"I don't suppose that you believe in the Undead any more than I do, so — "
"I don't," Katherine Spann said, casting a mock glance of paranoia over each of her shoulders, then grinning at Jefferson.
" — here is how they do it. Before the man who will become a zombi 'dies' he is fed a poison. It is usually curare. I he poisoned man is then buried on the same day. It's a hot country, remember? A pipe to provide oxygen is run from the buried coffin to the air above. The next night the zobops drive out to the graveyard crossroads in order to bring him 'alive.' Once he is summoned out of the ground, the zombi is given a drug to counteract the poison. When under the effect of curare,a man looks like he is dead. Under the antidote he becomes a catatonic, sort of like Frankenstein's monster. The zombi is then put in handcuffs and leg irons to stop him limning away — and lo and behold, the zobop has himself a slave.
"What better slave can there be than a dead man who follows your orders?"
'Is this what you Mounties do when you're tired of getting your man?" Luke Wentworth asked. "Go out and hunt zombis? Great police work that."
Spann thought: This guy's a first-class pain in the ass.
'In Haiti," she asked, "did you ever hear of a zombi actually killing anyone?"
I've been told they hack up several victims a year. But remember that zombis are catatonics: they have no adventures of their own. They must be urged on by a master to perform whatever deed they do. The zobop then waits safely for the zombi's return. Usually the zombi must bring back something In show that the job has been done."
Interesting," Spann said.
Tomorrow you tourists will want to drive out to Chalmette National Park," Luke Wentworth said. "It's just east of here "
"What's there?" Scarlett asked.
'That's the site of the famous Battle of New Orleans
That's where General Andy Jackson royally fucked the Redcoats right in the ass."
"Luke," Jefferson said, turning to the man. "Why don't you take your brilliant wit an' shove it where the sun don't shine."
Grinning, Luke Wentworth readjusted his shades.
"Anyway," Jefferson said. "Haiti's where it's at. And of course that's where the woman's from."
"Who?"
"Our latest Voodoo Queen."
"I don't get it," Spann said, puzzled by the comment.
"I don't either," Rick Scarlett added.
So for the second time during the trip, John Jefferson, Jr., turned away from the steering wheel and glanced into the back seat. "This man you're looking for," he said. "This John Lincoln Hardy. He was raised in the USA but his family's not from here. His stepmother arrived Stateside about three years ago from Haiti. Word along the grapevine says she's our new Voodoo Queen. I thought you two knew all this, what with the telex and all?"
"We didn't," Katherine Spann said.
Cops like hardware, the gadgets of the trade.
Of course now that they use computers, cops like software too.
The New Orleans Police Department was not to be outdone. Tonight they had laid on some Yankee technology — or Confederate if you prefer — to show the two Canadians the present state of the art.
"You got a pair of wheels each. Don't wreck 'em," Ernie Hodge said. "The electric teeth you'll find under the dash. The teeth are already sucked on to each eyeball frequency, so don't fiddle with 'em. Each bloodworm car's got an eyeball up its ass. If more than one fish swims out, make sure you're sucked onto his wavelength or you're gonna lose him. You both got that?"
"Got it," Spann said.
"Ditto," Scarlett replied.
Ernie Hodge had four chins and a face that Mad Dog Rabidowski would stamp with his beloved labeclass="underline" bum. When Hodge spoke — and he only talked in cop jargon — a ripple would start at his mouth and spread out from chin to chin While shaking hands he had told Rick Scarlett that Steiger got the role in In The Heat of the Night because he had turned it down. The Canadian almost believed him. He also believed that Hodge's ancestors had spent their sunny days whipping backs to make their slaves work hard before them cotton balls got rotten. For as Hodge put it: "We all like John Jefferson, Jr. That man is one smart coon."
Ernie Hodge, however, was also a skilled cop.
"Okay," the American said. "Let's set out the rules. Neither of you is heeled, right? We don't want US citizens stoppin' Canadian lead.
"Two: no collars and no one hits the pit without us doin' the job. That should go without sayin'. A hummer down here can get a cop up to his ears in hot water. Her ears too," he said glancing at Spann. "I'll bet our laws on false arrest are a fuck of a lot tighter than yours.
"An' three: You both be careful. Down home you're not — and this is a southern state. Bloodworm puts a chill on you, you'll both get a footbath an' end up cold meat for the sharks.
"If a fish takes you out to the country, watch out for the fuzzy bears. We got our own county mounties down here an' they hoard their jurisdiction. Also come mornin' the NOPD will have several eyes-in-the-sky. Choppers spark up busy air, so don't use the radio unless you have to. Either of you got questions?"
"Yeah," Rick Scarlett said with a smile. "What can we do?"
"Hell, boy, you can sit stakeout. All by yourself."
"In case you don't know it," Wentworth said. "That's the shitty job."
Ernie Hodge frowned. He obviously did not like this fellow either.
"Okay," Spann said. "Where's John Lincoln Hardy?"
They were standing in a vacant lot near the Mississippi River. Behind them was a levee and in front of them stretched what looked like a large black slum. The throb of music from distant bars hung in the humid air as insistent and elusive as the smell of night-scented flowers.
"Four blocks down river you'll see Jefferson in a car. Across the street from him an' down half a block again," Hodge said, "you'll see a drugstore. There'll be four cars parked out front, the ones with the bumper-bugs. Hardy's inside the building with several other people. An' believe me that's the weirdest drugstore you ever saw."
"Maybe not," Spann said, climbing into one of the cars. "Up in our cold city, we got a Chinatown."
She drove away.
"I'm surprised they left us alone without a shadow," Rick Scarlett said.
"That's the FBI," Catherine Spann replied. "They want to ensure a free hand when they do a tail in Canada."
"Think that's why Ernie Hodge is so jumpy?"
"Sure. If something screws up, it happens in his jurisdiction."
"What do you think of our boy. Cool Hand Luke?"
"The man's an asshole," she said.
"Did you see the way he's had his piece tailored into the suit? Probably a Beretta or some exotic rod like that."
"Just like James Bond, eh?" Katherine Spann said, smiling wryly.
"I wonder where the FBI gets a prick like that?"
"Who knows?" Spann replied. "The guy's so scuzzy I'l bet he spends his time off peeking in his neighbors' windows watching women undress."
Rick Scarlett blinked. "Want a sandwich?" he asked.
It was still hot. They had bought themselves large bottles of orange juice and were now staked out between two garages across the street from the drugstore which backed onto the river. In this neighborhood one of the houses actually had mud walls and a corrugated iron roof. Its door had broken at the hinge and was lying aslant the doorway. Five doors down an old man was sitting on a veranda in a squeaky rocking chair sniffing the scent of tobacco flowers as the darkness closed in. Occasionally there was the crack of a nut bursting as it fell down from a tree.