A Twisted Ladder

by Rhodi Hawk

  Madeleine hoped Daddy Blank had made his own way home to New Orleans by now, but she couldn’t be certain. He carried no cell phone, and the chances that he’d be taking his medication were pretty slim.

  The bells jingled on the door as Madeleine entered the flower shop in the old brick warehouse. Jasmine saw Vinny already seated in the wicker chair, and she danced in place until Madeleine unhooked her from her leash. The little terrier vaulted into Vinny’s lap.

  Vinny grinned and dragged his hand through her wiry hair. “How ya doin, Jazz darlin.”

  Madeleine had been leasing the space inside the old brick warehouse to Samantha’s Flowers for years. So many of these same flowers had arrived with notes of sympathy when Marc passed; among them, a breathtaking delivery from Ethan Manderleigh.

  Near the wicker chairs, the broad farmhouse table stretched like an altar adorned with offerings of the day: the last of the marigolds and snapdragons and the season’s first crop of mums. Azaleas burst from one of the racks behind the little sofa, framing Vinny’s mammoth shoulders in brilliant pinks and whites. He still wore his policeman’s uniform and looked like he had come straight from the graveyard shift. His muscles stretched against his shirt with skin so black it almost looked purple, and his massive, dark form loomed over Jasmine’s tiny white body. When he petted her, she all but disappeared under his hands.

  Samantha appeared with the percolator in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other.

  She nodded at them, placing the cigarettes on the table, and then put her hand to her hip. “Maddy, you’re wearing your shoulders for earrings again.”

  “What? Oh, got a bit of a headache.” Madeleine forced her shoulders down though she didn’t actually relax them.

  “Another one?” Sam said.

  Madeleine shrugged. If Daddy didn’t turn up soon she’d have shoulders like a linebacker.

  “Hey Vinny,” Sam said as she poured coffee and then rested the percolator on the farmhouse table. “I read there was a shooting in Iberville Friday night. Were you there?”

  He sighed and rubbed his face, shaking his head. “Yeah, that was a awful thing.”

  Madeleine sank to a wicker chair and filled her own mug. “What happened?”

  “Well, you know about the Walkers’ drug ring in Iberville?”

  They nodded. Iberville was one of the post-hurricane ghettos that had survived, and the Walkers had emerged as one of the most notorious crime families in the area. Madeleine knew their reach all too well. The addicts landed under her care, but more poignantly, Daddy Blank had a habit of scoring heroin from the Walkers.

  Vinny continued. “Ever since Jerome Walker was killed ’bout six months ago, there been all kinda trouble in Iberville. Everybody wanna take his place, be the leader and get the biggest cut of the business. So on Friday night, everything come to a head.”

  He rubbed his closely shaved scalp. “The gangbangers who been battling for the top slot decided to settle things once and for all. By the time it was over, we had six dead bodies. One of’m an eleven-year-old kid.”

  Madeleine shook her head.

  “So who ended up being the last man standing?” Sam asked.

  “A gang led by Carlo Jefferson.” Vinny sighed. “I used to play with that boy when we were kids. Then when he was about ten years old, he got caught selling pot out of the parking lot. Guess he’s running the show now.”

  Madeleine nodded, thinking of Carlo Jefferson. Between Daddy’s former habits and her own work on the psych unit, she felt she’d had more interaction with Carlo than she needed in a lifetime.

  The resident cat of the flower shop, Esmeralda, jumped onto the sofa table behind Vinny’s head. Jasmine sniffed at the cat, who in turn swatted her face.

  Sam regarded Madeleine with reproach. “Maddy, you were gonna go over to Iberville Friday night when you were out looking for Daddy Blank. You’re lucky you didn’t get caught in that shoot-out.”

  “I was worried Daddy might be there. He could be slipping.”

  “But in Iberville? . . .” But then realization dawned on Sam’s face, and she seemed to register the other danger, that Daddy might have resurrected his old appetite for street drugs.

  Madeleine said, “I doubt he would have slipped so far as to go back to his old ways. But the fact that he’s avoiding me isn’t a good sign.”

  Samantha nodded. “I hear ya, but you shouldn’t do that sort of thing alone.”

  Alone. Madeleine resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Being alone had seemed a necessity. All these years she’d had her hands full building her practice and looking after Daddy and Marc. Now here she was on sabbatical from her job; no Daddy, and no Marc. The irony could turn a river red.

  Madeleine turned to Vinny. “Have you seen my father anywhere over the past couple of weeks?”

  “No, baby. I ain’t seen Daddy Blank, and I ain’t heard nothing either.”

  Her body sagged. She wondered how long before her father slipped into the skin of that other man. That violent man in the video.

  The door to the shop flew open and a young, dark-haired Latina bustled in. “Sorry I’m late!” she called, and kept stride to the back room where she disappeared.

  Madeleine and Vinny gawked. “Who was that?”

  “That’s Anita,” Sam replied. “She’s new.”

  Madeleine said, “Oh yeah, the new intern.”

  “Yup.” Sam raised her voice in the direction Anita had gone. “She’s studying horticulture up in Baton Rouge, but she spends more time studying the men than the plants!”

  “I heard that!” Anita called back.

  Sam and Maddy giggled.

  Anita returned, wrapping an apron around her waist, and Sam introduced her around.

  “You a police officer?” the girl said to Vinny. “Because I’m thinking of getting a handgun.”

  The group gaped at this announcement, and Anita laughed.

  “I need to protect myself. My dad has me taking this self-defense class, but did you hear about that girl in the news? The one who disappeared?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “Angel Frey. The one in Baton Rouge. They still haven’t found her. It’s so sad.”

  Vinny said, “I knew that girl. She used to do volunteer work with mentally handicapped adults. I’d see her at the charity drives. She was cute. Very sweet.”

  “My dad’s got me all paranoid now,” Anita said. “I live in La Place but I go to school in Baton Rouge. I’m really thinking about getting a gun.”

  “Be careful,” Vinny said. “Take the training and get the proper permits if you’re gonna do that. No need to be in a hurry.”

  “You ain’t gotta tell me twice. The guy who did my self-defense class has a gun shop, and he also does handgun training. And he’s so cute!”

  Madeleine said, “Wait a minute. I grew up with a guy who runs a gun shop in Baton Rouge. What’s your trainer’s name?”

  “Zenon Lansky.”

  Madeleine gave a half laugh. “Same guy all right.”

  BAYOU BLACK, 2009

  AMID THE SILVER GLOW of dawn, Zenon untied the rope that tethered the boat to the dock. He turned the motor over and it churned to life. A garish sound against the morning quiet. But it didn’t matter because for once, Zenon was alone. He eased into the narrow byway, enjoying the solitude.

  The cypress trees towered like buildings on a city street. The bayou was already coming to life. As the morning light grew stronger, the trees would fill with the sounds of birds and the sawing wings of cicadas. He followed the slate path until swamp gave way to marsh, which in turn gave way to open sea, and once again, silence. A remarkable time of day.

  He sipped his coffee and savored the cool, heavy air. The trawler continued south until dawn slipped into morning and land fell from sight. At this point he knew he was far enough out, but he pressed on a bit further, if only to enjoy the peaceful moment.

  Eventually, he cut the motor and drifted. The only sound came from the water lapping a
t the sides.

  Taking great care, he lifted the long black industrial garbage bag that contained the weighted-down body of Angel Frey, and heaved it over the side. The dark shape receded beneath the surface.

  He switched on the shortwave radio, tuning it to the Albanian station.

  eight

  HAHNVILLE, 1912

  THEY HAD LABORED UNTIL dawn, when sluggish gray light had finally illuminated their efforts. Along the wooden basket weave of the levee’s edge, Rémi had found conical mud chimneys. Crawfish holes. Like a termite infestation in an old house, they weakened the framework. He had checked the water level again and saw that it had risen two inches. Despite their frantic efforts, the sandbags could only go so far. The higher the makeshift wall had risen, the more stout the base had had to be, and it had seemed as if they were trying to build a mountain from a bag of marbles.

  Francois had appeared with a cartload of laborers. Clad in galoshes with their bellies full from cold cornbread and hot coffee that Tatie Bernadette had hastily sent along, the Terrefleurs workers had set upon the levee with fresh vigor. Soon after, the sheriff and deputy had arrived with more men from other plantations. At that point Rémi had actually felt hope.

  However, as the hours had slipped by, the river had continued to rise and push against the thin structure with mounting force. Morning had now worn into noon, and Rémi decided to send Francois back to Terrefleurs for more supplies. They needed sandbags, food, and tents. They would remain there through the night.

  But before releasing Francois, Rémi leaned over and spoke to him in a low voice, “While you are there, check the levee at Terrefleurs. I want to know how it’s holding up.”

  IN THE AFTERNOON, THE rain stopped, and everyone breathed sighs of relief. Their bodies ached from long hours of exertion and lack of sleep. The workers slackened, resting in wet grass on higher ground, discussing past floods. Rémi heard horse hooves, and was relieved to see Francois returning with the supplies.

  “Ici,” he called, gesturing toward the least soggy stretch of grass.

  Francois eased the cart into place, and Rémi started pulling out crates before Francois had even dismounted. The smell of steaming beans and biscuits caused Rémi’s belly to cramp with sudden, almost savage urgency. It occurred to him that Glory Plantation was not sending provisions, and he wondered whether Francois’s load would accommodate everyone present. But as he peered into the back of the cart, he saw several more of the same crates. Tatie Bernadette had guessed the situation and sent enough for the entire lot.

  The workers formed a food line and all chatter ceased. Rémi looked across the faces of hungry men to Francois, who nodded in acknowledgment. Terrefleurs was safe.

  As much as Rémi longed to fill his plate, he waited while the men dished up first. He watched as one by one, they began to consume their meals, and he waited for the line to dwindle. He thought of his wife’s servant, Chloe, and how he would have preferred that she might have joined them. Not for labor nor skill in the kitchen, but she had about her a command that rallied others to toil, and her skill in healing could go far in situations such as these, where injuries and ailments prevailed.

  He lifted his face toward the heavens, wondering whether the deluge had stopped for good this time. One of the laborers had finished his meal and was already back at work. Rémi joined him. Might as well work—it might take his mind off the smell of food until he would take his turn. But although the rain had indeed stopped, the water continued to rise. The sheriff lingered along the great sandbag berm, speaking in low tones with Elrod Chapman, who then saddled his mare and disappeared into the mist. Rémi did not pause to ask where his father-in-law had gone.

  The deputy set off on foot in the direction of Vacherie, most likely to advise evacuation. Finally, the last man had filled his plate, and Rémi took from what was left. Cold and thin now, but enough. He told Francois to go home for the night and return with more supplies in the morning. Soon the sky would grow dark, and they’d have to pitch tents and build fires.

  THE RAIN HAD STARTED again during the night.

  At daybreak, the workers ate their breakfast, toted in again by Francois and his cart. He discreetly informed Rémi that the Terrefleurs levee was still in no danger, and that all was well at home. Rémi nodded, but silently cursed the Chapmans for not having reinforced the Crow’s Landing levee. The water level had risen seven inches during the night as the rain continued to fall.

  A few of the workers trudged back to the heap and resumed filling and hauling sandbags. Rémi joined them, working with verve, trying to appear confident. And yet he was on the verge of admitting defeat: With the water continuing to rise, they had little chance of laying enough sandbags to maintain the levee. Already, water streamed from leaks in the weaker joints. Should the levee burst while they were toiling, men could drown. Some of the workers were casting around with anxious eyes, and men from Terrefleurs whispered to each other with wary faces as they stacked the leaden bags.

  Jacob Chapman glowered at them and strode to his horse, withdrawing his shotgun. He cocked the weapon, circling the workers.

  “You boys better not be thinking about runnin off,” Jacob said, and focused a hard stare at the men who had been whispering. “You just keep layin those sandbags and do as you’re told.”

  Rémi stalked to where Jacob stood and gripped the shotgun. He leaned his face in close.

  “Put that away!”

  Jacob’s harsh expression flashed in a burst of lightning, purple veins bulging at his neck. Rémi glared at him. They stared nose to nose while the thunder crackled and the rain streamed over their faces. Jacob’s lips were curled in what was surely a precursor to a fight, and Rémi was ready for—even looking forward to—whatever might come.

  But suddenly Jacob relented. He slumped, returning the shotgun to his pack, and leaned against his mount with his head lowered.

  Rémi regarded the workers. He breathed heavily against his own fury in the wet air, sorry that Jacob had backed down even though he knew a fight would cause more woe than it was worth. He joined his brother-in-law beside the horse.

  “I’m sorry, Rémi,” Jacob said. “It’s just that in Kentucky . . .”

  “This is not Kentucky! Where is your father?”

  Jacob sighed and squinted in the direction of the river. The sound of moving water was all around them.

  “He’s with my mother and little sister, down at the train station. They’re gonna try to get to higher ground.”

  Rémi flushed. “At the train station! While his friends and neighbors are trying to save his homestead!”

  Jacob lowered his head to a sulk. Rémi’s fist was balled, longing to connect with Jacob’s cheekbone. But he held steady and instead released a rueful laugh, and put his hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder.

  “It does not really matter, mon frère, because this levee will not hold. We must get these men away from here.”

  Jacob closed his mouth and opened it again, but did not speak. Rain dripped from his hat and thickened to drowsy beads at his nose. He drew in a breath and dipped his chin once. Rémi squeezed his shoulder, then returned to the group.

  “Allons, c’est fini.” Rémi told his men.

  Many of the workers from Glory and the other plantations did not speak French, but they recognized the content of Rémi’s words, and responded by whisking blankets, tools, and other supplies into the cart. Francois loaded it with the Terrefleurs workers, and they headed back down the sodden road toward home. The sheriff set out on horseback to evacuate people from nearby plantations, and Jacob turned in the direction of the Glory main house. Men from other plantations dispersed, too, moving rapidly along the high ground.

  And then the levee broke.

  Rémi and four of the Glory men were still standing by. A small gush of water burst from the lower weave of earth and board, and the men erupted with shouts of alarm. Rémi grabbed the reins of his horse and pulled her up the hill as the workers scr
abbled to high ground.

  From above, the five men watched the wall of sandbags bow outward like a giant bubble, with a groan like a ship that had topsided. And then it gave way in a crumbling outpour.

  The lead wave tore into the land. The muddy river followed in a steady crush, flowing in all directions over flat land like a drop of oil spreading in a pot of water. The men huddled on the crest, surprised to have escaped being swept away.

  Rémi turned to them. “Get everyone out!”

  They scattered over the hillside in the direction of the Glory workers’ housing. Rémi mounted his horse and sped toward Terrefleurs. He was going to need his bateau.

  nine

  NEW ORLEANS, 2009

  IN THE FOYER OF a grand mansion on St. Charles Avenue, Madeleine handed her wrap to an attendant and smoothed her white satin strapless gown. This kind of gala, hosted by the New Orleans Historic Preservation Society, wasn’t usually her thing, and she wondered how Samantha had managed to convince her to come.

  “Drop Jasmine off at my place,” Sam had said. “She can play with Moose and Napoleon. There’s bound to be someone at the gala who knows where Daddy Blank is.”

  Daddy was indeed an ardent preservationist. That was the thing: He was just as comfortable among New Orleans’s elite as he was among the winos. Much in the same way he was just as likely to sleep on the finest pillow-top mattress as he was to spend the night stretched out in a damp alley, whichever way the breeze carried him.