much of what he saw. As he approached the back, the items on display took a more haphazard arrangement and grew increasingly garish. A bundle of what looked an awful lot like monkey heads were slung from the corner of a book case supporting baubles and crystal balls on its shelves.
Winton caught Julius’ eye and cocked a brow.
Julius shrugged. “Best I could do.”
“I don’t see anything like what I found in my brother’s cruiser.”
“You sure it’s a bone?” Julius asked.
“No. But it’s a best guess.”
“The guy that runs this place, he oughta know.”
Winton stepped to the rear counter and looked for a chime or bell he could ring for assistance, then relied on a polite but loud hello.
“Hold up,” a voice said in a thick island accent from behind a wall. A door opened, unfurling a cloud of smoke into the hallway. Out of the cloud, a thin, dark man appeared, smoking a blunt the size of one of his bony fingers. He wore a big green, yellow and red knit cap and had thin dreadlocks extending from beneath it. “Whatchu need, bruddah?”
“I was hoping to get an expert opinion on something.”
“Yeah, da monkey heads are real. Only $59.99.”
Winton took another step up to the glass case separating the front and back of the house and set upon it the slender golden trinket.
The shopkeeper mumbled to himself in words Winton couldn’t understand. He edged closer, eyes pinned to the golden object. When he reached out to touch it, he recoiled in pain, hissing. “Moddafucka!”
“What just happened?” Julius stepped up behind Winton.
“Where you get dis ting here?” The shopkeeper clutched his hand to this chest.
Winton hadn’t been expecting such a strong reaction. He looked from the shopkeeper to the trinket, then over his shoulder at Julius.
“What is it?” Julius asked.
“Dis,” the man said, bending at the waist like a large bird, hands up in his armpits, “dis look like a piece odda enfador.”
“Is it magic?” Winton asked.
“Oh, it magic.” The man bared his teeth, and tears sprang from his eyes. Julius and Winton exchanged a shocked look.
“Oh, dis a most hateful magic.”
“What is it?” Winton asked. “Is it some sort of bone?”
The shopkeeper’s gaze shot up. “Ah course itta bone! Is a piece odda enfador.”
“What the shit is a enfador?” Julius asked.
“I only hear of it. Never seen one all together. De old witches and voodoo kings could make de enfador come alive and cast spells, such powerful spells.”
Winton’s mind raced as he took in the man’s words. “Enfador. Like enfant d’or?”
“Some say, so. The golden child,” the man said in a curious whine. He wiped tears from his eyes. “Others say it come from Spanish. Enfadar. To make angry. To enrage.”
“You mean to tell me,” Winton said, “that this is the bone of a baby?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Jesus.” Winton remembered the velvet lined case. Dozens of slots. For dozens of bones. And a large space at the top. “For a skull,” Winton gasped.
“Wait up,” Julius said, pointing downward. “That’s a fuckin’ baby bone dipped in gold?”
The shopkeeper peered closer in his birdlike movement. “It is the thigh bone of the enfador, I believe.”
After a moment of stunned silence, Julius shot his hands in the air. “Nah. Fuck this. I’m out.” He turned for the exit.
Winton was too stricken to stop him.
“So, if someone wanted to try and make the enfador come alive, would they need all the pieces?” Winton swallowed. “All the bones?”
“It’s like dem Christmas lights, blood. One light go out, none of them little fuckas work.”
“Where does this magic come from?”
“I do not know. De enfador come from dat Creole, yah. Haiti. Spanish islands. Old slave magic. Maybe dem Cajun from France, dey bring a dark magic of dey own.”
“Can I ask where you’re from?”
>
“Ah, me, man.” The shopkeeper leaned closer. “I come from a scary place, place fulla dead eyes and grey souls. A place where da mist come take you soul, where da little men cast long shadows.”
“Jamaica?”
“New Jersey.”
Winton blinked.
“Me name’s Zacharias King.” He extended a hand.
“Winton Chevalier.” They shook.
“Ah, dat French blood.” Zacharias waved a finger. “Cajun blood.”
“Suppose so. So, uhh, Zacharias…”
“Me know, me know. Me not born in da islands, but me born in da islands. You know me, blood?”
“And this rebirth in the Caribbean,” Winton said, “did it coincide with the consumption of massive amounts of drugs?”
“It did, brudda. It did. And, uhh…” Zacharias cleared his throat and blinked, as if clearing a fog from his eyes. “I guess the accent helps the tourists buy the icons and monkey heads,” he said in an accent closer to Jersey than Jamaica.
“All the world’s a stage,” Winton sighed, quoting Shakespeare.
“And all the men and women merely players,” Zacharias said, switching to an earthy baritone. “They have their exits and their entrances. And one man in his time may play several parts.”
Winton clapped twice. “You’re a committed weirdo, Zach.”
But Zacharias didn’t break from his intonation. He bent his knees, eyes widening, glazing over, seeming lost to their interaction, now in a space all his own. Zacharias splayed seven fingers. “His acts being seven ages.” He danced from side to side, knees and elbows bent. “At first the infant!”
He looked close at the golden bone, then hissed and backed away behind a beaded curtain.
Winton stood in raptured silence, wondering if Zacharias would come back, and if so, in what state. He heard something break in the rear, like a tea cup, and the mumblings of Zacharias.
Winton peered over the counter down the hallway, seeing nothing.
“Thanks… Thanks for your help,” Winton called out. “I guess?”