by John Ringo
And then he left.
* * *
The MCB agents’ departure had kind of killed the mood.
“Mister Gardenier!” a familiar female voice said from behind me. “Meeester Gar Den ee yay!”
“Madame Courtney?” I said, looking around, wandering what my real estate agent was doing here.
“Come, come!” she said. “The loas find you home! We close at one! Must hurry!”
“What?” I said. Confused really doesn’t cover it. Whip-lashed is closer. I’m all about flexible minds but at that point my brain was over-cooked spaghetti.
“You should see your home before we close, yes?” she said, her eyes sparkling.
“Close?” I said. “On a house?”
“No, on a canoe,” Madam Courtney said. “Come. Come. We go see! You will like! The loas have taken great interest in you!”
“Go on,” Trevor said. “I’ve got the tab.”
* * *
The house was perfect.
It was three story, heavy stone, classic French architecture on the edge of the French Quarter. There was a pull-in for a vehicle with a wrought iron gate. No more parking Honeybear on the street. The front windows were not only heavily barred, there were hurricane shutters that looked like wood but turned out to be steel. All the ground floor was as solid as a bank building. It was even constructed more heavily than the upper floors. You’d have a hard time ramming a bulldozer through it.
The ornate front door had a view-slit to check who was outside.
The interior was stunning and more or less classically Japanese. Very minimalist. I loved the furnishings. All very nice.
“A senior member of the Japanese consulate has been transferred,” Madam Courtney said. “He and his wife wish to sell the home as is, including furniture? You like, eh? Trust the loas.”
There was a small, walled mediation garden in the back with a classic stone hot tub and a wading pool for sitting in the heat and socializing. The thought of soaking off my injuries in a hot tub was so overwhelming I thought I might faint. Of course, after the last few days I was thinking that most of the time.
There were things I’d need done. I needed a gear room, there was one that was perfect, and a guns and ammo room, again, one that was perfectly situated.
The house was perfect in every detail.
Then I realized where it was. Dauphine Street.
Jesse’s sister had been named Dauphine.
Yeah, I gotta have this house.
“Trust the loas,” I said. Okay, maybe there was a point to magic after all. Call it a sign.
Oh, crap.
The address was 2057 Dauphine Street. When I’d died, fifty seven had been the sign I was supposed to watch for.
Okay, God. I’m listening.
“Come, come,” Madam Courtney said, taking my uninjured arm. “We must not be late to the closing.”
* * *
I was exhausted to the point of brain damage when I arrived at the lawyer’s office.
“I apologize for my appearance,” I said to the well-dressed Japanese couple on the other side of the table. I was, of course, speaking Japanese.
“We are aware of the heavy burdens of the hunters of the dark,” the consular official said, nodding.
“So you know who I am?”
“The way of the warrior is the way of duty,” the official said. At least the lawyer didn’t have a clue what we were talking about. “We could postpone. You are injured.”
“I was injured two nights ago,” I said, nodding. “I believe I can with humility wield a pen.”
I had never closed on a house. It appeared to be a matter of signing lots and lots of paper. I should have read them. I just signed.
“Your house is very beautiful,” I said as I signed. I had no clue what I was signing. I might be selling my soul to the loas. I didn’t care. I wanted that house. “You must have had some excellent craftsmen. Are any of them local?”
“Many of them were local,” the consul’s wife said. “This is a town of excellent craftsmen.”
“I will need people who are craftsmen,” I said. “I am a craftsmen but have little time with my duties for such actions. May I humbly request their information?”
“We met many of them through Madam Courtney,” his wife said. They were signing papers as well.
“You are very comfortable with Japanese,” the consular official said.
“I had many friends who were Japanese in Seattle,” I said. I didn’t mention one of them was yakuza. “I became a great fan of sushi. Unfortunately, it is virtually unknown in New Orleans.”
“Oh, there is a very good sushi restaurant right around the corner,” his wife exclaimed.
I had to have this house.
In about thirty minutes of passing paper around I owned a home.
“I look forward to moving in. I will keep your fine home with honor.”
“I understood you intended to move in today,” the consular official said in English, looking at Madam Courtney.
“He is!” Madam Courtney said. “He must have a place to relax after his many battles!”
“Very well. I am humbly eager to lay my head to rest.”
“You appear very weary,” his wife said.
“Must I fight for an eternity at such a pace, such is the path of duty. But in truth, I could use some rest.”
“Rest well in our former home,” the official said. “It has been shielded by the finest Shinto priests. It is warded against all akuma. And the bars are very strong. Rest well.”
* * *
When we got back to the house, there were a bunch of young men wearing long baseball jerseys and ball caps on sideways just sort of lounging around outside.
“Oh, crap,” I said as we pulled up. I was following Madam Courtney in Honeybear.
I still had my .45 on. That was probably enough for some gangbangers. Of course, my right arm wasn’t exactly a hundred percent.
I started to say something when Madam Courtney slapped her hands together twice and snapped her fingers.
“Where’s Mister Hoodoo’s bags?” she snapped. “Get them in the house!”
“We was just waitin’ for the keys, Madam Courtney!” one of the thugs said, tugging at his brow.
“Unload his car! What are you waiting for!”
The gangbangers even took off their shoes when they went in.
There was a bench by the front door and a place for shoes. A bunch of over-priced running shoes were already lined up. I took off my boots, my feet sighing in relief, and put on a provided pair of tatami slippers. Then I went and found Madam Courtney.
“The house is perfect,” I said, pulling her to the side. “The loas are wise. The porters are…what?”
She just laughed merrily.
“Everyone has problems with the hoodoo, yes? To have a hoodoo man in the neighborhood is a great honor and privilege! These thugs they shoot all day and all night long and not kill the hoodoo! You Mister Hoodoo! Dauphine Princes more than glad to help! Others come by. They help too. You rest, Mister Hoodoo. Trust the loas! Trust Madam Courtney! Rest! Rest! Put you feet up! Get in hot tub! Let Madam Courtney handle this!”
I’m a Marine. I’m a monster hunter. I’m fucking MHI. I’m tough as nails.
My overnight case from the trunk was up in the main bedroom, open. Nothing was missing. I took a long shower. I didn’t even really scrub or shave, just rinsed long and hard. I went downstairs and failed to resist the temptation of the hot tub. I fell asleep in the hot tub with the house full of Orleans Parish Jail’s finest graduates. I forgot to clean my weapons and no Drill Instructor showed up in dreams to chew me out.
* * *
I woke up in the middle of the night with no clue where I was at. I thought about it for a little bit. It wasn’t the bunk room at Team Hoodoo. It wasn’t a motel.
Had I bought a house? That was a dream, right?
No, I BOUGHT A FREAKING HOUSE!
I went downstairs.
There was a night-light on in the very Japanese kitchen. All the paperwork was lined up on the bar. Yes, I’d bought a house. For a surprisingly reasonable sum I was fairly sure.
I felt much better than I should have all things considered. My right arm still ached but that was just a matter of time.
I was still starving. Just in case, I checked the fridge.
You’ll start to realize that I was unsurprised it was partially stocked. There was beer, condiments, sandwich makings and two bento boxes.
I pulled them out and checked the contents. They were apparently from a sushi place I didn’t know existed on Saint Ann Street. Based on the address on the boxes and the address on the deed I’d signed, it was right around the corner. They were dated and timed from that afternoon.
The sushi was heaven. Not as good as Saury but not much was as good as Saury.
I ate it with Budweiser which is sort of sacrilege in some groups but Bud is actually a great beer with food.
I finished, burped, wondered if I should check in. If they wanted me they could damned well find me. They knew police. I was somehow sure Agent Castro would know how to find me. Apparently that guy knew everything that went on in this town.
I did check the doors and windows. Everything was locked. I slid the interior deadbolt across the front door. It was apparent that was where the…Did a drug gang just move me in? Where the movers had left. I had more stuff in Seattle I’d need to move down.
I decided I didn’t care. Mo No Ken was on the dining room table. My guns, all the stuff from my trunk, even the remaining explosives, were in a side room I’d tentatively set aside as a gear room. Honeybear was sitting in the car port. My spare gear from headquarters was stacked with it. Neatly. Including all my other guns and spare ammo. I had a hard time believing that a drug gang of all things just put that stuff in my house and left. There was a large cash bag for that matter. Hadn’t been touched.
And they took their shoes off to enter.
I grabbed Mo No Ken and a 1911, went upstairs and went back to bed.
* * *
The phone by the bed rang. I groaned, looked around, wondered where I was. Reached to pick it up, winced, used the other arm.
“Hello?” I said, blearily. I rise, automatically, at 0430. It’s ingrained. But sun was peeking through the curtains on the window in whatever room I was occupying. Late morning sun I hoped.
“Hand, it’s Earl, how you doing?” Earl Harbinger said.
“Fine, sir,” I said, sitting up. Where was I? I was pretty sure I was still in New Orleans, but the room looked like it had been transferred from Hokkaido. “I’ll be right as rain in about a month and a half. Just joking. I’m sorry I overslept. On my way in.”
“Take the day,” Earl said. “I’m in town. We’ve got this.”
“I’m at least partially functional, sir,” I said.
“What part of take a day was unclear? The whole team is hammered. Be in tomorrow about ten. Not earlier. Rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Roger, sir,” I said. “Hate to say ‘thanks’ on skipping work but…Thanks.”
“You’ve all earned it,” Earl said. “We’ll handle the funerals tomorrow.”
“Roger,” I said. That was right. We’d lost Greg and Jonathan. We were down to five people. Trevor would be off his cane soon but…Jeez, I hadn’t seen Ben but I’d heard his head injury was bad. Four people. And I was still injured. Yeah, bringing in reinforcements was the right call. I’m sure if Trevor had known just how bad it was going to be we would have had them here sooner, but there was no way he could have predicted that.
“Get some rest,” Earl said then hung up.
I looked around again, trying to figure out how I’d gotten into a Japanese person’s bedroom. The last thing I remembered was sitting in Maurice’s listening to Agent Castro. And then I remembered the last thing he said…
My toiletries were all in the bathroom, most dangerous room of the house. Nice bathroom. Stone lined shower, large garden tub. My suitcases were in the bedroom, open. Including my overnight bag from the trunk and my stuff from MHI headquarters. Which meant people had been messing with my stuff. I don’t like people who mess with my stuff.
I went downstairs. Three stories. The room was on the second floor, back. I wasn’t sure what was up top but there was no sound of movement. Big place. I was the only one there. It was eerie. Sort of dreamlike. You just didn’t find Japanese interior design in New Orleans in the 1980s. Someone else had to live here. Someone Japanese or really into the culture. I’d love to live in a house like this one. Which meant, yeah, this had to be a dream. Okay. Maybe I’m supposed to tell Madam Courtney or something. But why would it start with a call from Earl? That was just weird. Nothing made sense.
There was a bunch of paperwork on a bar in the very Japanese kitchen. I started to look it over, hoping I wasn’t digging into someone’s private affairs.
“I did what?”
CHAPTER 13
Sledgehammer
I’d grabbed a beer and headed out to the hot tub, but the front door bell rang. Simple, it replicated the sound of the bell in a Japanese shrine.
Sighing, I went to the door and peeked through the vision slot. There was a middle aged, light skinned, black gentleman wearing formal morning wear down to white gloves standing there. Very distinguished. Straight back, short graying hair. He looked like an Army colonel I had met at Bethesda.
“May I help you?” I asked through the vision slot.
“Mister Oliver Gardenier?” the gentleman said. “My name is Remi Prosper Girard, Mister Gardenier. Madam Courtney has recommended me as your gentleman.”
I took all the bolts off, I’d left the heavy duty bar off anyway, and opened the door.
“My what?” I asked.
I was wearing a bath-robe and holding a .45 in my hand but he didn’t even blink.
“Your gentleman, sir,” Mister Girard said, proffering a card.
I took the card and read it carefully. All it said was his name, and “Gentleman’s Gentleman.”
“I have references, sir,” Mister Girard said.
“I’ve had a really tough few days,” I said, rubbing my chin and realizing that for the first time in years I was unshaven. “I woke up this morning and just realized I bought a house. Could I ask for a clue? Maybe buy a vowel?”
“A butler, sir,” Remi said, making a face. “I detest the word, as it is incorrect. But it is the most common referent. A gentleman’s gentleman.”
“Okay, hate to do this, but hang on a sec,” I said. I shut the door, locked it, and walked into where I vaguely remembered putting my stuff. Or people putting my stuff. I’d let unauthorized personnel into my personal space. I really needed rest. And my head examined.
I found the jug first, poured some of the water in a cup and went back to the door.
“I need you to take a sip of this before entering the house,” I said, holding out the cup.
He took the cup and drank it.
“Would that be a common courtesy of the home, sir?” he asked.
“Holy water. Not a one hundred percent test but pretty good. Come on in.”
“I shall ensure there is a font installed,” Remi said, entering. “Your home is very beautiful, sir.”
“I wish I could take credit for it but I’m still trying to realize I live here.”
I was casting around for where you interview a butler. And trying to say “I don’t need a butler.”
“Perhaps in the downstairs parlor, sir,” he suggested, waving one glove covered hand.
We sat in the parlor. I was vaguely aware I should offer drinks. Or maybe not. I dunno. I’d have to dredge up local customs. I started to open my mouth.
“Sir is about to state that sir does not need a gentleman,” Remi said. “I am not lacking for employ, sir. However, if I may state the case.”
“Shoot.”
“Sir has had, as sir noted, a ‘tough few days.’ Sir was clearly preparing for th
e bath. Would it not be better if someone else was to answer the door, sir, and inquire if sir was, in fact, in?”
“Point,” I said, starting to open my mouth again.
“Has sir eaten?” Remi asked.
“I think there was some bento at some point.” My stomach rumbled. I’m a serious eater and hunting takes it out of you.
Remi withdrew a leather covered notebook and made a note.
“Sir is a proponent of sushi?” Remi asked.
“I…yes?”
“Very good, sir. Any other particular favorites?”
“All the food in New Orleans is good, look…”
“Is sir familiar with the ancient Spartans, sir?” Remi asked.
“Yes.” I owned a house. I was starting to vaguely remember talking Japanese to someone in a lawyer’s office. Most of my memory of the last few days was sort of a continuous montage of flying through the night-time streets of New Orleans, teeth, fangs, and horrible black darkness with claws.
Now it was being explained to me in meticulous English why I needed someone to put on my socks.
“Did the ancient Spartans take care of all their own equipment, living arrangements, and so on, sir?”
“No, but…”
“You are a monster hunter, sir,” Remi said. “You may have other abilities, other skills, but your time is properly applied to controlling the houdoun and other forces which have always made life in New Orleans a trial. Has your gear been washed and repaired, sir? I am sure sir has cleaned his weapons but given his recent experiences even that may have been over-looked. Is sir intending to do his own laundry and cooking when he could be fighting the forces of darkness, sir?”
So that’s how I got a but…gentleman.
I hated the idea at first. Hunters are a paranoid lot by training and experience. If you weren’t paranoid, you didn’t survive. Having someone I really didn’t know in my personal space was worrisome.
But Remi’s points were valid. Maybe not most places, but in New Orleans in the ’80s, definitely. We were busting our ass, day in and day out. We did not have time for the little shit. I’d been dropping my laundry off at a wash-dry-fold place. My gear was in tatters. And, no, I hadn’t cleaned my weapons. Turned out I hadn’t even cleared some of them. For a Marine that’s the ultimate sin. I had been too wiped out to even care.
