Another five miles, we turned onto dirt, and the limo was nowhere in sight. The old rutted road, lined with thick foliage, vined trees and high grass, took us on a winding, hilly trip toward the swampland.
And so it goes, just when you feel secure and let down your guard half an inch, somebody throws you a jab that lights up the stars behind your eyes.
As we rounded a curve and came over a rise, a patrol car blocked the road a hundred feet ahead. We couldn’t miss either the sedan or the young cop with the .357 aimed over the hood of his car.
At fifty miles per hour, the crash sent the old Dodge pickup into a spin, its gull-wing hood flapping off like a bird. Then down the thirty-foot embankment on the right side we went. We hit the bottom of the ditch hard. I lost consciousness again, this time more from the impact than the drugs still clouding my mind.
When I came to, my movements were slow — very slow and labored. I glanced to Zack and found him leaning against the steering wheel, a trickle of blood coming from his forehead, eyes closed. The truck was nose down in the ditch, and after what seemed like minutes, I realized the old Dodge’s horn was blaring.
Then, I saw the smoke.
The cloud of hay smoke came heavily through the broken rear window, so thick I could barely breathe. The hay bales had busted apart and alfalfa was everywhere inside the cab. The truck would soon be entirely engulfed in flames. I kicked open my door, took the big horn player by the arm and began pulling his limp body out of the cab. As I did, he came to consciousness and helped. We crawled away a few feet and he collapsed.
“Soc au’ lait!” Zack said, and at first I thought he was crying. But when he gave that Walter Brennan chuckle in between wails of giddy emotion, I realized he was laughing hysterically.
“She-it, man!” he said. “Cuz’s gonna be pissed!”
I coughed from the smoke and found myself laughing with him. I figured the silliness we were embracing must have been from whatever hallucinogenics the beautiful, black Voodoo woman had passed me by aerosol powder or fingernail scratch. Still, the laughter lay on my face and throat like a tight mask, and I couldn’t shake it no matter how hard I tried.
“It’s just hay — alfalfa,” I said, trying to control myself. “What’s it go for, these days, twelve bucks a bale?”
“She-it, E Z boy!” he said, “not this alfalfa. This’s the good stuff! Fifteen G’s a bale.”
I frowned not understanding, at first. I realized I was starting to get very hungry, in spite of being in danger of losing my life. The cop was probably incapacitated up on the road, but more police would surely arrive soon. Still, I was hungry and laughing my fool ass off. When I took my next good breath, I realized why. Marijuana?
“Zack,” I said between chuckles. “Your cousin’s goats eat Mary Jane.”
“Uh-huh! When Cuz is wasted ‘nough t’gives it to’m. Cuz eats’t, too. An’ he rolls’t, an’ smokes’t, an’ brews’t in his po’lickah, an’ bakes’t in his cookies — an’ sells’t t’his neighbors an’ kinfolk!”
We were both laughing too hard to stop, leaning back on our elbows, watching the cherry ‘52 Dodge pickup burn.
We both finally settled some, and I asked, “What about your pickup burning up?”
“Yessir, sure wish w’had some hot dogs an’ marshmallows!”
The laughing erupted again, with the shrill Walter-Brennan keening and snorts. Tears were streaming from our eyes.
Finally, I caught my breath again. “Really, Zack — your beautiful truck?”
“It jus’ a thin’, E Z boy. Ain’t folks like you an’ me, an’ Poodoo an’ Ella Fitzgerald. An’ not like Billy. I’ll do fine withou’ ol’ Dodge. Won’t withou’ any m’folks — let’s go fin’ Billy.”
He started giggling like a child again as we pulled ourselves up the embankment, one handful of weeds at a time.
“What?” I asked him.
“What?” he shook his head and giggled some more.
It was contagious. “Come on — what?”
He could barely get it out between chuckles. “I ... sure ... got ... them munchies!”
“Well, hell — let’s get outa here and go get some Twinkies!”
“Okay, E Z boy. An’ pity the fool get’n ou’way!”
CHAPTER 11
Jambalaya, Crawfish Pie, Filé Gumbo and Twinkies
When we got to the road, the sheriff’s deputy was lying beside his wrecked patrol car unconscious. We heard a conversation on the cruiser radio putting out an APB on us and the pickup.
We’d been headed for Margoles Bait and Gas, a small store catering to bayou hunters and fishermen. Zack said that if anyone in the Honey Island Swamp had seen Billy, it would be octogenarians Jacques and Agrippina Margoles.
To avoid further contact, we cut through the woods to the bait shop, Zack figuring it to be about two miles away “as the bunny runs”. That was probably a good estimate, but the trees, vines, swamp grass and wading through waist-high bogs and marshy pools made the going difficult. I hadn’t seen this kind of foliage since my days in Marine “Super Squad” competition training in the swampland of North Carolina. But even at Zack’s age and size, he proved himself quite the swamp monster when it came to taking on the terrain.
In the shop, after buying two bags full of Twinkies and other junk food, Black Zack asked about people coming and going, especially the sheriff’s men and Papa Legba or any of his henchmen. While we listened, we dug into our bags of goodies. But I could tell the elderly proprietors of the country store were reluctant to talk around me, so I backed off a few steps. They whispered to Zack, but I could still hear them.
There had been considerable traffic in recent months going down in a hollow past what they called Legba’s cabin — a sort of scary, dark place that “anybody with sense know’d better than t’nose ‘roun’ ‘cause they got guns and gris-gris”. But in recent weeks, there had been a steady stream, including windowless panel vans and a couple of container semi-trucks.
“Soun’s like they’s col-lectin’ up sumpin,” Zack said.
The couple nodded with knowing eyes. “Chil’ern,” the woman said. “Know’d that ‘cause the drivers come in f’some candy — whole shitload o’candy, lotta canned stuff — an’ a whole buncha o’er the counter drugs, mos’ly col’ and flu-bug stuff.”
Zack described Billy to them, and they said they’d seen him just yesterday, early morning. He’d asked for their phone, but they didn’t have one, so he’d charged up his cell for about thirty minutes and then headed on foot back into the woods in the direction of Legba’s cabin.
Billy had told them he was going back to save some kids. He said he’d rescued a couple the night before, but had to let them get recaptured in order to evade capture himself.
The old woman looked around Zack to examine me and said, “Billy asked fo’ help. Neither us ca’drive, anymo’. Tol’ ‘im, we’d get word out t’anybody pass by.”
Billy had made arrangements to buy the couple’s Mighty Mite Jeep when he returned and gave them a two-hundred-dollar deposit. An unusual, aluminum bodied machine with an air-cooled Porsche engine, it was made specifically for the US Marines. This one had a snorkel for driving through water up to six feet deep. The 1960 Jeep was parked in front of their store with a hand printed sign that read $900 — It Runs! He’d told them he’d bring seven hundred more when he came back.
Billy had walked out of the store with his cell phone to his ear. The old woman thought he’d said something to his “mom”. A few seconds later, they heard gunfire, and they hadn’t seen him since.
She said, “Then those sheriff’s dep’ties come in an’ tol’ us keep our mouth’s shut, o’ be us dead alayin’ in the swamp.”
I bumped Billy’s bid, paying the elderly Cajun couple two thousand dollars up front for their nine-hundred-dollar Jeep. With wide eyes, Jacques Margoles said they’d hold it for us. He’d park it out of sight in back with their Cadillac, and it’d be gassed up and ready when we returned.
When we left, Jacques pointed to the way Billy had ventured and we followed his lead deeper into the swamplands. Zack said he knew the place we were going — that he and some friends had wandered there when he was a teenager over forty years ago, while unsuccessfully poaching alligators. They’d only found one gator.
“Damn near ate all three o’us ‘live,” Zack said and laughed. “Meanes’ damn thin’ — wa’n’t n’mo’ than three-fee’ long, an’ damn nea’ kilt us! Don’t like no adigadahs, anyhow. ‘Specially not that one. Had a big yellah spot ‘tween ‘is eyes where a bullet passed. Mus’ be cain’t die. Ne’er fo’get that adigadah with the big yellah spot an’ bullet hole on ‘is fo’head. We’s calt him Ol’ Yellah. Had nigh’mares ‘bout ‘im.
“Ne’er poached no adigadah, befo’. Ain’ ne’er poached a adigadah since — jus’ poach eggs. Them won’ bite y’arm off — jus’ give you’s a little gas.” He chuckled again.
Even though the Twinkies had helped our munchies, I could tell my new friend was still under the influence of the “alfalfa” smoke, as was I.
Stepping into the thick foliage, I asked Zack, “Who is this Papa Legba character?”
“Him the guardian o’ the crossroads ‘tween Heaven an’ Earth — been tha’ fo’ thousan’ years. Been hearin’ stories ‘bout ‘im since I’s knee-high. Him won’t let jus’ anybody’s spirit pass, ‘less he wants ‘em do. Him cas’ out who‘im don’t like an’ sends ‘em t’Hell.”
Zack faced me to make sure I heard his next bit of info. “‘Him gots horns — an’ a big ol’ deek.”
“A what?”
“A deek. A big un. They sez it hard as teak wood, an’ ‘bout this long,” he said giving me an indication with his hands of about three feet. “I sees it ‘n a pi’ture.”
“Jeez,” I said, “I won’t bend over in front of that big ol’ boy.”
Zack gave his Brennan laugh again. “Y’got that right! Ain’ gonna sit on ‘is lap an’ az wha’ I gonna get fo’ Chris’mas, either!” He laughed again, and then chuckled to himself intermittently over the next ten minutes as we struggled on.
I’m not superstitious, and I don’t believe in the supernatural. Most things I have to touch to believe. So why would someone impersonate Papa Legba, a mythical Voodoo character and live in the swamp? To keep the ignorant backwoods folks away? Or to make any improprieties that were reported to the FBI and other authorities seem more likely superstition and ghost stories? Maybe a little of both.
Just inside the tree line of a small clearing, we caught sight of the cabin and reconnoitered it. The old log structure seemed to protrude from the thick swamp vegetation. Three sheriff’s officers stood outside, one whittling on a stick and the other two pacing. The big black limo and the sheriff’s car were parked in front, along with several other vehicles, including two semi-trucks with container trailers.
Obviously there as a precaution, the guards seemed bored and not used to being confronted — especially way out here.
Figuring those on the inside would be more willing to talk if they thought they had the upper hand, I devised a risky plan. If we busted in, guns blazing, we could easily get Billy or any other innocents inside killed. And we might not get to the bottom of this whole scheme. Of course there was also the possibility we’d be killed in the bargain.
“Do you know how to use this thing?” I asked Zack in a low voice as I prepared for action and handed him the Mach 10.
Zack’s eyes got big, and I thought he was about to burst out laughing again. I held my hand over his mouth, and he quickly replaced it with his own.
After swallowing hard and clearing the smile from his lips, he said, “Jus’ like one o’ them plastic ketchup bottles — poin’ an’ squeeze, an’ try’n squirt everythin’ n’sight.” He muffled a laugh with his hand.
“Okay,” I told him. “If there’s any gunfire, or if I’m inside more than five minutes, you come in and squeeze that thing hard—shoot anybody that’s armed. Just don’t kill me, Billy or any of the kids.”
If it wasn’t for the marijuana high, I was pretty sure I’d be able to count on Zack for about anything. But, right now ...?
CHAPTER 12
Son of a Gun, We’ll Have Big Fun!
I easily snuck up to the side of the cabin, next to an attached, fenced-in area about fifteen feet square. The six-foot chain-link had green slats woven into it to aid in camouflage and for added security. A person could stand behind the fence and not be seen from a distance. Up close, I peeked through but only saw an empty dirt floor and back entryway into the cabin.
I found the little green 49 cc moped leaning against the fencing a bit out of place. But I figured the little motor bike was used for a runner to go somewhat clandestinely to and from the main road where more guards were posted.
A two-foot piece of the chain-link wire lay next to the fenced enclosure’s gate. By instinct, maybe intuition, I decided to wire the gate latch shut. Anyone who wanted in or out would spend at least thirty seconds untying the thing, or have to scale the six-foot-high fence. Neither a great feat, but it was something to slow down anyone trying to escape.
Of course, the thought occurred to me that the one trying to get the hell out of Dodge could be me.
As I kept an eye out for the sheriff’s officers, I had the feeling of being watched. Standing in sunlight, I turned toward the swampy area behind the cabin and peered past the small enclosure into the dark and shadowy swampland. I shielded my eyes from the surrounding brightness and waited for them to adjust.
Within a few seconds, I made out human figures. Several small bodies were lying curled up behind more of the chain link — only this fencing was painted dark and didn’t have the green slats like that of the empty area beside me. This cage complex seemed to stretch out about 100 feet across and at least that deep into the dark swamp, well camouflaged by the dark fence, military camouflage netting and the triple canopy of vegetation overhead.
I made out a figure in an upright position, seemingly tied up inside the fencing, head bowed as if unconscious.
My vision adjusting further to the darkness, I found the reason I had that “being watched” feeling. Large eyes lit up from the darkness and a broad, tooth-filled grin appeared.
The dark-skinned man held a Kalashnikov of some kind, hard to tell if it was the old big bore AK-47 or the later, smaller-bore model AK-74 in the shadows. He leaned on what I presumed was Billy White Cloud’s cage. The shadowy silhouette seemed very tall in the darkness, like a pro basketball player. And the shape of his head seemed oddly egg-like.
Unarmed, I had little choice but to try and feel this guy out. Would he shoot me or just attempt to capture me?
That grin seemed odd, and my first impression was that this man was of somewhat diminished mental capacity.
From my kneeling position, I returned the grin and gave him a child-like finger wave.
He gave one back.
I wondered if he might have been told to make sure no one got away, but, with the other guards in mind, no one had thought to tell him to report or stop anyone nosing around the cabin.
Figuring I’d deal with my special new acquaintance when the time came, I placed my ear to a shade-covered side window and listened while watching for the guards.
I heard two voices; one deep and curt, the other higher with a Southern drawl.
* * *
The deep voice said, “Let’s get this wrapped up. I need to be downtown by six. How long before we can load the items?”
The one with a Southern drawl said, “We’s got the two container trucks here, now. Dep’ty Perre an’ two dozen of m’best is caravannin’ eight more — should be here within the hour. We’ll pack all the items in to the ten containers for now, then divi’ ‘em into a total of twenty-four once they on the ship at the Napoleon Avenue Terminal when we’s done. Ship should be loaded and ready by t’morrah early-mornin’. But we won’t have it manned ‘til pro’lly midnight t’morrah.”
> “That should work. We want the ship to leave in darkness, anyway. But the sooner the better, Sheriff. That FBI agent is getting close. If she gets anything on us, we’ll either have to kill her or sink the ship in deep water — or both.”
“I think you know killin’ her would be my preference, an’ I say we don’t wait fo’her t’get anythin’ on us. We’s cain’t risk bein’ sposed.”
“You’ve left too many loose ends on this first shipment. But if you can tidy up a bit, we might be able to get in two more shiploads of 500 items each over the next year. Your take on that would be upwards of two-and-a-half million per ship. You’d better get your shit together or you’ll lose all that — and maybe your life, too.”
“Listen, Legba, m’shit’s together. You’s the one that keeps losin’ kids. How many do that make now, seven’n the last two weeks? Water moccasins an’ copperheads’s one thing, but starvin’ be altogether different.”
“They wouldn’t eat.”
“Shit, maybe you’s oughta spend some o’that twenty-five million to get them decent food ‘stead of that nasty crap you’s feeds ‘em that makes ‘em shit an’ puke they’s insides out.”
“Don’t tell me how to run this operation, Sheriff. You just find three replacements.”
“What, ‘bout the two that injun boy rescued, then changed his mind — don’t they count?”
“You didn’t tell me you got them back.”
“Got tipped inta the swamp, first. But we got ‘em back. That boy laid ‘em into the bateau, nice an’ gentle like whilst Perre and me was splashin’ ‘round avoidin’ them damn gators an’ snakes. Then he runned off. Guess he figured that was all he could do to save them’s lives — give ‘em back an’ ‘scape t’get help. Weren’t no help for him, though. We caught up with him out by the bait shop an’ beat the livin’ shit out o’him.”
KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set Page 7
