Almost exclusively African-American, the birthplace of Louis Armstrong, Fats Domino and a long list of jazz greats through the years, on one side the Ninth Ward had a rich and proud cultural heritage; but on the other, its gritty underbelly was still dirt poor, and a place that half the city’s muggers, robbers and drug dealers called home. The police never ventured too deep into the lower Ninth at night unless they were two or three strong, hands close by their guns in readiness.
‘…And if yo’ were fool ‘nough to drift s‘far as Tricou or Dalery on the north side, presumin’ yo’ was still alive by dat point… you might s’well jus’ phone the funeral parlo’ befo’ yo’ get dere. Tell ‘em where t’pick up yo’ body.’
Jac smiled. Looked like he’d survived so far through ignorance and luck, with Henny’s cafe now at least one safe haven. And, most importantly, she did know Mack Elliott and where to get hold of him, and had phoned him to arrange a meeting at her cafe.
Duck Gumbo, Dirty Rice, Boiled Crawfish, Beef P’Boy — Henny’s was noted for its grass-roots Creole cuisine, her reputation stretching far beyond the Ninth Ward. No-frills but homely with red plastic tablecloths, a gospel version of ‘Praise You’ played in the background, one that Jac hadn’t heard before; the sort of place where you’d expect Aretha Franklin to suddenly stand up from a table and burst into song, or the Blues Brothers start doing somersaults through. Instead, Mack Elliott walked in, tall, rangy, slightly hunched over with age, or perhaps through constantly reaching down to greet people.
Henny called over to Jac that it was him, otherwise he wouldn’t have known. And as Jac stood to shake Mack’s hand, whether just hopeful thinking or the setting sun dipping below the cloud layer, he thought he saw fresh light hanging over Mack Elliott’s shoulder.
But what Jac didn’t notice as they sat back down and started talking was the dark maroon Pontiac Bonneville parked thirty yards back on the opposite side of the street. Nel-M sat inside, obscured by the fading light and the water running down his windscreen. He’d only started following Jac again earlier that day, but already he was beginning to wonder.
Alaysha couldn’t stay there any longer.
Every small sound: movement on the corridor, Mrs Orwin or someone else further along opening their door, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the muted sounds of neighbours from the floor above — twisted her nerves another notch tighter, made her worry that Gerry might head back to try and get in again. Or someone else threatening far worse.
She couldn’t shift that last image of Gerry from her head. The gun pointing, the trigger hammer going down.
It would be okay if Jac was there. Feel him hugging her tight, stroking her hair, consoling. They’d sink themselves deep into a bottle of good Chateauneuf…
She’d been listening out, but still no sounds of him opening his door or moving around. Where
She felt alone, vulnerable, unprotected…
As soon as the thought hit her, she turned to Molly. ‘Come on, Molly, we’re going over to your Granma’s.’
Halfway over to Carrollton in the taxi, Molly asked, ‘Am I staying at Granma’s tonight?’
‘No, no. I’m just picking something up there.’ Then, remembering that with all the fuss she’d forgotten to cook dinner. ‘And we’ll get a pizza on the way back.’
‘Yeah… yeah! Pizza! Pizza!’
Alaysha pulled Molly in close, her smile fading back to taut anxiety, unseen by Molly, as she nestled one cheek against her daughter’s hair.
Alaysha wondered if her mother still had the gun. An old Colt.38 she’d got hold of when she’d finally kicked out Alaysha’s father, fearful that he’d return any day to give her an even worse beating.
Same too now with Gerry, she’d explain. But again, she wouldn’t be able to tell her mother
Jac’s own breathing within the hood.
All he could hear. All he could feel: his own hot breath bouncing back at him, stewing his pounding head all the more.
And the occasional prod with the gun in his back. ‘Move mo’fucker.
Brief chuckle; but one, from what Jac had seen of the two edgy, bug-eyed teenagers before the hoods were put on him and Mack Elliott, that could easily end with an impatient gunshot for stepping the wrong way or saying the wrong thing, or because the kids’ last few hours on their Gameboys had been frustrating.
Jac was beginning to think this wasn’t such a good idea.
As Jac had half-expected, Mack Elliott hadn’t been able to recall which night Durrant’s pool game was the week of Jessica Roche’s murder. ‘Long time ago now…
‘I know. But I wondered if you might have kept a diary or anything with old work rosters that could give a clue?’
‘No. ‘Fraid not.’ Then, seconds later, his sullen thoughtfulness lifted. ‘Might be a chance of yo’ striking lucky, though. Might jus’ be a chance.’
Mack explained that there were two eight-hour shifts at the Bayou Brew, with a barman and waitress for each one, and himself and the owner, Rob Harlenson, alternately running the bar. And one of the barmen, Lenny Rillet, used to keep a diary.
‘…Though not fo’ the best of reasons.’ Mack looked down at that moment, thoughtful, troubled, as he weighed something up. ‘Probably the best shot you’re gonna get at it, though. C’mon. You’ll be safe wi’ me.’
Mack explained as they headed deeper into the Ninth Ward. Lenny Rillet used to keep a diary because he was dealing drugs from behind the bar. Small stuff then, packets of marijuana and speed, for which he’d enter times, names, weights and payments in his diary in code.
‘Harlenson was already suspicious, found one o’ the diaries one day, and finally got rid of Lenny. But that was way after Larry Durrant wen’ down. And I know Lenny used to hang on to those diaries, ‘cause in each one he’d have new names an’ contact numbers. Business resource, yo’ might call it…. ‘specially with how things turned out later wi’ Lenny.’
Rillet had either left drug-dealing for a while, or stayed so small time that nobody noticed. But then suddenly five years ago, he’d burst back on the scene big time, and now was one of the Ninth Ward’s main crack dealers.
‘Only a couple o’ blocks away now. We’ll be there soon.’
Jac felt his anxiety mount as they sank deeper into the shadows of the Ninth Ward; now four blocks from Henny’s, the efforts at revival with reformations or newer community blocks started to fray, giving way to rows of older houses, many of them dilapidated or derelict. The light was sparser too, with many of the streetlamps smashed, the shadows in between heavier, more worrying. A wino suddenly appeared from one dark patch, making them jump — though Mack commented that he was probably playing look-out for someone; then, only twenty yards on, two sets of eyes emerged from the darkness of a car on bricks, watching them warily as they passed.
Late fifties, Mack Elliott was already slightly out of breath; though maybe that was partly anxiety, too, Jac thought, because suddenly he wasn’t so sure how safe they’d be. Certainly the nods and smiles of acknowledgment Mack gave to the few people they passed were now tighter, more hesitant.
And as they came to the row of eight half-derelict shotgun houses that Lenny Rillet apparently called home, and Mack announced himself as an ‘old frien’’ of Rillet’s and the hoods were slipped on them by two armed teenagers, Jac’s foreboding settled deeper.
Shotgun houses were four or five rooms stacked back to back with no corridor; so called, because if you fired a shotgun at the front, the bullet would pass through every room.
In the last minute of their approach, Mack had explained that Rillet would move from room to room: he could
