A ghost from my past, five-feet-six with greasy black hair and tiny, close-set eyes stared at me. He wore tight jeans, a gold chain around his neck, and too much Paco Rabanne cologne. When he introduced himself, his thick Jersey accent confirmed that Leo’s apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.
“Vinny Abruzzi,” he said, swiping his thick, dark curls out of his eyes. “You Nighthawk?”
“I am.”
Memories of Leo flooded back. I stuck them in a box and filed them away for another time. But damned if those weren’t Leo’s eyes staring back at me. Stupid memories. Stupid emotions, and all that other namby-pamby, wimpy crap welling up inside me. I felt my eyes filling and nipped it in the bud.
Corpse Whisperers don’t do tears.
When Boudreaux introduced Vinny to the rest of the team, Vinny’s sharp brown eyes stayed glued to mine. After an awkward pause, he finally said, “You don’t look so tough.”
“Yeah? Well, when it comes to biters, I’m the best there is.”
“So I’m told,” he said, darting his eyes to Boudreaux. “I just figured you’d be eight-feet-tall and bullet proof. Not some Barbie doll in black.”
What an irritating pissant. He was even more like his father than I thought.
“And yet, here I am,” I said, plopping into a chair at Boudreaux’s conference table. “You didn’t think you needed my help the last time we talked. What’s changed?”
Babs’ eyes narrowed. “You’ve spoken before?”
I brought her up to speed on how Leo had turned state’s evidence and had given us information that implicated Toussaint in the Z-virus case. I also mentioned that Leo was afraid Toussaint might retaliate by hurting Vinny. When Leo died, I’d called Vinny to let him know about the funeral, and to offer my protection, but Vinny told me to piss up a rope. He wanted nothing to do with me, or his father.
Vinny squirmed. “Yeah. About that conversation—”
“Save it,” I said. “Tell me about last night.”
“It’s like I told the campus police and everyone else who’s asked. I was on my way home, about two a.m., from bartending at The Boot, when I got jumped by four rotters. The creepy thing is, the bastards seemed to be targeting me.”
Rico leaned across the table. “How so?”
“They came from different directions, shambled past other people, and came right at me. Just like what happened the day my dad got attacked.”
How had he known that?
I looked deep into his eyes, hoping I could read them the way I’d been able to read Leo’s. “We never discussed your dad’s attack, Vinny. How could you know anything about that?”
“About a month ago, I got a copy of dad’s will from his attorney. There was a letter in the envelope addressed to me, telling me how he got bit and turned state’s evidence. He told me you said the rotters seemed to be changing, and that maybe some of them could see.”
Vinny paused and rubbed his face with his hands. “He told me how he took that drug trying to stay alive for a while, hoping we could talk before he…you know. He said you guys always treated him decent, and that it was okay if I couldn’t forgive him for being the world’s shittiest dad, as long as I knew I could trust you. I’ve been reading everything I can get my hands on about deadheads ever since. That’s how I knew to go for the brain when I took down one of the bastards that attacked me.”
The kid had guts. Just like his dad.
“No shit?” I said. “What’d you use?”
“My blade.”
“What do you carry?”
“An AK-74 Boker Kalashnikov. Three and a quarter inch blade.”
Ferris grinned and leaned across the table. “That’s a helluva knife, kid. I’m not even sure it’s legal here in New Orleans.”
Vinny yawned. “The law says it’s okay, as long as it isn’t concealed.” He slouched down in his chair, locked his hands behind his head, and stretched his legs out in front of him. “But to be honest, I got it in Jersey, when I was sixteen. It wasn’t legal there then, and it still ain’t now. Whatever.”
Okay, so the kid had guts and a ‘tude.
I couldn’t help but smile. Leo was back, maybe not in the flesh, but certainly in spirit. Based on the police report and Vinny’s interview, I had to admit the attack looked anything but random. If that was the case, Toussaint was likely behind it, and Vinny was in danger. He couldn’t go back to living in his dorm, taking classes, and working as if nothing had happened. He’d be sticking with me, whether he liked it or not.
Vinny’s stomach growled. “I been in exams all day. You people going to feed me or what? Let’s go to The Boot. I’ll set us up—”
“Sorry, guy,” I said. “Your schedule is about to change, big time. No more Monroe Hall, no more class, no more working at The Boot, and no more French Quarter, or hanging out in crowds, until we get to the bottom of your attack.”
Vinny shrugged. “The only exam I have left is a take-home, and I can do that anywhere. But I need my job. And where the hell am I going to live?”
Ferris pushed back from the table and got to his feet. “I’ll have a chat with your boss, and square things away on the job front.”
“And for the time being,” I added, “You can stay with us at the Marriot.”
Vinny’s stomach rumbled even louder. “First things first. Where are we going to eat that doesn’t draw a crowd? I’m dying over here.”
Hmmm. A secluded little place, off the beaten path, that served kickass Creole cuisine? I caught myself smiling. It had been a few years, but I could still taste her gumbo. And when it came to protecting Vinny from Toussaint, no one could help me more.
“I know just the place, Vinny boy. We’re going to Mama Femi’s.”
13
Liar, Liar Pants on Fire
Rico and I reclaimed our places in the back seat of the Suburban. Vinny scrambled into the third row, leaving Babs the shotgun seat next to Ferris. I told Ferris to take 46E to St. Bernard Parish, where we’d find the best restaurant in all of Louisiana, nestled in obscurity, on the edge of nowhere, in a tiny patch of land called Meraux. We had a half-hour drive in front of us, and Vinny, like his father before him, didn’t care much for the sound of silence. He settled back, looked into the review mirror, and asked, “What’s the name of this restaurant we’re going to?”
“Mama Femi’s,” I said. “Best Creole this side of the Mississippi.”
“How would you know?”
Snot nose punk.
“I went to school here for a while.”
“Is that a fact?”
The car got quiet for all of thirty seconds, before Vinny’s brain took a ninety-degree turn.
“Where am I going to sleep tonight? I got like a…whatchamacallit…a regimen, you know? I like it cool, sixty-two, sixty-four. A little white noise, TV, radio, lights off, drapes closed—”
“On a rollaway,” Rico deadpanned. “In the room with Ferris and me.”
“Not happening, po-po. Vinny doesn’t do rollaways.”
“You do now. Think of it as expanding your horizons.”
Vinny sighed and leaned forward between the seats. “We got to stop at the drugstore. I need my hair gel and deodorant. Toothpaste, toothbrush, mouthwash, and floss sticks—the thick, minty ones. And cologne.”
I eyed him over my shoulder. “Cologne?”
“For the hunnies,” he said with a wink. “Makes ’em hot for the Vin Man. Know what I mean?”
Sweet Baby Jesus! The kid wasn’t just his father’s son, he was his freaking replicant. Leo 2.0. This was just like old times. I didn’t know whether to rip out his gonads or kiss him on the mouth.
“This is adding up,” he said. “I’m going to need face wash and moisturizer. And astringent. I hope you guys got some money.”
The brain bitch wheedled me to throw Vinny and Babs together in their own hotel room, and let them duke it out over ablutions, counter space, and the thermostat. But frankly, the broad was twelve kinds of
twitchy, and the kid was growing on me. Like a fungus, but still…
Vinny pulled a 360 and took the conversation in a new direction.
“This whole thing’s wacky, in a cosmic kind of way, isn’t it? I mean, what are the odds that both dad and I were attacked by biters?”
Babs popped up her head like a meercat. She swiveled in her seat and stared at Vinny with feverish eyes. “Let’s calculate, shall we? By their very nature, zombies are not pack hunters, and therefore, eschew social bonds. They lack the ability to sexually reproduce, and have no interest in collaborative existence. They are food-driven, solitary creatures. And highly territorial. These facts suggest that the probability of a random attack by a single zombie, on your father, is within normal limits. The better question, young man, is the probability of four zombies converging on the Tulane Campus, and working in tandem to take down prey. Records show no reported zombie attacks in the history of the university, suggesting the area is not intrinsically hospitable to the undead. That, coupled with the previously noted corroborative evidence, demonstrating the solitary nature of zombies, simply put, suggests a group attack is highly unlikely, if not empirically impossible.”
Vinny’s eyes had glazed over after ‘let’s calculate.’
“Is she for real?” he whispered.
“Certifiable,” I muttered. “And I have to bunk with her. Bet that rollaway with Rico and Ferris is looking pretty good about now.”
Five minutes later, we were driving through the streets of Meraux. How long had it been? Seven, eight years? Could that be right? It seemed like yesterday. But it also seemed like a lifetime ago, too—before I discovered how truly dark the dark side gets.
A few new condos dotted the landscape, and a Dollar Store had sprung up in place of the old Bijou Theater, but the rustic white frame houses I remembered had stood the test of time. A little weathered, maybe, and in need of new paint, but solid, and proudly maintained. Nestled among them was the house of Olufemi Okoye, more affectionately known as Mama Femi.
The stately two-story, with its wraparound porch and inlaid brick sidewalk, had sprawled at the foot of Rue de Triumph for over 200 years. Mama lived on the second floor. Her restaurant, Mama Femi’s, filled the ground floor. The house’s gingerbread eaves and hand-hewn rocking chairs welcomed all, while the haint blue ceiling of its portico kept evil spirits away. Mama had taught me that. I smiled at the memory and shoved Little Allie aside when she pondered whether that home-spun gris-gris would be strong enough to keep Toussaint at bay.
Ferris pulled up to the house and parked the Suburban along the curb. We poured out its doors and followed the path of paving stones to the front steps. The screen door on the porch opened from inside and a young couple strolled out. The man held the hands of two toddlers. The woman carried a doggie bag in one hand, and a jar of fresh herbs in the other. Mama had an uncommon touch when it came to growing herbs and mixing tonics. Most folks who stopped by for dinner, or to shop for their herbals, knew Mama as the old Creole woman who fixed the best gumbo in St. Bernard Parish. But others, the conjurers and root workers, the ones who dabbled in magick, knew Mama as a wise and powerful Hoodoo queen.
The Mama I knew was both.
I pulled open the screen door and spotted Mama with her back to me, hunched over a sideboard, stirring a crock of what smelled like étoufée. She placed the ladle on the buffet and paused, then tilted her head upward, drew a long, deep breath, and smiled. She was more stooped than I remembered, and her hair had gone to gray. But what had I expected? She was nearly eighty years old.
Little Allie pushed her thoughts across the room. “I’m home, Mama.”
Mama placed her hand on the sideboard and turned slowly. Her weathered gray-green eyes were moist. So were mine.
“Ti Kras Zwazo,” she whispered, opening her arms. “Vini nan Manman.”
Little Bird. Come to Mama.
I crossed the floor in the blink of an eye and wrapped my arms around the only mama I had known since I was eleven-years-old—when my real mother died. Mama Femi was round as a whiskey barrel, and not much taller. She could sing a baby to sleep or summon hellfire. I heard her do both during the time I spent with her. Holding her close, I whispered in her ear, “Manman, mwen te manke ou anpil.”
She kissed my cheeks and smiled. “And I have missed you, too.” She peered behind me at the rest of my posse. “Come. Sit,” she said pointing to a table. “Mama Femi gonna cook someting wonderful for you.”
I followed on her heels, offering to help, as she scurried back to the kitchen, but she shooed me away, insisting we would have time to chat once the dinner crowd thinned out. She sent me back to the table with a platter of shrimp and cornbread bruschetta. Little Allie was hoping that the presence of food would instantly derail any probing questions about my reunion with Mama. But I knew better.
Rico eyed me, as he snagged a piece of cornbread. “You want to fill us in?”
“About what?”
“Your touching reunion with Mama…Mama Fefi.”
“Mama Femi. And no, I don’t. Pass the bruschetta,” I said, reaching across the table.
Ferris slid the platter out of reach. “Not so fast. You said you went to school here for a couple of quarters, but that,” he said, motioning from me, to the kitchen, and back again, “that kind of…connection…doesn’t happen overnight.”
“Liar, liar,” Vinny said, filching some shrimp from the platter. “No bread for you, ’til you ’fess up.”
Babs folded her hands neatly on the table and swung her eyes to me. “In point of fact, studies show that humans are quite adept at lying. It seems our capacity to deceive is matched only by our need to trust. Ironic, isn’t it,” she said, dabbing stray crumbs off the table with her finger tip. “Exaggerations, embellishments, omissions are all part and parcel of that which makes us human.”
I cast her my Allie-eye. “Blow it out your ass, Babs.”
The cone of silence descended. Damned if it wasn’t uncomfortable, with everyone staring at me, waiting for an explanation. Little Allie, who’d started this ball rolling with her telepathic message to Mama, was suddenly and conspicuously quiet. The lily-livered sapsucker.
“I didn’t lie,” I said, squirming in my chair. “I just forgot to mention that before I took classes at Tulane, I…studied…with Mama for a while.”
Rico’s eyes narrowed. “Studied what?”
“And how long is a while?” Ferris asked.
“A few years,” I said, glancing back at the kitchen, wishing Mama would save my ass by bringing more food.
Babs settled back in her chair and tented her fingers beneath her chin. “Ms. Nighthawk’s reluctance to share the applicable pieces of her past is indicative of deep-seated trust issues. Which, as I previously stated, explains her propensity for lying to others as well as to herself.”
That stork-legged psycho-biotch had a death wish. But she also had a point.
Sure, I had trust issues. Issues that had nothing to do with my partners, or Vinny, and everything to do with a past I’d worked hard to forget. And as long as I was telling the truth, I’d known, from the moment we were ordered to New Orleans, that my past with Mama would come up. But I’d also known there was no one better to help me catch Toussaint than my Manman, better known among believers as the Hoodoo Queen, Madame Olufemi Okoye.
I glanced at the expectant faces around the table, sucked in a breath, and then shared the story of me and Mama Femi.
14
Coming Clean
“This might come as a shock, but I wasn’t the easiest child to raise.” I glanced around the table, daring anyone to take a cheap shot. Their curious, expectant eyes stared back, and for once, their mouths stayed shut. Screw it, I thought. If they were in for a penny, they were in for a pound, whether they wanted to be or not.
“I was eleven years old when my mom died. She had this…this…gift. My gift. She’d been teaching me how to control it—to appreciate its power. And the importance
of rules, a system of checks and balances to keep me centered. She never got the chance to finish teaching me. Dad had no idea how to handle me, or my power. By the time I hit fourteen, I was sassy, sarcastic, and impulsive. Completely out of control.”
“As opposed to the way you are now?” Rico asked.
“Do you want to hear the story, or not?”
He raised his hands in surrender, so I began again. “Someone needed to rein me in. Dad didn’t know how to do that, but he knew people who did. My mother’s…colleagues. That’s when Mama Femi took me in.”
One of Mama’s waitresses swept out of the kitchen with platters of seafood, pastas, and po’ boy sandwiches. Mama trailed behind her, carrying a tureen of her gumbo, a favorite in the Big Easy. My nose had an orgasm.
Hands grabbed, silverware clinked, and the focus shifted away from me and my story. For a moment, I thought I’d gotten a reprieve.
Fat chance.
Ferris tossed back some popcorn shrimp. “So, you lived here year-round with Mama?”
“Most of the time. Sometimes, I’d visit my dad. Sometimes, he’d visit me.”
Rico blew on a spoonful of gumbo to cool it down. “What, exactly, did Mama teach you?”
“Discipline, self-control. Ethics—and a little bit of hoodoo.”
The dinner clatter faded.
“Like…Voodoo?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” I said. “Voodoo is a religion. Hoodoo is a kind of…magick.”
Ferris raised a brow. “You don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo?”
Wow. My heart sank. I expected more from him. “With everything you’ve seen, you don’t?”
“Sorry. Skeptic—occupational hazard.”
“You’re an FBI agent, for God’s sake. Don’t dismiss things that you don’t understand. You’re better than that.”
“The virus, the zombies, I accept.” Ferris paused, as if reaching for the right words, and finally blurted, “Superstition, curses, and chicken feet, I gotta go with no.”
Corpse Whisperer Sworn Page 9
