“Jack.” I kept my voice gentle. “We should go. How about we find some place to get lunch? I’ll buy.”
“That a good idea,” Leon seconded. “We need to find Cassandra — she’s around here somewhere — and skedaddle. There’s no reason to hang when we’re obviously not needed.”
“I didn’t say you could leave,” Thibodeaux pointed out.
“Then arrest us,” Leon suggested. “You can’t keep us without placing us in custody and we both know you won’t do that because you have no proof. We’ve told you what happened. The evidence will back our story. There’s nothing left for us to do here.”
“And what if I don’t want you to leave?” Thibodeaux challenged. “What if I demand you stay?”
“Then I’m going to insist you make us.” Leon’s tone turned dark. “If you want us to stay, you’re going to have to arrest us. If you do, make no mistake, I’ll hang so many lawyers on you that you’ll never shake them all off. Is that really what you want?”
Initially, Thibodeaux didn’t say anything. He just glared. Finally, he started shaking his head. “Just go. I’ll be in touch when I have more evidence.”
“I’m sure you will.” Leon nodded. “When you have that evidence, we’ll be expecting apologies from you as well.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
Leon motioned for Jack to fall into step with him. “Come on. I’ll text Cassandra and have her meet us at the front gate … if she’s still here. She might’ve run when she heard the sirens.”
Jack reached out and grabbed my hand so he could pull me along. “Come on, Charlie.”
I followed without complaint, waiting until we were around the corner to say anything. “That is not a happy detective.”
“He’s not,” Leon agreed. “There’s a story behind that ... but I can’t tell it here. Let’s find a spot for lunch and I’ll lay it all out for you there.”
“What about your niece?” Jack asked. “Where did she go?”
“Oh, well, she was probably carrying.” Leon’s smile was rueful. “She likes her pot. I’m pretty sure she took off the second she realized the cops were coming. I’ll text her to make sure, but I wouldn’t worry about her.”
“You know some colorful people, don’t you, Leon?” I queried.
He laughed. “I do. Just wait until I tell you about Henri. Talk about colorful.”
THE RESTAURANT LEON PICKED for lunch was quaint and homey. The menu wasn’t fancy — something for which I was thankful — but I was still determined to try local fare.
“I’m going to have a poor boy.”
Jack, who shared a booth bench with me, slid me a sidelong look. “Po’ boy,” he corrected automatically. “If you call it a poor boy the waitress will laugh at you ... and then probably lick your food.”
I knit my eyebrows. “What’s a po’ boy?”
“I already told you. It’s a sandwich.”
“Yeah, but ... where does the name come from?”
“That I can’t answer.”
“I can, if you’re really interested,” Leon offered, sipping his sweet tea.
“I don’t think we care that much,” Jack replied.
I shot him a look. “Speak for yourself. I like learning new and interesting things.”
“We’re talking about a sandwich here, but I’m happy to oblige.” Leon offered me a wink. “Back in the 1920s, it’s said that a restaurant owner served his former colleagues free sandwiches during a strike against a streetcar company. The story goes that the people handing out the sandwiches to hungry friends called them ‘poor boys.’ That has since been shorted to po’ boys.”
“Ha!” I waved a finger in Jack’s face. “I told you they were called poor boys.”
“Not anymore they’re not.” Jack grabbed my finger and gave it a squeeze, smiling. “I won’t feel sorry for you if you call it that and they lick your food.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to call it that. I want a chicken one, with extra pickles.”
“Oh, good. I love it when you have pickle breath.” He held my gaze for a moment before turning back to his friend. Leon was watching us with amusement, which caused Jack to snap to attention. “I mean ... pickles are good.”
“Oh, don’t bother.” Leon let loose a dismissive wave. “You can’t cover for that charming little exchange. You two are so ... sweet.”
Jack glowered at him. “We’re not sweet. We’re ... what’s the word I’m looking for?” He looked to me for help.
“Sexy,” I automatically answered. The instant the word popped out of my mouth I regretted it. The look on Jack’s face was speculative ... and then some. “I mean ... we’re sassy. Yeah, that’s the word.”
“You’re definitely sassy,” Jack agreed, leaning back and extending his arm so it rested across my shoulders along the back of the bench. “So, you said there was a story about Thibodeaux. We’re dying to hear it.”
“You just want to change the subject from your sweet little girlfriend,” Leon teased. “Well, I’ll oblige ... but only because I’m afraid I might get a cavity if I don’t focus on something else.”
“I’ll never live this down, will I?” Jack whined.
“Nope.” Leon’s grin widened. “As for Henri, his story is interesting. He’s famous in police circles for what happened during Katrina.”
My interest was officially piqued. “Hurricane Katrina?”
Leon nodded. “That was in 2005, so it was fourteen years ago, but it’s still fresh in the minds of a lot of people.”
“My understanding is that neighborhoods are still recovering,” I noted. “I read a few articles on the plane that said a lot of the buildings that were damaged are still being rebuilt, and some neighborhoods look completely different.”
“That’s true,” Leon confirmed. “But the French Quarter wasn’t hit as bad as other wards and, because of tourism there was a priority to get this area back up and running. The poorer areas are still struggling.”
“That’s too bad.”
“It is, but this city is strong and I love it,” Leon said. “Henri feels the same way. We’ve known each other a number of years. He’s older than me — a good eight years or so — but he went to school with my brother, so I was aware of him growing up.
“He wasn’t a bad kid,” he continued. “He was quiet and kept to himself. His father was the former New Orleans Police chief and was very strict. Henri wasn’t allowed to hang around with anyone unless they were properly vetted by his father ... and I’m betting you can guess how that went over.”
“Not good, huh?” Jack’s fingers moved to the back of my neck, tracing light circles. “We knew a few guys who were raised in law enforcement families when we were in the military. They were the craziest guys.”
“In general,” Leon said. “That’s not how Henri was, though. He followed all the rules and did exactly as his father demanded. He never put up a fuss and made sure he didn’t miss curfew. He wasn’t a hell-raiser like my brother. He was a rule follower and good boy. It was no surprise to anyone when he decided to become a cop.
“The thing is, his upbringing was weird for another reason.” Leon stretched in his seat as he got comfortable. “Henri’s mother was his father’s second wife. She was a voodoo priestess, supposedly of some renown in this area, and it was some big scandal when his father took up with this woman because he was married and had two other kids.
“This was obviously before my time, but people were still talking about it when I was growing up,” he continued. “Some scandals never die, and this was one of them. So, the chief’s first wife left him because she was embarrassed. Racial politics were still a thing back then — and technically still are today — so being thrown over for a black woman who made money reading palms on Bourbon Street was considered the height of embarrassment.
“She packed up and left the state. The rumor is she moved to Virginia, but I don’t know that it matters. My understanding is the chief never got to
see the children he had with her again. That was their choice, I guess. He immediately took up with this voodoo priestess, married her, and together they had Henri.”
It was an interesting story, but I wasn’t sure where he was going with it. “Did he get picked on because he was mixed race? It’s not his fault, after all.”
“I don’t know that he was picked on,” Leon replied. “I don’t think it was all that bad, but it doesn’t matter. The most important part of the story is that the voodoo priestess picked up and left when Henri was eight or nine, leaving him with his father, who was extremely strict.
“I don’t know what happened to the voodoo priestess and I don’t even know her name,” he said. “She just disappeared. I once heard a rumor that Henri’s father killed her because she was conducting black magic in their house, but I don’t believe that — and Henri’s whole life was his father.”
“Are you trying to make me feel sorry for him?” Jack asked blandly. “If so, it’s not working. He’s still a jerk.”
“I’m simply trying to explain why Henri is the way he is,” Leon corrected. “Like I said, Henri had a relatively normal childhood. His father was ridiculously overprotective, though. For example, Henri wasn’t allowed to hang around at any of the voodoo shops. Most of the locals don’t, but occasionally, if there’s beer and fun to be had, it’s been known to happen.
“Henri was never allowed to party with the other kids and was restricted from hanging around in what his father deemed ‘rough’ areas,” he said. “He was relatively popular, but he wasn’t wild and crazy. He followed the rules, became a cop and fulfilled the destiny his father set out for him.
“Then Katrina hit,” he continued, his voice darkening. “Some of the cops ran because they were afraid. I don’t blame them. Most stayed. It was a terrifying time. Some of the people who remained behind were poor and got trapped.
“In one of the buildings in the 9th Ward, several children were in an apartment when their mother got separated from them because she was out trying to secure food.” He turned morose. “The building started flooding and the kids couldn’t find a way out. Henri took a boat and got into the building and saved all five children. He did it on his own and without any backup.”
I felt a grudging respect growing for the man. “That was nice of him. He was a hero that day.”
“He was. The feat also made him famous ... especially when news hit that his father died in the storm.”
My eyebrows flew up my forehead. “Oh, wow! That’s horrible. How did he die?”
“No one is sure how, but he drowned,” Leon replied. “It was a tragedy. He stayed behind to help and it ended up costing him his life. What’s interesting is that once his father was gone, Henri all of a sudden started acting out.
“He wasn’t mean or anything,” he added hurriedly. “He just suddenly discovered he had an ego. I always theorized he thought he had to live up to his father so he channeled the man’s personality. It doesn’t matter, though.
“What’s important to note is that this city believes Henri is a hero,” he said. “They believe he saved five children at the time he could’ve been helping his father. He gave of himself to save innocents. That’s helped him grow to almost mythical proportions.”
“I don’t understand what that has to do with his attitude today,” Jack persisted. “Just because he’s a hero doesn’t mean he gets to be a jerk.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Henri believes his own hype. He does whatever he wants and often gets away with it. Quietly, though, he’s amassed quite a few reprimands. His future in the department isn’t secure because of some of the things he’s pulled.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that he’s a wild card,” Leon continued. “He’s not a bad man and he will help if he thinks it will benefit him. He’s mostly interested in what people think of him, and he most certainly doesn’t want to be the guy who let zombies take over on his watch. That won’t go over well given the whole ‘his mother was a voodoo priestess who abandoned him’ thing. I don’t think he ever got over that and he has attitude when it comes to the hoodoo and voodoo folk. It doesn’t matter if they’re the real deal or grifters.”
“Oh.” Realization dawned on me. “He doesn’t want to believe in any of it because his mother abandoned him and voodoo was a part of her belief system. That makes sense.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense to me,” Jack groused. “He doesn’t need to be a jerk for no good reason.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Leon agreed. “That won’t stop him from going after you if he thinks you’re a threat to his perfect world. I just thought I should make you aware of his past.”
“Thank you for that.” Jack smiled at his friend. “It explains a few things. I’ll have to make a call to Myron and tell him what’s going on. There’s a chance he might be able to rein in Henri.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Leon said, “but good luck with it. I’ll be interested to see if you can get it done.”
“That makes two of us.”
Twelve
I felt better after the sandwich. The food bolstered my energy level to the point I was almost bouncing when it came time to leave.
“Where are we going next?”
Jack looked amused when he slid his eyes to me. “Where would you like to go?”
“I’d like to go on one of those swamp tours where they take you out to look at gators and bayou gas that’s supposed to look like ghosts. But I doubt we have time for that.”
“Swamp tour?” He arched an eyebrow. “I’ll see what I can figure out for later. For now, we have to stick to the French Quarter.”
“I’ve never been here before. I don’t know where to suggest going. You can pick.”
He exhaled heavily as he absently brushed my hair away from my face. “We’re supposed to meet the others at the hotel at two. That gives us a full hour. How would you like to see a voodoo store?”
“I saw one when I went out with Millie,” I reminded him.
“Yes, but this is a store I know about.”
Leon snickered. “I believe I know which store you’re talking about. That’s a fabulous idea.”
I was confused. “Is there some joke I’m missing out on?”
“Yes.” Jack’s eyes twinkled. “But you’ll like it.”
VIXEN VOODOO — THAT WAS its real name — wasn’t what I expected. The second we walked through the door I could tell the atmosphere was different. The women behind the counter weren’t exactly women, you see. They were something else entirely.
“Oh, they’re drag voodoo priestesses.” I was excited. “This is awesome!”
Jack grinned. “I thought you’d like it.” He snagged me by the back of my shirt before I could take off and search the store. “Don’t break anything. They have a strict ‘you break, you buy’ policy.”
“How do you know that?” I was legitimately curious. “Have you been here before?”
“Let’s just say that I know the owner and leave it at that.”
That sounded ... intriguing. “How do you know the owner? Is he here? Wait ... she? Am I supposed to say she? I’ve never understood the correct way to refer to a drag queen. Or ... is that a rude term? Am I not supposed to say that?”
Jack merely shook his head. He looked tired. “I think you’re okay just being you. They’ll understand that you’re not being rude as much as honest. As for the he-she thing, I would go with she.”
“She.” I nodded. “Good tip.”
“Don’t break anything,” he repeated.
“I’m not that clumsy.”
He chuckled. “Maybe I should go with you just to make sure.”
He sounded so certain that I wanted to elbow him ... hard. I was fairly certain that would result in me accidentally knocking something off a shelf, so I refrained. “Whatever.”
Jack stuck close but didn’t crowd me as I looked around the store. At a certain point I realized Leon wasn’t with us, which threw m
e off. I found him at the counter talking with one of the workers.
“How do you know the owner of this place?” I asked as I glanced over my shoulder. I was confused. “You’re not the judgmental type — I appreciate that, by the way, so keep it up — but this doesn’t seem the sort of place where you would spend time.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Which means you don’t want to tell me,” I deduced.
“It means that I don’t want to tell you right now,” he clarified. “I have no problem telling you later, when it’s just the two of us.”
“Okay.” I understood what he was saying. He didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing us, especially since it could be potentially misconstrued. “You can tell me later.”
“Thank you.” He leaned forward and I thought he was going to kiss me in the middle of the store, which was unlike him when we were working. Instead, he pointed his nose toward the shelf and smiled. “Louisiana chicory. That is the best coffee. Remind me to take you to Cafe Du Monde so you can try it ... and beignets. You’ll love their beignets.”
“Sure. You know me. I’ll try anything.”
“Yes, but this is something you’ll actually like, and your tongue won’t catch fire when you eat them.”
“Then I’m on board.”
He laughed, but he wasn’t alone. Another voice, a rich baritone, joined in from behind me.
“How cute,” the voice pronounced, causing me to swivel quickly.
Jack grabbed me by the shoulders before I could careen into the coffee mug display and send it crashing to the ground. “Hold up, Charlie. It’s okay,” he murmured as he pressed my back against his chest and moved his eyes to the individual wearing a purple turban, ankle-length skirt and shirt that revealed a decent amount of fine chest hair. “Hello, Max ... or are you going by a different name now?”
“I’m Max,” he replied. “I don’t really live the life as fully as others. I’m more of a dabbler, although everyone is welcome here. I still enjoy the game.” He flicked his eyes to me. “And who is your friend?”
The Undead Uproar Page 11
