by D P Lyle
Kevin sighed. “We should talk to Ragman.”
“Why?”
“Let him know the cops will be coming his way.”
“You don’t know that.” Robert looked at him. “You think Ju Ju would hand over Ragman? Are you crazy?”
Robert settled the car against the curb along Dumaine near the intersection with Rampart. He switched off the engine. They crossed Rampart and entered Louis Armstrong Park, passing beneath the entry arch and through the open iron gates. They walked to the water’s edge. Kevin picked up a couple of loose rocks and began skimming them over the water’s flat surface.
“No, I don’t think Ju Ju would roll on Ragman or anyone else,” Kevin said. “The exact opposite. He protects those guys. But if Detective Doucet is knocking on Ju Ju’s door, how long you think it’ll be before he starts leaning on the dealers?”
Robert gazed out over the water as if pondering that idea.
Kevin hurled another pebble, this one getting four good bounces before sinking from sight. “You know Ju Ju and the cops play games with each other. Exchange information. It’s what they do.”
“I guess this is a big deal,” Robert said. “Kristi. Uncle Tony. All the media shit. And now with drugs like bump involved, it’ll be an even bigger deal.”
“Exactly. Ju Ju can earn a lot of points by helping out here. With the cops and with Uncle Tony.”
“That makes sense.” Now Robert skimmed a rock. Three skips.
“All I’m saying is that we could give Ragman a heads up,” Kevin said. “Let him know what’s coming down.”
Robert nodded. “He might like that.”
“And we can impress on him once again that Tony, anyone else for that matter, has no need to know we buy shit from him.”
Robert sighed. “Tony finding out we’re still using, not to mention dealing, would not be pretty. That’s for sure.”
“He already knows.”
Robert shook a pebble in his hand. “He suspects. He doesn’t really know.”
“He knows. He knows everything, it seems.”
Robert shrugged. “Let’s go find Ragman.”
“One thing—what if Ju Ju finds out we told Ragman all this shit? Don’t you think he’d be pissed?”
“He’s going to tell him anyway. Don’t you think? I mean, if Doucet is in there talking about bump, he’s doing it so Ju Ju will get his ear to the ground. Find out who’s dealing it.”
“My point exactly. If Ragman blabs and the word gets out we stuck our noses in here, Ju Ju will go ballistic. You know what a control freak he is.” Robert skimmed the stone. “I’m wondering if maybe we should just lay low on this. I mean, Ju Ju will ramp up big-time if we go behind his back.”
“We wouldn’t be. And if we get what Tony needs, find out where that shit came from, Tony will be impressed. Might even trust us more.”
“Right? I don’t think that’s even possible. He’s such a dick.”
Kevin tossed the pebbles he held on the ground and rubbed his hands together. “Look, we can grab some more weed from Ragman and then casually bring up bump. See if he sells that shit. Or knows who does.”
“Casual huh?”
“Casual.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
JU JU. REAL name Junior Makin, Junior. Made him Junior, Jr. Where the Ju Ju came from. No stranger to law enforcement, Doucet had had his run-ins with him. But he also had leaned on Ju Ju for help, giving him a little rhythm in return. Truth was Ju Ju kept a firm hand on the dealers in the Treme. Half the Quarter, too. Every time there was a territory dispute—one dealer stepping on another’s perceived domain, stealing customers, undercutting prices—Ju Ju put a boot on their necks. Kept many a disagreement from escalating into a full-on range war. Kept the peace in a way the NOPD never could.
Doucet knew Ju Ju well. Including his rap sheet, which wasn’t as long as most people might imagine. He lived in the Treme, a block from Louis Armstrong Park, and only three blocks from where he was born. He was forty-eight and looked nothing like a drug boss. More like a high school football coach. Twenty years earlier, he had dabbled in the drug trade, got popped for possession a couple of times, once for intent to distribute. But other than a six-day stretch in county, he had never been inside.
His house was a small, two-story, yellow with white trim affair. Red door all shiny, bright flowers in the windows. Well kept. The kind of place a family would live. Harmless. An asset to the community.
Besides his rap sheet, Doucet knew other things about Ju Ju to be true. He was in the drug business, but he didn’t sell drugs. You’d never find drugs around him. Never at his home or on his person. Maybe a little weed for personal use, a small party every now and then. But he didn’t deal. He had moved on to greener pastures. To the business of protection. Protecting the real dealers and those involved in other criminal activities like prostitution and cigarette smuggling and untaxed whiskey and so on. No one messed with Ju Ju. Big, strong, and could take a man down with either hand. No questions asked. And he had a crew that held things tight. No one could go off the reservation in Ju Ju’s world. If you were under Ju Ju’s umbrella, no one touched you. No one ripped you off. No one stepped on your supply lines or hassled your street guys. No one. Ever. But if you stumbled over to his bad side, Ju Ju’s response was swift and painful. Even deadly.
Ju Ju was smart. Didn’t make mistakes. Do stupid stuff. He never used harder drugs and drank only a little. Always in control. He didn’t rip folks off, so long as they paid what Ju Ju considered a fair price for his largess. Not like most criminals who couldn’t keep their hands out of the till, or the candy jar, in the case of dealers. Nothing would get you busted faster than snorting or smoking your own product. Made you reckless and stupid. Ju Ju was neither.
And Ju Ju loved women. Always had them around. Three or four on any given day. All kinds. Black, brown, white. He loved them all.
The one that opened the door to Doucet’s knock was white, blond dreds, blue eyes, big pink lips. She didn’t say a word, only giving him a flat look before she turned and walked away, leaving the door standing open, her tight, slim hips rolling beneath pink shorts, “The Big Easy” in white block print across the back. She flopped on a sofa next to a trim black girl, similarly attired. The TV was on to some movie with a car chase in progress and the aroma of weed filled the air. Ju Ju’s muscle, two guys Doucet knew as Chapo and Stormy, slouched in nearby chairs.
Chapo, a short, stocky Hispanic, looked much like the real El Chapo, the ex-leader of the Sinaloa cartel. Probably where he got the handle. He had two teardrop tattoos beneath one eye, his announcement to the world that he had killed a couple of folks. Doucet never understood why some dirt balls liked to advertise they had killed before. Did give them a certain street cred, of course, at least among those that crawled through the underbelly of society. But to cops it said “no human involved.” Handle with care, but also with aggression. Made cops a little more likely to use excessive force. Out of fear, if nothing else. Bottom line: a couple of tattoos just might get your ass shot.
Stormy was a thin, big-eyed black kid, a gold stud in each ear. He was more a criminal wannabe. Not too bright and not as tough as he wanted others to think. Doucet knew he always stood in Chapo’s shadow, using Chapo’s toughness to pump up his own chest.
Chapo and Stormy jumped up in unison as Doucet entered. Their collective gaze darted to the coffee table where a couple of joint remnants rested in a large yellow ashtray next to a water-filled bong. The girls picked up on their alarm and the black chick reached for the ashtray, probably hoping she could make it disappear.
Doucet waved a hand. “It’s okay. I ain’t here about that shit.”
She froze. Doucet could see the confusion in her eyes.
“What you want?” Stormy asked.
“I need to see Ju Ju.”
“He don’t talk to no cops.”
“Guess we’ll see.” Doucet moved past him, bumping Stormy’s shoulder with his own, t
oward the kitchen and the back patio where he knew Ju Ju did most of his business. “You boys sit tight. Enjoy your movie.”
“Hey, you can’t go out there ’less he say so.”
Doucet ignored him and stepped outside.
Ju Ju sat at a redwood picnic table, shirtless, phone to his ear. Thick, carrying a few extra pounds, but still muscular and fit, mahogany skin, thinning white fuzz on his head. He looked up as Doucet came through the kitchen door and motioned to the slat seat on the opposite side of the table.
“Let me get back at you,” Ju Ju said into the phone. “Got me a cop here with something on his mind.” He laid the phone on the table.
Stormy appeared. “Sorry, boss. He wouldn’t listen.”
Ju Ju waved him away. “I got this.”
Stormy hesitated, obviously chastised, and then disappeared back inside.
“What brings you by?” Ju Ju asked. “Must be important for you to come here without notice.”
It wasn’t Doucet’s first visit to Ju Ju’s place, but there was a certain protocol that Ju Ju expected. A heads up. And mostly Doucet honored that arrangement.
Doucet shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by.”
Ju Ju smiled. “Right. Just sightseeing in the Treme? So, what is it? One of my guys do something stupid?”
Now Doucet smiled. “I’m sure they did. But that ain’t why I’m here.”
Ju Ju leaned back, the black matte Glock nestled beneath the waistband of his jeans exposed. Doucet ignored it.
“Need some information,” Doucet said.
“About?”
“Ketamine.”
That got a raised eyebrow. “What about it?”
“Need to know where someone might’ve gotten it.”
“It’s out there.”
“I’m sure. But who sells it on the street? To strangers? Someone that ain’t from around here?”
Ju Ju rubbed his graying stubble. “I see.”
“It’s a case I’m working.”
“Figured. Maybe the murder of Tony’s niece?”
“You know about that?” Of course he did. Doucet was merely playing the game.
Ju Ju smiled, gave a lazy shrug. “I do keep my ear to the ground.”
“I know you do.”
“But this? Everyone who has a pulse knows about it. I’d bet even them actors out there in the swamp are jawing about it.” Ju Ju removed the Glock, laying it on the table, and leaned forward, elbows on the redwood. “I heard there was drugs involved. But my people tell me it was only weed.”
Doucet shrugged. “This is new info. Probably hasn’t filtered down the street yet.”
“It will,” Ju Ju said. “Always does.” He smiled again.
Doucet knew Ju Ju had eyes and ears in the department. Even had a few names he was sure of. Nothing he could prove, but the truth was the truth. Meant Ju Ju would hear about the ketamine in short order. If he didn’t already know and was simply playing coy.
“Need to keep this on the DL,” Doucet said. More gamesmanship. Always let the informant think he’s on the inside. Privy to private information. Pump up their perceived importance. With Ju Ju, importance was a given but it was still part of the dance.
“Cone of silence,” Ju Ju said.
“As always, I appreciate that. It looks like Kristi and Kirk Ford were doing ketamine. Had a spiked joint. Not sure yet where it came from—whether it was Ford or Kristi—but it was there.”
Ju Ju shook his head. “For the of life me, I don’t see why anyone would want to use that shit. Fuck you up big-time. And it can kill you deader than dead.”
“We don’t run across it very often. At least now that all that rave shit has died out. But somehow it ended up in a suite at the Monteleone.”
“That ain’t what killed Kristi. So I hear.”
“No, it wasn’t”
“Yeah, I heard she was strangled. But you thinking maybe that shit twisted Ford’s mind? Made him a crazy? Homicidal?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Shit. That’s a defense attorney’s dream. Diminished capacity and all that.”
“You can bet on it. But my problem is finding out where it came from.” He raised a shoulder. “Any ideas?”
“I know a couple of guys who spread that shit around.”
“Any names for me?” Doucet asked.
“Let me look at it. Don’t want to get the tribe all sideways.”
“Quick as you can.”
“I’m on it.” Ju Ju smiled. “You know me. Always want to help the police.”
“I’ll await your call.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A REMOTE MOVIE set is like a small village. Lot’s of folks involved, each trying to make it all work smoothly. Mostly, as Nicole had often pointed out, it was slow and boring. People standing around, chatting in small groups, waiting for something to happen. Then urgency prevails as the “shot” is captured. To do this, all must be perfect—actors, setting, lighting, sound, photography.
And it’s expensive. Travel, hotels, meals, audio and video equipment, security, leasing the site, not to mention the salaries of the actors and the others who make the magic happen, can explode a budget in short order.
This is particularly true when you’re a long way from Hollywood and the script requires that you build a real village. Not just some facade, but actual buildings and roadways and protective walls. In this case the village was the home of the Yaktous, the peace-loving clan Kirk Ford and the James twins were charged with saving from a group of intergalactic marauders known as the Korvaths, who were hell bent on universal domination. And destruction of the Yaktous, for some vague reason. I mean they lived in huts. How could they possibly threaten the powerful Korvaths?
The Yaktou village was a series of grass-roofed huts surrounded by a low wall of sticks and stones and what looked like dried vines. It sat across a finger of swamp from the main production area, which consisted of several canvas-covered pavilions where the director, crew members, cameramen, script girls, grips, and extras hung out when not actually doing something.
Then there were a series of equipment trailers and a pair of luxurious ones to pamper the stars. In Hollywood speak—the talent. One for Kirk, one for the twins. Such pampering was common in Hollywood, but then again, no stars—no billion-dollar franchise.
I saw all this when we arrived.
Only took us about thirty minutes to get there from the Monteleone. The movie camp and the fake Yaktou homeland sat at the end of a dirt and gravel road that wound along elevated high ground in a world of swampland. Beautiful but a little spooky with Spanish moss–draped cypress trees and herds of cypress knees that looked like little soldiers marching through the dark water.
Finally, we reached an open area and a chain-link fence, with a gate guarded by two men. To the left, in a public parking area, several dozen fans gathered, obviously hoping for a glimpse of Kirk Ford and the twins. They had a big fan club, too. Among them were a couple of protesters, holding anti-Kirk signs. They seemed more subdued than they had been at the courthouse. Probably because they were outnumbered at least ten to one. Or so it seemed. There were, of course, several media types, cameras on shoulders, microphones in hands, one attractive female reporter staring at a camera and talking, the set as backdrop. I suspected I’d see her on the six o’clock news.
Our name was on the list, so we were waved through the gate and directed to another parking area near the collection of pavilions. Pancake parked. We climbed out. I saw Ebersole, standing with a guy next to a large camera mounted on a dolly that clung to a pair of tracks, which led to the swamp’s edge.
Ebersole looked up as we approached. “Any trouble finding us?”
I shook my head. “Your directions were perfect.”
“Good, good.” He waved a hand. “Well, welcome to my world.” He laughed. “Such as it is.”
“Where’s Nicole?”
He pointed across a swampy
inlet to where she stood with a couple of crew members. Kirk Ford and the twins were waist deep in the swamp, Kirk shirtless, the twins in bra-like tops, dripping wet. Hollywood. Never miss a chance to show some skin. Even in a swamp. The trio pushed through the water, looking back as if being chased, Kirk turning and “firing” a weapon of some kind. Not really firing, the ray gun, or whatever it was, merely a prop. I was sure that later bright and noisy laser bullets would be added digitally by some geek in the basement of the production studio back in LA. As would whoever or whatever was chasing them. Right now, Kirk fired at a blue sky. No flying creatures or space craft in sight.
They scurried up the swamp’s bank toward a cameraman, who knelt on the shore capturing their dramatic escape. I heard Kirk yell, “Run!” They did. Past the camera, before stopping, each bending over, hands on knees, as if catching their breaths. A young woman handed each of them a towel, and they began wiping away the swamp.
“They’re just finishing up a scene,” Ebersole said.
“Looks like fun.”
“They might disagree about now. This was a—how shall I say it?—rather testy shoot. In this scene, they’re being pursued by a group of Korvath warriors. The digital guys’ll drop them in later.”
See? Told you.
I saw two men on a swamp boat, one of those deals with the big fan blades on the back, maybe fifty years into the water. One sat at the helm, the other on the bow, a shotgun on his hip. “Who are those guys?”
“Snake and gator wranglers.”
“What the hell?” Pancake said.
Ebersole shrugged. “It’s a swamp. Snakes and alligators are expected.”
Said the guy who didn’t have to go in the water.
“In fact, they killed a big water moccasin about an hour ago.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Sure did. Big one. About the size of Pancake’s arm.”
I hated water moccasins. Cottonmouths. Call them what you will, but they’re nasty creatures. I knew there were only four types of poisonous snakes in the US. The shy and rarely seen coral snake was the most toxic, its red, yellow, and black stripes stacked like a roll of Life Savers. Looked a lot like the harmless milk snake. Led to the death of many of those innocent creatures. But, why take a chance? I mean, if it could remotely be a coral snake, the best course would be to avoid it, or kill it. The key to discriminating one from the other laid in the pattern of the bands, whether the red and yellow touch each other (coral snake) or the red band is adjacent to only black ones (milk snake). Every Southerner knows the rhyme: red touches yellow will kill a fellow; red touches black is safe for Jack. Ray had taught me that at a very early age.
