A New Orleans Detective Mystery. Ken Mask
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for any rough business. A jousting of topics from current politics, social conditions, and world events in general, to Proust, Tolstoy, Kant, Twain, Hemingway, Faulkner, Wright, Ellison, Murray, Crouch, and others who have come before us to deliver original or refried thoughts keeps the two close cut. They are never in want of a sparring match or a superior opponent.
Before Matt left the yard space in front of the office, his boss announced, “Got this for you and I expect you to respect it and your parole!” Luke followed him down the stairs and slyly handed Matt a gun. It was an older gun with a new look, a polished Lugar.
“No easy task, I suspect.” ‘Smooth’ examined the weapon and continued, “OK, but I won’t really need it. Gonna use my mind, man. But I’ll keep it, just in case!” Grinning while looking around and shrugging his shoulders, he tucked the weapon into the back of his belt.
Luke smiled in agreement and sat down on the front porch top stair, pointing his right index finger, gun-barrel style, at the young man. Yes, the guns are registered. The two are a team, a modern-day dynamic duo. They work out together, practice at the firing range, and delve into mind-puzzle games to keep sharp. Between playing chess and doing crossword puzzles, the hard kind — the ones that make the New York Times pieces look like child’s play, the ones from the Borders’ collection, the Mensa Society, and the ones used to test the best of the best—they are sharp, indeed.
“Close your eyes!” Luke yelled across the street as ‘Smooth’ entered his car. Before the door could be closed, Luke had leaped and hopped the twenty-foot distance and stood near the corner of the street near the bayou. “Tell me the color of the four cars in the parking lot at the EZ Server gas station.”
“Man, it’s dark out here ... ain’t do—”
“Alright now ...” Luke raised his eyebrows and tilted his head 30 degrees to the left in the offensive look of challenge.
‘Smooth’ countered, “Close yours and tell me! Behind you!”
“No deal. I obviously know because I asked. I already cased the entire place … I’m not going to let you off.”
“OK, a blue Ford truck, a white Camry, and a black Lexus, two door.”
“Good. That’s three; and the forth?”
“There is no other car.”
Jacobs checked to make sure that his buddy had not peeped, then responded, “Good! Very good!” Then he added, “What’s the make of the Ford?”
“Got me. 5.0, late 90s?”
“That’s fine!”
“What do you have going?”
“I’m getting together with Rosalind. We’re gonna have a midnight picnic in the park.” Twice-raised eyebrows comunicated more than words could.
Some police officers hate them for their efficiency and crooks respect them for their wisdom. They’ve gain a reputation in the city as a steady force with which to be reckoned.
The Tulane law graduate private investigator now lives in a modest three-bedroom apartment, stylishly decorated with the kind of sparse elements reminiscent of the 50s. He traded a very comfortable existence in a large 4200 sq. ft. home in the Eastover section for the place, which, he felt, would provide him with a more manageable space for his private investigative work in a nearby office. The place is large, sporting full-length bay windows, a large kitchen, an adjacent dining area/drawing room which overlooks a side yard garden/workout space and a concrete basketball-court-size area.
He mostly hangs out in the French Quarter at few select establishments (Showcase, Snug Harbor, Cafe Brazil, Beckham’s Bookstore, The Louisiana Music Factory, Tower Records, House of Blues, Cafe Giovanni, Foundation Room, Donna’s, Le Bon Temps, The Funky Butt), reads superior literature (based on suggestions by a few close, well-read friends and foes), watches sports (boxing, basketball, and world cup soccer), and entertains company in the living room that serves as a game room and library. The 20x30-foot space houses a pool table, an L-shaped sectional sofa set, and a huge, 120-inch flat-screen television and Bose wave system, all of which fits out the area quite nicely. The Jacobs’ home is modest, stylish, uncluttered, clean, tasteful, yet masculine with solid firmness. It’s a bachelor’s pad and playpen.
Luke tries to keep the business of private eye work separate, at a location not too far on Bayou St. John, on the corner of Moss and Orleans. The work, however, sometimes finds its way into his private space.
Music plays in my head ...
Can’t quite shake these tunes ...
A stick, a stone, it’s a little alone ...
It’s a sliver of glass, it is day it is night ...
Chapter 2
Saturday, early morning ...
Rural Mississippi. It hasn’t rained in weeks. Caldwell is in the midst of being attacked by ragged men in overalls, sackcloth clothing, musty and hungry, drunk and crazed. They grab arms and legs, held by loose clothing, and attempt at a better grip on flesh, but his meat fails them. He twists. The sweat and mixture of alcohol in the pores of his attackers sicken his core but gives him energy. He falls to the dusty ground and rolls over, over, over, and over, away, down a small hill and into bushes. He is dizzy but steadies himself. The wind carries laughter, howls, yells, jeers. Dogs held at bay by chains and commands bark. He hustles, crawls on hands and knees, hands and feet, crouched, sweat pouring down his back, down the middle of his chest, breathing heavy and deep, his heart racing, head pounding, limbs numb. But he is completely full of life — from fear, which fuels his escape.
Charles Caldwell takes off into a set of small trees. It is almost dark. It is dusty, dry, and a bit cold, and the comforts of home are a distant memory. The small trees and brush become a large, thick-barked, dense, impersonal, insensitive, cold, hard forest. Its branches block his way. The ground is unsure, unfamiliar. The rustling of leaves beneath gives away his position with every step. Why couldn’t it have rained last night? Now the dogs bark angrily with whoops and hollers. The group can be heard approaching. Men yell, “Uppity black, ya can’t kill a judge’s son and get off, talking those big words and thangs.”
A stream is just above the ridge. Once there, he’s past Lincoln’s farm, Kingston’s Bottom, and Al’s place, back behind the fence. Instantly shots whistle within the branches, and one piece of metal, hot and piercing, grazes his right ear. Blood, warm and smelly, trickles down his neck and the numbness in his heart returns ... Think about it—he had his day in court!! The events had been heard and told with elegance. He was found not guilty! By an all-white jury! But the time was now for Charles. Acquitted, but not free from this mob! He had defended himself in the courts. The young man had shot first. He had returned fire in self-defense ... Everyone knew that. Acquitted! In rural Mississippi. Now, almost Christmas. 1868. The cold, late afternoon, early evening breezes that announce the cold, insensitive nature of man raced across his face, neck, chest, and arms, cooling the blood trail and the whelps of his flesh stung with each motion as he headed for what he thinks is safety: an open field, houses, and someone to help!
The sweat rolled down his forehead into his eyes, down his temples, and into his ears. The back of his neck was damp. His pillow case was soaked again. Tossing and turning, the uncomfortable headrest he had rolled into brought him to attention. Luke abruptly sat up in bed and stared into the sunlight breaking through the window shades. The lady resting across his Doer king-size oak bed, supplied with a pillow top Sealy mattress and large pillows, sighed, rotated, and straddled his lap. But she didn’t awaken.
His dreams were usually triggered by something that happened throughout the day. However, this recurring dream had a particular meaning on a personal level.
At 8:00 a.m. Saturday morning, the sweetness would sleep in, he would awaken, get up, read, run, work out, and head for the