Run Baby Run (3 page)

"Negative on the roommate. Of course I got a girlfriend. And the date is the overnight of Saturday, June 7th and Sunday, June 8th."

"You don't say a word to her."

"No, don't worry."

"You don't say a word and you dump her tomorrow. Seriously. Don't do that and it's off. I'll take care of the getaway car and get us fake ID's. Passport for me. You want a passport?"

"No, I was thinking I'd go... "

"Stop! Don't tell me where you're goin'. I'm not tellin' you my place. When we leave the club, we drive straight to Houston. After that, we separate. Put some decoys in the trash at our places, throw 'em off track."

"Wow, Hutch. You definitely got your game face on."

"I invented the motherfuckin' game face. Hand me that egg roll."

"But tomorrow? I gotta break up with her tomorrow?"

"Yeah, and do it right quick."

"Okay... so the getaway car. What's it gonna be?"

"I don't know yet, Clint. Nothin' flashy. Anonymous. Wheels with a plate and a VIN that's not stolen and can't track to us."

"This isn't gonna be some rimmed out hooptie, is it, Hutch?"

"Rimmed out hooptie? That's some racist shit right there. Wrong decade too."

"Racist? I voted for Obama twice."

"I stand corrected. Racist and stupid, Clint. Racist and stupid."

"You're anti-Obama like the tea party nuts?"

"No, course not. Did I want the man in the office? Yeah. Am I glad you devils ain't killed him? Definitely. But, listen. I'm 16th Ward, born and raised. Forshey and Fern, near Earhart. What I know from all my years is don't trust a politician. Obama ain't Jesus. He's a politician. What's he done for me? I don't vote for none of 'em."

"But being black, you don't feel like you should... "

"So now you gonna tell me how I should be? I forgot. White's always right."

"That's not fair."

"You got that right. Not fair, but we livin' it. Matter fact, white means right and black means run, baby, run 'fore they get you. Now, enough of this nonsense. Don't look hurt, Clint. I ain't madatcha. It's on. Whatever you wanna call it — hit, heist, caper, robbery, rip-off — it's on."

Back to the present, Hutch sniffed and coughed from the mold. Remembering the hypothetical and living in the pragmatic was a big descent. It was a bad day. Luck couldn't get any worse. His walls had tumbled down. He hoped to fall asleep and not wake up. Let the mold overtake and turn him into organic matter like everything else in the place. Take the $1,200 in his pocket too. All he had left from the bank after expenses.

While Hutch was reaching needed slumber, three like-minded vehicles converged near him. One came from Broad, the second from Poydras, and the third from Espanade.

Each of them was driven by a black man in his 30's wearing tan work boots and an untucked uniform shirt over Dickies cargo pants. None of them worked for the same company.

Despite different starting points, they ended up in line on Claiborne before it became Robertson a few blocks from Elysian Fields. Each man was wondering which of the others was there to cheat him out of a pick-up. One of them, in fact, thought the two others were both there for that purpose All had Taurus .38 caliber revolvers in their glove boxes, but none wanted to use them. Their thoughts and mutterings were nearly identical.

"You think you're gonna step on me?"

"Nobody's steppin' on my pick-up."

"You better step off right now."

Frustration building, the men in the caravan of trucks were getting angrier at the unknown one playing dirty. None of them paid any notice to the rough looking young man carrying one crutch but walking fine on Elysian Fields.

All antagonism melted away, though, once two of the trucks turned on Franklin toward the flashing lights and first responders in the intersection to pick up a Honda Civic and a jeep.

The remaining driver continued on Robertson until he got to Piety. A few neighbors were outside, looking at the corner house with an SUV sized hole in it. The residents of the house were still hunkered down because of Johnny rolling down his car window and announcing that he'd put a bigger hole in anyone who came up to the front room.

The driver attached his winch, Johnny and Big T got out and scaled the remnants of the former rooms, and they met the tow truck driver.

"What's up, Melvin? Thanks for taking care of the predicament," Johnny said in a way to act like he wasn't in a ridiculous situation. "Mr. C will take care of you for flying out here right away."

3

T
he images in a nicely framed poster of the
Donald Byrd and 125th St., N.Y.C.
album cover were in sharp contrast to what lay a few feet below. In Ernie Barnes' inimitable artwork, elongated bodies did their thing on the dance floor to the groove played by five musicians on stage. Those up in the cheap seats shook and raised their hands to the sky. Energy personified.

The poster was the only thing up on the walls of the apartment. Everything else was in boxes stacked throughout a few of the six rooms. The renter of the apartment and owner of these items, the one who wanted the poster up if nothing else yet, was stretched out on a mattress and springs on the floor.

His name was Bobby Delery.

Delery had gotten to town the day before, after driving down from Chicago. He'd taken a midway break in Memphis to stretch the trip into two days and see the Stax Museum. The U-Haul truck he drove had a trailer on back for his car.

He knew it was bad judgment to leave anything in the truck overnight in New Orleans, so he'd unloaded it all himself while listening to WWOZ streaming on his laptop computer. It was his first time back in over thirty years.

After a day of driving and moving in by himself, Delery was aching and bone-tired. He'd fallen asleep quickly. No nightmares, which came far too often in his line of work, though it was typically in an academic setting.

Bobby Delery was a criminologist. He'd been on faculty at the University of Chicago for years but had a new position at Tulane.

His phone started ringing. Simple tone. Nothing fancy or personalized.

Delery yawned, squinted his eyes open, and picked up the phone. 7:28 a.m. on a Sunday morning. The numbers following the 504 area code weren't his landlord's. He was of a mind to let it go to voice mail, but he was a professional, so he decided otherwise and cleared his throat before answering.

"This is Bobby Delery," he said in a parched and strained rasp.

The responding voice was of different timbre. Wide awake. Thick. Sharp.

"This is Commander Edwin Jones of the 5th District. Are you in town, Delery? You awake?"

The general black New Orleans cadence was a beautiful thing. Despite being woken up, Delery felt home already. His soul rode the waves of inflection, even Jones' severe sounding version.

"Yes sir, I am. On both counts. But I'm a little confused by the call," Delery said.

"I bet you are. Let's straighten that out," Jones replied. "Chief Stewart passed on your phone number. I know you just arrived, but we have a situation."

"I spoke with him last week. Has something changed with the working relationship I'll have with NOPD?" Delery asked, thinking of his recent conversation with Police Chief Louis Stewart.

"Let me cut to the chase, then we'll work back. We'd greatly appreciate it if that working relationship started today."

In a flash, Delery thought about what he'd planned to have his day consist of. First, go out and have breakfast. Next, drive over to the West Bank and pick out a refrigerator to get delivered. The previous tenant took the one that was there when moving out, and the landlord was renting the place as is. Beginning the task of unpacking would follow. At least he could get a start on all this before meeting with NOPD.

"Okay, where's the best place to get together after lunch? For lunch if you want."

"Delery, when I say 'start today,' let me amend that to 'start immediately.' We've got a serious matter, and I think you have a unique perspective to offer," Jones said.

"Commander, right now?" Delery was surprised. As a criminologist, he'd typically consulted with CPD in Chicago to help identify patterns of behavior by criminals or speak on current theories and studies that were relevant. Typical scheduling was involved. He'd not heard about anything particularly pressing in New Orleans, like a serial killer on the loose.

Jones spoke with reluctance. "Yes, right now we're playing catch up. I suppose you haven't seen the news yet?"

"No sir," Delery answered.

"We have a situation. Media anymore, they all take something and run with it. A reporter for NOLA.com, one of these new kids they keep hiring from out of state — nothing personal — was having himself a party with friends late night on Bourbon Street. Place called Club Big Easy. He overhears the manager all frantic that they'd been robbed. So this guy... let me see here..this guy name of Joseph Bomar posts the story online from the club. Somehow it gets okayed or never got approval. Goes online. Shouldn't be a problem, right? Who's reading the news then? Well, that's what I thought. But it starts making the rounds. Infernal social media. The word gets spread. There's no Sunday morning news shows on tv, but they all posted it on their websites too. Now we got a shitstorm."

"Because it's not true?" Delery asked.

"No, problem is that it
is
true and now it's out there. It's a million dollars true. We've got to act fast," Jones said.

"A million dollar robbery?" Delery questioned.

"Uh huh. Here's where it gets down and dirty. The club that got hit is one of... uh, it's owned by a man you don't rob. Enough said? He
will
have his boys take care of things. We need to find the perps first. It'll look bad otherwise. Already started," Jones answered.

"But what can I do? And what happened?"

"Delery, a body's been found. They pretty much crucified the guy on a guard rail. Chief can't have a bloodbath in the city. We need to find the others and clean this up. Must've been a crew."

Delery was in a quandary. He knew NOPD was short-staffed, precariously so, and suspected they were merely wanting to use him as an extra body to investigate. He wondered if his newly-retired predecessor at Tulane, Steven Sharp, had been asked to take on this kind of thing. If Delery said yes now, it wouldn't stop.

"Sir, can I have a minute?" he asked.

"Of course," Jones replied.

Delery rose from his makeshift bed, phone still in hand. He scratched his stomach with the other hand. Now that he was up, he stood at a full 5'10", lean but lightly muscular from working out twice a week. 160 lbs, give or take, ever since high school. He had a slightly swarthy complexion, which often led people to think his ethnic background was Jewish or Italian, though he was neither. His black hair was fine of texture but tended to turn curly once it got a little long, as it was on the verge of. Delery walked through the kitchen and took a sip of water, spilling a little on his gym shorts and Curtom Records t-shirt.

He thought, "If I give in now, already, I'll keep getting treated like a sucker. This isn't how I'm to help them out. Media interviews, trainings, discussions, working up profiles of offenders, sure. Not this."

But he also considered why he became a criminologist. Genuinely wondering what made people tick. When that psychology was extended into actions that occurred despite social mores and laws, the hidden human emerged. He only experienced this by way of books and statistics, though.

Then it clicked. A feeling of confidence rose in him.

"Commander?"

Jones, hearing the change in Delery's voice, assumed the worst.

"Delery, I should tell you that Chief Stewart has read all your books. You've impressed him. He's convinced that with your assistance we can wrap this up and apprehend all the remaining perps before it gets ugly in public."

Delery appreciated the ego stroke. Though it was obvious, the gesture might've pushed him toward a "yes" if he'd been about to say the opposite. He didn't have his masters in criminology, but being published was the great equalizer.

"Commander, I'll head out in a minute, but here's what I need. By evening, if not before, an NOPD van takes me over the river to Sears, J.C. Penney, whichever. I pick out a refrigerator, they load it up, bring it to my place, and inside to the kitchen. They'll need a sturdy hand cart, I expect."

Jones paused and responded strongly, "Yes, sure, we can do that. My word on it."

Delery shook his head sagely. Back home and already in the groove. Scratch my back, I scratch yours. Take care of me, I take care of you. Establish right off that he knew how the game was played.

"Sounds good. So where do I start?" Delery asked, hoping it was near a place where he could get the cup of coffee he desperately needed.

After Commander Jones briefed him, Delery sighed.

"How am I going to find something to wear in here?" he said to the surrounding mess.

He was a sound believer in first impressions, so dressed as he was, or wearing the green camouflage shorts he'd had on yesterday wouldn't fly. All his other clothes would be at least partly wrinkled. Little chance of locating the iron.

When he'd moved in the past, even little cross-town moves in Chicago, he'd been careful to label boxes with a marker. Not this time. Delery had expected to have a week of unpacking, acclimating, and getting his office in order. He'd figured that was a good amount of time, considering that early June temperatures were already in the upper 90's. The pace of things in New Orleans can be attributed in part to a climate of a solid five to six summer months.

"At least I know where this is," Delery said, picking up his utility knife from the kitchen counter. The knife was his method of opening boxes, so he'd not packed it. For safety along the way too.

Delery was at a loss for which boxes to try first to locate a simple shirt and pants suitable for both summer and a decent appearance. The only boxes he knew to avoid were the larger wooden ones that contained his records, over half of them inherited from his father. The rest collected over the last couple years. Up to at least 500.

With only a few exceptions, they were all from the 70's. Mostly the first half. That sweet soul sound of classic r&b and funk, plus its confluence with jazz.

"Wow, these records back in New Orleans with me. I'd be an easy read for a psych analysis."

Delery was a few months from turning 44. Born in 1970. His dad was a music buff. The kind who tsk-tsk'ed with his eyes, if not verbally expressing disapproval when turning off his son's music in apartment or car. Same thing said each time.

It came down to, "I can't listen to this. No warmth."

Delery knew what was meant about both music and cd's. He'd been close enough to his dad to understand shorthand. Past tense anyway. George Delery had a fatal heart attack over three years ago. Mama and his brothers gone too.

Bobby Delery had no more immediate family and didn't know his extended family. None of them came to Dad's funeral anyway.

Moving past the records and on to potential boxes of clothing, Delery recalled his dad's last week and a certain request repeated at least once each day in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Bobby. Bobby. Don't sell my records, son. Keep 'em 'til you need 'em."

His dad knew him. "Dusty" and "old school" were the pleasant pejoratives Delery had thought to himself.

But then they sat. Lined the walls of his apartment. His plan had been to wait a month and sell them at the record store on Ashland.

Barely a week after the funeral, though, he could hardly stand the untidiness. He went over to a random pile, stacked up a couple feet high. Flipping through them, he came to the batch of Donald Byrd. At least a dozen. He hadn't actively seen these covers in years, but they jolted him as if common DNA.

Delery took one out,
Places and Spaces
by Byrd, that seemed to resonate more than the others. He impulsively tucked the record under his arm and headed out to the electronics store a few blocks away. It was an odd arrival, but without specific details he explained to the clerk that he needed to briefly use a record player.

The high school student didn't mind, because she didn't care one way or the other what happened there. Delery was embarrassed to find that he didn't know how to use the record player other than setting its speed to 33 rpm.

When he finally figured it out, he sat dumbstruck and was transported to his childhood. This was the soundtrack to his memories. The first few years of his life staying on the corner of Galvez and Poland.

He was midway between nine and ten years old when his parents divorced. It was acrimonious. His dad was given custody of him, while Mama got his two younger brothers in the proceedings.

A person can stay in New Orleans yet just about disappear from friends by moving across town. His dad instead took him and lit out for an entirely different territory. Indiana. Young Bobby never saw his mama again. Isaac and Curtis either.

Those were the thoughts that shook his bones as he sat there, listening through the headphones. So much had passed.

Delery saw the musical chain unveil before his eyes of everything he'd been into, whether temporary or enduring. Pop radio, hip hop, hair metal, alternative, indie, South American folk, Eastern European brass, and much more. But now he was sonically back home.

He began building stackable wooden boxes for the records that same weekend. It all was most likely the catalyst for his eventual return to New Orleans.

Once he made up his mind, Delery checked and found that both Albert Olivier at SUNO and Steven Sharp at Tulane were the criminologists of note in the city, and men in their 60's. He sent them both emails and called to follow up. Although Olivier was holding on a little while longer, Sharp was planning to retire, and he put in a good word with the university brass.

All this and more ran through Delery's mind while he sliced through the packing tape securing seven boxes before discovering suitable but wrinkled clothing. Dark blue light-weight button-up shirt, grey pleated and cuffed dress pants, black oxfords.

"At least my shoes don't need shined," he rued, unfolding and shaking the outfit. "Not a good first impression, but it's my current situation."

Delery scooped up the few items needed for the day: his shoulder bag, notebook and a couple pens, the sun protection he'd kept out during the moving drive, a full 20 ounce bottle of water, and the utility knife just in case. Coffee would need to be found on the way there.