Accession of the Stone Born: The Vigiles Urbani Chronicles (2 page)

Chapter 1

While I was “away” I didn’t have a need for money. Every paycheck was sent into my checking account, and at the end of each calendar year everything save five thousand dollars was transferred to a brokerage firm in New York. Over the years I’d seen a few statements and knew that I’d never have a want for money after my retirement if I didn’t spend it lavishly. It took a couple of hours’ worth of paperwork to make the sweep obsolete, and another hour and a half to get a debit card, temporary checks, and three thousand dollars cash.

The big problem was that I wasn’t near retirement age, and the money I had set aside for my later years needed to be kept for just that. That meant I’d need to find a job sooner rather than later. For now, though, I had business to attend to here in the city. Hopefully life in the States hadn’t changed so much that I’d burn through my available cash before I found something suitable.

That thought made me snigger, pushing the brushed aluminum handle of the plate glass door, I stepped out onto St. Charles Ave. What was “suitable” for a man like me? I was pretty sure the few skills I did have weren’t in high demand in the “land of the free and the home of the brave.” This very question was why so many of the people I’d worked with over the years hadn’t fared well when they returned home.

Grimacing, I rolled through a few names of men who had retired from service over the years that now ran “security” firms, which were more like private armies for those willing to pay. My stomach turned at the thought of working for any of them. Their loyalties were to whoever had the fattest wallet. I’d rather burn in hell than live like that. Of course, living on the streets or being institutionalized wasn’t high on my list of shit to do either.

The rain had stopped about an hour earlier, but angry gray and black clouds littered the blue sky above, and threatened another deluge. Thunder rolled in the distance, telling me that Mother Nature hadn’t finished having her say. Walking out of the bank, I found the late afternoon air thick, hot, almost solid in form.

Moisture clung to my skin instantly, causing my long sleeved shirt to stick to my skin. I felt a trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades run down my back. Putting my bag on the ground, I rolled up my sleeves, revealing the deeply tanned skin underneath. The humidity clung to the hairs on my arms as I leaned down and grabbed my bag again. The shirt pulled oddly as the fabric clung to my chest, back, and shoulders in unflattering twists and folds.

Fortune was shining upon me; my destination was maybe six or seven blocks away through one of the prettier parts of town. The Garden District was one of the older sections, filled with the city’s wealthy and influential. Great oaks lined every street, creating shadowy canopies, allowing the area to maintain its own ecosystem. If I had to guess, I’d say any of the outlying areas, such as Metairie or Kenner, were probably ten degrees warmer than where I stood.

St. Charles Avenue bustled with heavy traffic. The once lazy Sunday drivers that I remembered from my childhood were long gone, possibly due to the massive road repairs I’d noticed on my way to the bank, or perhaps the streetcar line being repaired. More likely, though, it was due to the fact Katrina had delivered a rude awakening to the men and women who had once been untouchable by nature or man. Now that they’d been touched by such a disaster they felt fear, mortality, and vulnerability.

Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I set off down Jackson Avenue. About a half block down historic homes jutted out of the land, surrounded by concrete and wrought iron fencing. Passing Prytania, I was greeted by larger two story homes reflecting the city’s mixed heritage. After crossing the street, I paused long enough to pull a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe the sweat from my brow.

I didn’t know how anyone lived in this sticky mess without needing a shower every five minutes. Considering I’d just spent the better part of three decades in the desert, it wasn’t the heat that bothered me, it was the humidity. When I was a boy I’d visited New Orleans only a few times during the latter part of the year, which had been a welcome respite from the frigid Montana winters. Continuing my trek, I paused long enough to check the addresses before making a right onto Coliseum.

The houses here were owned by the city elite, the oldest of old money. Every house looked like it was straight out of a painting, or off a movie set. The attention to detail, from the fleur de lis on the black wrought iron fencing to historic color schemes, was evident in every house for the next several blocks. Bronze plaques adorned the more famous homes, denoting one thing or another. Across the street from my destination was one such plaque from 1881, describing Ferret’s Folly.

I didn’t read any further…I knew I was postponing a long overdue visit. Crossing the street, I checked my watch…4:45. I needed to hurry before they closed for the day.

The giant house before me was an old plantation style white two story home. A two-foot cement wall with three-foot black wrought iron fencing lined the front of the property. The giant eight-foot green hedges behind the fence had obviously been allowed too much freedom, as they’d shattered bits of cement and warped the fencing.

Still, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Tentatively I reached out and put my hand on the gate, and I felt a jolt of energy run through me. Obviously my nerves were getting the better of me and I hesitated another minute before I strode through, closing the gate behind me. Ten feet in I padded up the massive triple wide gray cement stairs leading to the wrap around porch. Corinthian style columns supported the massive second story balcony.

My footsteps made a low soft thud on the polished hardwood as I came up to the extra tall seven-foot french double doors, filled with the most spectacular stained glass I’d seen in years. The sweat pouring off me had nothing to do with the high temperature or the humidity this time. The smooth glass overlay protecting the intricate leaded glasswork had faded gold letters head high, which read, Old & Rare Books since 1965.

Remembering stories from my childhood, I knew that fifty years earlier a first floor conversion had created the bookstore that now stood before me. The second story was a beautiful sprawling home that used to be filled with the most amazing antiques, trinkets, and books that I’d ever laid eyes on.

Glancing at my watch again, I saw that it was 4:55. I cleared my throat, straightened my shirt as best I could, and pushed. The dark oak framed door swung in, and the top corner rang a bell, announcing my arrival. The bell’s high-pitched dings pierced the silence of the massive front room. The chilled air from the oversized AC washed over me, causing my shirt to stick to me even more. When it swung shut, the bell chimed once more. Reaching up with one hand I silenced the annoyance.

The store was much like I remembered it. Shelves filled with the most amazing books lined the walls. Tables and shoulder high shelves filled the floor, showcasing things particularly special or unique, be it books or odd yet spectacular trinkets of all sorts. Bits of metal and glass glinted in the afternoon light. I nearly lost myself to the smell of old leather and shiny objects until I heard someone clear their throat loudly.

Scanning the room, I found what I guessed was an employee. The man was maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, a light skinned Creole with wild, unkempt charcoal curly hair swept up in a mess that actually looked good on him. It wasn’t a look that many men could pull off, and was something I would never try. Such was the reason I kept my straight black (now littered with copious amounts of white) hair cut short on the sides and swept back on top. He was someone who would never “fit in,” whereas I had to blend as best I could.

With a nod I raised my hand to wave, but no sooner had my arm left my side when he consciously made a decision to ignore me by checking his watch. His disdain for me and my presence was written all over his very handsome features. He made a show of lazily putting down a very old leather tome, giving me a distasteful once over. He purposefully exaggerated his facial expressions, leaving me with little doubt of just what he thought of me. When I didn’t turn and leave instantly he let out a heavy sigh and a small groan escaped his lips.

Reluctantly he moved from the spot he’d rooted himself in when I arrived. His movements struck me instantly; every step flowed with such grace, power, and confidence. He and I were the same height. What surprised me, now that he was moving, was the fact that I’d seriously miscalculated his build. What I thought was a thin, lanky frame was actually heavily muscled; even so, he was about forty pounds lighter than me. He moved with such intensity that I was reminded of a beast stalking prey. Before I knew it he stood about four feet away from me, body angled and poised to strike out if necessary. 

His voice was even, yet filled with contempt that his heavy southern accent only accentuated. “I’m sorry, sir, but we’re about to close, and you obviously don’t have an appointment.”

Translation...I don’t care who you think you are, you are unworthy, unwelcome, and should really get the fuck out of this store before I throw you out.

He was clearly the watchdog, and I was sure his little act had run off more than a few people who didn’t “belong.” Plastering my best smile on my face, I gave him a quick wink. “You’re right, I don’t have an appointment, but I need to speak with the owner, Andrew, before you close.”

The young man was thoroughly unimpressed with my charms and literally scoffed at me. “I don’t know who gave you that name, but the owner doesn’t meet with ‘street people.’”

Dropping my bag, which garnered me even more disdain, I shoved a hand into my front pocket and pulled out my wallet. Grabbing my government ID, I handed it to the man. “If you’ll give him this I’m confident he’ll see me.”

The young man glared at my bag again before reluctantly snatching the ID. He read it and reread it before holding it back in my direction. All the haughtiness in his voice faded, along with the accent. “This is you?”

With a look I was sure would make Bart Simpson proud, I shook my head in disbelief, barely resisting the urge to say, “duh.” “Last I checked.”

He eyed my belongings again and simply nodded. His voice was tight as he was clearly straining to remain calm. “Wait here.” He scurried off to the back of the building and vanished. 

Picking up my bag, I felt even more nervous. It had been a long time since I’d been here. My parents had brought me for the last time when I was maybe eight or nine. I wasn’t sure that my uncle would remember me. I knew he would recall having a nephew, but we hadn’t seen each other since my parents’ funeral, a few weeks before I graduated high school. It would be hard for him to forget his only living relative, but stranger things had happened. Over the years I’d sent him the occasional card and Internet emails here and there, but we weren’t exactly close.

A few minutes later the young man made his way back up front, minus the ID. His voice was an octave higher and he was sweating slightly. “I'm Isidore Chauvin. Andrew will be down in a moment.”

Isidore fidgeted with the nearest bobble that suddenly needed polishing. He worked his way around the room while never taking his eyes off me for more than a second or two, when he stole glances at the rear of the store.

Then a deep, rich baritone voice rolled over me like a warm memory, with only the slightest hint of a southern accent. “Gavin! I can’t believe you’re here.”

I turned around to see my uncle looking surprisingly well for a man in his mid-seventies. The dingy white shirt and charcoal tweed slacks appeared to be a few sizes too big, giving him a gaunt, frail appearance, but otherwise he looked healthy. Even with a slight stoop, Andrew was an inch or two taller than me. His sapphire blue eyes sparkled behind the round, gold wire rimmed glasses, and the chiseled good looks I remembered only seemed more refined with age. His once salt and pepper hair was now white, while remaining thick. That, along with a respectable thick yet well-trimmed beard, gave him the appearance of a scholar or a professor. Which, given his profession, kind of made all sorts of sense.

I felt like a kid again as a big smile plastered itself across my face, and I opened my arms to take Andrew into a bear hug. “It’s good to see you.” I lifted the big man up in the air and squeezed. “You look great.”

I couldn’t help but notice that my aging uncle was solid muscle under the oversized clothes, and for a moment I had to wonder why he was hiding. Andrew flashed me a big smile and I returned it without a second thought.

His expression faltered for only a moment before giving me a knowing wink. “You’ve filled out!” Andrew gave me one last squeeze before releasing me and turning. “Isidore, this is my nephew Gavin. Gavin, this is my assistant Isidore.”

Isidore eyed us suspiciously; by his expression I could’ve mistaken him for a jealous lover. He held out a hand formally in my direction. “Pleasure to meet you. Andrew didn’t tell me you’d be dropping by.”

I looked between them and beamed, holding my hands out in an effort to keep the peace. “Hey, if this is a problem I’ll get a room for the night and come back tomorrow. I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

Isidore’s eyes widened in horror, and he nearly choked on his own spit when he saw the look on my face. “Oh, dear God in heaven no! First things first! I’m young and handsome, and he’s an old bag of bones. So not my type.” He bit his lip as he eyed me again. “You, on the other hand, are perfectly aged, tall, with beautiful tanned skin, a strapping build, and those bottle green eyes are simply to die for!” Isidore looked me over with a real hunger in his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with you that a hot shower, new clothes, and a good polish wouldn’t fix.”