Run Baby Run (5 page)

The slightest of cracks appeared, only enough to allow a shaggy blond head to peek out from the door. "Yeah?" called out a voice with layers of nicotine and cheap booze pasted to it.

"Ma'am, sorry to disturb you. My name's Bobby Delery. I'm assisting the police with a homicide that happened overnight up there on the overpass," he replied, gesturing with a glance.

"Oh. We didn't see nothin', if that's what you're wonderin'."

"It's possible you heard or even saw something important that doesn't seem pertinent."

Delery recalled the coroner's banter.

"Probably happened over two hours ago. Were you awake at that time?"

The door opened wider as a tough-eyed man wearing only blue jeans said, "Whozit, Mez?"

She was now exposed in a long skirt and flimsy blouse. Her full head of hair was in contrast to his shortly-cropped version. Both looked tan from outside work and worn from leisure.

Delery repeated himself. All of them stayed standing as is.

The man picked at his goatee and announced, "I'm Leonard. This is Mezzanine. We're kinda on a date. Not in touch with the outside world, if you know what I mean."

Before Delery could respond, the man anticipated him. "Don't mind you askin', but we got nothin' for you. Just my new girlfriend and me enjoyin' ourselves. I appreciate you gettin' to the point concisely, though. Gotdamn adverbs. Too many people use 'em." With that, he nodded and ducked back inside.

"Thank you anyway, sir. Ma'am. Thanks for your time," Delery said.

Mezzanine took a break from biting her lip and said, "He's my ex-husband. Maybe second time's a charm."

Delery went back to following the blood trail down the block.

A pick-up truck ambled along, odd in a fairly solitary place. It stopped. The driver was a narrow headed burr cut man with a quizzical face.

"What's goin' on up there?" he asked, looking ahead. The coroners turned, having at last removed the body from the guard rail.

Before Delery could respond, the man lifted his left hand. "Nah, I can guess. That's how those people wanna live."

Anger drew up from inside Delery. He could feel it smearing his face.

"Those people? That's a dead white guy up there. Probably killed by white guys. Those the people you're talking about?"

He caught himself from going any further. "Don't say it. This isn't personal. All you'd do is surprise him. No benefit," he privately cautioned.

"You can say what you want, but I just work here. Lay my head down in Chalmette. Much safer there," the man said with a confused scowl that labeled Delery a traitor, and drove off.

Bobby Delery had seen that look before. Too often, in fact. He knew it was best to let it go and only play his trump card if absolutely necessary. It was an odd trump card, though.

He also knew that the murder rate in New Orleans, though dropping the past few years, had been at military-zone levels for quite some time. Life was cheap. Mainly for black men. Kids too. The ones killing them were their black brothers. Over 90% of the killing in New Orleans. Nationally, at eight times the rate of white folks. All of them pawns. They'd internalized the hatred and were now the death makers of their own kind. Self-lynchers.

As he continued on, he heard his name yelled behind him. Captain Connell.

He walked back to the overpass, feeling sweat cloaking him all over.

"Delery, Detectives Bergeron and Taylor are on their way to canvass the houses and businesses lakeside of the overpass. Email me if you get anything," Connell said, before tossing down his business card and walking off.

Delery realized he'd been shunted off to where the closest potential witness was half a block away, leaving the quality interviews for the detectives. They'd get those who lived steps from the overpass or had an upper window view, like that tall art gallery building. Assuming those interviews were actually happening.

He refused to feel defeated, though. The blood trail meant something.

As he headed back down the street to continue his own interviews, the cacophony of several voices rose behind him. Loudest was the captain's.

"Goddamn it. Stop that gurney."

Delery could tell from the direction of the heads bobbing in desperation that the gurney with the body of Clint Olson strapped to it was flying down the incline toward Franklin, picking up speed by the second.

5

T
he internal alarm clock rang in the sleeping soul of Melba Barnes at 8:37 a.m. She was a retired woman in her late 60's living alone. Her days were organized around the timekeeper that didn't tick, beep, chime, or play the snippet of a song. When it said "hungry," she ate and "tired," she slept.

It was Sunday, which meant she had one ongoing appointment. Church.

She sat up in bed after making sure her satin hair bonnet was still in place. It was necessary to protect her hair after moisturizing and sealing it at the end of the night.

In immediate response, two cats stretched to life in slow motion from their curled up positions. Time for breakfast.

"Good morning, Too-too. Moses."

She'd had Moses for years. One night, the wooded area near the house caught fire and she'd seen the little orange cat high-tailing it out of there. Her husband Alvin prompted the name when he said, "Look at that cat come out the burning bush!"

The younger feline, also a stray, was one who showed up outside last year. It had a patchwork of color and what resembled a nicely groomed moustache. Miss Melba thought he looked like legendary musician Allen Toussaint, what with the dignified moustache, soulful eyes, and four brown paws that had a few inches of white fur above them. Socks with sandals a la Toussaint were what she saw. Stylishly handsome too.

She'd prayed about it, if it was indecent to bring another man into her house, another man's name even, when Alvin was barely dead in the ground. The answer, not surprisingly, was affirmative that this was no issue.

If five more strays had shown up in the meantime, Miss Melba would've taken each of them in too. Alvin only liked one cat underfoot, but without him around and her children away in far-flung places, she felt a calling.

Tenisha taught history at Boston College, Aspen was a medical doctor in Oakland, and her baby Ezekiel was the Senior Curator of Visual Arts at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis.

"Raise them up, and they'll go to the three corners," she often thought. "Alvin with the Sewerage & Water Board and me at the hotel all those years, but look at the kids."

Miss Melba's morning routine began with feeding the cats, taking a carton of milk from the refrigerator, wrapping up in a robe and donning her eyeglasses, stepping out on the porch to collect the newspaper, and boiling water to make café au lait for sipping while she read the news and obituaries.

This morning she had a surprise.

"Oh. Mercy, what is this?" she cried out. She tightened her robe and took another tentative step, ready to dash back inside.

Alongside her house, between it and an empty lot that led to a few trees, was a man on the ground. He was face down. His large backpack was squarely in place and partially obscuring a sizable colorful box.

She took another step, expecting him to pop up at any moment and grab at her. Miss Melba paused. All was well so far. Two more steps. This led her to the side end of the porch. She leaned over the iron rail.

There was something next to him she'd not initially seen. It looked like a mouse or small rodent was sticking out from under his head.

"Oh my goodness. On Sunday morning," she said.

Miss Melba took a few steps back and picked up the clay flower pot from its stand. The prickly leaves of a bromeliad scratched her wrists.

She slowly moved from the porch to the steps, craning her head to make sure the figure wasn't moving. The other houses on her dead end street had either been torn down or were still blighted, except for one. A neighbor she didn't care for.

Creeping down the steps and around the house, Miss Melba felt like she was in a monster movie. She inched closer, raising the flower pot up as a weapon in case the zombie rose to life and attacked her. When she was steps away, she realized that this was the whitest white man she'd ever seen.

"He's the color of toothpaste," she said.

As she stood beside the figure, she saw another small hairy rodent poking out from the other side of his head. She leaned in, peering intently at this alien creature. It was then Miss Melba realized that the two mice were the two ends of his shaggy moustache.

"It's not at all a nicely cultivated one like Allen Toussaint's. Man or cat," she said.

She was further bewildered by the box, a mélange of purple, brown, reddish-brown, and white colors, until she saw it from its longer side.

"Abita Amber," she read and saw the accompanying beer bottles pictured.

"Hmph. He's just a passed out drunk."

She thought for a quick moment and decided to help him. He was a stray, after all.

Miss Melba walked with purpose back up to the porch and planted the flowerpot right back in its proper place. She was no longer worried about being attacked but remained cautious.

"I'm gonna help you kick that habit," she said.

She walked over to the beer case and picked it up, immediately straining from the weight. The pieces of the lid were twisted together in an alternating way to keep the case firmly closed.

"My goodness. Beer's gotten so heavy. Must be all the sin in it."

She'd had a sip of Budweiser once in high school and found it as appetizing as water from a rusty tin can. Never touched it since.

Miss Melba walked to her house and up the steps, pushed her front door with a foot, and stepped inside. She immediately sat the box down, then turned and locked the door once it was hastily closed. She'd eventually take some coffee out to the comatose drunkard, but right now she had the Lord's work to do. Everything else was secondary.

She lifted her weighty burden and carried it past the little church organ. Past all the framed pictures on the walls and tops of cabinets and mantles. Aspen with his high school diploma, looking serious as always. Tenisha's 10th birthday party back when she was all braids and eyelashes. Alvin holding up the biggest redfish he ever caught. Ezekiel standing proudly next to a painting at the McKenna Museum.

She continued through the kitchen. A row of canisters tidily lined the back counter. Postcards from around the world draped across the refrigerator.

After a couple steps down the hallway, passing the cat food and water bowls, she turned into the bathroom and set the case down next to the toilet. A manual can opener and roll of paper towels were retrieved from the kitchen and a large trash bag from the storage room.

Miss Melba put the items down, and seeing no better place, sat on the closed toilet to pray for Jesus' blessing of her actions. When she finished, she stood and lifted the lid.

"Only good place for this booze," she said.

Her plan was to open each beer bottle, one at a time, pour its contents into the commode, and wrap it with a couple paper towels before finally depositing it into the trash bag. Miss Melba didn't want to allow any possibility for the trash men to hear the bottles and think her a lush.

Small narrow fingers pulled the four parts of the lid loose so that they all flipped up and opened together. While reaching with her other hand for the opener, she dove in for the first bottle and was shocked when her fingers didn't brush up against glass or metal.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed.

Her hand pulled back as if she'd mistakenly touched the thorns of a rose bush.

Miss Melba dropped the can opener so that both hands could slowly pull the pieces of lid back further and she could look inside. Her eyes popped. Pupils and irises became ink blots in a sea of milk.

"Aaaaah," she said in an orgasmically alarmed way from the roof of her mouth. Her jaw dropped.

She reached in with both hands and took out a bound packet of money. Next the one below it. And the following.

Miss Melba didn't stop until the bathroom floor was covered with the contents.

She flipped through one crisp packet, saw each top left-hand corner had a small dot from a highlighter pen, and did the mathematics in her head. She extended an index finger and counted the total number of packets around her.

Furrowing her brow, she started again through the numbers. They were correct the first time. $10,000 per packet. Ninety-seven packets. She was surrounded by nearly a million dollars.

"Sweet Jesus," she said in amazement. She studied the money and thought. Then she thought some more until she had a plan for what to do.

Miss Melba rose and stepped over and through the money. She closed the toilet lid and sat on it.

"Lord, come back. Don't go away. I really need you now."

A swollen five minutes passed before Miss Melba stood up, collected the money packets, all with a large "100" in each corner and a pursed-lip Benjamin Franklin staring at her, placed them back into the beer case, and folded the top pieces to secure it.

She made another cup of coffee, poured it into Alvin's old mug, and carried it to the front.

"Keep me protected," she said as she unlocked the door and stepped past it onto the porch.

The comatose man was nowhere to be seen. "Oh!" she cried out, worried that he was up and dangerous. A little coffee spilled. She crept to the rail and peered over, then crossed the porch to the other side.

"No sign of him," she said. Miss Melba went back to the front door, locked it, and put the keys in her robe's front pocket.

"Not decent to be out like this, but I did it once already, so here we go."

She took the steps down and slowly walked around her house clockwise, keeping a wide berth. "Ooooo," she said in a low nervous voice the whole way around.

Back at the front steps. He was gone.

Miss Melba looked upward. "My goodness, I doubted You. That won't happen twice." The reply was unexpected. "A sacred Sunday to you, Sister Barnes."

Miss Melba jumped with surprise and spilled the remaining coffee to the ground. "I... I... how long have you been standing there?" she asked.

"I rose only minutes ago," he said from the house across the street and over one lot.

It looked it. The man, her only Industrial Court neighbor, was wrapped in a purple sheet, not immodestly. He was covered from ankles to neck, with long dreadlocks spilling down to his stomach.

Still, Miss Melba didn't know him that way.

"Oh. Well, I was blessing the house. The perimeter. But I shouldn't be out like this." With that, she scurried back inside as quickly as her old legs could handle.

He kept his gaze fixed with eyes that some had known as beatific and others as malevolent over the years.

Miss Melba knew him as Claude Collins from Kenosha, Wisconsin. The mailman whispered that to her shortly after the stranger moved in a few months ago.

Most of his mail came addressed to Hawk Anderson, though. When they'd initially met, he introduced himself to her as a direct descendent of Mother Leafy Anderson and Black Hawk.

Miss Melba had been attending more mainstream churches her whole life, but she knew what he was referencing. Anderson, who claimed to commune with Midwestern Native American war leader Black Hawk, was the woman behind the New Orleans Spiritualist churches back in the 1920's.

Collins was typically decked out in a top hat, head scarf, and long embroidered robe when he left the house, though he rarely did. Multiple bead necklaces and bracelets of all colors accentuated the picture.

Like all New Orleanians, Miss Melba appreciated style and panache, but she also had a saying, "Too much flash is trash."

When she told Tenisha about the new neighbor during one of their phone conversations, her daughter immediately looked him up on her computer.

"Mother, listen to what I found. Houseoftheholyhawk.com He's got a website with pictures and a list of his fees. Here's an amulet. 'Voodoo protection. Keeps the haters away.' He takes money orders, credit cards, Paypal, you name it."

"But baby, I don't see him come and go much, less it's at night. People either."

"Here's why. He charges less if the consultations are by email or letter. Listen to this. 'My guidance replies are learned, blessed, and individualized from the True Way. They are also in Times New Roman font at 14 point and double-spaced.' Hawk charges for 'emergency texting if in spiritual crisis.' A charlatan. Probably harmless, though."

"Don't you worry 'bout me, 'Nisha. Your mama keeps to herself."

Miss Melba had all of this in mind when she walked through the house and back to the bathroom to double-check that the money was still there.

"Look at me. Old fool running for money that's not even mine," she said.

Moses was rubbing his head against the beer case. Allen Toussaint calmly sat on top of it.

"Moses, my baby, you are something else. It's not food. Too-too, always a gentleman."

Miss Melba walked back to the bedroom and across to the dresser on the opposite side of the room. It hadn't been opened for a while, so the handles were a little dusty. She pulled open the lower right-hand drawer and rummaged through Alvin's athletic clothing until she found a carrying case about a foot long.

After flipping the clasp and opening the case, she ran her fingers along a black metal object and lifted it from the surrounding foam.

"Hasn't been shot off since Zekey was in high school," she recalled.

It probably wouldn't be needed, but just in case. She held it out in front of her, walked it to the built-in closet, and gently placed it in her largest purse, which was white.

"That just determined my wardrobe for church," she said.

Miss Melba typically arrived at The Tab by 11:00 a.m., but she knew the weight of the beer case would slow her usual half hour walk. That meant she had less than an hour to get ready.

She assembled her outfit and placed the hangers of clothing over doorknobs.

Carefully, by pulling the elastic back before lifting, she removed her hair bonnet and tossed it atop the vanity. At this point in her life, she kept her hair short. Just enough for the natural curls to do their thing while being simple to manage.

"Alvin, your Chickie has some serious business today," she said to the room.

Her late husband thought her skin had the same shading as the chicory he liked to add to his morning coffee. Chickie had been his pet name for her throughout the forty years they'd been married.