by Dan Alatorre
When the fight went out of her, he wiped his hands on the silk tablecloth and pushed past the heavy curtain to make his way to the exit, stopping at the cash register to hit No Sale and grab his money back.
He threw the front door open, sending the little bell upward with a clang, and stepped into the bright sunlight. With a quick glance left and right, he darted across the street, towards the taxis at the back of the nearby motel.
* * * * *
“Take me to the airport!” The big man climbed into the cab, shoving a small wad of bills into his pocket.
The taxi driver stared ahead. Outside the window, cars drove down the street.
“Wake up!” The man yelled at the cabbie. “I’m in a rush.” He stretched his thick arm over the seat to shake the driver’s shoulder. “I need to get to—”
Turning, the driver smiled, revealing her rotted yellow teeth and old leathery skin, still wearing her faded blue sun dress.
The man recoiled, his jaw hanging open. “You—you can’t be here. You’re . . . I left you in the shop.”
The old woman laughed, her black hair floating in the wind.
Heaving open the door, the man raced down the street to another cab. The fat man inside was munching on a bagel and brushing crumbs off his white shirt.
“You!” The big man’s pulse throbbed in his ears. “Are you for hire? I need to get to the airport.”
The fat cabbie pointed to his bagel. “I’m a little busy at the moment, pal.”
The man glanced over his shoulder at the cab he’d just left. “I’ll pay extra. Whatever you want.”
“Look, I appreciate it, but I’m just finishing a long shift.”
“How’s a hundred bucks on top of the fare sound?”
“A hundred? Let’s go.” The driver tossed the remainder of his bagel out the window. “Airport, did you say?”
“And make it fast.” The big man climbed into the back of the car. “I’m in a rush.”
The cabbie pulled into traffic. “Oh, late for your flight, huh? Yeah, we get a lot of that here. People party too late, wake up late—but don’t worry. We’ll get you there.”
The big man’s eyes darted around, constantly checking the rearview mirror to make sure the driver was still the one he’d hired. At the airport, he shoved the money at the cabbie and took a deep breath, wiping his hands on his pants. He did his best to act calm as he made his way to the ticket counter.
“When’s your next flight to Miami?”
The uniformed blonde woman peered at her computer. “One way or round trip?”
The big man tugged at his collar. “Uh, whatever’s the next one will be great.”
As she typed on the computer, he glanced up and down the ticketing area. “Yeah, I partied too late and slept late, and now I’m gonna miss my flight.”
She raised her eyes to meet his. “We haven’t booked your flight yet, sir.
“I mean my meeting.” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “I have a meeting in Miami that I’ll be late for if I don’t hurry up and get back there.”
She returned her gaze to the computer. “I have one round trip seat available on a flight that’s getting ready to start boarding in a few minutes. It lands in Miami at 3:15 P. M. It’s four hundred and five dollars.”
“That’s perfect.” He nodded. “That’ll give me time to shower and everything before the meeting.”
“Can I see your ID?
He dug for his wallet. “Here you go.” Handing the fake ID across the counter, he counted out the cash for the ticket. Another glance at the lobby showed no sign of anyone but travelers.
“Here is your change and your ID, sir. Your ticket is printing.”
“Good.” Another check of the lobby. Tourists carrying suitcases. A few redcaps carrying luggage. Outside, cars dropped off loved ones.
“And here is your ticket, Mr. Swenson.”
As he turned to take the ticket, he stared into the eyes of the old woman across the counter. Long, leathery fingers with yellowed nails set the ticket down in front of him, her black hair swaying around her wrinkled face.
He backed away, clutching the ticket, trying not to shout. His heart was in his throat. He turned and rushed away from the ticketing area, shaking his head. A knot formed in his stomach. The old woman’s laughter filled the air.
Sweat gathered on his brow as he went through security and boarded the plane, taking his seat on the aisle. He rubbed his hands over his thighs, trying to calm himself.
When the last passenger had boarded, the attendants shut the doors and commenced their takeoff instructions. The plane taxied away from the gate.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, whispering to himself. “I did it.”
“Sir.” The flight attendant wore a crisp blue shirt and the nametag Ray. “You are in an emergency row. Are you comfortable performing the emergency procedures?”
“Yeah, no problem.” The big man glanced at the emergency door. The little handle had red arrows indicating which way to turn it to open the door. “Looks pretty straightforward.” He grumbled, turning back to the flight attendant. “I think I can handle—”
The old woman smiled at him from the aisle, displaying her cracked yellow teeth. Her straggly black hair brushed the top of her old faded sun dress.
She reached toward him with her leathery fingers, laughing.
He jumped up. “Get away from me!” He climbed backwards across the seats, toward the emergency door. “Get away!”
Facing the door, he took the little handle in his hand. “I’m getting out of here!”
“Sir, you can’t do that!” Another flight attendant raced down the aisle, yelling toward the back of the plane. “Code red!”
A man leaped into the aisle and raced forward. “Federal air marshal! Everybody stay in your seats!” He jumped into the emergency section and onto the back of the big man, prying the thick fingers off the door handle. “Let it go, buddy!”
The big man thrashed. “I have to get out of here!”
The marshal gritted his teeth, forcing his arm onto the big man’s neck and shoving him to the floor. Gripping the big man’s hand and ramming it behind his thick back, the marshal reached for his handcuffs.
* * * * *
The faces of the partners became clear inside the crystal ball again. They sat on an airplane, next to each other, handcuffed. On each side of the pair sat a federal marshal.
The flight was headed from New Orleans to Baton Rouge, where a daring robbery had taken place, and numerous people had been killed.
The old woman slid her leathery fingers over her faded blue sun dress, nodding as she stared into the crystalline sphere. Standing, she leaned over to pick up the musical instruments from the floor, then she adjusted the silk tablecloth and blew out the third candle.
Throwing her head back, her laughter filling the corner shop and beyond, echoing out over the brick streets and past the old buildings, across the swamps where the flat boats caught her water moccasins, and fading into the trees on the horizon.
Epilogue
“There she is!” Marcus shoved his phone into his pocket and smiled as Janine stepped off the bus. She was a ray of sunshine, wearing capri jeans, a loose tie dye t-shirt, and an effervescent smile.
“Why’d you take the bus?” he asked. “I’d have picked you up.”
“No, no.” She reached out for a gentle hug, as friends do. “I didn’t want to put you to any trouble. And I wanted to see a little bit of the town for myself.”
“From a bus? Where’s the fun in that? At least take the trolley.” He picked up her tiny suitcase. It weighed next to nothing. “Come on, I’ll get you some coffee with chicory from Café Du Monde, and a beignet—you’ll love those. Then we can take a little walking tour—or do you need some rest?”
“I can rest later. I wanna see the city. What’s a ‘benyay’?”
He guided her across the brick paved street to his car, popping the trunk with the remote and hefting her bag int
o it. “Beignets are like little donuts covered in powdered sugar.”
“Sounds very healthy.” She flashed that smile, turning her head so her blonde locks danced around her face.
“Well.” He shut the trunk and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Sometimes after a night in the Big Easy, a little TLC in the form of deep-fried, sugar-laden carbs is just what the doctor ordered.”
“The witch doctor, you mean?”
“Yeah, you’re catching on. This way.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and headed down the street. “So, what happened to get you to leave Atlanta?”
“Ugh.” She shook her head. “After coffee.”
“Coffee with chicory.” He stopped, pointing to the small A-frame menu board perched on the sidewalk. “And don’t ask. You’ll love it.”
They sipped coffee and sampled beignets under the covered patio, a warm breeze drifting across the tables. In the distance, the steam whistle of a paddlewheel boat came to them from the river.
“I want to go on one of those while I’m here.”
“Done, but that’ll be later.” He clapped the sugar off his hands and stood. “Ready to walk off your breakfast?”
“Yes.” She jumped up. “My legs need a good workout. The train was fun, but it took forever.”
“A train and a bus. You weren’t in a rush, were you?”
“But I’m here now. And you’re probably wondering why.”
He shrugged, dropping his coffee cup into the trash bin as he exited the eating area. “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”
“I had to get away.” She watched the ground, taking purposeful, long steps, like a kid avoiding cracks in the sidewalk. “Something was . . . missing.”
“Well, in this city you will fill that void. We have a definite change of scenery for you—social and otherwise—and a rich history. The arts. Pro football. A great nightlife—that I hope we’ll be indulging in soon. You’re allowed to start drinking here at 10 A. M., so . . .” He glanced at his watch.
She laughed.
“We have ghost tours, voodoo, above-ground cemeteries. All kinds of cool stuff.” He pointed down the street at a small, one-story brick building. “That place over there was home to a pirate. And this,” he waved his hand at a regal, two-story hotel, “was the summer getaway for two U. S. Presidents.”
“So . . . three notorious rogues have stayed around here.”
“More than three, that’s for sure. Do you, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “Do you think you’ll be staying long?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” She peered up at Marcus, her voice falling to a whisper. “Maybe.”
A smile worked its way across his lips. “I think maybe you’ll stay. My city will win you over.”
“You’re from Tampa.”
He waved a hand. “New Orleans is everyone’s city. Its ambiance seduces people. You’ll see when we’re done sipping hurricanes and eating fried oysters tonight at Pat O’Brien’s. Which will be after a sunset cruise on the Mississippi.”
“In a big paddle-wheel steamboat?”
“Is there any other way?”
They strolled along the brick sidewalks, admiring a cast iron fence that was made to resemble corn stalks, and a two-hundred-year-old tavern.
“This city has a lot of interesting history,” she said. “There are lots of neat stories here.”
“The most interesting stories aren’t in any history books. You hear them from locals. There was this one guy who—”
“What’s this place?” She stopped at the corner, gazing at an empty, wood-framed building with big windows. Layers of paint peeled from its old gingerbread bones. “It’s got beautiful architecture. Is it old?”
“Everything’s old here.” Marcus glanced at the windows, charred and black on the inside. Faded paint from long ago was still visible in a few corners of the glass. “This place was a voodoo shop. They say an old lady from Jamaica ran it, a medium, but it burned up one night during a séance—and her with it—about thirty years ago.”
Janine stepped away. “Bad mojo, huh?”
“The stories say she was a witch—a mambo. She would lure unsuspecting people into her spider web to make them pay for their crimes.
“I liked it before. Now it’s kind of creeping me out.”
“I think we’re safe. She only drew in the bad guys.” Marcus put his nose to the glass, cupping his hands around his face to block the light. The blackened remains of wooden tables and boxes of trinkets filled the shop floor. “People say you can still see her in there sometimes, wearing her old faded sun dress, lighting candles and incense in the back like she’s getting ready to open the shop and lure in another dark soul.”
The wind gusted up, making the old windows rattle. A cloud covered the morning sun, casting a gray pall over the ancient street.
Janine shuddered, putting her hand on his arm and pulling Marcus away from the smoky glass. “Let’s continue our walking tour.”
“Yeah, okay.” He glanced over his shoulder at the old building. “Doesn’t look to me like the shop’s been open in quite a while.” He shrugged. “But it’s a voodoo place. You never know.”
THE END
Volume 3: DARK INTENT
The Power Outage
Tonight We Hunt The Beast, Lads
A Settled Matter
The Power Outage
Wearing pigtails and her Brownies vest, Jett’s daughter wagged her finger at him on Facetime. “Daddy, if you get scared in the storm, you can snuggle up with Sparkles. He’s in my room.”
The lights in the residence flickered.
“Wow, you must be psychic, sweetie. The power just blinked.” Smiling, Jett held his phone farther away so the living room lamp came into the picture. “But don’t worry, we’ve had plenty of storms before. I’ll be fine.”
His wife’s face appeared over his daughter’s shoulder. “Did you meet the new neighbors yet? I saw a moving truck at Alma’s old house when we left this morning.”
Jett glanced out the window to the house across the street. A huge yellow U-Haul blocked the view of all but the roof of the neighboring residence. “No, I didn’t want to get roped into helping carry a heavy couch up the stairs.”
His wife shook her head. “Well, if the power does go out, take them a flashlight and introduce yourself. Kendra said they’re from Salt Lake City or something. They won’t be used to our little thunder showers.”
Kendra.
Every neighborhood has an old busybody, even if the street only has five houses on it. Kendra was an ultra-devout Christian, and let everyone know it twenty-four seven. She wore a big silver cross around her neck and was ready to tell anyone and everyone how to fix up their lives, whether they needed to or not.
“Okay.” Jett glanced at the ESPN announcers. “I’ll try to stop by the new neighbors’ and say hi sometime.”
“You are so unsocial. They’re right across the street.” She smiled. “It’s a holiday weekend. Be friendly. They could be our neighbors for a long time.” The phone image warbled as she spoke. “Well, we’d better go, babe. The battery’s getting low on her iPad and it’s bedtime.”
“I thought the girls weren’t supposed to take electronics on overnight trips. Even ones on holiday weekends.”
“Shh.” His wife winked and raised a finger to her lips. “She sneaks an iPad and I sneak a bottle of merlot. Don’t rat us out.”
“Okay, hon. Goodnight.” The lights flickered again and the screen went black, killing the connection before she could reply.
Jett frowned at his phone, wondering if he should try to call back so they could say goodnight properly. Sighing, he set the phone on the ottoman and reached for the remote. His frozen pizza had about ten more minutes of baking time before he could eat.
Then a few uninterrupted hours of college football.
The lights blinked again, and the house went dark.
“No!”
He reached down and grabbed his phone,
powering up the flashlight feature. The cable box was dark, as was the readout for the oven.
His shoulders slumped.
So much for my pizza.
Tropical storm Davis wasn’t due until Sunday—it hadn’t even started raining or thundering yet—but if they were losing power already, it would make for a long weekend. He could do without watching the Buccaneers lose, but no AC? In Tampa, a house with no power in late August gets ugly, and quick.
The girls are lucky to be on their overnight trip.
The power would likely be back on in an hour, but at the start of a tropical storm, it was equally likely to take a few days.
Grumbling, he went to the refrigerator and yanked opened the door. There’s no substitute for pizza, but a hungry stomach wants satisfaction. The fridge light didn’t come on, of course, but the phone light displayed a decent selection of cold cuts and a dozen or so Corona Lights. There was even some leftover fried bacon. With a hot dog bun from the pantry, he could get by with a turkey BLT—extra mayo, hold the LT.
He grabbed a beer from the bottom shelf and let the fridge door slam shut, plucking the opener from the drawer. After prying the metal cap off the bottle, he stepped to the pantry. His phone light dimmed as he shined it over the packages on the shelf.
Better charge this before—
He winced. No power, no charging the phone.
Glaring at the device, he turned off its light and checked the battery indicator. Ten percent.
He closed his eyes and shook his head.
Why didn’t I plug this in earlier?
Leaning against the kitchen counter, he drew a deep sigh.
Well, there are flashlights in the cabinet and candles in the bathroom. No one’s calling me tonight, anyway.
A quick survey of the bags of snacks revealed potato chips, Cheetos, Goldfish crackers, and two cans of Hormel chili.
Okay, I won’t starve, and I’ll stream the game on my computer.
Setting his beer on the counter, he scanned the living room and hallway. The house always looked strange when the power was off, regardless of whether it happened at night or during the day. Usually there are passive reminders that there’s electricity present—a ceiling fan in motion, the hum of the air conditioner; even little things like the green glow of the computer LED. When those were absent, it cast a different aura over the house.
