Between Heaven and Earth: chapter 4 Date Tuesday, April 23, 2024 - 06:00 AM PST Topic Entertainment Interlude: The National Weather Service has officially upgraded tropical storm Burt to a hurricane. According to predictions, the storm should reach the coast of Louisiana by early morning. It is recommended that all residents seek cover. Heavy rains and high winds may be hazardous. Winds may cause damage to buildings and property and flooding may result. Proceed with caution. Chapter 4 It always happens like this. A tropical depression builds itself a power base, and then continues building up steam. Then he earns the title of Tropical Storm. He’s a big boy, with clout. But that is not the end of it. He needs more; he’s growing, and hungry. Building, building, and building, he keeps growing. Now, he’s almost where he wants to be – a hurricane. When he crosses this line, there is no turning back. He heads inland – he’s ready to flex his muscles and show people that he’s all grown up. Once we reach this point, people get scared. This is a hurricane. This is serious business. The beauty of New Orleans is that when something serious crops up, we all head out for a drink. The only time that is busier is Mardi Gras. My place is full. It all passes in a blur. An order screamed above the lyrics, “it’s the end of the world as we know it.” Cash and booze flow like water. The smells of clove, tobacco, alcohol, sweat and black khopesh incense all mingle in a haze that helps anesthetize me to the events of the past two days. I tend to keep the door open till the money stops coming in, and the money keeps coming in tonight. I lock the door as the sun peeks over horizon. The place is trashed and I am too. Plastic cups, beer bottles, napkins and more litter the floor in an interesting pattern. I flip the switch to bring all the lights up and start to sweep up. The floor is sticky with spilled beer, but then, that’s why I had the carpet removed when I first bought the building. I sweep all the trash into a pile and begin shoveling it all into the trashcan. At the bottom of the pile I catch a hint of metal. Sometimes, people drop valuables. They go into the lost and found box. If someone can identify an item, then I let them take it. More often than not, it just stays there and after a couple of months it’s mine. I push the detritus aside to see what it is. A gun. A large, chrome plated handgun is in the middle of my floor. Someone lost a pistol in my bar. There’s a sign by the door with the rules of conduct. On that sign it says no weaponry - of any kind. One of my customers brought one in anyway. Well, it is a storm night, and it’s not likely one of my normal clientele – at least I hope it’s not. I pick up the receiver and call the police. I mean, that seems to be the logical thing to do. I really don’t want this thing in my lost and found box for the next couple of months. Thirty minutes later and Third Cop is at my door. I was expecting some kind of response to a lost handgun, but this was not it. “Well, what brings you to this neck of the woods, Detective?” He smiles, “Well, I hear you have been subjected to a hardware invasion.” “That I have, sir.” I show him the gun, which I have not touched. He pulls out a latex glove and pulls it on before picking it up and letting out a low, long whistle. “That’s a serious hand cannon, my friend.” [pagebreak] “That’s what I thought, but I know two things about guns. Jack and shit.” He laughs again, and I find myself smiling with him, it’s infectious. “Well, that is what most of the general public knows. Let me just tell you. This is a massive weapon. It’ll leave a hole the size of a barn door when it hits you.” It hits me like an inconveniently large warehouse traveling well over the speed limit. The footsteps walking into the church roused him from a drugged stupor. The fear, fear that they found him again. The click as the slide is pulled back, chambering a round in the pistol. The impossibly loud explosion. The muzzle flash illuminating her face as the bullet rips through her. “Mr. Davis, are you alright?” The concern in his voice is genuine. I think that Third Cop deserves a name. Detective Richards seems to fit nicely. “Uh, yeah, I’m just tired. You know how it is when there’s a hurricane. They all wanna get one last drink and party in before it hits. I called right after I found it and that was 7 hours later than normal. “I’ll take this back to the station and run the serial number and have forensics run some tests on it, just in case.” He bags the gun and heads for the door. “Oh, Detective Richards!” He turns and I hand him the photograph of the mirror. This elicits another long, low whistle. He holds the photo up and compares it to the bar. “That’s quite a piece of work, there.” “Yeah, tell me about it.” “Why didn’t you call us when you found this?” “Well, honestly, it was almost open, and the National Weather Service had just issued the warning. Frankly, it’s better to suffer a little danger and make a shit load of money than it is to run the risk of missing out on that clientele.” “Well, I can’t say I blame you for that. I’ll hold on to this. If anything else happens, call me personally.” He starts to search around in his pocket again. “I’ve still got your card.” “Good. Make sure you use it.” He pauses. “Man, you look like hell! Get some sleep.” “I’ll do that.” I lock the door behind him and head upstairs and proceed to do just that. *** As I finish pounding the last nail into the board, the wind picks up, as it always does when a hurricane hits - a wailing cry for attention. I survey my work. Satisfied that the winds will not do any real damage, I head back inside. My key turns the lock easily. Yes, I am that paranoid. My friends laugh at me - I lock the front door when I go out – even to check the mailbox. [pagebreak] I close the door and place my back against it, gazing around the Inn. The sky is already dark with the impending storm, giving the light that filters in through the windows an odd, half real quality. To the south, it’s almost night. To the north, the sky is still blue. Gold light from the east is struggling to fight off the clouds and it looks to be a losing battle. A knock at the door pulls me out of my reverie. As I turn to open it, the knock comes again. Standing outside in the gloom is Felix Andrieaux. Felix is my friend, a local man, the bokor of the 9th ward. Bokor is a word used to designate a high priest of the old Vou-doun. Felix is one of the most spiritual and powerful men I know. He stands roughly six feet tall, skin as black as night and hair to match. A white streak marks his hair, running back from his temple, giving him an alternately wild and distinguished air. His blue eyes are a stark contrast to his dark skin and hair. A chicken bone hangs around his neck, bound in leather with other, less savory, things. My hand reflexively goes to the necklace I wear – a small leather pouch containing similar components. I have never really been sure what all is in it, but it has not left my side in 13 years. That’s when Felix gave me the gruesome grisgris. The talisman is intended to absorb the negative energies that anyone wishing me ill would be projecting – intentionally or not. I’ve never been one to fear the supernatural, but I’ve had an odd sort of luck since Felix gave me the piece, so it never leaves my side. “Felix. What are you doing here? The storm’s about to hit. You should be inside.” His Haitian Creole accent is hard to miss. “Some things can’t wait. My safety is not as important as that of my friends.” “What are you talking about, Felix? I’m all boarded up, and the storm is still hours off.” “Don’t be daft. The bones are talking, and you should be listening.” He talks like this a lot, but who am I to complain? “Oh, really? And just what are your bones saying this time, wise one?” He flashes his dazzling smile again. “One day, I will not be around to show you the signs, and then… then they’ll bite you in the ass.” “Well, before we get into the bone talking, I guess you’d better come inside. I was just about to make breakfast. If the storm hits before you leave, you can stay.” Yeah, I know, I am supposed to be heartless and paranoid, but the guy’s always been there for me. “Well, that’s what the bones say first: Breakfast. Eggo waffles, Jimmy Dean hot links and Sunny D.” Every hair on my body rises to attention. It’s creepy that he’s never wrong. It’s creepier that his psychic prowess shows brand name loyalty. Oddly enough, aside from a 10 year old bottle of mustard and a can of beer, that’s all I have in my fridge. “And I am sure the Sunny D would do my old bones better than that cheap domestic beer you have in there.” [pagebreak] “Felix, I gotta say – you do not have to do that. I already know you have the sight about you.” He cracks another smile. “Sometimes, boy, I have to remind you that it exists. Else I be worried that you forget what your grandma taught you. And that would be a shame.” Silence reigns as I prepare breakfast. It only takes 3 minutes, what with the toaster and microwave. “Felix.” “Evil.” “What’s up, man? I never see you in the daylight. You do your best work after dark.” “I come to tell you something. Something important.” The old Creole have some annoying habits. The most annoying of which is their love of melodrama. Our people, until more recent times, were, on average, illiterate. Everything was word of mouth. As one of the professors at the University of New Orleans said in a recent interview, “The Oral tradition of the Haitian Creole is very rich and very much alive today.” While it makes for an interesting childhood, it means the elders among us tend to take a long while to say anything. “Felix. If it’s so important, why don’t you just spit it out?” “Because, boy, to do so would to be to ignore all that I am.” He pokes me with his walking staff. “And all that you are too. This city – it changes you.” “I am sorry, bokor.” He grins and winks, “Now, as I was saying before the city boy interrupted me. The bones say a song is talking.” Normally his melodrama leads up to something that makes at least marginal sense. “The bones say a song is talking?” “I used to repeat what my elders told me, word for word. I did it to sound wise. Now that I am an elder, I see that I was mistaken.” “Goddamn it, old man! I was asking you to clarify that statement, not to try to appear wise!” He chuckles, then sighs, “I just know what the bones say. The song is speaking. Speaking often. Whispering. Whispering to the wrong ears.” “You know, my Gran used to repeat things just to sound wise. It didn’t work then, and it’s not working now.” “I came to tell you. I told you. I know not what it means, just that it is true.” “I honestly think you’re slipping in your old age, Felix. I mean, your prophetic ramblings used to make sense.” “Damn, boy, but you are dense.” “What dense thing did I do now?” “You have a song here. You follow the song. You see the song die.” That cold feeling is back. The old man’s eyes bore right into me. “The song speaks, and the wrong ears listen. She blames you.” This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=608