by Sara Gran
Nothing. He was sealed up tight.
"You're the boss," I said.
Andray's friends hung back as we walked together up toward Prytania. We didn't talk. Andray's sneakers were quiet in the night air, his breath soft and white in front of him. Around the corner I saw what I'd been dreading.
A black Hummer. Just like the one driven by whoever shot at the kid in front of the restaurant the other day.
Or shot at me.
We stopped in front of the car.
"You gonna kill me, Andray?" I asked. I heard my heart beating in my chest.
Andray shook his head as if I'd said something stupid and didn't answer.
That was when I got scared.
The other boys caught up with us and the youngest one tossed his gun to one of the others, two medium-size, unremarkable-looking young men. One of the unremarkable boys caught the gun by the handle in the air. He was like a circus performer. Then the young one used a key to open the Hummer and then popped the rest of the locks and we all got in—me in the front between Andray and the driver, the two unremarkable boys in the back.
"You don't have a remote?" I asked.
"I lost that shit!" the driver exclaimed. "Like the first motha-fucking day I had it, I lost that shit! And you know what they want for another one at the dealer's?"
"I can imagine," I said. "Look on eBay."
"Yeah," he said, looking over his shoulder to pull out. "I gotta get with that shit."
The driver put on the radio. To my surprise he didn't put on one of the ten million hip-hop stations in New Orleans. Instead he put on WWOZ, where the Oak Street Brass Band was doing an in-studio show.
The two unremarkable boys fell into a series of hoots and hollers as the band started "Eliza Jane."
"We got friends in that band," one of the boys explained to me.
"You play?" I asked, turning around.
"Oh, yeah," the unremarkable boy on the driver's side said, smiling. "Tuba. I play with them fuckers sometimes. I played with 'em at Maple Leaf few months back. We opened for Bo Dollis," he said proudly.
"No shit," I said, turning around. "I seen Bo Dollis play, gee, five times, at least. How about you?" I said to the other boy. "What do you play?"
"Fuck, I ain't play nothing," the boy said, laughing. He had light skin and freckles and a funny, friendly face. "I play a little drums. I ain't no good. I play tambourine when I go out with the Red Eagles."
"You're in the Red Eagles?" I asked, incredulous. The Red Eagles were one of the most spectacular Indian gangs in New Orleans. "Shit, I saw you guys parade—Jesus, more than ten years ago—1995."
The boy let out a hoot. "'Ninety-five?" he said. "I was there. I was four years old. That my first parade."
I remembered that day. Constance had taken me to the park to see the Indian practice. The men in their elaborate beaded outfits and headdresses huddled together to chant and drink, surrounded by uncostumed men playing percussion: tambourine, block, cowbell. With them had been a tiny boy, not much higher than my knee, in full costume. He played a little half-tambourine and danced and let out a wild pseudo-Indian yelp every once in a while. The mother of the little boy was a friend of Constance's, and she'd made the boy come over and say hello. She picked him up so Constance could kiss him, a little ball of baby fat dressed in fifty pounds of sequins and feathers.
Everyone knew Constance. Nearby, the Big Chief, sweating in his costume, chanted. His eyes rolled back in his head as he went into a kind of trance.
New Orleans was the first place I'd been where magic was real.
"Holy shit," I said to the boy in the back seat. "I remember you. I saw you. I met your mother."
"Shit," the kid said.
"Yeah," I said. "Your mother—she knew my friend. This lady I used to work for."
The boys in the back seat looked at each other. No one laughed anymore.
We kept driving.
In Central City we pulled over in an empty lot on Washington just before Dryades.
No one said anything. The band was doing a version of "Iko Iko." When they finished the driver turned off the radio.
I breathed slowly, and prayed. Constance had sent me to study with a lama in Santa Cruz for two months, and the prayers he taught me came back, just like he'd promised they would when I needed them.
Om dum durgeya namaah.
The driver popped the locks. Everyone except me grabbed for a door handle.
Om gum gunaputayi swaha, I silently repeated.
"Wait up," Andray said, loudly. "Wait up, niggas."
Everyone waited.
Aham prema. Thy will be done.
"We ain't need four guys for this shit. I can take care of her."
In the rearview mirror I caught the eye of the kid I'd seen parade. He looked away.
Om shanti shanti shanti. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.
The driver looked at Andray. "You got it?" he said.
Andray nodded.
St. Jude, hear my prayer.
"Yo, Quan," the driver said to the boy with the gun. "Give it to Andray."
Quan took the gun out of his pants and gave it to Andray.
"Shit," Andray said. "This be warm"
Everyone laughed again.
Saint Joseph, protect me.
"You got it?" the driver said to Andray again. "You gonna take of this?"
Lord, forgive my sins, of which there are too fucking many to count.
Andray nodded.
"Awright," the driver said. Andray opened his door and hopped out of the Hummer. I followed.
"Yo, shut the door," the driver said, annoyed with my poor manners.
I shut the door. The Hummer drove away.
I turned and looked at Andray. We stood in the cold air and looked at each other. Andray shook his head, as if I'd let him down.
"I kind of like you, Miss Claire," he said.
"Thanks, Andray," I said. "I kind of like you too."
Some people got meaner when they got a gun. The rush of power could be intense. But not Andray. He looked like he'd been given a job he didn't want.
I hoped to God I was right.
"I like those tattoos you got," he said, looking at my wrists. "What those letters mean?"
"My friends," I said. "It was for them. I was young when I got them. Younger than you."
"They still your friends?" Andray asked.
"No," I said. "One's dead. The other hates me."
Andray frowned, as if he'd expected a better story. On one side of the lot was a brick warehouse, long abandoned. An old mural was barely left on the wall: NEW ORLEANS COMES TO LIFE WITH COMMUNITY COFFEE!
"You got more?" he said. "More tattoos?"
"About ten," I said. "Maybe twenty. Live free or die. You haven't seen that one. It's on my back. I got like ten more."
"What's that on your arm?" he asked, pointing with the gun.
I looked to where he was pointing. I pushed up my sleeve so he could see. It was a magnifying glass. Above that was a fingerprint.
Om shanti shanti shanti.
Andray nodded.
"I like that. Live free or die. Take no shit from no one. But first," he said, "I gotta take care of this." He stomped his feet against the cold and looked around.
"Now, Miss Claire," he said, turning toward me and looking me in the eye. "You gonna forget all about what you seen since you been in New Orleans, right?"
"I've already forgotten," I said. "So now we can—"
"I mean, you really gonna forget, okay?" Andray said.
"Okay," I said. I had no idea what he was referring to. It could have been Vic. Or it could have been the shooting in front of the restaurant the other day. I had the thought that maybe he wanted me to forget everything—the ruin, the despair, the blood. Maybe he was part of a committee to help people remember New Orleans before and forget New Orleans now.
"And these guys," Andray went on, "they want to make sure you remember to forget. And just to know you really forgot, they wa
nt you to get the hell out of New Orleans, all right?"
"I've forgotten," I said. "I'm on the next flight."
"You got to leave," Andray said, firmly. "You got to get out of town. Just like the old movies. You hear me?"
"I hear you," I said. "I'm already out. I'm not even looking back."
"The thing is," Andray went on, "I gotta make sure you forget. I'm sorry. You a nice lady. I almost like you. But that's how it's gotta be."
"That's okay," I said. "I understand. But if you—"
I didn't finish my sentence, which was going to be something like But if you kill me I'll never forgive you,. Andray pulled back the hand with the gun up above his head, and my heart stopped.
Then he swung it down to crack me on the forehead.
I saw a thousand little Lite-Brite lights in the sky. I fell back and felt the cold earth hit my bones.
As I fell, I saw that the Hummer was parked across Dryades. We were being watched.
"You gon' be okay," I heard Andray say from far away. "This time, you livin' free. And you ain't dead yet. As long as you get your ass out of New Orleans, you gonna be just fine, Miss Claire DeWitt."
When I came to, it was still night. Andray and I were sitting on the levee, looking over the Mississippi, watching it roll by like slow, sticky molasses.
"Shit," Andray said. "He been talking about you, you know."
He passed me a fat brown spliff. I took it and took an elephant-size hit. When I exhaled the smoke spread out on the Mississippi, settling over it like fog.
"He told me to tell you not to worry," Andray said.
"He always says that," I said.
"He said he knows it's hard," Andray said, nodding. "He say he knows that. But you gotta be patient, Miss Claire. He ain't working on your time. You oughta know that."
"It's just that—" I said. "You know, he's been saying that a long time now, and it's like—"
"He said he got a spot all saved for you," Andray said. "A seat right next to him. He say all the detectives, they gonna go home when the flood comes. The real flood. And you gonna get, what you call it, recompense for all the burdens you bear. For carrying his burdens and shit. We all gonna get our recompense, but people like us, people who take on burdens, we gonna get to sit by his side. He promised me that."
Andray took the joint and closed his eyes and took a huge hit, filling the city with smoke when he exhaled, like a dragon.
"All the saints gonna be waiting for us," Andray said, smiling. "All the birds, they gonna sing for us when we come home. The dogs is gonna cry and the cats is gonna laugh. They all waiting for us, up at the castle. And every one gonna say thank you. That's gonna be nice, huh? Thank you.
"See, they know all about people like us, Miss Claire. They ain't forget us. We workin' for them down here. They know that. He ask us to do our turn and we did it for him. We forgot. But him, he ain't forgot nothing. He know why we're here. He remember for us. He asked us to come down here and do his work, and where you think you're gonna do that? Shit, happy people, they ain't need us. They got what they need. They ain't our people, Miss Claire. People like you and me, we born sad. That way we always recognize our own."
My eyelids felt heavy and I felt myself drifting away.
"You my sister, girl," Andray said, smiling. "We on the same team. And I'm-a see you again for sure."
We were standing next to each other on the street in Central City. No one else was around, and I heard the water curl through the streets. It rose up around us, wrapping us tight but leaving us dry. Birds flew overhead: parrots, pigeons, doves, starlings, blue jays, all singing together, flying in a whirlwind above us. Andray leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, his breath hot on my skin.
"Your girl, she up there waiting for you. She want me to tell you. She ain't never forget you. She know she in your heart, every minute. Like a little bird in there, beating her wings. She waiting for you up there. She saving you a seat right by her side. She say you getting closer. She say the time is almost here. She say soon, girl. Soon.
"And your girl, she say the whole world stranger than you ever gonna believe. And she say she laugh so hard, sometimes, at the things she see you do, she almost fall off her throne and fall back down to earth."
I gasped and opened my eyes. I was lying in a filthy lot in Central City. Hovering above me was a man of indeterminate age and features, kicking me lightly. Andray was gone. I didn't know when he'd left.
I sat up. The old man shuffled back a little and mumbled something, his breath forming clouds in front of his mouth.
"Better luck next time, pal," I croaked, my throat dry and painful. "Not dead yet."
The man left. I lay still for maybe a minute or two, or maybe I fell back asleep for a while. Eventually I got up and checked for damage. I didn't think I had a concussion, and if I did, the last place I wanted to be was a New Orleans emergency room. I checked my purse and pockets, and everything important and lethal seemed to be in place. I looked at my phone. It was three in the morning. I'd been out for hours.
From my purse I took out a compact mirror and looked at the bump on my head. It was a little mountain, all right, but the skin was barely broken. I wiped up the small smear of blood that was there and stood up.
I saw more Lite-Brite lights. I sat back down.
I did this a few times before I was stable enough to keep standing. Then I walked. I made it as far as the steps of a church on Dryades. I sat on the steps and tried to stay awake. I was feeling a little punch drunk. The cold air helped a little.
"Hey, miss," I heard behind me. "Miss." I turned around. A man was behind me. Not one man, I saw after a moment. Men. A bunch of them were huddled up in sleeping bags and newspapers and rags by the door of the church, about five feet from where I was sitting, trying to sleep and stay warm.
"Hey, miss, 'scuse me." One of the men scootched forward and sat near me. He was skinny and short and old.
"Yeah?" I said.
"You got a smoke?" he said. "I don't mean to bother you. But you got a smoke? All I want is a cigarette."
I shook my head. "Uh-uh," I said. "Sorry. I don't have one."
He looked at me like he didn't believe me.
"Really," I said.
He mumbled something under his breath.
"You want a dollar?" I said. I was worried about a rebellion of men on the church steps. "'Cause I really don't have a cigarette."
He smiled. "Yeah," he said. "That'd be nice. Thanks."
I reached into my pocket and found a five-dollar bill and gave it to him.
"Thanks," he said again. "Bless you."
"You too," I said.
I stood up and my head spun. I sat back down.
"Hey," the man said. "How about you? You want a cigarette?"
"Sure," I said. "I'd like that."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a half-smoked 100. I took it and he lit it for me with a matchbook.
When he lit the match, he saw the bump on my head.
"That don't look good," he said, frowning.
"It don't feel good," I said.
The cigarette tasted good. I sat and smoked it. The man pulled a pint bottle out from his overcoat and opened it up and handed it to me.
"Thank you," I said. I took a long, burning sip and handed it back to him.
"You welcome," he said. The man smiled. As I looked at him his coat kind of shook and then rattled. I thought I was seeing things, but then something crawled out from the coat and onto the man's shoulders.
It was a rat. A pretty, clean brown and white rat.
"Oh!" I said.
"That's Boo," the man said. He reached a hand up to pet the rat.
"Hey, Boo," I said. I reached out to pet him, but Boo shrank away.
"Sorry," I said.
"That's okay," the man said. "He just shy."
We passed the bottle for a while, not a good idea if you might have a concussion, but a good idea if you're depressed and lonely and it's fo
ur o'clock in the morning in the most godforsaken place in the USA and you are very, very thirsty.
We drank for a while and then we smoked more half-cigarettes. Then he pulled out one of the long brown joints and we smoked that.
We talked about the storm. The man told me he'd hidden in a spot he knew, a spot he would not reveal, but from which he could watch all the madness of the city without being seen by any authority.
"You leave people to their own, woulda been fine," the man said. "Once the cops and the Guard come in, start telling everyone what to do, that's when it gets all fucked up."
"I have great faith," I said, "in people's ability to fuck things up without the cops."
The man laughed.
Me and Boo had been eyeing each other the whole time. Now, finally, he leaned in closer to me. I reached out my hand and let him sniff it. His sharp little nose took in everything. He made a face like something smelled foul. That means something coming from a rat.
"I know," I said. "It's been a hard night."
The rat looked at me and leaned toward me, moving his whiskers up and down as he weighed what I'd said. I held my hand still. Finally he sat back down on the man's shoulder. The man smiled.
"That means he like you," the man said. "He don't like everyone. That means you can pet him."
With one finger I petted his soft, clean little head. "Hey, Boo," I said. "You're a good boy."
"He is that," the man said proudly. "He a real good boy."
I scratched the top of his head. He seemed to like it.
Boo's owner turned to the men behind him. "Hey, Jack," he said. "Look at this. Check it out."
A big lumbering shadow came toward us. Between the play of lights and my head injury and my general intoxication, it looked like a shadow cast by a backlit giant. The shadow came into focus as a man in a big overcoat.
"Boo don't like just anyone," the shadow said. I thought the voice was familiar, but I couldn't...
"He sure don't," Boo's owner said.
The shadow got closer and I felt its eyes on me.
My head spun. I looked back at the shadow, but now it wasn't a shadow anymore.
It was Jack Murray.
"Come on, DeWitt," the shadow said. "You and me, we going for a walk."
