Run Baby Run (6 page)

She realized for the first time since her bathroom prayer that this task would also allow her an indulgence she'd not had since Alvin's passing. When he was alive, she liked to have one thing in her life that was only hers, private and unknown to everyone else. It lost strength once all her actions in the house were known only by her. Public ones too. Public and private all ran together in a solitary life.

Miss Melba reached for her moisturizer as a flurry of paws swept in on a wave of manic energy. A hearty meow was followed by a fierce twitch of the nose, moustache with it.

"Allen Toussaint, you are so debonair. Did you use your litter yet?"

6

B
obby Delery knew there was nothing he could do about a runaway gurney. The squad cars turned sideways would prevent it from entering the intersection.

He shook his head and turned back around to continue following the blood trail and checking for witnesses. "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" he asked.

Delery didn't come to another house either inhabited or with an answered door until midway down the block past Villere.

On the left side of the street were a nicely kept double and adjacent single, both painted a light Caribbean blue with white trim. A wooden fence connected the two. The single had no front door or window.

The instant he knocked, the door opened, as if by premonition.

"Yessir?" the man said. He looked to be in his 70's.

Delery delivered his spiel, making sure to "sir" the man back with respect.

"I ain't seen nothin' up there that far away, sure enough as my name's Rudolph Chesnutt."

Delery responded with his follow-up.

"I woke up 'round then. Had some food disagree wit' my belly. Mighta even gave me hallucinations," Chesnutt said.

"What do you mean, Mr. Chesnutt?" Delery replied, thinking the next step was to extract himself and move on.

Chesnutt leaned in as if about to impart a major secret. "I seen a ghost wit' my own eyes. Y'hear?"

"In your house?"

"Nawsir." He pointed with a callused finger. "Out there. Walkin' down the street."

Delery's attention clicked on. "Sir, what did it look like?"

The man looked away with sheepish eyes.

"Least I thought it were a ghost 'cuz the face and arms, them legs too, all so white they glowin'. These street lamps be's out, but it were walkin' real slow. Glowin' in the moonlight. A man. Now that I think of it, this were more like a conjure. Y'hear?"

"A conjure man? In what way, Mr. Chesnutt?"

"I heard its voice talkin' 'bout 'red rooster blood' like a, a, you know the words a psychic or a conjure say. Incantation talk."

"An incantation?" Delery replied.

Chesnutt nodded. "Yeah. Tha's it. Incantation. Glowin' like moonlight in the gutter. Whitest thing I ever seen. Y'hear? Talkin' like a conjure. Carryin' his sacrifice."

"Wait, what do you mean by sacrifice?" Delery quizzed.

Rudolph Chesnutt's lips puckered. "It were a big container. Yessir, the weight musta been heavy 'cuz the way the conjure walked. One foot strugglin' after the other. Y'hear me? Lotsa dead things inside, prob'ly."

Delery pushed. "Was there anything else you recall?"

"Jes that it had a big bag on its back. Like a astronaut. Like them dirty white chil'ren come in on the train. Them hobo types. Big bag."

"Anything else, sir?"

"Nawsir, well 'cept that conjure were spittin' bright red blood. Musta been rooster blood it drank."

Delery extended his hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Chesnutt."

"Alright, alright. Use-ta do a little detective work myself. Holla at ya later."

Bobby Delery knew he'd heard a piece of the puzzle, but it was skewed. He didn't doubt what Rudolph Chesnutt saw. The kaleidoscope image needed to be made clearer, though.

The rest of the block canvassing consisted of a threat, a no-answer, and a woman who asked him if he wanted to come in and take off his socks.

Twenty minutes later he continued on. The blood trail continued to the left, down Urquhart. Looking across the street, Delery whispered, "That is some serious target hardening."

He was referring to the idea of crime-proofing a home or business.

"There must be something of major value on the other side of that fence to have metal girders supporting it," he continued.

In the rest of the block, a partly-ramshackle hybrid fence extended on the left. The blood trail disappeared. A pile of tires and trash were strewn on the right just before a gravel path crossed.

Delery followed the street all the way up to the train tracks, missing the blood spots on and near the fence beforehand. He looked off to the left at the overpass and saw no more first responders up there, but the blood trail continued at his feet.

"Just me now, but I'm getting closer," he said.

The blood trail was lost on the tracks, but without question he had to follow across and see what continued on the other side.

After ducking through a mangled chain link fence, the street and dried blood continued.

At Montegut, a warehouse stretched the length of the block to his right. Delery read the sign on a delivery truck parked in front. Soft Touch Linen Services.

"Here's where it is. The heart of the city's beating around this area," he said.

One of the few news stories unrelated to crime Delery had read on NOLA.com before his move was about eight little children who had died over a six month period at Crescent Hospital. All the deaths by a flesh eating fungus were eventually traced to the linens. Soft Touch washed for restaurants, hospitals, hotels, and organizations with uniforms.

There was a good possibility that negligence on the part of the hospital staff was reason for the bed linens, towels, or gowns picking up the fungus. Responsibility would soon be fought out in court.

"I'm back in a rainy humid sub-tropical place that breeds all this," he thought.

Delery knew there were other cities in the country with a similar climate, but none of them felt like New Orleans. That's partly why he was back. Chicago winters had paid a toll on him for years, so he was ready for a change of pace.

"But here I am, second day back, and they already got me working," he said.

A few colleagues had teased him with light humor, awkwardness, or befuddled ribbing.

"Delery, is your office on Bourbon Street? Don't take off too much for the beads."

"Are you gonna start saying y'all to get in practice?"

"You're from there, right? What else is there to do besides Mardi Gras?"

"Nawlins? That's the hotbed of active precipitation," not meaning rain but the controversial criminology theory that some victims bring about their own harm or death.

"Here's how you know the difference between NOPD and the gang bangers. The kids are the ones with better guns."

"I was there once. The place smells."

And then there was Shanice.

Shanice Baker was a striking adjunct sociology professor. Up in Chicago, they called her "redbone." Down in New Orleans, they'd say "Creole." Both places would use "bright." All those ways of describing a light-skinned black woman, either from respect, jealousy, or fetishizing.

She had an active mind, an outgoing smile, and a full head of natural hair. Curly and pulled back from her face.

Shanice and Delery dated on and off, but other than in the bedroom, they just didn't have that certain something that two people fall into and continue to grow from if they're meant to be together. Actually, she felt it, but he didn't.

All this made Delery feel low about himself. If it didn't click in his heart with a woman like Shanice, chances for the future weren't good.

He was in his early 40's and had never married. For years, he was content to play the field but was feeling a pull to settle down. Shanice seemed like the perfect woman, but without love he couldn't do it.

Delery told Shanice his secret when they got close. He typically didn't reveal it to the women he dated, intelligent beauties across the spectrum of class and race, though most of his girlfriends over the years had been black. He'd made the mistake of revealing his secret once, years before, to a bank manager who promptly hopped her pasty little ass right out of bed.

He knew Shanice was good with a secret, though. She'd had a similar fish-out-of-water experience growing up in Arizona. They grew to be solid friends, occasionally erotic friends when the need struck.

When he was packing up his office, she stopped in. "Bobby, I know you feel like a man without a home. You're crying out inside. Saying, 'This is who I am.' I truly wish you the best. Do you. I hope you find your place."

She leaned in. "Don't worry about me spreading talk when you're gone. Hope I see you again, baby."

Delery knew he'd miss terribly their walks in Grant Park, record digging around town, and so much more, but that couldn't keep him from doing what he needed to do. He hoped New Orleans held the answer.

This all looped through his mind while he stood leaned over and staring at dried blood near the Urquhart and Feliciana intersection. Delery looked too at his shirt and pants, realizing that the heat and humidity had taken care of his wrinkled clothing.

After speaking with the young white guys on the right who operated an underground pizza joint and the older black couple on the left who ran two food trucks, it sounded like the ghost/conjure man/dripper-of-blood had walked through talking the same talk about a red rooster. There was also a fist-sized red mark almost four feet up on one of the food trucks that looked like more blood.

The trail ended, though, before the Clouet intersection.

"Did he go inside or did it just dry up?" Delery asked himself.

There was no answer at the first house on the left on Clouet. He suspected the hand-written sign taped inside the screen door reading "Frozen Cups — Pink, Lemonade, Green Apple, Grape - $.25; Giant Freeze - $2" likely meant the inhabitant was an elderly lady who either didn't hear him knock or was already at church.

A boarded up school filled the entire block on the opposite side. Delery figured the character he was after couldn't have scaled the fence and barbed wire surrounding the perimeter.

It was like Red Rooster, as Delery started thinking of him, had up and disappeared.

He was about to turn back and continue downriver on Urquhart when he saw something that stirred him up.

"That is the whitest white man I've ever seen. The color of paper," Delery couldn't help but say aloud. A tall slightly hunched guy was slowly making his way down the sidewalk along the school. The sun's reflection hit his skin and caused Delery to shield his eyes.

It was like a pale solar flare. "This must be the glowing man Mr. Chesnutt was talking about. Red Rooster."

Delery peeked through his fingers. He was able to make out a moustache that resembled a mop before the dirty water had been wrung out, a dark t-shirt and tan splotchy shorts, as well as what appeared to be a backpack.

Still shielding his eyes as he strode from the sidewalk to the street, Delery knew this was his big break. The two were right across from each other, getting closer by the second, when the other man realized Delery was heading for him.

Just then, a tan van painted New Life Baptist Church on the side sped up the street, pulled between them, and idled. Its large bold letters left no room for inclusion of street address. Delery was unable to see in because of its tinted windows.

The church van stopped only briefly. Delery waited in place for it to pass.

When it did, he took a step toward the man, but the linen-white figure really had disappeared this time. "Shit! You've got to be kidding me," Delery said.

The van was already to Villere, so there was no chance of running after it.

Delery didn't know where the church was located. He had Commander Jones' number, though.

"Sir, this is Bobby Delery, out in the vicinity of the crime scene," Delery announced, back at the sidewalk.

"Delery, you find anything?"

"I think so. I almost had contact with a person of interest who got away. Can you get a squad car over to New Life Baptist Church?"

"New Life Baptist Church?" Jones questioned.

"The man hopped into their van. I couldn't catch it."

Delery described the glowing man and what prior information led to his identification, leaving out a few details.

"You're not putting me on?"

"No sir. Saw him myself," Delery said.

"Okay. I'll send some uniforms over there. A chalky white man in an African-American church shouldn't be too tricky to spot."

"Thank you, sir," Delery said, relieved that he wasn't getting the brush-off like from Captain Connell.

"No. Thank you. Continue on. Can you get over to the Quarter by midday? Club Big Easy on Bourbon Street, between St. Louis and Toulouse. You want to speak with Dom Cavallari. He's the one who runs the place. Don't go in like a cowboy."

"Got it."

Jones paused. "And Delery, remember why I asked you out there. Cavallari's the only one you talk to. See if you can pick up something my guys missed."

"Will do, sir."

"Remember, we've got to act fast, but again, kid gloves at the club."

After concluding formalities, Delery decided to head back to his car.

A red Toyota Corolla came booming up the street. It was stolen in a Mid City carjacking a week prior. The guns inside were also stolen. Blue Shoes' .45 was from a Jefferson Parish gun owner who didn't lock his car doors. Stink's .38 came from an Uptown robbery. Neither firearm was used solely for protection.

"I might could hit a lick," Blue Shoes said from the driver's side.

"Naw, naw. " Stink replied.

"You jes wanna smash Lyric," Blues Shoes accused.

Stink admitted, matter of fact, "Fuck yeah. I wanna smash her alla time. She got impossible moves. Lyric always take me right up to the mountaintop."

"Shit, nigga. They all do. You gonna wife that bitch."

"Naw, you crazy. Ain't gonna wife nobody." Stink firmed up. "Lookit. Where he think he is? This Clouet Kinfolk streets."

They pulled up next to Bobby Delery who was walking on the sidewalk and about to turn on Urquhart, heading toward the train yard.

"Hey! Gotta light?" Blue Shoes called out.

Delery knew what this was about. The day wasn't going his way. "Quick reply and run around the corner. They probably won't back up to come after me," he thought.

He didn't have a chance to act, though. Blues Shoes had him looking down the barrel of a gun.

"Bag, muthafucka. Phone too."

Delery paused, frozen. He'd only had a gun pointed at him twice before.

"C'mon, bitch. Ain't got all day. Don't make me get out this car."