by John Ringo
* * *
Saint Charles Avenue is the ritzy part of New Orleans. There are some questionable areas but by and large all the “right” people tend to live in and around Saint Charles. Where it goes downtown as Madame Courtney pointed it out it is also the “right” area for offices.
The street is double one-way with a trolley line running down the middle. It is tree lined and shaded along almost its entire length and it’s a very long street. The buildings are an eclectic mix of residential and commercial. The residences trend towards mansions on large lots, some Victorian era and neo-classical with a few newer that had replaced ones that had succumbed to time. It was a very upscale street but this was New Orleans and even upscale areas had their issues. Especially if you were a politician, businessman or lawyer.
In New Orleans in the 1980s, if you really wanted to mess with somebody, one popular method was hexing. Hexing could range anywhere from, yes, temporary impotence, to death if you hired a crazy/evil enough practitioner. Premature baldness was often considered to be a hex by people who had a family history thereof. Instead of, you know, being a baldy.
But if a person had strong wards against hexes, or an example needed to be made, stronger measures were called for. Like attacking their house with a bunch of giant, acid spitting, super-frogs.
In this case, it was a lawyer who had the “issue.”
His name was Reginald Katz, Esquire and he was an immigrant. He’d been sent to New Orleans as part of a merger of an established New Orleans law firm with a much larger NYC based law firm. Basically, he was there to show these yokels how it was done in the City. He bought a big mansion on Saint Charles Avenue, installed his bottle blonde, fake boobed, nineteen year old trophy wife, rolled up his sleeves in City fashion and went to work.
Part of the shake-up had involved a long-standing property dispute. There was a relatively small piece of property in Marigny. The title was disputed. The current resident, one Odette Lefebvre, 87, insisted that the property had been deeded to her family in perpetuity in the time of her great-grandmother by the last listed property owner. A large NYC based property company had bought a bunch of dormant titles, including 911 Marigny Street, as part of another merger. They were, on paper, the legal owner. Miss Odette claimed it as right of long standing and on the basis of some rather worn documents of questionable legality.
See, back when the damned Union won the War of Northern Aggression, Odette’s great-grandmother had been the mistress and hoodoo woman of one Côme Fred Lestrange. When the slaves were ordered set free, she simply continued her residence at 911 Marigny and her previous positions.
Mr. Lestrange had unquestionably owned the property. However, Lestrange died without official issue. And at the time the property had simply languished legally. Other properties were seized by the Damn Yankees and sold off but for some reason 911 Marigny was overlooked.
There were other issues. Like Miss Odette had never paid taxes on said property. She was, from a legal POV, not much more than a long-term squatter.
Nobody had brought that up in her long life though, because Miss Odette was a hoodoo woman of some note.
I’ve talked a lot about the bad side of hoodoo and some people, Milo, would tend to see hoodoo, technically houdoun, as nothing but bad. But the truth is, it’s a very nuanced sect.
Houdoun is not a black and white religion. They have The Black and The White but they also have The Dark and The Light. Most practitioners wander in the realm between these four. Some are strongly White or Light but may occasionally wander into the Dark or even the Black. They don’t find this “wrong.” It’s more or less a matter of personal choice.
I’ll try to explain that in real terms and try to give some idea of the nuances.
Necromancy derives, almost assuredly, from the Old Ones. They are very very bad. Nobody wants the Old Ones to reappear and I’ve had to kill enough freshly risen zombies to really want that power to disappear.
But think about this. Say that you’ve got one last thing you need to do. You’ve been killed and your family is in danger. You’re the only one who can save them. But you’re dead. Nothing you can do. Even heaven’s got to kind of suck. Or they’re not even going to be killed. Enslaved. Held by vampires. Choose something really bad on toast that only you can prevent. But you’re dead.
Would you choose to come back as a revenant? They have their memories. Soul gets tricky and it might damn you to hell. But would you choose to come back to save your family? Lots of people would choose yes.
So in some circumstances even the power of the Black, necromancy, has some semi-legitimate uses.
I wouldn’t, by the way. It’s not that I wouldn’t care, I would. But from the POV of eternity, no matter how bad it was and how long it lasted, it’s better for them to not have me come back and potentially damn my immortal soul. Or maybe I’m just a hard-hearted bastard. Unless God sends me back, I’ll just wait in the Green Lands, thanks.
The Dark is casting hexes and summoning things. Also talking with and using the Dark loas. Those are generally believed to be human souls damned to hell, or demons. The fire imps that I’d faced in the cemetery my first day in New Orleans were from a Dark casting.
On the other hand, the minor hexes that a few of the team used—on the down low, because the Shacklefords would flip their lids—were also Dark casting.
Wards, blessings, healings, were from the Light and the White. The White was generally considered to be God or Saints. The Light I suspected was close to Fey magic. Not that all fey, or any fey, were goody two-shoes.
Miss Odette was a well known Light priestess. She did fortunes, minor healings, provided herbal medicines and warding charms and spells. She was right around the corner from where I lived and even I had picked up a couple of her charms. They were good charms. I’ve seen them work. And it was well known that the more good you do for someone the more power you get. And in houdoun, power is power. White, Black, Dark, Light, it’s all power. She was a very powerful hoodoo woman and just because that power had generally been Light didn’t mean she didn’t have contacts on the Dark and Black sides.
So it being New Orleans, everybody knew not to rock the boat. Because even the Light can get pissy when it’s being disrespected. Nobody pointed out, officially, that taxes were not being paid. Nobody asked who really owned the property. Judges were easy with continuances on Miss Odette’s side and her lawyers were pro bono. You don’t mess with hoodoo and you hope to gain favors in general.
Enter Reginald Katz, Esquire. Reginald was fifty-five, on his third trophy wife and had come down here to shake things up. He was a big guy, heavy set, dominating, great suit and tie collection, very good in a courtroom and did not give a flip about hoodoo. The case had been languishing for years. The real estate company, with which he’d worked in NYC, wanted it resolved in their favor. When he came to town they switched representation, their local representation having been, yes, dragging their feet, and Reginald Katz, Esquire, went to work.
He demolished every argument on Miss Odette’s side. He had the law on his side and knew how to work the court system. He quickly had it moved to Federal Court, which was a bit less wary of hoodoo since the Feds had really good warding charms and counter agents, and within a month of arrival had won the case. Congrats, Reggie, an 87 year old woman was going to have to move out of the house she had literally been born in that was almost certainly legally hers based on genetic inheritance. You’re the man.
When the Sheriff’s deputies arrived they were really apologetic. She was nice to them. She understood they were just doing their job. They and neighbors and the local “neighborhood association” (drug gang) all helped her move to a new home nearby.
Two days later, giant acid spitting frogs descended in force on the home of Mister Reginald Katz, Esquire, who along with his trophy wife, died screaming.
Agent Higgins really wanted to list it as “Act of God” for reporting reasons.
* * *
&n
bsp; The house was two stories and large, probably ten thousand feet. De rigueur for the area it had a low wrought iron fence out front that prevented entry to the grounds and, notably, driveway.
When Shelbye’s cousin was working on the grill of Honeybear he’d sort of automatically installed a heavy steel brush bumper. Another way to describe that is a ramming bumper. Two thick pieces of horizontal tubular steel with intervening smaller pieces vertical attached firmly to the frame. Sort of thing you see in Mad Max.
I really didn’t like the look and it made the front end heavy. Then I realized I was working for Hoodoo Squad and he’d known that and done me a favor. I had to wonder if maybe I should get heavy screens over all the windows and maybe the same thing for the windshield. Whatever.
That flimsy, weak, pathetic fence was no match for Honeybear.
“Hah, hah!” I bellowed, pulling into the driveway. “I am the Honeybear!”
“We could have checked to see if it was open,” Milo said.
“Screw that, my fine moral friend,” I said, getting out. “We are the Hoodoo Squ—What the fuck?”
That exclamation was caused by looking at the roof and what was on it.
You ever see one of those photos of Amazonian tree frogs? They call them “arrowhead” frogs. The ones with all sorts of psychedelic colors? Electric blues and purples and the brightest orange on the face of the earth? The ones that sort of seem to reflect the sunlight, big bulbous eyes, like something on an acid trip?
Okay, imagine you’re looking at the front of this big Victorian mansion that looks like Disney’s idea of Tara in Gone with the Wind. Manicured yard, nice trees…
And on top of it has hopped one of those frogs. Mostly an electric blue with green markings and big, bright pink, circles in the markings.
As big as a rhinoceros.
And it’s looking at you.
Miss Odette was one powerful as shit hoodoo woman. This is why in New Orleans, you don’t fuck with the hoodoo.
“Son of a…” Milo said, his mouth hanging open.
“Oh, these is gonna be good eatin’!” Shelbye shouted. “We be havin’ a fais do-do for the whole family after this’n!”
There was a crack of an M14 and the thing jumped straight up.
Okay, again, picture if you will. This frog the size of a rhinoceros has jumped straight up. Ever seen one of those things hop? Regular ones it’s sort of unreal. This one? It wasn’t really straight up. It just looked that way. It went up and up and up and…
“It’s a bird…” Milo said.
“It’s a plane…” I intoned.
“It’s SUPERFROG!” we both said.
The fucking thing just kept going. And going. And…it was gone. I mean, we were near the corner of Saint Charles and Joseph and the next report was from Daneel! The damned thing jumped a block and a half! I swear at apogee it was spread out and catching a breeze off the river. It was like half frog, half bat, all insane.
“Oh,” Ray said, in that tone. “Even MCB New Orleans is going to have problems with this.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But it’s guaranteed to make the front page of the Truth.”
“More like Time Magazine if we don’t stop them quick.”
I went back to Honeybear, opened up the trunk and rummaged until I had Bertha the Barrett out.
“We’re gonna need the big guns for this,” I said.
“I got one in the van!” Milo said. “Whoever bags the most wins!”
It was ON.
CHAPTER 20
Time of the Season
Reginald Katz, Esquire and his new trophy wife, Claudine, were in the back by the pool. They were quite dead. They were both nude. It was mid-week but perhaps he’d come home to celebrate after chucking an old woman out of the only home she’d ever known.
They were also mostly bones and those were dissolving.
There were huge, wet, traces around the pool. From indications the super-frogs must have generated in the pool, come out and proceeded to pronounce the doom of the hoodoo on the twosome.
There were three frogs left in the back yard, throat sacks inflated, mournfully calling for mates. The sound was as insane as the rest of the mission.
BOOORAAAGAACK! BOOORAAAGAACK! BOOORAAAGAACK!
I had hearing protection in but it still shook my stomach and bones. It was like being at an AC/Dfrog concert.
I didn’t wait long to open fire.
Milo, the pussy, was lowering his Barrett into the prone. It wasn’t but fifty yards. I leaned in and fired offhand.
You can, yes, do that with a Barrett. You actually can get back into battery, back on target, faster off-hand than in prone. But the damned thing is heavy as hell and you’d better have a really good stance.
The first round hit the frog on the left, right square in the kisser. One down. No princess for you, Superfrog!
That caused the other two to go full-on super frog and head for points unknown. By the way, turned out there was another one which had already super-frogged away.
We all opened fire as the frogs took to the air. I don’t know if that was the right move or not. Yes, rounds come down and do occasionally injure or kill people. That wasn’t really the problem. The problem was, so do frogs the size of rhinoceri. I was pretty sure they could adjust their landings to land on something other than people. I mean, they might land on some minivan carpooling a soccer team, but I could just see one of those things coming down in a crowd in downtown, which wasn’t far. That would be bad.
Whether it was good or not to hit them on the way up, I was sure I had.
“I tagged the one on the left!” I shouted. I’d taken off the scope and was firing iron sights. It was like shooting skeet. Enormous, psychedelic, skeet.
“So did I,” Shelbye said. “That one’s mine! What we bettin’ for?”
“Bragging rights,” I said.
“Whatever we’re betting for, they’re gone,” Ray said. “Okay. I’m calling up everybody. We need to get these things under control. Fast. Right now we’ll split into two man teams. Uh…”
“I get Shelbye,” I said. “Sorry, bud, but we’re in competition.”
“I got Ray,” Milo said, instantly.
“Team comp,” I said. “I’ll call Trevor and get him started on the pool.”
“This is not a…” Ray said. “Okay, fine. Whatever.” He paused and looked at Milo for a second. “Tell Trevor I got fifty bucks on Team Shackleford,” he said quickly.
“Done,” I said, trotting for Honeybear. “You comin’ Shelbye?”
“Jist about,” Shelbye said. “This is gonna be fun! And I got a hunnert says we get more!”
* * *
“Call dispatch,” I said. “Tell Juliette over there we’re in a betting race and she needs to call us before she calls Trevor. Fifty yard line tickets for the first Saints home game.”
Bertha was sitting across both our laps with the muzzle brake out the passenger side window. I wasn’t going to lose a shot ’cause I had to get her out of the trunk.
“That’s cheatin’!” Shelbye said, picking up the car phone. “I lahk it!”
Now I just had to get fifty yard line seats for the first Saints home game.
“I think that first one went towards Isidore,” I said, turning on lights and sirens and making the turn onto Octavia. I think the posted speed limit’s like twenty-five. I was doing seventy by the time I got to the stop sign. I slowed for that, honking my horn as well as hitting the “AGOOGAH” siren and pushed through. The next block I saw a heavy-set woman running. Fat women don’t run. Not even jogging.
“Hey!” I yelled out the window. “Which way’d that giant frog go?”
“That way,” she screamed, pointing back over to the right.
“Thanks,” I yelled as we sped away.
“Best way that way?” I yelled to Shelbye.
“Hang a raht!” she yelled.
There were a couple cars going way too fast away from the direction of the Isid
ore Newman School. School would get out soon. That meant more traffic, and more potential victims. Also, for the MCB, more witnesses. I thought of the animal lover from the airport. Would Castro murder a school kid? Probably. I made the turn at Saratoga.
Some kids were running.
“I think we’re close!” Shelbye yelled.
“You think?” I asked. “What gave you your first clue?”
I drove up on the sidewalk, laying on the horn and trying not to kill kids, maneuvered around a bus, nearly hit two kids, and stuck my head out the window.
“Where is it?” I yelled.
“Ball field,” the girl yelled as she ran. Away. Fast.
Smart kid.
“You know where the ball field is?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Shelbye said. “We played Newman one time. Kicked their ass, the snooty pansies. Get back on Daneel. Raht!”
There was a lady hurriedly walking in the opposite direction. She was holding a young teenage boy in a school uniform by the hand. He didn’t look as if he minded. You could tell he’d normally be like “Ah, mommm” but at the moment he was happy with the reassurance.
“Where’s it at?”
The lady just looked at me in shock for a second.
“The damned frog, lady,” I said, pulling Bertha out of the front seat.
“It went that way,” she said, pointing back over her shoulder.
“Ball field’s that way,” Shelbye said.
“One frog stew, coming up.”
“Beeg damn frog stew,” Shelbye said, grinning. “Gonna have us some good eats tonight!”
* * *
Imagine if you will.
On a standard football field, one each, there are two groups practicing. At one end is the male lacrosse team. At the other end is the female field hockey team. They are kept well dispersed to keep the players focused on their game. But, you know, there are looks. Hey, he looks good in shorts. Wow, Amanda is really hot today…
Suddenly, a fucking frog the size of a rhinoceros drops out of the clear blue sky.
Her name was Miss Janet Windersly. I mean, that wasn’t her fault or anything. I’ve had to suffer with Oliver Chadwick my entire life. But it was.
