A Fist Full O' Dead Guys Page 3
Before the Union spy could relieve himself, he felt his stomach begin to wretch. He was used to seeing home, prepared meat, but the sight of the sausage had somehow untied the knot that had been building in his stomach. Rough hard tack and Rebel water sprayed from his mouth in short spurts. Heck could only imagine the torrent he would have loosed had he eaten yet.
"What's the matter? Don't like sausage?"
Heck spun, wiping his mouth on his coat sleeve. It was Pale Willy.
Heck shook his head cautiously. This man was dangerous. "Caught some kinda bug off one'a Blake's sisters."
Pale Willy's face spread into a sickly smile once again. The innuendo seemed to appease his troublemaking nature. "Blake know?" he leered.
Heck nodded. "Think he got it too, if you know what I mean." Damn inbred Rebels, he added mentally.
Pale Willy smiled so wide Heck thought the top half of his head would crack off and fall behind him. He had found a way to put the raider off-for a while at least. Any hint of evil or misdeed seemed to satisfy him. Heck was going to enjoy watching these men hang.
(Hate continues in The Anthology with No Name Volume 2: For a Few Dead Guys More.)
REBORN ON THE BAYOU
by Matt Forbeck
The widow du Blanc wept at us loudly, "Please, I beg of you, find my poor Guillame and bring him back to me."
Duke Solomon, cowboy detective, reached over and handed the woman the only clean corner of a dirty bandanna. "There, there, little lady. Don't you worry yerself none. We'll find yer old man—one way or the other." Having removed his Stetson, Duke's short-cropped, thinning, dark hair was visible, making him somehow seem more human. He almost looked like an altar boy in church.
Accepting Duke's kind if rumpled offer, the raven-haired young beauty paused in her hysterics and looked up at Duke's rough-shaven, hard-nosed visage with her still-beautiful, tear-stained face. She held his gaze for just a moment before she seemed to realize what "the other" way might be. Then she looked down at the filthy piece of cloth in her hands and broke down again.
This time. Detective Walter Van Helter stepped forward with a clean handkerchief produced from the breast pocket of his freshly pressed suit. As he handed it to the young lady, the clean-cut young man shot Duke a look that could have nailed him to the far wall. "My dear lady, what Mr. Solomon means to say is that both he and the New Orleans constabulary will do our best to find out what happened to your husband."
"But that's what you told me last week!" she protested, flinging herself back onto her luxuriously upholstered, red velvet couch and burying her face in her arms.
"And it's still true, madam," the dapper deputy maintained as he straightened up. "I'm afraid these things take time."
The woman simply continued to sob inconsolably into a red velvet pillow until all three of us became uncomfortable. Van Helter started toward her, then hesitated for a moment and said, "I'll let you know as soon as something turns up."
With that, he turned and motioned us toward the parlor's door. "We'll just let ourselves out."
After retrieving our coats and hats from the servants—my overcoat and bowler looking a bit restrained next to Van Helter's stylish hat and jacket and Duke's duster and Stetson— we strolled out the mansion's front door and along the path to the stable where a boy stood waiting with our mounts. As we went, Van Helter leaned over and talked to us in a low voice.
"So you can see my situation. Guillame du Blanc went missing about a week ago, and the entire New Orleans Police Department has been tearing up the town and turning over every rock in the bayou hoping to find him."
Duke grunted. "You normally put yerself this far out for one man?"
Van Helter barked a short laugh. "Sharp man, Solomon. With most missing person's cases like this, we poke around for a little bit, ask a few questions, and then let it go. In about 90% of the cases, the man's either decided to leave his wife or he's somehow found himself in the bottom of a swamp. Either way, there's not much we can do about it."
"But this case is different," I offered in my clipped British accent.
The detective gave me an annoyed look. Apparently he was happy to come to the renowned Duke Solomon for advice, but he didn't much care for having to speak in front of the exclusive recorder of Duke's daring deeds. Still, that was Duke's arrangement, and Van Helter knew it.
"Apparently so, Mr. Westerly," the detective spat in his own upper-class accent. From his pattern of speech and his manner of dress, it was clear that this was an educated-and frustrated-man. He paused for a moment before he went on.
"For one, Mr. du Blanc and his extended family have always been one of the pillars of this community. They made their money in the shipping trade in the early days of New Orleans, and they've been a part of the city's upper crust ever since."
"By 'shipping,' " Duke interrupted, "do you mean piracy?"
Van Helter shot Duke a wry grin as he mounted his steed. "I was under the impression I was in more-polite company, but yes, Mr. Solomon, you could call it that."
Within moments, we were all atop our horses, trotting back toward the city. The Spanish moss hung long and thick from the mangrove trees, and we had to pick our way carefully through the sodden ground. Van Helter paused for a moment to look back at the elegant, French-style mansion, its sparkling windows and whitewashed sides standing out so starkly against the lush greenery which surrounded it. "That was generations ago. Since then the du Blancs have gone to great lengths to wrap themselves in respectability. Guillame's brother Jerome is actually a high-ranking member of our state congress, representing the wealthiest parish in the entire region."
"So he's leaning on you to figure out what's happened to his brother," Duke stately flatly.
The detective nodded. "And so far, we've been stumped. When I heard that a man of your renowned talents was in town, I took it upon myself to look you up."
With that, he looked directly at me. "I just didn't realize your, um, biographer would be with you."
Duke grinned like a wolf. "Just how do you think a man like myself gets famous anyhow?" he asked the detective. "I made my money in ghost rock, but no one really pays attention to that. Philip here's got a real way with words, and he knows a lot of people in the publishing business, even that Lacy O'Malley fella at the Tombstone Epitaph."
"I owe all my fame to him. And sometimes he's even got a good thought or two of his own rattling around in that limey brain o' his. Ain't that right, Philip?"
"If you say so, Duke."
"And the ladies sure do love that accent o' his."
With a good-hearted laugh to push us along, the three of us made our way back to New Orleans in good time.
***
That evening, after a wonderfully authentic meal in a delightfully seedy Cajun restaurant, Duke and I strolled the streets of the French Quarter. The place is just as boisterous as you've probably heard. Restaurants of all sorts line the brick-paved streets, and music drifts out into the night from the seemingly dozens of brightly lit saloons in the area.
Of course, New Orleans is a port city in a country at war, but on a warm night like that one, with the scent of lilacs in the air, you could almost forget about things like Yankee blockades.
"So where are we off to now?" I asked. Duke has a habit of not always filling me in on everything he has in mind, which can prove frustrating at times.
Duke grunted. "From what I can gather, Van Helter and his men have already tossed through about half of the city looking for this du Blanc fella."
"True. It seems like they've exhausted all of the normal channels of inquiry. Otherwise, why would they call on the services of someone like you?"
"Right. So there really ain't no point in looking for the man."
We walked along in silence for a moment.
"So, am I to gather that you're not going to assist Mr. Van Helter in this case? That's not at all what he seems to think, I might add."
"Cool yer spurs, Philip. Yer always jumpi
n' to conclusions. I said, there ain't any point in looking for the man-at least not directly."
With that, Duke suddenly pulled me to a halt right in the middle of the sidewalk. "That's why I been lookin' fer someone else."
He pointed up at the shop we were in front of. Candles flickered in windows shrouded with black cloth. Strange totems clustered in the corners of the glassed-off display. The sign on the door read "Marie Laveaux's Voodoo Shoppe."
We went in.
***
"So what exactly are you tryin' to tell us, Madame Laveaux?" Duke asked as he leaned back in his plush chair. We were in one of the most amazing rooms I'd ever seen in my life. The walls were all painted black and hung about with swathes of black silk. Paintings of dark-faced voodoo gods looked down at us from every wall. Voodoo totems of all kinds were situated strategically about the place, and in one corner there was a kind of shrine. The centerpiece of the shrine was a sunbleached human skull, and it was surrounded by several burning candles of various heights and fragrant garlands of native flowers. In the center of this all, we sat at a round wooden table covered with an intricately patterned cloth of reds and blacks.
"What I'm sayin' to you, Meester Solomon, is that I know all 'bout your Meester du Bland and his wife." A broad smile split this beautiful, cocoa-colored woman's face. For a moment, I couldn't believe that we were actually having a private meeting with Marie Laveaux-fhe Marie Laveaux, the voodoo queen of New Orleans for the past 50 years. But there she sat directly across from us, her long curly hair cascading over smooth shoulders only partly covered by her long, flowing, black dress.
According to what I'd been told, Madame Laveaux had to be at least 70 years old, but her creamy skin didn't look a day over 30. Still, her eyes carried in them more wisdom than one lifetime could possibly hold. That fact alone lent credence to the legends that surrounded her. How else could such a gorgeous woman manage to keep herself so well-preserved but by means of magic?
Duke smiled softly to himself, amused by the woman's sense of drama. "So I'm asking about them. Particularly, about the fact that Mr. du Blanc's gone missing."
"Ha!" the voodoo priestess said with an imperious laugh. "I'm not surprised. That woman-that man's wife—she come in here not more than a month ago, lookin' for a way to solve a husband problem. "
"I tol' her she should learn to treat the man right, but she don' want no part o' that. No, she want a quick fix. She ask me for a voodoo charm, some kind o' potion, but I tell her I'm not here to help rich little girls with their husbands. She say fine. If I don' wanna help her, she find someone who will."
Duke held up his hand, cutting off her rant. "What do you think she meant by that?"
The woman's dusky eyes flared at Duke. This was her home, and she was accustomed to a bit more deference from her guests. " 'What do I think she meant by that'? I know what she meant by that. She meant there are other people in this city with the powers to help her—dark powers-and she was gonna turn to them."
"I need names."
Madame Laveaux snorted at him. "This is New Orleans, amis. You can't swing a voodoo doll in this town without hitting someone who thinks he's a bokkor."
Duke stared her straight in the eye. "But you know who the real ones are."
The woman leaned back in her chair and laughed. "You're good," she said with grudging admiration in her voice. "I can give you a few names."
"I trust you," Duke said. "One's all I need."
"Could it be LaCroix?" I interrupted, for which I instantly cursed myself. The angry looks both Duke and Madame Laveaux shot me told me I was wrong.
"Simone?" the voodoo priestess laughed. "Oh, he's got the mojo all right, but he wouldn't waste his time with this woman. He's already got all the money he could want. All he needs is more power."
"No," she said, thinking out loud, a determined look creasing her face. "You're looking for a much pettier man. Someone willing to sell his services to a desperate woman from the better part of town. Someone who think so highly of himself to believe he could get away with it. Someone like-" her look of consternation suddenly melted into one of satisfaction.
"Gris," she said slowly, as if she was rolling the word around in her mouth like penny candy. "The one you want is Jean-Paul Gris."
Duke got up to leave, bowing his thanks to the voodoo priestess. I followed hot on his heels, but as he reached the door he turned around and gave Madame Laveaux a serious look. "You could have helped her," he said flatly.
The dusky woman tossed back her long hair and said quietly, "Of course. But I didn't like the snooty witch."
***
Detective Van Helter gunned the steam-powered engine on the wide, flat-bottomed boat as he piloted it deeper into the bayou. The morning sun was finally starting to burn through the clouds, but we weren't bound to enjoy it for long, as the trees got thicker and thicker the further we went into the swampy waters.
Van Helter looked like he'd been up all night, and I commented on it.
"Yep," he said between yawns. "Seems we've got ourselves some kind of killer working the docks this week. We've had three bodies turn up in the past three days, each of them without a head. I've been putting in some overtime trying to catch the bastard."
"Hal" Duke laughed humorlessly, giving me a friendly backhanded pat on my shoulder. "Looks like I was right, Philip. We're crossin' paths with our old friend again."
"What's that?" the detective asked suspiciously.
"What Mr. Solomon is referring to is the one of the greatest cases we've ever been involved in: the mysterious killer known as the Headhunter."
"Philip gave him that name in the first dime novel he wrote about me," Duke interrupted.
I nodded at the detective somewhat modestly, then continued. "The Headhunter is a criminal mastermind. He comes into a town, kills a slew of people, and then continues on."
"The funny part," said Duke, "if you can call any part of the whole affair funny, is that the sick bastard seems to know I'm on his trail. Every time I get close to him, the killings stop. Better yet, he always leaves some kind of a clue on the last body that leads me to his next destination."
"Was there anything unusual about this last corpse?" I asked. I knew it was Duke's place to ask the questions, but sometimes I get so excited I can't restrain myself.
"Now that you mention it," Van Helter began, "the last body's head had been replaced with the head of a wooden Indian like you see in some of the cigar stores in town."
"A head of wood?" I asked, puzzled.
"Deadwood," Duke intoned flatly. "The Headhunter's off to Deadwood. Damn, but that's a long way from here."
"Hold on," said Van Helter. "You're not planning on running out on me already, are you?"
Duke looked up at the sky. The sun had gone behind some clouds again. "Not yet," he said. "We'll help you find yer missin' man here first, all right, but then we've gotta be on our way. Just get us to the home o' that-what'd she call him?"
"A bokkor," I supplied.
"No problem," said Van Helter, looking up toward the bow of the boat. There before us squatted an old wooden shack that looked like it had been around since Revolutionary times. In some spots, the wall plankings had rotted away, and you could see daylight clean through the place-although perhaps "clean" isn't the right word to use about that hovel.
To one side of the house, a cluster of chickens scratched their way around a freshly tilled garden. Off in the distance somewhere, a rooster gave out a strangled crow. A man sat on the rickety porch in a rocking chair that looked like if he stood up it would fall apart behind him.
The wizened, old black man beckoned to us as Van Helter pulled the steamskiff up to the rotting dock that thrust out from the edge of the shack's grassless front yard. We risked the pier, which creaked horribly as it took our weight, then made our way up to where the old man slowly rocked back and forth in his chair, patiently puffing away at a corncob pipe he kept clenched between what was left of his teeth.
The worst part, of course, was his breath.
"We're looking for a man," Van Helter began. "His name's Guillame du Blanc."
The man pursed his lips at us for a moment, then spat out, "I don' know nothin' about it."
Duke stepped forward. "Are you Jean-Paul Gris? The bokkor?"
"Dat's my name," the man nodded, "but I don' truck wit' de loas no more. Dey not my friends no more."
"That's not what I hear," said Duke. "I hear you've been lookin' around fer work." He nodded over at the garden. "That's a mighty nice-lookin' patch o' land you got yerself there. Who came out and plowed it for you?"
"I done it myself," the old man protested, his bones creaking almost as loudly as the chair he was sitting in.
Duke laughed softly. "Don't pull my leg, Jean-Paul. You can barely get out o' that chair."
At that, Gris became furious. "What, you think just 'cause I'm old I ain't got no power. I'm more powerful than you ever know!"
The three of us stood there for a moment, shocked into silence at the old man's rebuff. It was Duke who spoke first.
"Where's du Blanc?"
"Hal" said the old man. "You wanna know that, you should talk to de man's wife. A man's woman should know where he is, no?"
"You know Dominique du Blanc?"
"Who don't know du Blancs? Even out here on de bayou, we heard o' dem. An' we know when a woman marry one o' dem for something other dan what's in her heart."
Duke nodded to himself for a moment, then nodded his thanks at Gris.
Van Helter noticed Duke's silence and cut back in. "Are you sayin' Miss du Blanc is behind her husband's disappearance?" he asked.