by Will Clarke
“This spell has always protected people like us from our enemies.” La La tapes the cursed business card onto the top of the wrapped box and hands it to me.
“How are those words going to do that?”
“Well, first of all, they are far too vague to be seen as any kind of assault or threat by law enforcement, but menacing enough to make the person receiving it think twice about what it really means. It’s an old-school voodoo head game.”
“So it’s not really a spell?”
“It’s whatever you believe it is,” La La quotes Mama.
“And you think this will keep them from coming after me?”
“No, but it will, with 100% certainty, keep you from ever going back to them or anyone like them.” She pushes me towards the hotel.
I carry the Mandala Spill birthday cake from my car to the front doors of the Ritz on Canal.
The valet opens the door for me. “Welcome back, sir.”
He makes prolonged eye contact with me to let me know that he remembers opening this same door for me over a month ago. Nice touch, as always.
“Thank you,” I smile. I carry the cake through the creamy lobby, under the tearful chandeliers, past all the pudgy conventioneers, sipping their lattes, and playing Angry Birds on their iPhones.
I walk past all this to the great marble front desk. A young woman in thick black frames and her bright red hair pulled tight into a knot on the top of her head, like a samurai, greets me.
“Welcome to the Ritz-Carlton New Orleans. Are you checking in?” She smiles with her perfectly polished teeth that seem to have been sculpted specifically for this kind of warm welcome.
“No, I have a package for one of your guests, Mr. Shelley.” I put the box on the counter.
“Oh, okay. Is he expecting this?” she asks.
“Yes, Christopher Shelley. He should be checking in today.” I pass her my business card.
Her eyes widen when she spots the Mandala logo.
“We need to make sure this is waiting for Mr. Shelley when he arrives,” I say.
“Of course, Mr. Melançon.” She regains her composure and smiles. “It will be waiting for Mr. Shelley in his room when he arrives.”
“Thank you.” I turn around and leave the perfumed lobby along with all the beautiful contamination of my past. I left Mama’s old curse on my business card. I did it not because La La wanted me to, but because I needed to. I left these words of our mother’s to burn any bridge that could ever lead me back to Mandala Park or any life that resembles that. I left that old curse on my business card because really it’s all I have left of our mother, and the least I can do is honor her with a gesture as bold and crazy as she was.
34
June 2, 2010
Mama has been missing for over four weeks
Like Yanko promised, I am on the list at Tipitina’s, so the bouncer hands me a “Crew” name tag dangling from a banana-yellow lanyard. With this piece of plastic, I glide past the long lines waiting to go inside: The rolling waves of frat boys and drunk girls part for me as I hold my pass up to them, and I take my place with the rest of the VIPs and groupies behind the twelve-foot speakers to the left of the stage.
Yanko’s band is already in full swing. Yankotronic is whipping this greasy-headed crowd of hipsters and college kids into a sweat-soaked frenzy. The accordion and trumpets swell in panicky minor keys. The screaming violin and flamenco guitar crescendo with the clumsy Balkan beat of the drums. And, of course, Yanko’s manic vocals and shouts bring the crowd to a frenzy for which Yankotronic shows are famous. Fans call it the Yanko-gasm—that look of ecstasy that seems to be on everyone’s faces tonight—groupies, fan boys, middle-age moms out with their book clubs, lonely tourists dressed in their best Tommy Bahama, you name it. They all have the same exact beatific look on their faces when Yanko sings; and it does in fact look like an Oh-face.
Yanko unleashes the full force of his talent and charm tonight. He is Yanko Melançon, New Orleans’ one and only Cajun Funk Brother. He is the horn of the moon, master of the drunken fuck. After Yanko’s first set, he makes a dramatic flourish and then runs off stage. I push past the sea of underage groupies and middle-aged super tramps hanging out by the side of the stage. I show my badge to the beefy men in security t-shirts and step behind the phalanx of black speakers that form a barrier between the crowd and the band and stagehands. At a venue this small, this is backstage. Yanko is hiding back here guzzling Maker’s Mark and wiping the sweat from his brow with his Aerosmith scarves.
“Quite a show,” I say.
My brother, the rock star, doesn’t acknowledge me. He is drunk on adrenaline and adoration, breathless and drenched in sweat.
“He’s in the crowd,” Yanko says without making eye contact.
“How do you know?”
“The bouncer. Told me that The Loup Garou was asking to meet me after the show.”
“What does he look like?”
Yanko pulls me closer to the wall of speakers and then points my face to the balcony level. “See him? He’s the guy in the stupid hat.”
“You mean the douchebag wearing his sunglasses inside?”
“Yes!” Yanko takes a swig of Maker’s.
“That’s the guy everyone calls The Loup Garou?”
“Yeah, that guy.” Yanko takes another swig.
The Loup Garou is dressed in head-to-toe seersucker along with the goofy kind of straw hat that only Greg Norman can pull off, and even then only on the golf course.
“You gotta be kidding me.” I point. “Panama Jack over there? That’s the guy everyone is so terrified of?”
“Stay behind the speaker.” Yanko pulls me back.
“Who wears sunglasses at night like that?” I say.
“Go talk to him,” Yanko demands.
“You’re the one he came to see.”
“He doesn’t know who you are,” Yanko says.
“And what exactly do you want me to say to him?”
“Just see why he’s creeping on us.”
“What if he’s got a gun?”
“Of course he’s got a gun. Everyone’s got a gun.” Yanko sprays on a cloud of Axe, slides into a shimmering metallic purple shirt, and pushes me out of his way as the stage lights re-ignite and his drummer and bass player create a hip-thrusting rhythm that shakes my rib cage. The crowd swells once again and waves like the dying ocean when Yanko grabs his squeezebox and begins singing “Jambalaya on the Bayou” remixed into a Baltic gumbo of a funk song.
My first instinct is to belly up to the bar and grab a Scotch to help settle my nerves before I approach a man so murderous and mean that people around here call him “The Loup Garou.” But just as soon as I put the Scotch to my lips, nausea washes over me. The Sazerac is still with me. I can’t drink. So I take a deep breath and leave my Scotch at the bar. I keep my eyes on the man in seersucker and walk upstairs. I can hear my heart beating in my own ears.
He doesn’t see me. He’s too busy swaying to the music, biting his lip and closing his eyes and singing to himself. He’s mid-Yanko-gasm.
“Where is she?” I shove him hard, knocking his stupid hat off his head.
“What? What are you doing?” He holds his hand to his heart.
“Where’s my mother?” I am ready to kill this guy with my bare hands.
The Loup Garou dodges me and hides behind a woman wearing a white midriff and short shorts, making spaghetti arms to the music.
“Hey!” the woman swats at him. “Ya spill my drink, ya gonna buy me a new one.”
“Where’s my mother?” I ball up my evil left fist, ready to punch his Ray-Bans off his face.
Loup Garou grabs his hat off the floor, dusts it off and puts it back on his head.
“Duke Melançon!” he says with a British accent. “I was hoping our paths would cross.”
“Where is she?”
“We can’t have this conversation here, mate.”
“We most certainly can.”
The Loup Garou holds up his hand.
“No, we most certainly will not,” he says. “You’re going to go outside. You’re going to hail a cab. It’s going to take you to Café Du Monde and we will have this conversation over a café au lait and beignets like civilized human beings.”
And for some reason, a reason that is beyond words, beyond any real explanation, I turn around and do exactly what this British accent tells me to do.
35
Cab Smells Like SpaghettiOs & Febreze
An old Italian cabbie who picks me up, like most cabbies in this city, is playing WWOZ at top volume. The bass speaker is all busted to hell so every time a horn blows or a singer belts out a low note, there’s this horrible rattling and buzzing.
“Could you please turn it down?”
“What’s the matter?” he asks. “You don’t like jazz?”
“Also, could you roll down the window? It smells back here.”
“Ahright, princess,” he says. “Let me roll down your window for you.”
“Seriously smells like someone just threw up,” I say.
“Hell, my last fare did things way nastier than throw up.” The driver laughs. “Wish I filmed it on my GoPro. I be rich as shit putting that on YouTube.”
“Great.”
“Just wash your hands after ya get out. Ya heard me?”
The conversation with the cabbie is over as soon as it started, leaving me to my own nervous thoughts and the buzzing and rattling of Billie Holiday on this busted radio, asking me if I know what it means to miss New Orleans.
No, Billie, I don’t. Not really. I know it’s super trendy right now to talk about how much everyone loves New Orleans and what a cultural gem it is and how wonderful the food is and how fun the people are and lassez le bon temp fucking rouler, but even if I wasn’t in a cab to negotiate with the crime boss who likely killed my mother, I’m still not sure I’d ever miss New Orleans. I was born in this city, but unlike Yanko and La La and everyone else I know, I am not of this city.
“Alright, we here.” The driver hands me my credit card with the slip to sign.
I sign it and put my card back in my wallet. I open the door to the cab, and I am greeted by a calico cat standing on the curb. It meows. I hesitate to get out.
“You getting out or not?” the cabbie says.
A calico cat is sitting on the sidewalk, as calm and motionless as a Buddha statue.
The thing looks at me and meows again.
I hesitate.
“You getting out? I got shit to do.” The cabbie turns around and glares at me.
I step out into the street, and the cat runs off. From the curb, I can see that Panama Jack hat glowing under the white light bulbs of the Café. I walk to his table.
“How’d you get here before me?” I say.
“Bilocation.” The Loup Garou sips his coffee and smiles. He looks older in this light, strikingly so.
I take a seat.
“I ordered for you,” he says.
A waitress, in a black bow tie and that famous paper hat, stands over me, balancing a tray piled high with powdered sugar and white mugs.
“Thank you.” I lean back as she places the beignets, coffee-milk, and a juice glass full of water in front of me. “So how is this any better than Tipitina’s?”
“You kidding me?” He waves his hand around. “No self-respecting local is within five miles of this place.”
“Why do people call you The Loup Garou?”
“Well, they can’t very well call me Banksy.”
“You want me to believe that you’re Banksy?” I say.
“Here.” He pushes the envelope addressed to The New York Times across the table. “You’ll need to mail this from New York. Trump Tower to be exact. The dates and instructions are on the Post-it note.”
I inspect the Post-It:
September 20, 2016
“That’s six years from now,” I say.
“Precisely.” He pulls a small silver hard drive from his coat jacket and hands it to me. “This one you need to FedEx to The Washington Post. Same year, just make sure it gets to the Post by early October 2016. No earlier. No later. Timing is everything.’”
I hold up the hard drive. “What’s on this?”
“You know: Everything that will change the 2016 election,” he says.
“What are you talking about? 2016?”
“Are you winding me up?” The Loup Garou looks over his shoulder.
“You want me to hold onto this stuff for six years? And then blackmail a presidential candidate?”
“No. I need you to go now. Like Vonnegut told you to do.”
He stares at me. He inspects my eyes.
“You haven’t the foggiest, do you?” he says. “Do you have the necklace?”
“No, I don’t have the fucking foggiest. What are you talking about? Why do you want the necklace?”
“Ah, bloody hell!” He grabs the letter and the hard drive and crams them back into his coat pocket. “Vonnegut hasn’t briefed you yet, has he? How are we going to stop this if Vonnegut hasn’t even fucking briefed you?”
“Stop what?” I say.
“This!” He waves his hand with a flourish over his head. “All of this. The spill. Global warming. The Russians. The markets. Nuclear disaster. That unfortunate chain of future events that hastens all this! This! This! This!”
“Who are you?” I demand. “Really? And stop with the Banksy bullshit.”
He tilts his head. “You should be much further along than this.” He glances at his watch. “Ah, bullocks! The Hand will be reaching for us in exactly two minutes. We will have to reconvene at a later time.”
“The Hand, where is he?” I look around the café. “You have no idea how close… No idea! How close I am to snapping!”
“Psychotic breaks are a job hazard, mate.” He scrunches up his nose. “To be honest, we’ve all had them. The futures you will see will break your heart.”
“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here.” I point my finger in his face. “But fuck you. Where is my mother?”
“Perhaps I am not making myself clear, Duke,” he says. “I am here because your mother sent me. That election assignment was the first timeline she wanted you to correct, but because the Vonnegut hasn’t prepped you, you are fucking this up, which is going to fuck up so many other timelines. I really can’t even begin to tell you how bloody terrible this is.”
“Prep me? You’re trying to tell me that the homeless guy has been trying to prep me?”
“It’s not his fault, mate. Poor chap’s language center is wonky. He can only speak in graduation speeches which are essentially designed to always be ignored. Your mother was going to fix that but Schrödinger showed up and you know how that went…”
I want to push the table over onto his smirking English ass. I want to throttle him, make him pay for doing whatever he did to my mother. For playing whatever this game is, but instead, I push my chair back, and I rise up. This guy is screwing with me, trying to con me into I don’t know what. So I do what Mama always told me to do when you find yourself as the pigeon in the poker game: you shut your mouth, and you simply turn and walk away.
“Oh, come on, Duke!” he yells at me. “We don’t have time for this!”
I just keep walking.
“Duke!” he shouts.
In my periphery, I see a flash of white light.
I turn around and the man who everyone calls The Loup Garou, the man who claims to be Banksy, is gone. And that’s when I notice three quadcopter drones, the small white ones that I see nerds remote controlling by the river, hovering in the dark outside. The drones buzz into the café. The tourists laugh and point at the quadcopters as they swish overhead, dive bombing the tables and hovering as if they are looking for someone.
I duck under the table.
I crawl out of Café Du Monde on my hands and knees. I run across the street. I hide behind a wall and spot a cab. I wave it do
wn, flailing my arms like a crazy man.
The taxi pulls up, and it’s the same guy who brought me here.
The old Italian cabbie nods at me to get inside.
I hop in, slam the car door, and lock it.
“Well, well, look who I got,” the old cabbie says. “Where to, Mr. Princess?”
“Just get me out of here, and you need to do it fast.”
“Oh, it’s one of those nights.” He kisses his fingers and then touches the rosary dangling from his rearview mirror and then peels out.
I look out the back window, scanning the horizon of the cafe.
The drones file out like wasps from under the glare of the cafe. They zoom towards the cab, and they buzz after us as we race down the street.
“Try to lose those drones,” I say.
“Why you acting so scared?” the cabbie asks. “Dey probably just some tourist kids’ toys. I seen helicopter things like that last Mardi Gras, zooming in and filming people’s drunk titties. Ain’t nuthin to be worried about. This kind of shit happens all the time in New Orleans.”
“Just try to lose them,” I say. “I’ll pay you an extra twenty.”
“Well, okay then.” The cabbie punches it and even burns some rubber. He takes a sharp right turn onto a narrow Quarter cobblestone street.
I stay low in the backseat, almost on the floor. I pull out my phone and dial La La. She picks up on the first ring.
“I knew you’d be calling me,” she says.
“The Unseen Hand. He’s sent drones after me,” I say. “They’re following me. I’m in a cab.”
“Drones?” she says. “Like bees?”
“No, like the drones that the Army uses to kill people from the sky in Iraq.”
“Oh, that’s troubling.”
“No shit. What do I do?”
“The Bee Maidens say come to the house. Bring the drones towards the Neon Palm, and we will vanquish them.”
“Vanquish them?”
“Their words, not mine.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea. They’ll know where we live.”
“You think the Hand doesn’t already know where we live?” she says. “Like Mama, It knows all. Sees all. Hears all.”
