Hellbound

by Chester Campbell

  “I like that,” she said, her round face wreathed in a smile. “New Orleans is an exuberant city and you appear to be in just the right mood for it. We’re going to take you down to the Mississippi Riverfront, through the French Quarter, out to one of our unusual above-ground cemeteries, then to colorful City Park. But first, a little history. New Orleans was founded in 1718 by a Frenchman named Jean Baptiste Le Moyne, Sieur de Bienville. It was under French rule until 1762, when the Spanish took over. They turned it back to the French just before it was acquired by the United States in 1803 as part of the Louisiana Purchase.”

  She described how Canal Street started out as just what the name implied, a canal. Pointing to various sights along the way, she detailed improvements made around the waterfront as part of the 1984 Louisiana World Exposition. Then they headed into the colorful French Quarter with its unique balconies and French/Spanish-influenced architecture, past Jackson Square and the French Market, down to the northeastern edge at Esplanade Avenue.

  “Those narrow streets look as bad as downtown Nashville,” Troy said as they passed signs bearing names like Toulouse, St. Peter, St. Ann and Dumaine.

  “And I’ll bet parking is just as hard to come by,” Bryce said.

  Troy chuckled. “I’m glad Chick is driving this thing, not me.”

  And as Chick turned into Esplanade, Yvonne Deschamps directed their attention to the old U. S. Mint, which had been turned into a museum. Farther along she began to point out samples of French Quarter architecture.

  “That long, narrow house over there is called a ‘shotgun,’” she said. “It has four rooms, one behind the other. You could fire a shotgun through the front door and kill a chicken in the back yard.”

  Bryce laughed and turned to Troy. “Can’t you just picture that.” He enjoyed the thought of guns being used in some other context than by shady-looking New Yorkers.

  The guide also cited examples of the Creole cottage and the swaybacked structure called a “camelback.” They departed the French Quarter at Rampart Street and headed for their first stop, St. Louis Cemetery #3.

  As they strolled through the rows of solid masonry tombs, both plain and ornate, Yvonne Deschamps explained that because of the marshy ground, and the fact New Orleans has the misfortune to dwell six feet below sea level, the people had adopted mausoleum burials. Otherwise, the coffins would be engulfed by water as soon as they were lowered into the ground. The four-tiered vaults, primarily rectangular boxes about eight-by-ten, dotted the cemetery like rows of sugar cubes lined up on a table. Most were owned by families or organizations, she said. And though some were grandiose in size and architecture, most suffered scars of mold like dark slashes across their sides.

  Yvonne Deschamps pointed out an engraved list of people buried in one of the vaults and noted there were several more names than apparent spaces in the tomb. She explained that a year after burial, the remains were placed in a box at the bottom of the vault, making way for a new occupant on top. As Bryce read the inscription on one elaborate end plate, he heard his name called and looked around to find a smiling MacArthur approaching. The retired executive stuck out his hand in greeting.

  “You’re one of the few I haven’t had the opportunity to meet yet.”

  Bryce gave his hand a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Mr. MacArthur. Troy Walden told me about you.”

  “He was also my source of information on you,” MacArthur said. “I understand you were an investment advisor. I held a similar position with an insurance company in New Jersey.”

  Bryce folded his arms. “I’m sure your company was much larger than the one I worked for. It was an interesting job, though. Troy told me you had been trading futures and options.”

  “Yes, in recent years. And for my own account. I could not deal in anything so risky with an insurance company. Were you involved in commodities?”

  “No, but I was a close student of currencies and interest rates around the world.”

  “Walden mentioned that.”

  “I had devised a method of borrowing money in low-rate foreign currencies, then investing the cash in high-yield U.S. funds.” He explained how the system worked.

  “Fascinating.” MacArthur’s blue eyes gleamed. Then he paused a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I vaguely remember reading about a fellow who did something like that once. Was some years ago.”

  Bryce felt a pang of apprehension. There had been a mention of his system in a New York Times article about him during the Mafia trial. Had he blown it again?

  MacArthur quickly dropped the subject and turned to some of his own exploits. Bryce realized the retired executive was unlikely to make the link and cause him any problems.

  But as they turned to follow the Silver Shadows group to another section of burial crypts, something caught Bryce’s eye that proved much more disconcerting. He glimpsed a figure just around the corner of the tomb where he and MacArthur had been standing, a swarthy-looking man in a tan single-breasted jacket and an open-collared yellow and brown sport shirt. Not a ready-for-business attired character like the New Yorkers, but unmistakably Italian. The hair was black and brushed front to back, the brows full and straight, the mouth angled downward and the eyes an icy dark brown.

  Was the man just another tourist, Bryce wondered, or somebody who had been sent to eavesdrop on their conversation? Or was this just a case of cultivating paranoia? Whatever, he would remember that face.

  They stopped next in City Park, the 1,500-acre swath of green at the north end of Esplanade. Yvonne Deschamps pointed out the Dueling Oaks, where many an affair of honor had been settled in an earlier time. Other large, gnarled live oaks had been dubbed with identities of various people, including one named after band leader and march composer John Phillip Souza.

  Chick parked the big bus beside a building that provided a place to shop for food and drink and New Orleans bric-a-brac. While most of the passengers headed first for the restrooms, Bryce bought a cone of frozen yogurt and browsed around the gift shop, occasionally glancing about in search of suspicious faces. Instead, he encountered a trio of familiar countenances belonging to Yeager, Scott, and Hunter.

  “Would any of you ladies like an ice cream cone?” he asked. “Or frozen yogurt? I’ll be glad to get it for you.”

  Only Marge appeared interested but quickly declined his offer. “I’ll get it myself, thanks,” she said. She turned and headed for the line at the ice cream counter.

  “Marge is pushing this independence thing a bit, don’t you think?” Sarah Anne said, frowning.

  Bryce finished off his yogurt. “After what she went through with Captain Hunter, it isn’t surprising.”

  Sarah Anne stared at him, then at her sister. “Captain Hunter? Is there something here I should know about?”

  Betty Lou shrugged. “He’s talking about that incident at church when Herb Hunter took offense at Fred’s hugging Marge. Troy told Bryce about it. I hardly think that has anything to do with the way she is now.”

  Bryce realized he had spoken too hastily. Obviously, Betty Lou had not confided in her sister about the extent of Marge’s problems with her late husband. Hoping to affect a rescue, he donned an innocent face and asked, “What did you think of St. Louis Cemetery Number Three, Sarah Anne?”

  She gave her sister a disgruntled look, then turned back to Bryce. “It was unusual, to say the least.”

  “I liked the way they stacked the dearly departed four deep,” he said. “Saves space, saves money. Makes a lot of sense. I don’t see why they couldn’t do the same thing under the ground in Nashville.”

  “We’re too tradition-bound for that,” said Betty Lou.

  “Good point,” Bryce said. “I would also bet some people would be uneasy at being put on the bottom. A little too close to Hell for comfort.”

  Sarah Anne squinched her nose. “I think some of your roommate’s weird sense of humor has rubbed off on you, Bryce. You don’t really hold the concept of Hell as a fiery furnace
deep in the earth’s bowels, do you?”

  “Geologists say there’s a red hot molten core down there. It fits, doesn’t it?”

  “I think people make their own Hell here on earth,” she said. “The wrongs we do come back to haunt us.”

  How well he knew. Bryce thought of the way his own life had resembled a patchwork quilt of black and white squares. The good seemed more than offset by the bad. His stupid mistakes had rung up a terrible price. The grief they had caused was his own personal Hell. His face sobered.

  “I’d have to agree with you there.”

  Marge loved the flavor of peppermint. She grew the plant in her backyard and used the crushed leaves in iced tea. She kept peppermint candies in her living room, stored in a beautiful container of Waterford crystal Keith had given her once for her birthday. Peppermint was cool and soothing and not too sweet, with a dash of tartness, much more interesting than blander tastes. The flavor was a lot like the way she preferred to manage her life, calm and collected but with a dash of adventure to keep things fascinating.

  As she walked toward her friends, nibbling on a cone of peppermint ice cream, she saw Bryce chatting with Betty Lou and Sarah Anne beside a display of T-shirts and baseball caps. Mostly, she noted, he just listened. He was a good listener, she reflected. She had always felt a sense of admiration for people like that. Too many she knew kept their tongues wagging so much they missed half of what others said.

  She gave Betty Lou a teasing glance. “I’m surprised to see you without a bagful of goodies. I didn’t think you could spend this long in a gift shop without buying something.”

  Betty Lou grinned. “We’ve been talking about deep subjects. But that reminds me, I really do need to put in some shopping time. Got to get a few things for the grand-kids, you know. You want to hit the shops this afternoon?”

  Marge licked at the peppermint. “I don’t have anybody to buy for. I’ll go looking with you, though. Want to try the French Market after lunch?”

  “The French Market is more like a flea market,” said Sarah Anne. “I’d prefer to browse through a little more upscale merchandise. Why don’t we try the Riverwalk? I hear they have all kinds of shops there, plain and fancy. It’s near the French Quarter.”

  “I went there on my last trip down here,” Bryce said. “Stayed at the Hilton. You can go into the Riverwalk right out of the hotel.” He recalled the long, mall-like collection of shops and eating places that were strung out at different levels alongside the river.

  Marge accepted the idea with obvious reservations. “Okay. But I don’t want to spend all afternoon traipsing through a bunch of shops. I’d like to see some sights as well.”

  “Why don’t you take a carriage tour of the French Quarter?” Bryce said. “Some friends did that and really enjoyed it. I hear the drivers are full of New Orleans tidbits.”

  “Sounds like a great idea to me,” said Sarah Anne.

  Betty Lou turned to Bryce. “You’ll join us, of course? I’m sure Fred and Troy will come along. From what I saw, the carriages hold six.”

  He frowned. “I’d just crowd you.”

  “Don’t be silly. Like Marge says, we came down here to see the sights, didn’t we?”

  He hesitated a moment. “You’ve got that right. I sure didn’t sign up for this tour just to ride a bus and eat. A little adventure should make things more interesting.”

  Unfortunately, he thought, he might be in for somewhat more adventure than he had bargained for. And though he had not seen anything today of the Mafia trio, that suspicious Italian lurking beside the mausoleum could easily have been a Louisiana soul brother. He knew for a certainty Locasio and company would be back. And next time, perhaps, with a vengeance. Should he play his ace in the hole now, he wondered? Considering the confrontation with Locasio at the rest stop yesterday, followed by the encounter in the cemetery this morning, he had no trouble convincing himself that the prudent thing would be to make his move as soon as possible. He would need to be on the alert for a little privacy and a telephone.

  25

  Summertime sneaked back onto the streets of New Orleans while they were eating lunch. By the time they boarded the bright red carriage in front of Jackson Square, Troy had pulled a large white handkerchief from his jeans pocket and was swiping the sweat off his neck. Betty Lou, seated between Troy and Fred, fanned herself with a brochure she had picked up at City Park. And in the seat across from them, Bryce adjusted his aviator shades as he sat wedged between Marge and Sarah Anne. The lanky driver, who had identified himself as Jason and looked to be about twenty, obligingly put up a collapsible black top to shield the glaring sun from their faces.

  The carriage was pulled by a big brown mule with a white face and legs. As the long-eared animal clopped away from the curb on Decatur Street, Jason turned with a broad grin. A genial, confident young man, he wore a wide-brimmed, flat-topped straw hat that made him look like he’d just come off the plantation.

  “Our mule’s name is Ernie and he comes from Columbia, Tennessee. You folks know where that is, I guess.”

  “Just south of us,” Fred said. “Used to be known as Mule Town. They still have a big celebration every year called Mule Day.”

  “Well, old Ernie is anxious to show you New Orleans,” Jason said, pronouncing it Nu-awlins. He had a distinctive accent. Pointing to a building in the next block on the left, he began his patented spiel.

  “Eighteen-ninety-one to 1974 they brewed Jax Beer over there. Not anymore. We import it now. They sold ’em the recipe, but they didn’t sell ’em the river. It’s no longer safe to drink.”

  “Sold the recipe for what?” Betty Lou asked.

  “The beer.”

  “Jax Beer,” said Fred.

  “They brew it in Texas now,” Jason said. “You can still buy it here, but it ain’t very popular.”

  “Oh.” Betty Lou pursed her lips.

  “Yeah,” Jason said in his fast-paced, sing-song voice, “the building got renovated for the World’s Fair back in 1984. It’s like a little shopping mall.”

  As Ernie plodded along, heavy shoes clopping a noisy rhythm on the pavement, Jason observed that the French Quarter was famous for its unique cuisine. Turning onto St. Louis Street, he identified one restaurant as the place where they originated the “po-boy,” another was named Napoleon House.

  He identified a succession of restaurants and bars, honky-tonks and jazz clubs. After awhile, Bryce could contain his curiosity no longer. “Are you Cajun?” he asked.

  Jason chuckled. “I thought you’d never ask. Let you in on a little secret. I’m really a drama student from Cleveland. Had to take off a semester to raise some cash. I’ve been practicing a Cajun accent. How did I do?”

  “I’m no expert,” Bryce said. “But you had me convinced.”

  Sarah Anne’s eyes widened. “If you’re an actor, I’m sure you know New Orleans has a fine literary background. Sherwood Anderson lived here. Tennessee Williams, of course. Faulkner did some work here, too. And Frances Parkinson Keyes.”

  “Her home is just down Chartres Street here,” said Jason. “It’s called Beauregard-Keyes House. Was once the home of Confederate General Pierre Beauregard.”

  “What about my favorite, Anne Rice?” Troy asked. “Doesn’t she live here somewhere?”

  Jason looked around. “She lives in an antebellum house in the Garden District. That’s across the other side of Canal Street.”

  “I think we’ll be going by there tomorrow,” Marge said.

  “Anne Rice?” Sarah Anne gave Troy an incredulous look. “Don’t tell me you go for all that vampire stuff?”

  He smirked. “You mean you don’t believe in vampires?”

  “I prefer realistic themes,” she said.

  “Like Robert Ludlum,” Fred interjected.

  Sarah Anne knitted her brows. “Ludlum is realistic?”

  Fred tugged at his cap. “It could happen.”

  Considering believability, Bryce wondered wh
at they would think if they knew his real identity. And the interesting little fact that he was being hunted by a team of Mafia hit men. And then, as Jason steered his plodding mule around a tight corner, Bryce got a brief glance back at the carriage following them. All along he had been vaguely aware of its presence. At one point, when they stopped for a traffic light, Jason had bantered a few words with the other driver, a large black man wearing a brown derby. But what instantly flashed a red alert was what he saw in the passenger seat.

  A lone “tourist” stared back at him, the same black-haired, heavy-browed, icy brown-eyed face he had seen around the corner of the burial vault at St. Louis Cemetery #3.

  Bryce had long ago disabused himself of the concept of coincidence. This was a deliberate act. In the first place, he doubted a carriage driver would take a solo passenger unless he were paid well or frightened out of his wits. Clearly, Bryce was being followed. Whether the man was another New Yorker or a member of the local “family” did not matter. They were getting too close. He was convinced now that he had no choice but to make that phone call at the earliest opportunity. The time had definitely come to play his hidden ace.

  “Betty Lou’s in hog heaven,” Fred observed as the men slowly strolled among the crowd. The women were in and out of every little shop along the Riverwalk concourse.

  Troy laughed. “If they gave advanced degrees in shopping, she’d no doubt have her Ph.D.”

  At intervals along the complex, a set of stairs moved the shoppers up to another level. Bryce took advantage of each opportunity to look back at the crowd surging behind them, searching for familiar faces among the wave of tourists that swept forward like a relentless human tide. But he failed to spot any of the New Yorkers or the stranger he had seen in the French Quarter carriage. That, he knew, did not mean they were not around. Worse yet, if they had made contact with the local Mafia, there could be others following him that he might never recognize.