No Second Chances

by Don Bruns

  ‘Wait a minute. Brion?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘André Brion?’

  ‘That’s the name.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant, as I’m sure you know, that’s the name of the man that John Leroy shot twenty some years ago. The only black mark on his record. Brion drew his weapon and Leroy shot him. And the officer was exonerated. Self-defense. You’re telling me that this Brion was one of the burglars at Fox Glass?’

  Beeman took an audible breath, then paused and there was silence on both sides. Finally, the officer spoke.

  ‘I did run this name and I’m sure it’s the same guy. Do you think it’s a coincidence?’

  ‘Highly unlikely,’ Archer said, ‘but tell me the second name.’

  ‘This is going to come as a shock, Q. If this were a coincidence as well,’ Beeman said, ‘it would be the strangest set of coincidences I’ve ever run across on this beat. We all were a little shocked when his name came up.’

  ‘Just give me the name, Sergeant.’

  ‘Joseph Washington.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes. We couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Damn. Joseph Washington? Really?’ Archer shook his head. It didn’t make any sense.

  ‘I’m not making this shit up, Detective.’

  ‘I think we’re trying to defuse a riot because this man, this Joseph Washington was gunned down. Any chance this is a different Joseph Washington? There are probably several.’

  ‘I’ve got people looking into it. We’re also checking on all André Brions, but my guess is he is probably the same guy who Officer Leroy shot. Seven times. Not a lot of André Brions in the white pages. Where does it lead, Archer? Is there a correlation? There must be something.’

  ‘I wish I knew.’

  ‘Anything else I can offer, let me know.’

  ‘Leroy detains two criminals on his security gig. Brion and Washington. They’re both thieves with a background.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘In his police career, Officer John Leroy confronts a burglar who draws on him, and he shoots André Brion in the line of duty. Same guy he detained a number of years ago. What are the chances he finds this guy for a second time? It’s got to be the same guy, right?’

  ‘As I said, it appears so,’ Beeman said.

  ‘Then John Leroy is killed by an unknown gunman and within forty-eight hours the second burglar, Joseph Washington, is killed by one of our officers.’

  ‘It’s crazy, Q. If all the names check out, it’s just plain crazy. Like a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces don’t seem to fit.’

  ‘The second you know if it’s a positive on Washington and Brion, call me,’ Archer said. ‘I don’t know how it’s connected to Leroy’s death, but if we can make those pieces fit, it’s going to be a huge step toward solving this murder and maybe keeping this city from exploding. Thanks, Sergeant. As you know, every bit of information helps.’

  He wasn’t sure what that huge step was, but his gut instinct told him this was the biggest lead he’d had. Truth be told, the only real lead. The rest was all just voodoo magic.

  Archer thought about the situation. A cop had been murdered in cold blood. An unarmed burglar had been killed by a white cop. And there were tentacles. Possibly every act was connected. It was up to him to find those connections. There was a reason the process was called ‘detecting’.

  And he wondered what else he could be doing? What other profession was he suited for? Anything else. The strain was stressing him. Archer wondered what bartenders started at. He could mix drinks for a living. With tips he’d probably make more than he did now. Maybe a plumber, a carpenter. An insurance salesman? Anything that didn’t come with guilt, with heavy baggage. He’d known from the start of his career, he would be judged for everything he did. Part of the territory. It was a crazy world he lived in. A universe where every minute made you prove you deserved to exist. You were forced to persevere. And sometimes you just wanted to throw your hands up and say, ‘Fuck it.’

  He acknowledged, deep down inside, he wasn’t wired that way. He wasn’t capable of accepting a menial job. Archer needed to be challenged. When his back was to the wall, he became stronger. He came out swinging. And maybe that time would be now. He needed to find out who killed Johnny Leroy. Number one priority and he was going to have the answer to that question very soon.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Officer Johnny ‘Jack’ Leroy had it coming for two reasons. He’d killed Pop. Taken away the most important person in Joseph’s life. The second grievous sin he’d committed was he’d left Mom a widow. Mom had withdrawn into a small, hard shell and never fully reappeared.

  Loretta Brion had been a strong woman, strict where his father was lenient, yet loving. She kept a good home, saw to it that a hot meal was served once a day, and was adamant that the boy followed her to church every Sunday. When he asked why his father didn’t adhere to that rule, she simply shrugged and told him the Lord dealt with different people in different ways. He took that to mean that Pop had his own way of worshiping. Pop and God were on a different level. Joseph vowed that as an adult, he’d find that relationship as well, and skip all the ceremony, the shouting about hellfire and brimstone, the fervent screaming of parishioners as the spirit moved them. Every Sunday morning, he cringed, knowing he was going to be confronted with people he considered a little crazy. Frankly, church scared the hell out of him.

  As a child, he sometimes prayed that God wasn’t a vengeful creator. He didn’t want to burn in hell for the small transgressions that he had committed. And he sometimes offered that prayer now, because his small transgressions had escalated into much bigger ones.

  Joseph knew his father worked strange hours, sometimes only one night a week. In his spare time, he frequented some sort of club. He’d often come home smelling of alcohol and tobacco, but if anything, the drinking and the smoke seemed to make him mellow. Joseph remembered fondly, the man always kissed his wife when he left and when he returned. The ritual warmed Joseph’s heart. He knew from a young age he was part of a loving family.

  Mom read the Bible religiously and sometimes late at night Joseph could hear her reciting a verse from 1 Peter.

  Above everything, love one another earnestly, because love covers over many sins.

  Over and over again she would repeat it, like a mantra. And she prayed for him, for Joseph, he could hear her loud and clear … and for his father. Asking for forgiveness for sins she wasn’t quite sure had been committed. It was as if she took no chances.

  Looking back, he knew she was a bright woman. She obviously knew that André ‘Andy’ Brion lived a life of crime, but she chose not to be confrontational. The man provided, and provided quite well. They had a fine home in Marigny, just northeast of the French Quarter. There was a yard and trees he could climb. That was his earliest memory. Shortly before the murder of his father, and he knew it had been a murder, not self-defense, they’d had a financial crisis. Something had happened and Pop wasn’t bringing in the money he once had. Somewhere the ‘business’ had fallen off, gone south.

  His father had lost the spacious three-bedroom home and they had moved to the Lower Ninth. It was a traumatic time in his life. His mother had tried to make a game of it, the move, the downsizing, but the adventure didn’t last long and that’s when she started losing it. When Pop was killed, murdered, she never recovered. And neither did Joseph.

  Mom was now protected. By her church affiliation, by the congregation. Joseph was certain of that. The young preacher would ask for donations and she would be sheltered and fed. And Joseph knew that she was in God’s hands as well. Someone as deeply religious as she was had to have God’s blessing. She was Joseph’s biggest concern, but he felt somewhat relieved knowing that she believed in the Savior and by his grace alone, his mother would be saved.

  All these thoughts clouded his mind as he rolled his sleeping bag, loaded his pack and went in search of a cup of coffee. He could wire himself on caffeine
today because he seriously needed to be alert. No drugs, no alcohol. Today was his day. Pop’s day. And again, he sent out a prayer for Mom.

  She paddled the kayak down the Pearl, named by the French settlers who found the shells and pearls left by the Indians who shucked the oysters. By historic accounts the French had discovered piles and piles of pearls, three or four feet high. The natives could eat the slimy oysters. The white, opaque abnormalities they occasionally found in the shells, they couldn’t. These were left behind. The Frenchmen must have thought they had found a treasure trove.

  Ma’s friend Matebo, the old man of the swamps, had moved to the Pearl River and in very private areas he harvested herbs, swamp grass and other things that were used in voodoo spells and potions. He sold them to a regular group of practitioners and made a modest living. Solange’s regular trips guaranteed fresh produce and the octogenarian was always glad to see her. Before the dementia, before the slide into the vacuous state she now inhabited, Ma used to visit and often Solange was invited along. There was a closeness between Ma and Matebo that seemed to transcend friendship, but she’d been a little girl and possibly a little too impressionable. Still, she often thought that the swamp dweller might be the mysterious father that she’d never known.

  Through a swamp of trees dripping with Spanish moss she traveled, passing the heads of two alligators who lay submerged, only their eyes above water, dully watching as she slid by. Tall stakes dotted the shore where permit holders would string lines and hooks with dead chickens as bait, hoping to catch the reptiles and sell the meat, the skins, even the organs and head.

  Breathing in the smoky, musty odor of the marsh, she watched three feral black hogs rooting around the base of a tree and she smiled when she saw a blacksnake swimming next to her. Possibly a relative of Damballa the snake god, sent to keep her safe. The murky water in front of her swirled as some underwater creature stirred up the bottom.

  A green-slime-covered fishing boat was beached on the far side of the shallow river, it’s bottom rotted out, and she knew that she was close. A landmark.

  And there he was, waving at her, his long, stark-white hair contrasting sharply with his deep brown skin. Looking thin and frail, he helped her pull the kayak up on the shore.

  ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Solange. How’s Ma?’

  ‘Once in a while there’s a glimmer,’ she said. ‘Other than that …’

  ‘All the potions, all the spells, all the herbs that are available,’ the old man shook his head, ‘and we can’t find one that works.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Speaking of spells, potions and remedies, I see you have your devil’s wood root in the red flannel bag.’

  She pointed to the small red bag tied to his waist.

  ‘Ça va bien.’ He smiled. ‘And observe.’ Holding up his hands, he made two fists, then raised his arms high.

  ‘Amazing. The last time you couldn’t do that at all. And your back?’

  ‘Well, I have my days, but remember, girl, I’m eighty-five. The root has given me some motion back and for that I am thankful.’

  She followed him as he walked to a rustic campsite, a protected fire burning and a black pot hanging over the coals.

  ‘So over the years you’ve taught me that roots are the most powerful of the natural medicines, because—’

  ‘Because the root is the anchor. The root is the source of nutrition. All things start with a root.’

  He motioned her to sit in a canvas sling-back chair, while he circled the fire.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard you and Ma both say, “Channel what the root stands for and make it work for you.”’

  ‘Devil’s wood root, despite its name,’ he grasped the red pouch, ‘is based in a calming, healing aura. Inflammation, the cause of arthritis, retreats when I wear the bag.’

  ‘So I have a question.’

  ‘You always have a question. And another and another.’ He laughed. ‘Little girl, when you were a little girl, you asked me a ton of questions every time Ma brought you. Joie de vivre.’

  ‘I should have asked how strong the relationship was between you and Ma. I never had the courage.’

  The old man shook his head, the fine white hair moving with the shake. She understood he wasn’t going to answer the question about Ma.

  ‘What’s your other question?’

  ‘Two, actually.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘I’m in touch with the spirit of a dead cop. He was killed for a reason, and if I can find the reason, I am reasonably sure that the homicide detective—’

  ‘Archer,’ Matebo said. ‘Quentin Archer, the man you are somewhat interested in.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway, I need to find more specifics. His spirit has spoken to me, but as usual, the terms are vague. Do you have any suggestions? I could use some help.’

  ‘Girl, there are hundreds of questions I should ask, and hundreds of possible solutions as you know. But, here’s something you might try. I’ll include this in your package.’

  ‘You have something new?’

  ‘Something old. Thirty million years old, originating in Eurasia.’

  ‘Have I heard of this?’

  ‘Of course. It is used for digestive problems, heart ailments, bone strength and dozens of other remedies. But in this case, dandelions increase the possibility of clairvoyance.’

  ‘The lion’s tooth?’

  ‘In French, yes. And maybe being a little bit psychic, seeing into the past and the future, will help you find what you need.’

  ‘I never knew.’

  ‘As a tea, as an herb, in salads it can be a health food. But people ignore the spiritual aspect. When you pray to the gods then ingest the essence of the plant, miracles can happen. You can unlock secrets of the universe. I believe this would work for you.’

  He squatted in his linen pants and shirt, picking up a long branch and stirring whatever was in the pot. The smell interested her.

  ‘Rattlesnake soup,’ he said. ‘I included some snake-shed in your package. Powder it, and it gets rid of bad spirits.’

  ‘Thank you. I need to pick up and be going.’

  ‘Stay for lunch?’

  ‘No, but I appreciate the offer. My last question, and this may not be the one you are prepared to answer.’

  ‘Solange, I’ve always felt like …’ he hesitated, ‘like a father figure to you. You can ask me anything. And then if it’s totally uncomfortable, I’ll pretend I’m hard of hearing and we can forget it ever happened.’

  She smiled and clapped her hands.

  ‘I have been involved in three murder cases with this Quentin Archer. Each time I’ve been drawn in and I’ve had some interesting insight. I can modestly say that my input has helped solve the crime.’

  ‘You’ve made a statement, my dear. No question. No need for any help. What’s happened has happened.’

  ‘The question is yet to come,’ she said.

  ‘Is there some jeopardy in entering into a personal relationship with this detective?’

  ‘You knew?’

  He settled back, stirring the pot. ‘I have no way of knowing how far you’ve gone, but there is one thing you need to understand in any relationship. You need to know the difference between when someone is speaking to you during their free time … and when they are freeing up their time to speak to you. I’m not sure I can give you better advice.’

  ‘You’re saying …’

  ‘I’m saying what I said. Solange, I love you like a daughter. I was devastated when your last relationship didn’t work. I was torn between wanting it to be healed, and wanting that terrible man out of your life. I pray that if you do become involved again with anyone, that there is a deep-seated commitment.

  ‘You said it only works if someone frees up their time because they want or need to communicate? Not if they just want to pass the time?’

  ‘Have some soup with me. With the proper s
pices, the snake is delicious.’ He sniffed the steam arising from his creation.

  ‘He’s asked for some free time. I declined for now. Quentin wanted to take me out for dinner but I was hesitant. There are stressful moments in this case and I thought the situation was much too serious.’

  ‘That and he still mourns for his deceased wife.’

  ‘That too,’ she said, somewhat embarrassed that Matebo knew so much about the detective.

  ‘I told you what I can tell you,’ Matebo said.

  ‘The package,’ she said.

  He handed it to her along with a small bouquet of dandelions, and she handed him fifty dollars, cash.

  ‘There’s some High John root and dried toadstool tops in there as well.’

  She nodded. Always a little surprise from the old man.

  ‘Solange, be careful. You are a young woman and you have a lot of life to live. I don’t want you to ruin that life.’

  ‘I don’t intend to.’

  ‘So many young people ignore what is important. The gods, the spirits are watching. If you, especially you, give the dream up … ignore your legacy—’

  ‘Matebo,’ she shouted, ‘what I want is out. Please show me a way.’

  The man stared at her, his mouth wide open.

  ‘Well, I certainly didn’t see that coming.’

  ‘How do I move on from the spirit world?’

  ‘I’m not sure you do.’ He calmly continued to stir the pot.

  ‘Sometimes I think that this is what drove Ma crazy. This calling, this obsession with the voodoo gods, the voodoo community, it caused her to lose her mind. I don’t want to end up like that.’

  He smiled at her, the wrinkled face creasing.

  ‘Even in the mindless state she seems to inhabit, you have admitted there are moments when your mother shows she’s still connected.’

  Solange took a deep breath, then slowly let it out.

  ‘I’m sorry for the outburst. It’s just that the frustration wears on me and there are times—’

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about. Don’t you think that I’ve had moments of doubts in all these years. When people yelled at me on the streets of the Quarter that I was a damned hoodoo man. I’ve been called Diablo, and Beelzebub. They said worse. And there were times when I wanted to walk away. But the spirits wouldn’t let go. And you know, they can be a persistent bunch. Besides, there were too many people who needed me. They needed me to build the bridge, to communicate for them. And people depend on you.’