by Tony Dunbar
“If they did, I don’t believe anybody would care,” James said. “I’m telling you, they’re going home for Mardi Gras and they ain’t stoppin’ for nothin’.”
LaRue held up his palm to stop Monk’s interrogation. “You know the box number?” he asked James.
“Yes, sir.” James’ eyes were roaming all around the van, looking everywhere but at Rue, and he was sweating.
“Well, give it to me?”
James handed LaRue a crumpled up piece of paper that he had hidden in the cuff of his trousers. LaRue took it and stuck it in his own pocket. “What happens when you go off shift in the afternoon?” he asked James.
The guard shuffled to reposition himself in the cramped back seat and grabbed his other leg.
“That’s when Corelle comes on. He works from when I get off until ten o’clock at night, and after he leaves there won’t be a soul around the place until Wednesday morning.”
“The idea is,” Monk explained, “we got all of tomorrow night and Tuesday to work. When we leave, we tie Corelle up to his chair and leave him there. His story will be that we broke in on him someway. If he gets fired, he is still sitting pretty because we can get him a new job with the city, plus he gets his fifty thousand.”
“So why’s he waiting out there in the car?” LaRue asked.
James rocked back and forth uneasily. Big Top, watching him, was getting dizzy.
“He says you guys are all getting away, and nobody knows I’m the one let you in, so I get away. He’s the only one left behind for everybody to point at.”
“His story,” Monk said, “will be that he saw us beating on the bank’s doors when he was making his rounds. He can make up any old thing. Like I was bleeding and begging him to help us. He can just say he opened the door a crack and we forced our way in.”
“They’ll fire him sure for that,” James said.
Monk shrugged. “It’s not much of a job, is it James? What you get? Eight or nine dollars an hour? Twenty thousand a year? If the job was so great you wouldn’t be a part of this either.”
“That’s a fact,” James agreed. “But I aim to keep the job anyway. Corelle is bound to lose his. I believe what’s bothering him most, however, is he’ll be tied up all Mardi Gras Day and he’ll miss the parades and parties and what-not.” James laughed nervously, but nobody joined him.
LaRue looked sternly at Monk. “I thought all the details had already been worked out,” he said quietly.
“Me, too,” Monk said. “It’s too damn late for Corelle to be backing out,” he told James.
Big Top reached around his seat and gave James’ jumpy knee a squeeze. He popped his gum. “What the dude means,” he said, “is you should go talk to your podner.”
“Okay,” James nodded, in a hurry to free his thigh from Big Top’s rather personal grip. More proficiently than the first time, he got the door opened.
“Don’t close it,” LaRue ordered.
James’ chin dribbled up and down like a basketball, and he walked quickly away. LaRue watched a family of ducks paddling contentedly along the edge of the water, bobbing after cigarette filters and items unimportant to humans.
“There’s no way to do this without that asshole, Corelle, is there?” LaRue asked.
“Somebody’s got to explain to the security company why the monitors aren’t working,” Monk replied, brow wrinkled in thought. “If there’s no guard in the booth to call them, they’ll send the police over for sure. We need a live body in that booth.”
“And he already knows the plan,” LaRue stated flatly.
Big Top spat out the window. He left the planning to the smart people. His buddy Monk had kept him out of trouble when they were cellmates at Atmore, and he wouldn’t let him down now.
There were drumbeats in the distance. Somewhere a parade was rolling.
“Here he comes,” Monk announced, scanning his mirror.
In a second James stuck his head inside the passenger window.
“I didn’t do so good,” he reported sadly. “Corelle wants to forget the whole thing. He’s got a chance to ride in Zulu on Mardi Gras morning.” James wagged his head, ready to be scolded.
“I’ll try to explain the situation to him,” LaRue said and disembarked from the van. He straightened his tan polyester jacket over his sidearm, adjusted his turquoise and silver belt buckle, and walked back to the Pontiac.
Big Top stuck his head out the window to watch and started whistling a tune. Monk fixed the side mirror to keep the action in view. Outside, James kneeled down to try to find the cigarette he had dropped earlier.
They saw Rue somehow entice a fat brown-skinned man out of the car, and watched the two of them step into the shade of the tree to powwow.
It was a short conversation. Without fanfare, Rue pulled his pistol out an stuck the barrel in the vicinity of Corelle’s nose. The stocky guard began to raise his plump hands in supplication, but Rue slapped them away. He patted Corelle down efficiently with his left hand, confiscated a small pistol from the man’s back pants pocket, and lowered his own to Corelle’s ample midriff where it might look less interesting to passing motorists or canoers on the bayou.
He escorted the big man back to the van and pointed him inside.
“What you got to say now?” Corelle grunted at James, who held his hands out, palms up in apology, and otherwise looked helpless.
“Inside.” LaRue prodded and pushed the fat man through the door.
“Put your cuffs on him,” he instructed James.
“Now, now.” James hesitated.
“Give me any crap,” LaRue spat, “and I’ll cut out your fucking tongue and feed it to the fish.”
James got the point and with shaking hands quickly dug his silver handcuffs out of his pocket.
Corelle glared at his co-worker while his meaty wrists were secured behind his back.
LaRue holstered his gun and held out his hand. James gave him the key to the cuffs.
“We’ll see you tomorrow at the bank at one o’clock, just as planned,” LaRue told James, climbing into the van. He slammed the door home with a clang.
“Don’t worry ’bout a thang,” Big Top said, spitting his gum out the window.
Monk started the motor and slowly rolled the van back onto the boulevard.
“Damn,” James whispered, sulking and trying not to show it. He patted his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter. “Damn,” he said again.
CHAPTER II
Marguerite learned a lot of odd information about New Orleans on her cab ride into the city.
“See, right now you’re in Jefferson Parish,” her tea-skinned driver explained. His slender head covered by a thin coating of enameled black hair barely cleared the headrest. “It’s the longest parish in the world, being more than two hundred miles from end to end. My name is Hossein. You may call me Hoss.”
“We’re crossing over Veterans Boulevard,” he said. You see all the traffic? That’s because they have lotsa big Mardi Gras parades here tonight. It’s a very long street.”
“I thought the parades were just on Mardi Gras Day,” Marguerite said gazing at a landscape of shopping malls reminiscent of some of the more out-of-control suburbs of Gary.
“Oh no, madam. They have parades all the time. They have even more on Mardi Gras Day. You won’t be able to get around anywhere.” Hossein (“call me Hoss”) cut off a station wagon and ignored the blast from its horn. “And this is the Causeway,” he said, “the longest bridge in the world. It was built by Governor Huey P. Long.”
“A lot of things here are the longest,” she commented.
“Yes, indeed. You see these cemeteries?” Automatically Marguerite crossed herself. “It’s how they bury people, on top of the ground. You got to keep the dead people in these concrete boxes or else they float away when it rains.”
Really? Now that was something different. She began to think that maybe this trip would be worthwhile after all.
“And it rains a l
ot here, too,” the cab driver added. “Where are you from?”
“Chicago,” she said.
“Now I was there a long time ago,” he said, blowing his horn and changing lanes with the flip of one finger. “Back when it was a better place,” he added enigmatically. “They surely have some wonderful smoked sausage up there, what they call it?”
“Kielbasa?”
“Yes, ma’am. We got a sausage like that here and everybody eats it with their red beans. You been here before?”
“No.”
“You will really enjoy Mardi Gras. Everybody drink, drink, drink. It’s lots of fun, if it doesn’t rain, of course.”
“Is it supposed to?” she asked worriedly.
“They say it might. Big storm out West. But everybody drink, drink, drink anyway. You have to watch out for the blacks though.”
“What for?”
“They might steal your purse or your camera. I’m very prejudiced.”
“Oh,” she said.
“And they talk all this trash.”
“Is it very dangerous here?”
“You must know where it’s okay to go. Are you all by yourself?”
“Oh, no,” she lied. “I’m meeting my boyfriend.”
“Okay. Well, maybe you won’t have any problem.” He cut across three lanes and zipped off an exit marked Claiborne Avenue. “We got to take a screwy way to get to your hotel or else we get caught in traffic.”
Their route took them around the giant white oyster shell of the Super Dome, which she recognized from pictures in the travel brochure.
“It’s the largest stadium in the whole world,” Hoss said with great satisfaction. “Now we’re crossing Canal Street. You will notice how wide it is. In fact, it is the widest street in the world.”
They bounced through a housing project, and Marguerite saw some black babies scampering over a hard packed dirt yard chasing a blue basketball.
“Where are we?” she asked anxiously.
“This is nowhere, madam,” Hoss replied carelessly, shooting across Basin Street.
“Now you are in the famous French Quarter,” he exclaimed. “It is the oldest French Quarter in the world.”
Old and quaint it was, the narrow streets crowded by brick structures, mortar flaking away, punctuated here and there by an iron gate that exposed a courtyard full of flowers or a hidden fountain. She had some pretty good views since the traffic slowed to a crawl.
Hoss rolled down his window and waved frantically at the line of cars progressing fitfully ahead of them, and Marguerite understood again that it was awfully warm here. When she had left Chicago there had been two feet of snow on the ground and more on the way.
As they slowly progressed, the sidewalks filled with people. They surrounded the cab, walking in the middle of the block, and getting where they wanted to go much more efficiently than she was in her taxi. The pedestrians also seemed increasingly weird— scrawny tattooed men with sleeveless black leather vests and porkpie hats, a fat couple wearing identical green jumpsuits with cameras strung on the necks, some provocative women in bright red hotpants, and clusters of loud-talking guys and gals carrying clear plastic cups of beer that sloshed as they walked.
Most of them were moving in the same direction.
“Going to the parade,” Hoss explained. “I believe it must be the Iris Parade, which is the longest parade in the world for nothing but women, you know. This is your hotel coming up.”
The Royal Montpelier, she observed, stood in majestic splendor across the street from a burlesque show and a Takee Outee beer and fried rice emporium, and it had tall black footmen regally outfitted in red tuxedo jackets and white turbans who sprang to life as the cab eased to the curb.
One attendant leapt into the street to open her door, blessing her with a magnificent smile.
“Welcome to the Royal Montpelier,” he proclaimed and offered his white gloved hand.
While Hoss got her bags from the trunk and struggled to haul them to curbside, she was escorted to the grand entrance. The giant doorman raised his arm and snapped his fingers at a bellhop, a hefty man with a bristling mustache and slightly wild black hair who was stuffed into a green uniform with red epaulets and tassels on the shoulders. While the gatesman held open the gilded doors, the bellhop, with somewhat less energy than the others, collected her suitcases and led the way into the lobby.
“Checking in, ma’am? Just follow me. I’ll keep an eye on your bags while you get your key.”
The lobby was ornate and busy with potentially interesting male guests, but getting her room was an ordeal. A twisted line followed a pair of golden ropes, made remarkable only by the fact that most of the people in it had heaps of colorful beads piled around their necks and appeared to be inebriated. They were talking animatedly about marvelous “floats” they had seen and how you catch a rider’s eye and yell, “Throw me something, mister,” and how they had managed to snare this strand of silver beads or that plastic cup bearing the krewe’s emblem. Word was that tonight there was an even bigger parade called “Bacchus.”
Finally, Marguerite’s Visa card was accepted, her keycard was slid over the counter, and she found herself in the elevator with the mountainous bellman. His brass nameplate said “Dan.”
“Just here for Carnival?” he asked pleasantly.
“Yes. I’ve never been here before,” she said.
He asked where she was from, and she told him Chicago.
“I used to live there,” he said. “Worked in a packing plant. Not much fun.”
“That’s why I’m here. Just to have fun.”
“Do you know anyone in town?” he asked politely as the doors opened on the second floor.
“No. I wish I did have somebody to show me around.”
He checked her quickly out of the corner of his eye, but evidently she didn’t mean him.
“Well,” he mumbled. “Just take a walk outside. There’s a whole street full of people out there who would be glad to show you things you might not see in Illinois. For starters, you also might try the bar on the roof.”
CHAPTER III
Edward and Wendell thought they might have to walk all the way to town from the airport, the highway was so crowded. This was their first trip together away from Atlanta, where Edward was a stockbroker and Wendell was one of 193 vice presidents of an expanding regional bank. His specialty was accounts receivable financing, which, he had learned, would stop a conversation at any party. They had picked Mardi Gras in New Orleans as their great getaway— a week of wearing masks, getting lost in the crowd, and holing up together in a Vieux Carré guest house a good friend had recommended as “private and cozy.”
“It’s just a matter of getting there,” Edward mused encouragingly. They nestled like new potatoes in one of the back seats of a ten-passenger shuttle bus carrying a full load of uncomfortable airport travelers.
The driver answered a couple of questions about the meaning of Mardi Gras and how many people came to New Orleans at this time of the year, and then he ran out of things to say and just grumbled about all the bad drivers in all the cars with Mississippi and Texas tags.
And when they finally exited the interstate it seemed that their hotel was the last one on the route. First they had to stop at the Columns, the Claiborne Mansion, Le Pavillon, Comfort Suites, the EconoLodge, the Chateau Sonesta, the Holiday Inn, the Royal Montpelier, and the Maison DeVille. When the driver finally threw the gearshift into “park,” barked “Lafitte’s Lair,” and jumped out of his seat, they had been nearly two hours in the van and were crying out for pain relief.
“I must have wine,” Wendell gasped desperately.
“Surely there’s a store around here,” Edward said, but looking through the limo’s dusty safety glass, it was clear that Lafitte’s Lair was not the run-of-the-mill elegantly restored bed and breakfast that one might find, say, in Savannah or Charleston. There were, in fact, no signs that the establishment had been restored at all. The outsi
de walls were cracked and soiled— quaint, to be sure, but unmistakably deteriorating— and the sidewalk was loaded with bits of food and empty plastic cups. One spilled out a pasty purple liquid when Edward misstepped.
“I fear that sports fans are near,” Wendell said ominously.
Pigeons had taken charge of the litter and were strutting around importantly.
What might be the front door was a boarded-up archway, painted black, with a doorbell and a peephole in the middle. They would not immediately have recognized this as the way one entered had not the limo driver hurried in that direction with their bags. There was, however, a tastefully small painted sign off to the side of the door, bolted to the age-softened brick, with the words “Lafitte’s Lair” on it.
“I guess this is the right place,” Edward said doubtfully.
“Home at last,” Wendell replied weakly. He twitched his nose, trying to decipher the warm richly-odored air, while Edward tipped the driver heavily. They watched him putter away.
Wendell bravely rang the bell.
They stood patiently for a minute or two, assimilating their new, somewhat mildewed surroundings, and then Edward tried the latch. The door creaked opened.
Tentatively, they stepped into a cool, backlit grotto. It was a tiny office partitioned by a polished oak counter on which lay a pile of tourist brochures and an open leather guest book. There was also a credit card machine. The space was surprisingly neat and clean and suggested more luxury than the shuttered exterior.
Finding no one in attendance, Edward tinkled the silver bell on the counter. After a moment, from the beaded curtain behind, a slender figure entered, dressed in a plum leather vest and tight black pants and looking remarkably feline. She had straight black hair, and had chosen glossy black lipstick. There were silver bracelets on her wrists. Her voice had an accent they couldn’t place, but which seemed somehow incongruous with her appearance. A local resident might have recognized it as Chalmette.
“How may I help you?” she asked.
“Edward Doyle. Wendell Rappold. Reservations for the week,” Edward said.
