Run Baby Run (7 page)

With heavy cautious steps, Delery walked up to the car. He leaned down and removed his shoulder bag.

The robbery was disrupted by a squad car barreling up Clouet. Blue Shoes shoved Delery away from the car with his free hand. Delery was in an awkward stance, and he fell to the ground backward. The Corolla flew off.

Delery was breathing heavily and loudly. "At least I'm safe now," he whispered between gasps.

A swirl of heat, car doors, and yelling proved otherwise.

He was roughly rolled onto his stomach and searched.

"You selling drugs?" "Keep your fucking hands there;" "Don't move, faggot;" "Who you dealing for?" were a few of the flurry of commands and accusations thrown out.

"Officers, I'm a criminologist helping NOPD," he tried, attempting to see them better through the sun's glare. He couldn't make out faces or badge numbers.

"I'm looking at a driver's license that tells me you're a goddamn liar. Illinois. So, you dealing or buying?" was asked in an accent from the sticks.

The other cop answered his partner. "He's acting like he's on drugs. Breathing heavy. Sweating."

Delery tried again. "Officers, I'm breathing erratically because I almost got robbed. I'm sweaty because it's summer in New Orleans. I'm... "

"Shut the fuck up, bitch!" A shoe ground his head into the grass.

"His bag's clean." Delery's utility knife wasn't found in its tucked away spot in the bag.

"You dumb motherfucking idiots come down here, show no common sense, and expect us to protect you," the cop with the foot said, pushing hard once again before stepping off Delery.

"Come on," his partner, the hick, said. "Let's get over to that Baptist church and see if we can find the white guy there. Of all the places to hide out."

Delery pulled himself off the ground. "I'm the one who saw that guy and called Commander Jones. Hurry, get to the church."

His words only hit the backs of the two officers and fell to the street next to his discarded shoulder bag. They drove off and he sat on the ground, cleaning off his clothes that were wrinkled again.

7

H
utch woke himself up with a flurry of deep coughing. For a flash he forgot where he was, but it all quickly came back to him.

He was covered in sweat. Sore left knee. Back in knots from sleeping on the floor. Pieces of debris matted to his skin and clothing. He stunk.

He sat up, looked around, and shook his head.

His hide-out space was decently lit, considering, and it looked worse by day. The holes in the roof and front windows allowed the sharp sun to cast slivers of light across the mess. The multiple angles of sun rays made Hutch think of search lights or as if he were the focus of a magnifying glass.

He saw a calendar still turned to August 2005 curling up on the wall, along with newspaper clippings and hand-written thoughts about Turner's Soul Food restaurants being run by white supremacists to poison black people. The previous tenant was trying to prove the rumor was true.

If he were prone to tears, they would've flowed, but Hutch wasn't one for crying. Instead, he croaked out, "Alright. Stay strong."

He stood up, winced, and looked outside the window. Not much activity on the street. Only a steady flow of cars. One of them announced itself in advance with a booming radio.

"It's 10:25. Gonna be a hot day here in the Crescent City," the radio announcer said.

He sat back down slowly. "Man, what were you thinkin'?" he wondered. "I done fucked up."

Oddly, no rats or mice had been heard, not even cockroaches, but Hutch knew they were around. He hated the idea of speaking to them, so he worked through it all in his mind rather than aloud.

He'd gotten a jeep with solid VIN, license plate, and registration. Nothing stolen, so it wouldn't be obvious if the cops scanned the plate or pulled them over.

Driver's licenses and a passport for him were even easier to obtain, though more expensive. Hutch knew of Tommy J's operation out of an abandoned Harvey strip mall space. Hutch's was a Texas license. Olson's was a California one. They'd both been given new names. Paul Grayson for Olson and Maurice Richard for Hutch.

He'd knocked at the door, said the password "Kenyatta," and entered the former Walgreens. Covered windows belied the action going on inside. Over twenty underage kids sat waiting until their number was called. They were all there for fake ID's.

The operation was run like a mini-DMV. Two computers were hooked up to two stolen driver's license printers and laminators. Hutch had been in the week prior since the passport was more expensive and took longer. Like then, Hutch didn't take a number but walked directly over to the head man.

Tommy J did good clean work. With the passport too. Hutch had passed on the credit card skimmers and the guns offered but examined the fake documents carefully.

"I ain't need no hammer," he'd told Tommy J. "I got some methodical shit, don't require no fire."

The other man, wiry and with intense eyes, peered through his glasses and beard, shrugging.

"Alright, Hutch. Man always need a hammer, but you keep on. This some good craftsmanship here."

Hutch grunted in agreement. "I 'ppreciate that."

"I 'ppreciate you 'ppreciatin', but I need second half-a my fee," Tommy J said seriously.

"I'm good for it. Don't stress. $2,800, right?" Hutch asked and flipped the band off the folded roll from his front pocket before counting it out.

"Yeah. $28 front end. $28 back. I'm too blessed to be stressed, baby. 5K a good price for that passport. Ain't stolen from no tourist."

"We see how she work. Thank you, brother," Hutch said.

Birdsong on the roof refocused Hutch on the present.

"Damn. $5,600 for the passport and licenses. Olson paid his $300. All that shit for the jeep. I cleared my bank account. Sold off a bunch-a shit. Didn't pay rent for two months. Twelve big bills and some pocket change all I got in this world. That cruise to Brazil leaving in six hours," he thought.

He considered, "All's I gotta do, get over by I-10 going west and hitch a ride. Plenty semi's out there. I'm good once I'm on the highway."

Hutch laughed a grim laugh, remembering, "Course I could get a cab to Houston, but I can't burn off too much this money." Like everyone, he'd heard about or knew desperate people paying cabbies to evacuate them both before and after the flood.

He coughed again and quickly covered his mouth so he couldn't be heard outside. Who knew how many people were out looking for him?

"It was goin' just right," he thought, "but not for too long."

Hutch remembered Club Big Easy having a good night. Packed house. He'd discreetly observed Mr. C sending off his two henchmen before going into a certain weekly routine. It took a little time for the manager to finally walk to the back, accompanied.

Waiting seemed interminable. To ease the tension, he'd made a loop around the room. Dave, the other bouncer, had questioned him.

"Hutch, what's up? It's all good here. You all right, bruh?"

The older man played with him a bit to take the pressure off. Plus, he knew Dave would be questioned later, so decoy statements were vital. It was one of those stories that black people would love to tell gullible white people, both for their own enjoyment and to know that at some point later white folks would be gathering around hearing it retold, all saying, "Those people are crazy."

Hutch rarely had a chance to do this. How often did white men, much less women, express concern for him or take focus off of themselves? So, he spun a yarn about baby mamas in Slidell and Plaquemines; money owed to men in Algiers and Belle Chasse; dice games in Hollygrove; a night of drinking in a bar on Elysian Fields that ended in a shootout; and more. By the time he got to the end, Dave's mouth was slack and eyes were buggy.

Hutch couldn't resist. "Brer Soul's got a life, don't he?" He kept from an overt smile. It was the first time he saw a white man get ashy.

Now that the edge was off, he turned around to see Clint Olson descending the stairs with a large beer case.

Hutch eyeballed the back. No sign of Mr. C.

Olson walked steadily to the front door. Like Hutch planned, Olson said, loudly enough for Dave and the shot girl Bree to hear, "Hey Hutch. Mr. C wants this in his trunk. You walk with? Watch my back so no knuckleheads jump me?"

Dave was dazed and Bree was new. Neither blinked an eye when Hutch played his part perfectly. "You can't handle that shit yourself? Alright, c'mon. Be back in a minute, Dave."

The dark blue jeep was parked on Dauphine near St. Peter. It contained no suitcases, only a full tank of gas. No rain was in the forecast, so Hutch hadn't bothered to purchase a canvas top.

Hutch and Olson stepped out of the club together.

Under his breath, Hutch said, "Not a word 'til we cross the street."

A circle of tourists were gathered around three black high energy acrobatic dancers who were performing on a colorful drop cloth to music from two speakers as powerful as those inside the clubs. That part of Bourbon was slightly wider than the rest and allowed a rounder arc.

The dancer wearing a wireless microphone paused and announced to the crowd, "You might wonder how we got so good at our moves. Five words. Running... from... the... po-lice."

At this the mostly white crowd belly laughed. A few threw dollar bills into the middle.

Hutch had heard this line and its predictable response several times over the years, and it never failed to make him feel darker than blue. He told Olson to follow him and roughly pushed through the crowd into the dancer's space.

Looking at the dancers with fierce eyes, Hutch said, "I'm happy not to see your raggedy Uncle Tommin' asses no more. Fuckin' bitch ass niggers." He could take all three of them on and they knew it, so they all turned away, cleaning imaginary specks of dirt on their sweat pants. Hutch didn't need to push through the other side of the crowd since they quickly opened up space for him, with Olson following behind. They were steps from Toulouse.

"You got it?" Hutch asked.

"Yeah, yeah. I can't believe it," Olson replied.

"Keep walkin'. Box full?"

"Yeah, totally full. I can't believe how easy it was."

At the intersection, Hutch took a long look down Bourbon both ways. All was well. Not so when he checked down Toulouse toward the river.

He and Olson were in the midst of other people, but they were spotted by Johnny and Big T, midway in the block, still making the rounds for weekly pick-ups. Hutch's response was suspicious and he knew it. He saw them register surprise. He also knew the jeep was almost two blocks away.

Olson was initially angry when Hutch grabbed the beer case from him, but then he saw the urgency of the older man's eyes.

"Mr. C's men. They saw us," sputtered Hutch.

Their pace quickened significantly, though they couldn't full-on run due to the weight of money, even with Hutch carrying it.

They took the sidewalk on the right, lucky that Johnny and Big T were also weighed down by money that couldn't be discarded. The two Sicilians had less weight to carry, though, so they were making up ground.

Five observant streetcorner hustlers saw the chased and chasers, sussed out at a glance who to help, and meandered into the intersection. Johnny and Big T were awkwardly walk-jogging down the middle of the street at this point.

"Get the fuck outta the way," the two barked, unable to use their hands to clear a way through the cluster.

"'Scuse;" "Oh, yes sir;" "Who you think you talkin' to?" "Sorry, mister;" and "Lookit them sad shoes;" were the too-casual replies. As soon as the Sicilians passed, the common good also passed, and the five men went back to giving each other the evil eye.

By this time, Hutch and Olson were at Dauphine. They veered off to the right and stayed in the street.

Hutch was bent forward at the waist, both arms around the money, focused ahead with determination. No more looking back.

Olson's eyes were filled with fear. He was moving his arms like many untrained joggers. Flailing sideways like a frightened chicken. No efficiency of motion.

"What the fuck you doin'?" Hutch asked through deep breaths.

Olson whimpered back. "What do you mean? I'm running for my life."

"Get them arms down. You pop me with that elbow, I'm leavin' you for the Eye-talians."

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry," Olson replied subserviently, meaning not only his lack of form but also the whole scam to get the skims. He continued running the same way.

They didn't know it, but Big T was the only one behind them. Johnny had continued up Toulouse to Burgundy to retrieve his Ford Explorer.

Midway in the block from Hutch and Olson, a group of eight men in their early 30's loudly commandeered the street. They were in the French Quarter for all night drinking and dancing. Five were wearing polo shirts of various types, all tucked in sensible slacks. They had hoped to conquer women at the Gold Mine Saloon but were reduced to walking like two-year-olds. They were drunk. They were a short drive to home. They were from Metairie.

"How many... tell me... how many Flaming Dr. Pepper's I drank?" one of them slurred to the others, who had formed a loose line across Dauphine.

Hutch and Olson were about five car lengths away from them.

"Comin' through. Make room," Hutch urged.

Olson nodded vigorously, his flailing hands still up in the 10 and 2 driving position, his elbows remaining in their sideways angle.

The suburbanites paid no attention to this, thinking if at all, that the jogging men would yield before reaching them.

Hutch called out again, louder. "Get the fuck out the way!"

Two car lengths now.

Olson, at his right, started to ask, "What are we... ," but saw in his peripheral vision that Hutch was lowering his head to prepare himself. In his own way, Olson did the same. With his dropped head and raised swinging arms, he was a sight.

At one car length, the group got frightened and attempted to move but stumbled into each other.

Hutch turned wide shoulders slightly to his left in preparation. The jeep was steps away.

At impact, he dropped his head so that the crown was facing straight ahead like a battering ram. Then in quick motion he lifted it. "Uhhhh!" he snarled.

Hutch sent two of the men airborne into a beige BMW whose alarm promptly screamed through the night. He hit them so hard it would've stripped white from rice.

Olson, on the other hand, was so top heavy by his stance that he went into and over one of the men before performing a series of misshapen somersaults. His high arms served to protect his head.

A voice from across the street called out, "Look at that muthafucka roll."

Hutch regained open field and was to the jeep in seconds. He looked back while pulling the keys from his pocket to see Olson spinning down the street, a bewildered group of drunkards, and Big T gaining ground.

Hutch opened the door, set the beer case on the passenger floor, and stepped back out to stop Olson and pull him to his feet.

"C'mon, Clint," Hutch ordered.

Meanwhile, a big white SUV was screeching as it turned from Burgundy against the one-way street St. Peter. A cab was in its way, so the Ford Explorer veered off to the right, drove up on the sidewalk, and sped past. A man wearing a beret and a leather vest stepped out of the Gold Mine and shook his head.

Hutch and Olson quickly got into the jeep. The second Hutch started it and prepared to pull out of the parking spot, he began honking to clear the khaki hoard from the street.

This time they listened. Big T planted himself in the path of the jeep, but as he saw it careening at him, he dove out of the way, still holding onto the bags of skims he'd picked up earlier.

Hutch hit the gas even harder. He had them to Canal in a matter of seconds. By this time, Johnny had picked up Big T. The SUV was barely a block away.

Hutch's plan had been that they'd cross Canal, get on I-10 going west, and take it all the way to Houston. At Canal, though, they had a red light and too much traffic in the left and middle lanes, so he tore around the corner to the right.

He wanted to get over but was stuck in the right lane. He ran the lights at Rampart, Basin, Treme, and Marais. Cross traffic was light, so there were no problems. A young security guard in a beat-up Honda Civic was looking down, texting his girlfriend that he was on the way home, so he didn't see how close he was to a collision.