by Dale Lucas
Fralene's teenage brother, Beau, sat at the little kitchen table, eating eggs and toast. "Morning, Doctor Dub," he said.
"Top of the morning, Beau," Corveaux answered. The boy didn't look upset about anything. Dub wondered if he'd even been told.
"Coffee?" Fralene asked.
"Please," Dub answered, and she moved to the percolator to pour him a cup.
"You're late, Beau," she said.
"I got time," he answered.
"You need to go, Beau," she said with more force.
He didn't argue. He just scooped up the last of his eggs with the final wedge of toast, popped the toast down the hatch, and rose from the table. As he squeezed past Dub, he gave the doctor a familiar look. The I-can't-wait-until-my-sister's-no-longer-my-guardian look. Dub just gave the boy an understanding smile and a clap on the shoulder as he left them.
Fralene handed over a cup of coffee—black, just the way he liked it. Her own cup was pale with cream and probably sweet as candy. They heard the front door slam as Beau headed out for school.
"Are you all right?" Dub asked, studying her. "You look like you haven't slept a wink."
"I haven't," she said. "Who told you?"
"I was over at Dexter's for breakfast. I didn't even get around to ordering. I heard someone talking about it and I came here, straight away. How is he?"
Fralene shrugged and shot a wary glance down the side hall that led to the reverend's cramped little study. The old man liked to withdraw there when something laid heavily upon him. It was his prayer sanctum and his thinking place, all rolled into one. "He keeps saying it was nothing. Just threats. The Reverend Brown's in far worse shape—"
"Brown, too?" Dub asked. He was good. Maybe he needed to hit the stage?
Fralene nodded. "Apparently, Reverend Brown and Ms. Walker were walking together. Gunmen stopped them. Brown tried to resist and they beat him silly before…"
She trailed off.
"Before what?" Dub asked. "Did someone come to their aid?"
Fralene seemed to think long and hard about her answer, then nodded, never raising her eyes.
"Well?" Dub insisted.
Fralene's eyes met his. She looked like she almost couldn't summon the words. She clicked her teeth. Rolled her eyes. Sipped her coffee. "Would you believe, the Cemetery Man? "
Dub widened his eyes. He couldn't help smiling a little. That was okay. It would read like incredulity. "You're joking."
"That's what Ms. Walker told me!" she hissed, as though afraid her uncle would hear her. "And that's just what Uncle Barnabus said, as well! He said that those two hoods showed up, talking tough and waving guns in his face. The next thing he knew, the Cemetery Man had come to his aid. Some of the people I talked to—people who saw the whole thing—said the same. He's no joke, Dub! He's real!"
Dub sniffed. "I'll believe it when I see it. What about the other fellow on the committee? Debbs?"
She leaned closer. "That's the strangest part! The police say they found two more dead men up Lenox—one stomped to death, the other shot. But when Ms. Walker called Mr. Debbs to ask if he knew anything, if he was alright, she said he acted as if he didn't know what she was talking about. 'I had a lovely walk home,' he said to her. 'No trouble at all but the rain. Yourselves?'"
Dub considered. That did sound strange. Two dead gunmen on a Lenox street corner, right on Debbs's path home… but Debbs acted as though he hadn't seen a thing? Dub knew for a fact he hadn't gotten that far the night before, so if Doc Voodoo didn't air those two out, who did?
"Go talk to him," Fralene said, cocking her head toward her uncle's study. "He likes you. Respects you. You can tell me if you think anything's wrong. Out of the ordinary or worth worrying about, anyway."
He nodded and headed for the side hall, coffee still in hand. "You've got one thing to worry about," he said as he moved past her. "You're uncle's making powerful enemies. If they're sending gunmen to threaten him, they're playing for keeps. And now that these two are dead as Julius Caesar…well, I wouldn't be surprised if the bad guys try again. They're not going to let a slight like that go unanswered."
"Just talk to him," she said. "Please."
He stared at her. He hoped she could see the concern in his eyes. It was absolutely genuine.
He knocked on the door of the reverend's office, announced himself, then opened the door and slipped inside. The Reverend Barnabus Farnes sat in his wooden secretary's chair beside his writing desk, one hand in his lap, the other on the desk. His fingers drummed out a troubled tattoo, and he stared off into space, distant and contemplative.
"Reverend?" Dub asked. "You all right?"
The reverend waved one hand dismissively. "There's no need for you to trouble yourself over this, doctor. No need at all."
"I beg to differ," Dub said. "Somebody threatens one of my most treasured friends, he might as well threaten me. You want to talk about it?"
"Nothing to talk about," Farnes said with a shrug.
Dub sat in the little wooden chair that lived beside the door. He waited in patient silence, sipped his coffee, let the old man grow used to his presence.
"He gunned them down, right before my eyes. Right on the steps of my church."
Dub blinked. "Who did?"
The reverend turned and stared at him. "That Cemetery Man. I saw him with my own two eyes. I've heard the talk…but who could believe such talk?"
"What was he like?" Dub asked.
The reverend shook his head, shrugged again. "Terrible. Haunted. Just seeing him put a fear in me. Even though he saved my life, he put a fear in me."
"What sort of fear?"
The reverend sighed. "Is that what we've come to? Emancipation, education, equality, success—we've striven to rise above our roots—the primitive savagery we were torn from, and the primitive savagery we were delivered to in slavery, and the chaos and abuse and disrespect since our emancipation—but this is how we do battle with our enemies? Possessed by dark forces, dedicated to the left hand path."
Dub shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Now, reverend, this fellow came to your aid—"
"And I thank him," he said. "But damned if I'm not still haunted by the look of him. The smell of him. The shadow that he cast, even in the middle of a dark and stormy night. What makes him any better than those men that came to kill me, eh? What makes him any better than the people who would oppress us, and discount us, and exploit us for their own gains? Because what else are these devilish powers he serves but gangsters offering patronage? Power for subservience! Agency for the sacrifice of one's soul."
Dub sat forward. He really didn't like the direction this conversation was going in. "Did you ever consider," he offered, "that this fellow's not in league with any devilish powers at all? Maybe he just wanted to strike fear into the hearts of the corrupt in this town, so he chose this Halloween costume—war paint, a fright wig. Hell, those guns of his alone are pretty scary—or so I've heard."
"You weren't there," the reverend said soberly. "I know you've been to war, but I been walkin' the earth a lot longer than you, doctor, and I've seen more strange than a book-learned youngster like you will ever conceive of—"
I sincerely doubt that, Dub thought, but bit his tongue.
"—and I'm telling you, that man carried a wild and terrible power with him! Hell follows with him, just like the Good Book says! And while I'm grateful as can be for his intercession, I'm still haunted by what I sensed in him."
Dub raised an eyebrow. "And what is that?"
The reverend searched for the right words. "He carries a great weight on his shoulders," the reverend said. "The sort of weight that'll crush a man if he doesn't get out from under it."
Dub sipped his coffee again and lowered his eyes.
XX
When he finally emerged from the study, he found Fralene more or less where he'd left her—in the kitchen, sitting at the table, staring into her coffee cup. He took a seat adjacent to her and met her thousand-yard stare,
but didn't touch her. Her gaze shifted a little, settling on him.
"Well?" she asked.
"Your grandfather's not a man prone to tall tales," Dub said. "So I can only assume he saw what he says he saw."
"So there really is some crazy man running around Harlem in skull-face popping gangsters and putting the fear of God in sneak-thieves?"
Dub sipped his coffee. There was only one swallow left. It had finally gone cold. "We've heard the stories. I know we've had our giggles over them. But here's a reliable witness that we both know. Why fight it?"
"What did he do to deserve this?" Fralene asked. "Why on earth would a couple of armed hoods need to threaten that man? What did he ever do to them? Or the others, for that matter?"
"Do you really have to ask?" Dub said.
Fralene stared, waiting for elaboration.
"The Harlem Concerned Citizens Brigade? They may not have a lot of money or muscle, but they've been making an awful lot of noise. And with people like your uncle and the Reverend Brown and that demagogue Debbs involved… well, those are some high-profile, well-known noisemakers. If they're decrying corruption at the street and municipal level, then they're basically calling attention to how the mobs have their fingers in every pie around here. The mobs don't like to be called on the mat like that."
"Well, what are they supposed to do?" Fralene asked. "Stand by and watch as the cops ignore real crooks to shakedown store owners for protection money? Stay quiet when white swells from downtown come up this way to watch cabarets and jazz bands and swill bootleg liquor in clubs that black folk aren't allowed to patronize? Put up with innocent business owners being terrorized and muscled by gangsters like that Queen Bee woman, forced to buy into her illicit gambling and liquor businesses?"
Dub shook his head. "Nobody buys into bolito or bathtub gin at the point of a gun, Fralene. Anybody who buys in is just as guilty as the people they're buying from."
That made her hot. "So now you're an expert, Mr. I-don't-want-to-get-involved?"
He knew where this was going. He didn't like it. The worst fights they'd had in the months past always started when his strict policy of neutrality in social matters arose. "Fralene, I don't see what one's got to do with the other…"
"It's got everything to do with it," she shot back. "Maybe if a few more smart, successful, strong young men like yourself stood up for this community, then frail old men like my uncle wouldn't have to—and they wouldn't end up as targets for the kind of men that came to kill him last night."
"So you'd rather I was a target?" Dub asked. Oh, how he'd love to share with her what it felt like when Ogou dismounted and he felt those bullet wounds start to bleed…
"I'm saying that if more men like you made noise, you wouldn't be targets, because you wouldn't be perceived as weak, or frail, or vulnerable."
Dub stood. It was time to go. "Fralene, I know your uncle's advanced in years, but I think you're selling him short. There's nothing weak or vulnerable about him. Maybe that's part of the problem. Maybe if he can't handle the consequences of his crusades, he should find different associates and keep his mouth shut."
She looked at him with a terrible coldness in her big, brown eyes. He sensed something ugly coming, but it still hurt when she said it. "Now you're talking like a god-damned coward, doctor. I never figured you for a coward."
He had a number of retorts in mind, but none of them would do him any good at present. He snatched his hat up off the kitchen counter and placed it on his head. "Sorry to disappoint you," was the only reply he could muster. He made for the front door.
She didn't follow him.
5
Rachel Gooden—known to most in her neighborhood as Mambo Rae Rae—opened the doors of her botanica every morning at ten o'clock. Customers didn't usually show until much later, sometimes not at all. Business had been slow, of late. She blamed it on the times: there was too much hope, too much prosperity. When people were happy, content, and employed, they didn't come seeking hexes, charms or packets to improve their situations. They just spent their money on food and drink and gambling and carousing. Good times were hard on her business.
Still, after making some offerings to Filomez for success, she opened those doors every day, read the latest gossip rag, and waited.
But this morning was different. When she moved to the front of the shop and drew up the shade on the door before unlocking it, there were people waiting outside for her: Madame Maybelle —known to most in her neighborhood as the Queen Bee— na pair of her bodyguards, and some white men in expensive suits and overcoats. Rae Rae didn't like the look of them. She thought long and hard before finally throwing back the deadbolt and opening the door. The little bell above the door tinkled ominously as she greeted them.
"Miss Merriwether," Rae Rae said.
"Good morning, Miss Rae," the Queen Bee said as she strode in, her associates trailing behind her. It was a small shop, and crowded. Once all six were all inside, there was barely room to move. Rae Rae squeezed past them, seeking the protection of her rightful place behind the counter. The white men in the Queen Bee's company were unfamiliar—the boss of the group short and stocky but imperious, the other two tall, muscled Irishman with doughy faces. Rae Rae had a vague notion of who they might be. She'd heard Madame Maybelle was doing business with Harry Flood these days, and that's precisely who the pugnacious little dandy in the fine gray coat and homburg probably was.
As Rae Rae slid behind the counter, one of the Queen Bee's associates locked the front door and drew the shade down again.
Oh, dear. Not good.
"I'm open for business," the mambo said.
"Not yet, you're not," the Queen Bee answered.
Rae Rae tried to maintain her composure. "I can't waste the day with my doors shut."
"Honestly, Rae, what difference does it make?" the Queen Bee asked. "We both know you're underwater."
Rae felt a cold knot in her belly. She'd have to move Filomez to a smaller shrine. Clearly his ministrations weren't profiting her for shit.
Still, she tried to play it cool. "I ain't under nothing," she lied. "It's a business, like any other. It's got good days and bad days."
"You're into Little Al for fifteen large," the Queen Bee countered. "He's a free lender, but that generosity's got a price. How many points did you agree on, above the principle?"
"What business is it of yours?" Rae Rae asked.
"Don't argue, Rae Rae. Little Al's one of mine, and you know it. If you're in to him, you're in to me. What's the vig?"
Rae Rae hated the Queen Bee right now—absolutely hated her. How dare she march into Rae's own store and humiliate her like this—in front of strangers, no less! So what if she'd had a few bad months? Wasn't everyone entitled? And Al wasn't exactly rushing the payback, either. Matter of fact, he'd been more than willing to defer payments a few times in exchange for more immediate modes of exchange. Rae Rae might be forty, but she was still a good looking woman. She could still be sweet, even to a fat, self-important loan shark like Little Al.
"What's the vig?" the Queen Bee demanded.
"Fifteen points!" Rae Rae shouted. "Not that it's any of your business!"
Goddamn the Queen Bee, she kept her cool. "My shark, my money, my business."
The little bulldog in the expensive duds piped in. "Nice place you've got here, Miss, uh, Gooden, was it?"
"Who are you?" Rae Rae asked, not bothering to feign courtesy.
The little man stepped forward, smoothly drawing off one of his gloves and offering his hand. "Harry Flood, miss. I really appreciate you agreeing to see us so early in the day."
She shook his hand, wondering when, precisely, she'd been given the opportunity to agree or disagree. "What's this about?" she asked, to no one in particular. "Honestly, I've got to open those doors."
Flood drew out a money roll, peeled off a fifty-dollar bill, and laid it down on the counter. "This is for your time," he said. "You're a businesswoman, after all, and your
time is precious."
Rae Rae stared at the fifty where it lay. She was almost afraid to touch it. She looked to the Queen Bee—smirking and silent—then back to Flood. "I don't understand," she said.
"We just need a few minutes of your time. Maybe even some coffee or tea if you could provide it."
Rae Rae studied the odd little band again. What the hell was she about to get herself into?
She snapped up the fifty and shoved it into the cash register drawer. "All right, then. Step into my parlor."
They followed her into the little passageway that led upstairs. Once they were all gathered in Rae Rae's cramped parlor and sipping chicory coffee from old, chipped cups, the Queen Bee laid out the problem. Once she'd finished, Flood took over.
"So, you see our conundrum," he said. "This Reverend Farnes is being rather vociferous in his protests to our uptown investments. As you can imagine, this is rather awkward for us. Any action we take to quiet down such a seemingly frail, innocent old bird will obviously make us look like common thieves and street thugs—an impression we feel there is no need to make."
Rae Rae listened, thoroughly amazed that they were doing this song and dance for her. The bottom line was, they didn't like the Harlem Concerned Citizens Brigade, and they especially didn't like the Reverend Barnabus Farnes. But how could they shut up one obstreperous preacher without killing him outright, for doing so made the man a martyr and made the lot of them—whom suspicion would fall on immediately—look like the bloody murderers they were.
So, they needed the reverend to discredit himself. And for that, they needed him hexed.
Which was where Rae Rae came in.
"In a weird way," Flood said, smiling and sipping his coffee, "this Hoodoo Man I hear so much about gave me the notion. I mean, if he can use these unseen powers for his own ends, why can't we just as easily use them for ours?"
"You know about the Hoodoo Man?" Rae Rae asked.
Flood got very serious all of a sudden. He stared down into his chicory coffee—full of milk, but without sugar—and took a deep breath. Finally, he raised his eyes to hers. His expression was grave.
