Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead (25 page)

On my way back downtown to my hotel, I stopped in the all-night gas station on the corner of Magazine and Washington for a few bottles of water. Theoretically the water in New Orleans was as clean as before the storm. Even if that was true, it wasn't exactly an endorsement.

The store at the gas station was the only one open at night for a few miles, and the lot was full. I parked the truck on Washington, in front of something called the New Orleans Firefighters Museum. Inside, the gas station/store was a cross section of
New Orleans, each nominated representative of each subculture eyeing the other suspiciously: punk giving the fish-eye to frat boy, thug warily watching punk, Egyptian store worker following crackhead lady, crackhead lady eyeing Egyptian store worker for signs of disrespect.

On my way out of the store I ran into Terrell, Andray's friend. He was loitering with another boy near an Oldsmobile high up on oversize wheels. He had his phone out and was about to make a call.

“Hey, Miss Claire,” he said, uneasily. Terrell looked tense, different from his usual happy self. I figured he was hanging out with the cool kids and trying to look tough. I waved a hello. He waved back and went back to his phone.

I walked back up the block to my truck. I was almost there when I heard someone come up behind me. I turned around.

It was Andray. He wasn't alone. Behind him were three other young men, men I didn't know. Each wore the uniform of huge pants and big hooded sweatshirt, along with the accompanying almost-sneer.

I didn't see Terrell. They'd been looking for me, I now saw, and Terrell had been the advance team.

If I had seen that five minutes ago, it would have been much more helpful than it was now.

“What's up, Miss Claire?” Andray said. If he had any recollection that we had almost been sort-of kind-of friends, he kept it a secret.

I reached into my waistband for my gun—the gun Terrell had sold me. That was a dumb move. The youngest of the boys behind Andray, a kid about sixteen with skin nearly as dark as his black hair, had a nine-millimeter out and pointed at me nearly as soon as I got the idea.

“Fuck,” I said. “Fucking Quick Draw McGraw.”

The boys all laughed. But the young one didn't put down his gun.

“Shit,” Andray said. “You always funny, Miss Claire. But listen, we gotta talk to you. So you gonna come with us for a little drive, okay?”

I looked at Andray. I looked for a crack in a window, an easily picked lock on a door to his psyche.

Nothing. He was sealed up tight.

“You're the boss,” I said.

Andray's friends hung back as we walked together up toward Prytania. We didn't talk. Andray's sneakers were quiet in the night air, his breath soft and white in front of him. Around the corner I saw what I'd been dreading.

A black Hummer. Just like the one driven by whoever shot at the kid in front of the restaurant the other day.

Or shot at
me
.

We stopped in front of the car.

“You gonna kill me, Andray?” I asked. I heard my heart beating in my chest.

Andray shook his head as if I'd said something stupid and didn't answer.

That was when I got scared.

The other boys caught up with us and the youngest one tossed his gun to one of the others, two medium-size, unremarkable-looking young men. One of the unremarkable boys caught the gun by the handle in the air. He was like a circus performer. Then the young one used a key to open the Hummer and then popped the rest of the locks and we all got in—me in the front between Andray and the driver, the two unremarkable boys in the back.

“You don't have a remote?” I asked.

“I lost that shit!” the driver exclaimed. “Like the first motha-fucking day I had it, I lost that shit! And you know what they want for another one at the dealer's?”

“I can imagine,” I said. “Look on eBay.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking over his shoulder to pull out. “I gotta get with that shit.”

The driver put on the radio. To my surprise he didn't put on one of the ten million hip-hop stations in New Orleans. Instead he put on WWOZ, where the Oak Street Brass Band was doing an in-studio show.

The two unremarkable boys fell into a series of hoots and hollers as the band started “Eliza Jane.”

“We got friends in that band,” one of the boys explained to me.

“You play?” I asked, turning around.

“Oh, yeah,” the unremarkable boy on the driver's side said, smiling. “Tuba. I play with them fuckers sometimes. I played with 'em at Maple Leaf few months back. We opened for Bo Dollis,” he said proudly.

“No shit,” I said, turning around. “I seen Bo Dollis play, gee, five times, at least. How about you?” I said to the other boy. “What do you play?”

“Fuck, I ain't play nothing,” the boy said, laughing. He had light skin and freckles and a funny, friendly face. “I play a little drums. I ain't no good. I play tambourine when I go out with the Red Eagles.”

“You're in the Red Eagles?” I asked, incredulous. The Red Eagles were one of the most spectacular Indian gangs in New Orleans. “Shit, I saw you guys parade—Jesus, more than ten years ago—1995.”

The boy let out a hoot. “'Ninety-five?” he said. “I was there. I was four years old. That my first parade.”

I remembered that day. Constance had taken me to the park to see the Indian practice. The men in their elaborate beaded outfits and headdresses huddled together to chant and drink, surrounded by uncostumed men playing percussion: tambourine, block, cowbell. With them had been a tiny boy, not much higher than my knee, in full costume. He played a little half-tambourine and danced and let out a wild pseudo-Indian yelp every once in a while. The mother of the little boy was a friend of Constance's, and she'd made the boy come over and say hello. She picked him up so Constance could kiss him, a little ball of baby fat dressed in fifty pounds of sequins and feathers.

Everyone knew Constance. Nearby, the Big Chief, sweating in his costume, chanted. His eyes rolled back in his head as he went into a kind of trance.

New Orleans was the first place I'd been where magic was real.

“Holy shit,” I said to the boy in the back seat. “I remember you. I saw you. I met your mother.”

“Shit,” the kid said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Your mother—she knew my friend. This lady I used to work for.”

The boys in the back seat looked at each other. No one laughed anymore.

We kept driving.

In Central City we pulled over in an empty lot on Washington just before Dryades.

No one said anything. The band was doing a version of “Iko Iko.” When they finished the driver turned off the radio.

I breathed slowly, and prayed. Constance had sent me to study with a lama in Santa Cruz for two months, and the prayers he taught me came back, just like he'd promised they would when I needed them.

Om dum durgeya namaah
.

The driver popped the locks. Everyone except me grabbed for a door handle.

Om gum gunaputayi swaha
, I silently repeated.

“Wait up,” Andray said, loudly. “Wait up, niggas.”

Everyone waited.

Aham prema. Thy will be done
.

“We ain't need four guys for this shit. I can take care of her.”

In the rearview mirror I caught the eye of the kid I'd seen parade. He looked away.

Om shanti shanti shanti. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done
.

The driver looked at Andray. “You got it?” he said.

Andray nodded.

St. Jude, hear my prayer
.

“Yo, Quan,” the driver said to the boy with the gun. “Give it to Andray.”

Quan took the gun out of his pants and gave it to Andray.

“Shit,” Andray said. “This be
warm
.”

Everyone laughed again.

Saint Joseph, protect me
.

“You got it?” the driver said to Andray again. “You gonna take of this?”

Lord, forgive my sins, of which there are too fucking many to count
.

Andray nodded.

“Awright,” the driver said. Andray opened his door and hopped out of the Hummer. I followed.

“Yo, shut the door,” the driver said, annoyed with my poor manners.

I shut the door. The Hummer drove away.

I turned and looked at Andray. We stood in the cold air and looked at each other. Andray shook his head, as if I'd let him down.

“I kind of like you, Miss Claire,” he said.

“Thanks, Andray,” I said. “I kind of like you too.”

Some people got meaner when they got a gun. The rush of power could be intense. But not Andray. He looked like he'd been given a job he didn't want.

I hoped to God I was right.

“I like those tattoos you got,” he said, looking at my wrists. “What those letters mean?”

“My friends,” I said. “It was for them. I was young when I got them. Younger than you.”

“They still your friends?” Andray asked.

“No,” I said. “One's dead. The other hates me.”

Andray frowned, as if he'd expected a better story. On one side of the lot was a brick warehouse, long abandoned. An old mural was barely left on the wall:
NEW ORLEANS COMES TO
LIFE
WITH COMMUNITY COFFEE!

“You got more?” he said. “More tattoos?”

“About ten,” I said. “Maybe twenty.
Live free or die
. You haven't seen that one. It's on my back. I got like ten more.”

“What's that on your arm?” he asked, pointing with the gun.

I looked to where he was pointing. I pushed up my sleeve so he could see. It was a magnifying glass. Above that was a fingerprint.

Om shanti shanti shanti
.

Andray nodded.

“I like that.
Live free or die
. Take no shit from no one. But first,” he said, “I gotta take care of this.” He stomped his feet against the cold and looked around.

“Now, Miss Claire,” he said, turning toward me and looking me in the eye. “You gonna forget all about what you seen since you been in New Orleans, right?”

“I've already forgotten,” I said. “So now we can—”

“I mean, you
really
gonna forget, okay?” Andray said.

“Okay,” I said. I had no idea what he was referring to. It could have been Vic. Or it could have been the shooting in front of the restaurant the other day. I had the thought that maybe he wanted me to forget everything—the ruin, the despair, the blood. Maybe he was part of a committee to help people remember New Orleans before and forget New Orleans now.

“And these guys,” Andray went on, “they want to make sure you remember to forget. And just to know you really forgot, they want you to get the hell out of New Orleans, all right?”

“I've forgotten,” I said. “I'm on the next flight.”

“You got to leave,” Andray said, firmly. “You got to get out of town. Just like the old movies. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” I said. “I'm already out. I'm not even looking back.”

“The thing is,” Andray went on, “I gotta make sure you forget. I'm sorry. You a nice lady. I almost like you. But that's how it's gotta be.”

“That's okay,” I said. “I understand. But if you—”

I didn't finish my sentence, which was going to be something like
But if you kill me I'll never forgive you
,. Andray pulled back the hand with the gun up above his head, and my heart stopped.

Then he swung it down to crack me on the forehead.

I saw a thousand little Lite-Brite lights in the sky. I fell back and felt the cold earth hit my bones.

As I fell, I saw that the Hummer was parked across Dryades. We were being watched.

“You gon' be okay,” I heard Andray say from far away. “This
time, you livin' free. And you ain't dead yet. As long as you get your ass out of New Orleans, you gonna be just fine, Miss Claire DeWitt.”

When I came to, it was still night. Andray and I were sitting on the levee, looking over the Mississippi, watching it roll by like slow, sticky molasses.

“Shit,” Andray said. “He been talking about you, you know.”

He passed me a fat brown spliff. I took it and took an elephant-size hit. When I exhaled the smoke spread out on the Mississippi, settling over it like fog.

“He told me to tell you not to worry,” Andray said.

“He always says that,” I said.

“He said he knows it's hard,” Andray said, nodding. “He say he knows that. But you gotta be patient, Miss Claire. He ain't working on your time. You oughta know that.”

“It's just that—” I said. “You know, he's been saying that a long time now, and it's like—”

“He said he got a spot all saved for you,” Andray said. “A seat right next to him. He say all the detectives, they gonna go home when the flood comes. The
real
flood. And you gonna get, what you call it, recompense for all the burdens you bear. For carrying his burdens and shit. We all gonna get our recompense, but people like us, people who take on burdens, we gonna get to sit by his side. He promised me that.”

Andray took the joint and closed his eyes and took a huge hit, filling the city with smoke when he exhaled, like a dragon.

“All the saints gonna be waiting for us,” Andray said, smiling. “All the birds, they gonna sing for us when we come home. The dogs is gonna cry and the cats is gonna laugh. They all waiting for us, up at the castle. And every one gonna say thank you. That's gonna be nice, huh?
Thank you
.

“See, they know all about people like us, Miss Claire. They ain't forget us. We workin' for them down here. They know that. He ask us to do our turn and we did it for him. We forgot. But him, he ain't forgot nothing. He know why we're here. He remember for us. He asked us to come down here and do his
work, and where you think you're gonna do that? Shit, happy people, they ain't need us. They got what they need. They ain't our people, Miss Claire. People like you and me, we born sad. That way we always recognize our own.”