Читать книгу Mardi Gras Madness - Ken Mask - Страница 5

“What?”

A conference of morning black birds perched on the window sill chirped an alarm. Trweetee, trweetee. Red lit‘5:00’ occupied the darkened stillness. Dawn of the fall was a welcomed reminder of a few more hours of sleep. He rolled over, flipped, fluffed the pillow to get a good, new head rest. Trewwtee, treweetee. The songs turned from a sharp alarm to a sweet tender lullaby. He dozed.

Seconds later knocks, violent, rapid, forceful bangs-in a series of three, pause, three, pause rousted ‘em.

“Luke. Luke? Hey? You up?”

He could hear two-a familiar voice that was low-soft, the other high pitched.

"Jacobs?!" The voice commanded, again, now leaning on the bell for spice.

He stepped onto the hard, cold wooden floor, grabbed a towel and proceeded to the bathroom to throw some water on his face. These people could wait. Gotta clean up. Damn.

“Seriously?”

“Luke! Jacobs!”

“Awright, in a minute.”

Returning to look at himself in a mirror misty from the cool morning dawn dancing with hot steam, he loose-lips horse-like shook - berereuuuuuuffffffffoooasdhh-grabbed a towel-circle-circle. The glass cleared, he took his features- mocha skin, sharp features, large dark brown doe eyes, short cropped hair, part on the side. His slightly angled mustache and goatee needed trimming. That fresh scar on his forehead! Cut on the shoulder; blood matted. Aches.

Knocking returned with inflection. Traveling the few yards to the front door, he peered into peephole in protest.

‘Ahggghughh!’

“Luke?”

“Who else would’t be Job?”

“Ok. Hey. The witness? For Jake? What’s up?”

“Morning Luke.”

“Mornin’ Rose.”

The door opened six inches; a safety chain gave him barrier to hustle them off as needed.

“Run it.”

“Can this wait until it’s solid?”

“Just excited. S’all.”

“Gotta meeting this morning. I‘ll have some’mor information for ya midday. Call me round noon. Nadh. I’ll call your firm, Matos. No worries bruh. You’ll know what I know and when I know.”

“Ok. Ok. Yeah yeah. We’re just, ah. Ya know. Ok ‘den. Fine!

Yeah yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Thanks.”

He paused, nodded a dismissal, gently slammed the door.

Go down to the jail, visit Jake again before talking to anyone, especially Job his sorry-good-for-nada-narrow minded bitch ass brother. Tell ‘im of the boy's recovery, maybe find out some more information on that case. Jake’d no doubt get excited n’ come clean. Time has a way of doin that!

Cold water in cupped palms splashed ice chilly waves on his face. 6 A.M. He dealt with aces during a brief morning workout, showered, dressed and headed out.

Early sunlight shadows danced along the way. He did the speed limit in a 1976 vintage 2002 model beamer-down Moss, Orleans, Carrolton Avenue. He made the illegal left toward the courthouse parking area on the corner of Broad and Tulane, headed behind the station.

He greeted attendants in the reception area with smile-nods, waited a long enough to sing alone. Boom! Back to reality by the stench, grime, filth and unpleasant feel of the prison. Fifteen minutes ticked. Tick tock. Jake’s section mate had been working a clerk detail and hustled back to tell Jake of an arrival.

“Ya got a visitor.”

The New Orleans Parish Prison Black Hole was down a long corridor, across several doors and security devices, approximately two blocks from the main area. It was the place where serious criminals were kept. Processing stations and the booking sections were nice and bright, decently lit but the back area was damp, dark and scary. Criminals were held in various locations along a series of buildings, according to the extent of their crimes. The least severe the crime, the closer one would be to the front, near the courthouse. The lifers and death row inmates were in the back stations; the rapist-child molester the furthest.

Jake’s heart raced with pounding warm blood.

He frowned. Ma? Job? Rose? Luke? Yeah, Luke, it’d be Luke! He’d been the most frequent visitor and now he’d bring news- home life, books, folk, cases, gossip, world news, some food from dad?

Luke sat behind thick glass partition, starring into grated wires. Guards stood six feet to his rear, others on the other side of the metal/glass doors. He felt the hard metal chair beneath his bottom, rested his elbows on the cold, impersonal metal counter top. Tick tock. Jake walked with a mild smile, small chain hoppin.’ His chin was high face bright.

They mouthed:

"Hey man. Thanks for comin’”

“Heyya Jake. How’ya.”

“Makin it, man.” He faked a grin.

“Thanks again." Jake said before he sat, reached for the phone to speak.

"How’ve you been?"

"About as well as can be expected. Getting quite a bit of reading done, aye?”

“Got something for ya. Huge. Very huge.”

"What da-ya mean Luke?" Jake responded in close whisper to the glass.

“’found the boy.”

"What boy?"

"The boy! Joey. The boy, you know, down in Venice boy."

Jake stood and frowned. “The Boudreaux fella. He’s ah?”

"Yeah, a young man now. And better.”

"Talkin? How? Whatda you mean ya found him?"

Sitting again, Jake steadied his crouched posture with his hands prior to landing into the seat.

"It’s a long story, Jake."

"Got time."

"He came out of that state, broke, out.”

"No longer locked? For good? Permanently?" Jake’s voice raced.

"Won’t know." Luke surveyed the visiting area of the prison’s hardest section. It was dirty, dark, damp, impersonal.

"What happened? How?”

"A murder."

"What? A murder Luke? A murder? Watta talking about?”

Luke’s voice was calm, even. "Yes, a murder. Well, a murder at the Funky Butt. The boy was there, close to the action. Working for New Orleans Sound, on da’ sound board. Maybe it was the shock that brought him around to break his catatonic state.”

"A murder a the Butt?”

"A night ago. Yeah.”

A guard sucked his teeth indicating that their time would be up soon.

"It was a white chick, Iris, ‘Iris French’ killed her boyfriend.”

Jake sweated. His eyes rolled, lowered and rose, he heaved a sigh causing his shoulders to jump.

"Ya know her?"

"Iris French? Yeah. Know ‘er.”

"How’d ya know her?”

"Don't worry about it. Let's get back to the boy. What did he say?"

"Well, he described things that happened last night; everything that went on in the club, to a detail. Sounded like to me he was going to be helpful. Said he wanted to talk about you.”

“The night of the Funky Butt case; said he wan’nd ta talk about me?”

“Well yeah, he called me. We met. But when he got in front of the police he stalled.”

"Stalled? Okay, ok, well what good’ll he be?”

"Hold tight. Getting back to this Iris. You dated her?"

"A while ago."

"Pipe?"

"She was kinda crazy." Jake shifted.

"Pipe?”

"Yeah. Sheiiettttt. Commo forday. What happened the other night?"

"Bitch flipped. Folded. Snapped, and missed a target.”

“Missed a target?”

“Not important. Ya know her boyfriend? Von Tepp?”

“Ah, no.” He shifted.

"Ah, ya better come with it dude.”

“Don’t know ‘em.”

“Fine. Fine. Jake, again, what’d the boy see in Venice Jake?”

"The whole thing Luke the whole funcking thing-the stop, the cops, the assault, the shots, them planting a gun on me! Commo man, ya know!”

“Three in your chest?”

“Seriously Luke? Serious?” Jake peered at the stained ceiling.

“Then one shot from the gun they planted on you?”

“All old stuff man! Old stuff. Hold on, fuock!”

“Three, then one?” Luke asked. “’bout minutes apart?”

“Yeah PI. Yes.!”

“S’ important.”

“Sorry. Yes, it’s just...”

"We’ve got something to work with now. Now you’ve gotta sell me the entire package!”

"Entire package?” Jake snapped. “What? You come here to tell me nothing. No news? And to get summin’outta me?”

“IS thjere something YOU need to tell me,’ ‘sumum ya were workin’ on; a case? Somebody? Some work?”

“Been over dis, aye? Dozens, hundreds of time Luke! Come on now. Huh?”

"Huh-hell Jake. Huh my ass! I got a call, attacked, dealt wit! Mutherfoucker’s said ‘got news on Jake, outta the blue, out the clear freeakkin blue sky.”

Luke turned to find the guards motioning wrap it up with circling fingers. In a matter of a few seconds the door of the holding area had opened, someone in a business suit had walked in and whispered to the guards. They glanced at the two with increasingly rapid fingers swipes.

“That’s it.” Luke raised his eyebrows.

“What. What’s it?”

Jake-Luke stood/sat see-saw, they rotated back-forth toward the guards. Their eyes met midstream and lowered to the grey cold counter tops, then again locked unfocused between thick wired glass. A symphony of strained emotion. Standing there, in the raggedy prison uniform, disheveled, unshaven, Jake blew through puffed cheeks. As always, in one setting, the prisoner went through emotional extremes: puppy joy to hyena anger.

Luke starred into space behind Jake, then into his face.

“Out-of-the-clear-blue SKY.”

“What. Dealt wit?” Jake asked.

“Ah yeah. Ah. Ah. Henchman heavies, down by the pier.”

“Henchmen? The waterfront pier?”

Luke’s tone was tamed, low thinkingly: “Yeah, gotta call. Said they had something on you. Asked me to come down to the wharf. Out of the clear-blue-sky.”

“That’s some movie bullshit Luke.”

“I know, I fuoken’ know.” Luke’s answers, responses were tamed, muffled, indifferent.

“What cha thinkin’ bout?” Jake frowned. “ What is it, man? Damn! After all this time? I’m the da one in the rat den.”

Luke snapped back to the conversation. He breathed, now he yelled- “What the fuck were you workin on Jake?”

“What?”

“Down there. In Venice.”

“Just some estate planning. For a client.”

“Anything else? Here, there, anywhere?”

“Nuttin’, nuttin. Naugh. Standard case load. Nuttin special.” Matos sighed, clumsily moved, held his cuffed hands-wrists on the table, glancing at ‘em, the floor, then back to Luke. The clinking of the metal echoed throughout the rooms. Cold metal on metal noises.

“I gotta know man. S’time Jake. S’time!”