"You know what she is, then."
VéVé nodded. "Prob'ly better than you do."
"I must confess I find her baffling. Can I trust her?"
VéVé took a deep breath and sighed. "Trust is a very personal thing. Whether you decide to give it is totally up to you. But in order to understand Sonja, you got to realize she got two hearts. I ain't talkin' real ones, mind you. I mean spiritual-wise.
"One heart is good, the other is dark, and they fight one another for control every moment she's awake.
Most of the time, the good heart wins out, but not every time. When the dark heart wins out, she does horrible things. That's why she fights so hard to control it. She's afraid the dark heart is poisoning the good heart, slowly corrupting it from the inside out.
"She came here instead of going into town because the last time she was in New Orleans, the dark heart won out and she did some terrible things. Folks was killed. The police might still be lookin' for her."
VéVé fell silent for a long moment, staring out at the verdant green of the lawn, and then loudly clapped her hands. "I reckon you must be as tired as Sonja, Mr. Estes. We ain't got no air conditionin', I'm afraid, and I doubt you could get any sleep inside, what with the heat. So I'll fix you up a hammock on the shady side of the house. It ain't much, but at least you'll be comfortable."
"That would be most kind of you, Miss, um, Miss - ?"
"Just VéVé. You wait here. I won't be a minute," she said.
Estes resumed rocking gently back and forth in the glider, sipping lemonade and listening to the chiming of the bottle tree. When the screen door slammed shut he glanced up, expecting to see VéVé. Instead, a tall, muscular African-American man, naked save for a pair of tattered white canvas pants, was slowly making his way across the lawn towards a pair of shade trees, a web hammock draped across one arm.
VéVé stepped out into the porch and stood watching from a distance, her arms folded in the manner of an overseer. Curious, Estes moved to join her. "I thought you said you lived here alone?"
"I do live alone. Levon ain't alive at all. Are you, Levon?"
Levon slowly turned in the direction of her voice. His dark skin had an oddly ashen tinge and his eyes were milky and gray, like those of a baked fish. It was impossible to know whether he was capable of answering the question posed to him, since his lips were sewn shut with coarse black thread.
"When Papa Beloved passed on, he left me everything that was his - which included Levon," VéVé explained. "I don't normally hold with zuvembies, but I must admit that sometimes they do come in handy."
* * * *
VéVé was in the kitchen, chopping okra, the aroma of simmering greens and fatback heavy in the air. She glanced up long enough to nod hello then resumed her task. "Sonja should be up an' about within the hour. Soon as y'all are ready, I'll have Levon drive you into the city."
"Are you sure that's such a good idea?"
"Don't see why not. Car's registered, the insurance is paid up and Levon got hisself a driver's license. He's doing better than most folks 'round here."
"I am sorry to hear of Papa Beloved's passing."
Sonja was standing in the kitchen doorway. Neither VéVé nor Estes had heard her approach, although the floorboards of the old house groaned with the slightest step.
"He had the cancer in his belly," VéVé sighed, wiping her hands on the apron tied about her waist. "By the end, death was a mercy." She dumped the chopped okra into a large white enamel bowl and placed it inside the 1950s era Frigidaire. "So - what's your business in N' Orleans?"
"I came to see Malfeis."
VéVé grimaced as if she'd bitten into a sour persimmon. "That devil? Better be careful, girl."
"Don't worry," Sonja said, hooking a thumb in the direction of Estes. "I've got someone to watch my back."
"Him? He ain't got the sight."
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"That may be true, but he's a quick study," Sonja said, a muscle in her lower jaw pulsing as she spoke. "He knows what's out there, even if he can't see it all the time."
"Seems to me that's what they say about crazy folks, too," VéVé replied. "No offense, Mr. Estes."
"None taken."
VéVé shook her head in resignation. "I know better than to tell you not to do something; it only makes you more determined to do it. So's I best send y'all on your way." She opened the cellar door and shouted down into the blackness. "Levon! Go fetch the car! You drivin' Miz Sonja and Mr. Estes into the city!"
There was a sound like a bag of cement being dragged across a dirt floor and a few seconds later Levon emerged from the lightless depths underneath the house. Estes' skin crawled as the zombie's lifeless eyes fell upon him. If Levon noticed his ill ease, it did not register on his face. They followed at a distance as the zombie shambled out the back door towards the garage.
VéVé stood in the gathering dark, staring up at the mojo tree as the bottles swayed slowly in the humid breeze from the river, then plucked free a small blue perfume bottle, its stopper still tightly wedged in its narrow neck. She turned and handed the tiny vial to Sonja.
"If y'all are going to see Malfeis, you best take this along. Just in case, mind you."
Sonja nodded and palmed the bottle, placing it in one of the pockets of her leather jacket.
There was the sound of gravel crunching under tires and a vintage 1950s Cadillac convertible rolled towards them out of the evening gloom, its headlights off, Levon seated behind the wheel.
"Levon!" VéVé snapped, her tone that of a drill sergeant. "Turn on them lights! How many times do I have t'warn you about that?"
The Caddy's headlights blinked on, bathing the trio in artificial light. Sonja automatically lifted an arm to shield her shaded eyes from the glare, a feline snarl rumbling in her chest.
"Levon will drive y'all as far as y'all want. Just make sure you tell him to drive back to Mojo House when you're done or I'll have to come lookin' for him.
"Thanks, VéVé," Sonja said as she opened the rear passenger door of the Caddy. "You've grown into a fine mambo. Papa Beloved would be proud." VéVé threw her arms around Sonja, hugging her tight. Estes quickly looked away, only to gaze directly into Levon's cold, gray stare.
"C'mon, Estes," Sonja said as she slid into the back of the car. "The way you're gawking at Levon you'd think you'd never seen a walking corpse before."
Estes climbed in beside Sonja as the Caddy began to roll forward.
"To the French Quarter, Levon," Sonja announced loudly and distinctly, as if speaking to someone hard of hearing. "You got that?"
The zombie slowly inclined its head, indicating it understood the command.
"Watch out, N'Orleans!" Sonja crowed. "Dead man drivin'!" She turned to Estes and grinned, briefly flashing fangs as white and sharp as a panther's. The sight of her fangs triggered a surge of revulsion that filled Estes' stomach with bile. As the car headed up the drive, he looked back over his shoulder and saw VéVé standing in front of Mojo House, her white cotton dress ghostly in the gathering dark.
Every time I come back to New Orleans I marvel over how everything is different, yet nothing has changed. This mercurial constancy makes the Big Easy a genuinely schizophrenic city, which may explain why so many Pretenders seem to gravitate here.
Over the years the French Quarter has gone from inner-city neighborhood to grungy tenderloin to high-dollar tourist Mecca, all the while remaining the hub of the city. Over the years the seedy strip clubs and live sex shows that once catered to the dock workers have slowly been replaced by upscale eateries, souvenir shops and antique stores aimed at the tourists that flock to the Quarter's narrow cobbled streets in search of a good time.
However, despite the Chamber of Commerce's best efforts, a few of the old dives still survive on the streets farthest removed from the hurly-burly of Jackson Square. Our destination tonight is one of these remaining dens of iniquity.
Levon drops us off at the foot of Canal, near the glittering pavilions of the riverboat casinos permanently anchored at the old docks. I stand on the curb and watch the zuvembie, fifty years dead, start to pilot his
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) way back to Mojo House. Within seconds the taillights of the Caddy are swallowed by the evening traffic.
"So - who's this Malfeis VéVé has such a low opinion of?" Estes asks, glancing uncomfortably at the inebriated crowds thronging the streets.
"He's an information broker."
"You mean he's a snitch."
"If you want to keep wearing your tongue on the inside of your head, you won't call him that within earshot. Mal's been around a long time, and he knows a lot of people, living and otherwise. If anyone can recognize your bogeyman, with as little as we have to go on, it's him."
I focus my attention on the steady stream of faces wandering the haunts of the Vieux Carre. The majority are wide-eyed tourists, come to gape at the famed wrought-iron balconies and ancient burlesque queens of Bourbon Street, mixed with the dips, hustlers, pushers and con men drawn by the wealth and carelessness of the out-of-towners. However, they are not the only predators trawling the streets of the City That Care Forgot.
I spot an incubus lounging in the doorway of a bar catering to gay men. New Orleans has always been a magnet for carnal demons of all sexes and preferences. This one fixes me with a murder - green eye and rumbles a basso profundo growl that only Pretenders and bull gators can hear. His prehensile penis stirs in the pouch of his leather pants, rising to the perceived challenge like a fakir's cobra. I carefully maneuver Estes and myself out of striking distance; those bastards can squirt venom up to twenty feet.
A vargr leaning on a wrought-iron balcony railing watches our passing with open hostility. My gaze locks with the werewolf's, causing the hair on his scalp to rise as he bares rottweiler-sized fangs in my direction.
The rank odor of dog piss fills the air.
Estes walks alongside me, mercifully oblivious to the horrors surrounding us. I feel a sharp pang of envy.
There's no price I wouldn't gladly pay to be so blissfully ignorant of the hell that I live in.
As we near our destination, I begin to feel anxious. Walking into The Monastery is always dangerous, but this time I'm dragging a human along for the ride. As we turn the last corner before reaching the bar, my train of thought is not only derailed, but sent flying off the trestle into a hundred feet of icy water.
"Sonja - Sonja, are you listening to me?"
He felt like an idiot for having asked, because it was obvious she was off in that world of hers again, staring intently at something only she could see. The way she broke off in the middle of a sentence to stare at passersby, or even nothing at all, reminded him a little bit too much of some of the inmates back at the Institute.
He followed her stare and was surprised to discover that what had snared her attention this time was visible to the human eye, although most of those wandering the French Quarter in search of good times were doing their best to pretend it wasn't there.
The homeless man lay on his side in a nest of old newspapers, his back against a crumbling brick wall. He was dressed in mismatched running shoes with no laces, grimy brown twill pants, and a large overcoat that was far too warm for the sub-tropic climes of southern Louisiana. His features were obscured by a mass of dark, greasy ropes that might charitably be referred to as hair, and an equally matted beard, making it impossible to guess his age. The street person had strategically placed himself so that passers-by had to take a step around him in order to keep from treading on his outstretched arm. His callused hand held a paper coffee cup, which every so often he would twitch, causing the collection of loose change inside to rattle.
Sensing he was being watched, the homeless man reared up from his bed of old news, scanning the surrounding area like a radar dish. His gaze met Sonja's and something passed back and forth between the two, although neither spoke. After a long moment Sonja visibly shivered and, freed from her temporary catatonia, resumed her hurried stride. It was all Estes could do to keep up with her.
"Do you know him?"
"What?" she replied, sounding distracted.
"That bum. Do you know him?"
"It's not a bum. And, yes, I know it."
Estes wanted to ask more questions, but before he could, Sonja ducked through the door of a nearby bar.
Estes glanced up at the sign hanging over the threshold, which read, in faux-Old English script, The Monastery.
The only light inside the bar came from the votive candles placed at the converted pews that served as
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) booths. Decaying plaster saints peeked out from various nooks and crannies like spying gnomes. Behind the bar was an antique walnut hutch, atop which was perched a disfigured Madonna and Child with painted-on eyes. The ancient jukebox next to the confessional - cum - phone booth played Led Zeppelin's Kashmir through fuzzy speakers. The hulking bartender turned slightly to follow their passage, his eyes gleaming with predacious curiosity.
Although the bar appeared empty, Estes could not shake the feeling that the heavy shadows that filled its corners were endowed with reptilian life. And that it was watching them.
Malfeis occupies his usual spot in the back booth, dressed in the skin of a middle-management type from Iowa who once yearned for a promotion and a newer, prettier wife. He grins as I approach, throwing gang sign in welcome. "Sonja! Long time no see, girlchick."