Crossfire

by Dale Lucas

  Mambo Rae Rae almost turned on her heels, ready to hold out her hands and accept the proffered bottle. Luckily, she stopped herself before turning around—before stealing that glance she so desperately wanted to steal.

  Why should it be so hard? Why should looking into the face of ruin seem like such a treat, and not the terror it was? Why do I have to fight the urge…?

  "No, thank you, Kalfou," Rae Rae said as politely as she could. "Just leave it where you found it—corked, if you please. I'll take it into my keeping once you're on your way."

  The Lurker seemed to laugh. It was the sound of a half-rotted corpse twirling in a squeaky gibbet.

  Clever girl.

  "I could never look on one so terrible," Mambo Rae Rae offered demurely. "One so beautiful."

  It's true, he said, thoroughly smug. You could not.

  She waited. How would she know when he'd gone? Really, truly gone?

  I expect more for this than flesh and coin, Kalfou said, his voice sounding distant now, as though receding down a long passage.

  Rae Rae almost responded with a question of her own. But then, she realized what the only appropriate response could be… and what that would mean for her. Could she quail now, when she'd come so far? This was yet another test, and she had to pass it if she wanted to leave this place alive.

  "A favor is owed, then," she said, her voice catching in her throat. "I'm your humble servant."

  Once more, the wind laughed. Then, all at once, the night seemed warmer and more welcoming, the darkness not half so dark. Rae Rae counted to one hundred, slowly. It seemed to take an eternity. When she was finished, she felt reasonably sure that Kalfou was gone. The only shadow on the roadway now was hers.

  Rae Rae turned and stared into the large circle behind her. It was empty, save for the rum bottle, once again corked. She knew she had left the bottle in the very center of the circle, at least twenty feet away from her. It now stood at the circle's very edge. If she knelt again and stayed within her own circle, she could reach out and grasp it.

  That was where Kalfou had stood… just an arm's breadth away from her, separated only by arcane symbols and an unbroken chalk line.

  Rae Rae snatched up the bottle. It twitched in her hands as though alive, the spirit within sloshing the last of the remaining rum, bathing in it.

  Rae Rae held the bottle tightly to keep it safe and hurried back to her borrowed car.

  9

  "Maybe you should slow down," Fralene Farnes said to her Uncle Barnabus. She couldn't bear to look at him. She felt like a coward for even suggesting such a thing. There were few hard and fast rules in the Farnes family, but among those few was, Never back down from a fight.

  They were in Dexter's, one of their favorite breakfast spots. Her Uncle Barnabus sat across the table from her, nursing a cup of black coffee. It had been Fralene's intent to ease into her argument for Uncle Barnabus adopting a lower profile, but as silence expanded in the absence following the departure of their waitress the words seemed to come bubbling out of Fralene like a spring from rocky soil, completely unbidden.

  "Slow down?" Uncle Barnabus asked.

  Fralene stared into her own coffee, pale with milk and very sweet. Was this a failure on her part? A capitulation?

  No. She just didn't want her uncle to end up dead—or worse—simply vanished. She had imagined it once or twice: how one night, he simply wouldn't come home from the church; and although they would beg aid from the police and the community, and the city would be scoured, high and low, he would never be found. Nonetheless, Fralene would know what became of him. Everyone would know.

  And his vanishing would increase their collective fear, and assure their silence.

  "There's nothing more to prove," Fralene said. "These gangsters… they've already tried to kill you once. Why provoke them again?"

  "You're afraid," Uncle Barnabus said, and it sounded like an accusation.

  She finally managed to look him in the eye. "So what if I am?" she asked. "Fear tells us what's important, what's worth fighting for or fleeing from. I don't want to lose you, Uncle Barnabus. Not like this."

  "Fair enough," he said, his aspect softening. "I suppose this isn't my choice alone. You and Beau have a stake in it, too, seeing as I'm the one takes care of you two."

  She could tell he was struggling. Whenever he wrestled with something—a hard choice, a difficult dilemma—his tone and demeanor softened. It was as if all his energies—normally so intent, so vital—were suddenly turned inward toward finding a solution to a problem. Thus, the exterior he so carefully cultivated—the thick, righteous skin; the schoolmaster's judging gaze; the unsmiling, stone-set mouth—fell away, the energies necessary for the sustenance of his mask otherwise engaged, the soft and compassionate man beneath revealed.

  "I don't like asking," she said. "I hate it, in fact."

  "You needn't worry," Uncle Barnabus said. "We're meeting tonight, but… well, let's just say I think it might be little more than a motion to dissolve." He looked at her, and Fralene could see the sadness and defeat in his eyes.

  "I feel like I'm hamstringing a lion," Fralene said. "Leashing a big, brave bear."

  He smiled a little. "Me? A bear?"

  Fralene studied him and smiled as well. "Maybe neither. You're more like a stubborn old horse." They both laughed. "You understand my point, though?"

  "Perfectly," he said, sipping his coffee. He took in their surroundings. Dexter's was slow this morning, only a handful of other patrons spread out among its counter stools and little tables. "Maybe I should look before I leap for once. Think before I speak. It's not cowardice, Fralene, it's just… just…"

  She took his hand. "You live for the fight," she said.

  He stared at her, as though the words both surprised and satisfied him. "Yes, ma'am. Yes, I think that's it. But that isn't good enough when people you care about get hurt. When I saw Adam in that hospital bed, all bruised and broken…"

  He went silent. Fralene laid a hand over his on the table.

  "I understand," she said. "But this time, let's both admit that there are other things worth fighting for. Other things worth living for."

  He nodded a little. Fingered his coffee cup. "Sure there are."

  A long silence fell between them. Each sipped their coffee, studied the other patrons, laughed quietly to themselves as the owner, Dexter, told one of the counter customers a rather blue joke about a priest, a rabbi, and a spokeswoman for the Temperance movement. Fralene's eyes grew wide when she heard the punch line.

  "Oh my," she said.

  "Come off it," Uncle Barnabus said joshingly. "You're no babe in the woods, young lady."

  "But I am a proper lady," she assured him.

  "No doubt," he said. "It's just not good to be shocked too often. We can opt out of certain things in this life… try to rise above certain human foibles… but feigning shock when there's no reason for it… or feigning offense just because of who's watching you… those are bad habits to get into. They breed hypocrisy… self-righteousness."

  Fralene studied her uncle. She liked him when he was like this. Less serious, less flinty. "Uncle Barnabus, are you telling me I should laugh at Dexter's naughty joke?"

  He shrugged a little and never raised his eyes from his coffee cup. "If it's funny."

  "You are going soft," she said.

  He shook his head, raised his eyes and studied her slyly. "Just remembering what's really important. And laughter's important."

  She nodded. "Duly noted."

  "What about the doctor?" her uncle asked. "Does he laugh good and often? Does he make you laugh?"

  Fralene stiffened. She didn't really care to discuss her relationship with Dr. Dub Corveaux with her uncle… especially when they were on the outs at present. She sipped her coffee and wouldn't meet his gaze. "He laughs. Sometimes I think he could fiddle while Rome burned around him."

  "That's my fault," her uncle said.

  "What is?"

  He
sighed. "That serious streak in you. You're not terribly forgiving, Fralene."

  "It's not a matter of forgiveness," she said. "It's a matter of responsibility. He lives here, works here, makes money off of these people… but he won't do anything for the community save stitch a few scars and set a few broken bones."

  "That isn't enough?" her uncle asked.

  "In this place? At this time? No sir, it is not."

  He smiled. Chuckled. He was thoroughly amused by her seriousness.

  "What are you laughing at?" she asked. "Are you taking his side?"

  "Do you forget where your good doctor's been and what he's seen, young lady?"

  "Forget what?"

  "He was in France," her uncle said. "In the trenches. Your doctor's seen things you and I can't even imagine. Blood, death, sorrow, fear. And hasn't he talked about some bad business with his parents, down in Haiti? Wasn't his father killed by men with cane knives?"

  "What does all that prove?"

  "Baby girl," her Uncle Barnabus began, a smile on his lips but his eyes dead serious, "you've never seen blood, or death, or even real pain. Sorry to put too fine a point on it, but there it is."

  "Now, wait a minute—"

  "Let me finish," he said. The schoolmaster was back. "I can understand that you've got passions and beliefs. We all do. What I'm asking you to suppose is that your good doctor may not be as willing to 'get involved', as you call it, not because he's a coward or a fiddling cricket, but because he's had his share of getting involved. He's seen things—maybe even done things—that you and I can scarce imagine the weight of. I think you can cut the man a little slack."

  "This is an important time," she said, back still ram-rod stiff. She knew she couldn't win this argument, but she persisted anyway. "We could all have something real here—true and honest and real—that we never could have had before. If we fail to do what's right in the face of an indifferent city administration, corrupt policemen, and predatory criminal enterprises… well, my God, what are we? What good are we, to ourselves or anyone?"

  He reached across the table and laid one rough hand on hers, with all the gentleness of a surgeon. "Then maybe it's something else."

  "What else?" Fralene asked. She had no idea what he was suggesting.

  Her uncle smiled at her—a smile that said she was an ignorant child, but he loved her anyway.

  "Didn't you just tell me that fear teaches us what's important? That sometimes, we should listen to that fear and respond to it? Fralene, maybe he is afraid of something."

  "But—"

  "Stop arguing," he said gently. "You know I'm right."

  She didn't have a response.

  "He's a good man, your doctor," the reverend said. "You keep expecting him to keep pace with you in the course of your social crusades and such, you're like to drive him away."

  The bell above the café door tinkled as someone stepped in. Fralene's back was to it, so she couldn't see who had just arrived. Her uncle, however, focused on the newcomer, frowned, and took a long, slow sip of his coffee. Fralene heard a voice from the counter—a woman.

  "Cup of coffee and a sour cream donut, Dex."

  Fralene raised an eyebrow, as if to ask her uncle who it was that had just arrived and soured him with their very presence.

  "That hoodoo lady," he whispered.

  "Miss Gooden?"

  He nodded. "She's eyeballing me, too. Tryin' to be sneaky about it, but I see."

  Fralene leaned closer, smiling in spite of herself. "Maybe she likes you, uncle. Aren't you in the market for a new missus Farnes to keep the parsonage clean and host your tea parties?"

  "There never has been a missus," the Reverend Farnes said, "and there never will be. Now… enough out of you, young lady. Respect your elders."

  Fralene smiled. She enjoyed these quiet times with her uncle. They seemed to have so few of them lately.

  Their waitress arrived with their breakfasts. The two dug in.

  "She's still lookin' at me," her uncle muttered, raising a spoonful of fried mush to his frowning mouth. When he swallowed it, he made a strange face.

  "Something wrong?" Fralene asked, pouring syrup on her hotcakes.

  "I think this is yesterday's mush," he said, but lifted another spoonful and kept eating.

  10

  It was storming outside. Dub could barely hear the wango drums or the mambo's song as the recorded summoning skirled out of his Victrola's horn. Down came the deluge, making thunder on the roof of his brownstone and filling his peristyle with a maddening clatter.

  Still, Dub held his concentration and repeated the familiar rituals. He poured offerings of his good family rum, lit cigars for Ogou and Legba and set them upright in an old trepanned skull, then burned dried sage and set some cones of frankincense smoldering. Offerings settled, he danced in a circle—stomping, clapping, chanting—until he felt the doors between the worlds ready to burst on their etheric hinges. When he fell to his knees, kissed the earth, and knocked upon it three times, the Guinee door swung wide and the lwa stepped through.

  Dub addressed Erzulie directly. "I suppose there's no appeasing Danto? No end to this blasted rain?"

  'Fraid not, Erzulie answered. Sister Danto and me, we ain't on speaking terms.

  Goin' soft, Ogou snarled. A brave man likes the feel of nature on his face.

  "And a wise man knows when to come in out of the rain," Dub countered. He slipped on his veve pendants, his dead man's socks, his grave-digger's boots. Then came the purple-and-black striped waistcoat gifted him by an houngan in Haiti, his long, coal-black trenchcoat. Finally, he loaded and holstered his pistols, then pocketed some govi grenades.

  The boy ain't wrong, Legba said. This storm's more than just the wind and rain. It's portent and prologue. It carries something with it. Can't you feel it?

  "I feel it," Dub said, donning his dreadlock wig and top hat.

  I feel it, too, Erzulie agreed. Like it ain't gonna wash things away… it's just gonna set them loose.

  Dub dipped one gloved hand into the bone powder that made his face into the fearsome mask that all evil-doers in Harlem had come to dread.

  Well, if the storm's set something loose, Ogou broke in, best to get to business, neh?

  Dub cracked his neck, stood ready. "Let's get horsed."

  Ogou mounted.

  Doc Voodoo, the Dread Baron opened his black eyes.

  XX

  Neither rain nor sleet nor snow now hail could keep the almost-dissolved Harlem Concerned Citizens' Brigade from meeting. Fralene tried to talk her uncle out of it, but he wouldn't hear of it. The meeting was scheduled and he would follow through, hell or high water. Fralene might not have been so worried if he didn't seem so out of sorts. But, she'd noticed something working on him all afternoon and evening—a malaise, an irritability that was not his normal prickliness. What if he was coming down with something?

  But, no, her uncle had insisted. If it might be their last official meeting, they should damn well have it, and not call it off on account of rain like a baseball game. Fralene supposed she could accept that, but insisted upon accompanying Uncle Barnabus. She would make sure he took a cab and didn't try to just walk under the inadequate cover of his umbrella. All their family needed after all they'd been through recently was her uncle contracting a fever or pneumonia. And wouldn't that just be the choicest irony? Barnabus Farnes: survived gun-toting assassin, done in by spring rains.

  So here they were, at Mother Zion African Methodist Church, sitting among the pews, four individuals dwarfed in the sanctuary's big and empty interior. The Reverend Brown walked with a cane and still sported a cast on his arm, but his face looked far better, not half so swollen, bruised, or lacerated as it had been. Still, Fralene thought he looked rather deflated, his natural, almost childish spryness and vigor beaten out of him, his spirit cowed and broken. Fralene hoped the reverend's spirit would mend, and made a mental note to check on him in a week or so, perhaps by bringing him a pot of beans or a
pie from a neighborhood bakery.

  Ms. Walker had escaped the encounter with no physical signs of distress, but Fralene thought she recognized in the normally poised, elegant, middle-aged matron a strange sort of shuttered silence more common to wallflowers and shrinking violets; as if she were a once-spirited filly, broken by a harsh, cruel trainer. There was still a faint bruise on her cheek, as well. Fralene tried to make chit-chat with Ms. Walker as they waited for the arrival of Mr. Jebediah Debbs—both to put her at ease and to try and probe the depths of her distress—but Ms. Walker was not forthcoming regarding her feelings. She simply matched Fralene's idle chit-chat but failed to illuminate further how her struggles with fear or anxiety might still be affecting her.

  Uncle Barnabus checked his pocket watch. "Twenty minutes," he grumbled. "Where in Sam Hill is that man…"

  His face was twisted and creased in ways that she'd never seen before. Uncle Barnabus seemed more deeply troubled—more resentful, more angry—than Fralene had ever seen him to be. He checked his watch again and again, groused continually, and in between seemed to struggle for breath, sometimes mopping his brow with his handkerchief.

  He doesn't look good, Fralene thought. I just might have to fetch a doctor for him this evening.

  And Dub's the nearest doctor.

  No. She wouldn't. She couldn't. She hadn't spoken to Dr. Dub Corveaux in almost a week, and she would not approach him now. If he wanted to smooth things over and apologize for being so stubborn, let him; she would not be the first to back down just because she needed his professional services. There were other physicians in Harlem, after all…

  Besides, she had nothing to apologize for.

  Did she?

  "Perhaps we should begin?" the Reverend Brown offered. "After all, this isn't a formal gathering, is it? If Mr. Debbs arrive, we simply—"

  "Have you got somewhere to be?" Uncle Barnabus asked him.

  There was a momentary silence. The bristly tone of the question, aimed at one of Uncle Barnabus's oldest friends, caught them all off guard. It wasn't right.