The Devil Always Collects

by John Moore

  Jess was not one to waste time. “This weather sucks, but don’t you look nice.” She went straight to the point like a laser-guided missile. She asked me what was so important to drag her from her office. I described what I observed at Mark’s bail hearing, how he paused when he saw Bart Rogan in the audience. I showed her the letter Mr. Amato gave me from Mark. I also told her about my encounter with Bart Rogan. Before I could finish, her phone chimed.

  “What’s that? You have the name of the shooter. What’s his name?” she said speaking to the caller. She hung up and looked at me. “The man who shot Mark Stevens is Gary Bennett. Do you know anything about him?”

  “One of the victims’ fathers sat next to me in the front row. I don’t remember his name. He said his daughter’s name was Mary. No wait; he gave me his business card.” I fumbled through my purse and found his card. “Gary Bennett,” I read aloud from the card. “He shot Mark? Jess, he said he had stage four cancer and only had six months left to live. This is horrible. He’s lost his daughter and now he’ll spend his last months of life in jail.”

  Jess didn’t hesitate. She called the lead crime beat reporter and said, “Gary Bennett’s daughter was the second victim of the Quarter Killer. Mr. Bennett is also a cancer patient with six months to live. Dig into his background and be ready to meet deadline. We are running with this.”

  She focused her eyes on me like a programmed robot in an auto factory assembly line, ready to weld the next vehicle. “Let’s talk about this letter from Mark Stevens. Do you believe he was telling the truth or was his whole story just bullshit to get you to help him?”

  “I’m not sure but the information about the barge lost at sea falls in line with the story Sarah was working on before she left the Times. The part about him not killing Sarah may be bullshit. Jess, I witnessed his face when he saw Bart Rogan in the courtroom. He was scared. There is more to this story than we know, and I’m going to get the answers.”

  “I’ve got to go shepherd this Mark Stevens/Gary Bennett story. Keep me informed,” she said as she left Starbucks, the tails of her coat trailing behind her.

  I pulled my laptop from my case and turned it on. Since I had drained my cup dry while talking to Jess, I headed to get a refill. Most of the tables were occupied by regulars; New Orleanians have a recognizable shabby-chic look. I noticed a Latin man with slick black hair, dressed like a cross between a mariachi and a waiter. He seemed out of place. I tried not to look at him too long, but I was sure he was watching me. His skin was a pitted, weathered brown, with several noticeable scars above his eyes. He was the epitome of the guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. He more than freaked me out so I grabbed my laptop and hauled ass. My paranoia ratcheted up a notch.

  As I drove home, I stared in my rear view mirrors to verify no one was following me. En route Tom called me and said, “How about a date tonight, pretty girl?”

  ‘Pretty girl’ was apparently the pet name he’d chosen for me. I did not protest. When it left his lips, it electrified me. Momentarily, I forgot all about scary man.

  “Hell, yeah. What do you have in mind?”

  “If I told you everything I have in mind, all of the NSA wires would melt. The G-rated version is dinner and some wine at ACME Oyster House. Not in the Quarter, I’d like to get out of the city for an evening. Let’s go to the one on the Northshore,” Tom said.

  “That would be fucking fantastic. I have so much to talk to you about. And, don’t let this go to your head, but I really miss you.”

  Tom paused. Nothing on the other end of the line. Oh shit, did I just freak him out? Is it too soon to miss each other? Did I sound too clingy or needy? The silence seemed to last for an eternity. It reminded me of when I was waiting to see the principal after publishing my culinary scandal sheet in eighth grade.

  “Somebody’s got it bad,” he laughed and then added, much to my relief, “I miss you too, pretty girl. I’ll pick you up at 6:00.”

  I made my way home realizing that I hadn’t been watching to see if I was followed when on the phone with Tom. Can’t do that, I thought. Could be a costly mistake. The last few days had been a whirlwind. I needed to learn new skills if I were going to make it in the dangerous world I’d stepped into.

  “Oh shit,” I said out loud. Tomorrow was Sarah’s funeral. How could it totally slip my mind? I felt guilty but realized she would be so proud of the course I was on. She would have wanted me to stay focused. Who was going to attend the funeral anyway? She had no family. I was the closest person to her unless you counted old Jenkins. He was probably so deep into the bottle now; he had to be wearing a life-vest. Oh stop that, Alexandra, I said to myself. You don’t know what he has been through in his life. Don’t be judgmental.

  I walked into my house softly, like a cat creeping on a squirrel. I looked to see if anything was out of place. Nothing in the kitchen, nothing in the living room. What about the bedroom? I grabbed a kitchen knife and inched into my bedroom. Nothing. Under the bed. Nothing. I flung open the closet, knife in the slasher position and....Nothing. I am officially scared out of my mind. And crazy too.

  Time had flown by and Tom would be around to pick me up within an hour. Better hit the shower and get sexy for my man. Oh God, he was my man. Were we a couple? Yep, we sure were. Just the thought lifted me from fear to elation. Mr. Clean couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. We were going on a date, an official date! Tom asked me to go on a date. I reveled in the thought.

  Tom knocked at the door exactly at 6:00. Hadn’t he ever heard of fashionably late? Doesn’t he know a girl always needs a few extra minutes? Must be a marine biologist thing. I let him in, my heart and other parts warming at the sight of him, and rushed back to my room to put on the finishing touches. I walked out model-style toward him.

  He looked me up and down, then making sultry eyes at me said, “Hey, pretty girl, let’s skip the dinner and go straight to bed.”

  “No way, mister. You are going to have to seduce me,” I said. Who was I kidding? I wanted to throw him down on the floor and take him right then and there. I kept telling myself to stay ladylike and under control. I hate fucking will power but I maintained my composure.

  “OK, if you insist. But I’ll get you drunk and take advantage of you if I have to,” he said.

  It took us a little over an hour to drive from my condo across the Ponchartrain Causeway to the Northshore. The water in the lake was calm and the night sky was brightened by the full moon. I told Tom about my day’s experiences, court, Mark’s letter, Mr. Bennett, and Bart Rogan. He listened patiently till I got to the Bart Rogan part of the story, and then he took in a quick breath.

  “Alex, I’ve been checking up on Bart Rogan with the members of my group. They say he is like a rogue great white shark, swift, silent, and deadly. He knows about our group and has sworn to dismantle us one by one. We have to be extremely careful. Does he know about Mark’s letter or your new job?”

  “I don’t know, but if he doesn’t, he will soon. I have to turn the letter over to the Quarter Killer Task Force. Jess told me they have more leaks than a chicken wire roof,” I said.

  “When are you turning the letter over?”

  “Tomorrow after Sarah’s funeral. I can’t bring you with me to meet with the police but will you go to Sarah’s funeral with me?”

  “Yes, of course,” he answered.

  We were seated at a table in the rear of the Acme Oyster House, which suited us both just fine. I wanted to make goo-goo eyes at Tom. He wanted to romance me with wine and good food. We didn’t talk about any of the tumultuous parts of our lives. We kept the conversation light and sexy, soothing music playing in the background.

  Bam, Bam, Bam! And then, the crash of glass exploding to the floor. The unmistakable sound of gunfire. Everyone in the restaurant dove to the under tables. Tom covered me with his body. A toddler started crying saying, “Mommy, Mommy, Mom
my.” Tom stood up and walked toward the crying child. Everyone on the floor of the restaurant looked at him as though he were the person with the gun. He checked on the child, then walked outside and found a restaurant employee who told him what had happened.

  Tom reentered the restaurant shouted, “It’s okay now, the danger is gone. It was a drive-by shooting and no one was hurt.”

  People are tough around here. After a moment’s chatter, the restaurant guests went back to their dinners. Waiters swept up dishes knocked to the floor in the commotion and the owner brought complimentary cookies and refilled wine glasses.

  Tom returned to our table and said in a low voice, “Someone fired three shots into the restaurant, hitting the glass. The shots were not from a hand gun. All of the shots were grouped together high above everyone’s head. It looks to me like the shooter was just trying to scare everyone. A grouping like that had to come from a rifle that was carefully aimed. They could have easily shot someone if that were their intentions.”

  Tom was so cool under pressure. He must have been shot at before. I wanted to know more about the group he worked with but tonight was not the night. Tonight was our night to enjoy each other. It did enter my mind that the shots could be related to ACC and Bart Rogan but I dismissed the thought since we were away from New Orleans. The wine helped relax me. I drank two glasses with dinner, a delicious grouper covered with crab meat, and had a Frangelica after. Tom just had one glass of wine with dinner since he was our driver.

  On the ride home, I asked Tom, “Does my investigation of ACC scare you?”

  “Not in the least,” he answered without hesitation. “Those bastards have to be taken down. If people knew how much pesticide poison filled their streams, lake and oceans, they would all be after ACC. The problem is that all of the chemical companies are masters of disinformation. Did you know there are more than 80,000 chemicals in use in the United States today and the EPA only has tests for less than 300 of them? According to the EPA, 4.4 billion pounds of industrial chemicals escape into the environment during the manufacturing process alone.”

  “You are kidding me,” I said, shocked.

  Tom was wound up now and I didn’t try to stop his lecture, “Pesticides are a good example of POP toxins created by people to benefit humanity that have unintended consequences. Have you ever heard of DDT? It is a colorless, tasteless and nearly odorless chemical that was used to combat the mosquitoes that cause malaria. The problem with DDT is that it causes neurological damage to humans and animals. When independent scientists disclosed the dangers of DDT, the public outcry led to Congressional hearings, public outrage and eventually regulatory action. The EPA banned DDT’s use in the United States in 1972. Even so, as late as the early 2000s, tests showed that 99 percent of Americans have a breakdown product of DDT in their systems. And they’re still using it in India.”

  “Holy shit, Tom. I thought the government protected us from dangerous chemicals,” I said.

  “Not hardly. It gets much worse. From 1999 to 2000, the Center for Disease Control (CDC) tested 9,282 people at various locations to determine if their bodies contained any of 116 chemicals, including 37 pesticides. They reported that one hundred percent had at least three of 23 pesticides in their blood or urine,” Tom said.

  “Oh my God, that is some scary shit,” I said, impressed by how much he knew about pollution.

  “Alexandra, which is why we the people – not the politicians – have to hold the corporate monsters accountable. We have to put their antics in the light of day, so they scatter like cockroaches.”

  “Tom, I’m all in. We must do whatever it takes to expose the bastards. When I heard those gunshots, I feared they were after us. And it was really strange: I didn’t want to run. I wanted to fight. I wanted to fight some nameless thugs with guns. I am ready for whatever it is we have to face.”

  “Your mother would be so proud of you, Alexandra,” Tom said with a satisfied smile.

  We arrived at my place, and Tom took me to bed. Romancing was over. Lovemaking had begun. Hard lovemaking. The kind of lovemaking that could get me evicted from my rented condo.

  Chapter Eighteen:

  Funerals and Stashes

  When we awakened, Tom made me stay in bed for one more round. God, I loved this man. But the harsh reality of the world was pressing upon us both. We needed to get moving. Sarah’s funeral started at 10:00 and I wanted to be there a little early. I knew Jenkins would be there, Jess, people we worked with, and Susan but, I wondered, who else?

  We arrived at the funeral home and walked into the viewing room. There she was, beautiful as ever in a morbid sort of way. The makeup the mortician used was thickly caked on her face and neck to disguise her wounds. Disguise but not cover. I wanted Sarah to talk to me. I wanted to feel her gentle touch and hear her calming voice. And I wanted to hear that inner voice she was reclaiming after so many years. The voice of an investigative reporter.

  I sunk onto the prayer kneeler placed in front of Sarah’s coffin. I closed my eyes and silently recited the two prayers I remembered from Catechism classes, the Hail Mary and Our Father. Overcome by emotion, I looked up to heaven and spoke to my mother. “Mom, look after Sarah. You and Sarah each made your choices for noble, selfless reasons. Mom, your words are true. The devil always collects. I want you to know that these words are also true. The devil cannot collect if a deal is never made. Your daughter will never make any deal with the devil. This I vow. And, Sarah, I will find who killed you, and I will find the sunken barge. You will have your redemption.”

  I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see the tearful face of Mr. Jenkins. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a suit but smelled of yesterday’s bourbon. He had a sleepless look, like a med student who had crammed for finals for two solid weeks, existing on Raman Noodles and no rest. The image of a dead man walking came to mind.

  “I miss her so much,” he said. “Her smile, her gentle ways, her loving heart, all gone now.” He looked at her lying motionless and started breathing heavily. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, his breath hitched, and he crumpled to the floor. He lay behind me, beside Sarah’s coffin, mumbling. Words struggled to leave his lips. A word, only one word was recognizable. “Sorry,” he exhaled.

  “Mr. Jenkins! Are you alright? What’s wrong? Call 911. Call 911!” I screamed.

  Two men carried Mr. Jenkins into another room. Shortly after, EMS transported him to Tulane medical center. He didn’t look like the powerful man for whom I once worked. He was a sketch of his former self. I wondered if his life of burning the candle at both ends – fueled by bourbon – had finally taken its toll. Or was it something else? Why did he deteriorate so quickly?

  Thoughts of Sarah flooded my mind. I lost myself for a while wandering through my memories of good times, so many good times. Now it was time to go on with life. Sarah would want me to carry on. Susan McAllister plopped down next to me and put her arm around me grandmother-style.

  “It’ll be OK, dear. You know she’s beyond any pain now,” she said.

  “Hi, Susan, so good to see you,” I said.

  She read my eyes to see if the moment was appropriate and said, “Can you come to the center after the services? I have something to give you.”

  “I can. Will you be there all afternoon?”

  “Yes, and you can spend the night if you don’t feel like driving back to the city,” she said.

  I thanked her and decided that I really didn’t want to be alone. I would have Tom to keep me company. Maybe he could come to the shelter with me. No, taking Tom would violate the rules. I was so curious. What in the world did she have to give me? I resolved to go by myself.

  Today reminded me of sad and alone I felt at my father’s funeral, but this was worse. Sarah had no family at the funeral. People with whom Sarah had worked came and said how important she was in their lives. Clients of Jenkins’ PR firm showed
up, the Morris’ from Superior Sugar; Dan Broussard from Bayou Oil; and a variety of other mandatory attendees. Just like at my father’s funeral, people who had a more or less casual relationship with the deceased were in the majority. Sarah had touched many lives but no one’s life would be changed to any great degree by her passing except mine and maybe Jenkins. I would never be the same. Once again the feeling of being alone in the world overtook me. Is this what my life would come to? Would my life matter? I guess it depended on what deals I made with life. What choices I made. Would I stay in New Orleans and be a city girl, a party girl, having no real impact on the world? Would I lose the farm in Indiana and just say good riddance? Are we doomed to be zombies, like Zach said, stumbling through life day after day with no real purpose in mind, letting others dictate our likes and dislikes? Or would I make a difference?

  Charlotte grabbed my arm and brought me back to my car. I’d drifted off for a while into my own world of thoughts, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face.

  “Would you like to stay with me at my house?” Charlotte asked.

  “No, Charlotte. I have other plans,” I said. For some reason, I felt the need to keep all of my plans to myself. I didn’t want anyone to know where I was going or what I was doing. It’s not that I didn’t trust Charlotte. It was more like I didn’t trust anyone. I could actually feel my walls growing taller, brick by brick. Charlotte’s life of casual relationships, bars, parties, and nighttime trysts held no interest for me anymore. I wanted more. An authentic life was what I wanted.

  I left New Orleans changed. If I had once been one of Zach’s zombies, I was no longer. I was ready to take on life in all its confusion and complexity. I was ready to face reality as it was. Good timing too, because I was being followed.

  I first noticed the large black SUV behind me on I-10 at the Veterans’ Highway intersection. I couldn’t make out the face of the driver, but I could tell that it was a man with a dark complexion and a baseball cap pulled down low across his face. What brought him to my attention was how fast he came up on me from behind and then how he decelerated to mimic my speed. He didn’t try to pass. I hoped he would get off the Interstate at Williams Boulevard and head to the airport. He didn’t. He stayed behind me as I navigated on to the bridge over the South shore of Lake Pontchartrain. I sped up and slowed down. He did the same. I couldn’t shake him. There were no exits off the bridge. I was trapped.