Ascension Day

be in the second room of the fourth house, or third room back on the sixth. Nobody ever knew. And all visitors were hooded and spun round several times to disorientate them before being led through. Two or three armed teenage ‘clockers’ out front, half a dozen or more inside, plus two or three older, more experienced guards. Few people knew what Rillet looked like, and the chances of getting to him before catching a bullet were remote. ‘That’s how he’s managed to stay alive s’far.’

And now the smells as they were led through: stale musk, urine, faeces, vomit, a pungent burning, like rubber mixed with rope, and a faint chemical smell that Jac couldn’t place.

And now sounds: muted mumbling, coughing, a few groans, a sudden wild cackle subsiding to a chuckle. And every few steps, Jac could feel debris or rubbish around his feet, or maybe it was clothing and people. Something brushed past one ankle: a hand reaching out, or a rat?

Jac felt himself descend deeper into hell with each step. His head was burning inside the hood, his pulse pounding at his temples, his mouth dry. Each step had taken them further into the shadows and into danger, away from the light and safety; now, within only fifteen minutes, Henny’s cafe seemed a lifetime away. I’ll be okay, Jac told himself. Mack had promised, ‘You’ll be safe with me.’

But as he heard Rillet’s tone greeting Mack, and the argument that ensued between them, Jac felt that last vestige of hope slip away. He knew then that they were about to die.

‘Why yo’ bring someone here, Mack?’

‘He… he’s the lawyer tryin’ to save Larry Durrant. That’s why I brought ‘im to see you.’

‘Uhhmmm. Larry Durrant? You think that’s gonna score points wi’ me. You an’ I — we ain’t eyeballed each other in what? Six, seven years? So fo’ sure you don’ score no points there, Mack.’

‘He’s tryin’ to get some information on Larry’s movements at the Brew from twelve years back. I couldn’t help with that. And I thought yo’ might be able to.’

‘An’ even when we used to see each other, we din’ ‘xactly swim in the same waters… if yo’ know what I mean.’

It was like two disparate conversations, with neither party listening to the other: Mack desperately pleading his case of Durrant and the Bayou Brew of twelve years ago, while Rillet was making it clear that their past association cut no ice and Mack had made a big mistake in coming there.

Mack took a fresh breath, introduced a more hopeful tone. ‘Thing is, Lenny, I thought to myself, while yo’ might not remember that far back — you always kep’ those diaries.’

As soon as the words left Mack’s mouth, it became chillingly clear that it was a step in the wrong direction: sealed rather than saved their fates.

‘Ooohh. Those diaries? Yeah. Funny thing that, ‘cause, ya know — I always suspected it was you that told Harlenson ‘bout them. Got my ass fired from the Brew.’

‘Wasn’t me, Lenny… Promise. Harlenson was already suspicious, and he foun’ that diary that day all by hi’self — without no help from me. I didn’ say nothin’ to him.’

The desperation in Mack’s voice was heavy, clinging by his fingertips to what little ledge was left.

Silence. Rillet let Mack’s words hang in the air, savouring his discomfort.

‘Yo’ know, Mack. That’s where all your figurin’ has gone sadly wrong. Since you and I were on noddin’ terms, I changed mo’ than yo’ can imagine. I’ve had guys killed here simply ‘cause I didn’ like the tones o’ their voices. Didn’ think they gave me ‘nough respect. Or ‘cause I thought a splash o’ red on the walls would bring the graffiti more to life.’ Resigned, derisory snigger. ‘So wi’ the heavy doubt I got ‘bout what you jus’ tol’ me — what makes yo’ think now’s gonna be any differen’? ’

Silence again. Heavy, cloying.

And then, breaking it after a second, sounding deafeningly loud, the slide on a gun being snapped back.

‘Please…. Lenny. Don’ do it. I’m not here for myself. I’m here tryin’ to save Larry Durrant’s ass. Nothin’ more.’

Silence again. Longer than before.

Jac found that his breath was held, his body starting to shake, legs weakening as he anticipated the gunshot at any second.

‘That’s the beauty of the hoods. You can’t see m’ face. Don’ know if I’m smilin’, scowlin’, makin’ the signal to fire — or wavin’ my boyz’ gun arms away.’ A purposeful pause, Rillet wallowing in their fear; a conductor’s baton poise that could fall either way. ‘An even if I am smilin’ or wavin’ them away right now — that could all quickly change.’

Jac jumped with Rillet’s sudden clap; only a foot behind himself and Mack, it was no doubt intended to resemble a gunshot. Jac was hit with the realization that Rillet had probably done this before, many times; and that he relished the feeling of power it gave him over his victims. And, riding aboard that, the hope, however slim, that it was just that, a game, and Rillet wouldn’t have them killed.

Silence again, Rillet milking the tension for every ounce. Jac’s breathing rapid and shallow within the hood, his pulse double-beat, wondering whether next to expect a bullet or his hopes confirmed that it was just a game.

There was a bang then, but it was too distant for a gunshot: a door swinging open and banging back in one of the adjacent rooms, then a frantic rustling as someone ran through the debris and prone bodies, and a breathless, urgent voice:

‘Someone out fron’…. Come on der’ tail!’

‘Yo’ brought someone here, Mack!’ Rillet screamed.

‘No… no! We’re alone. Din’ bring nobody,’ Mack quavered, struggling for conviction.

‘You fuckin’ brought someone here! Snoopin’. An’ that somethin’ I definitely ain’t got no movemen’ on…’

And as quickly as Jac felt hope enter his grasp, it was slipping away again.

As Nel-M saw them turn into Tricou Street, he thought twice about following them. He didn’t want to end up getting car-jacked or his nice paintwork spray-painted or shot at by some punks.

A car just didn’t look right on the north part of Tricou unless it was rusted, graffiti’d, standing on bricks and stripped, or pumped with bullet holes.

Two bars visited, questions on the street, then the Red Rooster cafe; now heading out with some black guy who looked like a retired basketball coach.

Nel-M knew that the Ninth was Larry Durrant’s old stomping ground, but then the same held true for seventy per cent of New Orleans’ black criminals. Nel-M was trying to get to the point where he knew what McElroy was pursuing in the Ninth: something to do with Durrant, or a new client?

When he saw them enter the warren of dilapidated crack houses ahead, he thought that he had his answer: new client. But then from what he’d heard, the guy operating on Tricou, Lenny Rillet, was meant to be a heavy hitter. And McElroy was way down the feeding chain at his firm, didn’t normally get that calibre of client. Anything more complex than a straightforward plea petition, and he wouldn’t have been let within a mile of the Durrant case.

Nel-M decided to keep watching, see what might transpire or where McElroy might head next that would make all the pieces finally slot into place.

Nel-M saw the fifteen-year-old clocker come out and give the street a quick up and down once-over; but, sixty yards down on the opposite side, it didn’t seem he’d taken much notice of Nel-M’s presence.

The clocker, though, at the same time as heading in to alert Rillet, also signalled his buddy towards the back of the shotgun houses.

A routine they’d played out several times before, the second clocker headed along the back yards of the neighbouring houses, and slipped out again onto the road forty yards behind Nel-M’s car.

Nel-M didn’t see him at first. He only picked up a shadowy flicker of movement when the clocker had already scampered twenty yards closer; and, as Nel-M focused intently on his rear-view mirror to be sure of what he thought he’d seen, there was movement too from ahead with the first clocker starting to head his way.

‘Ohh… Shiiiiii….’ Nel-M hit his ignition, slammed into drive, and swung out, flooring it.

A shot came from behind, thudding into metal somewhere on his trunk, and now the clocker ahead was