Undead Agent

by Gary Jonas

  Street lights cast pools of illumination down the old road.

  “She doesn’t really live on Rousseau Street, does she?” I asked.

  Tara laughed. “No. This is just a good place to walk from.”

  “Why not catch a ride all the way?”

  “Because Mama doesn’t want anyone to know where she lives. But don’t worry about walking; this is one of the safest neighborhoods in the city.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Then you heard wrong.”

  We walked down Rousseau Street. There wasn’t much of a sidewalk. A bit of concrete here and there with weeds and grass growing all around it. What little sidewalk existed was broken and uneven.

  On our right, we walked by a small Egyptian-style building.

  “There was a courthouse and jail here once,” Tara said.

  Walking at night in New Orleans seemed like one of those things you’d read about on websites telling you what not to do. But while the area didn’t seem to be well-to-do, Tara was right. It didn’t strike me as unsafe.

  We walked a few blocks, and I pointed to a colorful playground illuminated by a street light. “I’ll bet you used to play there,” I said.

  Tara shook her head. “Mama didn’t like us to play with the neighborhood kids.”

  We turned right on Soraparu Street as crickets chirped, and a dog barked in the distance.

  “We’re almost there.”

  As she spoke the words, a sleek black car turned the corner, headlights sweeping over us. The car angled in our direction, and I put a hand out to stop Tara.

  The car stopped with the headlights shining in our faces. The doors opened. Derek remained behind the wheel. Hank and Franklin stepped out, aiming cold silver guns at us.

  “End of the line, folks,” Hank said. He stepped up to Tara and pressed the gun to her head. “Don’t even think about going for that hex bag.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “You,” Franklin said, pointing his gun at me. “Get in the car.”

  “My brother won’t like it if you shoot me,” Tara said.

  “Who do you think sent us, you moron?”

  She took a swing at Hank, but he dodged. He pushed her backward. I caught her before she fell.

  Then I must have let something show on my face.

  Hank stepped up to me. “This is the wrong time to try to grow a pair of balls, asshole.” He shoved his gun up under my chin. “Your life depends on whether or not I choose to squeeze this trigger. I can end you.”

  I wanted to take the gun away from him and shove it up his ass, but Franklin had his gun leveled at Tara. Maybe I should have insisted on having Kelly come along after all.

  “Please don’t kill him,” Tara said.

  “You want to save his life? Get in the car.”

  “I’d like to suggest an alternative,” Tara said.

  “I didn’t ask you,” Hank said.

  “Stay cool,” I said, keeping my hands up. I kept my eyes on him, but focused my peripheral vision on Franklin. As soon as there was an opening of any kind, I’d take them out, but while Franklin had that gun on Tara, I didn’t have any good options.

  Hank smiled as he gazed into my eyes. “How does it feel to know your life is in my hands?”

  “I’ve had better days,” I admitted.

  “Are you sure you want to get cute with me?”

  “I’ll go with you,” Tara said.

  “Oh, I know you will. But I don’t like the way this asshole is eyeballing me.” He pushed the barrel into the soft flesh under my jaw. “You’re thinking you should be a hero here, aren’t you? Let me dispel any notion you might have in that arena. You can’t pull away fast enough to save yourself. See, this pistol may not look like much, but it has a muzzle velocity of around a thousand feet per second.”

  “I said I’ll go with you,” Tara said. “Please don’t kill him.”

  “I’m the arbiter of who lives and who dies here,” Hank said. “Franklin, if she talks again, I want you to shoot her. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Franklin said, holding his gun steady.

  I kept my mouth shut, searching for any action that might help. I needed to de-escalate the situation, try to keep Tara alive, but not let her go with them. One thing stood out above all others. Don’t say anything to antagonize them.

  “You assholes need to back the fuck off,” Tara said.

  “Franklin, what did I say?” Hank asked.

  “Shoot her if she talks,” Franklin said. “Oh.”

  He squeezed the trigger. The crack of gunfire echoed through the neighborhood.

  Tara smiled at Franklin. “You missed.”

  “That’s not possible,” Franklin said and pulled the trigger again. The bang echoed off the shotgun houses.

  Tara laughed. “You missed again.”

  He pulled the trigger three more times. Shells flew out of the gun and rolled in the street.

  “You’re not very good at this,” Tara said. She seemed relaxed now.

  Hank shoved me aside and shot Tara.

  But he missed, too.

  “What the hell?”

  “You might want to spend some time at the range doing more target practice,” Tara said.

  Hank aimed at me, and pulled the trigger before I could move to try and disarm him.

  I flinched at the crack of the gun, but at point blank range, Hank missed. I stared at my chest. No blood.

  Hank rushed forward, jammed the gun into my gut and pulled the trigger again and again. The shells ejected from the side of the firearm and clattered on the street.

  I flinched with every gunshot, but didn’t feel any pain.

  Hank pulled back.

  No blood.

  He stared at the gun.

  “I’m alive,” I said. “How am I still alive?”

  I smacked the gun out of Hank’s hand, and kicked him hard in the chest. He staggered backward, and Franklin took another shot at me, but somehow managed to miss. I started toward him.

  A deep rumble rolled down the street, sounding like an earthquake. There were no vibrations in the ground, just the sound.

  Hank and Franklin looked around.

  Tara rushed back to my side. I eased her behind me to keep her out of harm’s way.

  Tara leaned around me and shook a finger at them. “You boys have really stepped in it now.”

  Their eyes widened, and their mouths dropped open as they looked around.

  A woman appeared by the black car. She seemed to step out of the shadows, and left wisps of fog swirling behind her as she approached. She wore a brightly colored plaid coiffe, a black dress that flowed over her ample form, and a red shawl around her shoulders. Big hooped earrings dangled against her neck, and scores of golden bracelets jingled as she raised her hands.

  She walked right up to Hank, her hands cupped together as she shook them. Something rattled in her hands.

  Hank stared at her. “Madame Rousseau,” he whispered, his breath full of reverence. “Queen of New Orleans.”

  “Put the guns away, boys,” she said.

  Hank and Franklin obeyed without question.

  “Open your hands, boy,” she said.

  Hank cupped his hands, palms up.

  “I think these are yours,” she said, only she didn’t pronounce the “h” in think. As she spoke, she opened her hands and let bullets drop into Hank’s palms.

  “How did you—?”

  She reached into a pocket on the side of her dress, opened her hand, and blew powder into Hank’s face.

  She wagged a finger in front of him. “No,” she said. “You don’t speak to me, boy. You get into your car there.”

  He wrinkled his nose and squinted. Then he and Franklin staggered to their car. They climbed into their seats.

  “The police are expecting you, boys. Don’t keep them waiting.”

  “Yes, Madame Rousseau,” Hank said, his voice monotone. “We’ll turn ourselves in.”

>   Derek drove them away into the night.

  Mama turned to Tara. “Where y’at, child?”

  Tara shrugged. “Awrite,” she said with an exaggerated accent.

  Madame Rousseau smiled at her. “Did you pass a good time?”

  “That might be pushing it a bit,” Tara said, going back to her normal voice.

  “That’s some seriously powerful magic,” I said.

  “Weren’t nothing,” Mama said.

  “I’m—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Shade.” She shook her head. “You put my Tara in a spot of danger.”

  “Uh…”

  She laughed. “Helps to get the heart beating. Ain’t that right?”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “Iffin’ you’re in a hurry,” Madame Rousseau said, “you’ll have a bit of a wait. I don’t walk as fast as I used to, and I ain’t a-wastin’ my magic on a grand exit.”

  We walked several blocks to Madame Rousseau’s house. Two streetlights illuminated a courtyard before an orange double shotgun house. The porch light reflected off the blue ceiling.

  Tara opened the front gate for Madame Rousseau. The gate was flanked on either side by rosemary bushes. A row of Bougainvillea bushes lined the side of the courtyard.

  “Is that paint haint blue?” I asked. A lot of porches in New Orleans had ceilings with blue paint.

  Tara laughed. “Haint blue isn’t a color. Any blue on the ceiling over a porch is considered haint blue. A haint is a spirit—the restless dead who haven’t left our world. Evil spirits can’t cross water, so the blue tricks them into thinking it’s water.”

  Madame Rousseau climbed the steps to her porch. She pointed at the ceiling and smiled. “Haint that a shame,” she sang as if she were channeling Fats Domino.

  “I like her,” I said.

  She opened the door to the house. “Dinner will be ready in five,” she said.

  “We just ate,” I said.

  The aroma of gumbo wafted out of the house.

  “But maybe we could eat again.”

  Tara held the door for me. “Go on in,” she said.

  I obeyed.

  Inside, the shotgun house was not the small building I expected from the outside.

  I looked at the spacious home with hallways and sweeping staircases, and marble floors, and beautiful furniture. “It’s like a T.A.R.D.I.S.”

  “A what?” Tara asked.

  “It’s bigger on the inside.”

  “Always has been. Let me lead you to the kitchen.”

  Tara took my hand and led me down a hallway to a large kitchen with a standing island. Bar stools stood around the center island, and then the room opened into a large family room with a sectional sofa, and walls lined with bookshelves.

  Jazz played softly from speakers inset into the walls.

  Madame Rousseau hummed along with the music as she stirred a large pot. There were already plates and bowls set on the counter island.

  Tara kept hold of my hand, as we sat on stools, and I didn’t mind. Her hand felt good in mine.

  “Thank you for getting me home safely,” she said.

  “I wasn’t sure either of us was going to make it home.”

  “Mama’s influence surrounds her,” Tara said.” I’m just glad she wasn’t at Tony’s place tonight.”

  “Who’s Tony?”

  Tara whispered, “Her lover.”

  “Oh, honey,” Madame Rousseau said. “No need to whisper. Tony makes me holler with pleasure like you wouldn’t believe, but he ain’t John Simon. That man knows what a woman needs. He can say Simon says to me any time he likes.”

  “I don’t think Jonathan needs to hear about your love life, Mama.”

  Madame Rousseau turned and looked at me with a mischievous grin. “I think Jonathan could use some spice in his life, ain’t that right?” Then she laughed. “Would you look at that. He’s blushing.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After the meal, Madame Rousseau invited me to sit on her back patio in white plastic chairs around a circular table with one of those umbrella canopies, though that was folded down and tied off around the pole.

  I thanked her for the meal, and she waved it off like it wasn’t a big deal.

  We sipped some alcoholic concoction she called Death’s Afterglow. I have no clue what she put in it, but it tasted like fruit punch, only it had a bite to it, and two glasses gave me a slight buzz even after a meal.

  The night was warm, but a soft breeze kept the trees in the backyard rustling. A fireplug of a basenji dog named Jack sat beside my chair. I leaned down to pet him.

  “Careful,” Tara said. “Jack likes attention. You start petting him now, you’ll be petting him all night.”

  “Jack likes you,” Madame Rousseau said, and poured me another drink from the pitcher on the table.

  “He seems like a good dog,” I said, scratching under his chin. When I stopped paying attention to him, he nudged my leg. I reached down and petted him some more.

  “Told you,” Tara said.

  “Tells me something special, Jack liking you,” Madame Rousseau said. “He’s a good judge of character.”

  Sitting in the backyard, aside from the way she was dressed, Madame Rousseau’s place seemed so normal, right down to the dog. If I hadn’t seen her in action, she could have passed for a typical grandmother relaxing on the back porch with her daughter and a friend. I made a note that she dropped the speech pattern she’d used with Hank and the others. I suspected it was a public persona versus private thing.

  We could have kicked back and talked about regular things, but Tara took us down the more interesting path.

  “Emmanuel possessed me again,” she said. “That’s why I haven’t been home in a week.”

  “You got the tattoo.”

  “And it didn’t work.”

  “You did it wrong.”

  “I had the artist follow the exact design you gave me, Mama.”

  “Then he did it wrong.”

  “She, but still,” Tara said.

  “Let me see it,” Madame Rousseau said.

  Tara got up, walked over, and showed her the tattoo. Madame Rousseau took a pair of glasses out of a pocket, put them on, and studied the artwork. She frowned.

  “You had her put the potion in the ink?”

  “Of course, Mama.”

  Madame Rousseau shrugged. “That should have worked.”

  “Well, it didn’t,” Tara said, coming around the table to take her seat again. “And you told me you destroyed Emmanuel.”

  “I told you I destroyed the body he was using. I never said I destroyed his spirit.”

  “You led me to believe it.”

  “You led me to believe you’d be moving out, too, but that sure hasn’t happened.”

  “I’m looking for a place.”

  “You two talk like mother and daughter,” I said.

  “Mama raised me. My mother died when I was young.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Tara said.

  “I wasn’t accepting blame,” I said, still petting the dog. “I was simply expressing sympathy.”

  “I’m not used to that.” She changed the subject. “Mama, Jonathan wanted to ask you something.”

  Madame Rousseau took off her glasses and set them on the table. “I’m listening,” she said.

  “The things I wanted to ask aren’t important now,” I said. “Paul Tanner is dead, and evidently fed to the alligators, so finding him won’t be happening.”

  “That was the reason you came to New Orleans?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “That was the surface reason. The real reason was because I was told you raised your son from the dead even after his body had been destroyed.”

  “My grandson,” she said. “He didn’t come back the same, but they never do. Sometimes they come back better, but that’s actually rare.”

  “You’ve tried it before?”

  “Of course,
but not without a body. That was an experiment, and I shouldn’t have tried it. Emmanuel’s ghost was still there, so I thought it was worth the attempt. Sadly, I was wrong. Have you lost someone?”

  “Who hasn’t?” I asked. “But no, I was hoping to help a friend. She’s a ghost.”

  “No body?”

  “She died in 1929.”

  Madame Rousseau nodded again. “While I could do what I did with Emmanuel, I don’t recommend it. What’s her name?”

  “Esther,” I said.

  “I’ll take ‘Ghosts That Start with the Letter E’ for a thousand, Alex,” Tara said.

  Madame Rousseau ignored her, and said, “Tell me about Esther.”

  “She’s amazing. For a ghost, she’s full of life. Funny, caring, always happy to help. Emotional, but that might be part of the reason she’s still around after all these years.”

  “You love her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me rephrase that. Are you in love with her?”

  “Not like that. She’s in love with me, though.”

  Madame Rousseau nodded as if that explained the secrets of the universe. “I’d like to meet her.”

  “She’ll be here this weekend,” I said. “Maybe sooner because I’ll be calling Kelly when I get back to my hotel.”

  “You’re staying for a while?” Tara asked.

  “Emmanuel claimed he killed Paul Tanner,” I said. “As I’m ostensibly searching for Paul, I figure I should find some way to verify his death. Also, I’m not keen on leaving without handling Emmanuel somehow. I don’t like the idea of him possessing you again.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help.”

  “I guess that’s true. Your brother did. Sort of.”

  “Really? Oh God, did he come onto you in my body?”

  “A little, but don’t worry, we didn’t do anything.”

  Madame Rousseau clapped a hand on the table, making her glasses bounce, and the liquor slosh around in the pitcher. The dog jumped.

  “Jonathan,” she said, staring at me. “You spoke with Emmanuel to set up a meeting. Correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  She raised her head to the stars and closed her eyes.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked.

  “He looked you up,” she said.

  “So?”