Casting Bones

by Don Bruns

  ‘Oh, they know. You’ve talked with them, met with them. And chances are they know you work for me.’

  ‘I’m not certain that—’

  ‘They’re not stupid people, Gandal.’

  ‘And I am?’

  ‘Maybe I’m the one who’s stupid,’ Garrett said. ‘I turned this over to you and let this get way out of hand.’

  Gandal glowered and said nothing.

  ‘I am beginning to believe very strongly that you made a good point.’ He took a deep breath and let it out. ‘I’ll walk you out.’ Garrett put down a twenty on the table and walked out of the restaurant, Gandal by his side.

  41

  Mike wiped down the bar. Maybe a hundred times a day, five days a week for the past fifteen years. Three hundred ninety thousand times he’d cleaned the bar end to end. Damn. That was a lot of cleaning. But different people, different drinks, different dishes at each station, different personalities. That’s what kept the job fresh.

  ‘Hey, Mike.’

  ‘Hey, beautiful lady. What brings you in today?’ He’d never seen her before. He was sure of it.

  ‘Mike, how fresh are the crawfish?’

  Smiling at her, he kept wiping the bar. ‘They were swimming this morning.’

  ‘Mr Mike, you are involved in the unexpected death of the judge? The judges?’

  He pulled up short. ‘Involved? No. Interested, yes. Do you have information?’

  The girl was about twenty-two and her brown hair fell below her eyebrows.

  ‘Are you willing to pay?’

  Mike smiled weakly. ‘A free meal, a drink or two. I’m not a cash-for-info guy.’

  She shrugged. Glancing to her right and left, she leaned forward and said, ‘Krewe Charbonnerie. They had a hand in the killings. I was told to report this to you.’

  Mike looked into her green eyes, her soul.

  ‘Is there a name of a member of that Krewe?’

  ‘Garrett. Richard. Now, I understand there is at least a drink and meal involved? Am I correct?’

  The bartender swallowed his response. Richard Garrett was headline news. A capitalist among capitalists. An entrepreneur among entrepreneurs.

  ‘There’s a chance you could have gotten the name wrong?’

  She smiled at him, blinking her eyes.

  ‘No. There is no chance. Can I please have my drink and crawfish?’

  42

  Gandal’s car was half a block down the street and they walked quietly for a minute, Garrett keeping his head bowed low.

  ‘Can you drop me off at an address on Canal?’ Garrett asked.

  ‘Certainly.’ Gandal opened the driver’s door. Garrett opened the rear door of the Lincoln Navigator and got in.

  ‘I like the back seat,’ he said to Gandal.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The maroon leather upholstery still smelled new and the heavily tinted windows kept the hot sun at bay.

  As Gandal put the key in the ignition Garrett slipped off his tie and with a quick flip of his wrist looped the blue silk over Gandal’s head. Pulling back as the tie reached the man’s throat he jerked it, tightening and pulling with all his strength. The driver’s head was flat against the headrest as Garrett kept pulling, harder and harder. As the tie collapsed the man’s trachea, Garrett heard Gandal let out a strangled cry, reaching back with his hands, trying in vain to pull the tie from his neck to relieve the pressure. His weak effort gave Garrett more hope.

  Richard Garrett pulled even harder, surprised at his own strength, his knuckles turning white. Gandal kicked his legs, almost as a reflex, furtively, then not as strong. His body convulsed, tremors running through his frame. Garrett could see Gandal’s face in the rear-view mirror, swelling from the pressure, turning a shade of purple.

  Finally, Gandal’s clawing hands dropped to his sides and Garrett kept up the pressure for another thirty seconds. His victim needed to be dead. Only when Gandal’s last breath was exhaled did Garrett release his grip.

  When you want something done right, do it yourself. He’d heard it dozens of times and never really understood how true the statement was. Do it yourself. Get rid of the middle man. And it hadn’t been that hard. Garrett was shaking, just slightly, the tremor mostly in his hands, but he’d learned something about himself today, and it felt good to know he could kill someone when the moment called for it. A man needed to know his potential and know his limitations. Another barrier had been breached and he was stronger because of it.

  And as he sat there, gathering himself, collecting his thoughts, catching his breath, he wondered about the Voodoo Queen. The sexy, attractive young woman who cast spells for him and made his life easier. Did he believe in black magic? Of course he did, as did his father before him. And if he believed that she knew secrets, could implore spirits to give her mystical powers, then he believed it was possible she knew more than she admitted. She was aware of his every move. He felt it. At their last meeting, when she was ready to throw the bones, she’d asked him if his purpose was a moral purpose, practically accused him of committing a crime. She knew. And her ex-husband, Joseph, heavily invested in the project, he wondered again if she knew how far he was involved. She had her suspicions, he knew that much.

  And then he was sure. She knew all right.

  Maybe she was someone who needed to be dealt with. The situation needed to be addressed. And now that he knew he couldn’t trust anyone else from the outside to take care of his business, it was down to him. How many people needed to be dealt with? Some serious thought had to be given to how many more lives were to be taken. No lackeys this time. He needed to re-evaluate the people who were involved.

  Garrett unbuttoned his right shirtsleeve, using the cuff to wipe down the parts of the car that he’d touched, and he glanced out the dark windows. It would be almost impossible for anyone to have seen the murder, and even if they’d looked directly into the windows of the car the tint job was enough to block any long-range view. He was buoyed up with confidence, a new awareness of himself.

  He smoothed out his wrinkled tie, then, looking in the Lincoln’s rear-view mirror, he placed it back around his neck and tied it in a perfect Windsor, the entire time looking at Gandal’s pale face, eyes wide open, staring at the roof.

  The oil magnate opened the door, exited on the sidewalk side and quickly walked away, his head bowed and his shoulders slightly raised, shielding his face. You never knew when a camera might be in the neighborhood. In this city of high crime they were everywhere.

  A short black man stood at the entrance to an ally. He studied the slightly crouched figure leaving the fancy black Lincoln. As the hunched-over man walked toward him, Samuel Jackson considered the effort, wondering whether he should ignore him or go for the wallet. Guy got out of a rich-bitch Lincoln Navigator. Probably carried a couple hundreds on him at all times. He prepared himself, taking a quick hit from the flask in his jacket pocket. If you smelled of alcohol, people dismissed you. Just another drunk, they’d say.

  He stumbled out of the alley, colliding with the man, almost knocking him down.

  ‘What the hell?’ Garrett straightened up, glaring at Jackson.

  ‘Sorry, governor. Just stumbled, that’s all. Got a couple of dollars so a man might find a drink?’

  ‘Go to hell,’ Garrett said. He brushed at his shirt, shook his shoulders and walked quickly away.

  Before he’d gone thirty feet Jackson had stripped a credit card and three hundred-dollar bills from the wallet. He tossed the fine leather billfold in the dumpster behind Joe Meany’s Tavern, wondering what kind of rich white man would have a coiled snake tattooed on his wrist. Anyway, he’d had a good score and copped a credit card to boot. This had the makings of a pretty good day.

  43

  A musky, pungent odor hung in the air, morning fog still lingering on the bayou. Rotting vegetation, an earthy smell of mud and waterlife flourished in the swampy land that surrounded the water.

  Solange Cordray stepped care
fully, avoiding hollow areas where the earth gave way to a watery pool, endangering the walker who might break a limb or, worse, fall deep into the murky depth of the swamp and never be able to pull themselves to safety. Every year there were people who went for a walk on the wild side and never returned. Solange Cordray vowed not to be one of those statistics.

  Smoke rose in a thin spiral a quarter of a mile away and she knew that Matebo was cooking breakfast, roasting a fresh kill on the fire and browning the homemade sourdough bread that he did so well.

  A three-foot milk snake slithered on the watery surface to her right, its bright bands of red, black and white zigzagging as it headed home after a night of foraging.

  Damballa, Papa, creator of all life.

  Solange respectfully looked away, keeping her eyes on the ground so she didn’t stumble. Deftly stepping in her worn hiking shoes, she kept moving, thinking of the reunion with her mother’s old friend. The old man had been old even when she was just a kid and her mother would take her into the swampland. He seemed permanently ancient, his weathered lined face breaking into wide-smiling joy whenever he saw her. She dealt with ancient souls most of her waking hours, praying to them, asking them for intervention, so she identified very well with the old man in the bayou. She’d known him her entire life.

  Now she could smell the campfire smoke and the simmering of maybe alligator meat and a piquant sauce, with tomatoes, chilies, garlic, rosemary, thyme and other savory herbs and spices. Breakfast Matebo-style was not for the weak. No. This was the main meal for the swamp man and it had to get him through the day. Breakfast on the bayou was unlike anything they served in the French Quarter.

  Breaking into the clearing she saw the black cauldron hanging from a wooden stand, simmering over the open fire. Breathing in the rich aroma, she stood there for several seconds, waiting for his appearance. She guessed he had stepped behind one of two bald cypress trees that stood close by, and as she studied them he glided out from behind the second.

  ‘Matebo.’

  ‘Child.’ He grinned.

  ‘Matebo. Your breakfast smells wonderful.’

  ‘How is Ma?’

  ‘No change. As always there are new theories, new tests, new drugs, but not for her. Not at this time.’

  ‘All the magic in the world, all the prayers and spells that ever existed and we are still at the mercy of the unspeaking forces.’

  He motioned for her to sit on the brown blanket beside his fire. She eased down in a cross-legged position and nodded in agreement.

  ‘’Tis never our will but the will of the spirits, Solange. We are but vessels. Still, I pray for Ma. She means the world to me.’

  Solange smiled. There was such a mystery between Ma and the swamp man. She remembered the quiet tension that used to accompany each visit, the unspoken language that seemed to float between them, just above her head.

  ‘Sometimes I allow myself the luxury of thinking that I can control the spirits. Just a little bit, Matebo. But I am well aware of what you say. And all the prayers for my mother are appreciated. I firmly believe that one day she will be right, and our life will go back to—’ she paused.

  ‘Normal?’

  ‘Life with Ma – and you – was never normal.’

  ‘It’s the spice that makes life nice,’ the man said. ‘Without that, life does become tired, old, normal.’

  Solange laughed out loud.

  ‘I never had to worry about that around Ma.’

  ‘And how is Joseph? The man who told you to stay away from me. Who tried to take you from your Ma.’

  ‘I don’t see him often. I don’t talk to him except through lawyers,’ she said. ‘He has his friends, his accountants, his lawyers, and his,’ she spat on the ground, ‘lovers. Putain.’

  ‘Have some breakfast and tell me of your clients.’

  The wrinkled, sunburned man wiped sweat from his brow with a red kerchief tied around his neck. His brown skin was in sharp contrast to the abundance of white hair that he shook from his face. With a carved wooden scoop he ladled the alligator dish into a bowl and handed it to the younger woman.

  Pouring her a cup of amber tea, he repeated the procedure for himself.

  ‘Please, eat up. I’ve been eagerly anticipating your arrival,’ he said. ‘It’s been several weeks.’

  The two of them ate, savoring the flavorful stew and when it was gone, they washed it down with the tea and a glass of fermented fruit juice that had more than just a slight kick to it.

  ‘A little something for the walk back,’ Matebo said. ‘Citrus and herb left to steep for several months.’

  ‘Someday you have to give me the recipe.’

  ‘For the alligator?’

  She laughed. ‘No, for the juice.’

  He joined in her amusement.

  The subtle hum of cicadas and the shrill ringing call of a Louisiana waterthrush lent a Creole soundtrack to the swamp.

  ‘Tell me what has happened.’

  She told him about the judges’ murders, about her messages from Rayland Foster the chemical czar and about Richard Garrett, her former client who she was certain was leader of Krewe Charbonerrie.

  ‘Your head is very heavy with the knowledge of all this.’

  She nodded. It was heavy.

  ‘But, ma petite, you haven’t mentioned the policeman. There’s more to your story and you’ve left that out.’

  She’d mentioned Archer the last time they spoke. Only in passing. Somehow the old man knew there was more to the relationship than she had shared.

  ‘Is he a believer?’

  ‘Is anyone a believer to our extent?’ She smoothed her thick black hair with her hands, knowing the smoky fire would permeate her luxurious mane and knowing she would relish it when she returned home, a memory of her visit.

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘But, I’ve got his interest. He has taken some of my story to heart and I think since he is somewhat lost in regards to this case, he needs all the help he can get.’

  ‘Does this go any further than his belief in the stories you tell? You say you have his interest. I think it may go further.’

  ‘How much further can it go? I must convince him that Krewe Charbonerrie may be responsible for the murder of the judge.’ A chill ran down her spine, and she momentarily lost her train of thought. Something had happened, something was not quite right. Something that upset the natural cycle of her life.

  ‘What is it, child?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  But it was something. Serious. Had someone died? Suffered? A client? Possibly someone she was close to. She offered a silent prayer that Ma was alive. A prayer that Ma was immune to the incident.

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I don’t know. The curse we have is that everything is not explained.’

  ‘Damned if it isn’t,’ he said.

  Solange shook her head, clearing it.

  ‘Then tell me about Quentin Archer.’

  ‘There is nothing to tell.’ She stared at him.

  ‘Is he an honorable man?’

  ‘As honorable as a man could be. You know well I have no faith in men, present company excluded.’

  Matebo smiled.

  ‘Is he interested in you?’

  ‘In the stories I tell him.’ She swatted at a mosquito that buzzed by her ear.

  ‘I think otherwise.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Are you interested in him?’

  ‘No. Not in that way. Well, if I wasn’t involved in providing him information he might be someone who would be interesting, but—’

  ‘I think otherwise.’ Smoke from the wood embers filtered through the atmosphere, causing visions that were blurry and strangely exotic.

  She reached over and punched his arm.

  ‘What do you know, old man?’

  ‘Not so old that I don’t recognize the spark of love.’

  ‘Where are my supplies,’ she asked, quickly changing the subject.

/>   ‘Wrapped in a bundle over there.’ He pointed to the first bald cypress where on the ground a thin sheet of bark was wrapped around twigs, flowers and plants. The bundle was tied with green vines.

  ‘Yellow root, indigo, Spanish moss to make your dolls, verbena, wild orchid petals and everything else you ordered.’ Nodding at her, he struggled to his feet then walked to the package.

  ‘Your ingredients, Matebo, they make the strongest potions, gris gris bags that are magical, and voodoo dolls that cast spells on all who see them. You are truly a rare spirit.’

  ‘You just have to know where to look. I have special places that no one knows about. I cultivate, much like a farmer. All of my ingredients are fresh, handpicked and nurtured with love.’

  ‘Still, your ingredients are magic.’

  ‘The herbs, the roots, they are important, but you and me, we are but vessels. The spirits must agree to do the work. You understand that and because of your understanding, you are an effective healer.’

  Nodding, she peeled off a stack of bills and gave them to him. Then she picked up the bundle, placed it under her arm and turned to him.

  ‘You are the closest person to a father that I ever had. You know that, mon protecteur.’

  There were tears in the old man’s eyes when he turned from her.

  ‘Go back to your motorbike. It’s two miles and you must go now, before the sun is high and the heat and humidity tire you. Go.’

  She turned and he called to her one last time.

  ‘Solange, I feel there is danger in the city. I feel that you are a part of something that you may not fully comprehend, but I feel your spirit is in jeopardy. You said it moments ago. The curse we have is that everything is not explained, but I know it like I know my heart and soul. Promise me you will spend every waking moment being vigilant.’

  She stared at him. Never before, not even during the Joseph ordeal, had she heard this degree of concern in his voice.

  ‘I feel if you do not pay attention, I may not see you again, little one. Be careful for me.’

  ‘I will, Matebo. If for no other reason than to come back and share a meal and drink with my favorite man. My life is not in danger, so dismiss your worries. I am more afraid for my clients. Many of them are in serious situations, and I pray for them and do my best to help them through their problems.’