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"So how do you think he did it? Come out of a door that he hadn't gone into?"
Louis hesitated for a moment, and then he said, very emphatically, "It was a spell."
"A spell?" Decker's eyebrows went up.
"A magic spell, sir. I can't think of no other explanation." "I see. A spell. But that shotgun shell sure wasn't a spell, was it?"
"Ah, no. But that was a message. Okana obbara." "Okana obbara? What does that mean?"
"That means, like, don't lose your head just because you're going to die."
"Pretty sick sense of humor in that case."
"No other explanation, sir."
"This is all to do with Santeria, right? All this magic spells and obba-wobbas?"
Louis crossed himself. "Yes, sir. Santeria, sir."
"Well, who knows? You may be right. Listen—stick around, will you, Louis? And you, Roy. You too, Toussaint. We may have to talk to you again."
"Yes, sir."
Decker pushed his way back out through to the restaurant. Hicks said, "You really think this could have had something to do with Santeria?"
"Too soon to say. But it wouldn't surprise me. Some of the major gangs here are Santerians, especially the Egun. They think it gives them supernatural power, you know, and protects them from their enemies. Apart from that, it's very secretive, close-knit. Keeps the outsiders out and the insiders in."
"Rhoda's grandmother was all into that. You know, the herbs and the eggs and the seashells. I didn't think many people practiced it anymore. I mean, not these days."
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"Oh, you'd be surprised what we have here in Richmond. Santeria, voodoo, hoodoo. We even have some Episcopalians."
"You don't seriously believe that this waiter guy appeared
by magic?"
"I don't seriously believe anything just yet. But I've heard stories about santeros who can materialize out of thin air. Don't ask me how they do it, but who knows? It might have happened here. Maybe Cab's right, and it happened in the Maitland case and the Drewry case, too or something similar. Mass hypnotism, a trick of the light. What you might scientifically define as a spell."
Cab was talking to the two waitresses. One was plump and plain, with bunches, but the other was small and curvy with a lick of a fringe and a criminally short black skirt. "Which one are you?" Decker asked her. "Gina or May?"
"I'm May. This is Gina."
"Did you see the waiter guy in the kitchen, May?" "I surely didn't."
"You ever see him before, ever?"
"I never did."
"Okay ... look, why don't you give me your phone number? I might have to ask you some more questions later."
When the girls had gone, Cab said, "You are seriously incorrigible, Decker. I know what kind of questions you want to ask her."
"You misjudge me, Captain."
"Oh yeah? So how come you didn't ask the homely one?" "You want me to enjoy my work or not?"
Cab sniffed, and then violently sneezed. "Goddam hay fever. How did you get on with the cooks?"
"They wouldn't qualify for Mensa, but the funny thing is I think I believe them."
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"So where did the waiter guy come from?"
"The cook thinks it's a Santeria spell."
"You're pulling my leg."
"Waiter guy apparently appears from nowhere at all. How else did he do it?"
"Oh, shit, Santeria. You know what this means."
"Let me have one inspired guess, Captain. Queen Aché."
Cab nodded and wiped his nose at the same time. "Funny, though. I thought Junior was running most of Queen Aché's dope business, through the docks."
"Maybe Junior was helping himself to some unauthorized commission."
"Well, Martin, I know how much you like to get it on with Queen Aché."
"Uh-huh. No way. This one's for somebody else. Give it to Rudisill. Or better yet, Watkins. At least he's black."
"Martin, I don't have any choice. Who else has your experience? You know these people."
"Oh, sure. And look what happened the last time I got myself involved with Queen Aché."
Cab laid his hand on Decker's shoulder. "I'm aware of that, Martin. But it was never proved that Queen Aché was connected with Cathy being killed, and you're simply the best man I've got for the job."
"I'm not happy with this, Captain. You'd be much better off sending Watkins."
"Come on. Queen Aché likes honkies."
"Sure, with barbecue sauce and a side order of curly fries."
"Be a man, Decker. Besides, it's high time that young Hicks here met Richmond's most distinguished Afro-American citizen."
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Queen Aché lived in the Jackson Ward, in a fancy red-painted town house with white cast-iron balconies and elaborate white cast-iron railings. The house used to belong to Booker Morrison, the famous turn-of-the-century preacher, who said that "those who are bondsmen on earth will have eternal freedom in heaven; and those who enslaved them will themselves suffer slavery for ever and a day." For that observation, he was kidnapped by Klansmen, hung up by his heels from a lamppost on the corner of Franklin and Fifth Streets, soaked in paraffin, and set alight.
It was a grillingly hot afternoon, with only a few mares' tails streaked across a dark blue sky. Two bodyguards were standing on the redbrick sidewalk outside Queen Aché's front steps, both of them wearing jazzy African shirts, capacious shorts, knee-length socks, and mirror sunglasses. Decker parked directly outside and climbed out of his car, squinting up at the house as if he were interested in buying it.
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"Hi, George. Hi, Newton. How's it going in the heavy business?"
"We generally axes folks not to park in that particular spot, Lieutenant, on account of security."
"Quite right, too. Is Her Ladyship at home?"
"She expecting you?"
"Oh, I should think so. You know that Junior Abraham has left the building."
"Junior Abraham? Didn't hear nothing about that, Lieutenant."
"Didn't think you would have, what with this deaf-and blind epidemic going around. Now, how about telling Madame that I'd like to ask her a couple of questions?"
Newton took out his cell phone. "Mikey? We got Martin out here. Lieutenant Martin. He says he wants to talk to Queen Ache."
He waited, and then eventually he said, "Okay," and dropped his cell phone back into his shirt pocket.
"Well?" Decker asked.
"Queen Ache says the ase isn't favorable today."
"The ase? The ase my ass. Get back onto her. Tell her this is a multiple homicide investigation and if she doesn't want to answer questions here I can arrange for her to come down to Madison and Grace and inspect our nice new shiny headquarters."
Newton took out his cell phone again. "Mikey? Martin says he needs to talk to Queen Ache about Junior Abraham getting creamed. Yes. That's right. Okay. That's right."
He dropped his cell phone back in his pocket. "Queen Ache says okay but don't blame her if something seriously untoward happens."
Newton led Decker and Hicks up the front steps and the door was opened by a loose-jointed young man with protruding ears and an incipient black moustache. Before he
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went inside, Decker turned back and called, "George! There's a buck in it if nobody steals my hubcaps!" George flapped his fat hand in disgust.
The young man took them across a wide hallway with gilt antique mirrors and a dark mahogany floor. In the back of the house somebody was playing a Charles Mingus improvization, badly.
"Hey—you're not Michael, are you?" Decker asked the young man. "Queen Ache's youngest kid?"
The young man nodded.