Run Baby Run (2 page)

With an odd sense of woozy purpose, Toes picked up the heavy cardboard Abita Amber beer case that sat undisturbed next to him. He began swaying down the street with confusion.

His speech had purpose before, but now he muttered and squinted.

"Rooster... green... ceiling fan," he sputtered. The gibberish made complete sense to him.

He swayed and stumbled along Rudy's Auto Repair on his right and the tall green warehouse across the street.

Toes continued through the Villere intersection, past a variety of little houses. Though he saw no one and was only bidden by his mission of carrying the case with both arms, a few eyes saw him, a milk-white man dripping red blood.

More eyes behind windows were alert by the time he made it at his slow pace to the next cross street. There had been a horrific crime a few months ago on the block of Urquhart to his right, and the neighbors were still uneasy.

A drug dealer had been getting high and playing video games with three others while a woman they called Bucketmouth pleasured each of them in turn. Three members of a competing gang broke in, held them all hostage, demanded the money, and killed two of them before the naked young woman led the assailants to the stash.

The upper body of Toes swung in a semi-circle with feet rooted to the ground as he paused, before internal radar led him off St. Ferdinand and on to his left. "Rooster... red... ceiling fan," louder this time.

There was only one block of Urquhart left before the train tracks. Toes veered to the left side of the street.

Woozy radar led him along a series of fences. His left elbow bumped first against the chain link fence, rattling it. The rattle turned into a dull thud when the fence became wood, then metal. By the time the fence was cinderblock and he moved past it, his scuffed elbow began to bleed. The last part of the fence, merely scraps of tin and wood, before opening up to the train yard, delivered the final blow.

"Rooster... yellow... ceiling span," he said, louder than before, in further pain from the jagged metal and nails catching his now pulpy left elbow.

But yet, he held the beer case firmly. Bloody nose continued dripping, building up on his shirt and shorts, a few drops still making it to the street.

A gravel and pothole filled stretch was alongside the tracks. Toes stumbled through it all.

The railroad yard began to widen at Marais, a parallel block toward the river, and continued to swell with tracks until its widest point between Claiborne and Galvez.

New Orleans' initial existence came to be as a port city. The trains and yards were a reminder that despite modern changes, the city existed to ship goods in and out. Tracks threaded the city and surrounding areas, from St. Bernard to upriver, along I-610, through Old Metairie, alongside Airline Highway, and more.

Navigation of the tracks at hand by Toes was a different matter. His broken nose and jumbled mind led him forward.

Initially he bumped his feet on the train tracks and stopped. In his confusion, he was trudging through a few feet of flood water, saving paper products.

"Rooster... ripple... ceiling span," he told the world while he lifted his legs high through the imaginary water. Box held above his head to keep it dry for the crossing.

High-stepping like he was crossing a swollen creek, Toes maneuvered through the series of metal tracks, wooden ties, and gravel filler. He bobbed and weaved, asserted and complied. Had any eyes been on him, they'd not have expected him to make it across but instead pitch forward on his face.

Toes looked to his right, where the tracks led to the river. He leaned back to tilt his head up at the moon a little to the left of the Crescent City Connection bridge.

In doing so, along with the weight of the beer case above his head, gravity almost got the better of him and sent him down again on his back.

He groaned and swayed, righting himself and high-stepping like a Clydesdale horse over the last couple sets of tracks.

At least he could walk normally again, which still resembled a drunkard's shamble or zombie shuffle. He was also able to drop the beer case to his chest. Trouble averted. Imaginary paper products kept dry.

On the downriver side of the train yard, a chain link fence might've been an obstacle to his forward drive but for the fact that it had been crudely torn open as if by a train itself.

Toes moved through it, pleased in some way, despite his state.

"Rooster... red... all day long," he hollered.

The mission of Toes continued along Urquhart, past the long linen services building on the right that spanned the block.

A few doors across Feliciana, he paused and registered in a distorted-mind way the music lightly heard over the wooden fence to his right. He loudly added a variation to his refrain, which in turn could be heard by those inside the fence. At first there were chuckles of bewilderment at how the clumsy braying matched up to the song playing.

"Nina Simone's not a rooster! No pizza for you," a husky voice called out.

The response struck Toes as a threat, reeling as he was.

He lurched to the other side of the street, bumping into a parked food truck that had Bentley's Meals on Wheels painted along the side.

This continuing threat compelled him to take the next left, turning on Clouet. Toes kept to the middle of the street.

He steadied himself midway before Villere on a For Sale sign posted between the street and the sidewalk. He was out of breath and drenched with sweat. Both his nose and elbow had stopped bleeding, though the former was bent to the side and the latter was a raw mess.

Soft voices carried through the summer air. "Can you believe... " "I know, right."

Toes turned and saw them coming from the direction he'd slowly taken. Two young women on bicycles. Both variations on the other. Summer dresses, clunky boots, flowery head pieces, devil-may-care attitudes.

Feeling threatened again, Toes put down the case and pulled out a can of spray paint from his backpack. It was then they saw him and slowed.

"Are you okay?" "He seems dazed."

Toes came to life, stomping heavily toward them and spraying each with dark blue paint.

"Nina Simone... not... my... song," he yelled at them.

They biked off, cursing. Toes was now facing the boarded-up former Lorraine Hansberry Elementary School, its periphery surrounded by ten foot tall chain link, which was topped with barbed wire. In the recesses of his bruised mind, coherence wanted to return, triggered by the abandoned building untouched by spray paint. He grunted, but it didn't become a known thought.

He dropped the can on the street, retrieved the cardboard beer case, and proceeded up to Robertson, which was now at street level. Due to the confrontation delaying his journey, a tow truck pulling a white SUV sped past seconds before he entered the roadway.

Led by the unknown, Toes continued on Clouet, beyond the church van parked on the right that would be picking up congregants for service at New Life Baptist Church in a few hours. He kept on. Across Claiborne, which was typically busy. Past the blighted house on the left with a sign indicating it was soon to be demolished. Past Derbigny. He came to a little alley on the right.

He grinned with a simple-minded mouth.

His mind didn't register then or ever that his eyes next saw the sign reading Industrial Court, didn't know that he followed it, nor that he collapsed alongside the house at the end, beer box by his side.

2

H
utch yanked the steering wheel to pull the bucking jeep out of the guard rail. It all happened so quickly, whatever was in the road that he hit, launching the jeep skyward. Clint was catapulted out of it and jammed up against the guard rail. From Clint's screams, Hutch had a bad feeling his partner had just been sandwiched and smashed to death.

"Damn," he thought, "Should've got a fuckin' canvas top for the jeep."

None of the plan was going accordingly. The big white SUV was still chasing him, his getaway was going the wrong direction, and he had no partner anymore. Was the money still safe on the floor where Clint's feet had been? He was driving too fast to look down.

Hutch didn't know this area. He'd grown up in Gert Town, stayed in Marrero across the river for years, and worked in the French Quarter.

As he sped on Robertson, elevated across the train yard, he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision. It gave him an idea, but he'd have to act quickly. The SUV was barreling forward in the left lane.

"Double back, double back," he repeated like a mantra.

This needed to work perfectly, otherwise they'd keep on following him like they had from the Quarter.

To trick them, he sped up and passed the next three blocks with the speedometer needle pushing above 75 mph. Robertson was back down to street level.

The SUV increased speed as well and pulled up alongside him. Hutch could sense they were edging over and trying to match his speed perfectly. He took a gamble they were about to ram the jeep off the road.

Between Clouet and Louisa, a long brick cemetery wall ran the entire length along the right-hand side.

Hutch thought, "Alright, just past this. Then I get up outta here."

He let off the gas and lightly tapped the brakes before reaching the next corner. Not enough to jolt him forward, but a deceleration of at least 20 mph.

As he did this, the SUV pulled hard and fast to the right, intending to strike metal with metal. Instead it met air, which yielded quicker than expected.

In a perfect crisscross, Hutch was able to turn from the right lane and make a left on Piety. He heard the boom behind him. The SUV drove into the house on the downriver corner of the street.

It was an odd structure, a four room long shotgun double used as a single. The front door originally on the right side for that unit had been filled and covered with weatherboards. This made the structure look off-kilter, what with only a left side front door and no windows. The steps to the porch running right down the middle had a rail on only the right side, further confusing the eye.

Those were the structural idiosyncrasies before the roaring Ford Explorer entered the house.

Luckily for the next door neighbor, the SUV didn't also make it into his place. The vehicle plowed through the front parlor of the corner shotgun from the side. The still-existing front middle wall and fireplace slowed it enough so that only the front of the vehicle made it through the opposite outside wall.

The two adult women sleeping in the middle rooms immediately awoke and flung themselves to the floor, grabbing the three little ones with them. They thought it was gunshots or a bomb, not expecting an SUV had demolished part of the house.

The two men inside the vehicle looked at each other, cursed, locked their doors, and pulled out all of their guns. They put a couple of them on the dashboard and held the others tightly. The driver Johnny grimaced and sighed.

"Boss is gonna be fucking mad," he said while taking out his phone and dialing.

Simultaneous to all of this, Hutch took Piety up a block to Claiborne, doubling back the same direction he'd come from. Like Robertson, Claiborne was elevated above the train yard.

"Guess I'm gonna have to do all this shit myself," Hutch said.

Then it hit him.

"But I keep all the money. If it didn't fly out the jeep."

In his exuberance to check on the money and with the recent experience of running several stoplights in the chase, Hutch ran the red light at Claiborne and Franklin. He'd slowed his speed but totaled the jeep and a little Honda Civic he struck. Both mangled front ends.

The other driver was a slight young man on his way home from a security job that paid minimum wage. The Civic was how he kept from relying on infrequent buses that would make his shift across town run more than an extra hour. He got out of his car pushed near the neutral ground and crumpled by the jeep still up in it.

"What the fuck!" he said, shoulders pulled back for conflict.

Hutch stepped out of the jeep with a different look. He wasn't mad. He was full-on furious. He'd just realized that the beer case flew out of the jeep with Clint, so he had no money, no partner, no car, and rough characters were looking for him. He limped over to the security guard, his left knee banged up in the crash.

Holding his hands up in an appearance of appeasement, he said, "Sorry, little brother."

With a quick left, Hutch rabbit punched the man and followed it up with a powerful right. Put him down so fast the security guard fell right into nap time.

Hutch limped over to the sidewalk, leaving the smaller man prone on the ground behind him.

"Don't know what I'm gonna do, but I got to get off the street," he said.

There were no witnesses to his hobbling along Franklin. Had there been, they'd have seen a man in his early 50's. He was solidly built, with a face and complexion similar enough to that of Motown star Willie Hutch from decades back.

Hutch, whose legal name was Raymond Pate, liked the high school nickname, especially since everyone had called his best friend "Raymond at the end of the block" to differentiate them. Hutch was better. Tight. Tough. A good name during his boxing days.

He was now twenty years past his prime but still strong enough to handle the out-of-control drunks and belligerent types as a bouncer at Club Big Easy in the 500 block of Bourbon. Hadn't forgotten how to knock a man out with a punch, like the guy on the ground.

New Orleans and the West Bank were home. Pops had a heart attack after seeing his drowned house after the flood, but Hutch couldn't imagine keeping a few hustles going anywhere else. Moms wasn't on this earth either. Who knew where his brother Eric had gone?

Hutch was dressed in black from head to toe, same as he'd been at work. He wouldn't be able to blend into the night much longer, though. Daylight would be coming.

Wincing from his tender knee, he tried to walk on the side of his foot, wincing harder at the idea he now had no home. Couldn't stay in New Orleans. No new place to go to either, what with the money gone.

Hutch couldn't have felt more helpless, more alone, but for a moment he also considered himself blessed.

Two doors before the next Franklin intersection stood an abandoned building. The little house just past it was tidy. Flowers in front, flag holder, the whole deal. This other building, though, was a mess.

The façade was tan-colored stucco with three large grey paint blotches partly covered by larger brown ones to mask the graffiti already coming back. There were three second floor windows with metal canopies.

Hutch nodded in approval. This would work as a hide-out for now, but how to get in?

Both iron doors were locked. The one in the middle with a garage door next to it, also locked, must've been for the business. The door on the left had steps behind it and was a 1/2 address. Former upstairs apartment.

Hutch was now determined. "This is good," he said softly. A difficult place to get into probably meant no other inhabitants, and he could stay there as long as needed.

There were chain link gates on both sides of the building. The one on the left was used by the tidy-house-occupants to protect their car and a swing. The one on the right had nothing behind it but overgrown weeds. Easy choice.

Hutch scaled the gate. It normally would've been a simple move, but with his banged-up knee, he went over sideways, like a track high jumper extending over a pole with legs as scissors. "Motherfuckin'sonofafuckin'bitch," he said, due to the strain.

Hutch ran his hands over his sweaty forehead.

After climbing over a second chain link gate in the rear, he shouldered open the rotted back door.

"This building ain't been occupied since Katrina. Maybe longer than that," he said.

He limped up the stairs, feeling the mold already getting into his system.

"Aw, hell no," Hutch said, remembering how the black mold had irritated his nose and mouth when gutting a few houses. Eventually he had to stop doing favors, because his body couldn't handle it.

The second floor was a mix of detritus and disarray. The roof was open to the sky in spots, so the mildew and mold was fresh and strong from occasional rain. Anything of potential value had been taken away for reuse or cash. All that was left was in the process of disintegration. The stench was overwhelming.

Hutch's eyes stung, but only from the mold. He was in a shitload of trouble. His world was rapidly getting smaller. A target was on his back. But he was a tough character himself.

"Be strong, Hutch. Keep it together. Done some dirt in my life, but this is a whole lotta mess," he said.

He hobbled over to the closest window overlooking the street, being careful not to walk under the roof holes. Hutch assumed that years of rain had rotted the floorboards. Termites, attracted by the moisture, likely would've turned the wood to sponge.

Hutch looked out at Franklin and the closed Chinese restaurant across the street. He was immediately reminded of how the whole thing came about. Stretching out on the floor next to the window, the conversation with Clint at the Chinese place in the Quarter about a month ago bombarded his mind.

"What's the deal? Shit, Clint, couldn't we talk about this at work?"

"Hutch, Hutch, take it easy. Tell me the chicken isn't all that."

"Yeah, it's good, but why we here on Dauphine? Not for the food. C'mon, man. Placate me."

"Okay, okay. Here it is. I heard crazy stuff at the club yesterday. Been thinkin' about it. I got in early. Had to bring my bitters and tinctures I made at home."

"Nobody buys those science drinks. They want the cheapest thing get them drunk off their ass."

"I'm a mixologist, Hutch. It's an art. Mr. C gave me the bar on the 2nd floor for a reason. Upscale crowd."

"Alright, alright. So you get in early."

"And I'm upstairs, crouched below the bar, puttin' my bag away and organizing. Mr. C comes in on the phone. I'm about to stand up, but I hear what he's saying. The boss was givin' him the new safe combination and made Mr. C repeat it back to him. Turns out they change it every few months."

"C'mon. Don't talk stupid."

"No, wait. Listen to this. Got your game face on, Hutch?"

"Please. You got nothin' more I wanna know."

"Hutch, you definitely wanna hear this. Our safe — the safe at Club Big Easy — is where they keep the skims from all four of the clubs the boss owns on Bourbon. It's a mix of video poker and skims from the house. Plus all the other... "

"C'mon. I... "

"Hutch, they keep almost... "

"Nah, I'm good. Stop playin'."

"... a million dollars in that safe."

"Whoa. You serious? On the real?"

"Yeah. You see my face. I'm not playin'. I'd heard they trade all the cash out at the bank for new $100 bills before it goes to the boss."

"Why you tellin' me? You want the black man to take the fall, huh?"

"I'm tellin' you 'cause this is a two-man job, and you definitely want the action."

"How you see that?"

"That's the best part. Every Sunday at 3:30 a.m., Mr C sends his two guys out for the money, then goes downstairs, picks out someone, and takes him out back to that room in the courtyard."

"I seen it. I don't like that shit, but I know what he does."

"That means nobody's in the office, Hutch. Nobody's watching the cameras."

"And all that paper just sittin' there for you, huh?"

man to take the fall, h

"Yeah. For
us
. You gotta take care of things on the 1st floor. Make sure Mr. C doesn't come back upstairs. Make sure Johnny and Big T don't come up if they get back early."

"We do this, we dead men."

"Not if we leave New Orleans immediately. We disappear. It's all skims, so they can't go to the feds."

"I'm not worried 'bout no feds. Any of them — Mr. C, Johnny, Big T — boss have any of them put a bullet in my black head and your white one."

"But what if you could get away, could go away?"

"Sure, I seen a few countries on the Travel Channel. But, c'mon, son."

"Hutch, here's your chance. Might be your last chance. Go to the right place and you can retire."

"How much paper in that safe right now?"

"I told you. Almost a million dollars."

"Motherfucker, give me a real number. Not gonna put my life on the line for an 'almost.'"

"Okay, okay. Mr. C told the boss there was $982,300 in the safe. They were cleaning it out over the next couple days. In a month it'll be built up again. It's summer, but we're still pulling people in."

"You're straight with me on this?"

"Yeah, Hutch."

"Look here, bruh. I get half."

"Of course. I... "

"No, now you listen. I get half. Your dumb ass don't talk to nobody else 'bout this. I hear you do that or think you tryin' to play me, I put you down myself."

"Don't worry about it. With my mind and your muscles... "

"I said listen, motherfucker. Shit,
I
tell
you
how it's goin' down. Ain't gonna be no rinky dink plan. You know how I do. Methodical. You want me to mess with you on this, got to be on point. You fuck up, I go down too. We do this methodical, or we don't do it. I can live my life. Maintain like it has been. Alright."

"Yes, definitely."

"I wasn't askin'. That was me tellin' you how it is. Hear me?"

"Oh, I didn't... "

"Clint, shut the fuck up and listen. Placate me, motherfucker, alright. We do this in a month. Look up that date on your phone. Between now and then, this what happens. Empty bank accounts. Get rid of computers. No more Facebook and texting bullshit for you. Cut up credit cards. A week out, we get rid of our phones. You got a girlfriend? Roommate?"