That would explain his tenseness, the tragic way his face twisted. He didn’t want to do it, the reverend concluded, but the gangs had threatened him, possibly threatened D’Ruth and Darnell. The reverend didn’t fault him for it. On the contrary, he quite literally felt Marcellus’s pain, on that account, and a lot of his own, a whole lot of his own because he knew what was going to happen next. He remembered Darnell in church with those little “Amen”s.
The white police were going to be here soon and Darnell knew Junior Heavey, had certainly seen him driving that truck. If someone didn’t stop him, he was going to do what his Paw-Paw had been preaching about for weeks now.
The reverend’s heart sped up, probably, he thought, pumping the blood right out of his body. But that was the last thing that worried him. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was only afraid he wouldn’t live to undo what he had done.
“Darnell,” he said, “listen to Paw-Paw. Listen, now...” Though the boy was looking at him, he didn’t respond.
The reverend knew he was speaking — he could feel his lips moving, he could see Darnell looking at him, could feel Maureen’s arm around his shoulder — but somehow, hard as he tried, he couldn’t seem to make the sound come out.
Copyright © 2006 Julie Smith
Eternal Return: To the City of New Orleans
by James Sallis
Copyright © 2006 James Sallis
Monday at the Pie Pie Club
by Tony Dunbar
Tony Dunbar is the author of the Edgar-nominated Tubby Dubonnet mystery series, whose seventh entry, Tubby Meets Katrina, provides an incisive look at the hurricane’s aftermath. A 25-year NOLA resident who evacuated to Tennessee when Katrina hit and later worked in a field kitchen feeding recovery workers, the author is now back in the city with his wife and son.
Mondays started slowly at the Pie Pie Club. People who should have gone home on Friday night, but didn’t, were finally giving it up and drifting away on Burgundy Street. Miss Lana’s girls all got to sleep late. The waitresses reported in drowsy.
Though the lunch crowd was normally small, Chef Baranca always tried to plan something special. Today it was going to be sweetbreads with gonger mushrooms and a mustard sauce. He had dreamed that up while walking to work.
Guarding the entrance to the Pie Pie Club, Pascal Parette, the doorman, watched a pair of street-washing trucks blow noisily past, sucking up the discarded remnants of oyster po’boys and plastic cups, leaving behind their invigorating mist. The French Quarter began to wake up.
A businessman in a double-breasted suit careened off a parking meter, reoriented himself, and hurried along toward his post in the Central Business District. He wiggled a sleepy-finger hello to a shirtless red-bearded giant he knew slightly. The man’s splendid Afghan hound was relieving itself on a fluted metal porch stanchion.
Across the street two tourists in sun hats and matching yellow shorts sipped Bloody Marys from plastic cups while they peeked through a decorated iron gate. It concealed a peaceful patio where residents, when they tired of the colorful bustle of the city, withdrew.
Then Parette saw the two hoods. He knew them both. Johnny Lepeyere and Melvin Dubuisson, the one short and stubby like a used-up cigar, and the other big and chubby like an over-the-hill college fullback, which is what he was. His college being Holy Name of Jesus, across the river. Lepeyere had on a flat porkpie hat he had bought in New York City and which he graciously tipped to Parette.
“Good morning, old soldier,” he said, friendly enough, looking up at the doorman’s large and doughy countenance. “We’re here to see your boss.”
Dubuisson, the other one, just rotated his head and worked out a kink. He ran his forefingers under the crimson suspenders that held up his pleated pants while he watched the rooftops.
“I’m glad to see that you two gentlemen can share a sidewalk without knifing each other,” Parette said benignly. He jerked his thumb. “He’s expecting you. Do you know how to walk upstairs?”
“I ain’t forgot yet,” Lepeyere said as he stepped around Parette’s size-fifty-five form. Dubuisson prepared to spit out a wad of gum, but caught the big doorman’s eye and swallowed it instead.
Parette watched the pair saunter up the steps and swagger past the sign that set out the simple rules of the joint: “Welcome to the Pie Pie Club. This Is Your Night. Treat It Right.”
Old soldier! He had to laugh at that.
Inside, ceiling fans cooled the elegant dining room and its Brazilian cherry dance floor where, during the evening hours, beautiful babes and guys in white suits did their tangos. The receptionist pointed the way to the narrow door by the bar through which invited guests reached the private club upstairs.
The two visitors ascended until they encountered a second door. They tapped and were buzzed through by Polly. She ran the upstairs bar, and Melvin Dubuisson and Johnny Lepeyere entered her small dark lounge and casino, perfectly air-conditioned, but empty on this slow dawning of any high-rollers. It was calm and mellow inside there. The two hoods hadn’t been to bed yet, and neither had Polly.
“Whaddya say, sweetheart?” Lepeyere inquired in passing, and the ebony-skinned woman with pink and silver hair raised her eyebrows, which were accented with small golden loops. She tipped her head toward the left.
The last entrance down a long hall belonged to Max Moran. He opened the door before either of the men even had a chance to knock.
“Johnny, Melvin,” he said. “You both look like hell. Come on in and have a chair.”
Moran stood aside, a tall and slender man, black hair combed straight back, wearing neat khaki slacks and a black T-shirt that advertised nothing. Lepeyere pumped his hand. “Good to see you, Max,” he said. “Always a real pleasure,” Dubuisson mumbled, and did the same.
They each found an armchair and looked around, feigning appreciation of the modern art on the walls, while Moran got comfortable on the sofa between them.
“Nice place you got here,” Lepeyere said, crossing his short legs.
Max acknowledged the compliment with a nod. He knew his home was nice, just like everything else in the Pie Pie Club. It was better than nice.
“A lot fancier than the Witch’s Hat, huh?” Dubuisson beamed, proud of himself for having come up with a good dig at Lepeyere and the tavern where he kept his office.
Lepeyere started to make a smart reply, but Moran cut him off.
“I understand that you two have a problem,” he said, by way of getting the meeting going.