(Shelby)
Let’s not lie to each other.
THE HUMIDITY IS
intense, but what else could I possibly expect from New Orleans in August?
A slice of wind picks up from the river and breaks through the crushing humidity. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, let my weight settle against the railing, and relish in the brief respite. The wind isn’t exactly cool, but it sure beats the stagnant heat that’s set upon the city.
If Becca were here, she would say, “It’s just a little warm out. Don’t whine. You’ll look like a tourist.” A smile finds its way to my face and I close my eyes. Back when we were kids, folks always thought we were sisters with how much we looked alike. I barely see the similarities anymore, though we have the same build and same auburn-colored hair (mine is dyed.) My happy thoughts of the best person I know are dashed with the reality of the situation.
Becca was kidnapped because of me, and now she’s leverage.
And all because I got involved with the wrong guy. I mean, I’ve had my fair share of bad boys, but this one topped the list. Victor Abraham. Sure, he was suave and smart, and terribly sexy. He also turned out to be a ruthless loan shark— which I could handle. At least I thought I could. I broke up with him, which he apparently didn’t like. He sent a few goons to get me back, but they took Becca by accident instead. I offered myself up to Victor, but he doesn’t trust me anymore. Having me isn’t enough. Now Victor wants me to prove my loyalty to him by stealing the one thing he hasn’t been able to steal himself: his great-grandmother’s purple diamond necklace.
Beads of sweat slip down my damp, sun-kissed skin and gooseflesh appears as another all-too-brief burst of damp air drifts by. It’s going to rain soon. Good. I won’t have an easy time getting away with all this damn sunshine. I take a moment to thank Ed Carls, Channel 2’s weather man. He’s usually wrong, but he managed to get it right today. I look down at my watch as a bead of sweat catches at the tip of my nose and falls,
splashing on the dial.
Five to noon.
I wipe it away and look out at the river and take several deep breaths.
I should be going.
I push myself off the railing and give the Mississippi one last look. With the river to my back, I cross the train tracks, and leave the Moonwalk behind. The first cloud breaks above my head and raindrops filter through the clouds. I lift my hand up, catching a few warm raindrops in my palm and then it stops. I wipe my wet hands on the legs of my damp jeans. The action does little to dry them. Back
in Michigan, the rain water is always cold— even in the height of summer. I used to hate it when we visited my mother’s mother there in the winter. It was too damn cold. But not here. The tropical climate sees to that. It’s almost always warm here.
Despite the incredible summer heat and looming rain, Jackson Square is packed to the gills. New Orleanians don’t mind a little heat, especially when there’s a festival going on. To the east, toward Chalmette, where food vendors have lined up along the street and are peddling everything from frozen lemonade to roast beef po’ boys. To the west, toward the Garden District, the street is packed with festival-goers, spilling out of taverns and local lunch favorites. People walk lazily in front of cars and trucks which have found themselves in unmoving traffic.
A cluster of people sidle up to me and wait for a break in traffic. I take another deep breath and remind myself why I’m doing this.
I can’t wait any longer or it will be too late.
The slow-moving traffic stalls and the people beside me take off toward Jackson Square for the heart of the festival. I follow behind and keep my head low. The square doesn’t have many cameras. Just the ones at the corners of the Pontalba buildings and just above the entrance at Cafe Du Monde. I have it on good faith that the only one that records is the Cafe Du Monde camera, but I don’t know how far out the lens reaches. I only have one chance. I can’t screw this up and risk putting anyone else I love in danger.
I walk through the open gates of Jackson Square and smile at the sight before me. My mother, with her dark brown hair tucked neatly under a black and gold ball cap, smiles at me from beneath the statue of Andrew Jackson right at the center of the square. Her hands are tightly clutching a brown paper lunch sack in her hands. The incredible worry shows in her light gray eyes and she’s chewing at her lip. I want to tell her that her baby girl will be all right. I want t
o tell her not to worry. There are so many things I want to tell her but I can’t risk anyone finding out about her. Her eyes lift slightly the nearer I get. I can only pray she remembers what she’s supposed to do.
I roll my right shoulders jerk my right thumb out pointing it toward the east. She nods her head once before diverting her eyes and turning her body toward the east. Good. She fidgets with the bag and her hands are shaking. Jesus Christ, she’s worse at this swindling business than I am. If she doesn’t calm down they’re going to notice. I don’t even know where they are, but Victor
has men watching, I’m sure of it.
I reach my mother, look up at the statue of Jackson and rub the back of my neck with my right hand. As I turn to the east my left hand takes the brown paper bag. I pull on the bag but her hands grip the wrinkled paper.
“Be safe, baby,” she whispers and then lets go. Out of the corner of my eye, as I walk away, I see her wipe a tear from her eye before she lowers the bill of her cap and disappears into the crowd. I don’t give myself the luxury of watching her go. I can only pray that everything goes according to plan and I’ll be seeing her in a week.
As inconspicuously as possible, I open the brown paper bag and feel around inside. I pull out the Swiss Army knife and slide it into my pocket. A laugh bubbles up in my chest. It’s my father’s knife that he insisted I carry with me for protection. I opted for pepper spray, thinking I knew better. I didn’t like the idea of carrying a weapon— and now here I am with a Swiss Army knife in my pocket and a hand gun in a paper bag. Now
my
hands are shaking.
I slide the gun out of the paper bag and up my sleeve. The feeling of the metal against my skin sends shudders up my spine. Suddenly this is all too real. My heart hammers in my chest and tears well in my eyes.
“I don’t care what you did, Shel,” Becca says. Sitting across from me, she slides closer, pats my knee, and tucks my hair behind my ears. She lifts my chin, forcing me to look at her.
“It’s bad, Bec,” I say. Shame fills me from head to toe. I’ve never been a big rule follower, but this takes the cake.
“Just tell me,” she urges. I start laughing— that crazed laughter that only comes when you’re at the end of your rope— and tears fall. The ugly cry starts with snot dripping down my face. I can barely breathe. Finally, I calm myself down enough to talk. Not once, no matter how disgusting I am, does Becca seem annoyed, nor does she try to rush me.
“I made some deliveries for Vic,” I say. Lines appear between Becca’s eyes and her lips form a grim line. “I know, I know. I screwed up.”
“Shel, you knew what Vic is.”
“Yeah, I did. It was easy money. It was stupid.”
“Easy money?” Becca nearly shouts. I cringe away from the disgust on her face.
“Anyway, I broke up with him,” I say.
AT THE CORNER
of Jackson Square I toss the paper bag in the nearest garbage can and head up St. Ann towards Louis Armstrong Park. The metal rubs against my skin, practically chafing my arm. The walk is quick, two small city blocks.
Before I know it I’m standing in front of the Deep South Cigar Shop. The shopkeeper is just about to close up for lunch. He’s slow-moving, well above sixty, I’d say. He ambles around the shop, tidying things up before he heads down to the festival for a little bit. It’s the third and final day of the festival and the old man has made a visit to the square a part of his routine.
My hands shake and I blow out a nervous breath. The gun slides slowly down my sleeve and into my hand. I move my hand with the gun in it behind my back and open the door to the shop with the other. A bell rings above my head. The old man jumps in place and turns around with his hand placed over his heart, then a soft smile appears on his face.
“Hello,” he says. “I’m just closing up for lunch. Is there something I can help you with before I head out?”
Tears well in my eyes as I raise the gun up and point it at the old man’s chest. My stomach churns. This man is old enough to be my grandfather. And here I am holding a gun that’s pointed at his heart.
“I sure hope so,” I say. “I’d like a box of your best Cubans.” The man’s hands are raised in the air and he shakes his head in confusion. His chest heaves and he moves quickly, nervously.
“Miss, you must be confused. We don’t sell Cuban cigars here. They’re illegal, you know.” He stutters as he speaks. Sweat collects along his brow. A twinge of sadness engulfs me. The gun is heavy in my hand and I realize I’ve lowered it. I lift the gun, the barrel at his chest once more.
“Let’s not lie to each other. There’s a wooden box of Havana’s best somewhere in this room. Where is it?”
“I, I--” He says. His voice trembles and I realize his cheeks are wet with tears. I fight the urge to run away and expel my breakfast in the small alley across the street. Running away won’t get Victor his stupid precious necklace. But above all, running away won’t get Becca back.
“Under the cash wrap,” he says. I jerk the gun toward the cash register.
“Get it,” I say. He backs up toward the cash register and moves slowly around the counter. As he reaches down it occurs to me that it’s likely there’s a gun under there. “And if there’s a gun back there, I would leave it where it is if I were you. Those Cubans aren’t worth dying for.”
The old man keeps one hand in the air and dips the other one behind the cash register. He moves slowly as he lifts a small wooden box above the counter.
“Bring it here.” I tighten my grip on the gun. He walks toward me with the box barely staying in his hand, nearly dropping it as he hands it to me. I grab the box and back up to the door. It’s shut. With the gun in one hand and the box in the other I can’t possibly open the door. With as little movement of the gun as possible, I tuck the box under my arm and reach for the doorknob. Heavy footfalls sound overhead followed by the slamming of a door, then feet hitting the stairs in the back. All these old buildings have their staircases located in the back half behind the shops.
I swing the door open and grab the box from under my arm. Just as I get one foot out of the door a tall man with a gun rushes out from the back. He’s far younger than the shopkeeper-- more able bodied and less hampered by age. His jet black hair is slicked back and he has a wild look in his eyes. I nearly trip as I’m running out of the door and into the crowded street. I bump into a middle-aged couple and without thinking about it, throw my hands up in apology. The 9mm in my palm doesn’t serve to calm the woman’s frustrations; instead it sends her into panic. Her shrill cries draw the attention of the crowd as people flee. I want to run with them and hide away from the danger, but in this situation
I’m
the danger.
The man rushes out of the cigar shop. He holds his gun like a pro, his hand is steady-- unlike mine. My head is foggy and I can’t think properly. Screams seem to ricochet off one another and slam into my eyes. The crowd is thinning out. The red faces of the people running for their lives makes me swallow hard.
Run
, a voice says in the back of my head. A quick, intense sickness rolls in my stomach. I swallow hard to keep the bile from riding up. The gunman’s eyes meet mine and he directs the barrel to the center of my skull.
I take off running without another thought. I run into the crowd even though it slows me down. This way I have some coverage. We’re running back toward Jackson Square which is about as perfect as anything can be. I slide the gun into my sleeve and push my way through the crowd like I’m just another terrified bystander. Well, I’m terrified that’s for sure. Up ahead is Royal Street.
I dart to the right, down Royal the first chance I get. Still running at full speed I see a small souvenir shop a few stores down across the street. I take a quick peek behind me and don’t see the wild-eyed gunman. Still, I don’t slow down.
Inside the souvenir shop there’s a young woman playing on her cellphone. Along the side wall I spot a rack of tote bags and purses. I take a moment to poke through the selection. I find a thin drawstring backpack and take it off the rack. A quick look around the store tells me they don’t have any cameras and their cashier is engrossed in her phone. I ball up the backpack and slip it into the sleeve that’s not occupied by the gun. The girl still hasn’t looked up. I walk out of the store praying I was right about the cameras. Nothing sounds, nobody shouts. And with that I blend into the crowd and manage to get the gun and the box into the backpack. Curiosity gets the best of me and I find myself peeking in the box. Inside, nestled in velvet, is a beautiful purple diamond affixed to a silver chain. It feels wrong, to leave such a precious gem-- a gem that will save my best friend’s life-- in a flimsy backpack. I remove the necklace from the box as discreetly as possible and place it around my neck, hidden from view. I strap the backpack to my back.
Just as I turn the corner onto St. Louis I see the gunman on my right heading toward me. Our eyes lock and for a moment I think he doesn’t recognize me. But then his nostrils flare and he runs toward me. I rush to the left back toward Jackson Square. My heart pounds in my chest as my legs and lungs strain to keep up with the demands I place on them. I run into the nearest shop-- a sandwich shop and fly to the counter. I sit beside a man, tall, muscular, who is chowing down on a muffaletta sandwich. My heart beats in my chest frantically.