We'll
be meeting the 666 but not when they or Scab think."
The next day, Locos wandered in and out of the Barracks Street gang
house. For a change, the drinking was light in anticipation of the coming
rumble that night. But the bedroom remained busy all day, and the gang's girls
looked exhausted by the time night descended on the house.
Around ten the gangs' members began playing with their guns, loading
clips, pointing them at objects, stroking them. At nine, the phone rang. Hector
picked it up.
"Yeah?" He stood there for several minutes, then smiled.
"Stay with them, I want to know where they go."
Hector went to the refrigerator and opened a beer before coming out and sitting
down next to the phone. He ignored the fact that everyone was staring at him. Two
hours later the phone rang again.
"Yeah?" Hector listened. "Stay with them."
When he hung up, everyone was standing, looking ready to go. Hector laughed
long and hard.
"Well, Scab. The 666 number around forty. Twenty of them came early
and hid. They had automatic weapons and vests. The ones arriving now look to
have only guns, but Knife said they looked like they had vests on."
"We'd all be dead meat, if..." Little Al, almost the size of a
bison, looked at Scab, whose eyes searched the room finding only hostile eyes
staring back. Hector sat back and took a swig of beer reveling in the victory. Renee
had saved his life and cemented his position in the Locos. He owed her.
Early the next morning the Locos struck. They killed fifteen, wounded
another ten, and confiscated many of their weapons and drugs. Only three Locos
were killed and four wounded. The French Quarter remained Loco territory.
* * *
Business remained slow over the next week. Only my fortunetelling kept
the store from going in the red. At Granny's insistence, I had taken several
basic accounting and business courses, although, at the time, I hadn't seen the
necessity. Now I realized that without them, the business wouldn't have
survived. The store operated on a small profit if managed properly. There was
little margin for error. Too much inventory and I'd be running a debt I
couldn't afford, and with too little I wouldn't have enough to turn a profit.
Basically, the store broke even or turned a small profit each month selling commercial
things such as candles, knick-knacks, books on Voodoo and New Orleans, voodoo dolls,
gris-gris bags and charms I made. The real profit came from selling herbs and
fortunetelling.
But I was content with my life. My congregation was growing again. I had lost
several when Granny died, but some had returned and four new individuals had
joined. The new members gave me the most satisfaction. I believe in God and
thought Vodou a good way to honor him—or her—and it felt wonderful
helping others find comfort and peace in their lives. For now, I used the Woldenberg
Park on the river but hoped someday I could have a dedicated place of my own
like Monique.
When I looked up at my small, battery driven clock on the wall, it was
nearly eight p.m., and my new client would be due any minute. I put away my
ledgers and went into the store just in time to hear a knock at the door. The
woman had said she heard about me indirectly from one of my clients, a Mr. Harry
Bishop, who ran a small nightclub in the French Quarter called the Blue Sax.
She gave her name as Ms. Ellen Jeffery and looked to be in her early thirties.
I didn't need to press for details about her jobs, where she lived, etc., since
I didn't need any hints about the person as a fake would. On the surface, she
was a professional of some kind, judging by her neat appearance and expensive
clothes, and single since she wasn't wearing a ring. Her dark brown hair was
neck length and curly, which made her angular face look narrower. Her figure was
trim but nicely curved.
"Good evening, Ms. Jeffery," I said as she entered. She had an
attractive smile that seemed a bit practiced.
"You can call me Ellen, Renee." She paused to
be meeting the 666 but not when they or Scab think."
The next day, Locos wandered in and out of the Barracks Street gang
house. For a change, the drinking was light in anticipation of the coming
rumble that night. But the bedroom remained busy all day, and the gang's girls
looked exhausted by the time night descended on the house.
Around ten the gangs' members began playing with their guns, loading
clips, pointing them at objects, stroking them. At nine, the phone rang. Hector
picked it up.
"Yeah?" He stood there for several minutes, then smiled.
"Stay with them, I want to know where they go."
Hector went to the refrigerator and opened a beer before coming out and sitting
down next to the phone. He ignored the fact that everyone was staring at him. Two
hours later the phone rang again.
"Yeah?" Hector listened. "Stay with them."
When he hung up, everyone was standing, looking ready to go. Hector laughed
long and hard.
"Well, Scab. The 666 number around forty. Twenty of them came early
and hid. They had automatic weapons and vests. The ones arriving now look to
have only guns, but Knife said they looked like they had vests on."
"We'd all be dead meat, if..." Little Al, almost the size of a
bison, looked at Scab, whose eyes searched the room finding only hostile eyes
staring back. Hector sat back and took a swig of beer reveling in the victory. Renee
had saved his life and cemented his position in the Locos. He owed her.
Early the next morning the Locos struck. They killed fifteen, wounded
another ten, and confiscated many of their weapons and drugs. Only three Locos
were killed and four wounded. The French Quarter remained Loco territory.
* * *
Business remained slow over the next week. Only my fortunetelling kept
the store from going in the red. At Granny's insistence, I had taken several
basic accounting and business courses, although, at the time, I hadn't seen the
necessity. Now I realized that without them, the business wouldn't have
survived. The store operated on a small profit if managed properly. There was
little margin for error. Too much inventory and I'd be running a debt I
couldn't afford, and with too little I wouldn't have enough to turn a profit.
Basically, the store broke even or turned a small profit each month selling commercial
things such as candles, knick-knacks, books on Voodoo and New Orleans, voodoo dolls,
gris-gris bags and charms I made. The real profit came from selling herbs and
fortunetelling.
But I was content with my life. My congregation was growing again. I had lost
several when Granny died, but some had returned and four new individuals had
joined. The new members gave me the most satisfaction. I believe in God and
thought Vodou a good way to honor him—or her—and it felt wonderful
helping others find comfort and peace in their lives. For now, I used the Woldenberg
Park on the river but hoped someday I could have a dedicated place of my own
like Monique.
When I looked up at my small, battery driven clock on the wall, it was
nearly eight p.m., and my new client would be due any minute. I put away my
ledgers and went into the store just in time to hear a knock at the door. The
woman had said she heard about me indirectly from one of my clients, a Mr. Harry
Bishop, who ran a small nightclub in the French Quarter called the Blue Sax.
She gave her name as Ms. Ellen Jeffery and looked to be in her early thirties.
I didn't need to press for details about her jobs, where she lived, etc., since
I didn't need any hints about the person as a fake would. On the surface, she
was a professional of some kind, judging by her neat appearance and expensive
clothes, and single since she wasn't wearing a ring. Her dark brown hair was
neck length and curly, which made her angular face look narrower. Her figure was
trim but nicely curved.
"Good evening, Ms. Jeffery," I said as she entered. She had an
attractive smile that seemed a bit practiced.
"You can call me Ellen, Renee." She paused to
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