No Second Chances

by Don Bruns

  Truth be told, he missed the days with Jack and Jeff. There were three people to worry the details and even though they very seldom agreed on anything, bases were more easily covered with three. And there was no reason that the three amigos couldn’t get back together for a couple of really big heists. Heists where the take was in the tens of thousands instead of the hundreds. Life was easier then. Except for the truck driver who’d broken his neck. Bum luck. He often felt he should find a way to tell the young man’s family. Give them some closure. Tell them it was all a tragic mistake.

  There were times, after a bender, when he thought about just clearing the record. He’d even mentioned it to the boys, but they were quick to point out the consequences. And of course each one of them held that threat over the others’ heads.

  He picked up the pace, anxious to leave this deteriorating neighborhood and go home to his. The New Orleans he knew tended to be one rotting community morphing into the next.

  Brion took a left at the light, the money stuffed into his pockets. Walking was always a preferred way to escape. Cops thought that burglars had getaway cars, and they put out all-point bulletins to stop anyone suspicious. Someone who was walking, just a pedestrian, was someone who didn’t deserve a stop-and-search, no matter what their race or ethnicity. He ambled, strolled, just an innocent black man out for a leisurely walk.

  André Brion walked down an alley that emptied into a small residential street. The residents lived in substandard shacks, wooden homes that were bleached white from the blazing sun. Houses that probably harbored cheap bottles of liquor from the store he’d just burglarized.

  As far as he could tell, he was free and clear. A couple of thousand dollars to the good, enough to get him through another two or three weeks. Over the years, he’d hidden some of his ill-gotten gains and blown through the rest of it. It was still a day-to-day existence, and it made him sad because he owed his family more than that. His suffering wife and his bright-eyed, brilliant son, ten-year-old Joseph. He walked to a bus stop, thankful that once again he’d pulled off the perfect crime. Perfect in his mind meant he hadn’t been caught. It was getting harder and harder.

  In thirty minutes he’d be home, inside his small house in the Lower Ninth Ward. Maybe he’d take Joseph down to Jackson Square tomorrow. They would have a po-boy sandwich, watch some entertainment and check out some of the work by local artists. He had a couple of extra bucks and he couldn’t think of a better way to spend them than to blow it on his kid. A day they both would relish.

  ‘Andy.’

  The voice took Brion by surprise.

  ‘Turn around, man.’

  Placing his right hand on the butt of his pocketed pistol, he slowly turned, seeing the patrol officer.

  ‘Jack.’ He flashed a weak smile. ‘It’s been awhile.’

  ‘Sorry, man. I need to see your weapon.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘A hold-up at A To Z Liquor. Sounds like your MO.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right? I don’t know anything about—’

  ‘The robbery, Andy. It has you written all over it.’

  ‘I probably learned that MO from you.’

  ‘A little blame game?’

  ‘Just the truth,’ Brion said. ‘You know, you were the best teacher I could have asked for.’

  ‘Pull your gun out and drop it on the ground.’

  ‘Jack, it’s Andy. You want to arrest me? With all we’ve been through?’ Holding his hands out, he pleaded. ‘Come on, man. I can’t afford to take a hit on this. Besides, I could bury you, man. You know that.’

  ‘I do.’ The officer nodded. ‘I surely do.’ The gun was steady, pointed at his midsection. ‘We all understand you could bury us. Been thinking about that for some time.’

  ‘You think I’m gonna rat? After all this time?’

  ‘Yeah, we think if anyone is going to ruin it, it would be you.’

  ‘That’s why are you doing this? Let well enough alone. I’m telling you, Jack, this isn’t a good idea for any of us. I’m never going to tell that story.’

  ‘Pull your weapon where I can see it, then drop it on the ground.’

  ‘Jack …’

  ‘Do it,’ he screamed.

  ‘Man, you are going to be so sorry.’ Brion glanced around but there was no one to give evidence.

  ‘I won’t tell you again, Andy.’

  ‘I’ll have your ass.’ Slowly André Brion pulled the pistol from his pocket. He probably shouldn’t have threatened an officer of the law. Especially Jack. Probably should have just walked away. There was no way Jack was going to shoot him in the back. When his weapon had cleared, he nodded to the officer. At that exact moment, the patrolman pulled the trigger, putting a bullet clean through Brion’s heart. The officer fired again and again. The final examination showed seven wounds to Brion’s body. But after all, the thief had drawn his weapon. A man had to defend himself.

  TWENTY-THREE

  If you believed in spirits and ghosts that traveled the planet, and she did, then you understood shape-shifters. Spirits who were able to take on other forms, their only opportunity to physically assert themselves. Spirits normally drifted under the radar, causing havoc, righting wrongs. Sometimes making people pay for their sins or helping people through turbulent times. But almost always quietly. Almost always they worked through supernatural forces. But there were times when the spirits needed to be a little more demonstrative. And that’s when they took physical shapes. They became shape-shifters.

  She’d seen them appear as various animate objects. Eschu Carrefour was the god of mischief. He was often used to test the character of a man, and she’d offered many prayers and supplications to him, asking for insight into her clients or people who wanted to love them or harm them.

  Solange was certain beyond a reasonable doubt that Eschu often shape-shifted into a mournful Labrador retriever that sat with a homeless man in the doorway twenty steps down from her shop. Therianthropy, when a spirit shaped into an animal. She only noticed the sad-eyed dog when she had recently prayed for Eschu’s guidance. Covered by his matted coat, the canine would be sitting there, giving her a whine or sharp bark when she walked by. She knew the sounds were answers to her questions. She didn’t share that observation with anyone else. Not even the thin man with braided hair, dressed in rags, who sat next to the dog and petted her when the animal became somewhat emotional. Solange was very much aware that she was already perceived as a little crazy.

  A shape-shifting spirit could take over almost anything that was alive. A dog, a fish, even a frog, like the prince who could only be changed back by the kiss of a princess. Once in a great while, she was aware of a spirit taking over her. Using her to speak, to give advice or warn someone. It wasn’t something she was at all comfortable with, just as her voodoo gift was most often a curse, but it had happened with the detective. She’d been overpowered with the sense of a spirit. That spirit had told Archer that Joseph Washington had killed someone in his past. A fact she was totally unaware of. Baron Gede had entered her body and stolen her soul and voice for a brief moment. The shape-shifting thief had used her.

  She could pray weeks on end for a breakthrough, make dozens of gris-gris bags with sacred stones, twigs and lavender inside. She could do a dance, burn a candle and get no answer. And then, without any fanfare, a spirit could enter her, speak his piece and move on. Her entire being would be personally violated, and so easily.

  The actions of these voodoo gods, these supernatural creatures, were unpredictable at best. They spoke to her in all kinds of ways, and that was fine. She could interpret signs, read cast bones, see messages in fire, but when they spoke through her, she was frightened. She didn’t like to think she was that easy to access. There was a vulnerability she had trouble admitting to. Solange felt that she was a strong woman. Standing up to an abusive husband, now an ex, and dealing with some very strong customers while she held her ground. But spirits who took control of her
body and her soul, that was something totally different. That phenomenon shook her to the core.

  Now she prayed to that same god who took her voice for a moment, she asked Baron Gede to give her an insight into who Joseph Washington had killed. If it was worth stealing her voice, then at least tell her who the victim was. She could share that with Archer and possibly help solve the murder of Officer Johnny Leroy. So she prayed and lit a candle in a glass vase. Who was the victim? She simply asked Baron Gede to finish the process. It seemed only fair.

  The girl let the candle burn, safely surrounded by the vase. If her prayer wasn’t answered, she didn’t want the building to go up in flames. Laying her head on the pillow, she closed her eyes and wished for an answer. She just wanted a nap. And a dreamless sleep. The two wishes were incongruous. She needed the answer. She drifted, on a boat, on the air, a free-floating experience that defied explanation. Suspended animation, hearing words and voices that made no sense. The girl was adrift in a fantasyland, unable to understand her surroundings. She was thankful for an unconscious experience, yet frightened by the spirits that seemed to inhabit it.

  She heard the store’s bell ring. Someone had entered her business. A nap that had barely begun was interrupted. Walking out from her quarters into the small shop, she looked for the intruder.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  A white-haired old man stood in the entranceway. His weathered face was burned and wrinkled and he blinked, as if disoriented. He wore white linen pants and a collared white shirt, with brown leather sandals. Not an unusual look for the French Quarter.

  ‘Yes, sir, what can I do for you?’

  He again blinked and shook his head. Maybe a meth addict or someone who had recently ingested some heroin.

  Finally, he seemed to focus and he spoke.

  ‘It’s what I can do for you.’ His piercing green eyes stared into hers. His leathery skin glowed, a faint aura, maybe just the glisten from perspiration. Possibly from a mystic presence.

  She crossed her arms and hugged the thin T-shirt across her thin frame. It suddenly occurred to her she was barely covered and barefoot. In front of a total stranger.

  ‘What can you do for me?’

  ‘I can give you the information you seek.’ Dripping with sweat, he shuddered as if chilled. In this weather, that was impossible.

  ‘You can do this?’ If this was true it was the first time her prayers had been answered this quickly. And never in her memory, so directly. The gods and goddesses usually forced her to work for the answers. They would ask for sacrifices, for prayers and supplications. If this person, this spirit who had shape-shifted, could give her an answer …

  ‘You asked for it. I can do it. I can lead you.’

  ‘There are so many times I ask for …’

  ‘Solange, be thankful for what you get. Everything can’t be granted, please understand. And answers aren’t always available on your timetable. There are reasons far beyond your understanding. But this request, this I can help you with.’

  ‘Whatever you can tell me is appreciated.’ She stared intently, now realizing that she was floating, maybe twelve inches off the ground, looking down at this man.

  ‘One man was killed in a series of truck hijackings, twenty-five years ago. He would love to have closure. It’s been a long, long time.’

  Fitfully she tossed on the mattress, dealing with the revelation. Suddenly she opened her eyes. For a second she shook, realizing it had only been a dream. A dream, but an eye-opening experience.

  She closed her eyes and thanked Damballa. The snake god had given her an answer from a shape-shifter. She was sure of that. If the old man of her dream were actually real, he would stumble out the door and after some disorientation would never remember a thing about this confrontation. He was simply a vessel to be used by a spirit.

  And she thought she was stronger than that. But in truth, everyone was under the influence of a higher power who could bend the body, the mind, the spirit and if even for a brief moment, change the course of that person’s history. No one was entirely in charge of their own destiny.

  In the flickering candlelight, she saw the shadowy figures of her sparse furniture. A dresser, chair, nightstand and a shelf. Standing up, she walked through her shop and unlocked the front door. Looking left, looking right, there was no one. A dream. A strange, creepy dream.

  The girl closed the door and set the lock. The second it was secure she heard a soft knocking.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Please … I need to talk to someone.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Please.’

  It was broad daylight, no real danger.

  Unlocking the door, she cracked it open.

  ‘Do we know each other?’ he said. ‘Have we talked before?’

  The white-haired green-eyed man with the weathered face was standing there, a confused look on his face. Her nightmare had come to life.

  Archer called the office from his car and got Beeman.

  ‘Sergeant, if you read my notes, you know Officer Leroy apprehended two men in conjunction with a gold robbery when he was a private security dick. He worked at a place called Fox Glass in Algiers.’

  ‘I saw it in your report last night. Do you think a background check on Leroy’s previous employment is relevant?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s the way I want to conduct the investigation. I want to explore this. Can you have archives dig a little deeper? I want to know who the two men were and what sentences they received. Should be grand theft.’

  ‘I’ll try to track it down and call you back.’

  ‘As soon as possible, Sergeant.’ Archer was worried that time was running out and he didn’t want to blow the biggest case he’d ever worked.

  ‘Priority, Detective.’

  He called a distracted Levy.

  ‘Q, I’m up to my ass right now. I just got handed our latest shooting. A road-rage incident. The victim is a rookie for the New Orleans Saints. It’s like we need another high-profile case, right?’

  ‘Damn. Who was it?’

  ‘Twenty-three-year-old kid named Dante Jameson, recruit from Ole Miss. Never even got to play in the show. I don’t know much about him, but we just keep substituting one front-page headline for another one, don’t we?’

  ‘Sorry you drew it, man.’

  ‘Sorry we draw any cases. Maybe it is time to get out of this game. It’s starting to get to me, Q.’

  ‘Let me bounce something off you regarding Johnny Leroy.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Not a good word. I visited Fox Glass today.’

  ‘You still think there’s a possibility that Leroy’s previous job is going to give you a break?’

  ‘Matt Fox’s kid runs the show. He’s young and doesn’t remember the incident where Leroy captured the two thieves, but … he put me in touch with his old man. I drove out to the Garden District and paid him a visit. I had about a ten-minute conversation with the patriarch.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s a crusty old guy, lives in a gorgeous house, butler and the whole nine yards. The business has been good to him. Basically, he told me he doesn’t remember anything about it.’

  ‘A little forgetful?’

  ‘Maybe. But he was very defensive. I just called Beeman and asked him to get me the names of the robbers that Leroy detained. We’ve been looking at arrest records. This goes back a ways, but it was almost like an arrest. Right? He busted two burglars, and if they had an axe to grind, we need to investigate them as well. Maybe one of them wanted him dead.

  ‘It took them a long time to make that decision.’ The sarcasm was strong in his statement.

  ‘Josh, I just wanted a sounding board.’

  ‘Sorry, Q, you’ve got it. I just think that’s a long time to hold a grudge, then act on it. Hey, my friend, go for it. I think you need to chase down every possible link. You know I’ve got your back.’

  ‘I know. And while
I appreciate it,’ Archer smiled, ‘that doesn’t get me squat, does it?’

  ‘Well, I may be the best friend you have, Detective. A gunfight? I’m there, partner. A brawl, I’ll weigh in. A hearing from the big guys in the department … I’ll be busy fishing. I can’t have your back all the time.’

  ‘No, I know you too well.’ Archer laughed. ‘You’d be there.’ And he knew Josh would be there. ‘Thanks, man, and good luck with your rookie case. Hate to hear some young kid snuffed out.’

  ‘This city takes out the good and the bad, Q. And I once again go on record, John Leroy is one of the good guys. While I admit I didn’t know him well, I looked up to him. I admired what he did, the fact that he stayed a street cop. It’s part of the record, Archer, this man saved lives. Don’t go after him. Go after the person who shot him. That’s who we need to concentrate on. Find this guy with the tattooed necklace. Find someone who had a grudge. Leroy was just following the rules and as you pointed out, getting the bad guys off the street. Anything else, personally speaking, I think is bullshit.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘Archer, I’ve got the names of the two burglars.’

  ‘That was quick, Sarge.’

  ‘If it speeds up the process, I’ll get whatever you need. You know the intensity of this case.’

  ‘No promises. I am exploring every avenue, and I just want to track down these two guys.’

  ‘I’ve got a very brief history on the two suspects. You won’t be interviewing them any time soon, that’s a guarantee.’

  ‘They’re dead?’

  ‘Bingo.’

  His heart skipped a beat. Dead men told no tales. Silent as a grave. The chances of these two men having any influence on the case was drastically diminished. Archer took a deep breath. He had been hoping for access. Apparently, that was out of the question.

  ‘Give me their names.’

  ‘Two lowlifes. Both had priors for petty theft,’ Beeman said. ‘Hang on to your hat, Archer. One was André Brion. Sound familiar? Brion had several …’