The Trinity Game

“Senator Guyot said—”

“Senator Guyot wants to be president, he can say whatever he likes. I’m telling you: Tim Trinity will not be making any more public speeches, tomorrow or the next day or next week or next year.” He put a business card on the table. “I could arrest you right now, Daniel, but that wouldn’t save your uncle, and more importantly, it wouldn’t save New Orleans.” He drank the last of his beer. “Think about what we’ve said, and take our offer to him.” He stood up. “If we don’t hear from you by midnight, the carrot goes away and all he gets is the stick.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes after the FBI agents left. Finally Pat said, “I’d bet dollars to donuts there’s now a GPS tracker on our car, courtesy of our new friends from the Justice Department. I’ll drop you at a bus stop, dump the car in a lot somewhere, and we’ll meet back at the ranch later.”

“OK.” Daniel drank some beer and they sat in silence some more. The silence was growing heavy, uncomfortable. Daniel said, “Go ahead, hit me.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it.”

“When did that ever stop you?”

“Fine. If the government decides to put him away for life, he’ll go away for life. Believe me, I know how these guys work—they’ll find a charge and make it stick.” Daniel didn’t answer. Pat sipped his root beer. “You need to convince your uncle to take their offer.”

Daniel shook his head. “That dog won’t hunt, man. Forget it. He’s willing to die tomorrow, you think prison is gonna scare him? I already told him, I made it abundantly clear we’re playing exceptionally long odds. He understands.”

“What’d he say?”

“Said just do our best to get him to the podium, and whatever happens after that is exactly what’s supposed to happen. He’s gone all fatalist on me. And the truth is, after everything that’s gone down, I can’t say he’s wrong.”

“But what’s to be gained? Even if nobody puts a bullet in his head, the feds will snatch him up before he gets to the podium.”

“Well, I’m just gonna make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“And how you gonna do that?” said Pat.

Daniel signaled the bartender for the check. “I have no idea.”

The bell jangled above Daniel’s head as he opened the door and stepped inside the voodoo shop. Priestess Ory was behind the cash register, ringing up a nervous Yankee couple. She glanced his way, then turned her attention back to her customers and gave the young man his change. “Use it in good health,” she said.

The young woman holding the paper bag said, “Thank you, we will,” and punctuated it with an unnecessary giggle.

Daniel passed them as they left the store. The bell jangled and the door closed, and they were alone.

“May I interest you in a tarot reading, sir?” Ory deadpanned. “Some love potion perhaps? Money-drawing powder? A protection-from-enemies mojo?”

He deserved that, and acknowledged it with a nod of his head. “Fair enough,” he said. “Guilty as charged, Your Honor.” His smile went unreciprocated. But she looked more troubled than angry.

“Been near a television in the last hour?” she said.

“What is it this time? Another prediction come true?”

“No, it’s Memphis. The tent city in Riverside Park. After Tim went on CNN last night and announced he was in New Orleans, the mood in Memphis fell pretty low. And when the heat rose today, it turned to anger and…well, things turned ugly. Then the police moved in, in full riot gear, and proceeded to make the ’68 Chicago convention look like a love-in.”

“Jesus.”

Ory shuddered visibly. “Way it looked on television, it was almost a pleasant surprise to hear that the dead only numbered in the teens.”

Agent Hillborn’s promise rang in Daniel’s ears: Tim Trinity will not be making any more public speeches, tomorrow or the next day or next week or next year.

“I realize I’m not in any position to ask you for favors, Mama Anne,” he said. “But we really do need your help.”

Ory looked at him for a few seconds and then offered a gracious smile that showed only a little reluctance around the edges. “We’re on this road together,” she said. “In my dream, you told me to remember that.” Her smile warmed. “I haven’t forgotten, and neither should you.”

The sidewalks were as packed as midtown Manhattan at the height of rush hour. The police kept everyone moving along, but this being the Southland, everyone still shuffled at a pace that would drive any self-respecting New Yorker to murder.

The sun was sinking in the western sky, but it still must’ve been ninety-five degrees with the additional heat generated by so many bodies. And Daniel couldn’t take off his windbreaker without exposing the gun. So he just kept pressing onward, sweating his way out of the Quarter as quickly as the crush of pedestrians would allow.

He stopped at the Everything Shoppe on Canal Street and cooled off while picking up supplies. Sandwiches and Zapp’s chips for dinner, cigarettes for Trinity, a bottle of red wine, and some energy drinks for morning. Stepping back outside with his groceries felt like walking into a hot, wet blanket.

He spotted a man unlike anyone else on the sidewalk, watching him from under a palmetto. The man was in his late sixties, with thinning hair, perfect posture, and a Savile Row suit that easily cost eight thousand dollars but didn’t need to brag about it. A silver and black Rolls Royce Phantom sat idling at the curb behind him.

The man approached, and Daniel caught a hint of his cologne as he got close. He smelled like old money. What some people still insisted on calling good breeding. He said, “Congratulations. You’ve kept to the path, and I daresay you’ll know the truth before much longer.”

You’ve kept to the path…you’ll know the truth. The words resonated in Daniel’s ears like an echo. Walk the path, find the truth. The note that had been waiting for him at the Westin, written in an elegant hand on expensive stationery.

“Papa Legba, I presume.”

The man smiled. “Quite.” He gestured to the Rolls. “Allow me to offer you a lift back to Saint Sebastian’s. It’s cool inside, and we can chat along the way. You must be very uncomfortable in that jacket.”

The man poured thirty-year-old Macallan Single Malt into a couple of crystal glasses, handed one to Daniel, and settled back into the deep green leather seat as the Rolls Royce gently rocked into motion. He said, “We’ve been most impressed by you, Daniel. You’ve shown all the makings of a top field operative.” His accent was maddeningly neutral. Probably an American who’d spent many years living in England and, to a lesser extent, continental Europe. Or maybe a Brit who’d moved to America decades ago and purposely lost the boarding school accent of his youth.

“Who’s we?” said Daniel. “And for that matter, who the hell are you? I think Legba wants his name back.”

The man’s smile was utterly confident. A smile that would seem arrogant on a younger man, but on this man signaled the calm perspective that comes with a lifetime of wide experience. “We are an organization you’ve never heard of: the Fleur-de-Lis Foundation. My name is Carter Ames, and I’m the managing director. And as you already know, we’ve been your ally from the start.”

Daniel tasted the scotch. It went down like liquid silk. “Why? What’s your interest here?”