The Trinity Game

Dumpsters in driveways, portable storage containers on front lawns. Six years after Katrina, and New Orleans—the cultural womb of the South, the city that gave America much of its soul—was still struggling to her feet.

It’s a shanda, he thought, recalling the Yiddish word Julia once taught him. He turned onto South Carrolton, and as they rose to higher ground, the blue tarpaulins disappeared and the city looked more like her old self.

He drove in on Magazine Street, and as they passed Bordeaux he felt a smile invade his face. Le Bon Temps was still in business and, aside from a fresh coat of paint, looked the same as when he drank and danced in the place with Julia and her friends on Friday nights…fourteen years ago.

Would she take him back?

Casamento’s was also open. Under different circumstances Daniel would’ve suggested they stop for some gumbo and an oyster loaf, but just seeing the place was enough to make him happy. He switched the radio on, set the tuner for 90.7 FM.

“The mighty O.Z.,” said Trinity. “Greatest radio station in the world. I’ve missed it.”

“I stream it on the Internet.”

“Thought you guys all sat around listening to Gregorian chants.”

“Please,” said Daniel. He turned up the volume. Louis Armstrong and Louis Jordan belting out I’ll Be Glad When You’re Dead, You Rascal You.

“Perfect!” Trinity laughed.

They continued past cafes and art galleries, hair salons and tattoo parlors, pawnbrokers and auto body shops as Satch assured them he’d be glad when they were dead.

It felt like coming home.

Daniel could see himself making a life with Julia here in New Orleans. Even if she wouldn’t have him back, this was home. And despite Katrina, despite having been abandoned by the rest of America, New Orleans was rebuilding.

A good place to rebuild his life…assuming he lived through this strange odyssey he was on with his uncle.

The disc jockey thanked Big Easy Scooters, the Ra Shop, and Harrah’s Casino for their sponsorship, and then played a beautiful Trombone Shorty song about falling in love. The song ended as they passed under the 90, and Daniel slowed and shut off the radio. He found a parking spot on Peters, just a block from Canal, the French Quarter beyond. Despite the muggy heat, he slipped into a windbreaker he’d borrowed from Pat’s clothing stash. He reached across Trinity, opened the glove box, and put the gun in his waistband, under his shirt.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” he said. “Keep the hat and glasses on, and walk at a relaxed pace. I’ll be about ten paces back, on the opposite sidewalk. Don’t look for me, I’ll be there. And don’t look around to see if anyone recognizes you—that’s my job. Your job is to be casual. Remember, you’re just another tourist. Don’t strut—”

“I do not strut,” said Trinity indignantly. Daniel couldn’t tell if he was serious.

“You have a distinctive walk, let’s put it that way, and the point here is to blend in. Oh, and go ahead and smoke—nobody’s ever seen you smoking on television, so it’ll help to disassociate you from your public image. Just walk to the address on Dumaine—”

“Number 633…in case we get separated.”

“Don’t worry,” said Daniel.

“OK.” Trinity reached for the door handle.

“Wait.” Daniel pulled Pat’s map from the backpack, followed the red line with his finger. “Take Bienville to Charters, then stay on Charters all the way in to Dumaine.”

“Bienville, Charters, Dumaine. Got it.” Trinity climbed out and shut the door. He lit a cigarette, returned the Zippo to his pocket, and started walking. Daniel let him get some distance, then followed.

People usually try too hard when changing their appearance, thought Daniel, and end up calling more attention to themselves. Trinity’s disguise wasn’t perfect, but the points of reference for his slick public persona had all been removed. Jeans and a plain cotton shirt had replaced the silk suit. The silver hair was now brown and mostly covered by a ball cap, and shades covered his eyes. He was smoking, and the trademark swagger was gone from his walk. His gait was a little too stiff at first, almost lurching, like his quads were sore after a long run. But after a couple of blocks, he eased into it.

All in all, it was a pretty good disguise. Except for those damn cowboy boots. Shit. Daniel had intended to stop and buy Trinity some plain shoes, but with all the excitement that morning, he’d forgotten. Well, they were pretty dirty now, almost gray, not the gleaming white boots people saw on television. And it was too late to call Trinity back. Daniel said a silent prayer and hoped for the best.

The sidewalks were busy enough but not congested, so following was easy. Pat’s route had them walking always on one-way streets, with the direction of traffic, so cars were passing from behind and motorists couldn’t easily see Trinity’s face. Daniel scanned the pedestrians as he followed. Nobody seemed to pay any mind to the man with the brown hair and baseball cap, walking stiffly down Rue Charters and puffing on a coffin nail.

As Trinity turned the corner onto Dumane, Daniel closed the distance between them and followed at five paces until Trinity crossed the street and stopped in front of a small, white, one-story house with a gray slate roof, green shutters on the windows, and a matching green door.

Exactly as Trinity had described it from his vision. Daniel felt weightless as he crossed the street.

It was a shop. A small red neon sign in the window glowed: OPEN. Trinity stood motionless, staring at something else in the window. Daniel came to a stop beside him. Next to the neon sign, a larger, hand-painted sign hung in the window:

AYIZAN VODOU TEMPLE OF SPIRITUAL LIGHT

AND GIFT SHOP

ANGELICA ORY, MAMBO

Daniel’s heart sank. “Are you kidding me? A voodoo shop? That’s what we came here for? That’s what we dodged bullets to get to?”

But Trinity wasn’t staring at the sign. “Look.” He pointed to a laminated newspaper article in the window. “That’s her. The woman from my dream.”

The newspaper headline read, PRIESTESS ORY SEES BRIGHT FUTURE FOR CRESCENT CITY TOURISM, and the black woman in the photo was beautiful, her features as Trinity had described them.

“This can’t be happening.” Daniel shook his head.

Trinity tossed his cigarette in the gutter. “Well, we’re here, and that’s her,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. “Come on.” He opened the door and a bell jangled above their heads, announcing their arrival as they stepped inside the shop.

“Be right with you,” called a woman’s voice from behind a beaded curtain at the back of the room.

The shop was exactly what Daniel expected, and feared, from the sign in the window. A tourist trap, full of vigil candles and anointing oils, plastic statues of various saints, gris-gris bags and voodoo dolls, necklaces made from chicken feet and alligator teeth, new age books and meditation CDs, even cartoon voodoo zombie postcards to send back to the folks in Iowa. A sign behind the counter displayed a price list for services ranging from jinx removals to tarot readings. The place smelled of patchouli and frankincense.

Angelica Ory stepped through the beaded curtain, a coffee cup in her hand, saying, “Sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help—”

She gasped and her eyes went wide—piercing green eyes, rendered almost hypnotic by the contrast with her deep chestnut complexion—and she dropped the cup. It broke on the floor, splashing coffee across the hardwood. “I–it can’t be,” she stammered, pointing a finger. “It’s you.” She turned and darted back through the beads, disappearing into the room beyond.

Daniel looked at his uncle. “That was weird.”

“She didn’t even glance my way, much less recognize me,” said Trinity. “She was pointing at you.”

Daniel turned the deadbolt, locking the shop’s front door. He switched off the neon sign in the window and walked gingerly to the beaded curtain at the back of the room.

Through the beads, he could see a sitting room furnished in carved mahogany, upholstered in rough silk, an