Now Let's Talk of Graves (18 page)

What stuff was Kitty talking about? “You want to sit around all afternoon talking trash or you want to get on with business here?”

“Well, pardon me, Miss In-a-Big-Hurry. You lived in California too long, girl. They've turned you into a Yankee.”

Sam laughed. “That's for sure the first time the Left Coast has ever been accused of lighting a fire under somebody's fanny. Most folks think you go out there for the big snooze.”

“Not N'Awlins folk, honey. You know we got the national monopoly on relaxation. Cain't get no work done before lunch—too busy drinking coffee, and then afterward—well, you need a little nap, then it's cocktail time and—”

“Kitty, you'd tell me if there was somebody you thought had it in for you, wouldn't you? Wanted to hurt you through Church, I mean—”

“Why, of course I would. Why? Did you run up on somebody said something different?”

“Nope. Just checking. What about Ma Elise?”

“You kidding? She's already outlived all those what were jealous of her beauty, or our family, or our old house.”

“That pretty much leaves Zoe, doesn't it?”

“So, what you got?”

Sam took a deep breath. She didn't want to raise Kitty's ire again, harping on the same sore spots.

“Two things. One, Harry's found Madeline.”

There was a long silence. Finally Kitty said, “Good. You'll take care of your business with her, and then we'll see where that leaves us. Vis-à-vis Zoe, I mean.”

That was a step forward. One more. “And Zoe told me the name of her supplier.”

“Yes?”

“His name's Billy Jack. That mean anything to you?”

“Not really. Though this is the second time I've heard it today. Harry called and said something about the same man, left you a message.”

“Gee thanks, Kitty. You're a hell of an answering service.”

“I was getting to it. He said, Just a minute, let me find my glasses here. She read off the words: Billy Jack's no longer at the restaurant. No forwarding. I'll go at him another direction.”

Whatever that meant, Sam murmured.

“Wait,” said Kitty. “There were two more calls. G.T. said she wanted to talk to you. She left her work number.”

“I was going to call her. Woman has great ESP.”

“Honey, ESP ain't the half of G.T., once you get to know her. And Hoke Tolliver called. Your boss, he said to remind you, in case you'd forgotten.”

“Such a card, that Hoke.”

“He said he would appreciate it to hell and gone if you would give him a jingle.” Sam could hear her lighting a cigarette. “He sounded kind of cute.”

“He is, if you like a man who looks like a hound dog with a crew cut. And first you'd have to beat his wife, Lois, off with a stick.”

“Girl, why you bothering me with these little details?”

“Before you go back to earning a living, tell me about this Sister Nadine that Cole was talking about, said Church led him to her.”

“Cole Leander's lost his mind is what. Church wouldn't ever have anything to do with that preacher woman. My brother may have had a whole slew of vices, but proselytizing folks, even a slimebag like Cole Leander, into the clutches of TV evangelists wasn't one of them.”

“TV?”

“You haven't caught Sister Nadine's act? Oh, that's right. I forget she's on the local cable. But I tell you, she ought to be national. International. Hell of a lot better than Joan Rivers.”

“That's not saying much. She's funny, you mean?”

“Hysterical. Ask Ma Elise or Ida. They catch her every afternoon—when they're not over at the poolhall shooting snooker with the boys in tight jeans. But Church—?” And then there was the slightest, the tiniest of pauses. Sam knew something had dawned on Kitty, something she wasn't telling. Then Kitty raced on. “Never Church. If you wanta see her yourself, she's on at three. When ladies get tired of watching Oprah parade herself around, they flip over to Nadine.”

“But Leander talked like he
knew
her. Not on the TV, but in
person
.”

“Anybody 'round here can reach right out and touch her, they want to go over to her church. I think she calls it a tabernacle. It's right on the edge of the Quarter, over on North Rampart almost to Esplanade.”

“She preaches every day?”

“They broadcast her show live, from right there, every afternoon people got money in their pockets think it's gonna buy 'em a seat in God's balcony. Ma Elise and Ida have been. They said it was some show.”

“I guess it's a hell of a lot easier than getting a chair upstairs at the Comus ball.”

“See? You've already figured out the appeal of a lady like Nadine in a city snobby as this one. Preaching about an equal opportunity Jesus. That and the pies—well, you'll see.”

“Did you say pies?”

“Listen, I got to get back to work here. Get out there on the street, girl.
Earn
that fee.”

“Sit on it, Kitty.”

“Thank you ever so much, sweetheart.” An imaginary cigar waggled in her voice.

Kitty's Groucho routine had always made Sam laugh. “By the way, Kit,” she said, signing off. “It's impolite to keep an old man waiting. Even if he is a slimebag. You ought to return old Cole Leander's call. He's got something real interesting to say.”

Talking to G.T. on the phone, Sam could hear the
blap blap blap
of the ambulance's siren in the background.

G.T. was dropping somebody off at Charity. She said it ought to be the last run of her shift. Then she'd have Ark drop her at the St. Louis Street police station, on the rear boundary of the Quarter. It was the safest place in the neighborhood, she said, and there was something near there she wanted to show Sam.

Did Sam think she could find it? She'd meet her out front. Oh, and bring seven dimes, said G.T.

*

“Man couldn't find his own butt with both hands, UPS delivered it to him,” Detective Blackstone was saying to his partner, Shea, standing out on the steps of the St. Louis station at shift change. They were talking about their captain, Perkins, who they both thought was a fool. On a good day.

“Uh-oh,” said Shea, watching the ambulance pull into the parking lot. Then back up, turn around. “They done come for you, 'Stone. I thought I been smelling something the past three or four days. Reckon you been brain dead at least that long, that Black Jack got ahold of you.”

“Yeah,” his partner answered. “You gone think something else got ahold of you in a minute here. You see who that is? General Taylor Johnson, what hauled Church Lee to the emergency. Gonna want a full report, wanta know how come we been dragging ass on that thing.”

“Yeah. Well, just tell her the truth, 'Stone. A, that it ain't none of her cute little business. And B, we're stupid, no count, don't know what a whole lot of nines is.”

“Don't have to tell her nothing. That woman, she just closes her eyes, she
sees
it.”

“Yeah. Well, let's give her our whole caseload and see if she can whomp it. Then you and me can tie up the loose ends, haul our fat asses into Earline's old man's boat, head on out to Grand Isle do some fishing. Weather's too nice us to be hanging around this city busting heads.”

“I hear that.”

Just about then G.T. popped up to the bottom step with her neat little feet laced into a pair of black Reeboks. She was already out of her whites, back into her workshirt and jeans, her regulation street clothes. In her left hand she was carrying a couple of white carnations. She said, “How y'all doin'?”

“Fine. Fine,” answered Shea. “You come over here to give us those flowers or bust our chops?”

“Just using your steps to meet the lady's gonna do that little thing for me.”

“Uh-huh.” Blackstone gave Shea the big wink. “And who's that gonna be? Superwoman?”

“Marie LaVeau, more likely.” Shea laughed. “Ain't that the name of that old voodoo queen? One y'all conjure up in your meetings?” He punched Blackstone in the arm. “When y'all stabbing chickens?”

“That's your business.” G.T. smiled a pretty smile at them. “Stabbings. Beatings. Killings.”

“You get the feeling Miz Johnson here ain't impressed with us?” said Blackstone, giving Shea a wide-eyed look.

“I think she—” Then something else caught Shea's attention. “Lordy, would you look at that? Who you think that is, son?”

“I don't know, but I have the feeling she's headed over here. Probably needs our help in the worst way.” Blackstone was tugging on his belt, hoisting his trousers up.

G.T. was already down the steps. Bye-bye, she waved. Then she turned and flipped the words back over her shoulder. “Pretty woman's name is Sam Adams. She's gonna show you boys up something terrible on this Church Lee business. You better get moving, you planning on saving face.”

Shea looked at Blackstone. Blackstone looked at Shea. They shook their heads and laughed. “No way, lady. No way.”

Fourteen

SAM AND G.T. were walking uptown on North Rampart toward Our Lady of St. Guadalupe. Just beyond the church were the Iberville projects, built on the ruins of the legendary Storyville. That once-infamous red-light district had worn a gay, grinning face above a pestilential underbelly. In the present-day grim and deadly projects, what you saw was what you got. This was a neighborhood the guidebooks warned visitors away from.

Sam knew that. “Wait, where are we going?”

G.T. answered. “For a consult.”

Sam put her hand on G.T.'s ann. “Whoa, let's stop right here.” She didn't even know this young woman. Sure, there was her reputation as a voodoo queen, but did magic make her impervious to mugging, rape? And would whatever Invisible Protective Shield enveloped her work for Sam too? “A consult with whom? Where? About what?”

As they stopped on the front steps of Our Lady, Sam took a closer look at G.T. She had seen her only that one time, the night Church was killed, and that was in the rain and the dark.

General Taylor Johnson was in her early twenties, of medium height, lean, lithe, and light-skinned. Her brown eyes were almost golden. Her long, reddish-brown hair was plaited in little braids laced with bright beads that clicked when she walked. All in all, she looked more like a cute college student with a pert nose and an easy smile than a voodoo queen—though Sam wasn't really sure what one of those looked like.

“What do you mean, a consult?” Sam asked.

“I thought we'd go talk with Mam'zelle.” Then G.T. pointed behind the church to the gates of St. Louis Cemetery No.1. Behind it rose a city of white marble tombs.

“Mam'zelle's here? Mam'zelle who?”

“Mam'zelle Marie LaVeau.”

The famous voodoo queen. But wasn't she dead? Of course she was. Otherwise they wouldn't be calling on her here.

“Now, why would we want to do that?” Sam asked. “Listen, I was going to call you to talk about Church Lee. We can do that in a coffeeshop.”

“Yes. But it might help a lot if we visited Mam'zelle first.” G.T. smiled; her strong white teeth looked like little tombstones themselves. “Look, I knew why you wanted to talk with me. Ida told me; besides, why wouldn't you? I was there when it happened, right beside you. I know all about the insurance business, and I'm happy to help you any way I can. But you have to respect where
I'm
coming from.” She waved a hand toward the cemetery.

Sam nodded. Maybe. “Go on.”

“You probably think I'm nuts, wanting to do this before we start, but that's 'cause you're not from New Orleans. Most people 'round here have no problem with folks practicing the ancient arts. It's part of our religion. Natural as breathing. It helps us get what we need and what we want.”

Sam smiled skeptically. She'd lived in California. She'd known people who bayed at the moon, called themselves witches, did all manner of the bizarre. But none of them had ever practiced voodoo. Besides, this young woman looked so normal. She told G.T. that.

G.T. laughed. “I
am
normal. What d'you think—I'm gonna cut your gizzard out? Set you on fire? Listen, I'm a college student—straight as they come.”

Well, Sam had called
that
right.

“
And
a trained emergency medical technician. In a couple of years I'm going to medical school. Nothing crazy about that, right? All I'm asking you to do here is step inside the cemetery with me and ask Mam'zelle for a blessing to help us with this thing with Church. She's closer to him than we are, you know, since he's passed over.”

Well, she did have a point there,
if
you believed in the hereafter. “Let's sit down on the steps here,” Sam said, “and you tell me all about Mam'zelle.”