FIVE

FIVE

Greenwood Cemetery Caretaker’s Cottage

New Orleans

THE “SAFE PLACE” was a cemetery.

One of the krewe—Richard “Red Rooster” Romain, a black Baptist with a penchant for the occult—worked as the caretaker and lived in the small cottage nestled between the stone and marble above-ground graves.

“The neighbors don’t put up much of a fuss,” he’d once said when asked why he liked living surrounded by the dead. But Jones knew the truth had to do more with the former Ranger’s interest in Voodoo, than it did with peace and quiet.

A three-legged cat let out a loud “meow” as Curtis entered the dimly lit cottage. The place smelled of fried sausage and peppers, and the growl from his stomach reminded him the last time he’d had something to eat was a cold slice of pizza earlier that day.

“Rooster!” Jones called. “Hey, Roo!” He deliberately made a lot of noise as the old man of his krewe had a blown eardrum from the war. Probably only one of a handful of soldiers whose Purple Heart was due to an exploding still.

The cat rubbed against Jones’s leg, purring madly.

“’llo Ollie. Where’s your papa, hmm?” he asked, as he bent down to scratch the old cat behind the ears.

A voice called from the kitchen, “Jonesy, that better be you playing with my cat, or I’m gonna fill your ass with buckshot.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Roo,” yelled Curtis. “You blind as well as deaf?”

“Don’t you blaspheme in my house, Curtis Jones!”

“Sorry,” muttered Jones. Louder, he asked, “Where’s the rest of the krewe?”

“They’ll be along,” said Roo.

Jones walked into the kitchen in time to catch Rooster setting down the shotgun he had leveled at Jones and picking up a wooden spoon.

“The boys had to throw the cops off their trail after they rammed our stolen armored truck into police HQ, didn’t they?” asked Rooster as he stood at the stove.

Rooster’s back was to him, but Jones could see the tension in the old man’s shoulders. He walked up next to Rooster and said, changing the subject, “Smells good.”

Rooster grunted. “Not ready yet. I used some of them green peppers you like from New Mexico. Sauce tastes all right, but there isn’t no kick.” He glanced furtively at Jones.

“Okay, Roo,” said Jones, knowing what was coming. “Spit it out.”

Romain turned, pointing the spoon at him. “We planned that heist for near-on a year. Hell, it took six months to steal and restore that old, armored truck. And, tonight, because you wanted to go zippin’ around in your hot rod, we gave away our truck to the damn cops.”

Jones scowled. “Okay, I get you’re pissed. But this is bigger than any heist. You know as well as I do that som’in unnatural is happening. It’s been building since Katrina.”

“Is that why you threw away six months of planning?” grumbled Roo. “Because ‘som’in unnatural is happening’ or is it because of the girl?”

Curtis felt his face grow hot and looked away. “Jeannine has nothing to do with this. The Biloxi and Miami people. Nightmare. The Major. We were too small time for them. Nobody would have expected us to pull off something like this. They would have been pointing fingers at one another for years. But there is something bigger going on, Roo. Trust me on that. That’s why I had you guys torch my place . . . I—”

“I’m hearin’ a lot of ‘I’ this and ‘I’ that. But we were working on this score. Together,” said Roo. “This heist would have set us all up for life. We ain’t getting any younger, Jonesy. You think Gallow wants to run that restaurant for the rest of his life? No. He wants to be governor someday. You need money to do that. What about Lil’ Dave? He wants to retire to a villa in Puerto Rico surrounded by his grandbabies.”

“And what do you and the Golem want?” asked Jonesy.

Roo’s shoulders sagged. “I like the life we had, man. Running little scams, makin’ some money. The adventures got the blood flowing. I ain’t got no family, just us. I liked that we had some fun that bothered no one.”

“I thought you said we were getting old?”

“True. But what we were doin’ wasn’t really hurting no one. It was the perfect retirement gig. But then you go and get the rest of the boys all excited about that armored truck deal. And maybe me, too. Why?”

“There is something bigger going on and I wanted a piece of the action,” said Curtis.

“Bullshit,” grunted Romain, and turned back to his sausage and peppers. “‘Som’in unnatural is happening’ my ass. Thought you didn’t believe in all the mumbo-jumbo.”

“Goddamn it, you’re the one who clued us into the weird shit! Now you’re ignoring—”

Clank!

The iron skillet fell to the floor, splattering its contents every which way.

“Now, you listen, and you listen good, Curtis Jones. You’ve made fun of me and my beliefs since the war. Why would you give a shit about the “weirdness,” as you call it, now, right before the score that would set us all up for the rest of our lives? It was your idea in the first place!”

Jones and Rooster were practically standing toe to toe. The 5’9” Rooster looked up at the 6’3” Jones, fire in his eyes. Jones ground his teeth.

“It wasn’t my idea,” said Jones. “And because, you were right all along, and I was wrong. And I didn’t wanna fuckin’ believe it, is all.”

“Oh. Just like that. You didn’t wanna believe it. What are you, a goddamn child? The world is. It ain’t what we want it to be, you dumb—”

“I saw Cassandra.”

“—honky . . . What?”

“Jeannine’s mother. She came to me six months ago.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Not possible,” snorted Curtis. “When Charley took a mortar round, who brought him back?”

“That’s different. And if you remember, you didn’t believe me when I told you what I’d done.”

“I was out for the count. The boys told me you worked a miracle that day. And I didn’t believe them or you. But that was then.”

“Cassandra don’t exist no more. You know that.”

“Aren’t you the one always trying to convince me there is more to this world than we’ve been told? Five minutes after I dreamed about her coming to see me, Jeannine called for the first time in years. Said she was gonna take the Louisiana bar, not the New York one, because Cassandra told her to. And six months later, the cops want me for a double murder I didn’t do.”

“What the hell is going on in here?” shouted a third voice. It was the Golem, also known as Charley Mouton. Mouton was of average height, clean-shaven, with white, curly hair and Coke-bottle glasses. The lines in his white skin made him appear older than he was. He hobbled in, leaning heavily on his cane, eyes darting back and forth between Jones and Romain. Behind him were Li’l Dave Fernández—a 5’3” man of Puerto Rican descent, who always had a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek—and Carl Gallow, the impeccably groomed and dressed restaurateur who was, to hear him tell, a direct descendent of the original French settlers of the region. All the men were former Army Rangers: friends and brothers in a way only military men who served together in wartime understood.

All of them were now criminals.

The whole krewe was here.

Jones relaxed his clenched fists and let his shoulders slump. “We’ll finish this later,” he said, and bent to pick up the fallen skillet.

“Leave it,” said Rooster. “I’ll order a bunch o’ po’ boys for everyone.”

“Fine,” said Jones, his anger still threatening to boil over.

“What the hell, Jonesy?” asked Mouton again.

“Thanks for getting me out of that place, Golem,” replied Jones, ignoring the question.

“Sure,” replied Mouton. “But what’re you two fighting about and why is there sausage and peppers all over the floor?”

“Well, I . . . wait.” Jones looked around the room. “Guys, where is Jeannine? I thought you were gonna get her at the airport while I led the cops away from my place?”

“It’s like this, Jonesy,” said Carl in his soft baritone. “My connections told me that your place was too hot, so we had to wait for a while before we could get into your double-wide to clear it. Golem and I barely got back in time to bust you out of the sheriff’s building.”

“We never had time to go to the airport,” piped in Fernández.

“So, she’s back and no one was at the airport to get her?” said Jones, exasperated that he was already letting Jeannine down. He looked at his watch. “If we hurry, we might catch her, figuring a wait for her bag.”

“Is that wise, Curtis?” asked Carl. “You just broke out of jail. The police will be looking everywhere for you. My manager called and told me they searched my restaurant.”

“I’m feeling lucky tonight,” said Curtis, as he headed for the front door.

“Take a moment to breathe, for Chrissake!” said Gallow, worry in his voice. “You were in a fucking major car accident a couple hours ago!”

Curtis stared at Gallow until the man looked away.

“I feel awesome, thanks for asking. Better than I’ve felt in years,” said Curtis to the room. “Now, Roo, get your big-ass truck goin’. We’re doin’ an airport run.”