When French Quarter sleuth, Wyatt Thomas learns the mother of Carla Manetti, his former girlfriend, has had a heart attack, he hurries to the hospital to check on her. What happens after midnight in the dimly lit hospital room sets the stage for two intertwined stories. Black Magic Woman is the introduction of mobster Frankie Castellano and also explores the potent magic practiced by Wyatt's dearest friend, voodoo mambo Mama Mulate.
New Orleans has more ghosts than just about any place on earth. I realized as much when I awoke with a start from a vivid dream. Something I couldn’t remember disturbed me even as the final dreamy image faded.
My cat was licking my chin, and I realized why. Early
evening, according to the clock by the bed, I’d been in a fitful sleep
for more hours than I cared to count. After giving her a long stroke, I dragged
out of bed and plodded toward the shower.
“Sorry, Miss Kisses,” I said while feeding her on the
balcony overlooking Chartres Street. “I know you’re hungry.”
A nip of winter chilled the back of my neck as I
scraped the cat food into her bowl. Noisy tourists, some already
inebriated, passed on the sidewalk below. I tried to remember the purpose of
the festivities as I returned inside to finish dressing.
Late December, football fans had already begun
arriving in town for the upcoming Sugar Bowl at the Superdome. Mardi Gras in
the Big Easy is the world’s largest block party. New Year’s Eve runs a close
second. A lifelong city resident, I usually stayed home and out of
trouble. Sometimes, I even succeeded.
The late afternoon sun shone through the window when I came down from my room above Bertram’s bar, not immediately remembering the fuss. As I grabbed an empty stool, Bertram saw me and winked.
He was polishing a glass as he held court with a half
dozen football fans. Breaking away from the noisy argument about who had the
best team, he ambled over with a mile-wide grin. He poured a glass of lemonade
for me from a pitcher he kept beneath the counter.
“Where you been all day?”
“Working,” I said.
“Good, cause your rent’s past due.”
“Front me some more time. Business is a little slow
right now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Pay me when you can. I know
where to find you.”
“Your business is booming. Who’s playing this year?”
“Who gives a damn? There’s no better customer than
someone whose football team’s coming’ off a ten-game winning season. I
guarantee I’ll run out of beer before the night’s over.”
Lady, Bertram’s collie was also enjoying herself, tail
drumming against oiled hardwood when I reached over the bar and rubbed her head. Bertram poured himself a shot of Cuervo and quickly drained it.
Forty-something, he had the dark eyes and complexion of a French Acadian. I was
so used to seeing him gesture like a lunatic when he spoke I’d forgotten to
wonder if he could still talk if his hands were tied.
When one of the tables began calling the hogs, I
thought a riot would break out. Bertram raked the trapper’s hat off, thinning hair, mopping his brow with a bar rag. His little mustache twitched as
he rolled his eyes and poured three Dixie pitchers.
“Right back,” he said. “Gotta fan the flames.”
Bertram returned with two empty pitchers, a handful of
cash, and an even more giant smile than before.
“The party never ends,” I said.
“Amen to that, bro. You seen Mama Mulate since she got
back from her cruise?”
I shook my head. Mama Mulate taught English at Tulane.
She was also an authentic voodoo mambo. Some time ago, I had called on her when
a potential client developed a problem he thought only the right spirits could
explain. He was right. Mama had the answers to his questions, and the
experiment had become an on-again, off-again partnership. She’d spent her
summer vacation working as a rent-a-mambo on a cruise ship sailing out of New
Orleans.
“She went to South Carolina to visit family when she
returned from Jamaica. I haven’t seen her in six months.”
“She was here last night and banged on your door. You
musta been someplace else.”
“Guess so,” I said, not admitting I’d been asleep and
hadn’t heard her knocking.
“You hear about Carla’s mama?”
Carla Manetti was my sometimes girlfriend I hadn’t
dated in over a year. Her mother was probably the best Italian cook in New
Orleans. Carla had repeatedly accused me of liking her mother’s lasagna better
than I liked her. Though it wasn’t true, I’d never had another girlfriend whose
mom could cook like Mama Manetti.
“Something the matter?”
“Heart attack, I heard. They got her over in Oschner.”
“Severe?”
“Hell, bro, there ain’t no such thing as a good heart
attack.”
“When did this happen?”
“I just found out. You going to see her?”
“I’d already be there if you’d told me sooner,” I said
as I headed for the door.
***
The sun had set as my cab passed the old Metairie
Cemetery; I barely saw the towering crypts and magnificent statuary. It wasn’t
the only cemetery in town, just the most impressive. Lights of the French
Quarter behind me beckoned as the cabbie let me off at the main entrance to the
hospital.
A tired woman at the information desk provided
directions to Mama Manetti’s room. I found the door ajar and entered without
knocking. Distant neon flashing through open curtains briefly illuminated the
dismal scene.
Carla was Mama Manetti’s only child. I paused
in the doorway, watching as she held her mom’s hand. She’d changed little
during our separation, her dark hair longer than before. She jumped when I
touched her shoulder.
“Wyatt...”
“I came as soon as I heard. How’s Mom?”
Carla hugged me, burying her head against my shoulder.
“Asleep. We’ve had a long day. She finally passed out
from exhaustion.”
“Then you must be beat. When did you get here?”
“Last night.”
Mama Manetti’s soft snores melded with the hum of
medical equipment and told me she was fast asleep.
“You look beat. Let’s get coffee.”
“But what if Mom wakes up?”
“She’ll be fine till we get back.”
Apparently, having made the same observation and
needing a shot of caffeine, Carla didn’t argue. We took the elevator to the cafeteria after telling the duty nurse where we were going. She waited at
the table while I went through the line. She tore into the chicken and rice I
brought her as if she were starving.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you,” she said, nibbling on
a piece of bread. “How you been?”
“Tolerable. You?”
When she smiled, I remembered how bright her teeth
were and that her eyes were a brilliant shade of green. Always thick and
curly, her dark hair now sported a permanent. It somehow made her look younger
than I’d remembered. Though not quite pretty, she had striking features that immediately attracted me and still did.
“You’re such a liar, Wyatt Thomas.”
“What?”
“I heard about your ex-wife dying and your romance
with the runway model. Sorry, it ended so sadly for you.”
“I’m fine. Same old Wyatt.”
“You sure?”
“Battling a little depression, maybe.”
Carla grinned. “What’s new? You’re the moodiest person
I’ve ever met. You aren’t drinking again, are you?”
“I fell off the wagon awhile back, but not for long.
I’m on board again. I’ll be okay.”
“Wyatt, you could keep a team of psychiatrists busy
for a decade.”
“Maybe I just need a pretty woman’s hand to hold.”
My words brought another smile to her face. “How many
failed relationships have you had now? A thousand?”
I grabbed her hand and squeezed. “You know there’s
never been anyone else but you.”
“Such a liar,” she said without snatching her
hand away.
“What about you? Seeing anyone new?”
“Jim Watts. Every now and then, at least.”
“Who’s he?”
“A chemistry professor at U.N.O.,” she
said.
Carla was the head librarian at U.N.O., the
city’s university near Lake Pontchartrain. I couldn’t account for the momentary
pang of jealousy her words invoked.
“Serious?”
“We’re sleeping together if that’s what you mean.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Then what?”
“Nothing, really. What have the doctors said about
your mom?”
“They don’t know much yet. Aunt Beth is on her way
from New Jersey.”
“Aunt Beth?”
“Mom’s sister. She married and moved away years ago.”
Seeing her cup was empty, I got up from the table.
“I’ll get more coffee.”
I returned with a large carafe and kept pouring until
we’d drank every drop of the dark coffee.
“Thanks for coming,” she said as we returned to the
hospital room. “Mom still loves you, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You liar.”
I gave her no chance to settle back into the chair by
the bed.
“Go home and get some rest. I’ll stay with Melissa.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I don’t have to do anything. I’ll be here when you
get back.”
Too exhausted to pass on my offer, she hugged me and disappeared into the hallway.
It wasn’t just dim in the room anymore. Someone had
turned out all the lights while we were gone, only the green glint of pulsating
medical devices illuminating the room. I sat in a comfortable chair beside the
bed, digital beeps and the steady drip of an I.V. soon lulling me to sleep. When a clammy hand touched
my face, my eyes opened. It wasn’t so much touch as a mild surprise that sent a
chill shuddering up the back of my neck. When soft light flashed in my eyes, I
wasn’t sure if I was awake or still dreaming.
A shimmering image stood at the foot of Mama Manetti’s
bed, lighting the dark room with a dull, blue glow. It was something not entirely accurate. When I blinked, it didn’t disappear. I tried to say something, but words
clumped in my throat.
“Who are you?” I finally said.
“Someone who needs your help,” the ghostly image
replied.
The back of my neck and hands had become damp from the
room's chill. The pale specter was dressed in clothes from an era
long past.
“Are you...”
“A spirit,” the flickering image replied.
“What do you want from me?”
“Redemption.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do. You cursed me. Now, I am doomed to follow
you forever. Unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you lift the curse.”
“What curse?”
“The one you had the voodoo man place on me.”
He nodded when I said, “That’s not possible.”
“Oh, you cannot imagine how I wish it were not.”
“Who are you?”
The wraith reached toward me as his face began fading
away into the darkness of Mama Manetti’s hospital room.
“Zacharie Patenaude,” he said, his words a dying
whisper. “Have mercy on my soul.”
***
Sometime later, I awoke holding Mama Manetti’s hand.
The morning sun had begun lighting a gray sky outside the hospital window. Melissa
Manetti was sobbing, her face flushed as tears dampened her face. The door was
still cracked, and someone shuffled past in the hallway outside the door.
“Melissa, why are you crying?”
“Wyatt, what are you doing here?”
“Carla was exhausted. I sent her home for some sleep
and to change her clothes.”
Melissa glanced at the I.V. and wiped her tears with the
hospital gown sleeve.
“How long have I been here?”
“Going on two days. You apparently had a heart
attack.”
“I thought a mule had kicked me.”
“Pretty much what happened. Carla will return soon,
and your sister Beth is coming from New Jersey.”
“Oh my God! I don’t like causing trouble.”
“No trouble. Now tell me why you’re crying.”
“I can’t,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’s all right. You’re in capable hands. You’re going
to be okay.”
“That’s not why I’m crying,” she said. “I’m glad to
see you. No one around lately to appreciate my lasagna.”
“Carla said she’s seeing a professor.”
“Poof! That one’s got no blood in his veins. He don’t
eat Italian food. Says it’s too fattening, him.”
I squeezed her hand. “Then he must be crazy. At least
Carla likes him.”
“That girl, she don’t know what she wants. One thing I
do know. She liked you.”
“I like her too. Maybe it’s why I kept running from
her.”
“She doesn’t think you do.”
I smiled. “Maybe not quite as much as your lasagna.”
“You two,” she said. “Dumb kids.”
“You’re pale,” I said, changing the subject. “Maybe I
better call a nurse to check your vitals.”
“No, no! I’m okay. Papa was here for a visit, and I’m
still shaking.”
I didn’t know Melissa’s age but guessed she was at
least in her mid-seventies. Her father would be pushing a hundred if he were
still alive.
“You must be on some heavy drugs. Sure, it wasn’t just
a morphine hallucination?”
“He was here.”
“Your father is alive? Carla has never mentioned him.”
“Whatever they’re giving me is making my head spin.
Doesn’t matter because what I saw was no dream. It was Papa, sitting right
where you are now, holding my hand, just like you’re doing.”
I could see by her expression that whatever happened
had profoundly affected her. Having seen my own spirit, I understood. Green
lights on the instruments monitoring her vitals continued to flash as she
stared at me. The red neon sign I’d seen through the window advertised a
distant restaurant and had faded in morning’s light.
“What did he say?”
“He wanted to explain something to me.”
“Like idle chitchat?”
“No. Something I’ve never told Carla.”
“Tell me.”
Melissa’s eyes became dreamy, looking first at the
ceiling and then at the green lights of her monitor.
“IO ero solo un bambino quando papà è morto.”
“Please, Melissa. I don’t speak Italian.”
“I was only a child when Papa died. Mama raised Beth
and me. I barely remember how he looked.”
“Are you sure it was him? How do you know?”
“I just know. It was Papa, and he was so sad.”
“Why?”
“Because of something, he told me.”
“Tell me.”
“Mama and Papa were married in Italy. They were so
young when they arrived here in New Orleans. Mama was pregnant with Beth.”
“They were courageous enough to come to the New
World alone.”
“My grandfather was already in this country. He sent
money.”
“That must have been...”
“Before the turn of the century. He was doing well,
making a decent living. Grandmother had died in Verona. She never made it to
America.”
Melissa started crying again when I asked my next
question.
“What did your grandfather do?”
“Assassin,” she finally said.
“Pardon me?”
“He’d fallen in with the Black Hand.”
“Mafia?”
She nodded. “They were preying on grocers then,
taking some of their profits. Grandpapa got Papa work with the same
people. Poor Papa didn’t know what he was going into.”
“What was he getting into?”
“Murder,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Your dad was also an assassin?”
“No. They hung him for a murder he did not commit.
That is why he was here tonight. He asked me to help him clear his name. Wyatt,
what can I do?”
She grimaced, clutching her chest before I could
answer. When her instruments turned red, three nurses and a doctor descended on
the room. The young doctor pumped her chest until her vitals responded
favorably, and then one of the nurses gave her a shot of morphine.
After watching them leave without saying a word, I
stood against the wall, Melissa’s eyes closed, my heart racing as I
pondered her near-death experience, her ghost story, and my own.
Like
Melissa Manetti, I was asleep when Carla returned. When she shook my shoulder,
I opened my eyes. Unlike Carla, the older woman with her wasn’t smiling.
“You saved my life,” Carla said.
“No problem. You owe me.”
Ignoring my blatant hint, she said, “Wyatt, this is
Aunt Beth.”
Beth looked like a slightly older version of Carla’s
mom, with the posture of a West Point cadet, her hair inhumanly black through
the miracle of some talented salon worker. Unlike Carla’s eyes, Beth and
Melissa’s were obsidian. She finally smiled when I shook her hand.
“Thank you for staying with my sister.”
“No problem.”
“I have some things to discuss with her, so please
excuse us.”
“Of course,” I said, backing out of the room.
Carla followed me into the hallway.
“Aunt Beth can be a little rude at times.”
“No problem. I’m glad I could help.”
“She booted me, too. Told me not to return until she
calls. Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“You sure?”
“I offered, didn’t I?”
She smiled when I said, “You haven’t
seen my apartment lately.”
Not bothering to comment on my proposal, she led me
downstairs to her old Volvo. We were soon driving on Veteran’s Boulevard toward
the French Quarter.
“I love this part of town,” I said as we passed the
Metairie Cemetery. “You’re the local historian. What’s the story on all the
ornate graves?”
“You kidding me? You genuinely don’t know?”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”
“The cemetery was the site of the Metairie Race Track.
Horses worldwide raced here, and most of the local elite belonged
to the Metairie Jockey Club. Very exclusive.”
“What happened?”
Carla’s eyes rolled as if she were dealing with an
idiot. We’d passed the cemetery, the tall buildings of downtown New Orleans
beckoning us, and cars passing on the nearby freeway.
“Charles T. Howard, the person that started the first
Louisiana lottery, applied for membership to the club and was denied.”
“Why?”
“You live here. You know why and what I mean
when I say he wasn’t from ‘old money.' No matter how much wealth he possessed,
the members wouldn’t let him into their club.”
“Not much has changed.”
“Mr. Howard took it personally and promised he’d live
to see the race track turned into a cemetery. No one knows how, but that’s what
eventually happened.”
“Quite a story.”
“Look at an aerial photo of the cemetery, and you’ll
see it’s the exact shape of the old race track. Mr. Howard has a prominent
crypt and a controversial statue.”
“How so?”
“The statue of a man has its finger to its lips as if
something nefarious might have happened.”
“Did it?”
“Tell me. You’re an investigator. I’m just a
historian.”
“A gorgeous one at that,” I said.
“You need to stop coming on to me, Wyatt Thomas.”
“Why?”
“Because you have no intention of being faithful to
any woman.”
“I never played around on you.”
“You’re such a liar.”
“Then I guess it’s no use asking you to come home with
me tonight.”
Carla laughed aloud. “By dark, I’ll probably hate you
again.”
“You never hated me.”
“Don’t get me started.”
“We were quite a couple. Things like that don’t often
occur.”
“I have a new boyfriend. Remember?”
“Your mother said he has no blood in his veins.”
“So that’s what this is all about. You’re jealous
because someone else likes me.”
“Not true. I remember all the incredible times we
had.”
“Uh-huh! Your little ragdoll until someone prettier
and sexier came along. Well, some men like me for who I am.
Someday, you’ll recognize as much.”
“That’s the problem with you,” I said.
“What problem?”
“You’re smarter than I am, and never let me win an
argument. I was always on the defensive.”
Carla shook her head, but her smile remained. “You
never give up, do you?”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll change the subject. At least for
a few minutes. Tell me what you know about the hospital your mother is in.”
“Oschner?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s public information.”
“When it comes to N.O., no one knows more than you.”
“There you go again,” she said.
“I’m serious. How long has Oschner been at its current
location?”
“Since the forties.”
“This century?”
“What are you angling at?”
“Nothing, really,” I said, not wanting to expound
about the spirit I’d seen. “I’ve heard you talk about your paternal
grandparents, not your mom’s parents. Why is that?”
“It’s personal.”
She glanced away from the road and glared at me when I
said, “Because your grandfather was hung for murder?”
Carla slammed on the brakes, slowing so rapidly a
passing car stood on his horn and waved a fist at us.
“Where did you hear that?”
“Don’t get us killed.”
Carla continued to glare, though her gaze refocused on
the highway.
“Who told you that?”
“Your mom.”
“Impossible. Aunt Beth had to tell me.”
Traffic had increased, and Carla yanked the wheel to
avoid an oncoming car crowding our lane. Her eyes suddenly wide, she locked her
gaze back onto Veteran’s Blvd.
“I didn’t intend to distress you. Want me to drive?”
“That’s a hoot. You don’t even have a license.”
“Didn’t say I do, and your mom told me a
story about your grandfather.”
“No way. She wouldn’t tell you and not me.”
“She thought she saw the ghost of your grandfather
last night. Maybe the drugs. It’s irrelevant because it was still genuine to her and apparently painful.”
“What did she tell you?”
“First, keep your eyes on the road before you pile
into the back of that truck.”
Carla popped her neck and then took a deep breath.
“Okay, I’m concentrating. Now tell me about this ghost Mom saw.”
“She said your grandfather spoke to her. He told her
he wasn’t guilty of murder.”
“No trial,” Carla said. “A mob hung him. He never had
a chance.”
“Mob?”
“He wasn’t the only one. There was much political and
social corruption then; the cops and local politicians bought and paid
for it. The citizens finally took matters into their own hands.”
“And your grandfather was a victim.”
Carla had slowed to a creep, another driver behind us
laying on his horn. With a screech of rubber and a neck-wrenching yank, she
pulled off the road into a shopping center parking lot.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Before I answered, my cell phone rang. It was Bertram.
“How’s Carla’s mom?”
“Stable but still in the hospital. Carla’s bringing me
to the city and is dropping me off.”
“You kiddin’ me! You bring her in to see me, you
hear?”
Carla stared at me as I stuffed the phone in my coat pocket.
“You have a cell phone? I thought you were a
technophobe.”
“Someone gave it to me during my last case. I kind of
got attached.”
“I see. Then you are driving now.”
“Nope! I still prefer public transportation. I do
have a laptop.”
Carla glanced skyward, shaking her head. “Oh my god!
The world is coming to an end.”
“Say, Carla, what was your grandfather’s name?”
“Vincento Pedretti. What difference does it make?”
“Just wondering.”
Forgetting about her grandfather, she eased back into
the flow of traffic. We exited the off-ramp near the Superdome, soon tooling
through the French Quarter toward Bertram’s.
“You’re not going to leave without saying hi to
Bertram, are you? He wants to see you.”
“You know I have to get back to the hospital.”
“No, you don’t. Not until Aunt Beth calls you. You
told me so. Remember?”
“Well...”
“Bertram will kill me if he knows you were outside his
place and didn’t take the time to drop in and say hi.”
“You’re such a talker,” she said. “No wonder I’m not a
virgin anymore.”
“Stop it. I wasn’t the person who took your virginity.”
Carla nodded. “Yes, you did.”
“No way.”
“As God is my witness, Wyatt Thomas.”
“Are you coming in or not?”
Without answering, she found a parking spot instead.
We walked the short distance to Bertram’s, already crowded with rowdy football
fans, even though it was still early in the day. It didn’t stop Bertram from sprawling
across the countertop and hugging Carla when he saw her.
“I thought you told me you’d never be caught dead with
this one again,” he said, pointing at me.
“A moment of weakness. How you doing, Bertram?”
“Like a gator in a chicken coop,” he said. “How’s
Mama?”
“She scared the crap out of me. I hope she’ll be
okay.”
Then, I noticed someone sitting at the bar,
smiling as he listened to our exchange. When he pivoted on the stool, waiting
for an introduction, Bertram obliged him. It was my old pal Eddie Toledo.
“Glad to hear about your mama. You know this person?”
“No, I don’t,” she said.
“I’m Eddie,” he said, flashing a Pepsodent smile and
grabbing her hand. “Why waste your time with this loser?”
“Wyatt and I are just friends,” Carla said.
“The best news I’ve had all day,” Eddie said. “Bertram, bring this lovely woman something alcoholic.”
Eddie held a prominent government job, though his hair
was too long. It didn’t seem to matter. His
youthful looks and upbeat personality had propelled him through the ranks rapidly.
“I can’t,” she said. “I have to return to the
hospital.”
“I hope she’s okay,” he said.
Eddie continued to hold Carla’s hand. She gently pulled it away after glancing to see if I’d noticed.
“The doctors said we’ll know more tomorrow. One of
the nurses assured me she’ll be fine.”
“There you go, then,” Eddie said. “Nurses are always a
day or two ahead of the doctors.”
“Hope you’re right about that.”
“Eddie’s the Assistant Federal D.A. here in the
city. Don’t worry. I won’t tell him about all your heinous crimes.”
Carla gave me a dirty look that turned into a smile
following Eddie’s comeback.
“She’s guilty of being beautiful. I see that much. At
least have breakfast with me. A little cafe down the street does
excellent French toast.”
“I don’t know,” Carla said. “Wyatt?”
“The loser can come along,” Eddie said. “I’ll buy.”
“With that offer, we better go,” I said. “He owes me
at least three lunches, not to mention a Saints ticket or two.”
“Don’t listen to him, pretty lady. I’m the most
generous person in town.”
When Carla glanced at Bertram, he gave her another
hug. “Go on,” he said. “We can catch up later.”
We were soon out the door, a cold nip in the air,
exacerbated by a chill breeze blowing down Chartres Street. It didn’t matter
because it wasn’t far from Bertram’s to a cafe near Jackson Square.
The business was apparently dead, a man standing on the
street hustling customers. Only five tables occupied the slate floor
of the cafe housed in a row of old French Quarter buildings. They were all
empty when the man seated us near the door. A trickle of tourists passed slowly
on the sidewalk outside.
“Something to drink? Mimosa?”
“Coffee for me,” Carla said. “With lots of milk.”
“Make that two,” I said. “But black for me.”
“Kir Royale,” Eddie said.
“What’s that?” Carla asked.
“Chambord and champagne. Try one; you’ll like it.”
“Better stick with coffee,” she said.
They were both as hungry as I was, and we were soon
feasting on eggs and cornbread hash. Eddie was working on his second Kir
Royale, finally getting Carla to sip.
“Carla’s a fourth-generation Italian,” I said. “Her
mother is the best Italian cook in New Orleans, maybe the world.”
“You kidding me? I’m from New Jersey. I grew up on
Italian food,” Eddie said.
Carla turned in her seat until their knees touched.
“You like lasagna?”
“Not just like, I lust for it. No one cooks Italian
like my mama.”
“Mine does,” Carla said.
“I think I want to meet your mother. I’m off today,
so I’m slumming in the Quarter. Can I take you to the hospital
after breakfast?”
“You can come with me if you're serious.”
Eddie held up his credit card. We were quickly tabbed
out, Carla and Eddie on their way to Oschner as I opened the door to Bertram’s
bar.
“Where’s Carla?” he asked.
“With Eddie.”
“You kidding me. You okay with that?”
“We broke up over a year ago.”
“That Eddie’s a mover, him.”
“They call him Fast Eddie for a reason. I’m going
upstairs,” I said, yawning as I gave him a backhanded wave.
Lost
in a dream, I wrestled with a monster intent on killing me when the phone by
the bed woke me. With my temples still throbbing, my eyes popped open as I grabbed
the receiver.
“Wyatt, it is Mama. Are you busy?”
“Mama? How are you? Bertram and I were just talking
about you.”
“You sound groggy. Did I wake you?”
“Just a nap,” I said.
“I came by last night and knocked on your door.”
“Sorry about that.”
“On a date?”
“Probably sitting on the balcony and didn’t hear you.”
Mama Mulate didn’t question my little white lie. “What
are you doing right now?”
“Nothing; why?”
“Let’s go for a jog in the park. I didn’t get much running time on the boat this summer, and feel like I’ve grown fat and lazy. My
body needs exercise.”
Mama Mulate had attended the University of South
Carolina on a track scholarship. She’d continued running daily after
graduation, her jogs more like lung-bursting sprints. She’d never be fat and
was anything but lazy. Our runs typically turned into contests that she usually
won.
“I’ve put on a little weight.”
“Oh? How much weight?”
“A pound or two.”
“You haven’t gained a pound since I’ve known you. No
one your age is in better shape. Get your togs on. I’ll be there in an hour.”
She hung up the phone before I could argue. It didn’t
matter because I needed to exercise more than she thought she did.
“Guess I need a new pair,” I said when my big toe
protruded through the orange mesh of the lightweight shoe.
I was pulling on a sweatshirt when Mama Mulate knocked
on the door.
She was resplendent in her pink jogging jacket and
pants. Bouffant hair draped to her shoulders in curly waves. It didn’t hide her
gold hoop earrings that seemed out of place for a run in the park. Her shoes
were also pink. Her choice of clothing color seemed to paint her as a
want-to-be athlete. I knew better. Once her fancy sweats came off, she left
fashion behind, along with anyone trying to keep up with her.
We were soon pulling into City Park. When the weather
was warm, Mama Mulate liked to drop the soft top of her old Bugeye Sprite. Even
on sunny, fifty-degree days, it made for a chilly ride. The cold breeze
whistling over the windshield made me glad I wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants.
Cool-weather didn’t worry Mama. Nearly six feet tall,
she was in excellent condition and had the svelte and toned body of an Olympic
athlete. She doffed her pink sweats as soon as she’d parked the Sprite. Dressed
only in a small racing singlet and sports bra that revealed her firm stomach,
she was already eliciting admiring glances from passing walkers and joggers.
City Park has thirteen hundred acres of towering sculptures, picturesque bridges spanning ponds, and bayous filled with ducks,
geese, swans, and flowering lily pads. Massive live oaks had somehow survived ages of Gulf winds and severe weather. Their limbs, draping with
Spanish moss and resurrection fern, bordered miles of paths and trails through
beautifully landscaped surroundings. It would have made a British gardener
jealous. We started slowly, Mama Mulate quickly increasing the pace.
Mama was a competitor and hated to lose. Something she
rarely had to worry about from me. Today was different. Three miles into our
run, she stopped to tie a shoelace. I didn’t wait for her to finish, tearing
away at a lung-bursting clip. Mama responded to the challenge, racing
after me.
Though I was surprised to find out why, I was up to the task. I could
hear her footsteps behind me. Though not turning to look, I sensed she was
running faster than I was. With two miles to go, I drew on every ounce of
strength. It wasn’t enough.
For the last mile, we ran flat out, side-by-side, crossing
our imaginary finish line together. Mama was laughing when she hugged me.
“That was so much fun. What got into you?”
My heart continued to race, breathing coming in short
bursts. Before I could answer her, the clouds opened up with an impromptu rain
that sent us sprinting for her Sprite. We quickly raised the soft top before
getting thoroughly drenched. Neither of us spoke as she motored toward the
Quarter, grinning and reflecting on our run as the rain beat down on the
car’s soft top. She finally glanced at her watch.
“We covered that last mile in five minutes flat. You
are a pretty good distance runner.”
“I ran cross-country and 1500 meters at L.S.U.,” I said.
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked.”
Mama reached across the stick shift and kissed me on the mouth.
“You’re so damn secretive,” she said. “Maybe that’s
what I like about you. What are your plans for the day?”
“Don’t have any.”
“No hot date?”
“I told you, I’m not seeing anyone.”
She stared at me for a long moment. “You always have at
least one woman waiting on your beck and call, usually two.”
“It’s different now.”
Mama put her palm on my forehead. “I don’t think
you’re lying. Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not. You’re still depressed about Kimi and
Desire.”
My ex-wife Kimi had recently succumbed to breast
cancer. Desire was a beautiful runway model I’d met shortly after that. Our
relationship had turned disastrous. I realized it was part of what was causing
my depression.
“How do you know about Desire? You were on your
cruise.”
“Bertram told me. He’s an old gossip, you know.”
“No kidding,” I said.
“I’m off work for today. Come home with me. I have
gumbo simmering on the stove.”
“I’m wringing wet from sweat and rain and don’t have a
change of clothes.”
“I have a closet filled with castoffs from
ex-boyfriends. You can shower in my spare bathroom. I won’t even peek in on you.”
“Maybe I’d like it better if you did. Just old clothes
and a bowl of gumbo, huh?”
What else did you think I meant?”
“Don’t know. You just got me thinking.”
“Oh?”
“That maybe it’s time our business partnership took on
a more personal side.”
Mama shook her head. “You’re not as depressed as I
thought. Maybe I better drop you at Bertram’s.”
“Just kidding,” I said. “I’ll settle for a shower,
clean clothes, and that bowl of gumbo.”
“And a little talk about your depression,” she said.
It doesn’t just rain in New Orleans. As often as not,
it comes down in bucket loads. It was doing that as Mama headed down
Elysian Fields toward the Central Business District. Her two-story house was in
an old neighborhood not far from the river. Since she didn’t have a garage, we
had to dash for her covered porch. We may as well have strolled
because we were both drenched as she fumbled to open the front door.
“You take the bathroom at the end of the hall,” she
said, pointing as she ran up the stairs to her bedroom.
I was standing naked by the shower, waiting for the
water to warm up, when Mama opened the door without knocking and threw me a
towel.
“There’s a bathrobe hanging on the door hook. I’ll see
you in the kitchen after your shower,” she said, shutting the door behind her.
I tried not to think about Mama’s impromptu visit as I
stood beneath the steamy shower. She was sitting at her white enamel
kitchen table when I joined her. Her white terrycloth robe matched mine, her hair still damp. The smell of strong Creole coffee wafted
from the pot on the stove.
“Why are you grinning?” I said as she poured me a cup.
“Nice tush,” she said.
“Never knew you liked peeking.”
“I wasn’t peeking; I was ogling.”
“I see. I thought this was only about clean clothes
and a bowl of gumbo.”
“You don’t have to buy everything you look at in a
store window.”
“Not even a test drive?”
She let my comment pass. “The run was what I needed.
Are you feeling better?”
“Much better, and this is the best coffee I’ve ever
tasted.”
“Wait till you try my gumbo.”
“If I know you, it’ll be the best I’ve ever had.”
“Maybe not that good. I think you’ll like it.”
Mama stood on her tiptoes, reaching for bowls in her
cabinet.
“Nice tush,” I said.
Although she didn’t turn around, I could tell she was
smiling.
“One of these nights, we should get it on, though not
tonight. After we eat, I want you to tell Mama what’s troubling you.”
“It’s not that serious.”
“I think it is.”
“How would you know?”
“Maybe I can read minds.”
“If you could do that, you’d slap my face.”
She slapped my face anyway, though playfully. “Why, Mr.
Butler, you are no gentleman.”
“And you, Scarlett, are no lady,” I said.
“You got me a job, I guess you know,” Mama said, changing the subject again.
“Oh?”
“The movie producer you worked for while I was on my
cruise.”
I’d recently investigated a series of deaths
at a monastery south of New Orleans. The man who had hired me produced movies
in Louisiana.
“Quinlan Moore?”
Mama nodded. “He wrote a book when he was in college.
He’s hired a writer to adapt it into a screenplay that takes place in New
Orleans.”
“Now I remember. He wanted to jazz up the script by
adding elements of voodoo. I gave him your name,” I said.
“He’s hired me as a consultant. We are meeting at
Bertram’s tomorrow, and I think he also wants to hire you.”
“He hasn’t called me.”
“He said he’d already talked with you about it.”
“Maybe,” I said. “With this business of ghosts, my
memory is a little hazy.”
“Ghosts?”
“Long story,” I said.
“Then eat your gumbo. We’ll see if we can solve your
spirit problem when our stomachs are full.”
We devoured the delicious gumbo, Mama giving me a
second helping without asking or taking no for an answer. After topping our
coffee, we listened to the storm roaring outside.
“Where are your cats?” I finally asked.
“Oh shit!” she said, hurrying to the back door. “I
left them on the porch. With all this rain, they must be ready to kill me.”
When Mama opened the back door, her three cats,
Cliffy, Bushy, and Ninja, came running in. Cliffy was an orange tabby, Bushy a
white Persian, and Ninja solid black. When my first cat died, I’d rescued Ninja
from the pound, and Mama had fallen in love the moment she saw him. When
Bertram gave me Kisses, a clone of my deceased cat Bob, I’d given her Ninja.
The little black cat remembered me and hopped into my lap.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have taken him from you,” she said.
“He loves you and is perfectly happy here.”
The rain continued falling, though now even more complicated than
before, sharp drops peppering the roof and windows. When thunder shook the old
house, all the lights went out. Nonplussed, Mama lit a candle on the kitchen
table.
“Damn generator for this neighborhood! Lightning zaps
it at least three times every year. Good thing I have lots of candles.”
We sat in darkness, lighted only by the glow of a
flickering candle. The rain on Mama’s roof began sounding more frightening than
soothing. Ninja had fallen asleep in my lap, Bushy and Cliffy having
disappeared into the recesses of Mama’s large house.
“What now?” I said.
“Not me; you. Tell me what’s troubling you.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Yes, you are. Tell me.”
She was right, and I only hesitated a moment before
beginning my story.
“I must be getting old. Nothing used to upset me. Now
everything does. My blood pressure’s through the roof.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Let’s check it. I have a meter.”
Mama soon had the instrument strapped to my wrist and
grinned when she checked the results.
“You no more have high blood pressure than a man on the moon.”
“Maybe not, though I feel as if I do.”
“You’re becoming a hypochondriac,” she said.
Mama went to the stove and started a teakettle to
boil.
“Let this simmer awhile, and then drink it when it cools,”
she said.
“What is it?”
“Flor de Jamaica. Known here as hibiscus tea. Drinking three or four cups a day lowers blood pressure.”
“You just told me I don’t have high blood pressure.”
“Doesn't matter. Hot hibiscus tea sounds good
on such a stormy night.”
“Pretty tasty,” I said, taking a sip when she handed me a cup.
“And it doesn’t have the sugar calories from all the
lemonade you drink.”
“It hasn’t hurt me yet.”
“Have you had your blood sugar tested?”
“I’m okay. High blood pressure and sugar aren’t my
problems.”
“Then what is?”
“I’ve had a case of the nerves for a while now, and
last night I saw a ghost.”
“ Real ghost, or were you dreaming?”
“Not sure. I was at Ochsner visiting Carla’s mom. She
had a heart attack. I stayed with her so that Carla could go home and get some
sleep.”
“Seeing Carla again?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Just friends.”
When the wind rattled the windows, the candle flickered.
Mama poured water for my tea.
“Tell me about this ghost you saw.”
Without opening his eyes, Ninja changed positions in
my lap. I rubbed his shoulders and sipped the tea. The storm and dimly lit
kitchen caused me to remember with vivid recall the moment I’d seen the
specter.
“I was asleep by Melissa’s bed when something like a damp sponge touched my cheek. I opened my eyes to something
flickering in front of me.”
“Are you sure you weren’t just dreaming?”
“I was awake.”
“What was it?”
“A man.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. Someone in his thirties, dressed in what appeared
to be a period costume. Like an actor playing the part in a movie about old New
Orleans.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“He said I’d placed a curse on him, and he was doomed
to follow me for eternity unless I lifted the curse.”
“And you didn’t recognize him? Was the encounter so
short that perhaps you don’t quite remember what he looked like?”
“I remember. His eyes and hair were coal black, his
nose prominent, though more regal than grotesque. His clothes looked well made,
probably expensive. He had the hands of someone who had never done manual labor.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“Zacharie Patenaude.”
“What else?”
“That’s all, but not the strangest part of the story.”
“Then what is?”
“He spoke French, and I understood every word
he said.”
“What’s so strange about that?”
“I know a little Cajun French, but that’s about it.
The apparition was speaking traditional French, not Cajun.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. I know this is all confusing because it
makes no sense. The ghost seemed familiar as if I’d known him from someplace.
Though I’ve searched my mind, I can’t remember from where or if I ever
actually did.”
“His clothes were from a different era?”
“Pre-Civil War, I’d say.”
When lightning flashed through the window, I saw the
unbelieving look on Mama Mulate’s face. Ninja shifted in my lap again. Opening
his eyes, he stretched and then jumped to the floor.
“You’re right. This all sounds strange.”
“And it got even stranger the next morning when I talked
to Melissa.”
“Stranger than what you just told me?”
“She was crying and had also seen a ghost.”
“Your ghost?”
“The ghost of her father. Her grandfather brought her
parents from Italy and got his son a job with the Black Hand.”
“What’s that?”
“Same as the Mafia now. A mob broke her father out of
jail and hung him because they thought he was a killer. She said her father’s
ghost begged her to help clear his name.”
“You do have problems,” she said. “Now I’m almost
sorry I offered to help.”
“It’s okay. This is my problem. There’s nothing you
can do.”
The storm continued, wind and rain pounding the
windows and thunder shaking the frame house with increasing intensity.
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