“Then, let me say, your honor, that my finances are extremely limited.”
“It is obvious that you can’t afford a haircut,” the judge said. “What do you do for a living, if anything?”
“Actually, your honor, I’m a musician.” Jesse could see the judge beginning to soften. “I played Bourbon Street for more than a year.”
The judge sat up straight in his chair. “What clubs do you play?”
“Most all of them, sir. Papa John’s, Judah P’s, Jimmy’s, Johnny’s and, most recently, Fritzel’s.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
The courtroom erupted in the first laughter the place had heard in a long while. The judge was restating an obvious truth. Musicians get special treatment in New Orleans.
The judge put his head down and began writing. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do for the Bourbon Street musician. I’m going to find you guilty and waive your fines and costs.”
“What does that mean?” Jesse asked.
“It means you can get your money back if you take this piece of paper to the clerk’s office on the way out the building.”
“Thank you so much, your honor,” Jesse said as the bailiff handed him his copy of the court order.
“You are quite welcome. Just don’t let me see you in here again. Things might not go so well.”
By the time Jesse got his money back from the clerk, Casey was beside himself with glee. “Did you see what you just did? You turned a grumpy old judge into your personal buddy in one minute flat. I’m glad I let you go up there by yourself. I couldn’t have done that. You see what I’ve been saying? You’re going to make a great trial lawyer someday.”
“I think it was being a musician that saved the day, Casey, not being a natural-born lawyer.”
On October 20, 1977, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s plane went down near Gillsburg, Mississippi. The Divebomberz gathered the next day in grief and disbelief around the television set at Jesse and Amy’s apartment. They groaned when Walter Cronkite mispronounced the famous band’s name.
Dale stood up and yelled at the television. “Come on, Walter. Get it together.”
“Looks like the generation gap just got a little bigger,” Butch said.
Jesse motioned for everyone to be quiet. “We need to hear this.”
The crash killed bandleaders Ronnie Van Zant and Steve Gaines, as well as four others. The rest of the band and crew survived.
Rene threw his hands in the air. “That’s it for them. Ronnie was the heart and soul of that band.”
Tim tried to offer some comic relief. “That’s what would happen to us if I died. The Divebomberz would be history.”
Jesse was still stunned by the terrible news. His heroes had literally just gone down in flames. He was unable to engage in the conversation.
Dale looked at Tim. “No. That’s not what would happen. We’d miss you but we would find another fiddle player.”
Nobody laughed. The band was fresh out of glib remarks. The pain was settling in. The Lynyrd Skynyrd plane crash was almost beyond belief, even though they were watching the news report on television.
Rene finally broke the silence. “Let’s not fly, guys. Even when we make it big.”
Dale began singing softly. “So, bye, bye, Miss American Pie.”
The band joined in to sing about the day the music died. They ended the song on the chorus about good old boys, the whiskey and rye, and “this will be the day that I die.”
Once the singing died down, Jesse decided to lighten the mood. “Hey, I’ve got an idea.”
“What’s that?” Rene asked.
“Let’s carry on where Lynyrd Skynyrd left off.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Butch said as the band members and Amy raised beer cans in a toast.
Tim began the toast while still seated. “Here’s to Lynyrd Skynyrd. They were one helluva band.”
Jesse stood up to finish the toast. “And here’s to The Divebomberz. May we never go down in flames.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE TRUCE
About a week after the Lynyrd Skynyrd plane crash, Casey arrived a little out of breath at Jesse and Amy’s apartment. “We’ve got a problem.”
Jesse waited for his friend to catch his breath. “Who’s we?”
Casey sat down and gathered himself. “The Divebomberz. Remember Gypsy, the guy who sold us mushrooms until we found our own fields?”
“I never met the guy,” Jesse said. Amy pulled up a chair and sat down next to Casey.
Casey sounded urgent as he tried to jog Jesse’s memory. “You did but you didn’t know it. I brought him to Fritzel’s one night. You had a couple drinks with him.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
Casey lowered his voice and actually looked over his shoulder in a paranoid way before saying, “Gypsy is head of the Gypsies, the motorcycle gang.”
Jesse and Amy waited for him to continue. Amy stood up and clung to Jesse’s arm.
“The Gypsies are planning to ambush the Wheelers at your show at the Raceland Music Hall.”
It took Jesse several beats to fully register the bad news. “Like they did at the Safari Club?”
Casey got up and began pacing. “Worse than that. The Safari Club was just a warning shot across the bow. Nobody was supposed to get hurt. There wasn’t supposed to be a fire. But things have changed dramatically since then. At least six guys from each gang have been killed. You know about the shootouts.”
Jesse grabbed Amy and hugged her tight. “Who told you about the ambush? Certainly not Gypsy.”
“No, it was one of his dealers.”
“Why would a dealer talk to you?” Amy asked.
Casey looked at Jesse as he answered. “He said he was afraid some of my friends in the band might get hurt.”
Jesse took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he began asking careful questions. “Where were you when he told you this?”
Casey hesitated, unwilling to disclose the location.
Jesse and Amy waited him out.
“Okay,” Casey relented. “It was at the law school.”
Jesse continued his cross-examination. “What’s a Gypsy drug dealer doing at the law school?”
Casey hesitated a full thirty seconds before he answered. “He’s a law student, third year.”
Amy leaped to her feet and pointed at Jesse. “That’s how you can pay for law school. Dealing drugs. Why didn’t we think of this sooner? You know you’re going to need your law license so you can defend all your criminal friends in court.”
Jesse ignored her sarcasm and bore down on Casey. “Is this guy part of Gypsy’s gang?”
“Yeah,” Casey said. “And the way he told me about the ambush made me think he expected me to tell you and get back to him.”
Amy got back into the questioning. “Why do you say that?”
Casey pulled a piece of notepaper out of his back pocket. “He gave me his phone number.”
Jesse and Amy looked at each other without saying a word, as though questions and answers could be more efficiently communicated in silence. Amy always looked her most beautiful, Jesse thought, when she was reading his mind. Her eyes narrowed. She stuck out her chin like getting stubborn would be part of any plan.
Amy began thinking out loud. “Maybe the Gypsies want some kind of truce with the Wheelers?”
Jesse saw her point but he returned to the main issue. “So, now you’re mediating a turf war between two drug-dealing motorcycle gangs.”
Casey cocked his head like a dog trying to understand his master’s command. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
“What do you mean?” Jesse asked.
“Maybe the problem is neither club has a distinct territory. We might be able to carve out a geographic settlement. You know, Gypsies south of Bayou Lafourche, Wheelers north.”
“We?” Jesse asked.
Casey sat down and pulled his chair close to Jesse. “You know. You and me. I
t could be the first negotiation of our future law firm.”
Amy sat down and pulled her chair into the decreasing space of the conversation. “What future law firm? And what about me? Am I part of this or what?”
Casey hugged her. “You’re part of the firm. You know that.”
Amy hugged him back. “Thank you, Casey. But don’t you think this getting in the middle of a gang war might be a little dangerous?”
Jesse looked at the two of them, his best friend from childhood and the woman he might be spending the rest of his life with. “It sounds to me like we might get shot if we don’t get involved in some kind of truce. I’ll tell you what. It’s time for a band meeting. Everybody needs to know what kind of a jam we’re in. And we need Dupre to come to the meeting for a chat on behalf of the Wheelers.”
The Divebomberz had an afternoon meeting at Tortilla Flats, before the dinner crowd arrived. Rene came up from the bayou to New Orleans for the session. He was the first to address the dilemma. “We can’t just cancel the Raceland show. We’ve got a ton of people coming. And, besides that, the Wheelers come to all our shows.”
“I don’t like getting in the middle of this gang thing,” Butch said. “Maybe we should call the police or the FBI or something.”
Dale grabbed Butch by the shoulder. “That would be the fastest way to die. We’d have both sides of the war coming to get us and paying the police to help.”
Tim spoke up. “I say we negotiate us some peace. Dupre’s coming soon, isn’t he? Let’s see how he wants to play it.”
Ten minutes later, Dupre and Big Ben walked into the club like gunslingers from the Wild West. The afternoon was hot and humid, but the two bikers were wearing long coats. The few drinkers at the bar left in a hurry.
Dupre seemed to be in a good mood, considering the circumstances. “Good afternoon gentlemen. Don’t make any sudden moves. You’re completely surrounded.”
“Hey, we’re on your side,” Jesse said.
Dupre laughed at his own joke. “Bartender. Bring us another round of whatever these guys are having and bring two extra glasses. And while you’re at it, see what the boys outside are drinking.”
“I’m all over it,” the bartender said as he looked around nervously at his suddenly empty bar.
Dupre took off his coat and adjusted the sawed-off shotgun and Uzi submachine gun hanging under his arms from straps crossed over his shoulders and chest.
Dale jumped out of his chair and moved two steps away from Dupre. “Oh, my God. Is all that really necessary?”
“Yes, it’s necessary. It’s called survival of the fittest.” Dupre said. “Check the restrooms, Ben, just in case. And make sure the bartender doesn’t use the phone.”
He turned to address the band. “Sorry for all the drama, but in case you haven’t heard, there’s a war going on.”
Jesse tried to regain his composure. His heart was still pounding at the sight of automatic weapons. “We know all about it, Dupre. It’s terrible. We’ve been feelin’ for all The Wheelers. So thanks for coming. It looks like we might be in a position to help. But let’s be clear about one thing. We’re on your side. Always have been, always will be.”
“Let’s drink to that,” Dupre said as he raised his glass of beer. “Let’s toast to the peace talks of Tortilla Flats.”
Jesse was relieved to hear the word, “peace,” come out of Dupre’s mouth.
Dupre returned to the topic at hand. “Now, what’s this I hear about you boys talking to the Gypsies?”
Jesse looked at his fellow band members and realized he was the only one who could respond to the question. “One of my friends got tipped off that The Gypsies are going to ambush you guys at the Raceland Music Hall.”
Dupre drained his beer mug in one chug and contorted his face in anger. “Those bastards. That’s New Year’s Eve. They know we’ll all be there with our women.”
Jesse tried to calm him down before he went over the edge. “No, wait. We think the tip off might be just a signal that they want to talk.”
Dupre refilled his mug and chugged it, faster than the last one. He belched and wiped his mouth on his bare arm. “That’s a funny way to say hello. Who’s this friend of yours?”
The band members listened intently as Jesse explained how he and Casey had become involved with the Gypsies in the magic mushroom underground. As the conversation continued, Casey walked in under escort from Big Ben.
Jesse jumped up to greet his friend. “Casey, you’re right on time. We were just talking about you.”
Casey didn’t look happy. “Yeah? I couldn’t hear you from the parking lot. These guys about gave me a wedgie during the frisk.”
Dupre looked Casey up and down. “Anybody with you?”
“No,” Casey answered. “Hi guys,” he said to the band.
Tim and Dale and Rene and Butch each responded with a sullen “hello,” instead of their usual, warm embrace. Nobody looked too pleased about what increasingly felt like a hostage situation.
Casey took charge of the situation as he grabbed a chair and sat down facing Dupre. “Hey, Dupre, I’m Casey. You know me. I’m Jesse’s good friend from way back. You and I have partied at a couple of the shows.”
Dupre stared hard at Casey, raised an eyebrow at Jesse in disbelief, then looked back to Casey without saying a word.
Casey continued, amazingly undaunted for a guy who’d just been closely and roughly searched. “I’m pretty sure The Gypsies are ready to call a truce. They’ve had enough. The war is crazy. Nobody’s going to win it. Too many have died. I was sorry to hear Junior got shot up pretty bad in Thibodaux last weekend.”
Dupre dropped his head as if in prayer. “Yeah, he got careless, riding solo on a run. They came up from behind and shot him in the back. It’s a miracle but it looks like he’s going to walk out of the hospital on his own two feet in a couple days.”
Butch spoke up. “That’s good news. We heard they killed him.”
“Junior’s a tough boy. He laid the bike down when he heard the first shot. Four riders with handguns and only one bullet hit him. He broke his right leg in a couple places and he’s got some awful road rash, but he’s going to make it. The bullet missed his spine.”
“This needs to stop,” Jesse said.
“Yes, it does,” Dupre said with a heavy sigh. “I’m getting tired of seeing my boys shot up. I used to love gangster movies, especially the shootouts. It’s not so much fun in real life. Besides, it’s bad for business. Nobody can go anywhere.”
“I’m pretty sure the other side feels the same way,” Casey said. “This shit needs to end. There’s enough cocaine and heroin coming up the bayou for everybody to get rich.”
Dupre looked at Casey incredulously. “What are you? Some kind of spokesman for the Gypsies?”
“Think of it this way,” Casey said. “I’m the lawyer for the Gypsies and Jesse’s your lawyer.”
Everybody laughed, even Dupre.
“Get this man a drink,” Dupre yelled at the bartender. “He’s delusional.”
Casey didn’t let up. “Okay, I’m not a lawyer yet and Jesse hasn’t even gone to law school. That doesn’t mean we can’t negotiate a truce. We can start right here. And don’t forget one very important fact.”
“What’s that?” Dupre asked, clearly amazed by Casey’s chutzpah.
“We’re free,” Casey nearly shouted. “Neither one of us is charging any fees.”
“We’ll all drink to that,” Dale said, raising his beer mug.
Rene was the first to rise to his feet. “Let’s get us a truce. Without it, we won’t be able to play anywhere.”
The mood at Tortilla Flats brightened considerably as even Dupre and Big Ben joined in the toast. Before the end of the meeting, Casey and Jesse and Dupre had hammered out a proposal for a territorial split between the two motorcycle clubs that could end the war. It was a crooked line, but basically the Gypsies got the east bayou and the Wheelers got the west. The city of New Orlean
s was not part of the deal because it had long been under the control of a much larger criminal enterprise.
Within the week, both sides had agreed to the truce and the war was over, at least temporarily. There had been a lot of back and forth and even some give and take. In the end, it was the perfect settlement. Neither side was particularly happy with the result but each side reluctantly agreed to live with it for a while to see how the artificial boundaries held up under pressure.
A week after the truce, Casey came over to Amy and Jesse’s apartment for a victory celebration. “Jesse, our first case together was a huge success. We saved a lot of lives and made sure the band can play anywhere it wants. What do you think about practicing law now?”
Jesse gave Casey a big hug. “I have to admit, it was fun playing lawyer, even more fun than traffic court. I’ll never forget the look on Dupre’s face right after he shook Gypsy’s hand to finally seal the deal.”
Amy was curious. “What did he look like?”
“He looked like he couldn’t believe Casey and I had actually pulled it off.”
“No, I mean what does Gypsy look like?”
Casey fielded the question. “He looks like his name. He looks like a gypsy. He’s got a goatee and long hair with a bandana around his head. He’s not as muscular as Dupre but he looks super strong. He’s tall, got to be at least six foot three. And thin, or more like sinewy. The most striking part about him, though, is his eyes.”
Jesse added to the description. “His eyes are so bright blue they look right through you. He knows it too. He uses his stare like a weapon.”
Amy shook her head in admiration. “I’m amazed you got Dupre and Gypsy into the same room.”
Casey looked at Jesse. “That took some doing. You haven’t told her the story?”
“I didn’t want her to worry,” Jesse said.
Amy punched him on the arm. “Thanks so much, Jesse. So, tell the story now. How’d you get those two guys into the same room?”
Jesse took a deep breath, pleased as ever to have a story to tell. “It wasn’t a room at all. It was Jackson Square, down by the river in the center of New Orleans. Gypsy came in from St. Ann Street and Dupre came in from the opposite side of the square on St. Peter Street. They each walked to the statue of Andrew Jackson in the center.”
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