by Emily Ford
CHAPTER TWO: CANAL STREET
Present Day
“Help a blind man? Help a blind man.”
The elderly man shakes the red plastic cup held closely to his chest, the coins inside it rattling. With his other hand he slowly swings a long walking stick across the sidewalk in front of him, feeling for obstacles in his path. He’s dressed in a worn brown tweed suit with a matching fedora. He shuffles in his scuffed brown leather shoes while his head gently sways back and forth in rhythm with the swinging walking stick. Black sunglasses cover his unseeing eyes.
It’s a warm Monday morning in April. The French Quarter in New Orleans is bustling with tourists in the shops and on the sidewalks, and a healthy mix of work and tourist traffic beeps and buzzes in the streets. The heat and humidity amplify the highly unpleasant smell of rotten trash vapors seeping out of the overflowing garbage receptacles on the sidewalks. The city waste management team is running behind schedule due to budget cutbacks, a common topic in the monthly city government meetings the elderly man overhears on the television.
He senses someone has approached him and stops his slow shuffling walk. He rattles his cup. “Help a blind man?”
“Not today, Pops. Today you’re going to help me.” The man’s voice has a thick Brooklyn accent. “Word around town is, you’re the man to come to for information on things happening in the streets. Is that right?”
The elderly man turns his head towards the voice and smiles. “You must be that Detective…uh, Jenkins, right? Yeah, I hear you on the news sometimes, Detective. You ain’t from here, you from up in New York, ain’t that right?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Look, I’ve got some questions for you. How about you come with me to the police station so we can talk?”
“No, sir, I can’t do that. See, I got to be here right now, this is how I make a living.” He rattles the plastic cup.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about who’s behind the French Quarter murders. Tell me who people think they are, and where I can find them.”
The old man chuckles. “What makes you think an old man like me knows anything about that?”
“Don’t play me, Pops. There’s enough buzz on the streets that you know exactly what goes on around here. And if you’re not careful, I can have you arrested for obstruction of justice. So, you’ve got two choices. Either you start talkin’, or I’ll lock you up, blind man or not.”
“Well now, Detective. Since you put it that way, I might have a story for you.”
“A story? Pops, this isn’t a game, I don’t want some story-”
“Now calm down there, Detective, all’s a man like me does is tell stories. It’s up to you if you believe it or not.”
The Detective sighs in frustration. “All right, then. Tell me your story, but make it fast, I ain’t got all day. I gotta hunt this psycho down before he kills again.”
“You know, on second thought, I could use a cup of coffee first. The Ruby Slipper Diner has damn good coffee!”
“All right, let’s go to the diner. I’ll get you coffee, and then you’re gonna talk to me.”
“You got it, Detective.”
Better not be just another crazy old homeless guy, the Detective thinks as they walk down the street. After what seemed like eons with the old man’s slow pace, they are finally settled in a booth at the diner, both with coffee, the detective ready to write on his notepad.
The old man slowly inhales the aroma of his brew and takes a sip. “Ah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“All right Pops, let’s get this going. Who is he?”
“Who is who?”
“The guy killing people, Pops. Who is this psychotic criminal, or criminals?”
The old man tilts his head as if considering the question. A faint smile flashes across his face but fades into a serious scowl just as quickly. “I hear whoever’s doin’ this… ain’t human.”
“I’m sorry, what? Not human? Of course they’re human. What else would they be?”
“You misunderstand. They’re inhumane. They’ll murder without a second thought to get what they want. Whoever they are, they’ll be hard to stop. They ain’t afraid of nothin’.”
The Detective grumbles under his breath. “Ok, I’ll bite… so, what do they want? Why are they terrorizing my city?” Just then his cell phone rings. He pulls it out of his pants pocket and rejects the phone call, setting it on the table next to his coffee.
“Detective, that’s for them to know, and you to find out.”
The Detective leans back against the wooden bench seat and rubs his face. He curses under his breath, then leans forward, elbows on the table. “Look. This is serious. A dozen people are dead. Killed in cold blood. Whoever you think they are, please tell me. Any information you can spare, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Please. Just tell me anything you know.”
The old man takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Detective,” he says, his voice lowering. “You makin’ one big mistake here.”
“What do you mean?” The Detective’s cell phone rings again. It is painful for him to reject the call again, but he does.
The old man pauses for another sip of coffee. “Sometimes things ain’t so black and white. Sometimes you got to look into the grey. Now, you got to figure out who’s who, and what’s what. And that’s all I know.”
The Detective’s mind races, and he leans as far forward as he can in the booth. “Give me a name. Names. Give me something!”
“This is a colorful city, Detective. Always has been. Always will be.”
“Colorful? What do you mean by that? Is that a hint?”
The Detective’s phone rings again. “Goddam it,” he grumbles. This time he takes the call from his precinct. “Yeah!” he answers gruffly. The words he hears are sobering. “Where? On Canal? Well that’s just down the… down the street from me. I’m on my way.”
He tears his wallet out of his jacket and throws down money for the coffees. Both men can now hear the wailing of police sirens growing closer. He hurries out of the booth but turns to the old man before he’s halfway to the door: “We’ll continue this conversation, Pops. This ain’t over.”
“Be careful, Detective. There’s some bad people out there,” the old man, genuinely concerned, warns him.
“I hadn’t noticed,” the Detective mumbles sarcastically to himself. He bursts out of the diner and hurries down the sidewalk towards the sirens.
