Headhunter (27 page)

The Queen

New Orleans, Louisiana

Saturday, November 6th, 3:45 p.m.

"Ever been to New Orleans?" Katherine Spann asked.

"Just once, with my dad," Scarlett replied. "But that was long ago."

They had caught a flight on Air Canada to Seattle, connecting there with an Eastern Airlines run down the Mississippi by way of Atlanta, Georgia. Looking out the window now as the aircraft began its final descent on to Moisant Field, Scarlett saw a landscape not unlike a huge lily pond. Almost half the land area of this city was located under water, and what kept the river from claiming the rest was a series of levees and pumping stations that diverted the seepage first into canals and then into Lake Pontchartrain.

The two men who met them inside the International Airport were different in the extreme. The Caucasian was named Luke Went worth and he was from the FBI. Wentworth was wearing a light blue pinstripe suit that probably cost in excess of a thousand dollars. His face was made up of sharp acute angles with a long thin jaw; his hair was short and brown and he was wearing those silver reflecting glasses that prevent others from seeing your eyes. For some reason Spann connected him with Paul Newman or Steve McQueen.

The black man, on the other hand, reminded her vaguely of a young Martin Luther King. His name was John Jefferson, Jr., and he was with the NOPD. "Welcome to N' Orleans," he said. His voice was like warm iron and he held out his hand.

The two Canadians nodded, and they shook hands with both men.

"I hear it rains a lot back where you come from," Luke Wentworth said.

"It does," Spann agreed.

"Too bad." the FBI man said. "I hate rain."

The moment they left the airport Scarlett and Spann broke into a sweat. The day was clear and bright, the air hot and humid with a heavy oppressiveness. Scarlett noticed a sheen of sweat on Wentworth's upper lip and that his throat had turned slightly pink. Jefferson, however, remained as cool as cool could be.

As they drove into the city Scarlett observed: "The heat must really get to people. You seem to have a lot of cemeteries."

"This is nothing," Jefferson said. "There are more than thirty of them up ahead in town. You'll find that N' Orleans cemeteries are more akin to cities of the dead than they are to graveyards. Most of all, the tombs are above ground because of the river seepage. In this town, believe me, it's hard to dig a dry hole. In the old days the colonials used to have architects design their graves. Many of the tombs look like narrow residences with rounded roofs and eaves. That's particularly true of St. Louis Number 1. It dates from the 1740s."

"Is that where Marie Laveau is buried?" Katherine Spann asked.

"Probably," Jefferson replied, "but there are those who say she's in an unmarked oven in St. Louis Number 2. You'll find red brick-dust cross marks in both places. The real site of her grave is certainly open to question."

'Who's Marie Laveau?" Rick Scarlett asked.

'Hey," Jefferson said, turning from the steering wheel and casting him a friendly frown. "I thought you two were interested in voodoo. That's what the telex said."

'We are." Spann replied with a tone of exasperation. "Don't mind my friend. He's just along to carry the bags."

Scarlett's face went red as he glared at the woman.

'Marie Laveau," Jefferson said, "is the name of New Orleans' great mulatto Voodoo Queen."

'Voodoo!" Wentworth said with a snort. "What a crock of shit.” This was his first comment since they left the airport. During the trip he had busied himself by staring out tin window at the Louisiana countryside. He obviously found babysitting visitors a bore.

"Well," John Jefferson, Jr., said, ignoring the man from the FBI, "if voodoo is the subject, then I'm your man. What do you want to know?"

"What's the practice like today?" Spann asked.

"Pretty watered down and far removed from its roots. Some say, however, that a few pure cults still exist. And of course Haiti's still going strong."

"Is there anything to it, John? You know what I mean?" This question by the woman surprised Rick Scarlett. Even Luke Wentworth turned his attention into the car.

"Let's put it this way," John Jefferson said. "I was raised in Philadelphia, okay? But I had this cousin who grew up in a small Mississippi town. I went to visit him one summer when I was eight or nine. It didn't take me too long to learn that within that community there were several hoodoo doctors and root workers on call. They looked like everyone else, but they sure had a lot of visitors. Especially on weekends there would be this steady stream of cars with out-of-state license plates pulling up to their doors.

"My grandmother lived in that town and some days a root doctor would sit with her up on the porch. My cousin and I'd be playing on the wooden steps below. You could tell when they were discussing a topic we weren't supposed to hear— 'cause mammy would lean over and spit on both of us.

"Even my old man, who was well-educated by standards set for blacks back then, respected those Southern beliefs."

Just ahead and to the right Spann could see the colossal Louisiana Superdome, a flying saucer come to earth.

"Haiti is real weird," John Jefferson continued. "At a crossroads late one night I actually saw two men, back-to-back like Siamese twins, one dressed in white, the other in black, just going round and round. Voodoo permeates the place like some religion of fear. The sorcerers—
zobops
, they're called—are organized in groups a bit like masons. They go out late in the evening, supposedly summoned by a drum that beats louder the further away it is. At crossroads they hold their ceremonies and that's where they make the
zombi.
The Haitians say if you see an empty car drive by then you know
zobops
are in it."

Wentworth took out a handkerchief and proceeded to blow his nose.

"On one of the Hardy wiretaps someone makes the statement '. . .the zombi walks.' Can you hazard a guess what it means?
"

"Sure, but it's a long shot," Jefferson replied.

"Go on and shoot, my friend."

"Along comes one of these groups at night and it stops at a crossroads. In a ritual where blood is shed one of the members of the group calls out to the
zombi,
then digs him out of the ground.

"I don't suppose that you believe in the Undead any more than I do, so—"

"I don't," Katherine Spann said, casting a mock glance of paranoia over each of her shoulders, then grinning at Jefferson.

"—here is how they do it. Before the man who will become a
zombi
'dies' he is fed a poison. It is usually
curare.
I he poisoned man is then buried on the same day. It's a hot country, remember? A pipe to provide oxygen is run from the buried coffin to the air above. The next night the
zobops
drive out to the graveyard crossroads in order to bring him 'alive.' Once he is summoned out of the ground, the
zombi
is given a drug to counteract the poison. When under the effect of
curare,
a man looks like he is dead. Under the antidote he becomes a catatonic, sort of like Frankenstein's monster. The
zombi
is then put in handcuffs and leg irons to stop him limning away—and lo and behold, the
zobop
has himself a slave.

"What better slave can there be than a dead man who follows your orders?"

'Is this what you Mounties do when you're tired of getting your man?" Luke Wentworth asked. "Go out and hunt
zombis?
Great police work that."

Spann thought:
This guy's a first-class pain in the ass.

'In Haiti," she asked, "did you ever hear of a
zombi
actually killing anyone?"

I've been told they hack up several victims a year. But remember that
zombis
are catatonics: they have no adventures of their own. They must be urged on by a master to perform whatever deed they do. The
zobop
then waits safely for the
zombi's
return. Usually the
zombi
must bring back something In show that the job has been done."

Interesting," Spann said.

Tomorrow you tourists will want to drive out to Chalmette National Park," Luke Wentworth said. "It's just east of here "

"What's there?" Scarlett asked.

'That's the site of the famous Battle of New Orleans

That's where General Andy Jackson
royally
fucked the Redcoats right in the ass."

"Luke," Jefferson said, turning to the man. "Why don't you take your brilliant wit an' shove it where the sun don't shine."

Grinning, Luke Wentworth readjusted his shades.

"Anyway," Jefferson said. "Haiti's where it's at. And of course that's where the woman's from."

"Who?"

"Our latest Voodoo Queen."

"I don't get it," Spann said, puzzled by the comment.

"I don't either," Rick Scarlett added.

So for the second time during the trip, John Jefferson, Jr., turned away from the steering wheel and glanced into the back seat. "This man you're looking for," he said. "This John Lincoln Hardy. He was raised in the USA but his family's not from here. His stepmother arrived Stateside about three years ago from Haiti. Word along the grapevine says she's our new Voodoo Queen. I thought you two knew all this, what with the telex and all?"

"We didn't," Katherine Spann said.

Cops like hardware, the gadgets of the trade.

Of course now that they use computers, cops like software too.

The New Orleans Police Department was not to be outdone. Tonight they had laid on some Yankee technology—or Confederate if you prefer—to show the two Canadians the present state of the art.

"You got a pair of wheels each. Don't wreck 'em," Ernie Hodge said. "The electric teeth you'll find under the dash. The teeth are already sucked on to each eyeball frequency, so don't fiddle with 'em. Each bloodworm car's got an eyeball up its ass. If more than one fish swims out, make sure you're sucked onto
his
wavelength or you're gonna lose him. You both got that?"

"Got it," Spann said.

"Ditto," Scarlett replied.

Ernie Hodge had four chins and a face that Mad Dog Rabidowski would stamp with his beloved label:
bum.
When Hodge spoke—and he only talked in cop jargon—a ripple would start at his mouth and spread out from chin to chin While shaking hands he had told Rick Scarlett that Steiger got the role in
In The Heat of the Night
because he had turned it down. The Canadian almost believed him. He also believed that Hodge's ancestors had spent their sunny days whipping backs to make their slaves work hard before them cotton balls got rotten. For as Hodge put it: "We all like John Jefferson, Jr. That man is one smart coon."

Ernie Hodge, however, was also a skilled cop.

"Okay," the American said. "Let's set out the rules. Neither of you is heeled, right? We don't want US citizens stoppin' Canadian lead.

"Two: no collars and no one hits the pit without us doin' the job. That should go without sayin'. A hummer down here can get a cop up to his ears in hot water. Her ears too," he said glancing at Spann. "I'll bet our laws on false arrest are
a
fuck of a lot tighter than yours.

"An' three: You both be careful. Down home you're not— and this is a southern state. Bloodworm puts a chill on you, you'll both get a footbath an' end up cold meat for the sharks.

"If a fish takes you out to the country, watch out for the fuzzy bears. We got our own county mounties down here an' they hoard their jurisdiction. Also come mornin' the NOPD will have several eyes-in-the-sky. Choppers spark up busy air, so don't use the radio unless you have to. Either of you got questions?"

"Yeah," Rick Scarlett said with a smile. "What
can
we do?"

"Hell, boy, you can sit stakeout. All by yourself."

"In case you don't know it," Wentworth said. "That's the shitty job."

Ernie Hodge frowned. He obviously did not like this fellow either.

"Okay," Spann said. "Where's John Lincoln Hardy?"

They were standing in a vacant lot near the Mississippi River. Behind them was a levee and in front of them stretched what looked like a large black slum. The throb of music from distant bars hung in the humid air as insistent and elusive as the smell of night-scented flowers.

"Four blocks down river you'll see Jefferson in a car. Across the street from him an' down half a block again," Hodge said, "you'll see a drugstore. There'll be four cars
parked
out front, the ones with the bumper-bugs. Hardy's inside the building with several other people. An' believe me that's the weirdest drugstore you ever saw."

"Maybe not," Spann said, climbing into one of the cars. "Up in our cold city, we got a Chinatown."

She drove away.

"I'm surprised they left us alone without a shadow," Rick Scarlett said.

"That's the FBI," Catherine Spann replied. "They want to ensure a free hand when they do a tail in Canada."

"Think that's why Ernie Hodge is so jumpy?"

"Sure. If something screws up, it happens in his jurisdiction."

"What do you think of our boy. Cool Hand Luke?"

"The man's an asshole," she said.

"Did you see the way he's had his piece tailored into the suit? Probably a Beretta or some exotic rod like that."

"Just like James Bond, eh?" Katherine Spann said, smiling wryly.

"I wonder where the FBI gets a prick like that?"

"Who knows?" Spann replied. "The guy's so scuzzy I'l bet he spends his time off peeking in his neighbors' windows watching women undress."

Rick Scarlett blinked. "Want a sandwich?" he asked.

It was still hot. They had bought themselves large bottles of orange juice and were now staked out between two garages across the street from the drugstore which backed onto the river. In this neighborhood one of the houses actually had mud walls and a corrugated iron roof. Its door had broken at the hinge and was lying aslant the doorway. Five doors down an old man was sitting on a veranda in a squeaky rocking chair sniffing the scent of tobacco flowers as the darkness closed in. Occasionally there was the crack of a nut bursting as it fell down from a tree.