IN
New Orleans, St. Louis Cemeteries #1 and #2 are referred to by locals as “cities of the dead.” Designed in the eighteenth century, both graveyards feature elaborate aboveground vaults and French inscriptions that are both poetic and charming. Unfortunately, a nighttime visit to either burial ground is liable to add to the body count of the sacred lands. Located west of Louis Armstrong Park, this area is known as one of the most dangerous in the city. Gangs and criminals control the territories to the north of Rampart Street, and they use the popularity of the graveyards to ambush unsuspecting tourists.
Before leaving the safety of their Mustang, Payne, Jones, and Greene gazed at the terrain like antelopes surveying a water hole. They carefully searched the shadows of the land, looking for predators that lay in wait, hunting for a clear passage to their intended destination. When they were satisfied, they crept cautiously from their vehicle.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Greene stated, “the tattoo shop should be right ahead of us.”
The men continued their walk in silence until they found a small shop with a flickering neon sign that said
in the window. Like most tattoo parlors, this one stayed open after midnight to cater to the bar crowd. Glancing at a historical plaque that was fastened to the building’s front, Greene pushed the door aside. Chimes from a small bell announced their presence.
A tall white man, dressed in an elaborately tie-dyed shirt and baggy denim shorts, emerged from behind a wall of dangling beads and greeted his customers with a nod of his head. As he did, his braided orange hair fell across his pale green eyes while his shaggy beard bunched up in the folds of his neck. Tattoos covered the tanned flesh of his arms and legs.
“What can I do for you dudes?” he asked in the syntax of a stoner.
As Payne studied the employee, he realized it looked like a box of Skittles had thrown up on the guy. “We’re looking for a man named Jamaican Sam. Can you tell us where to find him?”
“Dude! You’re in luck. Sam, I am!”
The three men looked at each other in confusion. They were expecting their contact be a little more Jamaican and a little less Dr. Seuss.
“You mean you’re the owner?” Payne asked. “You don’t look like I pictured you.”
“Is it the nickname, dude? People always get thrown by my nickname.” The three men nodded at the walking rainbow. “Damn! I gotta get me a new nickname.”
Jones knew he was going to regret asking it, but for the sake of curiosity, he had to know. “How did you get the name Jamaican Sam?”
“Well, dude, the Sam part was easy because, you see, that’s my name. But the Jamaican part, well, that’s a little more complex. A couple years ago, a bro from the islands came in to get some ink done. I did this bitchin’ drawing of a naked hottie and put it on his back. Once I was finished, he was pretty stoked. In a heavily accented voice, the dude said, ‘Ja makin’ Sam’s name known t’roughout da city, mon!’ Well, some customers overheard it, and they lumped
with the
, so people started calling me Jamaican Sam.” He punctuated his story with a huge grin. “Pretty sweet, eh?”
As fascinating as the story was, Payne didn’t come to this part of town to learn Sam’s history. He had more important things to find out-things that could possibly save his girlfriend. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was hoping you could give us some help.”
With his left hand, Sam brushed his braided orange locks from his eyes. “Like I said in the beginning, what can I do for you dudes?”
“Actually, you can help me with a tattoo. I recently saw an elaborate design on this guy on the bus. The moment I saw it, I knew I wanted to have it. I just knew it! Unfortunately, before I had a chance to ask him where he got it done, we arrived at his stop and he disappeared. Do you think you could tell me who drew it for him?”
Sam shook his head violently, trying to clear his head. “Hold up. Let me see if I understand your quandary. You spotted a slammin’ tat, and you expect me, even though I’ve never seen it, to picture it in my mind and tell you who did it? That’s some challenge, dude.”
“But can you do it?” Payne demanded.
It took thirty seconds for Sam to reply, but he finally shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see why not. But it’ll cost ya twenty bucks.” Payne handed him the money, and Sam quickly stuffed the bill into his multicolored boxers, which could be seen above the waistline of his shorts. “What did this Picasso look like?”
“It was in the shape of the letter
. The straight part of the
was a dagger, and-”
“Whoa!” Sam gasped, sounding like Keanu Reeves. “Was there, like, blood dripping from the dagger?”
Payne stared at the guy-he couldn’t have been older than twenty-two-and nodded. “So, you’re familiar with it?”
Sam walked over to his counter and flipped through a picture album of some of his most impressive designs. When he reached the page he was looking for, he handed the book to Payne. “The tat you’re looking for is one of mine. How cool is that? Kind of a small globe, eh?”
“Yeah,” Jones grunted, who suddenly didn’t like the precision of Terrell Murray’s off-the-cuff recommendation. “Way too small for my taste.”
Payne picked up on Jones’s tone and instinctively touched the gun that he’d concealed under the flap of his shirt. “What can you tell me about its design?”
Sam scratched his bright orange beard for a moment, pondering his position, then shook his head from side to side. “It just ain’t worth it, dude.” He reached into his boxer shorts and withdrew Payne’s twenty dollars. “You can take your money back. I’ve got nothing for ya.”
Payne looked at the money with disapproval. He wasn’t willing to touch something that had been stored in Sam’s underwear. Nor was he about to let him off the hook that easily. “A deal’s a deal. You accepted the cash, now it’s time to give me some info.”
“Sorry, dude, but I just can’t do that!” Sam laid the money on the counter and slowly backed away. “I made a previous deal with a group of brothers that requested my work for that particular job. I told them my lips were
if anyone asked me about that tat.”
“How many people were in the group?” Jones asked.
Sam shrugged, then let out a weaselly little laugh. “Sorry, bro. I don’t remember getting any money from you, so I don’t owe you any info. You dig?”
Payne grinned at Sam and waited for the orange-haired freak to return his smile. When he did, Payne pulled his firearm into view and nestled it under the artist’s hairy chin. “First, you referred to a bunch of black men as ‘brothers,’ and then you referred to my friend as your ‘bro.’ Now you’re going to test my patience even further by refusing to answer a simple question? Sorry, bro, that’s not the way my friends and I operate.”
“Wait a second,” Sam gulped, as the color drained from his face. “Did you guys come in together? Oh, dude, I didn’t know that! If I had known that, I wouldn’t have been so shady!”
Payne nodded, but refused to lower his gun. “Tell us about this group, Sam, before my finger gets a twitch and I add some red to your obnoxious shirt.”
“Well, a bunch of brothers . . . uh, I mean, Africans came here a couple weeks ago-”
Jones quickly corrected him. “The appropriate term is African Americans.”
“No, dude, not in this case. These dudes were African.”
