Nettie did her best to make sure Miss Ellinore didn’t know that she still stayed in the house more often than not. She liked her own bed downstairs, where she had slept so many nights of her adult life. Though the good Lord knew how much Nettie loved her grandkids, living with them all the time was too much to take. The house was noisy and chaotic. And Rhonda’s husband, Marvin, could get nasty when he had too much to drink. Nettie didn’t like being around that. Mostly, though, Nettie didn’t like Miss Ellinore staying all by herself every night.
Nettie’s daughter and son-in-law thought she was crazy for working and not getting paid. They didn’t understand. She’d been with Miss Ellinore for over thirty years. Nettie loved Miss Ellinore, and she was too old to start taking care of somebody else’s house now.
Nettie had watched Miss Ellinore raise her little daughter while that good-looking but lazy husband was hanging out at his club, betting on the horses, playing cards, or drinking with his uptown friends. Nettie had overheard countless arguments about money, arguments that usually ended with Mr. Christophe storming out of the house and Miss Ellinore silently retreating up to the bedroom. After a while Miss Ellinore would come downstairs again with her face all washed and shiny, acting like nothing bad had ever happened. It was clear to Nettie that her boss had been crying, but Nettie never let on she knew. Miss Ellinore had her pride, and Nettie wasn’t going to step on it.
Years ago, after yet another of those arguments, Nettie noticed that Miss Ellinore began going from room to room, critically inspecting the contents and complaining that there were just too many things in the house. The house looked like the Collyer brothers’ mansion, declared Miss Ellinore. She said that sometimes she felt like she couldn’t breathe, that all the clutter was suffocating her. Miss Ellinore was also sure that little Miss Ginnie’s asthma was made worse by all the dust the old furniture and knickknacks collected.
In the beginning Nettie had felt that Miss Ellinore was being critical of her housekeeping skills. So she had redoubled her efforts to keep the furniture polished, the silver gleaming, the crystal sparkling. She didn’t pay much mind when the moving men arrived to take out a marble statue, an antique harp, and a carved Victorian sideboard from the dining room. The room did look better, less overcrowded with generations of accumulation.
But after a while, as more furniture was hauled away, chandeliers taken down, and oil paintings removed, Nettie caught on to what was really happening. When movers carried out the piano that Miss Ellinore had learned to play on as a child, Nettie saw the tear roll down her employer’s cheek. It finally dawned on Nettie. The things weren’t being sold to lighten up the gracious old rooms. The things were being sold because the family needed the money.
Nettie watched now as the back door finally opened and a figure dressed in turquoise stepped into the daylight. She was carrying a pair of ornate silver candlesticks. Nettie knew from the experience of lifting and polishing them how heavy they were.
Her instinct was to spring up and rush to help Miss Ellinore, but Nettie held back. She observed the woman carefully make her way down the porch steps and across the pea-gravel path leading to the old stable that now served as a garage. It touched Nettie to see Miss Ellinore pause at the stunning magnolia tree, so much bigger and fuller now than it had been when Nettie helped her plant it just after Miss Ginnie died.
Chapter 8
The darkness of the interior of the Gris-Gris Bar took some getting used to after the bright daylight out on the street. Falkner paused in the doorway to give his eyes time to adjust before sauntering over to the counter. He took the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, tossed them onto the bar, and seated himself on a stool. As he watched the bartender lumber toward him, Falkner recited the children’s verse:
“Fuzzy-Wuzzy was a bear.
Fuzzy-Wuzzy had no hair.
Fuzzy-Wuzzy wasn’t fuzzy,
Was he?”
A satisfied grin spread across Falkner’s face as the bald-headed bartender rolled his eyes.
“You never get tired of that, do you?”
“Nope. Never do.”
“It’s not like you came up with the nickname, Falkner.”
“Doesn’t matter. I like to remind you whence it came, big guy. Now that I’ve done my duty, I think I’ll reward myself with a New Orleans mint julep, Wuzzy, before I head out and give my second tour of the day.”
“Sounds good to me,” said the bartender, opening the refrigerator and extracting a chilled highball glass. “How goes it?”
“Agony, buddy.” Falkner ran his fingers through his hair as if pulling it out. “It’s just agony trying to get this doctoral thesis done. I was up most of the night working on it, then up early to give a cemetery tour. Three hours of sleep just isn’t enough, man.”
The bartender dropped a layer of mint leaves into the glass and tossed some shaved ice on top. “Make any progress on the dissertation?”
“Barely. You have no idea how hard it is.” Falkner put his elbows on the bar, leaned forward, and held up his head with his hands. He watched as Wuzzy added a spoon of powdered sugar to the glass and then repeated the layers of mint, ice, and sugar before pouring in a generous jigger of bourbon.
“You’re right. I don’t know, and I don’t want to know,” said Wuzzy as he reached for a sprig of mint to garnish the drink. “I barely made it through high school. The only book I’ve cracked since then is the bartender’s manual.”
Wuzzy stuck a straw in the glass, put the drink in front of his customer, and wiped his hands on his gold Saints T-shirt. “Let the good times roll, my friend.”
Falkner drew hard on the straw and swallowed. “Ah, the breakfast of champions,” he said, closing his eyes. “That’s one lesson you learned very well, Wuzzy. You make the best julep in town.”
“Thanks, man. You would know.”
“Do you know where the word ‘julep’ comes from, Wuzzy?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“In the Middle Ages, a julep was something to cool the heat of passion.”
“You don’t say.”
“And, man, did I see something a little while ago to get passionate about.”
“Yeah?”
“There was an extraordinary blonde on the balcony across from mine.”
“You talk to her?”
“I tried, asked her if she wanted to get coffee.”
“And?”
“She blew me off. Some crap about needing to take a nap.”
“Maybe she was tired. If at first you don’t succeed . . .” The bartender’s voice trailed off as he picked up a towel and began wiping the counter.
“Oh, don’t worry, Wuzzy. I don’t intend to give up on her that easily.”
Another customer came in and sat at the bar. While Wuzzy took his order, Falkner looked up. Small leather pouches hung from the ceiling. Some of them had little cloth dolls attached. The pouches were called gris-gris, voodoo amulets believed to protect the wearer from evil or to bring love, health, and good luck. Each pouch contained a number of small objects, each with its own meaning. Falkner wasn’t much for the idea of a magic talisman, but he knew that others thought gris-gris could bring black magic and ill fortune to their victims.
After Wuzzy had finished pouring the other guy a beer, Falkner signaled him to come over.
“Do you ever worry?” asked Falkner, pointing at the ceiling.
“About what?” Wuzzy looked up. “The gris-gris?”
Falkner nodded.
“It’s good for business, Falkner. You know that. The tourists eat this voodoo crap up.” A shadow seemed to fall across Wuzzy’s face. “No, Falkner, I’ve got bigger things to worry about than gris-gris and voodoo.”
“More problems with your son?” asked Falkner.
The bartender bit at his lip to stop it from quivering. “Got the results of Connor’
s MRI from the doctor this morning,” he said. “There’s a shadow on his basal ganglia, whatever the hell that is. Bottom line: Connor is never going to walk.”
Falkner put down his glass and stared at the bartender. “Never?”
“Nope. Never. His trunk can’t support him.” Wuzzy shrugged his broad shoulders, but his face betrayed his sadness. “It’s not like I should be surprised, I guess. It’s been obvious from the beginning that something was wrong. Connor’s been so slow to reach all those milestone things, so delayed with his motor skills. He sat up late, didn’t crawl until he was two. He’s three now, and he has yet to say a word that anybody can understand or feed himself. But it was tough, man, to hear the actual diagnosis.”
Falkner waited for Wuzzy to share the information.
“Connor has cerebral palsy.”
“Oh, Wuz. I’m so sorry, buddy.”
“Me, too.” Wuzzy sighed heavily. “Sometimes I just get so damned mad at Carla for dying. I’ve been busting my hump, trying to keep this place going while making sure things are covered at home. You can’t imagine how tough it is to find good child care and have it running pretty much round the clock. I never know when I’m going to be able to get out of here at night, and somebody’s got to be there. Between paying for baby-sitters, therapists, and uncovered medical bills, I’m tapped out, man. I’m drowning in debt I’m never going to be able to repay.”
“Don’t say that, bro,” said Falkner, shaking his head. “That’s why everybody is getting together for the fund-raiser on St. Patrick’s Day, guy. The whole neighborhood wants to help you, Wuzzy, and that was even before we knew about the CP diagnosis. I’m sure we’re going raise a nice piece of change. You’ll be able to whittle down some of those bills.”
“Great. Then we can hold another fund-raiser after that for the twenty-thousand-dollar power wheelchair the doctor says Connor should have. And another fund-raiser after that for God knows what Connor will need next. It’s never going to end.” Wuzzy closed his eyes and rubbed them.
“I don’t know how you do it, Wuz.”
“When it’s your kid, you do what you have to do,” said Wuzzy wearily. “But if anybody had ever told me that this would be my life, I wouldn’t have believed it.”
Chapter 9
Piper was famished when she awoke from her nap. She decided to get up, explore the neighborhood, and find a place to eat. She changed into a clean white short-sleeved V-neck shirt and cropped black yoga pants. She grabbed the floppy straw sun hat she’d folded inside her suitcase and placed it atop her head as she walked out the door and down the stairs to the street.
She didn’t have to travel very far. The welcoming storefront of Muffuletta Mike’s was just down the block.
As Piper walked inside, she surmised that the place was part restaurant, part delicatessen, part butcher shop. One long wall was taken up with a sprawling glass-front refrigerated case housing all sorts of meats and cheeses waiting to be sliced. There were aisles of shelves lined with balsamic vinegars, oils, rice, pastas, salts, and seasonings. Customers sat eating sandwiches at several round tables to the side of the room.
“What’ll it be?” asked the teenager behind the counter.
“I’m not sure,” said Piper. “What’s in a muffuletta?”
The young man recited the ingredients. “Salami, pepperoni, ham, capicola, mortadella, Swiss cheese, provolone, and olive salad.”
Although the ingredients were things that Piper rarely ate alone, much less all together, she decided to go for it.
“Okay, I’ll have one of those, please.”
“Quarter, half, or full?”
“Ah . . . half, I guess.”
The teenager wrote up the ticket and attached it alongside the row of other orders above the workstation where an older, heavier version of himself was busy making sandwiches. As Piper waited, she heard the teenager talking to his father.
“So? Can I have tomorrow morning off, Dad?”
“Tommy, I already told you. You have to open the shop for me tomorrow. I don’t want to hear another word about it. Don’t be so lazy.”
“It’s not fair,” Tommy protested. “None of my friends have to work before they go off to school.”
“So what? If your friends’ parents want to spoil them, that’s their business. I don’t think it’s too much to ask. I work fourteen-hour days, and I need a morning to sleep in every once in a while. You know, this will be your business someday, son. You have to start shouldering the responsibility.”
“Thanks, Dad, but who says I even want it? I don’t want to be a butcher, making sandwiches for the rest of my life. You’re always yelling at me about the way I make the muffs or restock the shelves or mop the floors. I never satisfy you.”
Mike shot his son an angry look and then turned back to making the sandwiches.
Piper sat at one of the smaller tables finishing her muffuletta when a man wearing a porkpie hat and carrying a musical-instrument case came walking into the sandwich store. She watched as he slowly went up to the counter.
“You got a muff for me today, Mike?” he asked.
The counterman glanced up. His face was gray and tired, and he didn’t look happy to see this particular customer.
“Yeah, Cecil,” he answered wearily. “Hold on a minute, man.”
Moments later Mike handed the wrapped sandwich over the counter. “How you doing out there today, Cecil?” he asked.
“Not so good, Mike. The tourists ain’t feelin’ my music, I guess.”
“Ah, well. If you ask me, you should try another location, Ceece. Shake it up some. I’ve told you before, you’d do better somewhere else.”
The musician picked up the sandwich and turned toward the front door. As he passed by her, Piper caught a whiff of bourbon and heard him muttering under his breath.
Chapter 10
Very early tomorrow morning, the first victim would start his day like so many others before it. He’d get out of bed, stumble to the bathroom, wash, shave, and brush his teeth. He’d pull on his trousers and button his shirt, unaware that he was doing these things for the last time. Then he’d leave his home and go to his business on Royal Street, having no idea of what would be waiting for him there.
With so much riding on the week to come, it was hard not to give in to nerves. The initial part of the carefully thought-out plan would begin in a few short hours. It took one slick customer to act calm, cool, and collected right now.
The needed equipment was already packed and ready to go. It was essential that things were taken care of quickly, accurately, and obviously enough so that everyone would come to the right conclusions.
In a little while, it would be necessary to get into position and wait, just as the sun rose. For everyone else it would be just another brand-new day in the Big Easy, full of promise.
For one poor slob, it would be his last.
Chapter 11
After lunch Piper strolled leisurely through the French Quarter. She noticed the people walking along with her. Young, old, black, white, some dressed in sports clothes, others in crisp business attire. Some hurried, most sauntered, yet Piper sensed an air of excitement—or was it the anticipation of delights and pleasures to come?
They were all in New Orleans, a place like none other in America. A city whose residents treasured their food, their music, their architecture, and their ability to live in the moment. Founded by the French, conquered by the Spanish, then taken back under French rule before being sold to the Americans, New Orleans had survived slavery, the Civil War, yellow-fever epidemics, and ferocious hurricanes resulting in the deaths of hundreds, the displacement of thousands more, and the destruction of huge swaths of the city. People who lived in the Big Easy well understood the fragility of life. Piper understood that fragility, too.
She stopped in a candy shop, watching as molten toffe
e was expertly dolloped onto parchment and fresh pralines were scooped onto a marble slab. Candy makers poured warm batches of caramel and hand-decorated chocolate frogs and alligators. Piper watched for a while, purchased a box of pralines, and traveled on her way again.
As she left the shop, her cell phone rang. She glanced at the iPhone screen. With hopeful anticipation she answered immediately.
“Hey, Gabe! How are you?”
“Fine, kiddo, fine. You got down there all right?”
“Yep. This place is pretty awesome, Gabe.”
“Good. Let me tell you what’s going on. I think you’re gonna like it.”
Gabe was not a chatterer. Piper knew that time was money as far as he was concerned. When Gabriel Leonard called, it was because there was the possibility of doing some business.
“I’ve set up an appointment with a local casting director down there. It’s great for you to get a meeting in. Tomorrow at one o’clock.”
Piper’s mind raced. Smack in the middle of her first day working at Boulangerie Bertrand. How was she going to get up and go without leaving a bad impression on Bertrand and Marguerite?
“Piper?”
“Yeah, I’m here, Gabe. Do you think you could change the appointment until late afternoon—say, around five?”
“Are you kidding? It wasn’t easy getting this one for you.” Gabe started speaking even faster than he usually did. “Listen, Piper. These people are casting Named, the new Channing Tatum thriller. Apparently the girl who had the small role that opens the movie had to drop out. They don’t want any of the other girls who read before, so they’re setting up a new session. It’s shooting Saturday, so they’re moving fast. They’ll be on location at some big St. Patrick’s parade they have down there. They’ll have a helluva time with sound issues, so we’re definitely talking a day of dialogue dubbing with you in post.
That Old Black Magic Page 3
