Old Black Magic

by Jaye Maiman

  I dragged the ladder over to where I’d fallen and raised it so that the top two rungs poked through the gap in the ceiling. I pounded it against the upper floorboards a few times, shielding my eyes from the dust and shards showering over me. Climbing the ladder was harder than I’d expected. Twice the ladder began to give way and I clung to the rungs as it clanged to a halt. When I reached the top, my body drenched in sweat, stinking of decay and mold, I broke into tears of relief.

  I was resting about two or three feet from the door I’d crashed through. The frame appeared to be in good shape. I stretched out one arm, grabbed hold and hoisted myself past the threshold. The springy floor no longer bothered me. Resting my cheek on the pine planks, I drank in the sight of the door leading back out to the street. It was propped open, just as I’d done last night. The air rolling toward me seemed unbearably moist and clean. I took a deep breath, then choked. Wait. The door had slammed shut last night. I was sure of it. I rolled onto my backside and sat up. Dust motes swam in the filtered light.

  I noted where my ankle had sunk through the floor and picked my way around it. The staircase seemed intact. Carefully, gingerly, I made my way up to the second-floor landing. Thick dust caked the railing and steps. No other footsteps were visible but my own. There were two open rooms, each with furniture draped in yellowed cloth. I spent a full twenty minutes investigating, but I found nothing. No bloodstains. No signs of a disturbance. Not even the candle I’d seen flickering from the street last night.

  Enough. My leg was throbbing. I had to get to a doctor before the infection got worse. I hobbled downstairs and finally emerged onto Dauphine. No one was around. An image came back to me from a Twilight Zone episode I’d seen in which the sole survivor of a nuclear blast races desperately through an abandoned, lifeless city. I half-expected Rod Serling to narrate my lumbering trek back to Bourbon. A stray black cat batted a crushed can of Budweiser in my direction and I kicked it out of my way. The can, not the cat. If I’d had the strength, the cat would’ve come with me. I was that desperate for companionship.

  The silence and heat made me dizzy. My lips were cracked and my hands shook. To anyone else’s eyes, I probably looked like a junkie in need of a fix. The only fix I needed, however, was a taxi. There was no way I could make it back to the Royal Orleans on foot. I sat down on a curb. In the daylight, this end of the French Quarter looked even worse. The street was lined with bars, sex shops and dilapidated buildings that recalled New York tenements. There wasn’t a single telephone booth. The most appealing sight was a Lucky Dog cart in the shape of a hot dog. On wheels. A smile flickered over my lips. Why the hell not, I muttered to myself. I shuffled over and tried to figure out if I could pick the chain lock. Sure, it was theft, but desperate times call for desperate measures. With a little ingenuity, the cart could serve as a mode of surrealistic transportation. I was rattling the chain, clearly on the brink of delirium, when someone slapped me hard on the butt.

  “Hey, baby.”

  I spun around. By now, any human voice would’ve been a welcome shock. But this voice belonged to an elderly black woman with friendly eyes, the color of rich coffee beans. I practically cheered. “Hey, baby, back at you.”

  “I ain’t been a baby since my mama died. Sadie’s the name.” She patted my hip. “Stand up straight, chile.” The woman appeared to have cerebral palsy. Her words were slightly slurred, thick with a New Orleans accent. Her hands shook and her back twisted to one side. She flashed me a big smile. “Not of’n I meet someone who looks worse ’n me. Now whatcha doing with Jimmy’s dog?”

  I pointed at my bloody leg. “I needed a ride.”

  She laughed heartily. “Sho’ thin’, baby, but you ain’t hijackin’ Jimmy’s dog. Lemme see dat. Whooee. Yo’ ankle der looks to be K & B purple. Me, my skin always black and shiny sweet.” Her laugh was full-hearted. “Where’s ya goin’, baby?”

  Given the circumstances, I didn’t think it wise to suggest the Royal Orleans. “I need a doctor.”

  “Any fool see dat, even me.” She winked at me. “Oh, girl, you is in sweet luck. I got me a real peach. And he in love with Sadie, dat fer sure.” She laughed at her own joke. “Whatcha call youself, pum’kin?”

  I picked up on her playful tone. “It’s a secret, but I’ll share it with you—”

  “Whoa, now, you ain’t abou’ to reveal yo basketname.” It was a warning, not a question. “My momma did dat to the doctor wha delivered me, thas why I looks this way.” She flared out her stained green-striped gabardine skirt and showed me her legs.

  “Robin,” I said quietly. “My name’s Robin.”

  “Good t’ing. I don’t wanna hear no basketname.” She hooked my arm around her neck and lurched forward with amazing strength. I didn’t try to engage her in conversation. The effort of bracing me against her hip cost plenty. Her labored breath rattled in my ear.

  “Let me walk a little,” I said, but the first step I took without her landed me face down on the street. After my bout with pneumonia, the events of the previous day has apparently done more damage than I’d realized.

  We made it to the doctor in twenty minutes. My first impression was to run and run fast. We were near Armstrong Park. For the last block or so, well-tended homes with brilliantly painted balustrades strung with gaudy Mardi Gras beads and massive ferns alternated with boarded-up buildings coated with layers of graffiti. The tourist trade hadn’t so much as brushed past these streets and my white skin, the parts visible through the filth, marked me as an outsider.

  Sadie sensed my anxiety and stroked my arm in a way that made me want to cry out loud. “You wit’ me, baby girl. Dat all anyone wanna know.” She struck the door three times and shouted her name.

  After everything I’d been through, I was ready for anything. Ghosts, rattlesnakes, bleeding saints. At least I thought I was. What I wasn’t ready for was the kind-faced gentleman in a starched white jacket and pleated slacks who opened the door. He took in my appearance with a quick, intelligent nod. The man topped six-three, had smooth chocolate-brown skin, snow-white hair and piercing green eyes. A stethoscope draped around his neck, he extended a dry, warm palm to me and cracked a grin. “Someone had a rough night. Come on in. Good to see you, Sadie. You look ravishing, as usual.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Do-much,” Sadie sang after us. She stood outside the door. “I got me a busy day. Mrs. Do-Nuttin’ gonna pay me to make groceries for her. Figger dat. Take care of da rabbit, she a sweet one. Sadie knows.”

  I barely had time to thank her before she disappeared.

  “Well, alone at last,” he said, chuckling. He lowered me to a wooden bench, removed my sneakers and puckered his lips. “I’ll be right back.”

  The apartment had a very familiar layout. In Brooklyn, we’d call it a railroad flat. Here, in New Orleans, it was known as a shotgun. All the rooms were on one floor, lined up in a neat row. If you had good aim and a steady hand, you could shoot a bullet straight through the living room, bedroom, out the kitchen window and smack into a tree in the back yard. I watched the doctor disappear behind the first set of sliding doors. He had a spring in his step that belied the already oppressive heat. The man appeared ageless. He could have been sixty. Or forty. All I knew was that he had a gentle and sure touch. More importantly, he had a telephone.

  I braced myself on the wall and hopped over to a large, well-polished mahogany desk. A framed Certificate told me I was in the office of a Dr. Jacob T. Lerebon. I gave him silent thanks as I lifted the receiver. K.T. answered in the middle of the first ring.

  “My God! I’ve been worried sick. It’s her. Hold on, for heaven’s sake.” Someone was with her. My pulse quickened.

  “You okay? Is someone there?”

  “Oh, honey.” She broke into unbridled sobs.

  Damn it. I shouted her name into the phone. Suddenly, a deep voice broke in. I was ready to bolt out the door when recognition hit. “Sweeney, is everything okay?”

  “Depends on how you look at it. T
his poor woman is near hysterics. What the hell happened to you?”

  I gave him the short version. He cursed me out. “Five this morning, your girlfriend called Ryan, who in turn called me, dressing me down for letting your ass drift in the wind, like I was personally responsible for your dumb-ass moves. Pissed me off royally, thank you. You haven’t earned yourself any fans today.”

  “Fuck you, too. Put K.T. back on the line.”

  “Before I do, you may be interested in knowing that the tooth you found in your pocket probably did belong to Lisa Rubin. Her left incisor had been carved out from her gums. Nice, huh? My cop buddy got mighty pissed off when I lied about finding the tooth on the scene. Didn’t like the implication that the N.O.P.D was less than perfect, not that I blame him. By the way, you don’t have to thank me for keeping your name out of it, I owed you that much for the shit I pulled yesterday. So now we’re even.”

  “Just put K.T. on.” I shifted the phone to my other ear and wiped my eyes with my thumb. The first word she said was my name. She sounded terrible. “I’m sorry, honey. I am,” was my lame response.

  “What happened to you?” Her voice was reduced to a soft whine.

  “Too much to explain now. I stumbled into the wrong building and got bumped up a bit. I’m seeing a doctor right now. Nothing serious. I’ll be back at the hotel within an hour.”

  “I won’t be here.”

  Blood stopped flowing to my limbs. I started to tremble uncontrollably. “What do you mean you won’t be there?”

  “Too much to explain now,” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m glad you’re okay.” And with those words, she hung up.

  I stared at the buzzing receiver.

  “Trouble all around, huh?” The doctor had returned carrying a small satchel and a plastic-wrapped gown. “Well, I’ve been around long enough to know when not to ask questions. Can you make it over here?” He pressed a wiry arm against the door opposite me, revealing an examination room unlike any I’d ever seen. The entire back wall was filled with exotic plants and potted herbs. He chuckled at me. “Yes, I have my own home-grown pharmacy. Now, from your accent, I’d say you come from the East. Probably the Big Apple. So these won’t work for you. For you, I bring out civilized medicine.” His laugh rumbled in his chest. I knew he was having fun at my expense, but somehow I didn’t mind.

  I smiled. “My idea of civilized medicine, for your information, is chicken soup and Yoo-Hoos, so you better get cooking.” Then I limped past him. The air inside was as aromatic as a garden and filled with sunlight. A wall of windows opened onto an alley that resembled a tropical jungle. Off to one side stood an enormous birdcage, its lone occupant a yellow parakeet who was chattering happily to its image in a oval mirror. The examination table had a terrycloth pillow at one end. I started to wonder if there was any way I could get this guy as my primary-care physician. He left me alone long enough to strip and change into a gown. When he came back, he cut off sprigs of rosemary and lavender, wrapped them in a cheesecloth then dipped them into a vat of steaming water. He laid the bundle on my chest.

  “Take a deep breath, darling, while I check you out.” Some time later he tapped me on the shoulder and I was startled to realize I’d fallen asleep.

  “Wow. What’d you do to me?”

  “Sweetheart, you were so tired no one had to do anything. You just fell asleep. By the way, you snore. I can give you something for your sinuses if you trust an old boogie man from the Quarter.”

  “Can you move to New York?”

  His laugh bounced around the room like a beach ball. “Not on your life.” He washed his hands in the sink, dried them off, then plucked two vials from a closet. “Antibiotics and my secret sinus medicine,” he said, dropping the bottles into a paper bag with a magician’s dramatic flair. “A present from me, ’cause you’re a friend of Sadie’s.” His smile was sly. “And since we’re such good friends, maybe you’ll tell me what you were doing in the old Herriot place on Dauphine.”

  I sat up and stared at him. “How’d you know?”

  “You’d be surprised at what I know.” His expression became serious. “You also talk in your sleep. Pretty coherent unconscious you have.”

  The room suddenly felt cold. I said, “I heard someone scream for help. A woman.” His nod was patient. I wondered how much I could tell him, how much he already knew. I bit the inside of my cheek, then added, “I’m a private detective.”

  “I gathered as much.” He opened the door and stepped out of sight. “Go ahead and change. You’ll find one of my wife’s T-shirts inside the plastic bag on the table. I also grabbed a pair of my son’s jeans from the rummage pile. They should fit.” He spoke loudly, with authority.

  I didn’t hesitate to comply. My own clothes had disappeared.

  He continued talking. “Some say the Herriot place is haunted. Forty-seven years ago, a pregnant woman was beaten to death by her husband after he discovered she was having an affair with his female cousin. Lots of locals have heard her crying for help. Especially on moonless nights.”

  “C’mon, doc, you can’t believe in that nonsense.” The clothes fit perfectly. My sneakers, however, did not. My foot was too swollen. I loosened the laces.

  “Science is the art of analyzing what is knowable today, with today’s technology. That’s all. People used to dismiss witch doctors and medicine men as the mythology of misguided primitive people. Today, we know that much of their medicine was astoundingly appropriate, predating our own remedies. When you stop to think about it, life consists of interaction on all levels, from micro to macro. Religion, science and magic may just be different aspects of the same reality.” He fell silent. “I’m not sure what I believe, but I know that it’s never wise to discount anything just because it can’t be proven by intellect or old white men in sterile university labs. Are you dressed?”

  I called him back inside.

  “You’ll need to change the bandages once a day,” he said, taking hold of my hand with surprising tenderness. With his head inclined toward me and his voice low, he raised our hands so that the edges of our palms touched my forehead briefly. “My mother was renowned in this area as a queen of voodoo. Who knows how much of her ways were instinct, insight or magic? I lived with her all my life and I never knew. But she taught me one thing I never forgot. Evil is palpable, as palpable as this thorn.” He tore off a stem from a plant with purple leaves the size of a baby’s foot. I looked closely and saw a soft, woody bark but no thorn. He lifted one of my fingers and pressed it gently against the stem. A stinging sensation made my hand jerk away. Our eyes met. “And it can be as difficult to detect. Your senses must be sharp and your mind clear from distraction.” I waited for him to say something more. He just stared at me patiently, then smiled. “Of course, she also told me that if you feed someone snake eggs, they’ll die soon after, with little snakes hatched in the stomach. That one always plays in my head when I see someone in surgery. Okay, enough chatter. You have a lot of work to do. I better let you get started.” Five minutes later he opened the door of a taxi for me and winked. “Shadows in New Orleans are very, very long. You’ll have to learn to walk around them.”

  The slamming of the car door punctuated his sentence. The last twenty-four hours were enough to convince me that the best course of action would be to pick up K.T. and head straight for the airport. And I might’ve done just that if K.T. had been at the hotel. But she was not and neither was there a note of explanation. I tried the restaurant and got a brusque, “Yes, she’s here, but she can’t talk.” I wasn’t up to arguing. Instead I showered and headed straight for bed. Sleep came easier than it should have.

  The blare of music in the next room woke me at 4:12. Black Sabbath. Who still listened to Black Sabbath? I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. The room was dark and I was bathed in sweat. Nightmares had plagued my slumber, but only one image stayed with me. A bloody skeleton dancing at the foot of my bed, a fetus dangling from the bones of its
hand. I reached for the phone and dialed the restaurant again. The song was the same. Yes, K.T. was there. No, she wasn’t available. She was being interviewed by Fitzhugh Chamelle. Yes, she’d take a message. Click.

  Okay, so I knew where I stood. Death Valley would’ve been more hospitable. Not that I deserved much better. I sat up and stretched. Once this case was resolved, I’d make it up to her, maybe take a leave from the agency. But first I had to reach some kind of closure on this murder. I started searching for my notepad, then panicked. It had been in the back pocket of my jeans, which I’d left at Dr. Lerebon’s office. A phone call netted me a recorded message. I left my phone number, hung up and raided the fridge. I was chowing down on a Nestle’s Crunch bar when I noticed the Federal Express packages resting on top of the television set, one from Ryan, one from Jill. I ripped them open and settled down at the desk.

  Ryan’s files held the usual police dossiers. Most of the info was identical to Serra’s. The packet from my agency, however, was three inches thick, with separate reports from four different free-lance agents, none of them older than twenty-four. Evan Alexander was my favorite. The kid had bleached blonde hair, soulful blue eyes, a delicate silver stud in one nostril, peach fuzz sprouting from a cleft chin and the sharpest, most creative mind I’d encountered in years. I hired him two months ago, much to the chagrin of my conservative partner. Since then, Tony had him on a steady payroll.

  His report started with a note to me:

  Hey ya, boss lady, in the big, old sleazy ease. I got lost in this one. Some real strange vibes rang through me. I did the basics, even went over that checklist you gave me. You know, what distinguishes the victims? Where’d the murders take place? Did the vics wear the same kind of earrings or nail polish, attend the same school, use drugs? Is the killer organized or disorganized, missionary, visionary, lust- or thrill-motivated, a power fiend, or a subversive? Checked the standard profiler files, too. Written by some idiot crime savant in D.C. who waves his wet palms over some cold files and determines the killer was an only child, abused by a maternal aunt, never washes his hands after he craps and gets hard-ons for cops. Then I did my thing. You’ll be proud of me, Mad Miller.