say and let that sink in for a moment. “You know where this horn shop is?”
“Yeah. It’ over in the old Tremé neighborhood. Lots of bars, horn music and guns.”
“Take me there.”
“You’re the boss.”
I have a thought about Billy’s voicemail. “Who’s Legba in with? Have you ever worked for anyone else in New Orleans?”
“Yeah, I have.”
“Well?”
“Look, please don’t hurt me anymore, but I don’t wanna say.”
“Very wrong answer,” I say and I’m reaching up to give his eyeball a really good whack.
He’s smart enough to know it’s coming, and I let him block my arm.
“Okay, okay ... the sheriff — Sheriff Jimmie DePue. He’s in with Legba. Legba gives him a cut, and Sheriff DePue makes sure nobody gets in his way. The sheriff usually likes to handle stuff on his own. He says he can make sure there ain’t any loose ends that way. He’s warned me that if I screw up, I could become a loose end.”
“You more afraid of him than me?”
“No, sir. I told you about him, right?”
I say, “Good answer.” He glimpses me in the rearview mirror, and I raise my eyebrows at him. “Anybody else I need to look out for?”
“Are you kidding? They’re all over the place. Legba and the sheriff both have all kinds of people they’re tied in with. Nothing against you and your obvious abilities, but you go against them —” He cringes and his hand goes up to be ready to block my next move.
I let him keep his defensive posture. “Yes?”
“Well, you’re a dead man — by sheer numbers. Between the two of them, they have like a whole army of killers.”
“Are they as good as you?”
“A few might be. Some could be better.”
“I’m not scared.”
“I didn’t think you would be.”
I ask him, “You’d like me dead, wouldn’t you?”
“If I’ve gotta be honest ...”
“You do.”
“Yes, I would. If you’d drop dead right now from a heart attack, I could put my eye back in, go to the hospital and get it patched up, and I’d be back in business in no time. And Legba and Sheriff DePue would be none the wiser. If you live, I’m a dead man.”
I become very solemn. “But you know how this is going to end, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I’ve never been up against anyone like you, mister.”
In the next second, Popeye mashes the accelerator to the floor, twists the steering wheel toward the curb and drives the car directly into the back of a street sweeper.
Chapter 8
Who Do Voodoo?
I was momentarily stunned by the crash, but the passenger airbag and shoulder harness had done their jobs.
I rolled out of the smashed and steaming limo and looked back. John “Popeye” Poppy had catapulted through the windshield past his knees and onto the crunched hood. With a torn airbag around his ankles, and the trench knife buried in his chest, the terror of the last minutes of his life was etched onto his very dead face. Understandably, blood covered his body and most of the hood — and his right eye seemed to be completely missing, now.
A bolt of guilt and remorse flashed through me, but dissipated when I reminded myself of the many women, children and men he’d mercilessly murdered.
I got to my feet and stumbled away from the three or four people who rushed to my assistance with the usual questions, “Are you okay?” “Are you hurt?”
I pulled my bags out from the back seat, wishing I’d packed lighter. After trotting around a corner, I straightened myself up and regained my composure as best I could. The intersection street signs read Bourbon and Saint Ann . I was in the French Quarter. The sidewalks were far from crowded now, but they would be packed within a few hours.
As police sirens wailed in the distance. A tall, muscular woman wearing a sequin-covered bathing suit and a gold hat with brightly colored plumes walked by as I tucked in my shirt.
Her voice was too deep , but oddly feminine. “Mmmm, may I help you with
“Yeah. It’ over in the old Tremé neighborhood. Lots of bars, horn music and guns.”
“Take me there.”
“You’re the boss.”
I have a thought about Billy’s voicemail. “Who’s Legba in with? Have you ever worked for anyone else in New Orleans?”
“Yeah, I have.”
“Well?”
“Look, please don’t hurt me anymore, but I don’t wanna say.”
“Very wrong answer,” I say and I’m reaching up to give his eyeball a really good whack.
He’s smart enough to know it’s coming, and I let him block my arm.
“Okay, okay ... the sheriff — Sheriff Jimmie DePue. He’s in with Legba. Legba gives him a cut, and Sheriff DePue makes sure nobody gets in his way. The sheriff usually likes to handle stuff on his own. He says he can make sure there ain’t any loose ends that way. He’s warned me that if I screw up, I could become a loose end.”
“You more afraid of him than me?”
“No, sir. I told you about him, right?”
I say, “Good answer.” He glimpses me in the rearview mirror, and I raise my eyebrows at him. “Anybody else I need to look out for?”
“Are you kidding? They’re all over the place. Legba and the sheriff both have all kinds of people they’re tied in with. Nothing against you and your obvious abilities, but you go against them —” He cringes and his hand goes up to be ready to block my next move.
I let him keep his defensive posture. “Yes?”
“Well, you’re a dead man — by sheer numbers. Between the two of them, they have like a whole army of killers.”
“Are they as good as you?”
“A few might be. Some could be better.”
“I’m not scared.”
“I didn’t think you would be.”
I ask him, “You’d like me dead, wouldn’t you?”
“If I’ve gotta be honest ...”
“You do.”
“Yes, I would. If you’d drop dead right now from a heart attack, I could put my eye back in, go to the hospital and get it patched up, and I’d be back in business in no time. And Legba and Sheriff DePue would be none the wiser. If you live, I’m a dead man.”
I become very solemn. “But you know how this is going to end, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I’ve never been up against anyone like you, mister.”
In the next second, Popeye mashes the accelerator to the floor, twists the steering wheel toward the curb and drives the car directly into the back of a street sweeper.
Chapter 8
Who Do Voodoo?
I was momentarily stunned by the crash, but the passenger airbag and shoulder harness had done their jobs.
I rolled out of the smashed and steaming limo and looked back. John “Popeye” Poppy had catapulted through the windshield past his knees and onto the crunched hood. With a torn airbag around his ankles, and the trench knife buried in his chest, the terror of the last minutes of his life was etched onto his very dead face. Understandably, blood covered his body and most of the hood — and his right eye seemed to be completely missing, now.
A bolt of guilt and remorse flashed through me, but dissipated when I reminded myself of the many women, children and men he’d mercilessly murdered.
I got to my feet and stumbled away from the three or four people who rushed to my assistance with the usual questions, “Are you okay?” “Are you hurt?”
I pulled my bags out from the back seat, wishing I’d packed lighter. After trotting around a corner, I straightened myself up and regained my composure as best I could. The intersection street signs read Bourbon and Saint Ann . I was in the French Quarter. The sidewalks were far from crowded now, but they would be packed within a few hours.
As police sirens wailed in the distance. A tall, muscular woman wearing a sequin-covered bathing suit and a gold hat with brightly colored plumes walked by as I tucked in my shirt.
Her voice was too deep , but oddly feminine. “Mmmm, may I help you with
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