by Emily Ford
***
The Detective comes to in a dark abandoned warehouse. When his bleary vision clears, he realizes he is sitting on a hard metal chair with his hands tied behind him and his legs bound to the chair. A hot, blinding spotlight shines directly in his face, causing him to squint and preventing him from seeing anything other than the light.
He raises his head and blinks repeatedly from the harsh light. His head is pounding from the knockout blow and he tastes blood in his mouth. He groans and shifts in the chair. “You won’t get away with this!” he calls out into the darkness, fishing for a response. “Show yourself!”
A flat, eerie chuckle answers him. “Hello, Detective.”
“Who are you?” the Detective demands. He jerks his wrists to test the strength of the rope binding them.
“Wrong question. Now who … but why.”
The Detective shakes his head and tries to blink the blurriness out of his eyes. He fears that the blow to his head is causing the sharp ringing in his ears. “What the hell is going on? I’m a police officer. You’ll go to prison for this!”
“Yes,” the voice answers. “If I were to get caught, of course.”
“What do you want?” The Detective demands.
From the shadows, the Black Jester swiftly grabs another metal chair and drags it over to the Detective’s side, the metal scraping the cement floor. He straddles the chair and leans in close, leering at the Detective with his cold white-eyed stare.
“You? What the hell are you doing here?” the Detective says. “What about the girl? Is she-”
“She’ll live. No thanks to you!” the Black Jester snarls through clenched teeth.
The Detective looks at the Black Jester’s blood-stained hands and realizes he must not have been out for very long.
“Why didn’t my men arrest you? What happened back there?”
“Detective. I do apologize for the inconvenience, but it’s rather important that we talk.” From the shadows the body of the suave voice appears. Dressed in a richly golden Venetian Jester costume, the man who slides from the shadows is just as strangely dressed as the Black Jester.
“There’s two of you?” the Detective asks, looking back and forth between the Black and Gold Jesters.
The Red Jester follows the Gold Jester’s lead and steps into the light so that the Detective can see him.
“Holy shit!” the Detective exclaims. “This explains a lot. You’re working together. A team of murderers!”
The Gold Jester flinches at the word murderers. “Detective, I know how things might look to you, but believe me when I tell you, we’re not the bad guys.”
The Detective chuckles, but groans when a wave of pain sweeps over him. He drops his head and waits for the pain to subside.
“Sorry about that. We had to take precautions,” the Gold Jester says.
“Precautions?” he raises his head. “Just what the hell do you want with me?”
“We’re here to give you a chance to help your city.”
“Help my city? What do you mean? I help it every day. That’s my damn job!”
“Detective, there are things that the NOPD can’t do. Things the New Orleans city government can’t do. There are threats and injustices that you can’t protect it from. And that’s where we come in.”
The Detective snorts. “What, like you’re a group of vigilantes or something?” He laughs and looks at each of the three Jesters’ straight faces. “You murder people. I’m going to assume that you are the ones throwing guys off high rise hotels and leaving your calling cards all over the place.”
The Gold Jester shakes his head. “That’s not us, Detective.”
“You’re joking, right? There are more sadistic psychos on the loose than you all?”
“Clowns joke, Detective. They are true fools. Jesters, however, must walk a fine line at the King’s court. They’re sensitive to the political and social needs of their environment.”
“What do you mean, King’s court?”
The Gold Jester ignores his question. “That wasn’t us. Well, not the ones with the calling cards.”
“Um, okay, sure. So you do kill people, but it’s someone else that kills people and leaves Tarot cards in their mouths. Am I getting this all right so far?” he says sarcastically.
The Gold and Red Jesters exchange a silent look. “Actually, yes,” the Gold Jester admits.
He snorts and groans. “Holy shit, what kind of circus is this? Did you kill Doctor Vance?”
“Yes,” the Black Jester answers.
He is stunned by the open confession. “Why?”
“Doctor Vance was on the wrong payroll,” the Black Jester says.
“Come now, Vengeance. Tell him the real reason,” the Gold Jester encourages.
“He tipped Antonio Strong off as to Rose White’s location. He’s the reason she’s in danger.”
“So Rose White is involved with you guys?” the Detective asks.
“Not involved. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I helped her, that’s all,” the Black Jester responds.
“So you went out and murdered a doctor and a handful of mobsters, all to help this girl?” The Detective snorts. “Look, I’m all about protecting innocent people, but what you did is called cold blooded murder. And now, I have everything I need to lock you up forever.”
The Black Jester is not in the least bit fazed by the Detective’s threats. He continues to coldly study the Detective’s heated expression.
The Gold Jester chuckles, breaking the awkward silence. “Detective, there is a lot more going on in New Orleans than meets the eye. There are … layers… of activity. And we, and our King, only want to do what’s best for the city. For its people.”
“I find it hard to believe a group of masked killers wants what’s best for the city,” the Detective says. “Are you going to keep me here all day? ‘Cause I got work to do. Work like finding out who the hell you clowns are, who the hell your ‘King’ is, and taking you all down.”
“Jesters, Detective,” the Gold Jester laughs and kneels in front of the ruffled law officer. “I assumed this would be your initial reaction. I didn’t expect you to … accept … the situation right away. So, to show you that we’re sincere,” he says as he begins to cut the rope binding the Detective’s feet, “we’re going to let you go and reiterate the fact that we aren’t the ones you’re looking for.”
Fully expecting to meet his demise at the hands of the murderous costumed men, the Detective is stunned but tries to conceal his surprise. The Black Jester stands and pulls a knife from his coat. Instead of using it to cut the Detective’s throat, instead he cuts the ropes binding the Detective’s hands together. Remaining seated, the Detective rubs his wrists and his aching head. The Black and Red Jesters disappear into the shadows, and he can hear by their heavy footsteps that they’re slowly walking away.
The Gold Jester remains only for a moment. “Perhaps you should take a closer look at your city government. Specifically, Judge Dessard.”
The Detective crooks his head at the mention of the Judge’s name. “Dessard? You’re saying he’s involved in something?”
“We’ll meet again soon. Good night, Detective.” The Gold Jester slips out of sight and the sound of his footsteps trail off in a different direction than the others.
The Detective stands, but is overcome with dizziness and he’s forced to sit back down. His mind is reeling from the impromptu meeting with the costumed killers. He pats his pockets, feeling for his cell phone, but it must have been lost at the hotel penthouse.
“Christ,” he mutters. He stands again, this time slowly, and waits to find his balance before stepping out of the harsh spotlight and shuffling out of the dark warehouse.
