by C. R. Daems
"Mambo Renee, your table is ready. I've seated you on the patio. Is that all right?"
"That's good, Eloi. Thank you."
Eloi personally showed us to our table, and Alma stood ready to get us drinks.
"Grace and I would like a red wine. What do you suggest, Renee?" Ron asked.
"What do you suggest, Alma?" I certainly wasn't an expert on wines.
"I understand the house red is pretty good, and it's reasonably priced."
Ron looked to me. I didn't normally have wine with my meals, but this felt like a special occasion, so I nodded.
"Three glasses, please," Ron said, and Alma took off.
"Y’all certainly have been busy," I said. "I'd bet beginning married life and a new job is a real challenge."
"You're right. Ron's position with the law firm of Fontaine, Bousquet, and Allstott has him putting in lots of overtime. It's a prestigious firm and will require hard work if he's to have a chance at making partner. And the FBI keeps me busy. It's not a nine-to-five type of environment. We just make the most of the time we have together," Grace said, giving Ron a warm smile. "What about you, Renee? Your grandmother's death can't have been easy."
"No. My grandmother raised me. She was all I had… it's like a part of me died along with her. I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't had to take over her shop. I think it saved me. I wasn't prepared to run her shop, and it's helped keep me from dwelling on her death. She was more than my grandmother. She was my mentor and friend."
The time with Ron and Grace was more enjoyable than I had anticipated. I hadn't done much—any—socializing over the past two years. It had been two years of work and worry. Eloi treated us like royalty. We had lingered over coffee and three orders of pecan pie and ice cream catching up on what had happened over the past two years. I was sorry to see the evening end and hoped I would see them now and then. I refused a ride home since it was only a short distance to the shop, and the weather was clear and pleasantly cool. On the way home, I decided it would be nice to have a boyfriend—or two. To find one, however, I would have to get out and socialize. Wishing and getting were not the same.
* * *
The next day, a few minutes after I had opened for business, Hector appeared in the doorway. He looked like the doorway was the entrance to the underworld. I took pity on him, smiled, and waved him into the shop.
"Hector, don't just stand there, come in." I didn't know what he could want, but he didn't look like he wanted trouble—just the reverse. He slowly made his way to the counter I was sitting behind and stood quietly for a minute.
"Mambo Renee, I want you to know I didn't have anything to do with Knife and his friend Banger. They weren't there when I told the Locos about the drug you gave me to cure my disease." He grinned. "You were right. The boys thought I was getting weak. Knife and Banger planned to make you the Locos' pussy after they had their fun with you. No Loco is going to mess with Mambo Renee. You're bad medicine," he said and looked at the floor.
"Rumor is you can see the future. I want a reading. I'll pay," he said in a rush. I almost felt sorry for Hector. He was like a pit bull which had been beaten into submission. How many of the Locos' girls felt that way—neither Hector nor any of the Locos deserved pity. I would never like Hector; however, it was in my best interest to not only keep him and the Locos in fear of me, but also not to give them reason to test my strength. Hector foresaw some problem or other. If I could help, it might give the Locos another reason to leave me alone.
"Tonight at seven. Come alone."
"Yes, Mambo Renee. Tonight at seven."
* * *
Ten minutes before seven, Hector was standing outside my shop. I saw no reason—except pure meanness—to leave him standing there like a kid waiting to see the principal. I was prepared for trouble, although I didn't anticipate any. I had a tiger-eye ring with pure ricin, derived from the castor beans, on each hand. Making him sick twice might make him suspicious. If he got aggressive tonight, he would die, although I hated the thought and the consequences.
"Hector, come sit here and put your hands on the table." When he did, I sat and placed my hands over his. His hands tightened for a moment then relaxed. Abstractly, I realized putting my hands over someone's hands kept me safe while I closed my eyes since he couldn't reach or strike me without moving his hand. I relaxed and watched as Hector's life over the next several weeks scrolled before my eyes. Yes, the Locos were in big trouble. A week from now they would be in a fight. Outnumbered and outgunned, they would lose their territory to a Salvadoran gang, MS666—the symbol for the devil.
"Hector, I see another gang wants your territory. If you meet them, you will lose. They have more weapons than you. Your only chance is to hunt them in their territory, on your terms not theirs," I said and remained quiet as Hector sorted through what I had told him and began thinking about how he could take the fight to them. As he did, his future changed. He had decided not to meet them in an all-out fight as he had apparently agreed. Now that I had seen what he planned and the results, I could make another prediction. "If you take the fight to them, a few Locos will get killed, a few injured, but you'll hold onto your territory."
"Thank you, Mambo Renee," he whispered, looking deep in thought. He stood eyes downcast as he fished in his pocket and pulled out a single bill. Placing it on the table, he gave me a sheepish look, "Is this enough?"
I nodded more in surprise than agreement, and before I could say anything, he was out the door. The face of Benjamin Franklin stared up at me—a hundred dollar bill. Usually, I charged fifty for a session, which could last anywhere from a half hour to an hour depending upon the amount of small talk. I was surprised but didn't plan on refunding Hector any money. The advice I had given him saved his life and territory. I rationalized it benefited everyone—the neighborhood, the Locos, and me—because the rival gang had a more violent reputation than the Locos. I concluded life can be very complicated.
CHAPTER FIVE
MS666
What's wrong, Hector? You gone pussy! Maybe, I should lead the Locos against the 666," Scab said grinning, which resembled a gargoyle's expression, as the left side of his face didn't match the right. The scar had damaged the nerves and couldn't respond to match the other side. The Locos stepped back, giving Scab and Hector room. Hector smiled.
"I'll tell you what, Scab. I'll give you a chance to lead the Locos if I'm wrong. I say we'll lose if we meet the MS666 as planned." He held up his hand to stop comments. "Banger and Knife will go to Louis Armstrong Park midday tomorrow. Banger will find someplace on St. Ann Street. Knife, you'll find someplace on St. Phillips Street."
"Why so early?" Banger asked.
"So that we know if they are setting up a trap and to see what we will be facing. If it's the twenty-five they claimed and they have no heavy guns, Scab can lead the Locos."
"If not?" Scab asked.
"Then you'll know why Hector leads the Locos." Hector knew it was a risk, but Mambo Renee was a powerful priestess. She had cursed him, used magic to beat Banner and Knife, which saved his position in the Locos, and overcame Kweku's black magic. Hector grinned, "Everyone be here at six. We'll be meeting the 666 but not when they or Scab think."
The next day, Locos wandered in and out of the Barracks Street gang house. For a change, the drinking was light in anticipation of the coming rumble that night. But the bedroom remained busy all day, and the gang's girls looked exhausted by the time night descended on the house.
Around ten the gangs' members began playing with their guns, loading clips, pointing them at objects, stroking them. At nine, the phone rang. Hector picked it up.
"Yeah?" He stood there for several minutes, then smiled. "Stay with them, I want to know where they go."
Hector went to the refrigerator and opened a beer before coming out and sitting down next to the phone. He ignored the fact that everyone was staring at him. Two hours later the phone rang again.
"Yeah?" Hector listened. "Stay with them."
When he hung up, everyone was standing, looking ready to go. Hector laughed long and hard.
"Well, Scab. The 666 number around forty. Twenty of them came early and hid. They had automatic weapons and vests. The ones arriving now look to have only guns, but Knife said they looked like they had vests on."
"We'd all be dead meat, if..." Little Al, almost the size of a bison, looked at Scab, whose eyes searched the room finding only hostile eyes staring back. Hector sat back and took a swig of beer reveling in the victory. Renee had saved his life and cemented his position in the Locos. He owed her.
Early the next morning the Locos struck. They killed fifteen, wounded another ten, and confiscated many of their weapons and drugs. Only three Locos were killed and four wounded. The French Quarter remained Loco territory.
* * *
Business remained slow over the next week. Only my fortunetelling kept the store from going in the red. At Granny's insistence, I had taken several basic accounting and business courses, although, at the time, I hadn't seen the necessity. Now I realized that without them, the business wouldn't have survived. The store operated on a small profit if managed properly. There was little margin for error. Too much inventory and I'd be running a debt I couldn't afford, and with too little I wouldn't have enough to turn a profit. Basically, the store broke even or turned a small profit each month selling commercial things such as candles, knick-knacks, books on Voodoo and New Orleans, voodoo dolls, gris-gris bags and charms I made. The real profit came from selling herbs and fortunetelling.
But I was content with my life. My congregation was growing again. I had lost several when Granny died, but some had returned and four new individuals had joined. The new members gave me the most satisfaction. I believe in God and thought Vodou a good way to honor him—or her—and it felt wonderful helping others find comfort and peace in their lives. For now, I used the Woldenberg Park on the river but hoped someday I could have a dedicated place of my own like Monique.
When I looked up at my small, battery driven clock on the wall, it was nearly eight p.m., and my new client would be due any minute. I put away my ledgers and went into the store just in time to hear a knock at the door. The woman had said she heard about me indirectly from one of my clients, a Mr. Harry Bishop, who ran a small nightclub in the French Quarter called the Blue Sax. She gave her name as Ms. Ellen Jeffery and looked to be in her early thirties. I didn't need to press for details about her jobs, where she lived, etc., since I didn't need any hints about the person as a fake would. On the surface, she was a professional of some kind, judging by her neat appearance and expensive clothes, and single since she wasn't wearing a ring. Her dark brown hair was neck length and curly, which made her angular face look narrower. Her figure was trim but nicely curved.
"Good evening, Ms. Jeffery," I said as she entered. She had an attractive smile that seemed a bit practiced.
"You can call me Ellen, Renee." She paused to give me an appraising look, then nodded. "You're very young for a mambo."
"In age but not for the length of time I've spent preparing and the Asogwe I've had for a mentor and teacher."
She nodded, evaluating me against some criteria.
"Yes, like most professions, it's not age but talent that determines a person's worth. I wouldn't normally go to a fortuneteller, since I think most are...entertainers selling us what we all want—to know the future. But you come highly recommended." She produced a hundred dollar bill and handed it to me. "This is yours unconditionally whether you're an entertainer or real." She held up her hand to stop me from replying, although I hadn't intended to say anything. "I know you can't say you're an entertainer without ruining your business, but I would rather not waste my time hearing stories. So I'll leave and say nothing, unless you tell me not to.
I couldn't help but wonder what a fake would do now. Would she let the woman walk out the door or would she try to convince her she wasn't? Worse yet, what should I do? I'm walking through a mine field with Ken and Sheila sniffing around. Oh, shit! I pointed to the table.
"There are many possible futures. I can only tell you the one I see." There that should do it for a real or fake fortuneteller.
"That's very clever. That works for both," Ellen said, repeating my thoughts. But she proceeded to the table and sat. "All right, I'll play."
"Please place your hands on the table, palms down." When she did, I sat placing mine over hers. Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything. I sat watching the days spin by. Ellen worked in an office, with a door, good furniture, and a window with a view of New Orleans, which meant she worked in the business district. She also lived in a very expensive apartment. No accidents occurred, nothing seemed wrong at work, but she seemed to be upset at almost random times. Then it clicked—she was being stalked.
"I can't tell who, I can only see you, and nothing will happen over the next several weeks." I said, deep in thought about what I had seen, and how it had affected her. When she jerked her hands free of mine, I snapped back to the present.
"You saw! Tell me more!"
"I'm sorry. I can't affect what I see. I see what I see." I'd had probably said too much already. I wanted to help, but too much would get me noticed by the wrong people. I didn't think Ellen was associated with Ken or Sheila's crowd based on what I saw, but... Ellen sat quietly staring at me with those beautiful green eyes, her hands folded just under her chin.
"How long...safe?"
"Four weeks," I said, thinking I had seen at least six to seven weeks out.
"If you’re a fake, you're good. But I can't take the chance you aren't." She rose deep in thought, trance-like, and headed for the door. There she stopped with the door open. "Make me another appointment for four weeks from today."
After she left, I sat thinking for the hundredth time that I needed a set of rules or guidelines for fortunetelling. I wanted to help people with my gift, but I didn't want it misused. Maybe fortunetelling wouldn't be too bad if I could convince people I didn't see everything. It was the ability to change the future that would be the real problem. I needed rules, but I couldn't write them down because of Ken and others poking around. Just when I thought I was getting my life back on track, Hector, Locos, Ken, Sheila, and who knew what else were threatening to derail it.
* * *
The following week, Hector entered my shop as I opened, which confirmed once again that my life had gotten complicated.
"Mambo Renee," he said placing a hundred dollar bill on my counter, "You saved the Locos. You bad...powerful mambo. If you need anything, the Locos will help."
I hoped he wasn't going to spread that around--Locos helping me! The residents would probably run me out of town. I didn't want to be friends with the Locos, just to keep them from hurting me. And if he spreads the story about the MS666... My head felt like a hundred people were playing handball inside and using my skull as a wall. What next? I was glad I couldn't tell my future. The present was bad enough. The rest of the day crept by. Without a steady flow of customers, I had too much time to think and nothing good to think about. I did manage to sell a few good-luck charms and closed a half hour early in anticipation of my biweekly client, Oatha. I defrosted some leftover Chicken Jambalaya and dressed in a long gown and headdress. I know Oatha didn't care, but it put me in the right mood. I found it amusing because it was exactly what I'd expect a fake to do.
A few minutes to seven, Oatha arrived. As usual, her round face was smiling, and her eyes sparkling. As long as I had known her, she always seemed happy and enjoyed people. Although she loved to talk, she didn't gossip.
"Good evening, Renee. I like you in that blue pattern dress and head wrap. It helps to fill you out a bit. You need more meat on you if you don't mind me saying."
"I wouldn't mind a little extra in the right places, but I'm afraid it would settle in all the wrong ones."
"You have a point. Just have to accept what God gave you. I've good news. My sister is planning on getting married. Sh
e asked me if you would conduct a wedding ceremony. Will you?" she said, taking my hand in hers and staring at me with big, brown puppy eyes. For a moment, I was speechless. Although I knew how to conduct the ceremony, I had never done one. Worse, I've never been married but would have to counsel the couple prior to the ceremony. Although priests who were celibate did it all the time, that didn't help to make me feel any more confident. All I could do was to do my best.
"I'd be happy to. You know they will have to have several sessions with me, prior to the ceremony?"
"Yes, thank you, Renee. I'll send Elva around to make the necessary arrangements with you. She's been talking about joining your congregation for months. Her fiancée, Gualter, belongs to another group, but he has heard a lot about you and wants them to join your group."
"Tell her to come around anytime." The more I thought about it, the more I was looking forward to the experience. I wanted to help people, and this seemed like an ideal opportunity. As I considered the idea, she sat down preparing for our session.
"Funny thing happened yesterday. A woman came by asking about fortunetellers. She said she was having marital problems and heard I visited a local one. She said most she had visited over the years were fakes, telling you what you wanted to hear. When I mentioned you, she asked all sorts of questions about what you had told me and how it had worked out. I told her I thought you were real and told her about you seeing Virgil having a good month and how I would benefit. That was all right, wasn't it?"
"Of course." What else could I say? I wanted new customers, just not certain customers. "I think I met her the other day. What did she look like?"
"A little shorter than you, thin, short light brown hair, and dressed casually."
As I thought—Sheila. And I'd bet Ken was talking with my male clients. I could only hope the information they got was inconclusive in determining whether I was real or a fake. Unfortunately, I doubted it proved me a fake. Shit. I sat and placed my hands over Oatha's and watched as the next few weeks scrolled past, with little of interest happening.
