Run Baby Run (14 page)

"I hope it's as good as it used to be," she murmured to the closest lady in front of her in line.

Her counterpart in age, dress, and appetite said, "It always is, my baby."

Eventually Miss Melba paid the cashier, was led to a table by the hostess, and had a waiter ask for her drink order. She smiled. "Sail On" by the Commodores was playing. A vast aroma was pervasive. All were happy and satisfied.

Miss Melba was at Harrah's lunch buffet.

"Sunday lunch costs twice as much as on weekdays," she chided. "But I guess it's alright. I'd like a cup of coffee and water, please." She placed the box under the table and made her way to collect her first plate.

She had a system for the buffet. Left to right. Miss Melba looked like a finch but ate like a buzzard.

For the first time since she left the house, she wasn't in direct possession of the beer case.

14

W
hile Miss Melba was calmly working through a plate of fried catfish, mac & cheese, and mashed potatoes & gravy, it was all beginning to play out around the casino.

Hutch was searching for her. Delery was searching for Hutch. Kostya and Johnny were entering Harrah's to search for Hutch.

It may not be true to say that everything that rises must converge, but without question, if it does, it happens at the foot of Canal Street. Not just on land. Steps away, the river is full of pharmaceuticals, agricultural run-off, and other toxic slurries. If it's used or flushed by the rest of the country, down the river it goes.

Hutch expected Miss Melba to be playing high-stakes tables, so he bypassed the slot machines. "Maybe poker," he thought, but all he saw were a couple people per table, none of them an older black woman in all white.

Delery had never been in a casino before, so he began canvassing every inch of the place, slot machines included.

"I don't know if I'm struck more by the spirals of light overhead or how happy all the elderly people are playing the slots," he thought. Several of them had multiple buckets of chips gathered around their preferred computerized machine.

Kostya didn't trust Johnny, so they stayed together, but he'd given Johnny his gun back before they went inside.

"You better be right," Kostya said menacingly to Johnny.

"I'm telling you. I'd know him anywhere."

They saw numerous tourists with some semblance of Mardi Gras colors, but none were Hutch.

Harrah's security was discreet, mostly a few men in yellow shirts. Everyone knew, though, with so much money at stake throughout the casino, it wouldn't take much for an overt elevated presence to make itself known.

Kostya figured that if Johnny was right, the preferable way of securing Hutch was near one of the entrance doors around the casino, so they could quickly get him outside. The streets were their turf. Pavel was waiting on Canal in the car.

The Russian and Sicilian stalked past the cashiers who exchanged casino chips for cash, credit card, or line of credit. Vice versa, as well. They were the bank.

Meanwhile, Hutch was perplexed. He was coming up short and getting more confused, worried, and angry by the minute. Restrooms were now a possibility.

"Why not? Here somewhere, gamblin' away my money. Wasn't in the high-roller room," he said.

In the meantime, Miss Melba was working on her second plate. Turkey & gravy, barbecue brisket, and greens.

Hutch limped through the slot areas in case she was walking around, which brought him back to a Starbucks near the Canal entrance. His nerves were frayed.

"Small coffee," he said to the barista.

As trained, the earnest teenager responded, "A Tall? Would you like to make that a Venti for just a little more?"

Hutch stared her down. "Just gimme the damn coffee."

After he paid and collected his drink, he turned to leave, but she was relentless.

"Sir, here's your receipt. If you go to this website," she said, circling it with a pen, "and fill out the customer satisfaction survey, you'll get a discount next time. I'd appreciate it if you say we exceeded your expectations."

Hutch gave her a look that said, "Are you kidding me?" Though he didn't reply, someone else did.

"There are no surveys where he is going," said a voice with Russian-accented English.

Johnny knocked the coffee out of Hutch's hand before it could get thrown at either of them.

"Have a nice motherfucking day," Kostya said with a grim smile to the horrified barista.

Hutch tried to call out for help, but all that rose from his throat was a raw bout of coughing. Kostya and Johnny roughly led him to the door with guns stuck into his side. The casino greeter called security.

When a few yellow shirts ran past Delery seconds later, he followed them, hoping their urgency was connected to the man he'd been trying to find. By the time security and Delery made it out the front door, Kostya and Johnny had Hutch down the steps and midway to a waiting SUV. Something else froze Delery and the security guards in place.

A red streetcar was on its way up Canal. Another was heading the other direction. From their view, elevated by ten steps up, Delery and a half dozen Harrah's security guards saw a couple men racing across the street directly toward the two and their captive. The streetcars blocked the view by the threesome.

Minutes before, Stink, Lyric, and Lyric's two sidekicks left McDonald's and walked with Blue Shoes to the ferry terminal where Canal ended. Blue Shoes was on his way to see his Algiers honey, and the others were passing the time.

Blue Shoes had his head down, texting her, when Stink said, "Look, Blue. Them whities got that bouncer!"

"Aw, fuck no. I ain't sleepin' on that. Them bleach-ass muthafuckas ain't takin' that nigga," Blue Shoes said. He pulled out his .45 and started across Canal.

Stink followed him with a drawn .38. They both ran right through the midst of backed-up cars in the three lanes on their side of Canal.

Lyric looked on with adoring eyes, holding their McDonald's bags.

"That's my boo. He even shoot white mens. Fi'in' to get two right quick," she bragged to the others. "Ooh, watch this."

At that point, the two streetcars shielded surface level eyes on both sides of the street, but seconds later the scene opened up again.

Kostya and Johnny were pushing a limping Hutch off to the right where the SUV was idling. Pavel was waiting inside it, behind the wheel.

Blue Shoes and Stink were now across Canal, racing behind the three just ahead.

And the seven, Delery included, right outside the casino doors saw it all play out.

Four men had guns. All were right-handed.

Kostya who was on the left of Hutch, was the first to turn at the sound of quick footsteps. Hutch was next, followed by Johnny.

Hutch was big enough that Johnny, who was on his right, couldn't make a simple turn to his left to shoot. He had to spin and take a couple steps away from Hutch before firing. Johnny caught three bullets from Blue Shoes, one of them to the heart.

Kostya missed Stink, and Stink missed Kostya, but as momentum carried them closer together, Kostya put down Stink with a Russian-made pistol. Lyric's screams could be heard across the river.

Blue Shoes had been an erratic shot up until a month before, but he saw his practicing with bottles and cans in a City Park field pay off when he riddled Kostya's body with bullets.

Hutch had been terrified to move, what with all the bullets flying. He looked at the fallen men to his sides and at Blue Shoes, hoping the shooting was done.

"Little brother, y'all had me wonderin'. This is... ," Hutch said. A short blip sound preceded Hutch's keeling over. He bent at the waist before collapsing.

Pavel was a far better shooter than Kostya. He intended his second shot for the other man standing, but Blue Shoes took off running, and the Russian knew time as short. There was rarely NOPD presence on Canal Street, but they'd eventually show up.

Pavel unscrewed his silencer, put the safety on his .45, and tucked them both away in the vehicle. He reversed the SUV back to Kostya's bloody body, opened the back door on the right, and pulled his fellow Russian up into the back seat. Pavel took a right at the end of Canal and raced off.

Blue Shoes put his gun away while he ran with Lyric and friends back to the stolen Corolla he'd driven downtown.

"Holy shit," Delery said.

The Harrah's security guards saw him for the first time.

"One of you call NOPD," Delery said. "I'm working with them, but my phone's broken."

He went down to the carnage.

Stink moved and said, "Help me." Delery assured him that the EMS would be there soon. In squatting down, Delery came to a realization.

"You were one of the guys who tried to rob me earlier," he said. Stink was as helpless as an infant, so Delery kept his "Fuck you" to himself and turned around in disgust. No one else seemed alive.

Delery checked the pockets of the dead black man. Both driver's license and passport were in the name of Maurice Richard of Texas. The man had money on him, but nowhere near the amount that was stolen. "Not Raymond Pate, but not Sam Gibbs from Atlanta either," mused Delery. "Or they're aliases."

Delery waited there until all the first responders arrived, then he and the security guards told them what'd happened.

"I need to go inside. Wash up. Use the bathroom," Delery said. "I'll be back shortly. Have someone call Commander Jones then," he thought.

When he'd initially been looking for the man who may have been Hutch and made his way through the casino, back to where he remembered seeing the restrooms, Delery hadn't paid attention to the dining room.

This time, when he passed it and looked to his right, a sight caught his eye. The woman he'd seen earlier walking across the Claiborne overpass, right in the heart of where Clint Olson was killed and where the glowing man had been. Now she was here, sitting and eating. And a beer case at her feet. Cavallari had mentioned a beer case. Delery got in line for the buffet, still carrying his bag of books.

He was pleasantly surprised that the piped-in music, 70's soul, was better than most of what he'd heard on Bourbon Street.

After making his way through the payment line, more of his casino buffet preconceptions were shattered. The tables were filled with a racially mixed group, and only a few of them were obese. The vast majority were over sixty, though.

Delery asked the hostess if he could be seated at a particular table. It faced the lady dressed in white who had a beer case below her table. He wasn't going to let her out of his sight.

She got up after emptying her plate, so he rose too, not waiting to place his drink order. Left his notebook and pen on the table to show it was taken. He found it odd that she left the beer case unprotected. It was all he could do not to go over to it.

Delery followed her to the approximate middle of the hot food area. He saw her place a vegetarian egg roll, couple pieces of crab Rangoon, serving spoon of beef & broccoli, and half a serving spoon of shrimp fried rice on her plate. He quickly filled up his own plate in a similar way and walked at a healthy pace back to his table.

Though she was paying little mind to anything but lunch, he tried not to let his studying glances seem too obvious. He hadn't heard her speak to anyone, so he only had a physical description.

"Mid-60's or older. Dressed all in white, so she was at church before coming here. By herself, so her husband's probably passed away and she has few friends. Short curly white hair. Glasses. Petite. Eats like she walks, not in a rush, so she's not in a hurry. And that Abita case under the table. What I wouldn't give to open it," he thought.

Delery didn't know how to better initiate contact, so, leaving his plate of Asian food half-eaten, he got up and walked over to her table.

"Excuse me, ma'am, but I believe I saw you earlier. The Claiborne overpass back by Franklin," he said.

Miss Melba looked up.

"Yes, that was me, young man. On my way to church. It's Sunday."

Delery didn't like the dynamics of his standing over her.

"Ma'am, my name's Bobby Delery. Would you mind if I sit down?"

"Don't you have a table? I'm fine with my own company."

Delery saw no other choice but to be forward, so he sat down across from her.

"Can't a woman have some peace?" she sputtered.

"I apologize, but please. I need to ask you a few questions."

"Young man, what would you possibly have to ask me?"

"You carried that big beer case a long way," he questioned in the form of a statement.

Miss Melba put down her fork and lifted the box. Leaning toward him, she opened up the pieces of lid. Empty. Delery was stunned.

"Who couldn't carry an empty box?" she scoffed.

"No disrespect, but it looked like it was really heavy when I saw you with it."

Anger flashed in her eyes. "If you must know, I had some canned food to donate. I kept the box for gambling after lunch, though. Maybe I'll win. What do you care about an old woman and a box anyway?"

Other diners at the tables and booths around them were starting to stir and whisper about the interaction.

He laid it on the line. "I'll tell you why I'm asking. What's your name, by the way?"

"If you must know, it's Melba Barnes."

"Mrs. Barnes, I'm asking you all this because of my job. I'm a criminologist. NOPD asked me to assist them with a case. A club over on Bourbon Street had a lot of money go missing. People are after this money. Men may have just been killed for it. Right outside."

She shuddered. "Killed? All the money's from Bourbon Street?" She stopped, realizing she'd said too much.

"Yes, ma'am. A man was taken by gunpoint out of Harrah's. He and the two men who had him were all shot and killed. A young guy was shot too, but it looks like he'll be okay."

Miss Melba was curious and couldn't resist saying, "I saw an odd man earlier. He had a limp. Coughed a lot. Big too."

Delery wondered if she was implicating herself. This sounded like the same person he'd questioned. "Was he dressed like a tourist? Mardi Gras clothes and beads?"

"Oh, no. Not at all," she said, confusing Delery once again.

He tried one last ditch effort. "Do you know that man's name, Mrs. Barnes?" he asked.

"How would I know that?"

"Let me ask you this way. Do the names Raymond Pate, Hutch, Sam Gibbs, or Maurice Richard mean anything to you?"

She was ready to extricate herself from the questioning.

"Of course not. Why would they?" she snapped. "My food's getting cold. Do you mind letting me be? It's been less than a pleasure."

Delery realized he'd pushed hard enough for the time being. His instincts were telling him she was connected in some way. New Orleans was a small interconnected city of fewer than 400,000 people, but when circumstantial aspects start piling up, there's probably a reason.

He excused himself and started to rise from the chair at the same time a tall jowly old white man wearing a strikingly large fishing hat and particularly short nylon shorts came jingling up to the table, all knees and exuberance. His age spots were the color of subdivisions everywhere.