House of Blues

by Julie Smith

  "It's an honor to have you here. Please sit down and we'll have some tea."

  "Oh, no thanks, I just have a question or two and then I'll be off."

  He nudged a hand under her elbow and began to edge her toward the love seat.

  "Nikki will simply not have it. She's been baking all day." Indeed, there was a delicious bakery odor in the air.

  One of the parishioners, if that's what they were, had closed the door behind her (Nikki having disappeared, presumably to fetch the tea). The others still stood stiffly.

  "I really must be going." She sounded like a parody, but she liked it. It was properly distancing.

  "You must certainly not be going. You must indulge us all—we've been curious about you."

  "It sounds as if you've indulged your curiosity. "

  "How's that?"

  "You know everything about me."

  "Not everything, Detective. You still have some secrets. For instance, I don't know yet how I can help you."

  She was disconcerted to find she was sitting on the love seat; she wasn't quite sure how he'd done it.

  Instantly, someone held out a chair for the Reverend Mr. Jacomine, and in almost the same second, two more people wedged a small table between the two, so that Skip was facing the Reverend Mr. over the table.

  And then all but two of the others sat down. The whole thing was so carefully orchestrated it frightened her to think what these people were capable of—what Jacomine was capable of, to have subdued them so completely.

  "These are our people," he said, throwing his arm out in an arc that seemed to take in the world. "I thought you might like to meet some of them so you'd know the kind of work we do. That's Ruby, who was addicted to painkillers when she came here.

  "That's Fred; he had two convictions for armed robbery; he's been with us four years now and he has a good job. That's Mimi right behind Fred. She was a crack whore at this time last year. Ah, here's Nikki."

  Nikki in the nick, Skip thought. She was embarrassed at knowing so much about perfect strangers.

  Nikki had tied a black apron over her white dress, and had placed a black cupcake hat over her headband. The effect was ridiculous—pretentious in the nineteenth century, absolutely unacceptable, Skip would have thought, in a 199os biracial organization.

  Nikki set cups, saucers, and a tray of cookies on the table. Skip was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. They had researched her and they were going to a lot of trouble for what should have been a five-minute interview. Something was wrong here. She wished she had some backup.

  "Could I use the phone a second?"

  "Ruby." Jacomine raised a hand and made a gesture so fast Skip couldn't follow it. It reminded her of a command for dogs.

  Ruby disappeared, and as Skip watched her go, she felt her hand catch fire. "Ouch." She snatched it back, knocking over a lamp in the process, and saw that Nikki had spilled tea on her. Her eyes swept back from the lamp to the room just in time to see Jacomine mouth something at Nikki. She couldn't tell what it was, but the expression in his eyes was controlled fury.

  The back of her neck prickled.

  This man is dangerous.

  She took deep breaths to stay calm.

  Ruby said, "Sidney's using the phone."

  "It's all right. I only have a couple of questions anyway. " She glanced at her watch. "So long as I call in in five minutes."

  She wondered if Evie was in the house. It was seeming likelier and likelier.

  She stared at the window. Behind her someone righted the lamp—not Jacomine, she was sure. He had probably activated one of his robots with a little hand command.

  "Is something wrong?" said Jacomine.

  "I just wanted to make sure my partner found a parking place."

  "You got a partner out there? Why, bring him in. Bring him in right now and let's give him some tea."

  "Mr. Jacomine—"

  "Errol. Please."

  "We really didn't come here to have tea—I'm trying hard to impress on you that I have a job to do." No way was she drinking a drop or eating a crumb.

  "We didn't mean to do anything wrong. We meant to make you feel welcome." His eyes were hard, brown little pebbles.

  "Thank you. I appreciate that. I'm wondering if you know a woman named Evelyne Hebert, nicknamed Evie."

  Behind her, she heard the sound of breath being sucked in. Jacomine's face twitched ever so slightly.

  "I do."

  "Do you know where she is?"

  "No, I don't. Evie was a member here for a while, but she left us about a year ago."

  "Did she live here? In this house?"

  "Another one. We have several for our people to live in. Especially those dealing with addictions."

  "She must have left a forwarding address."

  "No. Evie's departure was rather sudden."

  "What happened, Errol?" Not strictly her business, but maybe he'd answer anyhow.

  "She decided this wasn't the path for her."

  "It sounds as if there were bad feelings around it."

  "She's still one of our people and we still love her."

  21

  Skip went immediately to the office and ran a records check on Jacomine. He had only minor traffic infractions, but she was willing to bet there was a sealed juvenile record somewhere. This was the kind of guy who chopped up his grandparents.

  She needed to know more about him. She called Ramon, in Intelligence, and posed her question.

  "Jacomine. Sure, I know about him, haven't met him personally. Good reports on him. He takes in people who're pretty desperate and cleans them up. Has a pretty good following. Mixed—black and white, a lot of families. Runs a day-care center, all the right civic liberal bleeding-heart bullshit."

  "Something's funny with him. The guy's a creep."

  "He does pretty good work for the community. That's all I know about him."

  "He's got some kind of little fascist army going."

  "I thought I was the expert."

  "When he stands up, everybody stands. All the followers. You know what I mean?"

  "What's wrong with that? That's just showing respect for their leader."

  "He knew a lot of stuff about me; he'd researched me."

  "Aw, you're famous. Don't be so paranoid."

  It was curious, she thought, the way human beings never wanted to think ill of each other, the way they excused each other's misdeeds by professing to know someone else's intent—as if that mattered. It was a cliché the way relatives of a murderer said he was a good boy, he never did mean any harm.

  Neighbors closed their eyes and ears. "Well, yes, we knew they beat their children, but they were good parents, the kids were always clean and well-fed. They were just doing what they thought was right."

  She hated the word "good"; it was a license to kill. Cindy Lou was right: when people thought they were "good," they thought it was okay what they did, and so did their families and friends. At the latter, she wanted to shout: "Who cares what he meant? I don't give a shit what they thought. It's what they did that keeps me on the job."

  To Ramon she wanted to say, Open your eyes.

  But what was the point? Jacomine had no arrest record and hadn't committed any crimes in her presence.

  He knew more about Evie than he'd told, though.

  She arrived at the office Monday morning with a list of things to do: look up the property the Following owned; try to find disgruntled members; or better yet, ex-members.

  She sat at her desk and thought.

  Might as well talk to the ones I already know. She drove back to the little house in Metairie and knocked. The man who answered was a stranger, burly and face-tattooed, looking as if he'd just been released from Angola. Better not start with him.

  "Is Nikki Pigeon in?" It was the one name she knew.

  "She gone."

  "When do you expect her?"

  "You ain' got no bi'ness with Nikki."

  Skip produced her badge.


  The man was suddenly sullen. "I find you somebody," he mumbled, and was gone.

  He came back with a middle-aged woman Skip knew—Ruby, she thought, the one addicted to painkillers. "Yes? Can I help you?"

  She could have just questioned Ruby, but her curiosity was piqued. "I'm looking for Nikki Pigeon."

  "Ms. Pigeon is not a member of our congregation."

  "Is she an employee, then?"

  "I'm afraid I really have no information. I'd be happy to refer your inquiry to Daddy, if you like."

  "Daddy."

  "The Reverend Mr. Jacomine."

  "Thanks, it won't be necessary."

  Something was up here. Yesterday Nikki had been a member. She went back to the office and ran a records check on her. Nothing.

  The DMV provided a two-year-old address, which hardly seemed worth checking out. Skip had the distinct impression Nikki'd been living at the Following house.

  Sighing, she settled back with the phone book, open to P. Eight Pigeons. Not bad. She dialed Tanya, on Baronne, and asked for Nikki.

  Tanya didn't answer, just turned away and hollered, "Nikki! Phone."

  A moment later she was back. "Nikki ain' home."

  "Thanks."

  Skip could hardly believe her good luck. Tanya's part of Baronne was only minutes away, in Central City, possibly the most depressed, decrepit neighborhood that wasn't actually a project. It was an area where it seemed as if every other building was abandoned, a place where hope was hard to hold on to. No wonder Nikki had left. She must have had a compelling reason for returning.

  Nikki answered the door herself, in baggy jeans and T-shirt, mouth swollen, a sharp contrast to the neat, prim church lady of yesterday.

  "I saw you comin' up the walk, said to my sister, tha's one lady I want to talk to. You call here earlier?"

  "Yes—you weren't home."

  "Ha! Thought those assholes tracked me down. How you find me?"

  "Looked you up in the phone book." Skip smiled and shrugged. Nikki laughed.

  "Did, did you? Whyn't you come in? I want to talk to you."

  Skip stepped into a dark living room, curtains drawn, very little furniture, no rug. Though no one was in the room, the television was going full-blast. A photo of Martin Luther King stood on the mantel.

  Nikki gestured for Skip to sit, and pointed to her injured mouth: "I'm gettin' mad about some stuff."

  "Who did that to you?"

  "Who you think? The Rev. Mr. High and Fuckin' Mighty, tha's who. I'm gon' git that bastard."

  Go, Nikki! But she kept her face impassive. "Oh?"

  "You know what they doin' over there? They plannin' somep'n. What, I don't know. But somep'n. Gotta be. Why else put together an army of zombies?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Well, tha's just what I call 'em. They ain't killin' anybody and bringin' 'em back to life. But Daddy—tha's what we call him—"

  "You mean Errol Jacomine?"

  "Yeah, him. But that's not his real name."

  Bingo.

  "Oh, really? What is it?"

  "I'm not sure. I jus' know it's not Errol Jacomine."

  "How do you know that?"

  "He talks about it. Talks about how he used to be somebody else, back before he was born again; how he did a lot of bad things and then he got saved and realized he needed to help people who were worse off than he was. Said he got a new name to go along with his new life. We'd be surprised, he said. Shee—it. I wouldn't be surprised at nothin'. The man's violent." She paused, fingering her split lip. "Evil. I honestly think he's evil. I don't know if I ever met anybody else I felt that way about."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Because he gets people, like, under his control. And he makes 'em do stuff."

  "What kind of stuff?"

  Pigeon lowered her head. "Sex."

  Of course. Guru-itis. "What else?"

  "Work on, you know, whatever he wants us to. Causes and shit. Like work the phones for some politician he wants to get elected. You know? That kind of shit. Then, the politician gets elected, I bet he makes him do what he wants."

  "Nikki, why'd you decide to leave?"

  " 'Cause I've had enough of this shit. See this lip? You know why he hit me? 'Cause I spilled that tea on you, tha's why."

  "Oh, my God. I'm so sorry."

  "Well I'm not. Tha's what woke me up. All this time I've been takin' his shit, just takin' it and takin' it, sayin', 'He' a good man, he don't mean to hurt people, he just does it for their own good.' Can you believe I could be that dumb?"

  "Everybody's that dumb about some things."

  "See, what he does, he makes you be a maid if you transgress somehow or other. I did somethin' he didn't like—oh, hell, you know what I did? When I look back on it now, I just can't believe I was so dumb, some of the things I put up with. What I did wrong, I didn't wear the right kind of perfume when it was my turn to go to bed with him."

  Skip started. "Your turn? Do all the women have to go to bed with him?"

  "Oh, no. Inst the ones he wants. Guys too. He makes some of them do it too. And he's married! That's the worst part—he makes his wife get people ready for him—baths with special scents, nightgowns and shit, perfume. Shit! It wasn't even my fault about the perfume, it was Tourmaline's—that's his wife. She was supposed to know what kind of damn perfume he wanted. See, she has this back problem and can't have sex—tha's what he says—and he says a man has to have certain things and it's our duty to see that he's satisfied."

  "So he got mad at you and made you be his maid."

  "Not his maid, exactly. The church's. Like what I did yesterday. Servin' tea for dignitaries; that kind of shit."

  "Speaking of that, how did he happen to know so much about me?"

  She looked surprised. "I don't know. I just got a message to be over there at two-thirty, dressed in white and lookin' like a nice church lady. I used to be a stripper, you know. I was doin' fine—a lot better than before I met Daddy—but my boyfriend beat me up real bad and I couldn't dance, and then he kicked me out of the apartment, and by then I didn't have a penny and I was homeless.

  "I had this girlfriend, Carla; her cousin was in the church; and she made a phone call and they said they'd take me in." She shrugged. "Simple as that. They took care of me while I healed, and then I was part of the church family. Tha's what they called it. Church family!" She stopped and thought about it. "Yeah. Incest is best."

  Skip winced, but Pigeon emitted peals of wild, sharp laughter, evidently letting off steam.

  "I bought it. I really did buy it for a while. I thought it was great to be a part of this community, you know? I never was a part of anything, never, you know, like worked toward anything. This was—you know, holy work. Cool. Me. Doin' holy work. I thought I was hot shit. Brought my sister's kids to church and everything. Tanya, she always said there was somethin' wrong—but I didn't see it. Said Daddy gave her the creeps.

  "Then yesterday after you left, he called a house meeting—about fifty people were there—he called it for the sole purpose of humiliating me. (Look at this girl! The white honky po-lice come, and she make us look like we ain't even out of the trees yet. There we are tryin' to look good in front of the community and Miss Nikki Pigeon pours hot tea all over 'em, jus' like she was drunk.'

  "Then he falls in love with that one. He goes, ‘Nikki, I b'leeve you were drunk. Were you drunk, Nikki? You were prob'ly on dope, weren't you? And now the whole community's gon' have to suffer for it. Everybody here's gon' have to do sixteen hours of work this week.

  "'Those who're employed.

  " 'Those who aren't, you gon' do sixteen hours over what you normally do'—most of us do about forty-five. Either that, he says, or put in two hundred dollars. 'That's gon' be pretty hard on some of y'all, idn't it? Nikki Pigeon, I want you to be aware—l want you to be aware of the havoc you've caused.'

  "And tha's when he slap me.

  "In front of all those people—can you believe
it? Even Joel, my ex-boyfriend who beat me up, never did it in front of nobody. And he say, you gon' have to wear sackcloth, like in the Bible, all week to atone for your sins.

  " 'Wha's sackcloth, Daddy?' I say, and he say, 'Burlap, girl. And it's gon' hurt you. It's gon' make you itch real bad. And what's more, you gon' have to make your garments. I herewith order you to make yourself a pair o' underpants, one of those—you know, chemise things'—camisoles, somebody in the audience say, and he say, yeah, camisoles, and a burlap dress to go over it. Somebody say, ‘Whoo, tha's gon' be hot,' and Daddy, he say, 'Yeah, gon' be hot. Hot and itchy too. Miss Nikki's gon' be sorry she ever disobey her daddy,' and I say, ‘But Daddy, I didn't disobey; it was a accident,' and he slap me again.

  "Well, I went back to my room and I just lay down on my bed and cried and cried, feelin' like the lowest worm in the world, thinkin' it wadn't fair, wadn't fair at all. Then I remembered pore Evie. And I thought, 'I don't have to take this shit.' And I called my sister to come get me.

  "See, what they do, they get you dependent on 'em. You can't go do nothin' on your own. I thought about that when I was lyin' there. I wanted to go, but where was I gon' go? The church wouldn't let me go back to dancin', and tha's the only way I know to make a livin'. Tha's when I thought about Evie and how she left 'em—just flat-out up and left 'em—so she could do what she wanted.

  "She's a real pretty girl, see? You ever seen her?"

  Skip shook her head.

  "Pore thing, I bet she had to get all perfumed for Daddy every now and then. Anyway, everybody said she should be a model, she was pretty enough, and that gave her the idea to go to a modeling agency. You know you can make good money that way? You don't even have to take your clothes off or nothin'. You get jobs like handin' out stuff at conventions, shit like that. No sex. No nothin'. just handin' shit out." She shrugged, as if it were too much to fathom.

  "Well, Evie did that, and he did the same damn thing to her."

  "I don't follow you."